“No,” said Lady Betty, looking him bravely in the eye, but the blood dropped swiftly out of her fair face.
Four days after that was the grand ball. Lady Betty and De Bourmont were much together in that time, and they were seen whispering to one another so often and so intimately that those who could see farther into a millstone than most people, confidently predicted that “something would come of it.”
De Bourmont had some qualms about the coming ball, when Lady Betty and Flora Mackenzie would be brought face to face. He was not vain enough to think for one moment that either of them was in love with him; but he apprehended Lady Betty’s fine scorn when she found out, as she certainly would, that he had pursued his acquaintance with the lawyer’s daughter in the new town.
De Bourmont had one of those generous temperaments that can be upon the verge of falling in love with two women at once. And Flora Mackenzie was very beautiful,—even more so than the daughter of the Macdonalds of Stair,—and De Bourmont was in love with beauty wherever he found it. However, he consoled himself with this reflection: “I shall soon be out of it all. No more balls for me. I shall soon be marching and fighting as a true Frenchman should be at this time.”
The night of the great ball arrived, and when De Bourmont and Lady Betty went together to the anteroom of the Comte d’Artois and his princess to attend them, De Bourmont felt very much in love with Lady Betty’s beauty. She had no fine gowns, but she had the whitest neck and the brightest eyes, and across her slender figure was draped the silk tartan of the Macdonalds, which she wore as proudly as if it were the ribbon of the Garter. If Lady Betty felt any regret at the coming parting, of which she was the only soul in Holyrood that knew anything, she very bravely hid it,—for De Bourmont was chagrined and half offended at the air of careless happiness that she wore.
The company was assembled in the long ball-room, which blazed with wax lights. At eight o’clock most of the guests had arrived, the gentlemen wearing swords as part of their full dress, and the ladies mostly in ringlets. A dais, covered with crimson cloth, with a canopy over it, and two armchairs for the royal pair, was erected at the upper end of the room. At the lower end a band was stationed which played Scotch versions of “L’air Henri Quatre,” “Gavotte de Louis XI.,” and other French compositions that referred to the Bourbons. Dancing did not begin until after their Royal Highnesses had come and gone; but at ten minutes past eight precisely the Comte d’Artois, magnificently dressed in some old finery that he had saved from Versailles, and his Savoyard wife, Marie Thérèse, upon his arm, made a solemn entry, and proceeded up the long ball-room, bowing right and left to the ladies and gentlemen who lined the way to the dais. They were not a very royal looking pair, but very good-natured and amiable. Lady Betty Stair held up the princess’s great train of flowered satin, while De Bourmont walked next her, after the Comte d’Artois. De Bourmont was secretly wondering how this ball would turn out for him; and no man can be at ease who has two women in his mind. Lady Betty looked very demure,—she was always very demure when she was not very saucy,—and she was not less pretty for a concealed agitation that she had felt ever since she knew that De Bourmont was “riding for a fall” from royal favor.
The royal party made a very slow and stately progress toward the dais, the jewelled feathers in the princess’s head-dress nodding gravely and incessantly, and presently they reached the dais and the princess seated herself, her train being very carefully spread out by Lady Betty, who then took her stand behind the royal chair. De Bourmont was behind the Comte d’Artois’s chair, and he and Lady Betty exchanged little nods and looks that took the place of conversation, which etiquette forbade during the performance of the solemn and arduous duty of standing up behind the chairs of princes and princesses.
Then all the ladies and gentlemen advanced in the order of their rank and paid their respects. Most of them were known to the little circle at Holyrood; but presently there was a sort of hush,—the beautiful Flora Mackenzie, tall, superbly dressed, was approaching with her father and mother, and scarcely ten persons in the room knew who she was. She walked quite calmly and sedately behind the counsellor, who had Mistress Mackenzie upon his arm. The older woman was finely gowned, as became a rich man’s wife, and blazed with diamonds. Flora had on a rich white brocaded satin, very unlike the simple muslins and gauzes that were all the young girls of the exiled court could afford, and around her neck was a great string of pearls. As she approached, Lady Betty so far forgot etiquette as to whisper to De Bourmont:
“Who is she?”
“Miss Mackenzie,” answered De Bourmont, feeling as guilty as if he had stolen something.