“Not one,” said he. “An engagement is an engagement.”
“Oh, but I really can’t.”
“Of course I cannot make you, but I will scratch out nothing—and forget nothing.”
Then she rejoined Mr. Buckett, and was told by him that young Rowan was not liked in the brewery at all. “We think him conceited, you know. He pretends to know more than anybody else.”
VIII
An Account of Mrs. Tappitt’s Ball—Concluded
It came to be voted by public acclamation that Rachel Ray was the belle of the evening. I think this was brought about quite as much by Mrs. Butler Cornbury’s powerful influence as by Rachel’s beauty. Mrs. Butler Cornbury having begun the work of chaperon carried it on heartily, and talked her young friend up to the top of the tree. Long before supper her card was quite full, but filled in a manner that was not comfortable to herself—for she knew that she had made mistakes. As to those spaces on which the letter R was written, she kept them very sacred. She was quite resolved that she would not stand up with him on all those occasions—that she would omit at any rate two; but she would accept no one else for those two dances, not choosing to select any special period for throwing him over. She endeavoured to explain this when she waltzed with him, shortly before supper; but her explanation did not come easy, and she wanted all her attention for the immediate work she had in hand. “If you’d only give yourself to it a little more eagerly,” he said, “you’d waltz beautifully.”
“I shall never do it well,” she answered. “I don’t suppose I shall ever try again.”
“But you like it?”
“Oh yes; I like it excessively. But one can’t do everything that one likes.”
“No; I can’t. You won’t let me do what I like.”
“Don’t talk in that way, Mr. Rowan. If you do you’ll destroy all my pleasure. You should let me enjoy it while it lasts.” In this way she was becoming intimate with him.
“How very nicely your house does for a dance,” said Mrs. Cornbury to Mrs. Tappitt.
“Oh dear—I don’t think so. Our rooms are so small. But it’s very kind of you to say so. Indeed, I never can be sufficiently obliged—”
“By the by,” said Mrs. Cornbury, “what a nice girl Rachel Ray has grown.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Tappitt.
“And dances so well! I’d no idea of it. The young men seem rather taken with her. Don’t you think so?”
“I declare I think they are. I always fancy that is rather a misfortune to a young girl—particularly when it must mean nothing, as of course it can’t with poor Rachel.”
“I don’t see that at all.”
“Her mother, you know, Mrs. Cornbury;—they are not in the way of seeing any company. It was so kind of you to bring her here, and really she does look very nice. My girls are very good-natured to her. I only hope her head won’t be turned. Here’s Mr. Tappitt. You must go down Mrs. Cornbury, and eat a little bit of supper.” Then Mr. Tappitt in his blue waistcoat led Mrs. Cornbury away.
“I am a very bad hand at supper,” said the lady.
“You must take just one glass of champagne,” said the gentleman. Now that the wine was there, Mr. Tappitt appreciated the importance of the occasion.
For the last dance before supper—or that which was intended to be the last—Rachel had by long agreement been the partner of Walter Cornbury. But now that it was over, the majority of the performers could not go into the supper-room because of the crowd. Young Cornbury therefore proposed that they should loiter about till their time came. He was very well inclined for such loitering with Rachel.
“You’re flirting with that girl, Master Walter,” said Mrs. Cornbury.
“I suppose that’s what she came for,” said the cousin.
“By no means, and she’s under my care; therefore I beg you’ll talk no nonsense to her.”
Walter Cornbury probably did talk a little nonsense to her, but it was very innocent nonsense. Most of such flirtations if they were done out loud would be very innocent. Young men are not nearly so pointed in their compliments as their elders, and generally confine themselves to remarks of which neither mothers nor grandmothers could disapprove if they heard them. The romance lies rather in the thoughts than in the words of those concerned. Walter Cornbury believed that he was flirting and felt himself to be happy, but he had uttered nothing warmer to Rachel than a hope that he might meet her at the next Torquay ball.
“I never go to public balls,” said Rachel.
“But why not, Miss Ray?” said Walter.
“I never went to a dance of any description before this.”
“But now that you’ve begun of course you’ll go on.” Mr. Cornbury’s flirtation never reached a higher pitch than that.
When he had got as far as that Luke Rowan played him a trick—an inhospitable trick, seeing that he, Rowan, was in some sort at home, and that the people about him were bound to obey him. He desired the musicians to strike up again while the elders were eating their supper—and then claimed Rachel’s hand, so that he might have the pleasure of serving her with cold chicken and champagne.
“Miss Ray is going into supper with me,” said Cornbury.
“But supper is not ready,” said Rowan, “and Miss Ray is engaged to dance with me.”
“Quite a mistake on your part,” said Cornbury.
“No mistake at all,” said Rowan.
“Indeed it is. Come, Miss Ray, we’ll take a turn down into the hall, and see if places are ready for us.” Cornbury rather despised Rowan, as being a brewer and mechanical; and probably he showed that he did so.
“Places are not ready, so you need not trouble Miss Ray to go down as yet. But a couple is wanted for a quadrille, and therefore I’m sure she’ll stand up.”
“Come along, Rachel,”
