Henrietta's ball was scheduled for the day preceding Christmas Eve. She insisted on its not being mingled with the holiday, because then she would be less thought of by her guests.
"As if a young lady ought always to be thought of!" Harry said in response to her petty complaint. By then, he had given up his position in the Church of England. He was better suited to a life of selfish idleness. Besides – he had no need of the Church, as a large property and a large sum were promised to him, provided that he found himself a wife. Catherine had long been his object of interest, but she had begun of late to open up to the family, and be repugnantly sweet – in his eyes, at least. He gravitated towards coldly beautiful women of nondescript rank.
The whole while the preparations were being made, Catherine had locked herself up in her room with Sarah, and they talked and read all the day, with occasional meal breaks. Mr. Borne once called to see how she was "getting on," and, finding her more than usually merry, had left her feeling quite easy at heart. Of course there was talk of what she should wear, and though neither Sarah nor she had any taste for elaborate fashions – for them it was simplicity and taste that produced effortless elegance – with Miranda's help they made the hasty pick of a black silk ball gown from one of her Godey's fashion magazines.
"It is very pretty, I'm sure," she said after Miranda had gone to town to make the necessary arrangements, "but I don't at all feel right in going to a ball so soon after my dear papa's death..." She dropped her eyes, and her fine black eyelashes brushed her round ivory cheek with beads of tears entangled in them, which by and by dribbled down her face.
"Now, don't you go a blubberin', missy," Sarah said in her loud, cheerful way. "The dress has been sent fo', or a dressmaker, at any rate, and you'll wear it or be farred! – see if I don't make you – with all due respect!"
"Oh, Sarah!" she gasped, breaking down into a fit of laughter as they exchanged playful looks.
"Now, let me brush your hair, Miss Cathy, and make ye decent fo' the comp'ny downstairs. It's nigh on dinner time, my word!"
"You're quite right!" she raised herself from her chair by the blazing fireplace, and then crossed the room, sinking upon the upholstered stool at her toilet-table. She first washed her face, and then told Sarah to brush away.
"I mus' say, miss," she said after she had done arranging her curls in a simple yet elegant fashion that became her charmingly. "You're quite the bonny lass. Cert'nly, you're not a reg'lar beauty like Miss Slater, but despite your features being irreg'lar, you're main pretty."
"Thank you for that, Sarah, dear," she smiled, colouring self-consciously at the frank compliment.
*
The dressmaker came by the next morning, and on the one after, the dress was brought to Catherine's room, where both Catherine and Sarah gazed on it in doubtful contemplation. Sarah grasped her hand, trying to shake some cheerfulness into her grave mistress, almost wishing that Catherine were of that shallow disposition that could be made happy by the mere sight of finery.
"Come, Miss Cathy!" she exclaimed, untying the black silk bow from the box with her spindly fingers. "Shan't you try 't on?"
"Must I?" she winced, without meaning to hurt the girl's feelings. "It's bad enough that I am to wear it at the ball, where Henrietta says I must 'go out'. I do detest that term, Sarah – the entire notion of a young woman having to make a debut in Society in order to be accepted by her peers is preposterously one-sided. I say, young men aren't required to 'come out.' Why should we?"
"Ah, Miss Cathy," she said with a playfully reproving look. "Don't class men and women in th' same category, for each have their own duties to fulfil. What is acceptable for a man is not acceptable for a woman."
"What an odd outlook, Sarah. I don't believe I was raised to think in that manner. I shall have the dress now," she said shortly, rather miffed at her chamber-maid's lecture, which made no sense to her whatever. Though the dressmaker had disapproved of Catherine's not wearing a corset, she was not going to break the habit – instilled by her father, who had been vexed by the idea of his child being deformed by such an unnatural contraption – and the dress, as she managed to get into it, was tight enough on its own.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror hanging in her wardrobe. It wasn't a very elaborate gown, and she was glad of it. The black silk was trimmed with black glass beads on the short sleeves – which were blown up like balloons – and with black velvet ribbon on the hem and sleeves. The under-sleeves and tucker were of cotton, the bodice was lined with polished cotton, and as was the skirt. The only drawback was the neckline – for her shoulders were left bare, and she felt exceedingly exposed.
"Well, Miss, d'ye like it?"
"I don't know that I do, Sarah," she murmured, gravely sizing herself up in the mirror – being her own worst judge, like many a young woman her age are. "There is something wanting."
"Ay, a pearl necklace and a handsome hair piece!" she agreed enthusiastically, stroking her glossy sleeves with a wistful look.
"Not that, you silly girl," she laughed with meek admonition, slightly injuring her maid's pride by calling her a 'silly girl'. "My cheeks want colour, and my eyes want glow. Do you think, Sarah, that I shall ever be as happy as I once was?"
"Oh, forsooth, missy!" she cooed, looking in reproof at her thoughtful mistress. "To say such dree things! Of course yo'll be happy some day! Mark me words, lass, that I shall make ye happy, if naught else does! Yer a very gradely young 'on, aren't ye."
"O hush, my dear," she said, tottering – yes, tottering, for the stiffness of her dress was choking her – to the chair by her bed and dropping into it, with her hand held over her abdomen. "I know what else you want to say – I can read person's emotions, if not their thoughts, through looking at their eyes. Nothing is so expressive as that organ, and most of the time, words cannot express as well as those faithful agents do. Now, Sarah, about my ornaments. I mean to wear the black necklace that contains papa's curls. It is very pretty, and no one need know what is inside of it; I am determined to wear it, for it shall give me much needed strength. As for my hair..."
"How 'bout a garland o' red roses, missy?" Sarah put forth mechanically.
"Yes, I daresay that will do," said she in reply, directing her uninterested gaze to the window. The weather was very bleak, and the snow was only just beginning to fall in heavy white flakes. It was the sticky kind, for Catherine well knew snow, for many a time she and her father had played together in it in all of its different stages. The sound of Sarah's voice recalled her to the present.
"Now don't be sittin' thither wi' your head i' th' clouds, missy!" she said in her usual scolding manner, but Catherine knew better than to take her tone to heart.
"You're quite right," she rose, still mildly abstracted. "My dear friend. Shall you help me out of it?"
"Right! Let Sarah undress ye, there's a good lass."
*
The guests arrived an hour late, which was only fashionable – and country gentry often venture to imitate city gentry – but when they did it was in a great flock, as if they had all of them consulted each other about the exact time of their arrival. The household guests had been lounging and chatting in the drawing-room, when these others were shewn in after having deposited their coats and shawls and other such articles of outdoor clothing in the cloak-room. However, this was only but a private ball, and this flock consisted merely of twenty people, not including those already present.
The footman announced every guest one by one as they passed into the drawing-room. "Mr., Mrs., and Miss Charlton." – "Mr. and Mrs. Donoghue." – "Mr. and Miss Parfitt." – "Messrs., Mrs., and Misses Vernon." – "Mr., Mrs, and Misses Edland." – "Messrs., Mrs. Crompton."
They were so many – yet these were the only families thought fit to attend Henrietta and Lord Kinney's ball – that the General merely bowed to the flock, treating them as one individual. He of course fell to praising and flirting with select young ladies, but when it was time to move into the music-room (which they had fitted up to be the ball-room) he escorted his wife, leaving Miss Charlton to be escorted by Harry Slater, who had a smirk plastered across his grimly handsome face.
Catherine's escort was Mr. Busick Borne, and naturally, he was her first dancing partner, though she swore not to dance above three sets. She had decided on wearing the necklace containing her father's hair, and wore a garland of red roses gathered from Miranda's glasshouse, which went well with her glossy chestnut curls. She looked almost happy, gliding around the high-ceilinged room with Mr. Borne, whose attire was like every other gentleman's – black dress-coat, full collar, white vest, and black pantaloons. He had relinquished his plaid pants for this one evening. Only the Dandies and Mr. Parfitt wore blue coats and white vests, with lavender pantaloons and gloves.
The bride elect's first two dances were with her fiancé, and the heaviness of detail in her ball gown can well be imagined. It was a sleeveless pink gown with train, and around her swan-like neck she had tied a pearly white neck-ribbon. She looked as though she had but just strolled out of a Godey's fashion plate.
After the first dance, Mr. Borne restored Catherine to her table with a polite thank you, where she took tea with Miranda, for she was quite tired and out of breath.
"Now, my dear, are you enjoying your first ball?" she inquired.
"Oh, I suppose – but then Mr. Borne is such an agreeable partner. He cheers me up considerably. Nevertheless, I am feeling very fatigued. How much longer are we to continue this?"
"My dear!" she cooed with an arch smile. "You're not serious! Are you already contemplating leaving us?"
"I only meant to know the ending hour of the ball," she said, colouring.
"Don't be ashamed of your inexperience, Catherine. I knew in anticipation that our ball would not please you – not even with your handsome black silk gown. I know, my dear – you need not excuse yourself, because you are already forgiven. As to time, I should think this one will end at three in the morning."
"Three, Miranda?" she paused her polite sipping, staring at her with incredulous yet patient eyes.
"Indeed. But you may leave at midnight, if it is too much for you to handle."
"Thank you, Miranda," she murmured, applying her teacup to her lips, where a smile lingered.
*
After the second set Mr. Borne sought Catherine's permission to sit by her, and she gave it him with ready politeness.
"How are you getting on, Missy?" he grinned, reposing his arm on the armrest of his chair. "You look downright tuckered out."
"I was rather fatigued," she said, suppressing a smile. "But am feeling much the better—"
"Now that I'm here? Come, you needn't be so constrained, Cathy. It's only me, old Busick."
"I know, but this is my first ball, and though it is a private ball, I wish to make a good impression. We cannot go on whispering into each other's ears as if we were confirmed lovers. People see – and then they talk."
"I see," he said, looking askance at the General, who had seated himself by his wife. "We haven't the privilege of whispering, as we are neither married nor quizzes."
"All things considered, they may think whatever they like!" her face dimpled with more liberty, for she was thoroughly taken by his joking spirit.
"Catherine," said the General, rising from his chair and pausing before her. "Might I request a private audience with you?"
"Certainly," she said, standing mechanically. As she walked away on the General's arm, she shot Mr. Borne a parting glance, one which, if well interpreted, conveyed, "What could his intentions be?"
But the Oxford man could only reply by shrugging his shoulders, as he was in complete ignorance of the General's purposes.
*
The General took her into his circular library, and after ordering for a fire to be lit he asked her to sit down. He first poured himself a glass of claret from the silver alcohol tray, and then faced her, swishing the liquid around in its glass in a stance of rumination.
"I know something," he began thus, taking a long sip from his glass as he sauntered to his desk, and slowly lowered himself into his green leather armchair. "I know that you know something."
Catherine's face blenched, and she felt a stone dropping to the bottom of her heart. She almost wished to faint, as her situation was very awkward, but it could not be helped – she was not of the fainting variety.
"I've petrified you," he sneered, applying the glass to his lips again. Catherine remained speechless. "Harry is an idle boy – his life is quite purposeless – but I found a purpose for him in being my personal spy. He usually keeps an eye on you, but he is soon bored by your innocent pastimes. However... one day, when he was really pushing himself to follow you, as he does it very unwillingly, he struck gold." His cheeks dimpled, and then he leaned back in his chair, with his hands crossed behind his head. "I thought you perfectly harmless until now. Borne is the only other being on Earth to know about my little secret – the love-child, you know. I brought him here because he's uncle to the child. Yes! That's right, his sister and I had an infatuation – but it was many years ago. He was very irked, at the time, but now that there's a child in the bargain, he is anxious to help."
"How old is it?" she inquired boldly, dropping all pretences.
"Twenty-one years."
"Does the individual live in the Abbey?" she asked.
"She does."
"Who is she?"
"A girl by the name of Sarah – she was reared in Scotland by her dear old mum, and brought here after her death – nearly ten years ago."
"Sarah?" she said hoarsely, her eyes filling with tears. "She's yours?"
"Only half mine. At all events, my dear, I haven't conducted you here to discuss a girl-servant of mine."
"Your child," she said bitterly.
"Yes, my dear. Now, how can I be sure that you'll not tell anyone about this?" he leant forward, resting his elbows on his desk.
"I've told your secret to no one, sir, and never shall, you may be certain of it. But, if I may... is Mr. Busick really the only other being who is aware of this?"
"I'm afraid so. Neither Harry nor my wife know about it."
"That's awful, sir," she said, her vision blurring. He jumped up suddenly.
"I'll please to say what's awful and what's not!" he roared, banging his fist on the table. She recoiled from him, shrouding her face with her hands. "You've no right to judge me, Catherine! No right in Hell!" He had worked himself into a passion, but after perceiving her trembling figure with the small white hands covering its face in a horrified way, he took pity on the frightened creature, and sunk back into his chair.
"Catherine... you must assist me in killing Borne."
"Sir!" she started.
"Catherine! Now I... I shan't stand for any form of resistance. It's either that or matrimony, and you know to whom that must be."
"I choose matrimony, sir," she said firmly, her long black brows gathering. She looked unusually fierce – fierce like an affronted queen. "And if you were mad enough to think me capable of such soulless treachery... I may know less of the world than you do, but the little I do know helps me in drawing my own boundaries. I must leave you now." When Catherine returned to the ball-room, she thought only to find Mr. Borne. He was dancing the quadrille with a lady. She placed herself against a pillar, and when the dance was over, she accosted him, pulling him into the hall quite suddenly.
"My girl, is something the matter?" he exclaimed, perceiving her eyes to be glistening with tears. "Do be seated!" He led her to a chair against the wall, and then bent down to her level, looking searchingly into her eyes.
"Mr. Busick," she whimpered, covering her face with her gloved white hands. The old gentleman felt the young woman's despair, despite his having more good-humour than sentiment.
"Hush, my dear, hush. What did the General say? You know I won't let him hurt a hair on your head."
"O, had I not been so naive – had I not accepted his offer – I should never have been harried into this... this... Mr. Busick!" she cried, drawing back from him and boring her waterlogged eyes into his. "Cannot I go home with you? Tonight, I bid you! I don't want to spend another night under his vile roof. He's mad, he's... he wants to kill you, and he wants me to marry his son! I am trapped within a nightmare."
"Surely, my girl," he said, producing his handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing her cheeks with it. "Surely he... I manage all his private affairs, and had it not been for me, he—"
"Mr. Busick, you don't understand – he gave me a choice. Either I assist him in your murder, or I marry his son, and thus save him from bankruptcy."
"Don't tell me you chose matrimony, Catherine," he said, a dark cloud passing over his countenance.
"Mr. Busick, I could never harm a fly! I once trampled a spider, and I felt so sad afterwards – I felt very wretched until dear papa made light of my fears." This little speech seemed to amuse him, though he managed to smother a snort with his hand.
"I don't mean to discourage you, Cathy, only that... that both ways, you are ruined – corrupted, use whatever word you will for describing the loss of your freedom and childhood."
"Don't think of me, sir. I would advise you to leave by the next train to Derbyshire – don't lose another minute, for the earliest night train departs at eleven. What o'clock is it now?"
"Half past ten," he said, drawing his watch-chain out of his pocket with a studious air.
"You still have time. Take the coach at the crossing to the station, and—"
"No, Cathy," he said, placing a gaunt finger over her lips. "Not another word. My place is here with you – and my niece. I meant to take her back with me, but seeing as Slater has other plans in view for silly old me..."
"You do not mean to yield to the General, sir?"
"No – you may depend upon it that I shall not. However, as long as you are here, I cannot go. I feel bound to you, my girl, as though you were my own daughter. And for Frederick's sake, I'll not let him triumph. So, on my honour as a gentleman, as long as you are here, I am immovable. Now... dry your tears, wash your face, and get to bed. I'll account for your absence."
"The General will know that something is amiss."
"Never mind what he thinks. The man has lost his senses. You must sleep well, Cathy, and perhaps I may be able to persuade him to reason. He may have a volatile nature, but when he is self-possessed, he can be reasoned with."
"Do be careful, Mr. Busick," she said as he helped her to her feet. "Take care not to have conferences with him in the obscurer regions of the manor. Let it be the parlour, one of the drawing-rooms, or his circular library, at most."
"You shouldn't fret for my sake, child," he smiled with a fierce expression of cheerfulness, as though he were trying hard to repress his feelings of doubt. He rang the bell. "Send for Sarah," he said to the butler.
"Does she know, sir?" she asked, furtively.
"No. Let it be kept so until I see fit to tell her. Here she comes. Good-night, Catherine." He then turned to the tall, gaunt girl – in appearance much like himself – and addressed her in low tones, saying, "Your mistress is feeling ill. Take good care of her."
"To be sure!" she exclaimed, wrapping a steady arm round Catherine's waist and then helping her up the flight of oaken stairs. Catherine did sleep that night, but she did not feel refreshed the next morning, bearing in mind her imminent engagement to Henry Slater.