There was no one to meet Sybil; a circumstance that was not of much importance, since there were one or two other ladies of the same party, who, having no escort of their own, had to follow in the wake of others. Nor would Sybil have minded this at all, had she not looked over the balustrades and seen issuing from the little passage leading from Mrs. Blondelle’s room, two figures—a gentleman and a lady. The gentleman she instantly recognized as her husband, by his dress as “Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings.” The lady she felt certain must be Rosa Blondelle, as she wore the dress of “Edith the Fair,” the favorite of the King.
For an instant Sybil reeled under this shock; and then she recovered herself, re-gathered all her strength, and sternly crushing down all this weakness, passed on as a guest among her guests to the door of the drawing-room.
There they were received by a very venerable mask with a long and flowing white beard, and dressed in a gold ’broidered black velvet tunic, white hose, white gauntlets, and red buskins, and holding a long brazen wand. This was no other than “Father Abe,” the oldest man on the manor, personating my “Lord Polonius,” that prince of gentlemen ushers and gold sticks in waiting.
While Sybil stood behind the group, she saw her husband and her rival precede every one to the door.
“Names, if you please, sir?” inquired the usher with a bow.
“Harold the Saxon and Edith the Fair,” answered Mr. Berners in a low voice.
“Mr. Harry Claxton and Miss Esther Clair!” shouted poor old Abe at the top of his voice as he opened wider the door to admit his unknown master and the lady.
“Name, sir, please?” he continued, addressing the next party.
“Rob Roy Macgregor.”
“Mr. Robert McCracker!” shouted the usher, passing in this mask, and passing immediately to the next with, “Name, missus, please?”