Adjusting his eye-glass, Mr Swinton looked across the room. His eye wandered in search of Mrs Girdwood’s daughter. He did not think of the niece. And his inquiry was directed more to Julia’s partner than herself.
A single look seemed to satisfy him. Mr Smithson was not the man to make him uneasy.
“I hope, madam,” he said, turning to the mother, “I hope Miss Girdwood has not filled up her cawd for the evening?”
“Oh, certainly not, sir!”
“Pewaps for the next—I pawceive by the pawgwam a valz—pwaps I might have the honour of valzing with her? May I bespeak yaw influence in my behalf; that is, if there be no pwevious engagement?”
“I know there is none. I can promise you that, sir; my daughter will no doubt be most happy to waltz with you.”
“Thanks, madam! A thousand thanks?”
And, this point settled, the amiable nobleman continued to talk to the relict of the retail storekeeper with as much amiability as if she had been his equal in rank.
Mrs Girdwood was delighted with him. How much superior this sprig of true British nobility to the upstart bloods of New York or Boston! Neither the Old Dominion, nor South Carolina itself, could produce such a charming creature! What a rare stroke of good fortune to have chanced so timeously across him! Blessings upon the head of that “Stoopid fellaw, Fwank!” as his lordship had styled the little valet.
Frank was entitled to a present, which some day Mrs Girdwood had mentally determined upon giving him.
Julia engaged for the next! Certainly not! Nor the next, nor the next. She should dance with him all night long if he desired it. And if it were to be so, how she would like to be released from that promise, and let all Newport know that Mr Swinton was—a lord!
So ran Mrs Girdwood’s thoughts—kept, of course, to herself.
In a quadrille, the opportunities of the vis-à-vis are only inferior to those of the partner. Maynard had improved his by engaging Julia Girdwood for the waltz! With this understanding they had separated upon the floor.
In less than ten minutes after a group might have, been observed on one side of the ball-room, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen, who seemed to have some crooked question between them—a scene.
The ladies were Mrs Girdwood and her daughter; the gentlemen, Messrs Maynard and Swinton.
All four had just come together; the two last without exchanging speech or bow, but exhibiting in the exchanged glances sufficient sign of mutual recognition—sign, too, of some old antipathy.
In the confusion of the moment, Mrs Girdwood did not observe this. Her daughter did.
What was the trouble among them?
The conversation will explain it.
“Julia, my dear”—it was Mrs Girdwood who spoke—“I’ve engaged you for the first waltz—to Mr Swinton here. Mr Swinton—my daughter.”
The introduction had just ended as Maynard, coming forward to claim his promised partner, formed the fourth corner in the quartette. The music was commencing.
The hostile “stare” exchanged between the two gentlemen lasted only a second, when the young officer, recomposing his countenance, turned toward Miss Girdwood, at the same time offering his arm.
Yielding obedience to an authoritative look from her mother the lady appeared to hesitate about accepting it.
“You will excuse my daughter, sir,” said Mrs Girdwood, “she is already engaged.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the ex-captain, looking grandly astonished at the mother, and turning to the daughter for an explanation.
“I think not, mamma?” answered Julia, with an air of indecision.
“But you have, my child! You know I had promised you to Mr Swinton here, before the ball began. It is very awkward! I hope, sir, you will excuse her?”
The last speech was addressed to Maynard.
He glanced once more toward Julia. She seemed still undecided. But her look might be translated, “Excuse me.”
So interpreting it, he said:
“If it be Miss Girdwood’s wish, I release her.”
Again he fixed his eyes upon her face, watching for the movement of her lips.
There was none!
Silence appeared to give consent. Forcibly the old adage came before Maynard’s mind—so forcibly, that with a bow, which comprehended the trio, he turned upon his heel, and disappeared among the dancers.
In six seconds after, Julia Girdwood was whirling around the room, her flushed cheek resting upon the shoulder of a man known to nobody, but whose dancing everybody admired.
“Who is the distinguished stranger?” was the inquiry on every lip. It was even put—lispingly of course—by the J.’s and the L.’s and the B.’s.
Mrs Girdwood would have given a thousand dollars to have satisfied their curiosity—to have spited them with the knowledge that her daughter was dancing with a lord!
Chapter Eleven.
Ball-Room Emotions.
In addition to the “bar” at which you settle your hotel account, the Ocean House has another, exclusively devoted to drinking.
It is a snug, shady affair, partially subterranean, and reached by a stairway, trodden only by the worshippers of Bacchus.
Beyond this limited circle its locality is scarcely known.
In this underground region the talk of gentlemen, who have waxed warm over their cups, may be carried on ever so rudely, without danger of its reaching the delicate ears of those fair sylphs skimming through the corridors above.
This is as it should be; befitting a genteel establishment, such as the Ocean House undoubtedly is; adapted also to the ascetic atmosphere of New England.
The Puritan prefers taking his drink “on the quiet.”
On ball nights, the bar-room in question is more especially patronised, not only by the guests of the House, but outsiders from other hotels, and “the cottages.”
Terpsichore is a thirsty creature—one of the best customers of Bacchus; and, after dancing, usually sends a crowd of worshippers to the shrine of the jolly god.
At the Ocean House balls, drink can be had upstairs, champagne and other light wines, with jellies and ices; but only underground are you permitted to do your imbibing to the accompaniment of a cigar.
For this reason many of the gentlemen dancers, at intervals, descended the stairway that led to the drinking-saloon.
Among others was Maynard, smarting under his discomfiture.
“A brandy smash!” he demanded, pausing in front of the bar.
“Of all men, Dick Swinton!” soliloquised he while waiting for the mixture. “It’s true, then, that he’s been turned out of his regiment. No more than he deserved, and I expected. Confound the scamp! I wonder what’s brought him out here? Some card-sharping expedition, I suppose—a razzia on the pigeon-roosts of America! Apparently under the patronage of Girdwood mère, and evidently in pursuit of Girdwood fille. How has he got introduced to them? I’d bet high they don’t know much about him.”
“Brandy smash, mister?”
“Well!” he continued,