by Howard Pyle
Just now she was listening with an air of absorbed interest to the talk of Sir William Berkeley, who dispensed his compliments upon just and unjust alike. True to the cavalier ideal, his theme was always “lovely woman.” If the particular woman with whom he was talking was lovely she must like to be told so, if not, she must like it all the more.
In the case of Elizabeth Huntoon the strain upon his conscience was less than usual, and if she smiled at his elaborate flatteries, it was only after his back was turned.
“I trust, Madam,” he was saying, “that I am to be favored with this white hand in the first measure — that is, if no other partner has been selected by the queen of the ball.”
“Where the Governor asks there can be no other,” answered Elizabeth, sweeping her best courtesy; “but I am only queen dowager to-night, and Your Excellency must honor some of the rising beauties by asking of them in the dance.”
“Ay, after you,” he said, tapping his gold snuff-box; “but when one is looking upon the sun, one has no mind to be put off with satellites.” Then, breaking off and looking toward the staircase, he exclaimed, “In the name of Venus and Cupid, who is that?”
Following his eyes Elizabeth saw naughty Peggy, who should have been ready an hour ago, coming slowly down the winding stair, her figure showing lithe and erect against the oak panelling, her head thrown back, her nostrils dilated with the elation of a race-horse coming in sight of the grand stand.
For the last year she had drooped into a Yorkshire rose, but to-night she glowed in full Lancastrian splendor. Her cheeks were flushed with carnation, her lips redder still, and her eyes flashing with a sense of untried power and latent consciousness of crescent beauty. She was like a young empress looking down upon a roomful of men destined to be her subjects, though as yet they knew it not.
The girls looked up at her and instinctively fell to arranging their lovelocks, and wondering if they had not abandoned the mirror prematurely. The men looked up and straightway forgot themselves and their partners, or wondered only how soon they could civilly be rid of them.
“That girl not a beauty!” whispered Nancy reproachfully to Polly. “Why, then, where’s the use of being beautiful. Look at the men!”
In truth, it was as if the company had seen a comet. All faces were turned upward, all eyes upon that figure which came slowly down the stair with as calm an assurance as if her life had been spent in courts.
“This satellite,” said Elizabeth, with amused emphasis on the word, and drawing the girl toward her as she spoke, “is Mistress Peggy Neville, Your Excellency.”
“I had never thought of her having a name,” said the Governor, bowing low, “unless, indeed, it were Flora or Proserpine, or some of those goddesses who appeared now and then to man in old days to show him what goddesses were like. May I hope that Flora will tread the pavan with me later?”
Peggy blushed rosier than ever and courtesied to the ground. The twanging of the fiddles was in her ears celestial music, the candles were the lights of paradise, and this was life.
“Good-evening, Sir William!”
“Ah! Huntoon, I have not seen you since my return from England.”
“How did you leave affairs there?”
“Badly enough. His Majesty is hard pressed. I urged upon him a temporary withdrawal to his dominions on this side of the water, and if things go much worse with him I believe he may consider of it.”
“Come, gentlemen,” broke in Elizabeth, “the fiddles are tuned, and the young people cannot brook waiting while you settle the fate of the nation.”
In truth, to one little maid it did seem as though the dancing would never begin. What was the fun of having men struggle for the privilege of talking with her? Old ladies could talk. She could talk better at forty-eight than at eighteen; but to dance, to sway to the music, and feel the blood keeping time as it swept along; to promenade down the hall with all eyes fixed upon one; to wheel the gallants in the reel and feel the lingering pressure of fingers reluctant to let go their transient grasp; to feel the light of the candles reflected in one’s eyes and the perfume of roses caught in her breath; to live and move and reign the princess of love, — this was the glorious privilege of youth and womanhood, the guerdon which kind Fate in atonement for many hard blows had flung at the feet of Peggy Neville.
At last the march began, — Sir William and Mistress Huntoon leading, the master of the house following with Lady Berkeley; and when Romney held out his hand to Peggy, she was glad to be alive. As she looked down at her gown she experienced that satisfaction which the young knights of old knew in donning their maiden armor, for is not dress the armor of the social battle?
Never in her short life of eighteen years had Peggy Neville looked as lovely as she did to-night. Never had her eyes been so bright, never her cheeks so red, never had Romney felt himself so helplessly her slave, and, alas! the poor boy thought, never had she looked so indifferently upon him.
It would not perhaps have encouraged the lad to know that instead of thinking of him with indifference, she simply was not thinking of him at all, her entire attention being fixed upon the scene around her and the actors in it. Such beautiful girls, in their jewels and laces and brocades and high-heeled slippers! Such magnificent men, with rainbow colors in sashes and velvet coats, with ruffles of costly embroideries and buckles reflecting the light of the candles! Most gorgeous of all, Sir William Berkeley!
It quite took Peggy’s breath away when this elegant courtier bowed before her and begged her hand for the pavan. Yet there he was, sweeping the floor before her with the white plumes of his hat and craving the honor of the dance. Whatever might be thought of Sir William’s powers of governing, there could be no doubt that he understood the art of dancing, and, final test of skill, of making his partner dance well. Holding the tips of Peggy’s fingers lightly, but firmly, he led her to the head of the hall, where the host and hostess stood. These they saluted gravely, she with a deep courtesy, he with an equally deep bow, his hat clasped to his heart. Then sweeping down the room they paused again before the portrait of the King, and Berkeley saluted with his sword; then on again, the hautboys keeping time while the company marked the rhythm by singing together, after the fashion introduced by Queen Henrietta’s French courtiers —
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Belle, qui tiens ma vie captive dans tes yeux,
Qui m’as l’âme ravie d’un souriz gracieux,
Viens tôt me secourir, ou me faudra mourir.
At the end of the measure, the advance being ended, the retreat began, the Governor walking behind and leading his partner backward, always with delicately held finger-tips, the raised arm and rounded wrist showing every graceful curve as the girl walked.
“Where did she learn it,” wondered Romney, “and she never at Court?”
For Peggy the most trying period in the ordeal was when she was left standing alone while her cavalier, with gliding steps and deep bows, retreated to the centre of the room, where, sweeping a grave circle with his rapier, he faced about and again advanced toward her with the proud peacock-motion that gave the dance its name. At first she had not the courage to look up to his face at all, but kept her eyes fixed upon the scarlet cross-bands embroidered with gold across his breast and the jewel-studded hilt of his rapier.
Apparently His Excellency found the view of her eyelashes and lowered lids unsatisfactory, for as they paced down the room between the rows of gallants he compelled her to look up by asking how she liked Virginia.
“Virginia much, but Virginians more,” she answered.
“That is doubly a compliment, coming from a dweller across the border,” said the Governor, with a smile. “For our part, whatever quarrels we may have with the men of your province, we are forced to lower our swords before its women. Beauty is the David who slays his tens of thousands, where strength, like Saul, counts its thousands only. It is not every one,” he added, with a look which older men permit themselves and call imp
ertinence in a youth,— “it is not every one who can move in a ball-room as if it were her birthright to be admired.”
“Thank you,” said Peggy, and then blushed crimson. “What a dolt I am,” she thought; “as if he meant me!”
To cover her confusion she fixed her eyes upon a soldierly man at the head of the room.
“Can you, who know every one, tell me,” she asked, “who is the cavalier who dances with an abstracted air, as though his thoughts were fixed on serious subjects, and his mind only permitted his body to dance on condition that it made no demand on his attention?”
“Ah, you mean Councillor Claiborne.”
“Not Master William Claiborne?”
“Why not?”
“Why — why—” stammered Peggy, “I thought he would look like a cut-throat or a pirate.”
The Governor laughed so loud that every one turned and wondered what the girl talking with him could have said that was so mightily clever, and thus her blunder did the new-comer more good in social repute than the finest wit.
“So the Maryland picture of poor Claiborne supplies him with all the attributes of the devil, except the horns and hoof? And you would never have known him as different from half the worthies here to-night. Well, I’ll tell you privately what Master William Claiborne really is, — a good friend, an able secretary of the Council, and a damned obstinate enemy. When Baltimore undertook to oust him from Kent Island he might better have thrust his hand into a nest of live wasps. Ah, what? Our turn again. Why, young lady, your talk is so beguiling I had quite lost myself.”
Peggy smiled behind her fan at the Governor’s notion that it was she who had done the talking. She wished — she did wish Christopher could have heard him say it, though. But Christopher, when she begged him to be present at the dance, had shaken his head and answered that he should not know how to carry himself at a ball. Peggy, remembering her mother’s stories of Christopher at court, and how Queen Henrietta had asked to have him presented to her as the finest gallant at Buckingham Palace, had fallen to crying then. Even now, following her little vanity came a great rush of pity and tenderness that brought the quick tears, and made her glad when the dance was ended, and Sir William, bowing low over her hand, led her to her seat with a kiss.
“Uncle William has resigned her at last,” said the Governor’s niece, who was talking with Romney in a corner under the musician’s balcony. “Do you admire her as much as the other men do?”
“Her?” asked Romney, with a fine show of indifference.
“Mistress Neville, I mean, that they all talk of as if nothing like her was ever seen before.”
“Do they?”
“Ay, Master Lawrence says she lights the hall more than all the candles, while Colonel Payne says that her dancing is poetry and her talk is music.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay, and Captain Snow is worst of all, for he follows her about with his eyes opened twice as big as usual, lest he lose a single glance. If you doubt me, look at Polly Claiborne, who thought she had him safely landed for a husband, and now sees him drifting in the tow of another bark. She is furious.”
“She looks calm enough.”
“In the face, yes, but look at her hands; they are wringing that unlucky lace kerchief as if ‘twere her rival’s neck. But you have not said what you think of this paragon.”
“I was looking at you.”
“Toward me, not at me, and ever and anon your eyes took a holiday and wandered off to the Beauty. Oh, it is fine to be a Beauty with a capital letter. Yet I think really it is more her manner that charms than her looks. She has the air of being so pleased with each man she meets, and so more than pleased that he finds pleasure in looking at her.”
“She does.”
“It looks like vanity. Say you not so?”
“It surely does — like coquetry, which is the very essence of vanity.”
“’Tis well she hears you not.”
“I will go over now, and you shall see me tell her so,” Romney said, as a man joined them.
“It was a shrewd device; but it fails to deceive me,” thought his companion. “He is in love, and he is jealous.”
“It is like the days at old Romney Hall, is it not, sweetheart?” said the master of the house, standing beside his wife, as they watched the lines of men and maidens gliding down the length of the room, their gorgeous brocades and glistening jewels reflected as in a mirror in the polished floor.
“Ay,” answered Elizabeth, “and the county of Devon could not show more pretty faces than are here to-night. Nancy Lynch is a beauty, and Kitty Lee has the loveliest crinkly hair.”
“But Peggy is the queen of the ball,” said Huntoon, with a satisfied nod. “See the saucy baggage smiling at her own reflection in the glass.”
“I fear she is vain.”
“No doubt, being pretty, and a woman.”
“She is neglecting Romney.”
“But is she not having a fine time! I vow it makes my slow, old blood dance to watch her.”
“But it is Romney’s dance, and he enjoys it not.”
“And if the boy wants the moon, this being his birthnight, his mother must get it for him. See, Peggy is throwing a rose at Romney. It hit him squarely in the breast and she is smiling at him.”
“Stupid!” said Elizabeth. “Why does he not ask her for the galliard?”
“He has; see how glum the others look. Call you that hospitality, to keep the best for himself?”
“Oh, the others were best occupied in talking with the girls. But no, they must hang about looking at Peggy, as though the sun rose and set over her shoulder.”
Yet Elizabeth smiled.
Meanwhile Peggy, having had her fill of admiration, turned gracious and bethought herself of the other damsels. She would fain have persuaded some of her superfluous partners to betake themselves across the hall to where Polly Claiborne was sitting in solitude against the settle; but such curious creatures are men, that they prefer to hover on the frigid rim of the outermost circle of success rather than to bask in the welcoming smiles of the neglected.
One held Peggy’s fan, another her kerchief, a third her roses, the ones Romney had gathered for her this afternoon, and now viewed with wrath, seeing them picked to pieces by the idle fingers of young Captain Richard Snow, who, having won a place in the inner line by her side, showed a determination not to abandon it before supper.
“Never before did I know that the Huntoons were selfish!” he was murmuring.
“That they could never be!” ejaculated Peggy, with anger in her voice.
“Yet they have kept you to themselves for a whole year, you that should have shone like the sun over all Virginia.”
“Poor Virginia!” mocked Peggy; “she has indeed been sadly cheated.”
“You need not shine long to warm the province,” said a second gallant, “since you have melted Snow in a single evening.”
“Ah,” answered Peggy, “snow in this part of the world never stays long, but,” with a side glance under her lashes, “it is lovely while it lasts;” then catching too a self-satisfied smile upon the Captain’s face, she added pertly, “but somewhat soft.”
The Captain colored and glowered at his rival. “It is a misfortune,” he said, stiffly, “to have a name that lends itself to jests.”
“Oh,” said Peggy, feeling that she had taken a liberty and anxious to make amends, “I do admire your name much.”
“Really!”
“Really and truly.”
“You have only to take it; I assure you it is quite at your service.”
At this a shout of laughter went up from the circle of men about.
“What is the jest?” asked Romney, joining the group from which he had been vainly striving to abstract his eyes and interest.
“Why, an offer of marriage from Snow, which Mistress Neville has not yet answered.”
Romney showed his vexation by tapping with his foot on the floor and biting his
lip.
“Yes,” added another, “we are all waiting eagerly to try our own chance.”
“I am sorry,” said Romney, stiffly, “to cut short your lottery, but my mother has sent me to conduct Mistress Neville to the supper-table, and begs that you gentlemen will find partners.”
Peggy, knowing that she was not behaving well, was incensed with Romney for showing that he knew it too.
“The hero of a birthnight is no more to be denied than the King himself,” she said, turning for a last smile at her court. Then as soon as they were out of hearing, “Romney, what is the matter? Have I a black smooch on my nose, or did I talk too much or laugh too loud that you look so — so — so righteously disapproving?”
“If you are satisfied with your conduct I shall not presume to disapprove.”
“If I were satisfied with my conduct I should not care a halfpenny whether you disapproved or not. It’s just because I am not satisfied in the least that it makes me so vexed that you do presume to disapprove. See you not why I cannot bear to have you think ill of me?”
Romney’s heart beat thick and fast.
“Why, Peggy? Will you not tell me why?”
“Because if you do your mother will, and then I should have only your father for my friend, and by and by — perhaps — who knows? — he would give me up too.”
Romney’s spirits, which had risen to boiling point at her question, sank to freezing at her answer. The lights seemed to fade out of the hundred candles and leave the hall gloomy; he heard the fiddles scraping out the tune of “Oil of Barley,” and he hated the music ever after. In silence he stalked on to the door of the supper-room. Within was a merry din of talk and laughter.
“Come, Peggy,” said the hostess, “I was looking for you. We are waiting for you to cut the birthday cakes. Good friends all,” she continued, turning to the company, “we have here two birthday cakes, and in each lies hid one half of a gimmal ring, which, as you know, is made of two rings that do fit together to form one. On the man’s ring is inscribed ‘to get,’ and on the maid’s, ‘her,’ and being united they read ‘together.’ Come, Peggy, cut and choose first lot for the maid’s ring!”
