Mrs. Shapleigh was in a state of much agitation, first, for fear the bird of paradise wouldn’t come, and then for fear it wouldn’t be becoming. Nor was Sylvia’s mind quite easy until the new white-lutestring ball dress was an accomplished fact.
And at Newington, too, was much concern. An invitation had been sent to the Blairs, of course, and as Hilary was now on the highroad to recovery, there was no reasonable excuse for the Blairs not going. According to the hospitable customs of the age, to decline to go to a certain house was an acknowledgment of the most unqualified enmity. The resources of the people were so few, that to refuse an invitation to a festivity could only proceed from the most deadly ill-will. People who avowedly disliked each other yet kept up a visiting acquaintance, for, as they were planted by each other in perpetuity, they were forced to be wary in their enmities.
Blair and his wife discussed it amicably; they were more conciliatory and forbearing, now that there was an inharmonious chord between them, than before, when they had had their little differences, secure in their perfect understanding of each other. Blair promptly decided that they must go, else it would appear as if he were still unreasonably sore over his defeat. Mrs. Blair acquiesced in this. She could not, like Sylvia Shapleigh, have a new ball gown, but her white-silk wedding dress, that cherished gown, bought for her to be married to Skelton in, and in which she was actually married to Blair, was turned and furbished up for the occasion. Mrs. Blair felt the exquisite absurdity of this, and could not forbear smiling when she was engaged in her work.
The night of the ball arrived—a July night, cool for the season. By seven o’clock the roads leading to Deerchase were full of great, old-fashioned coaches, gigs, stanhopes, and chaises, bringing the county gentry to the grand and much-talked-of ball. Mrs. Shapleigh, whose remains of beauty were not inconsiderable, had begun making her toilet at three o’clock in the day, and was in full regalia at six. She had on a superb crimson satin gown, and the bird of paradise nodded majestically on her head, while she wore so many necklaces around her neck that she looked like a Christmas turkey. Old Tom was out in his best full dress, of swallow-tailed blue coat and brass buttons, with a fine lawn tie to muffle up his throat, after the fashion, and thread cambric ruffles rushing out of his yellow-satin waistcoat. Sylvia had resisted her mother’s entreaties to wear a sash, to wear another necklace, to wear a wreath of artificial flowers, and various other adornments, and by the charming simplicity of her dress was even more successful than usual in persuading the world that she was handsome.
At Deerchase, the house was lighted with wax candles as soon as it was dark. The grounds were illuminated with Chinese lanterns, a luxury never before witnessed in those parts; there was to be a constant exhibition of fireworks on the river, and a band of musicians played in the grounds, and another band in the great hall, which was cleared for dancing. A ball upon a plantation was always as much enjoyed by the negroes as the white people, and every negro at Deerchase was out in his or her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, some to help in the house, some at the stables to take care of the carriages and horses, and others who merely enjoyed looking on with intense though regulated delight. Bob Skinny was simply immense, and fairly outshone Mrs. Shapleigh in the number and variety of his rings, chains, and breastpins. He stood on the square portico that faced the drive, with his arms magnificently folded, his “fluke� under his arm, and occasionally, with an air of tremendous solemnity, he consulted a huge silver watch which didn’t run, that Skelton had given him. Bob arrogated to himself the honour of receiving the guests as they alighted, while Skelton occupied a comparatively unimportant position in the hall. Bulstrode was prowling about, completely subdued by his evening coat and a pair of large white kid gloves. Lewis Pryor, full of delighted excitement, was surveying his handsome boyish figure in the glass over the hall chimney-piece, as Skelton descended the stairs, putting on his gloves.
“How do you like yourself?� he called out.
Lewis blushed furiously and laughed.
Meanwhile Bob Skinny and the “hade man� of the musicians were having a lively verbal scrimmage in the porch.
“Here you is!� remarked Bob, with an air of lofty patronage, as the leader of the band, a red-faced German, accompanied by his satellites, appeared on the porch with their instruments. “Now, I gwi’ show you how ter play de fluke, an’ I gwi’ play wid you, arter I done git th’u wid receivin’ de cump’ny. I kin play de fluke better’n anybody you ever see, but I ain’ proud; I doan’ min’ playin’ wid you.�
“You holt your tongue,� calmly remarked the German. “I got no dime der drifle.�