Miss Gingerly had laid her black satin bag on the piano, drawn herself up with all the frosty-faced dignity of waning maidenhood, and was performing a prelude before commencing operations, which was chiefly remarkable for its ingenious flights from key to key, and bewildering accumulation of false concords.
"Gentlemen, find partners for yourselves," said the lively Mrs Greenwood; and the gentlemen, after looking at one another, disentangled themselves from the knot into which they were gathered, and, shuffling up each to the lady that pleased his fancy, solicited the honour of her hand. The couples had taken their places, and Miss Gingerly was dashing away into the heart of the "Highland Laddie," when it was discovered that there was still a couple awanting.
"Mr Silky, you dance?" said all the men at once to that gentleman, who was sitting pensively in a corner.
"Oh, really!" replied Silky, smiling a sickly smile, and making vague protestations of inability.
"Not dance!" said the vivacious Mr Slap'emup. "Fie on you!—oh, fie! And Miss Linton looking at you there, like Eve on the eve of Paradise, as if
'She would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.'"
There was nothing for it but that Silky should make up to Miss Jemima, and lead her out to dance. This he did among the nods, and winks, and whispers of all present; and by the time he got into his place in the quadrille, he did not very well know which end of him was uppermost. Away rattled Miss Gingerly at the "Highland Laddie," and away bounced the dancers through the mazes of the figure. Dancing a quadrille is with some people no trifling matter, and Mr Simon Silky was one of these. He bent to it all the energies of his not over-powerful mind; and, while it lasted, beyond a passing word or two, he had no conversation to bestow upon his partner. It was amusing to see with what earnestness he watched the movements of those who preceded him, and, when his own turn came, the exhibition he made would have made a Timor grin. First, he threw out his arms to steady himself, and then jerking forward his right foot, brought himself suddenly into the centre of the floor, where he began throwing his legs confusedly about, till they seemed to be involved in hopeless entanglement. All the time he kept his eyes fixed anxiously upon his shoe-ties. It was obviously a critical affair with him to preserve his equipoise, and each time that he got back safely to his place, a sigh broke from him, as if a great burden had been taken off his mind, and he wiped the sweat away that glistered in heavy beads upon his brow. At length the quadrille ended. Mr Silky thanked heaven; and, leading the fair Jemima to a seat, planted himself at her side, and manfully endeavoured to open up a conversation with her.
Dance succeeded dance, and by degrees the elements of the party got tolerably well interfused. Poor Miss Gingerly wrought away at her everlasting set of Scotch quadrilles, and nobody ever volunteered to relieve her of her task, "she played so well." At intervals some of the young ladies quivered through a fashionable ballad, and occasionally an attempt was made to get up one of those melancholy chants, which, by some strange misnomer, pass current in society for glees. In these, Mr Scratcherd, who sang bass, distinguished himself so signally, that loud calls were made upon him for a song, and Mr Scratcherd, after a little preliminary modesty, yielded to the call. He then began raving about an "Old Oak Tree," and groaned up and down the scale, till his voice became lost in the bottom of his neckcloth. Serious fears were entertained whether he would be able to get it up again, but these happily turned out to be unfounded. Again his voice mounted to its natural level, and after rolling about for some time, "grating harsh discord," wore itself out in a cadence of confused gutturals. "Bravo, bravo," cried the men. "A very fine quality of bass," exclaimed his friend, Slap'emup, who affected to be a judge; and Mr Scratcherd blew his nose, and fell back in his chair in a state of great personal satisfaction.
With a thoughtful regard for the comforts of her guests, Mrs Greenwood had, early in the evening, thrown open her little back drawing-room, in which were placed abundance of refreshments, to sustain them through the fatigues of dancing and conversation. By a succession of visits to this room, Mr Simon Silky had succeeded in giving firmness to his nerves. He was gradually becoming less and less bashful. There must have been something bracing about the atmosphere of the apartments, for to this, and not to the bottle of port, to which he was observed to have frequent recourse, must be attributed that jauntiness of step and slipshod volubility of tongue which he now displayed. He danced every dance, and for the most part with Miss Jemima for his partner. What though his uncouth gestures provoked a smile, and his assiduities to the young lady were commented on at every hand. He cared not. His spirit was in the third heaven of exaltation, and the whole world might go hang for him.
"Miss Linton," he exclaimed, seizing her hand fervently—they were seated on a sofa in the back drawing-room, while the others were labouring through a country-dance in the front—"Miss Linton, hear me for a moment. Let me use this opportunity of stating what I have long felt—what I now feel—what I shall always feel." And again Mr Silky pressed her hand tenderly in both of his.