CHAPTER XXXIV.

"I AM LANCELOT," SAYS SIR EDWARD.

The dresses for the ball have all been finished off satisfactorily, and now that the evening of the 10th has really arrived, the three girls are standing in the drawing-room, preparatory to starting with their aunt for the Court.

They make a pretty group in their simple, white silk gowns and natural flowers. Doris is perhaps a little the most important looking, as being the eldest of the three. Standing with a handsome posy of choice hothouse flowers (sent down from London that morning by Mr. Ferrars) in her hand, she looks, as she certainly is, a very pretty and graceful girl.

Honor, with an opposition posy, which had arrived with some mystery that afternoon, and is explained with great persistency by Dick as being an offering from Ernest Hildyard, looks almost equally pretty to-night, with a soft flush upon her cheeks and a happy light in her eyes, which seems lately to have become habitual to them. But it is Molly who carries off the palm for beauty on this occasion, though not, perhaps, looking in the same ecstatic spirits as her two sisters; and her mother as she looks at her feels a little pardonable pride in the thought that probably her three daughters will be the best-looking girls in the ball-room.

"She is looking lovely to-night!" whispers the delighted mother to Honor. "I do wish Hugh were here to see her, poor fellow!"

Lady Woodhouse and Molly are also provided with posies of choice flowers, Priscilla having left them at the Rookery that evening about six, with her masters' compliments, a card being tied on each, one for "Lady Woodhouse," the other "Miss Mary Merivale."

Evidently some little bird had whispered to the old gentlemen that it would be quite unnecessary to send a similar offering to either Doris or Honor.

"We must take care what we are about, Ben," remarked Mr. Edward to his brother, "or we shall have these two young fellows getting jealous of us."

When the only available fly in the village is at length announced by Dick and Bobby, who have both been on the tiptoe of expectation for some time, Lady Woodhouse gathers up her skirts, and followed by her three nieces walks down the gravel path, Dick being in attendance to receive her goloshes, which, though there has not been a drop of rain for weeks, she insists on wearing over her evening shoes until she shall be safely seated in the aforesaid fly.

As the boy hands Honor in, he charges her to be sure to ask Sinclair how he likes the flowers Mr. Hildyard has sent her, but on receiving a smart rap on his head with a fan from Molly, who is close behind him, he wisely retires into the background.

"Bless me! what a rattle-trap kind of conveyance," says Lady Woodhouse to Honor, who is seated opposite, "and _how_ it smells of straw! You girls had better hold up your gowns off the floor; I don't suppose it is any too clean. And, dear me, there is a piece of glass out of the pane behind Molly! You had better pull the window up on your side, child, or you will be getting a stiff neck or an ear-ache."

* * * * * * * *

It is certainly not to be denied that those whose business it has been to make all the arrangements for the ball have achieved wonders, for the stately, gloomy-looking old place, which until now had been shut up for so many years, is scarcely to be recognized in the brilliantly-lighted and flower-bedecked mansion, at whose wide-thrown doors the guests are being set down from carriage after carriage.

The garden is so arranged as to look like a continuation of the beautiful conservatories, and the trees and bushes all being hung with coloured lamps, the whole scene is like a miniature fairy-land. There is a large marquee at one end, with light refreshments, and this arrangement is appreciated not a little by the guests, who are thankful on this hot summer night to have the excuse of a stroll in the open air in order to obtain their ices and claret-cup between the dances.

Just inside the great drawing-room stands an aristocratic-looking, silver-haired lady, who, with the assistance of three gentlemen (Lancelot and two younger-looking men), is receiving the guests. The dancing is to be in the great hall, so when most of the visitors have arrived they are conducted thither without delay.

"I wonder which is Sir Edward?" whispers Doris to Honor; "they are neither of them half so good-looking as Lancelot." For Mr. Ferrars has merely said "my cousins" in introducing them to the girls.

But at this moment there is a little stir near the door, and the next moment the Earl and Countess of Castleton, with their daughters, Lady Anne and Lady Margaret Trevelyan, enter the room.

As the host and hostess have been waiting for the arrival of this party before giving the signal for the dancing to commence, Lancelot immediately leads the way to the hall with Lady Castleton. The rest of the guests follow, Lord Castleton, rather to Doris's surprise, begging the honour of the first dance with her, while the two "cousins" bear off the Ladies Anne and Margaret.

Doris, though appearing pleased enough, nevertheless feels rather put out. As she had looked forward to dancing the first dance with Lancelot, she cannot help wondering why _he_ should be opening the ball with Lady Castleton, instead of his cousin Sir Edward. Lord Castleton does not mend matters in her opinion by planting himself and her immediately opposite to Lancelot and his partner, thus giving her precedence of Lady Anne and Lady Margaret.

The girl is so confused with this (to her) odd arrangement that her conversational powers are seriously affected, and she thinks to herself what a stupid little thing she must appear to his lordship. She sees in the distance, in another set, Honor with John Sinclair, and Molly with Lord Hinton, a friend and college chum of Lancelot's, who has come down with him, and she finds herself privately thinking that if her partner were any other than Lord Castleton she would insist on leaving this very select set and joining the other.

She makes the best of it, however, and meeting a little affectionate and encouraging glance from her vis-à-vis just as the band plays the opening bars of the quadrille, she brightens up, and chats to her elderly partner while gracefully moving through the figures in a manner which quite charms his lordship.

Doris is once more standing by her aunt's side when Lancelot hurries up. "I must have this one waltz before I do any more duty dances, Doris. Come along!" and in another instant they are gliding round the room together. After several turns Mr. Ferrars guides her to the end of the hall, where some heavy curtains are hung. He lifts one, and Doris, looking a little surprised, passes through. They are now in a sort of inner hall, and hurrying Doris down it he throws open one of the doors and stands aside for her to enter. It is a cosy-looking study which they are now standing in, the windows, like those of nearly all the rooms on that side, leading straight to the garden. The only thing, however, that Doris notices particularly in the room itself is a nearly full-length portrait of Lancelot over the mantel-piece.

"Are you tired?" he asks, putting her into a comfortable lounging-chair, and taking his stand by the fireplace, one elbow resting on the mantel-piece.

"Tired!--after only two dances? Why, I shouldn't expect to be tired if I danced all night long, Lancelot."

"And now, tell me, Doris," he says after a short pause, "how do you like Sir Edward?"

"Sir Edward?" repeats Doris staring a little. "Why, I don't even know who he is yet. You only said 'my cousin' when you introduced them both to us. How can I possibly tell?"

"And yet you have been dancing with him," says Lancelot with a little smile.

"I!--with Sir Edward?" says Doris evidently thinking that her companion is wandering in his mind a little.

"Yes, _you_, with Sir Edward. Look here, Doris," taking her arm and raising her from the chair, "that is Sir Edward Ferrars up there!" and he points to the portrait of himself.

"_Lancelot!_" gasps Doris, and she turns her wonder-stricken face towards him, while a little pained look comes into her eyes. "Why have you called yourself Lancelot, then?" she inquires, her voice sounding a little hurt and constrained.

"Because I _am_ Lancelot," Sir Edward says gently, and taking her hands into his. "But I am Edward too, Doris; the other is only my second name, though I have always been called by it since my infancy. You see, I never expected to come into this property, Doris. It came almost like a blow to me. There was another man, a distant cousin, who was the direct heir; but, poor fellow! he was a black sheep, I am afraid, and he came to an untimely end. It was all hushed up at the time, and I knew no more of it than anyone else. You may imagine, then, how surprised I was when I found myself the happy possessor of this property. Happy, because I have found someone to share it with me, Doris. I should not have cared two straws about it otherwise."

"But--but _why_ did you deceive me, Lancelot?" says Doris, with the threatening of a pout on her fair face.

"I did not deceive you, dear. I simply let things take their own course, with you that is, and I was as much Lancelot Ferrars then as now, now as then. The only two people I told of my accession to this property were your aunt and your mother. I was bound to tell them, of course."

"And why," says Doris, still looking and feeling a little hurt, "_why_ couldn't you tell _me_ too?"

"You must forgive me, Doris. Do you remember what you said to me over and over again about making some great match? I remember you tossing your little head one day when we were sitting in the balcony of the hotel at Venice and saying 'What was love compared to riches!'"

Doris blushes and hangs her head.

"Then there appeared this rich old French count--"

"He wasn't _very_ old," interrupts Doris.

"Older than I am at any rate. And I thought at first you were a little bit dazzled with the prospect of horses and carriages and diamonds and so forth, so, although I knew even then that I was in a position to give them to you also, I made up my mind I would be sure that you were accepting me for myself, even as the artist who could only give you a very different position to that which the old (I beg pardon, the middle-aged) count could, and I suppose _did_, offer you. Am I forgiven, Doris? I must be hastening back to my duties now; but you must tell me first, dear, if you care any less for Sir Edward than for the Lancelot you have known so long?"

Doris lifts her face, a little paler than when they entered the room at first, and with unshed tears standing in her large blue eyes she says:

"Dear Lancelot, I care for you no less, no more than at first. I do not think I could ever be fonder of you than I was when I promised to become your wife. But I am glad now that you tried me, and that I accepted you in ignorance of your real position. O," she adds a little archly, "it was horribly mean of you, but I am very, very glad now!"

Sir Edward (for we may as well give him his title now) folds Doris in his arms for one brief moment, then he hurries her out of the room. As they are approaching the hall once more, he whispers, "Give me your programme, Lady Ferrars! I must squeeze in every dance that I can with your ladyship; but oh, these duty dances! I _must_ have one with Honor, and Molly too. Now you understand, I suppose, why I opened the proceedings with Lady Castleton, and why the Earl was _your_ partner?"

"But he doesn't know, does he?" says Doris, looking frightened.

"Yes, I gave him a hint. We are old friends; my father and he were very intimate in days gone by. Lord Castleton has just told me that he thinks Miss Merivale is a very charming girl. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he proposes your health at supper to-night. There will have to be a little speechifying, worse luck, because of the occasion."

"O, good gracious, I hope he won't!" exclaims Doris excitedly. "If he does, I shall fall straight under the table with nervousness!"

"Never mind," says Sir Edward calmly. "If you do I can fish you up again."

Presently the Mr. Talboys come up to Doris full of hearty congratulations, as do also most of the guests in the room that night, who have not known the true state of affairs any more than Doris herself. Molly, indeed, is reduced to such a state of surprise and wonder, that Honor thinks it well to whisper that her present partner, a youth of tender age, will be frightened if she continues to stare in that vacant manner.

The Mr. Talboys, who, after their usual custom had been amongst the first arrivals, have been immensely gratified and pleased by all the attention their three favourites have been receiving. The little surprise of Lancelot turning out to be Sir Edward, they take quite as a matter of course.

"Doubtless he had very excellent reasons, my dear Ben," observed Mr. Ned. "You see, no one knew him down here, not a soul, excepting the Merivales and ourselves, and I should say Mr. Ferrars--I mean Sir Edward--is an unobtrusive sort of man. O yes, very, I should think."

To Lady Woodhouse Doris is at the same moment saying, "Aunt, how could you and mother play me such a trick? It was too bad of you both."

"Tut, child!" says Aunt Sophia with a little toss of her head, "it was for your own good. If young Ferrars had really been a pauper and was pretending to be a prince, I might have thought twice about it, perhaps. Here he comes for you. Dear me, how tired I am getting!" and the poor lady tries to stifle a yawn behind her fan.

By and by, in one of the pauses in their waltz, Sir Edward suddenly says, "You will have to call me 'Edward' now, you know. You can't go on with Lancelot: no one would know whom you were talking about. Of course it must be Edward."

"Well, I suppose it must," says Doris, taking little sniffs at her flowers. "But I don't like it half so well. It is so formal too. I shall have to call you 'Ned' for short, shall I?"

"You can't do that, because Mr. Talboys will always think you are speaking to him when he is present. _Ted_ might do, though. It sounds so romantic and pretty, doesn't it? Honor and Molly are getting lots of attention, aren't they? Poor Horton, I wish he was here. Shall we have another turn, Doris?"

Not long after this there is a general move amongst the guests who are still left, and while Lady Woodhouse and her three nieces are waiting together in a little group, Sir Edward, his cousins, Lord Hinton, and John Sinclair being in close attendance, Mrs. Cunnyngham, Sir Edward's aunt, says a few kind, courteous words to her nephew's promised bride, finally kissing her affectionately when saying "good-night."

Sir Edward takes Lady Woodhouse out to the carriage, Lord Hinton following with Doris.

Mr. Ernest Hildyard, who has been leaning against the wall consumed with jealousy of his successful rival John Sinclair for the best part of the evening, on seeing this move rushes forward, inspired by one last glimmer of hope, and is about to offer his arm to Honor, when Sinclair with a little triumphant smile strides forward and quietly takes possession of her.

The disappointed youth falls back to Molly's side just as one of Mrs. Cunnyngham's sons also reaches her; but with a little smile at the latter Molly puts her hand on young Hildyard's arm, and Cunnyngham, understanding her smile, steps back, liking her all the better for the little kind-hearted act.

Both brothers, however, accompany her as well, and there is quite a merry leave-taking amongst them all as the gentlemen stand congregated on the lowest step, after having seen their fair charges stowed away in the fly. The first rosy streaks of dawn are appearing in the east as they drive away from the Court, and poor Lady Woodhouse, tired and shivery, throws herself back in her seat exclaiming:

"There! thank goodness _that_ is over. I would not go through it all again, no, not if I were paid for it!" Mary is in attendance with the goloshes as the fly draws up at the gate, and they all go as quietly and softly into the house and up the stairs as if, as Doris says, they were housebreakers.

The girls follow their aunt into her room and help her out of her finery, as she calls it.

"Why, dear me," says the good lady, sinking into a chair, "you girls look as fresh as larks even now--excepting Molly perhaps: the child looks pale. Get me my night-cap somebody, I am dying to get this lace arrangement off. That diamond pin has been running into my head the best part of the evening."

"Poor Aunt!" says Doris. "Take off your cap and I'll have the other ready in a minute." And the naughty girl winks at Honor as she turns away to look for it.

Molly, however, too tired for jokes, is before her, and is already standing by her aunt with the night-cap in her hands.

"That's a good girl," says Lady Woodhouse, drawing her face down and kissing it. "And now be off, all of you. You have already lost several hours of beauty-sleep, and you will be looking as haggard as old women to-morrow!" And kissing them all affectionately, she dismisses her three maids for the night, or more correctly speaking, morning.