A Son of Mars, volume 1

by Arthur Griffiths

But he did not exaggerate the Major’s influence in the regiment. The ball, which came off a month or so later, was on a scale of unprecedented splendour, mainly because Diggle had resolved that it should be so. He had taken the affair altogether into his own hands. It was he who insisted that the ices should come straight from Gunter’s, that there should be foie gras, plovers’ eggs, and fresh truffles at supper; it was he who had conceived the brilliant idea of placing silver-hooped barrels in the tea rooms, full of champagne constantly on tap. He had commissioned the best decorators in London to do up the ball rooms; one built, contiguous to the mess-house, a boudoir, intended for the sole use of ladies, which was furnished with ivory toilet appliances, and lined with amber satin throughout; another designed an artificial grotto filled with blocks of real ice, which, as they melted, fed a number of fountains, whose waters fell in showers of sweet-scented spray; a third, entrusted with the floral decorations, grouped great masses of tropical plants, a wealth of rich variegated colours in the corridors, before the fireplaces, and in all the best points of view. There were two rooms for dancing; in one the inimitable string band of the Duke’s Own performed, in the other a detachment of Coote and Tinney’s was specially engaged.

‘Ith moth wontherful, thertainly,’ said Lady Farrington, in raptures, as Diggle received her; and having presented her to quiet Mrs. Prioleau, who was in duty bound to do the honours, but who was utterly bored and worn out after the first five minutes, led her to a seat of state on a sort of dais at the top of the room.

‘Oh, Major Cavendish-Diggle!’ cried Letitia, ‘you have indeed achieved a most triumphant success. It’s like a scene in fairy-land. The flowers, and the innumerable lights, the falling waters. Exquisite, enchanting;’ and she half closed her eyes, as in an ecstasy of bliss.

‘I wonder what it will all cost?’ growled Sir Rupert, sotto voce. ‘A pretty penny. I shall have Ernest overdrawing again.’

The fact being that, although Ernest received a handsome allowance, his account was perpetually overdrawn. Constant association with Diggle did not tend to economical ways. What with grouse for breakfast, and hot-house fruits for lunch; what with great guest nights, and expensive wines flowing freely, his mess bills were enormous. Then there were his horses, his dog-cart to take him to the station, his chambers in the neighbourhood of St. James’s, his boot varnish, and his new hats once a fortnight, and his fresh ‘button-holes’ every two or three hours. Sir Rupert hardly knew how the money went, but he knew that the six hundred a year he allowed his son, which was more than he had enjoyed for years until he came into the title, did not go half as far as it should, and he grumbled at the extravagance and ostentation of this great ball.

The baronet was not in the best of humours, therefore, as he stood upon one of the two raised platforms which had been erected on each side of the regimental colours, for the accommodation of the most distinguished guests. The colours were uncased, and drooped gracefully over a trophy of swords and bayonets, the whole being under the protection of two stalwart sentries in full uniform, who stood erect and impassive, like stone statues, perfectly unmoved by the revels in progress around. It was a signal honour to be permitted to mount guard in the ball-room, and only the finest-looking and the steadiest men were selected for the duty. But the duty was fatiguing, and the sentries were relieved every hour, the relief being carried out quietly, but strictly in accordance with the regulations, by non-commissioned officers carefully selected, like the sentries, on account of their smartness and gallant bearing.

While Sir Rupert was standing scowling at the entertainment, for which, without sharing in the honour and glory, he would probably have to pay, the relief marched in. He looked on at the ceremony without interest, heard with indifferent ears the trite words of command, ‘Port arms, take post, shoulder, order,’ and the rest, when something in the aspect of the corporal in command attracted his attention, and he found himself looking curiously at the soldier’s face.

Surely he knew it? Where had he seen it before?

Then with a sudden start he remembered. The man was the living image of cracked Lady Farrington’s protégé—of that lad whom he, Sir Rupert, had inveigled down into Devonshire, and left there to starve. Could it possibly be the same man? Did the fellow know him? Apparently not.