"I am. I am engaged to Will Paca for the next dances." Lucy Lucy was stumbling now, fear at her daring sweeping suddenly over her.
Mr. King, in the midst of his laughter, found breath to say: "Will Paca for the dances, but who for the wedding, little Lucy—who's for that?"
Once more Lucy Trevor caught her brother's gaze, and she clung to it, unheeding Madam Trevor's angry face and Rockwell's mortified one.
"I shall wed John Whitney—the Puritan. Let me go, Mr. King! Mr. Chase is waiting!"
And Lucy, frightened, triumphant, proud of her faith in the man she loved, more proud of her certainty of his love for her, tore herself from Mr. King's loosened grasp, and, giving her hand to Jerry Chase, fairly ran away.
The group that she left behind was silent. Madam Trevor, utterly overcome, had not a word left at her command. Rockwell was in much the same state. Vincent, not a little astonished at his gentle sister's boldness, and deciding that the feeling which prompted it must be strong, was making a decision that was rather remarkable in, and exceedingly creditable to, a man of those narrow times. Mistress Harwood planned a morning's gossip on the morrow with a neighbor, at Antoinette Trevor's expense, and Mr. King decided that, were he a young blade again, it would be a girl of such spirit that he would have for his wife. And then, as the strains of the first reel sounded from the ballroom, the little group broke up.
Sir Charles, with cool forethought, had engaged no partner for these next two dances, but bent his steps upstairs through the house on an exploring expedition. He wandered through ladies' cloak-rooms, round halls and narrow corridors, finally discovering and descending a steep flight of stairs that took him down to the first floor, through a small passage, and out of the house into the yard at the back. This was what he had sought. The little door was open, for slaves and servants had been passing in and out of it through the whole evening; and so, satisfied in this direction, he returned to the front of the house at the close of the third dance.
Deborah, just finishing a round of laughter with Carleton Jennings, received Sir Charles with admirable self-possession, and they took their place silently in the set, which was a minuet. It was now that Fairfield had determined to set before the girl his arrangements for the evening's reckless finale. Under cover of the first slow strains of music and the first careful steps, he began:
"Have you any partners after the ninth dance?"
"No," said Deborah, steadily, understanding him at once.