The Nonesuch

Ancilla could not resist. She rose, giving Sir Waldo her hand. Her eyes laughed into his. “Thank you kindly, sir!” she repeated obediently.

His right hand lightly clasped her waist; he said, as he guided her round the room: “That woman is a constant refreshment to me!”

“Indeed!” she said quizzing him. “How quickly your opinions change, sir! I seem to recall that when you last spoke of her it was in very different terms!”

“I did her an injustice. I now recognize that she is a woman of great good sense. How well you dance!”

It was true, but very few of the onlookers derived any pleasure from the spectacle. Matrons who had brought their daughters to the ball felt their bosoms swell with wrath as they watched Tiffany Wield’s companion (or whatever she called herself) gliding over the floor in the Nonesuch’s arms, not finding it necessary to mind her steps, but performing the waltz gracefully and easily, and apparently enjoying an amusing conversation with him while she did it.

The Rector was one of those who watched with approval. He said to his wife: “Now, my love, we see how unexceptionable this new dance is! Charming! charming, indeed!”

“Well, I cannot quite like it, but I own that it is very pretty when it is danced correctly,” she replied. “I understand that Mr Calver is the best dancer here, but for my part I prefer Sir Waldo’s more restrained style. Miss Trent, too, dances as a lady should, but you may depend upon it that as soon as ever they become familiar with the steps Tiffany Wield, and Lizzie Colebatch, and the Mickleby girls will turn it into a romp. I should be sorry indeed to see a daughter of mine led into such impropriety.”

He laughed gently. “It would reflect sadly on her upbringing, would it not? I fancy we need feel no apprehension! She is dancing very prettily. It may be my partiality, but I am of the opinion that, saving only Miss Trent, she performs the waltz better than any other lady present.”

“Yes,” agreed his wife, “but Arthur Mickleby is too clumsy a partner for her.”

She saw that Mrs Underhill was quite alone, and went to her, sitting down beside her, and saying: “What do you think of the waltz, Mrs Underhill? My husband is in raptures over it, and thinks me very old-fashioned for not liking it as much as he does!”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to be seen dancing it myself,” said Mrs Underhill, “but I’m sure I never saw anything so pretty as the way Sir Waldo and Miss Trent glide and twirl about the room so elegantly! What has me in a puzzle is how she knows when he means to go down the room, and when he means to go round and round, for he don’t seem to push her or pull her, which you’d think he’d be obliged to, and which he certainly would be, if it was me he had his arm round!”

Mrs Chartley smiled. “They certainly dance very well together.”

“Ay, don’t they?” nodded Mrs Underhill, watching them complacently. “So well-matched as they are, Miss Trent being so tall, and the both of them so handsome! When she came downstairs this evening, with her hair dressed the way you see it, and that gown on, which she says she’s had laid up in lavender ever since she left the General’s house, though little would you think it, ‘Well,’ I said to her, ‘I declare I’ve never seen you in greater beauty!’ I said. And no more I have.” She lowered her voice, and added conspiratorially: “What’s more, Mrs Chartley, I wasn’t the only one to be knocked bandy! Oh, no! ‘With you or no one!’ he said, when she was telling him he should ask another lady to stand up with him!”

“Sir Waldo?” asked Mrs Chartley, startled.

“Sir Waldo!” corroborated Mrs Underhill, with immense satisfaction. “Mind you, it didn’t come as any surprise to me! A pea-goose I may be, which Mr Underhill was used to call me—joking me, you understand!—but I’ve got eyes in my head, and I don’t need to wear spectacles either! Nor I’m not such a pea-goose as to think it’s for the pleasure of my company that Sir Waldo comes to Staples as often as he does. I did think it was Tiffany he was dangling after, but it ain’t. Not but what he flirts with her: that I can’t deny. But, to my way of thinking, it’s no more than playfulness. It’s Miss Trent who brings him to Staples.”

Mrs Chartley was disquieted by this confidence; and after a moment’s hesitation, said: “That he should feel some degree of preference for Miss Trent is very understandable. To a certain extent they belong to the same world—the London world—and no doubt they have acquaintances in common. Then, too, she is not a girl, but a woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a well-informed mind, and the habits of easy intercourse which come with increasing years. She doesn’t want for sense, but when a man of Sir Waldo’s address and experience makes a woman the object of his gallantry—”

“Lor’, ma’am, whatever are you thinking of?” broke in Mrs Underhill. “It’s not marriage with the left hand he has in his mind! Not with her uncle being a General!”