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THE days that elapsed before Major Fitz-David's dinner-partywere precious days to me.

My long interview with Miserrimus Dexter had disturbed me farmore seriously than I suspected at the time. It was not untilsome hours after I had left him that I really began to feel howmy nerves had been tried by all that I had seen and heard duringmy visit at his house. I started at the slightest noises; Idreamed of dreadful things; I was ready to cry without reason atone moment, and to fly into a passion without reason at another.Absolute rest was what I wanted, and (thanks to my good Benjamin)was what I got. The dear old man controlled his anxieties on myaccount, and spared me the questions which his fatherly interestin my welfare made him eager to ask. It was tacitly understoodbetween us that all conversation on the subject of my visit toMiserrimus Dexter (of which, it is needless to say, he stronglydisapproved) should be deferred until repose had restored myenergies of body and mind. I saw no visitors. Mrs. Macallan cameto the cottage, and Major Fitz-David came to the cottage--one ofthem to hear what had passed between Miserrimus Dexter andmyself, the other to amuse me with the latest gossip about theguests at the forthcoming dinner. Benjamin took it on himself tomake my apologies, and to spare me the exertion of receiving myvisitors. We hired a little open carriage, and took long drivesin the pretty country lanes still left flourishing within a fewmiles of the northern suburb of London. At home we sat and talkedquietly of old times, or played at backgammon and dominoes--andso, for a few happy days, led the peaceful unadventurous lifewhich was good for me. When the day of the dinner arrived, I feltrestored to my customary health. I was ready again, and eageragain, for the introduction to Lady Clarinda and the discovery ofMrs. Beauly.

Benjamin looked a little sadly at my flushed face as we drove toMajor Fitz-David's house.

"Ah, my dear," he said, in his simple way, "I see you are wellagain! You have had enough of our quiet life already."

My recollection of events and persons, in general, at thedinner-party, is singularly indistinct.

I remember that we were very merry, and as easy and familiar withoneanother as if we had been old friends. I remember that MadameMirliflore was unapproachably superior to the other womenpresent, in the perfect beauty of her dress, and in the amplejustice which she did to the luxurious dinner set before us. Iremember the Major's young prima donna, more round-eyed, moreoverdressed, more shrill and strident as the coming "Queen ofSong," than ever. I remember the Major himself, always kissingour hands, always luring us to indulge in dainty dishes anddrinks, always making love, always detecting resemblances betweenus, always "under the charm," and never once out of his characteras elderly Don Juan from the beginning of the evening to the end.I remember dear old Benjamin, completely bewildered, shrinkinginto corners, blushing when he was personally drawn into theconversation, frightened at Madame Mirliflore, bashful with LadyClarinda, submissive to the Major, suffering under the music, andfrom the bottom of his honest old heart wishing himself homeagain. And there, as to the members of that cheerful littlegathering, my memory finds its limits--with one exception. Theappearance of Lady Clarinda is as present to me as if I had mether yesterday; and of the memorable conversation which we twoheld together privately, toward the close of the evening, it isno exaggeration to say that I can still call to mind almost everyword.

I see her dress, I hear her voice again, while I write.

She was attired, I remember, with that extreme assumption ofsimplicity which always defeats its own end by irresistiblysuggesting art. She wore plain white muslin, over white silk,without trimming or ornament of any kind. Her rich brown hair,dressed in defiance of the prevailing fashion, was thrown backfrom her forehead, and gathered into a simple knotbehind--without adornment of any sort. A little white ribbonencircled her neck, fastened by the only article of jewelry thatshe wore--a tiny diamond brooch. She was unquestionably handsome;but her beauty was of the somewhat hard and angular type which isso often seen in English women of her race: the nose and chin tooprominent and too firmly shaped; the well-opened gray eyes fullof spirit and dignity, but wanting in tenderness and mobility ofexpression. Her manner had all the charm which fine breeding canconfer--exquisitely polite, easily cordial; showing that perfectyet unobtrusive confidence in herself which (in England) seems tobe the natural outgrowth of pre-eminent social rank. If you hadaccepted her for what she was, on the surface, you would havesaid, Here is the model of a noble woman who is perfectly freefrom pride. And if you had taken a liberty with her, on thestrength of that conviction, she would have made you remember itto the end of your life.

We got on together admirably. I was introduced as "Mrs.Woodville," by previous arrangement with the Major--effectedthrough Benjamin. Before the dinner was over we had promised toexchange visits. Nothing but the opportunity was wanting to leadLady Clarinda into talking, as I wanted her to talk, of Mrs.Beauly.

Late in the evening the opportunity came.

I had taken refuge from the terrible bravura singing of theMajor's strident prima donna in the back drawing-room. As I hadhoped and anticipated, after a while Lady Clarinda (missing mefrom the group around the piano) came in search of me. She seatedherself by my side, out of sight and out of hearing of ourfriends in the front room; and, to my infinite relief anddelight, touched on the subject of Miserrimus Dexter of her ownaccord. Something I had said of him, when his name had beenaccidentally mentioned at dinner, remained in her memory, and ledus, by perfectly natural gradations, into speaking of Mrs.Beauly. "At last," I thought to myself, "the Major's littledinner will bring me my reward!"

And what a reward it was, when it came! My heart sinks in meagain--as it sank on that never-to-be-forgotten evening--while Isit at my desk thinking of it.

"So Dexter really spoke to you of Mrs. Beauly!" exclaimed LadyClarinda. "You have no idea how you surprise me."

"May I ask why?"

"He hates her! The last time I saw him he wouldn't allow me tomention her name. It is one of his innumerable oddities. If anysuch feeling as sympathy is a possible feeling in such a natureas his, he ought to like Helena Beauly. She is the mostcompletely unconventional person I know. When she does break out,poor dear, she says things and does things which are almostreckless enough to be worthy of Dexter himself. I wonder whetheryou would like her?"

"You have kindly asked me to visit you, Lady Clarinda. Perhaps Imay meet her at your house?"

"I hope you will not wait until that is likely to happen," shesaid. "Helena's last whim is to fancy that she has got--the gout,of all the maladies in the world! She is away at some wonderfulbaths in Hungary or Bohemia (I don't remember which)--and whereshe will go, or what she will do next, it is perfectly impossibleto say.--Dear Mrs. Woodville! is the heat of the fire too muchfor you? You are looking quite pale."

I _felt_ that I was looking pale. The discovery of Mrs. Beauly'sabsence from England was a shock for which I was quiteunprepared. For a moment it unnerved me.

"Shall we go into the other room?" asked Lady Clarinda.

To go into the other room would be to drop the conversation. Iwas determined not to let that catastrophe happen. It was justpossible that Mrs. Beauly's maid might have quitted her service,or might have been left behind in England. My information wouldnot be complete until I knew what had become of the maid. Ipushed my chair back a little from the fire-place, and took ahand-screen from a table near me; it might be made useful inhiding my face, if any more disappointments were in store for me.

"Thank you, Lady Clarinda; I was only a little too near the fire.I shall do admirably here. You surprise me about Mrs. Beauly.From what Mr. Dexter said to me, I had imagined--"

"Oh, you must not believe anything Dexter tells you!" interposedLady Clarinda. "He delights in mystifying people; and hepurposely misled you, I have no doubt. If all that I hear istrue, _he_ ought to know more of Helena Beauly's strange freaksand fancies than most people. He all but discovered her in one ofher adventures (down in Scotland), which reminds me of the storyin Auber's charming opera--what is it called? I shall forget myown name next! I mean the opera in which the two nuns slip out ofthe convent, and go to the ball. Listen! How very odd! Thatvulgar girl is singing the castanet song in the second act atthis moment. Major! what opera is the young lady singing from?"

The Major was scandalized at this interruption. He bustled intothe back room--whispered, "Hush! hush! my dear lady; the 'DominoNoir'"--and bustled back again to the piano.

"Of course!" said Lady Clarinda. "How stupid of me! The 'DominoNoir.' And how strange that you should forget it too!"

I had remembered it perfectly; but I could not trust myself tospeak. If, as I believed, the "adventure" mentioned by LadyClarinda was connected, in some way, with Mrs. Beauly'smysterious proceedings on the morning of the twenty-first ofOctober, I was on the brink of the very discovery which it wasthe one interest of my life to make! I held the screen so as tohide my face; and I said, in the steadiest voice that I couldcommand at the moment,

"Pray go on!--pray tell me what the adventure was!"

Lady Clarinda was quite flattered by my eager desire to hear thecoming narrative.

"I hope my story will be worthy of the interest which you are sogood as to feel in it, "she said. "If you only knew Helena--it is_so_ like her! I have it, you must know, from her maid. She hastaken a woman who speaks foreign languages with her to Hungaryand she has left the maid with me. A perfect treasure! I shouldbe only too glad if I could keep her in my service: she has butone defect, a name I hate--Phoebe. Well! Phoebe and her mistresswere staying at a place near Edinburgh, called (I think)Gleninch. The house belonged to that Mr. Macallan who wasafterward tried--you remember it, of course?--for poisoning hiswife. A dreadful case; but don't be alarmed--my story has nothingto do with it; my story has to do with Helena Beauly. One evening(while she was staying at Gleninch) she was engaged to dine withsome English friends visiting Edinburgh. The same night--also inEdinburgh--there was a masked ball, given by somebody whose nameI forget. The ball (almost an unparalleled event in Scotland!)was reported to be not at all a reputable affair. All sorts ofamusing people were to be there. Ladies of doubtful virtue, youknow, and gentlemen on the outlying limits of society, and so on.Helena's friends had contrived to get cards, and were going, inspite of the objections--in the strictest incognito, of course,trusting to their masks. And Helena herself was bent on goingwith them, if she could only manage it without being discoveredat Gleninch. Mr. Macallan was one of the strait-laced people whodisapproved of the ball. No lady, he said, could show herself atsuch an entertainment without compromising her reputation. Whatstuff! Well, Helena, in one of her wildest moments, hit on a wayof going to the ball without discovery which was really asingenious as a plot in a French play. She went to the dinner inthe carriage from Gleninch, having sent Phoebe to Edinburghbefore her. It was not a grand dinner--a little friendlygathering: no evening dress. When the time came for going back toGleninch, what do you think Helena did? She sent her maid back inthe carriage, instead of herself! Phoebe was dressed in hermistress's cloak and bonnet and veil. She was instructed to runupstairs the moment she got to the house, leaving on the halltable a little note of apology (written by Helena, of course!),pleading fatigue as an excuse for not saying good-night to herhost. The mistress and the maid were about the same height; andthe servants naturally never discovered the trick. Phoebe got upto her mistress's room safely enough. There, her instructionswere to wait until the house was quiet for the night, and then tosteal up to her own room. While she was waiting, the girl fellasleep. She only awoke at two in the morning, or later. It didn'tmuch matter, as she thought. She stole out on tiptoe, and closedthe door behind her. Before she was at the end of the corridor,she fancied she heard something. She waited until she was safe onthe upper story, and then she looked over the banisters. Therewas Dexter--so like him!--hopping about on his hands (did youever see it? the most grotesquely horrible exhibition you canimagine!)--there was Dexter, hopping about, and looking throughkeyholes, evidently in search of the person who had left her roomat two in the morning; and no doubt taking Phoebe for hermistress, seeing that she had forgotten to take her mistress'scloak off her shoulders. The next morning, early, Helena cameback in a hired carriage from Edinburgh, with a hat and mantleborrowed from her English friends. She left the carriage in theroad, and got into the house by way of the garden--without beingdiscovered, this time, by Dexter or by anybody. Clever anddaring, wasn't it? And, as I said just now, quite a new versionof the 'Domino Noir.' You will wonder, as I did, how it was thatDexter didn't make mischief in the morning? He would have done itno doubt. But even he was silenced (as Phoebe told me) by thedreadful event that happened in the house on the same day. Mydear Mrs. Woodville! the heat of this room is certainly too muchfor you, take my smelling-bottle. Let me open the window."

I was just able to answer, "Pray say nothing! Let me slip outinto the open air!"

I made my way unobserved to the landing, and sat down on thestairs to compose myself where nobody could see me. In a momentmore I felt a hand laid gently on my shoulder, and discoveredgood Benjamin looking at me in dismay. Lady Clarinda hadconsiderately spoken to him, and had assisted him in quietlymaking his retreat from the room, while his host's attention wasstill absorbed by the music.

"My dear child!" he whispered, "what is the matter?"

"Take me home, and I will tell you," was all that I could say.