Within the noble house all that art and beauty could do to make the scene as like fairyland as possible had been done. Exotics of the rarest beauty and sweetest perfume were placed wherever flowers could appear; the lights were softened by shades of golden silk; the great marble staircase—a feature of the house—was thronged with guests in every imaginable costume. Motley, truly, was the animated scene, for people of all nationalities appeared to be present—Turks, Mohammedans, Armenians, Greeks. Men who seemed to have stepped down from ancient history; men who might have been pictured in the canvases of Vandyck and Romney; men of low degree, and men of high degree; savages with tomahawks; graceful and scented cavaliers of the time of Charles the First; men who came to look foolish, men who came to look beautiful or wise, as the case might be—but all more or less disguised, more or less carried out of themselves by the auspicious occasion—thronged the passages and pressed up the stairs.
The garbs in which the women appeared were even more humorous and striking than those worn by the men, for at a fancy ball imagination can have its full sway. Any daring thought that comes to you you may execute, being assured of at least a measure of success. Provided you have funds, or provided you do not mind running into debt, you can at least look outré or blasé; you can get, for the time being, out of your true personality, which doubtless is the main fascination of all incognitos. The desire at any cost to get away from ego; the desire to be somebody else for at least a few hours—somebody else who carries your heart within him, who hopes with your hopes, who fears with your fears, who carries your anxieties or your joys, your curses or your blessings, as the case may be, and yet who is not wholly you—is worth struggling for. In its way there is no charm like this; you see yourself from a novel standpoint. Sometimes you learn fresh and great truths with regard to yourself.
The ball at Kenmuir House had been anticipated for a long time. Lady Marsden was one of the beauties of the past London season. She had been a débutante at the beginning of the season, and before the end had become engaged to Lord Marsden—one of the best matches of the year. During the period when London is supposed to be empty she had married him, and now stood a bride of dazzling youth and fairness in one of her husband's noble houses, receiving her guests as one so lovely, talented, and high-born knew how.
The nuns and the cavaliers, the savages with tomahawks and the fair ladies of the time of Marie Antoinette, went off in couples, and the spacious rooms beyond the great staircase filled fast; the sweet, spirited music of the Blue Hungarian Band sounded through all the rooms, and the dance went merrily forward. But no one guessed, as the fair girls and the gallant men danced together, or met together, or talked together, that in those rooms and through those most lovely grounds stalked also a gaunt figure. It is true a few saw him in imagination, but no one fully recognized him. He was the god of war. For war had been declared between England and the Transvaal, and already the best of her sons, the flower of her young manhood, were preparing to go south. So the aching hearts which some wore that night, and the dread which encompassed others, and the longing for glory and fame and greatness which swelled the breasts of others, were all due to the god of war. He had been quiet, sleeping for a long time; but he was awake at last, and he came to gloat over his victims at Kenmuir House that evening.
The dance was essentially a dance for the military; for Lord Marsden belonged to a family of soldiers, and three of his own young brothers were amongst those who were to go to Africa immediately.
In the midst of the throng there came slowly up the stairs a slender young figure—a girl with a pale face, large and sorrowful dark eyes, and lips slightly, very slightly rouged; those lips revealed white teeth, and constantly smiled, and gave the lie to the sorrowful and anxious eyes. The girl was spoken of in the list of guests as the Silver Queen, her real name being Katherine Hepworth. She came in the company of a titled lady, who had promised to chaperon her to the great fancy ball; and following her at a slight distance, accompanied by her father, Hunt the millionaire, came Anne Boleyn. For some extraordinary reason, the bold, bright, dark eyes of Anne Boleyn followed the slender figure of the Silver Queen. She did not even know who the young lady was, but her face attracted her. Presently, leaning on the arm of an Armenian slave, she pointed in the direction where the Silver Queen was standing in the midst of a glittering throng.
"Who is that young lady?" asked Anne Boleyn.
Her companion followed her eyes, looked at the Silver Queen, and said in a tone of admiration,—
"What a lovely girl she is! quite one of the belles on this most auspicious evening."
"She is a beautiful girl. But I am not interested in her looks," said Katherine Hunt; "I want to know her name."