But when the skirl of the pipes had died away and the orchestra struck up a waltz, the brief period of forgetfulness left the company. The young people thronged on to the floor again, but older guests gathered into little groups, discussing the rumours, and buttonholing every general officer who happened to be passing. None of the generals could give the anxious any news; they all said they had heard nothing fresh even Uxbridge and Hill, who, it was thought, must have received certain intelligence. Hill wore his habitual placid smile; Uxbridge was debonair, and put all questions aside with a light-heartedness he was far from feeling. He had had, earlier in the evening, a somewhat disconcerting interview with the Duke. He stood next to him in seniority, and would have liked a little Information himself. He had been warned not to ask questions of the Duke if he wished to avoid a snub, but he had prevailed upon Alava, whom he knew to be a personal friend of Wellington, to pave the way for him. But it had not been very successful. "Plans! I have no plans!" had exclaimed his lordship. "I shall be guided by circumstances." Uxbridge had stood silent. His Lordship, using a milder tone, had clapped him on the shoulder, and added: "One thing is certain: you and I will both do our duty, Uxbridge."
The Duke's absence from the ball increased the uneasiness that had lurked in everyone's mind all day. When he arrived soon after midnight, Georgiana Lennox darted off the floor towards him, dragging Lord Hay by the hand, and demanded breathlessly "Oh, Duke, do pray tell me! Are the rumours true? Is it war?"
He replied gravely: "Yes, they are true: we are off tomorrow."
She turned pale; his words, overheard by those standing near, were repeated, and spread quickly round the ballroom. The music went on, and some of the dancing, but the chatter died, only to break out again voices sharper, and a note of excitement audible in the medley of talk. Officers who had ridden in from a distance to attend the ball hurried away to rejoin their regiments, some with sober faces, some wildly elate: some lingering to exchange touching little keepsakes with girls in flower-like dresses who had stopped laughing, and clung with frail, unconscious hands to scarlet sleeve, or the fur border of a pelisse. One or two general officers went up to confer with the Duke, and then returned to their partners, saying cheerfully that there was no need for anyone to be alarmed: they were not going to the war yet; time enough to think of that when the ball was over.
From scores of faces the polite company mask seemed to have slipped. People had forgotten that at balls they must smile, and hide whatever care or grief they owned under bright, artificial fronts. Some of the senior officers were looking grave; here and there a rigid, meaningless smile was pinned to a mother's white face, or a girl stood with a fallen mouth, and blank eyes fixed on a scarlet uniform. A queer, almost greedy emotion shone in many countenances. Life had become suddenly an urgent business, racing towards disaster, and the craving for excitement, the breathless moment compound of fear, and grief, and exaltation, when the mind sharpened, and the senses were stretched as taut as the strings of a violin, surged up under the veneer of good manners, and shone behind the dread in shocked young eyes. For all the shrinking from tragedy looming ahead, there was yet an unacknowledged eagerness to hurry to meet whatever horror lurked in the future; if existence were to sink back to the humdrum, there would be disappointment behind the relief, and a sense of frustration.
The ball went on; couples, hesitating at first, drifted back into the waltz; Sir William Ponsonby seized a girl in a sprigged muslin dress round the waist, and said gaily: "Come along! I can't miss this! It is quite my favourite tune!"
Georgiana felt a tug at her sleeve, and turned to find Hay stammering with excitement, his eyes blazing. "Georgy We're going to war! Going into action against Boney himself! Oh, I say, come back and dance this! Was there ever anything so splendid?"
"How can you, Hay?" she exclaimed. "You don't know what you are talking about!"
"Don't I, by Jove! Why, we've been living for this moment!"
"I won't listen to you! It's not splendid: it's the most dreadful thing that has ever happened!"