"I made it ready this morning; oh, do say yes."
"Certainly," said Clarissa, smiling; "but tell Pompey to be careful, Peter."
Off flew Peter, and up on a bench mounted Pompey, nothing loth to add dignity to the scene by illuminating it. Jan Steen drew his bow across his violin with a long, sweet note, and out on the floor glided Miranda, holding the hand of a tall, athletic-looking young negro, whose motions were grace itself. They began at the top of the room, holding the scarfs aloft, and slowly made their way down until they were in the centre, when the full light gleamed strongly upon their raised arms, their heads well up. Soft murmurs of applause began to steal around the room. Betty stood with Captain Yorke and Kitty directly under the lantern, beating time with her fan.
"How graceful they are," said Yorke softly. "See, even their shadows on the wall opposite are picturesque and wild. How distinct the faces are!"
"Silhouettes!" burst in Kitty; "have you seen the pictures made by the new artist who came from Albany? Some folks like to be done thus, but for me I do not care for a black profile of my own face. They are cut skillfully enough in paper, however."
Betty, wondering what had possessed Kitty to set off on an animated description of silhouettes, looked up at the wall, and then her heart almost stood still. That fine, high forehead, the curving lips, the nose, with its clear-cut nostrils,—not even the disfiguring woolly wig, stiff collar, and blackened face and hands could disguise them to her. She gazed with sickening apprehension at the dancers; how often she had seen Oliver dancing with Miranda when they were children together at home, the performance usually taking place in the garret, for fear of scoldings upon the sinfulness of dancing from Chloe, Miranda's mother; oh, how did he dare do this here, where any moment might bring discovery and death? Why, why, had she failed to see and recognize him! his disguise was very perfect, and yet—
The applause rang out heartily as the dancers tripped faster and faster; Betty wondered if her torture would ever end. Perhaps it had only begun, for Oliver had said—
"Mistress Betty," spoke Yorke, and his voice was low and very tender, "may I offer you my arm? A glass of mulled wine would, I think, be of service to you." Stumbling a little in her agitation, Betty slipped through the door with him, on into the dining-room, where he placed her in a corner of the wide sofa and fetched the wine.
"Drink it, every drop," he said, smiling down at her with a masterful look in his dark eyes that Betty had never seen before. "Sweetheart, trust me, and sit here till I return."
Betty sipped her wine and the truant color came back to her cheeks, as she saw him vanish through the door.