He was slight and, though not very tall, of a good figure, with handsome features, and a remarkably dark complexion; he was dressed in a rich semi-oriental military costume, and had a dashing independent air about him, which Morton thought approached very much to a swagger, but perhaps at that moment he was not a very unprejudiced judge. Ronald could not help staring at him in a somewhat marked manner.
“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed to himself, “that I should come unexpectedly into this ball-room and meet two persona with whose countenances I am so familiar, and yet not have the slightest notion who they are. That young man’s face I know perfectly well; I must have met him over and over again, in a very different dress to what he now wears, and under very different circumstances, and I must have known him intimately, of that I am certain.”
“Do you not dance, Mr Morton?” asked Mrs Edmonstone, seeing him look about the room, as he was doing, in an abstracted manner, and fancying that he wished probably to be introduced to a partner. The instant her voice recalled his scattered senses, “Thank you,” he answered; “I so seldom have had opportunities of doing so that I can scarcely call myself a dancer; at present I confess that I feel more amusement in looking on than I should in dancing.”
“Can you tell me,” said Morton, “who is that young man in the handsome costume, who is dancing with your friend?”
“I can indeed say very little about him,” was the answer. “He is a Captain Gerardo, I understand,—a foreigner, that is to say, not English; either a Frenchman, or Spaniard, or Portuguese. He has been attached to one of the native courts in the East—I do not know which—and has come here on his travels before returning home. He seems to have come with several good introductions, especially to natives of high rank, and must be wealthy, as he is lavish in his expenditure. My husband, however, is not quite satisfied about him, and is making inquiries to ascertain whether or not he is an impostor. Numbers come to this country expecting to find a fine field for the exercise of their talents. They now and then, however, have to beat a precipitate retreat. I would not willingly have allowed my sweet friend, Edda, to dance with him, but he has been introduced to her father, who rather affects him, and I could not interfere.”
“Edda!” repeated Ronald to himself, the name conjuring up a thousand recollections of his far-distant home, for he had there heard it frequently. “What is your friend’s surname?” he asked; “I did not hear it.”
“She is the daughter of Colonel and Mrs Armytage, who are at present in Calcutta. He is on the staff—a somewhat haughty, proud man, and not a favourite of mine, but she is a gentle, amiable woman; only yields too much to him, I think.”
“How strange!” repeated Ronald aloud.
“Do you know them, Mr Morton?” she asked.
“If Mrs Armytage is the daughter of Sir Marcus Wardhill, of Lunnasting Castle, in Shetland, I know of them, though I have not seen her since I was a child. I was born on the estate, and brought up by her elder sister, who had lost her own child. Her story is a very romantic and sad one. You probably have heard of it.”