"No, sir."
"I have got the word of a prince for it," he said to himself, as he went out of the room; "and they shall not go home with empty pockets."
As he was coming up the staircase again to the ball-room he was preceded by two figures that were calculated to attract any one"s notice by the picturesqueness of their costume. The one stranger was apparently an old man, who was dressed in a Florentine costume of the fourteenth century--a cloak of sombre red, with a flat cap of black velvet, one long tail of which was thrown over the left shoulder and hung down behind. A silver collar hung from his neck across his breast: other ornament there was none. His companion, however, drew all eyes toward her as the two pa.s.sed into the ball-room. She was dressed in imitation of Gainsborough"s portrait of the d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire; and her symmetrical figure and well-poised head admirably suited the long trained costume of blue satin, with its _fichu_ of white muslin, the bold coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls that descended to her shoulders. She had a gay air with her, too. She bore her head proudly. The patches on her cheek seemed not half so black as the blackness of her eyes, so full of a dark mischievous light were they; and the redness of the lips--a trifle artificial, no doubt--as she smiled seemed to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The proud, laughing, gay coquette: no wonder all eyes were for a moment turned to her, in envy or in admiration.
Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old companion, the pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at his post of observation at the door, remained there also for a minute or two, and noticed that among the first to recognize the two strangers was young Ogilvie, who with laughing surprise in his face, came forward to shake hands with them. Then there was some further speech; the band began to play a gentle and melodious waltz; the middle of the room cleared somewhat; and presently her Grace of Devonshire was whirled away by the young Highland officer, her broad-brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, notwithstanding the p.r.o.nounced colors of his plaid. Macleod could not help following this couple with his eyes whithersoever they went. In any part of the rapidly moving crowd he could always make out that one figure; and once or twice as they pa.s.sed him it seemed to him that the brilliant beauty, with her powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry lips, regarded him for an instant; and then he could have imagined that in a by-gone century--
"Sir Keith Macleod, I think?"
The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and the long cloak of sober red held out his hand. The folds of the velvet hanging down from the cap rather shadowed his face; but all the same Macleod instantly recognized him--fixing the recognition by means of the gold spectacles.
"Mr. White?" said he.
"I am more disguised than you are," the old gentleman said, with a smile. "It is a foolish notion of my daughter"s; but she would have me come."
His daughter! Macleod turned in a bewildered way to that gay crowd under the brilliant lights.
"Was that Miss White?" said he.
"The d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire. Didn"t you recognize her? I am afraid she will be very tired to-morrow; but she would come."
He caught sight of her again--that woman, with the dark eyes full of fire, and the dashing air, and the audacious smile! He could have believed this old man to be mad. Or was he only the father of a witch, of an illusive _ignis fatuus_, of some mocking Ariel darting into a dozen shapes to make fools of the poor simple souls of earth?
"No," he stammered, "I--I did not recognize her. I thought the lady who came with you had intensely dark eyes."
"She is said to be very clever in making up," her father said, coolly and sententiously. "It is a part of her art that is not to be despised.
It is quite as important as a gesture or a tone of voice in creating the illusion at which she aims. I do not know whether actresses, as a rule, are careless about it, or only clumsy; but they rarely succeed in making their appearance h.o.m.ogeneous. A trifle too much here, a trifle too little there, and the illusion is spoiled. Then you see a painted woman--not the character she is presenting. Did you observe my daughter"s eyebrows?"
"No, sir, I did not," said Macleod, humbly.
"Here she comes. Look at them."
But how could he look at her eyebrows, or at any trick of making up, when the whole face, with its new excitement of color, its parted lips and lambent eyes, was throwing its fascination upon him? She came forward laughing, and yet with a certain shyness. He would fain have turned away.
The Highlanders are superst.i.tious. Did he fear being bewitched? Or what was it that threw a certain coldness over his manner? The fact of her having danced with young Ogilvie? Or the ugly reference made by her father to her eyebrows? He had greatly admired this painted stranger when he thought she was a stranger; he seemed less to admire the artistic make-up of Miss Gertrude White.
The merry d.u.c.h.ess, playing her part admirably, charmed all eyes but his; and yet she was so kind as to devote herself to her father and him, refusing invitations to dance, and chatting to them--with those brilliant lips smiling--about the various features of the gay scene before them. Macleod avoided looking at her face.
"What a bonny boy your friend Mr. Ogilvie is!" said she, glancing across the room.
He did not answer.
"But he does not look much of a soldier," she continued. "I don"t think I should be afraid of him if I were a man."
He answered, somewhat distantly:--
"It is not safe to judge that way, especially of any one of Highland blood. If there is fighting in his blood, he will fight when the proper time comes. And we have a good Gaelic saying--it has a great deal of meaning in it, that saying--"_You do not know what sword is in the scabbard until it is drawn._""
"What did you say was the proverb?" she asked; and for second her eyes met his; but she immediately withdrew them startled by the cold austerity of his look.
""_You do not know what sword is in the scabbard until it is drawn_,""
said he, carelessly. "There is a good deal of meaning in it."
CHAPTER VIII.
LAUREL COTTAGE.
A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Regent"s Park; two maidens in white in the open veranda; around them the abundant foliage of June, unruffled by any breeze; and down at the foot of the steep garden the still ca.n.a.l, its surface mirroring the soft translucent greens of the trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colors of a barge lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two girls is seated in a rocking-chair; she appears to have been reading, for her right hand, hanging down, still holds a thin MS. book covered with coa.r.s.e brown paper. The younger is lying at her feet, with her head thrown back in her sister"s lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies.
There are some roses about this veranda, and the still air is sweet with them.
"And of all the parts you ever played in," she says, "which one did you like the best Gerty?"
"This one," is the gentle answer.
"What one?"
"Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother at all, and nothing to think of."
"I don"t believe it," says the other, with the brutal frankness of thirteen. "You couldn"t live without the theatre, Gerty--and the newspapers talking about you--and people praising you--and bouquets--"
"Couldn"t I?" says Miss White, with a smile, as she gently lays her hand on her sister"s curls.
"No," continues the wise young lady. "And besides, this pretty, quiet life would not last. You would have to give up playing that part. Papa is getting very old now; and he often talks about what may happen to us. And you know, Gerty, that though it is very nice for sisters to say they will never and never leave each other, it doesn"t come off, does it? There is only one thing I see for you--and that is to get married."
"Indeed!"
It is easy to fence with a child"s prattle. She might have amused herself by encouraging this chatterbox to go through the list of their acquaintances, and pick out a goodly choice of suitors. She might have encouraged her to give expression to her profound views of the chances and troubles of life, and the safeguards that timid maidens may seek.
But she suddenly said, in a highly matter-of-fact manner:--
"What you say is quite true, Carry, and I"ve thought of it several times. It is a very bad thing for an actress to be left without a father or husband, or brother, as her ostensible guardian. People are always glad to hear stories--and to make them--about actresses. You would be no good at all, Carry--"
"Very well, then," the younger sister said, promptly, "you"ve got to get married. And to a rich man, too; who will buy you a theatre, and let you do what you like in it."
Miss Gertrude White, whatever she may have thought of this speech, was bound to rebuke the shockingly mercenary ring in it.
"For shame, Carry! Do you think people marry from such motives as that?"
"I don"t know," said Carry; but she had, at least, guessed.
"I should like my husband to have money, certainly," Miss White said, frankly; and here she flung the MS. book from her on to a neighboring chair. "I should like to be able to refuse parts that did not suit me. I should like to be able to take just such engagements as I chose. I should like to go to Paris for a whole year, and study hard--"
"Your husband might not wish you to remain an actress," said Miss Carry.
"Then he would never be my husband," the elder sister said, with decision. "I have not worked hard for nothing. Just when I begin to think I can do something--when I think I can get beyond those coquettish, drawing-room, simpering parts that people run after now--just when the very name of Mrs. Siddons, or Rachael, or any of the great actresses makes my heart jump--when I have ambition and a fair chance, and all that--do you think I am to give the whole thing up, and sink quietly into the position of Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Smith, who is a very nice lady, no doubt, and very respectable, and lives a quiet and orderly life, with no greater excitement than scheming to get big people to go to her garden parties?"