Two by two the couples entered, crossed to the centre of the room and bowed each other to their places opposite in the long, wall-like line which characterizes the stately reel.
The ladies dropped like drooping lilies for one brief moment in the midst of their silken stiffness, skirts that “stood alone,” and made their courtesies to their swains with proper maiden modesty.
Cæsar saw it all from his post of vantage near the big viol, but he was not interested in the visitors, he knew what they could do. He was waiting to see his master “lay ‘em all in the shade bimeby.” Of course he would open the ball. He wasn’t fond of dancing but it was the custom of the day, and he and Miss Rachel “knew their manners.”
But for once the custom of the day was changed. Cæsar was destined to disappointment. Mrs. Jackson’s rustling silk announced her approach before she appeared, leaning, not upon the arm of the general, but in company with a florid, rather fleshy gentleman, no stranger, however, to the Hermitage hospitality. Much to the negro’s chagrin he led her to the very head of the long lines of bright dresses and gay gallants, and stepped himself, as Cæsar declared, “like a young cock,” into the general’s own place opposite. The master stood at the very foot, the escort of a lady Cæsar had never set eyes upon before, and who for the life of him he could not forgive for being the general’s partner.
He was grievously disappointed, so that when the florid fat gentleman at the head danced down between the gay columns, and made his manners to the lady at the foot, as gallantly as anyone could have done, Cæsar expressed his opinion loud enough to be heard by the very gentleman himself.
“Mr. Grundy tryin’ step mighty high to-night,” he said.
But it was when “Miss Rachel” danced down in her silken skirts and met the master midway the line, and dropped a low courtesy, her full skirts settling about her like a great white umbrella, and the stately general bowed over his silver buckles like some royal knight of old, that Cæsar’s enthusiasm got the better of his indignation.
“Beat dat, Mr. Grundy!” he said, in a low, if enthusiastic, whisper, “beat dat, sar.” And Mr. Grundy pranced down again to “beat” the master in the “swing with the right” movement of the old-fashioned dance.
Promptly the general followed, meeting “Miss Rachel” half way with a second courtesy over the tips of her fingers, just visible under the lace ruffles at her wrists.
“Try dat, now, Mr. Grundy!” And this time Cæsar forgot his whisper so that a burst of applause followed the challenge, to Mr. Grundy’s extreme chagrin; for he, alas! had forgotten his bow before swinging the lady.