order to secure himself against being seen, he had withdrawn behind the Venetian shutter of his own window, and stood with his ear against the open lath-work, listening with all the intentness of a spy.
When the dialogue came to an end, he craned out, and saw that the young lady had gone inside, but that the mother still remained standing in the balcony.
Once more quietly drawing back, and summoning the valet to his side, he talked for some minutes in a low, hurried tone—as if giving the servant some instructions of an important nature.
Then putting on his hat, and throwing a light surtout over his shoulders, he hastened out of the room.
The servant followed; but not until an interval had elapsed.
In a few seconds after, the Englishman might have been seen sauntering out upon the balcony with a careless air, and taking his stand within a few feet of where the rich widow stood leaning over the rail.
He made no attempt to address her. Without introduction, there would have been a certain rudeness in it. Nor was his face toward her, but to the sea, as if he had stopped to contemplate the light upon the Cormorant Rock, gleaming all the more brilliantly from the contrasted darkness of the night.
At that moment a figure of short stature appeared behind him, giving a slight cough, as if to attract his attention. It was the servant.
“My lord,” said the latter, speaking in a low tone—though loud enough to be heard by Mrs Girdwood.
“Aw—Fwank—what is it?”
“What dress will your lordship wear at the ball?”
“Aw—aw—plain bwack, of cawse. A white chawker.”
“What gloves, your lordship? White or straw?”
“Stwaw—stwaw.”
The servant, touching his hat, retired.
“His lordship,” as Mr Swinton appeared to be, returned to his tranquil contemplation of the light upon Cormorant Rock.
There was no longer tranquillity for the relict of the retail storekeeper. Those magic words, “my lord,” had set her soul in a flutter. A live lord within six feet of her. Gracious me!
It is the lady’s privilege to speak first, as also to break through the boundaries of reserve. And of this Mrs Girdwood was not slow to avail herself.
“You are a stranger, sir, I presume—to our country, as well as to Newport?”
“Aw—yes, madam—indeed, yes. I came to yaw beautiful country by the last steemaw. I arrived at Noopawt this morning, by bawt from Nooyawk.”
“I hope your lordship will like Newport. It is our most fashionable watering-place.”
“Aw; sawtingly I shall—sawtingly. But, madam, you adwess me as yaw ludship. May I ask why I have the honaw to be so entitled?”
“Oh, sir; how could I avoid giving you the title, after hearing your servant so address you?”
“Aw, Fwank, stoopid fellaw! doose take him! Pawdon me, madam, faw seeming woodness. I vewy much wegwet the occurrence. I am twavelling incognito. You, madam, will understand what a baw it is—especially in yaw fwee land of libawty, to have one’s self pawpetwally pointed out? A howed baw, I assure yaw?”
“No doubt it is. I can easily understand that, my lord.”
“Thanks, madam! I am vewy much indebted to yaw intelligence. But I must ask a still greater fayvaw at your hands. By the stoopidity of my fellaw, I am completely in yaw power. I pwesume I am talking to a lady. In fact I am shaw of it.”
“I hope so, my lord.”
“Then, madam, the fayvaw I would ask is, that yaw keep this little secwet abawt ma title. Pway am I asking too much?”
“Not at all, sir; not at all.”
“Yaw pwomise me?”
“I promise you, my lord.”
“How vewy kind! A hundwed thousand thanks, madam! I shall be fawever gwateful. P’waps yaw are going to the bawl to-night?”
“I intend so, my lord. I go with my daughter and niece.”
“Aw—aw. I hope I shall have the plesyaw of seeing yaw. As I am a stwanger here, of cawse I know naw one. I go out of meaw quyuosity, or rather I should say, to observe yaw national cawactewistics.”
“Oh, sir; you need be no stranger. If you wish to dance, and will accept as partners my niece and daughter, I can promise that both will be most happy.”
“Madam, yaw ovawwhelm me with yaw genewosity.”
The dialogue here came to an end. It was time to dress for the ball; and, with a low bow on the part of the lord, and an obsequious courtesy on the side of the lady, they separated—expecting to come together again under the sheen of the chandeliers.
Chapter Nine.
Avant le Bal.
Terpsichore, at a fashionable watering-place in the New World, affects pretty much the same airs as in the Old.
In a ball-room, where all are not supposed to be best people, the solitary gentlemen-stranger finds but little opportunity of taking exercise—especially in the “square-dances.” As the coteries make the sets, and monopolise the choicest portions of the floor, when the room is crowded and everybody determined to dance, the unlucky wight, without acquaintances, finds himself sadly overlooked. The stewards are usually too much occupied with themselves, to remember those honorary duties represented by rosette or ribbon in the buttonhole.
When it comes to the “round,” the stranger stands a better chance. It is only a matter of mutual consent between two individuals; and he must be a very insignificant personage, indeed, who cannot then find some neglected wallflower willing to accommodate him.
Something of this frigidity might have been felt in the atmosphere of a Newport ball-room; even in those days, ante bellum, when shoddy was a thing unheard-of, and “ile” lay “unstruck” in the dark underground.
Something of it was felt by the young officer lately returned from Mexico, and who was in fact a greater stranger to the “society” of the country for which he had been fighting, than to that against which he had fought!
In both he was but a traveller—half-wandering waif, half-adventurer—guided in his peregrinations less by interest than inclination.
To go dancing among unknown people is about the dullest occupation to which a traveller can betake himself; unless the dance be one of the free kind, where introductions are easy—morris, masque, or fandango.
Maynard
