# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The Chillingham ball

THE CHILLINGHAM BALL.
“I am afraid it is no mistake—I do love him—I know myself at last; but I will not do myself dishonour, I will not let myself be jealous, ill-tempered, or mean, if I can help it.”
Mary Pembroke was seated at her dressing-table, looking full at the mirror, as if she would read through her own eyes straight down into her soul. She was not gifted with fine or over-sensitive feelings, or she might have followed up these words spoken in her heart, by laying out a map of her future life, all desolate and waste, as a poor disappointed maiden’s life would seem to be, until the picture had become too much for endurance, and she had buried her face in her hands and wept passionately over a future before which the eye of faith veils itself in silence and humility. She did not do this—she merely wiped two large tears from her eyes, and smoothed carefully the soft braids of her brown hair.
“I will not do myself dishonour,” she said, “nor show that I am only a fair weather Christian.”
She rose then, and knelt herself down by the white coverlid of her tiny bed, and asked for strength, meaning to use it.
It was the morning of the Chillingham ball, and in the days which preceded the railroad age, when neighbourhoods were confined in fixed circles, this was an event of vital importance to the society which looked upon Chillingham as its central town. For years past that society had computed time by its Chillingham balls, as the Greeks by Olympiads. No young lady was considered to have reached a marriageable age, until she had made her first appearance there, and woe to her aching heart as the years went by, if they still compelled her to appear there unmarried, for there was a dreadful reckoning kept against her on the side seats where the dowagers rested, dowagers who well remembered her first appearance, when she must have been eighteen, at least.
Dread as the ordeal was, and willingly as many would have avoided it, it is not to be wondered at if mothers led their children there for the first time with aching and anxious hearts, judging from their knowledge of the banking-book at home how little provision would be left for them when the bread-winner’s hand should have ceased to work, and knowing that this appearance would test the world’s opinion of them. Good children, they are perhaps educated to make careful housekeepers and dutiful wives; but what will the world say of them, they wonder, as they glance round the room with a slight sinking of the heart, lest when they have brought out the daughters they love so well for a little innocent amusement, they may be suspected of bringing their wares to market.
With feelings as keen as any other mothers, Mrs. Pembroke had looked forward to Mary’s second appearance; and, until the last few days, she had anticipated a little triumph which should renew the days of her own youth. Mr. Pembroke was one of the chief solicitors in the town, and one whose well-tested probity had caused him to be received where his birth and connections would otherwise not have entitled him to notice. Some two or three years before, he had taken Arthur Sandford as a working partner, looking upon him as a young man of merit and industry; but very lately the connection between them had undergone a change. A relative had died, leaving Arthur Sandford a fortune, of which he might have had just expectations, but which he had never been foolish enough to reckon upon, and his place in the firm became a very different one. From that time Mrs. Pembroke had fancied she detected a change in his atteutions to Mary. For years his attachment to her seemed certain, and youth upon her side, and uncertain prospects upon his, seemed to far-seeing friends the only obstacles to their marriage. During these days of happy intimacy, Mary had not cared to ask the question, which she had so bravely set herself to answer that day, nor had she noted the change her mother had detected until the last week, when a circumstance had assured her at once of her own state of feeling, and the necessity of conquering it.
Isabella Vaughan—her mother’s niece, and the daughter of a rich London merchant—had come to spend the Christmas with them, bringing with her London fashions and small-talk, and enough of her father’s money displayed in dress and jewellery to set Chillingham talking of her wit and beauty, although she was not quite so good-looking as Mary thought her. She was older than Mary, and more assured in her manners, and she had evidently set herself to make a conquest of the talented young solicitor, whose new house on the other side of the town was beginning to make people talk. Now, properly, Arthur Sandford should have shown himself indifferent to the London beauty, but he did not; he fell into the snare as readily as the silly fish seizes the well-baited hook. On some pretence or other, he was constantly at the house, and always the gentleman in attendance on the well-fledged coquette; and yet with a measure of his old caution, too, for he contrived to keep Mary always in their near neighbourhood.
As the Chillingham ball approached, wonderful garments had made their appearance by coach from London for Isabella, while Mary’s more modest toilet was doomed to disappointment.
“Mary,” Mrs. Pembroke had said to her, “your papa confesses to a slight embarrassment in money matters just now, and has asked me to be very careful. I know he never says what is not true, or denies us what he can spare,—dear child, can you do without a new dress for the ball?”
​Mary considered a moment with blank face, then cleared it rapidly, and said, though with some little effort:
“Oh, yes, mamma dear! the one I wore last year will do quite well.”
“Could we get it altered?” anxiously suggested Mrs. Pembroke.
“It will do quite well, mamma,” said Mary; “to have it altered will be nearly as expensive as getting a new one. I do not mind it in the least.”
So it was that when Mary sat in her little room, pondering over life and its difficulties, her last year’s dress lay on the bed. There was a nice little fire, an unusual luxury, burning in the grate, for her mother, guessing, but not interfering with, the struggle going on within her, had thought she might like to be alone, and had ordered it early.
It had been a pretty dress, but the trimmings were last year’s trimmings, so were the sleeves, and that which had been snow-white last year looked rather yellow now as it lay, reminding her of pleasant dances when he, who must be very dear no more, was by her side, listening for her voice above all others.
“I must go down,” said Mary, wearily, and she went down to the drawing-room, where she found Isabel and her mother discussing the merits of a beautiful set of pearls which the former intended to wear with a superb white lace dress over a pink satin petticoat.
Mary came behind them in the gentle dignity of a heart true to itself, and admired the pearls, as who would not.
The door opened, and Mr. Sandford was announced. He entered, carrying two bouquets, one of white and exquisitely scented flowers, and the other composed of different colours, and evidently inferior to the other in beauty. With a courtly little speech of ordinary flattery he handed the white flowers to Miss Vaughan, and with a kind gentlemanly manner he offered the others to Mary.
She took them with a gentle grace, quietly thanking him, while Isabella overwhelmed him with thanks and praise.
“Mary,” she said, “let me see if I do not like yours best,—I suppose I may have which I like best, Mr. Sandford?”
“I daresay Miss Pembroke will not object to give you hers, if you prefer it,” he said, quietly; “but I think I have chosen the best for you.”
Here was an opportunity for Mary to say she did not care for either, but she only said:
“The white one will match your dress with its white ornaments, and it is much the prettiest.”
“Well, if it is the prettiest, I will keep it,” said Isabella, coquettishly; “and the red roses will do best with your old dress, dear, will they not?”
“Only a year old,” said Mary, smiling, for she saw her mamma was deeply hurt that the fact should be brought before Mr. Sandford’s notice, “and it is almost as good as new.”
“Fancy!” cried Isabella; “hear her, Mr. Sandford! she says the dress she wore at the last Chillingham ball is as good as new.”
“Why did you not have a new dress?” asked Mr. Sandford.
“Papa had other needs for his money this year,” said Mary, “and mamma thought my dress would do.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Isabella; “as if papa was not always making the same outcry. I tell him I must have money, and I always get what I want.”
“Perhaps your papa is richer than mine,” said Mary; “but he cannot be kinder or more thoughtful. I would not tease him for the world.”
“Your society is so very tempting,” said Arthur Sandford, “that I almost forget I have business to do. Miss Vaughan, will you hold yourself disengaged for the first quadrille to-night?”
“Well, as a reward for such a pretty present, I think I must.”
“Good-by, ladies,” he said, and hurried off.
“How beautifully you do your back hair, Mary,” said Isabella, almost querulously; “I wish I could do mine as well.”
“Shall I do yours to-night?” said Mary.
“Oh, I wish you would—with those beautiful plaits, and my black hair would look so nice with them, black hair always dresses so much better than brown.”
“You must go up early then, my dears,” said Mrs. Pembroke, for anxiously she saw Mary’s pale cheek. “Mary does not look very well to-night, and I should not like her to look ill at the ball.”
Quickly and lovingly Mary looked up—she knew her mother felt for her, and was the more grateful that she did not force her into any confidence, which under the circumstances would be painful to both.
No sister decking another with careful hands could have braided Isabella’s hair more tenderly than did Mary that night. Step by step she walked in faith, not caring to question of to-morrow. Arthur Sandford loved her not, but she must not be unkind or impatient to her he did love, or judge her with over careful judgment.
The evening came, and when all the aristocracy of Chillingham and its neighbourhood assembled in the large dancing-room at the Angel Inn, Mary dressed in her last year’s dress—which, by the bye, no one remembered, except a few who secretly respected her for wearing it—followed Mr. Sandford and her elegantly dressed cousin into the room, leaning on her father’s arm. Her father was not so indifferent to what was going on as he might seem, but deemed her happiness so precious to him, and his dear child so far above all price, that if a word could have recalled Arthur against his will, he would not have uttered it.
The tide had set against Mary that night, however: many who had looked upon her as almost affianced to Arthur pitied her, but wished to be merry, and therefore did not ask her to dance, and as the gay music rattled on, she sat yet by her mother’s side, although her gentle looks and patient smile might have attracted any one.
Arthur was dancing with Isabella, and flirting—ah, could such attention be courtship?
Presently they came to her—Isabella laughing, ​and holding up her beautiful lace dress which had a long rent in it.
“Miss Pembroke,” said Arthur (how happy and handsome he looked), “we need you—your cousin has torn her dress—do you mind coming with us to the cloak-room?”
It was said in that tone which implies that all the world must give way before one person.
“Certainly,” said Mary, and she rose and took his arm, that arm which used almost to belong to her, and accompanying them to the cloak-room, borrowed a needle and thread, and mended the dress as carefully as delicate lace could be mended in such a time, Arthur standing by and receiving all Isabella’s badinage with good-natured smiles. Oh, Mary felt, if she might but lie down and hide herself in the cloak-room until the ball was over, and that dreadful music silent. But Arthur’s eyes were on her, watching her curiously, she thought, and she drew on her gloves with a steady hand, and accompanied them back to her mother, with whom they left her.
She had not danced once—she had begged her mother not to seek for partners, and none had come of themselves—for that evening she had been a perfect “wall-flower,” but at the end of the evening Arthur himself came and asked her. She did not refuse—she had no pretence for doing so—she had no intention of showing pique, and she endeavoured to talk in the friendly style of old.
Once again his arm was about her waist,—could it be possible that it would soon be a crime to love him?
“I have a very great favour to ask you,” he said, when they were walking after the dance.
“Indeed!” she said, in some surprise; “I will grant it if I can.”
“My new house is finished,” he said, his voice slightly changing, “and Miss Vaughan is very anxious to see over it, if Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke and you will bring her to-morrow.”
Was it pique which induced her eager promise to do so if she could? Shall we condemn her very much if it were so?
“You will really persuade them, and come yourself?”
“Oh yes, if you particularly wish it.”
“I do particularly wish it. You cannot do me a greater favour,” he said with emphasis.
“Then you may depend on my persuading papa and mamma to come.”
“And have you no curiosity to see my new house?” he asked.
The question was too cruel, and tears sprang to her sweet brown eyes. Her feelings had been over-wrought, her strength outdone; but even then she did not try to hide her confusion by an angry word. She only said unaffectedly, “I hope you have made yourself very comfortable.”
“I want you to see,” he said, looking straight at her, and with a lurking smile in his blue eyes, “if you think it comfortable enough for a lady. I told Miss Vaughan I intended to be a bachelor all my life, but I do not think she believes me.”
But Mary was now on her guard, her rosy blushes had died away to a shadow-like paleness, and no words of his, however thoughtless, were capable of recalling them that night.
“Papa says you understand furnishing,” she answered; “and I suppose, as there has been so much talk of your new house, there is something worth looking at inside?”
“There will be,” said Arthur, smiling, “when all is completed.”
She took his words as they were probably meant, as referring to Isabella, and did not reply to them. Even on the part of her cousin she could not assume that he had proposed until he had actually come forward.
“I see mamma looking at me,” she said, “she is going, I suppose; let us go to her.”
No stiffness in her manner, no unkindness to the last.
He took her to Mrs. Pembroke, and resigning her, gave his arm to Isabella, whom he attended so assiduously to the cloak-room and the carriage, that he quite forgot to say good-night to the others.
Did Mary throw herself passionately down when that night she reached her little chamber? Did she say her heart would break, and, Jonah-like, require that she might die? Did she cast from her the love of parents, the blessings of a well-ordered home, the esteem of many friends, and call them valueless?
No! strengthened as she had asked to be, and lowly kneeling by the snowy coverlid, she hid her pretty head, as she softly breathed with fervent lips and hallowed thought, “Thy will be done.”
The next day at breakfast she made the request she had promised, and father and mother both respecting her wishes during her trial time, looked at Isabella’s blushing face and consented without comment. If it must be, the sooner over the better.
It was snowing heavily, but Isabella had a new set of sables, which she was anxious to display, she said; and as they cost fifty guineas, she laughingly observed, they would enhance her value in the eyes of Mr. Sandford.
No need of that, Mary thought; Isabella looked so charming, and in such high and mysterious spirits, as if some secret were upon her lips, and longing to be disclosed.
“What farce are we called upon to see performed?” asked Mr. Pembroke, not able wholly to withhold his sympathy from the happy Isabella.
Isabella only laughed and coloured. What better answer could she give? It was impossible to be very angry with her, though she had done them so much mischief, and had so much self-assurance and vanity, for she had a way of coming round those who blamed her most which was irresistible.
“I shall quite eclipse your old cloak, Mary,” she said, as she displayed herself in her sables.
“It is not an old cloak,” said Mary, trying to be light-hearted; “it was new this winter, and one of Chillingham’s newest fashions. Do not call it old,” she whispered, “for mamma is looking as if she ought to buy me some sables.”
“Well, are they not beautiful?” she said, and proceeded in her rambling self-loving way to give the whole history of their purchase.
Plain French merinos were then all the fashion, ​and the cousins were both so dressed—Isabella, in dark becoming blue, and Mary in a rich red brown. They were both much more on a par in good looks than Mary was inclined to believe, but though she accepted her own low opinion of herself, she did not display any ill-humour. Yet who could fail to be depressed? Had not her golden dream past away as the rosy hues of a deceptive sunrise? and was not her day “dark and rainy,” though her fair face looked out so sweet and calm?
Mrs. Pembroke prepared unwillingly to accompany them, and had not Mary asked her, nothing would have induced her to go to see her sacrificed, as she inwardly termed it.
Mr. Sandford came to fetch them, as Isabella said he had promised to do, and taking her and her sables safe under his umbrella, he would have also taken Mary, but she had already secured her father’s arm, and was talking cheerfully to him of some of the little incidents of the night before, for Mr. Pembroke was sensitive, and often liked to know whether, in the opinion of his wife and daughter, his friends had been as kind and attentive as usual.
In this manner they went along the snowy road, amidst trees nodding with heavy drifts of snow, and ever and again the light laughter of Mr. Sandford and his companion came back to the more sober party behind. Presently they reached the pretty new house, surrounded by trees, which in the coming spring would so adorn it, and entered the little hall which formed so nice an entrance. A steady, middle-aged woman, well known to the Pembrokes, and by them recommended to Mr. Sandford, came forward to receive them, and took them to the dining-room, where a substantial luncheon lay waiting for them. Mr. Pembroke wished the meal at the antipodes, but every feeling of delicacy, as well as interest, prevented his taking offence at any line of conduct not positively aggressive on the part of his junior but richer partner.
“Dear aunt,” said Isabella, saucily, and with well-assured ease, “let me see how the seat of honour suits me. May I, Mr. Sandford?”
“Miss Vaughan’s word is law,” replied the host, who, nevertheless, Mary thought, looked pale and thoughtful; and Isabella, with her handsome sables thrown slightly back, took the head of the table, and proceeded to do the honours with mock solemnity.
“Surely they are engaged, and we must make the best of it,” thought Mrs. Pembroke; and she felt as if the breast of the partridge, which Isabella so coquettishly carved for her, would choke her.
Mary, only, was calm, easy, and lady-like. How proud her father felt of her self-command at a time when he was obliged to steady himself by taking an extra glass of wine.
“What do you think, aunt, of me as a hostess—shall I do?” said Isabella.
“Time enough, my dear, to give an opinion, when we see you perform the part in earnest,” replied Mrs. Pembroke.
Was she mistaken, or did Mr. Sandford and Isabella really exchange glances? Certainly, Mr. Sandford rose, and proposed looking over the house; and they started on the tour of the rooms, giving what admiration they could to the snug library, the pretty drawing-room, and the master’s study.
Mrs. Pembroke had duly interested herself in a newly-invented kitchen-range, a small house-mangle, and many bachelor contrivances for comfort and economy, and even penetrated to the stable, petted Mr. Sandford’s well-known horse, and admired the carriage made for the two little ponies, which looked a great deal too much like a lady’s equipage to be fitted for a bachelor’s establishment; and when they had all done this, and returned again to the cheerful fire, they began to think their duty and courtesy had well been ended, and they might think of returning home.
“You approve of my house?” asked Mr. Sandford of Mrs. Pembroke.
“All very comfortable and appropriate,” said Mrs. Pembroke; “very thoughtfully and nicely furnished, and I wish you as much happiness as you deserve.”
“Thank you,” he said, turning to Mary, “and do you wish me happy?”
A slight flush—just a little bright blush—and Mary calmly said:
“Indeed I do. I hope you will be very happy, and live here many years—and do a great deal of good, too,” she added, in a lower tone, unconsciously lowered for his ear alone—no, there was no anger to the last.
“I must tax your patience once more,” he said, also in a lower voice, “to show you one thing more. Do you mind coming with me?”
But a week ago she would have gone with him to the end of the world. Because he had been unkind—nay, only because he loved Isabella—should she refuse so small a courtesy? and surely he needed some advice, for truly and without mistake he was pale and almost agitated now. Perhaps he thought Isabella over forward and bold. She could assure him she had a good heart at bottom, though careless of speech and self-willed in manner.
She rose from the seat in which she had been resting and trying not to look listless, and followed him. Mrs. Pembroke would have gone with them, but Mr. Sandford said, “What I have to show is only intended for Miss Pembroke,” and her mother let her go.
He led her across a short passage, and paused before a closed door.
“This is Blue Beard’s chamber,” he said, then turned the lock and entered a pretty room—small, indeed, but perfect of its kind—a lady’s sitting-room, with work-table, writing apparatus, and even a furnished work-box open on the table. He led her in and closed the door.
She betrayed no surprise as she looked quietly round, then turned to him and raised those sweet brown eyes, so true to the heart within, kind, forgiving, and gentle.
“You wanted me,” she said, with dignity. She had no wish for tête-à-têtes with other girls’ lovers, and showed that she had no intention to lengthen out the interview.
​“I wanted to know if you thought my wife could be happy here.”
“If she really loves you,” she said, after a pause, which she had pretended to spend in surveying the apartment, “otherwise even such a pretty room as this will fail to make her happy.”
“Aye, if she loves me,” he said. “Although I admire her more than my life, and respect her more than I admire her, I begin to doubt whether she loves me.”
“She will not give you any doubt if you make yourself sufficiently understood.”
“I have often said that I never would make an offer of marriage unless certain of being accepted. I find now that it was an idle boast: no man can be certain on that point, though of another still more important I am certain.”
“What point?” asked Mary, innocently.
“Of the merit of her I love; of her sweet temper, spiritual firmness, and feminine delicacy.”
Mary knew that love is blind, yet she was a little surprised at such very inappropriate praise.
“And in what way do you wish me to help you?” asked Mary.
“Satisfied on all these points, I want you to enlighten me on that I do not know. Mary, does she love me?”
“I do not know,” said Mary, simply.
“You do know.”
“I am not my cousin’s confidant.”
“But are you not your own? Mary, can you forgive my little deception? You must know that every chair and table in this house was bought and chosen for you—that the house was built for you.”
“But, Isabella—” stammered Mary.
“Is engaged to my cousin,” said Mr. Sandford. “You need have no apprehensions about her.”
“Was it well to put me to this trial?” said Mary. “You do not know what I have endured.”
“Not kind, perhaps, and altogether selfish; but, Mary, I should never have honoured you half so much—never have known all your worth, if I had not carried out my idle whim.”
“Not idle—cruel,” said Mary.
“Dear girl,” he whispered, drawing closer, “forgive me, for I cannot repent. I only love you a hundred times more than I did last week. Come and let me ask your father for you, for my house is furnished, and I am impatient to get my wife.”
He led her out, her hand upon his arm.
“Mr. Pembroke,” he said, leading her up to him, “I have furnished my house; will you give me my wife?”
Before the astonished father had time to answer, the impulsive Isabella ran up to Mary and threw her arms round her neck.
“Dear Mary, believe me if I had not known that you were as true as gold, I would have given you a hint to keep your temper, lest this jealous man should find you out; as it was, I had no need. Will you forgive me for helping to make him see how much superior you are to other women?”
Slowly the snow fell—but who cared for the snow?—as they returned to Chillingham, Mary with renewed happiness, leaning upon the arm of Arthur Sandford, and Isabella rattling over her confidences to her amused and easily-forgiving uncle and aunt.
In this manner did Mary become the honoured wife of Arthur Sandford.