Mr. West was adorned in a plain evening suit—(would, oh! would that he might have decked himself with chains and orders!)—and a perennial smile. His daughter was arrayed in a French gown of white satin and white chiffon, powdered with silver. Diamonds shone on her bodice, her neck, and in her hair. She required no such adjuncts to set off her appearance, but there they were! Although tired and fagged, she looked as superior to most of her lady guests—who were chiefly of average everyday prettiness—as a Eucharist lily to a single dahlia. Her colour and eyes were exceptionally bright, for she was flushed by fatigue, excitement, and anxiety.
No news was good news, she told herself. The last telegram was reassuring. There was no need to fret and worry. Half the miseries in the world are those that have never happened! So she cast doubt and care behind her as she took her place in the state quadrille and prepared to abandon herself to the occasion. No one in their senses would suspect for a moment that the beautiful, brilliant Miss West had a care on her mind, much less that her heart was aching with suspense with regard to her sick child.
She indeed lulled her fears to sleep, and played the part of hostess to perfection—not dancing over much, as became the lady of the house, till quite late in the evening, or rather early in the morning, and having a word—the right word—and a smile for everybody.
The ball went off without a single drawback. The most fastidious young men avowed they had been “well done;” the most critical chaperones could detect no shortcomings in manners, partners, or refreshments. People enjoyed themselves; there was no after-supper exodus; the men and maidens found that they were not bored, and changed their minds about “going on.”
Yes, distinguished guests remained unusually late. The supper, floor, and arrangements were faultless; and Mr. West was informed by one or two important folk “that such an entertainment reminded them of the Arabian Nights for its magnificence. It was a ball of balls.”
The little speculator was almost beside himself with pride and self-satisfaction. Truly those many cheques that had to be drawn were already redeemed. He must, of course, pay for his whistle; but it was a pretty whistle, and worth its price.
He unfolded his feelings to his daughter as they stood alone in the big ballroom, after the last guest had taken leave and the carriages were rapidly rolling from the door. His sharp little eyes shone, his mouth twitched, his hand actually shook, not with champagne, but triumph.
“You did it splendidly, Maddie. If you were a duchess you could not have hit it off better! I often wonder where you get your manners and air and way of saying things. Your mother was something of the same style, too. She had real blue blood in her veins; but she was not so sparkling as you are, though very vivacious. I must say those Miss Harpers did their duty by you. Well,” looking round, “it’s all over. They are putting out the candles, and there’s broad daylight outside. It’s been a success—a triumph! I wish some of my old chums had seen it. Bless me, how they would stare! A trifle better than Colonial dances. And wouldn’t they like to get hold of this in the Sydney Bulletin. There’s a personal paper for you! I feel a bit giddy. I expect I shall be knocked up to-morrow—I mean to-day. Don’t you rise before dinner-time. There’s the sun streaming in. Get away to your bed!”
Madeline had listened to this pæan of triumphant complacency without any re-remark, merely opening her mouth to yawn, and yawn, and yawn. She was very tired; and now that the stir and whirl and excitement was over, felt ready to collapse from sheer fatigue. She, therefore, readily obeyed her parent’s behest, and, kissing him on his wrinkled cheek, walked off to her own room.