THE DEANERY BALL.
On a certain May afternoon, when the air was so soft and the sun sobrilliant that Mrs. Vrater, the wife of the Canon in residence atGleicester, was inclined to think the world more pleasant than itshould be, she was surprised by an invitation which promptly restoredthe due equilibrium. In her own words, it took her breath away.Despite some slight forewarnings, or things which should have servedas such, she could hardly believe her eyes. Yet there it was beforeher in black and white, and Italian penmanship; and, being a woman ofcharacter, instead of sitting down and giving way to her naturalindignation, she--no, she did not accept the fact; on the contrary,she put on her best bonnet and mantle, and contrived during thissimple operation to efface from her mind all consciousness of theexistence of the invitation. Thus prepared she left the residence bythe back door, and, walking quietly round the Abbot's Square, calledat the Deanery. Mrs. Anson was at home. So was the Dean.
"My dear Mrs. Anson the most ridiculous thing!" began the visitor;"really you ought to know of it, though contradiction is quiteunnecessary. It carries its own refutation with it. Have you heardwhat is the absurd report which is abroad in the city?"
"No," answered the Dean's wife, who was sitting in front of a pile ofcards and envelopes. Her curiosity was aroused. But the Dean had amiserable foreboding of what was to come, and writhed upon his seat.
"It is asserted that you are going to give a dance at the Deanery! Ha!ha! ha! I knew that it would amuse you. Fancy a ball at the Deanery ofall places!" And Mrs. Vrater laughed with so fair a show of airyenjoyment that the Dean plunged his head into a newspaper, and wishedhe possessed the self-deceptive powers of the ostrich. This wasterrible! What could have induced him to give his consent? As for Mrs.Anson, she dropped the envelope she was folding, and prepared forbattle.
"Dear Mrs. Vrater, why should you think it so absurd?" she asked,smiling sweetly, but with color a little heightened.
"At the Deanery? Why, your position, dear Mrs. Anson, and--and--howcan you ask? It would have been quite a Church scandal. You would behaving the Praecentor hunting next. _He_ would not stick at it," withvicious emphasis. "But I knew that you never dreamt of such a thing."
"Then I fear that you are not among the prophets, for we reallypropose to venture upon it. As for a Church scandal, Mrs. Vrater, theDean is the best judge of that."
Whereat the Dean groaned, poor man. Mrs. Vrater regarded him, heregarded himself, as a renegade; but he showed none of a renegade'senthusiasm on his new side.
"You do intend to have a dance!" cried the Canon's wife, withwell-affected surprise, considering the circumstances.
"We do indeed. Just a quiet evening for the young people, though weshall hope to see you, dear Mrs. Vrater. Times are changed since wewere young," she added sweetly, "and we cannot stand still, howevermuch we may try."
If Mrs. Vrater had a weakness, it was a love for a style of dresswhich, though severe, was in a degree youthful. Her bonnet while Mrs.Anson spoke seemed to attract and fix that lady's eye. It must beconfessed that at Mrs. Vrater's age it was a youthful bonnet. However,she did not appear to heed this, but rose and took her departure witha shocked expression of countenance. She had given the poor Dean, herrecreant ally, a very wretched ten minutes; otherwise she had not beensuccessful. When Greek meets Greek neither is wont to get muchsatisfaction. She said no more there; but she hastened to pay someother friendly calls.
The manner in which the Dean came to give his consent must be told atsome length. There is a small house in a quiet corner of the Abbot'sSquare at Gleicester, which stands back a few yards from the generalline of frontage. It is not alone in this respect. The Deanery on theopposite side of the Square, and the Praecentor's house--we beg hispardon, the Praecentory--in the far corner also shrink from the publicgaze. But then there is, and very properly, the retirement ofexclusiveness. In the small house in question such self-effacementmust have a different origin; perhaps in the modesty of consciousinsignificance, along with a due sense of the important neighborhoodin which No. 13 blooms like a violet almost unseen. For Abbot'sSquare is virtually the Close of Gleicester--at any rate, there is noother--while No. 13 is little more than a two-storied cottage with atiled roof, and outside shutters painted green, and a green door witha brass knocker. The path from the wicket-gate to the unpretendingporch has been known to be gay with patterns now rather indistinct,composed of the humble oyster-shell; and the occupants have variedfrom a bachelor organist, or an artist painting the mediaeval, to theDean's favorite verger.
Such was the little house in the Abbot's Square; but Gleicester,sleepy old Gleicester, arose one morning to find a rare tit-bitof news served up with its breakfast. Mr. and the Hon. Mrs.Curzon-Bowlby, a fashionable couple bent on retrenchment, had takenNo. 13 for the summer. They brought with them a letter of introductionfrom the Marquis of Gleicester, and owing to that, and somethingperhaps to the three letters which distinguished Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby'scard from the pasteboards of the common throng, they were received bythe Deanery people with enthusiasm, at the residence with open arms.The most select of coteries threw wide its doors to the tenants of No.13. The Dean might be seen of a morning strolling in the littlegarden, and his wife's carriage of an afternoon taking up and settingdown in front of the green shutters. The Archdeacon and the Praecentor,nay, the very minor canons followed the Dean's lead. And Gleicester,seeing these things, opened its eyes--its mouth was always open--andawoke to the fact that the little house had risen in the world to avery giddy height indeed.
But the position which under these unforeseen circumstances No. 13might assume was hardly to be understood by the lay portion of thecity. The Abbot's Square and its doings were subjects of greatinterest to them, as to people well brought up they would be; but witha few exceptions, such as Sir Titus Wort, the brewer, and GeneralJones, C. B., and Dr. Tobin. These people gazed on that Olympus fromafar. Possibly they called there and were called upon in return; butthat was all. Their knowledge of the inner politics of the Square wasnot intimate.
They knew that the Dean's wife (Regina Jones) was a pleasant andpleasure-loving lady; but they had no idea that she was the leader ofan organized party of pleasure, whose tenets were water-parties andlawn-tennis, who pinned their faith to the clerical quadrille (onlysquare dances as yet), who supported the Praecentor, the author of thatsecular but charming song, "Love me to-day," and who upheldtheatricals, and threatened to patronize the City Theatre itself; aparty who drove their opponents, headed by the Dean and Mrs. Vrater,and that grim clergyman the Archdeacon, to the verge of distraction;who were dubbed by the minor canons "the Epicureans," and finallywhose heart and soul, even as Mrs. Dean was their head and front, wasto be discovered in Canon Vrater.
The Canon deserves to be more particularly described. He was a man ofhandsome presence and mature age, pink-faced and white-haired, youngfor his years, and connected, though not so closely as Mrs.Curzon-Bowlby, with the nobility. Perfectly adapted to shine insociety, he prided himself with good reason upon his polished manners,which united in a very just degree the most gracious suavity with theblandest dignity. They were so fine, indeed, as to be almost unfit forhome use. He made it a rule never to differ from a woman, his wife(and antipodes) excepted, and seldom with a man. As he also invariablygranted a request if the petitioner were well dressed and the matter_in future_, he was surely not to be blamed if his performances failedto keep pace with his promises. In fine, a most pleasant, agreeablegentleman, whom it was impossible to dislike to his face.
Yet I think the Archdeacon, a "new man," to whom the aristocraticCanon's popularity was wormwood, did dislike him. Certainly the Deandid not; he was a liberal-minded man in the main, but he had someold-fashioned ideas, and a great sense of his own position and itsproprieties, and so perforce he found himself arrayed against hiswife's party along with Mrs. Vrater and the Archdeacon.
Such was the state of things in the Abbot's Square when No. 13received its new tenants. Now the Epicur
eans and now their opponentswould gain some slight advantage. The vergers and beadles arrayedthemselves upon one side or the other, and by the solemnity or levityof their carriage, the twinkle in the eye or the far-off, absent gaze,made known their views. The first lay clerk, a man qualified to talkwith his enemies in the gate, gave monthly dances; the leading tenorassisted at scientific demonstrations.
But of what weight were such adherents beside the new-comers at No.13? Which party would they join? If appearances might be trusted therecould be little doubt. Mr. Curzon-Bowlby was a tall, long-faced man,with a dark beard and moustache. His appearance was genteel, not tosay aristocratic--but fatuous. He walked with an upright carriage anddressed correctly--indeed, with taste: beyond that, being a man of fewwords, he seemed a man of no character. His wife was unlike him ineverything, save that she too dressed to perfection. A lively littleblonde, blue-eyed and bewitching, with a lovely pink-and-whitecomplexion, and a thick fringe of fair hair, she positivelyeffervesced with life and innocent gayety. She sparkled and bubbledlike champagne; she flitted to and fro all day long like a butterflyin the sunshine. She charmed the Dean: the Canon declared herperfection. And though she was hardly the person (_minus_ the threeletters before mentioned) to fascinate his wife, she disarmed evenMrs. Vrater. And yet, whether the little woman of the world had, withall her apparent impulsiveness, a great store of tact, or that she wasslow to comprehend the position, and was puzzled at finding the Deanarrayed against his wife, and Mrs. Vrater opposed to the Canon, shecertainly dallied with her choice. Upon being invited to attend thescience classes at the residence, she faltered and hesitated, andrather pleaded for time than declined. Mrs. Vrater, excellent woman,was pleasantly surprised; and determining to try again, went home witha light heart and good courage.
But this was before the little lady learned that the clericalquadrille--the party of progress, as has been hinted, wisely ignoredthe existence of round dances--was the burning question of the time.
"Good gracious! Mrs. Anson," she cried, clapping her little hands, andher blue eyes wide with amazement over this discovery, "do you mean tosay that none of your clergy dance? that they never dance at all?"
The Dean's wife shook her head, and shrugged her shoulderscontemptuously. She was a little out of temper this afternoon. Why wasshe not the wife of a cavalry colonel?
"Not even the Canon? Oh, I am sure Canon Vrater does.--Now, don'tyou?"
For the Canon, too, was in the little drawing-room. Small as the housewas, our impoverished fashionables had not furnished all of it; butthis room was a triumph of taste, in a quiet and inexpensive way. Aman and a maid whom they brought to Gleicester with them made up thehousehold. So there was an empty room or two.
"No, Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby," he said; "if I danced I should be trippingindeed, in Gleicester opinion."
"You don't! well, I am surprised. Now confess, Canon, when did youdance last? So long ago that you have forgotten the steps? Years andyears ago?" The old gentleman reddened, and fidgeted a little. "Canon,did you ever"--the little woman glanced roguishly round the room, andbrought out the last word with a tragic accent positively fascinating,"did you ever--waltz?"
"Well," he answered guardedly, with an eye to his friend Mrs. Anson,who was mightily amused, "I have waltzed."
"Something like this, was it not?" She went to the piano and played afew bars of a dreamy, old-fashioned German dance; played it as itshould be played. The Canon's wholesome pink face grew pinker, and hebegan to sway a little as he sat.
She turned swiftly round upon the music-stool. "Don't you feel attimes a desire to do something naughty, Canon--just because it isnaughty?"
He nodded.
"And don't you think," continued the fair casuist, with a deliciousair of wisdom, "that when it is not very naughty, only a little bad,you know, you should sometimes indulge yourself, as a sort ofsafety-valve?"
He smiled, of course, a gentle dissent. But at the same time hemuttered something which sounded like "desipere in loco."
"Mrs. Anson, you play a waltz, I know?"
She acknowledged the impeachment with none of the Canon's modesty.
"You are so kind, I am sure you will oblige me for five minutes. TheCanon is going to try his steps with me in the next room. How lucky itis empty, and quite a good floor, I declare.--Now, Canon Vrater, youare far too gallant to refuse?"
He laughed, but Mrs. Anson entered thoroughly into the fun, took offher gloves, and sitting down at the piano played the same dreamy air.In vain the old gentleman pleasantly protested; he was swept away, soto speak, by the little woman's vivacity. How it came about, whetherthere was some magic in the air, or in Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby's eyes, theCanon was never able to make quite clear to himself, and far less toMrs. Vrater, but in two minutes he was revolving round the room instately measure, an expression of anxious enjoyment on his handsomeold face as he carefully counted his steps, such as would havediverted the eye of the charmed bystander even from the arch mischiefthat rippled over his fair partner's features. Had there been anybystander to witness the scene, that is.
"Hem!"
It was very loud and full of meaning, and came from the openwindow. The Canon's arm fell from the lady's waist as if she hadsuddenly turned into the spiky maiden of Nuremberg. Mrs. Dean stoppedplaying with equal suddenness, and an exclamation of annoyance. Mrs.Curzon-Bowlby, thus deserted in the middle of the room, dropped theprettiest of "cheeses," and broke into a merry peal of unaffectedlaughter. It was the Dean. Coming up the oyster-shell path, therewas no choice for him but to witness the _denouement_ through thegreen-shuttered window. He was shocked; perhaps of the four he was themost embarrassed, though the Canon looked, for him, very foolish. Butnothing could stand against Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby's gayety. She laughedso long, so innocently, and with such pure enjoyment of the situation,that one by one they joined her. The Dean attempted to be a littlesarcastic, but the laugh took all sting from his satire; and theCanon, when he had once recovered his presence of mind, and hisbreath, parried the raillery with his usual polished ease.
So Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby's freak ended in no more serious result than herown conversion into the staunchest of Epicureans, a very goddess ofpleasure; and in familiarizing the Dean's mind with the idea of theTerpischorean innovation, until the proposition of a dance at theDeanery--yes, at the Deanery itself--was mooted to his decanal ears.Of course he rejected it, but still he survived the shock, and theproject had been brought within the range of practical politics. Itsnovelty faded from his mind, and its impropriety ceased to strike him.He had never told Mrs. Vrater of her husband's afternoon waltz, andthis reticence divided them. Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby exerted all her wiles;she gave him no peace. The plan was mooted again and again; hewavered, remonstrated, argued, and finally (thanks chiefly to No. 13),in a moment of good-natured weakness, when the fear of Mrs. Vrater wasnot before his eyes, succumbed. Be sure his wife and her allies lefthim no _locos p[oe]nitentice_. Never was triumph greater. Within theweek the minor canons had their invitations stuck in their mirrors,and rejoiced in their liberty. And Mrs. Vrater made a certain callupon Mrs. Anson, of which the reader knows.
But Mrs. Dean's pleasure was not unclouded. There were spots upon thesun. The Dean was not always so tractable, and the Deanery house wasnot large, and the garden positively small. True, a gateway and adescent of two or three steps led from the latter into the picturesquecloisters, which had lately been cleaned and repaired, and the sightof this suggested a brilliant idea to flighty Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby. Shelost no time in communicating it to Mrs. Anson, who received it atfirst with some doubt. Her friend, however, painted it in suchpleasant hues, and set it in so many brilliant lights, that later shetoo became enamored of the project, and boldly proceeded to carry itinto execution.
The Dean stumbled upon this magnificent plan; in so many words,stumbled upon it, in a rather unfortunate way. He was taking hiswonted morning stroll in the garden two or three days before the 24th,the date fixed for the now famous dance. His thoughts were not
upon itat the moment: it was a bright sunny day, and the balmy life-inspiringair had expelled the regret which it must be confessed was the Dean'snormal frame of mind as to his ill-considered acquiescence. He was notthinking of what the Bishop would say, or what the city would say, or,worst of all, what Mrs. Vrater had said. He turned a corner of thesummerhouse a few yards from the steps which we have mentioned asleading to the cloisters, and as he did so with the free gait of a manwalking in his own garden--bump!--he brought his right knee violentlyagainst the edge of some object, a packing-case, a half-openedpacking-case which was lying there, where, so far as the Dean couldsee, it had no earthly business. The packing-case edge was sharp, theblow a forcible one. For a moment the Dean hopped about, moaning tohimself and embracing his shin. The spring air lost all its virtue onthe instant, and his regret for his moral weakness returned with addedand local poignancy. For he had not a doubt that the offending box hadsomething to do with the 24th. As he tenderly rubbed his leg heregarded the box with no friendly eyes. To schoolboys and policemen,and the tag-rag and bobtail, a sharp blow on the shin may not be much;but stout and dignified clerics above the rank of a ritualistic vicarare, to say the least of it, not accustomed to the thing at all.
"What the--ahem--what in heaven's name may this be?" he exclaimed withirritation. Resentment adding vigor to his curiosity, he gingerlyremoved the covering from the case, which appeared to be full ofparti-colored paper globes of all shapes and sizes. They weresymmetrically arranged; they might have been tiny fire-balloons. Butthe Dean's mind reverted to infernal machines, the smart of his shinsuggesting his line of thought. He put on his glasses in sometrepidation, and looking more closely made out the objects tobe--Chinese lanterns.
The sound of a hasty step upon the gravel made him turn. It was Mrs.Anson, looking a little perturbed--by her hurry, perhaps. Her husbandlifted one of the lanterns from the case with the end of his stick,and contemplated it with a good deal of contempt.
"My dear," he said, "what in the name of goodness are these foolishthings for?"
"Well, you know the house is not very large," she began, "and thesupper will occupy the dining-room and breakfast-room--it would be apity to cramp the supper, my dear, when we have such beautiful plate,and so few chances of showing it--and conservatory we have noneso----"
"Yes, yes, my dear, true," broke in the Dean impatiently; "but what ofthese? what of these?" He raised the poor lantern anew.
"Well, we thought it would be nice to--to light the cloisters withthese lanterns, and so form a conservatory of a kind. Now that thecloisters are cleaned and restored they will look so pretty, and thepeople can walk there between the dances. I thought it would be anexcellent arrangement, and--and save us pulling your study about."
There was an awful pause. The lantern, held at arm's length on theferrule of the Dean's stick, shook like an aspen leaf.
"You thought--it would be nice--to light the cloisters--with Chineselanterns! The cloisters of Gleicester Cathedral, Mrs. Anson! Goodheavens!"
No mere words can express the tone of amazed disapprobation, ofhorror, disgust, and wrath combined, in which the Dean, whose face waspurple with the same emotions, spoke these words. He dashed thelantern to the ground, and set one foot upon it in a manner notunworthy of St. George--the Chinese lantern being a natural symbol ofthe dragon.
"It would be rank sacrilege; sacrilege, Mrs. Anson. Never let me hearof it again. I am shocked that you should have proposed such a thing;and I see now what I feared before, that I was very wrong in giving myconsent to a frivolity unbecoming our position. You cannot touch pitchand not be defiled. But I never dreamt it would come to this. Let mehear no more of it, I beg."
The Dean, as he walked away after these decisive words, felt verysore--and not only about the knee, to do him justice. He repeated overand over again to himself the proverb about touching pitch. Until thelast few days, no one had cherished his position more highly. And nowhis very wife was so far demoralized as to have suggested thingsdreadful to him and subversive of it. He had given way to the Canonand that little witch at No. 13, and this was the first result. What apeck of troubles, he said to himself, this wretched dance was bringingupon him! He was sick of it, sick to death of it, he told himself. Sosick, indeed, that when he was out of his wife's hearing he groanedaloud with a great sense of self-pity, and almost brought himself inhis disgust to believe that Mrs. Vrater would have been a more fit andsympathetic helpmeet for him.
And Mrs. Dean was bitterly disappointed. She had set her heart uponthe cloisters scheme, and in most things she had been wont to enjoyher own way. Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby had depicted it in such gorgeous hues,and portrayed so movingly the guests' admiration and surprise--andenvy. Oaklea Castle, the seat of the Marquis of Gleicester, with itsspacious and costly conservatories and fineries, could present nomore picturesque or charming scene than would be afforded by themany-arched cloisters brilliantly lighted and decorated, and filledwith handsome dresses and pretty faces still aglow with the music'senthusiasm. Mrs. Anson had pictured it all. But she was a wise woman,and a comparatively old married woman, and she recognized that thematter was not one for argument. Not even to the Canon, her ally, didshe confide her chagrin, being after her husband's outburst a littledubious of the light in which the project might present itself to him.
Only into Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby's bosom did she pour her sorrow withoutreserve. That lady made a delicious _moue_ after her fashion onhearing of the Dean's indignation, but she seemed almost asdisappointed as Mrs. Anson herself. "And he actually forbade you,dear?" she asked, with her blue eyes full of pity and wonderingsurprise.
"Well, he told me never to let him hear of it again."
"Oh!" answered the little woman thoughtfully, and was silent for atime. When she recovered herself she changed the subject, and sooncoaxed and petted her friend into a good humor.
Still this was a large spot on the sun of Mrs. Anson's triumph. Andyet another, a mere speck indeed in comparison, and very endurable,appeared at the last moment, the very day before the 24th. The Deanwas summoned to London; was summoned so privately, so peremptorily,and so importantly, that the thought of what might come of the journey(there was a new bishopric in act of being formed) almost reconciledhis wife to his absence; and this the more when she had effectuallydisposed of his suggestion that the party should be indefinitelypostponed. The Dean was not persistent in pushing his proposal; theharm, he felt, was already done. And besides, being himself away, hewould now be freed from some personal embarrassment. It must go on; ifhe went up it would signify little. So he started for London verycheerfully, all Gleicester knowing of his errand, and the porters atthe station spying a phantom apron at his girdle.
When the evening, marked in the minor canons' rubric with so red aletter, arrived, the excitement in the Abbot's Square rose to a greatheight.
Vague rumors of some surprise in store for the guests, which shouldsurpass the novelty of the dance, were abroad. Strange workmen ofreticent manners had passed in and out, and mysterious packages andbundles, as self-contained as their bearers, had been seen to enterthe Deanery gates. A jealous awning, which altered the normalappearance of the garden as seen from the second-floor windows of theSquare, hid the exact nature of the alteration, and served only towhet the keen curiosity of the Gleicester public. Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby,from No. 13, ran to and fro, smiling with a charming air ofeffervescent reserve, which raised Mrs. Anson's older friends to anaggravated pitch of curiosity. The Square knew not what to expect.Conjecture was--in more senses than one, as the event proved--abroad.
For no one had in the least foreseen the spectacle that met their eyesupon their arrival. Certainly not the Bishop, though he betrayed nosurprise; good cheery man, he was every inch a bishop, and thereforeby tradition a great-hearted, liberal-minded gentleman. Certainly notSir Titus Wort, nor General Jones, much less the Archdeacon. No, noreven the minor canons; their anticipations, keen as long abstinencefrom such enjoyments could make them, had yet fallen far short of
thescene presented to their gaze upon entering the Deanery garden.
Even Canon Vrater--at home, it was rumored, in courts; he hadcertainly once lunched at Windsor--stood in almost speechless wonderby the garden steps.
"It is very beautiful!" he said simply, gazing with all his eyes downthe arched vista formed by the tree-like pillars of the cloisters; thebrilliant light of many lanterns picked out every leaf of theirdelicate carving and fretted broidery, and made of their fairwhiteness a glittering background for the dark-hued dresses of thepromenaders beneath. It was indeed more like fairy-land than a part ofthe cathedral precincts. Those who traversed it every day looked roundand wondered where they were.
"It is very beautiful!" That was all. And he said it so gravely thatMrs. Anson's spirits, elevated by the open admiration of the bulk ofher guests, would have fallen rapidly had she not at that moment metthe arch glance of Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby. That lady, a very mistress ofthe revels, was flitting here and there and everywhere, witching theworld of Gleicester with noble womanhood.
Nor was the sight less of a surprise to the Canon's wife. But Mrs.Vrater, as was to be expected, had more to say upon the subject. Shehad taken possession of the youngest and most timid of the minorcanons, and even he was lifted a little above himself by the scene anda chance smile shot in his direction by the mistress of No. 13. Stillhe was not sufficiently intoxicated to venture to disagree with theresident Canon's lady.
"I never thought I should live to see this or anything like it!" shesaid, with a groan of grimmest disapprobation.
"No, indeed," he assented, "nor did I." But it is doubtful if he meantquite the same thing as the lady.
"This will not be the end of it, Mr. Smallgunn," said Cassandra,nodding her head in so gloomy a manner that it recalled nothing somuch as a hearse-plume.
"Not a bit of it," he answered briskly. But again it is a matter ofsome uncertainty whether the two wits--supposing that so irreverent anexpression may be applied to Mrs. Vrater's wit--jumped together. Henot improbably in his mind's eye saw a succession of such eveningsstrewn like flowers in the minor canons' path; and this was not at allMrs. Vrater's view. She felt that there was a lack of sympathy betweenthem, and left him for the Archdeacon, with whom she conferred in acorner, glowering the while at the triumphant Epicureans, who struttedup and down the carpeted cloisters, and flirted their fans, and spreadtheir feathers like peacocks in the sunshine.
And there were moments when Mrs. Dean felt as proud as a peacock; butthen there were other times when she felt quite the reverse. True, shefully intended strenuously to perform, so far as in her lay, herhusband's order, "never to let him hear of it again," quite heartilyand sincerely; that amount of justice must be done her; she intendedto obey him in this, only she doubted of her success. And being in themain a good woman, with some amount of love and reverence for herhusband, there were moments in the evening when she turned quite coldwith fear, and wondered who or what on earth could have induced her todo it. But her guests saw nothing of this; nor did it occur to them,whatever might be their private views, that their hostess had thesmallest doubt of the propriety of her picturesque arrangement--herguests generally, that is. There was one exception--the gay, laughing,sail-with-the-wind little lady from No. 13.
But she did not form one of the group around Mrs. Anson during thelast dance before supper. It was a waltz, and it had but justcommenced, the rhythmical strains had but just penetrated to theirnook within the cloisters, when suddenly, with some degree ofabruptness, the music stopped. They, not knowing their hostess's trainof thought, were surprised to see her turn pale and half rise. Shepaused in the middle of a sentence, and could not disguise the factthat she was listening. The others became silent also, and listened aspeople will. The dancing had ceased, and there was some commotion inthe house, that was clear. There were loud voices, and the sound ofhurrying to and fro, and of people calling and answering; and finally,while they were yet looking at one another with eyes half fearful,half assuring, there came quite a rush of people from the house in thedirection of the cloisters. Mrs. Anson rose, as did the others. Shealone had no doubt of what it meant. The Dean had come back--the Deanhad come back! The matter could not be disguised; she was caughtliterally _flagrante delicto_, the cloisters one blaze of light fromend to end. How would he take it? She peered at the approaching groupto try and distinguish his burly form and mark the aspect of his face.But though it was hardly dark in the little strip of garden whichseparated them from the house, she could not see him; and as they camenearer she could hear several voices, if it was not her imaginationplaying her tricks, naming him in tones of condolence and pity. Thenanother and, as she was afterwards thankful to remember, a far morepainful idea came into her mind, and she stepped forward with abuzzing in her ears.
"What is it, James? The Dean?" with a catch in her voice.
"Well, ma'am, yes. I'm very sorry, ma'am. There's been a----"
"An accident? Speak, quick! what is it?" she cried, her hand to herside.
"No, ma'am, but a burglary; and the Dean, who has just come, says----"
"The Dean, James, will speak for himself," said her husband, who hadfollowed the group at a more leisurely pace, taking in the aspect ofaffairs as he came. He had heard the latter part of her words, andbeen softened, perhaps, by the look upon her face. "You have plenty oflight here, my dear," with a glance at the illumination, in whichannoyance and contempt were finely mingled; "but I fear that will notenable our guests to eat their supper in the absence of plate. Everyspoon and fork has been stolen; a feat rendered, I expect, much moreeasy by this injudicious plan of yours."
Which was all the public punishment she received at his hands. But hisnews was sufficient. Mrs. Dean remembered her magnificent silver-giltepergne and salver to match--never more to be anything but a memory toher--and fainted.
Mrs. Vrater, too, remembered that epergne. It was the finest piece inthe Dean's collection, and the Dean's plate was famous through thecounty. She remembered it, and felt that her triumph could hardly havebeen more complete; the shafts of Nemesis could hardly have beendriven into a more fitting crevice in her adversary's armor. This waswhat had come of the clergy dancing, of the Dean's weakness, and Mrs.Anson's secular frivolity and friendships! Mrs. Vrater looked round,her with a great sense of the wisdom of Providence, and ejaculated,"This is precisely what I foresaw!"
"Then it is a pity you did not inform the police," answered herhusband, tartly.
But his lady shook her head. In the triumph of the moment she couldafford to leave such a gibe unanswered. The Archdeacon was condolingwith the Dean in terms almost cordial, and certainly sincere; but Mrs.Vrater was made of sterner stuff, and was not one to lose thesweetness of victory by indulging a foolish sympathy for thevanquished. She would annihilate all her enemies at one blow, andlooked round upon the excited group surrounding Mrs. Anson to see thatno one of that lady's faction was lacking to her triumph.
What was this? Surely she was here! The prime mover, the instigator ofthis folly, should have been in closest attendance upon her dearfriend? But no.
"Where is Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby?" Mrs. Vrater asked rather sharply, whatwith surprise, and what with some pardonable disappointment.
"I believe," said the Dean, turning from his wife, who was slowlyreviving--"I believe that the Hon. Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby is in theMediterranean."
"In the Mediterranean? why, she was here an hour ago." The man's headwas turned by the loss of his cherished plate.
"No, not Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby, as I learned before I left London. Someone so calling herself was, though she too is probably far away in theup train by this time, and her plunder with her. To her and herconfederates we are indebted for this loss." The Dean may be excusedif he spoke a little bitterly.
"Good Lord!" cried the Canon, dropping the glass of water he washolding.
"I felt sure of it!" cried his wife, in a tone of deep conviction.
As the party entered the house, which was in huge disorder, full ofgues
ts collecting their wraps and calling for their carriages, ofimperative policemen and frightened servants, the Dean drew back. Hereturned alone to the cloisters, and very carefully with his own handsextinguished all the lamps. As the faint moonlight regained its lostascendency, falling in a silver sheet pale and pure upon the centralgrass-plot, and dimly playing round the carven pillars, the Deanclosed the gate and heaved a sigh of relief.
And so ended the Dean's ball, the triumph as brief as disastrous ofthe Gleicester Epicureans. The dreams of the minor canons have notbecome facts. They may play lawn-tennis, may attend water-parties andamateur theatricals--nay, may play cards for such stakes as they canafford, but the dance is tabooed. The Dean is Dean still, and is stilllooking hopefully--what Dean is not?--to the immediate future to makehim a bishop. And Mrs. Dean is still Mrs. Dean, but not quite the Mrs.Dean she was. As for No. 13, its day of prosperity also closed withthat night. It relapsed into its old condition of modestinsignificance, nor ever recalled the fact that a reverend canon hadwaltzed within its walls. The green shutters and oyster-shells are nolonger considered an anomaly, for they adorn the residence of a mastermason.
One more episode of that evening remains to be told. The Canon and hiswife walked home together, and if he said little she left little to besaid. Upon entering the dining-room the Canon sat down wearily. Theservant, surprised to see them return so early, brought in the lamp.The Canon looked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
"Mary," he said, "where is--don't be alarmed, my dear; Mary has nodoubt put it upstairs for safety--where is my great silver tankard?Ah, yes; and the goblets, too, where are they?"
"If you please, ma'am," said Mary glibly, answering rather Mrs.Vrater's agonized look than the Canon's question--"if you please,ma'am, the Hon. Mrs. Curzon-Bowlby called after you left, and saidshe'd run in to borrow them for the Deanery claret-cup, as they'd beshort of silver."
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