WHILE the consultation at Doctor Lagarde’s was still fresh in the memory of the persons present at it, Chance or Destiny, occupied in sowing the seeds for the harvest of the future, discovered as one of its fit instruments a retired military officer named Major Mulvany.

The Major was a smart little man, who persisted in setting up the appearance of youth as a means of hiding the reality of fifty. Being still a bachelor, and being always ready to make himself agreeable, he was generally popular in the society of women. In the ballroom he was a really welcome addition to the company. The German waltz had then been imported into England little more than three years since. The outcry raised against the dance, by persons ski lled in the discovery of latent impropriety, had not yet lost its influence in certain quarters. Men who could waltz were scarce. The Major had successfully grappled with the difficulties of learning the dance in mature life; and the young ladies rewarded him nobly for the effort. That is to say, they took the assumption of youth for granted in the palpable presence of fifty.

Knowing everybody and being welcome everywhere, playing a good hand at whist, and having an inexhaustible fancy in the invention of a dinner, Major Mulvany naturally belonged to all the best clubs of his time. Percy Linwood and he constantly met in the billiard-room or at the dinner-table. The Major approved of the easy, handsome, pleasant-tempered young man. “I have lost the first freshness of youth,” he used to say, with pathetic resignation, “and I see myself revived, as it were, in Percy. Naturally I like Percy.”

About three weeks after the memorable evening at Doctor Lagarde’s, the two friends encountered each other on the steps of a club.

“Have you got anything to do to-night?” asked the Major.

“Nothing that I know of,” said Percy, “unless I go to the theater.”

“Let the theater wait, my boy. My old regiment gives a ball at Woolwich to-night. I have got a ticket to spare; and I know several sweet girls who are going. Some of them waltz, Percy! Gather your rosebuds while you may. Come with me.”

The invitation was accepted as readily as it was given. The Major found the carriage, and Percy paid for the post-horses. They entered the ballroom among the earlier guests; and the first person whom they met, waiting near the door, was—Captain Bervie.

Percy bowed a little uneasily. “I feel some doubt,” he said, laughing, “whether we have been properly introduced to one another or not.”

“Not properly introduced!” cried Major Mulvany. “I’ll soon set that right. My dear friend, Percy Linwood; my dear friend, Arthur Bervie—be known to each other! esteem each other!”

Captain Bervie acknowledged the introduction by a cold salute. Percy, yielding to the good-natured impulse of the moment, alluded to what had happened in Doctor Lagarde’s consulting-room.

“You missed something worth hearing when you left the Doctor the other night,” he said. “We continued the sitting; and you turned up again among the persons of the drama, in a new character—”

“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said Captain Bervie. “I am a member of the committee, charged with the arrangements of the ball, and I must really attend to my duties.”

He withdrew without waiting for a reply. Percy looked round wonderingly at Major Mulvany. “Strange!” he said, “I feel rather attracted toward Captain Bervie; and he seems to have taken such a dislike to me that he can hardly behave with common civility. What does it mean?”

“I’ll tell you,” answered the Major, confidentially. “Arthur Bervie is madly in love—madly is really the word—with a Miss Bowmore. And (this is between ourselves) the young lady doesn’t feel it quite in the same way. A sweet girl; I’ve often had her on my knee when she was a child. Her father and mother are old friends of mine. She is coming to the ball to-night. That’s the true reason why Arthur left you just now. Look at him—waiting to be the first to speak to her. If he could have his way, he wouldn’t let another man come near the poor girl all through the evening; he really persecutes her. I’ll introduce you to Miss Bowmore; and you will see how he looks at us for presuming to approach her. It’s a great pity; she will never marry him. Arthur Bervie is a man in a thousand; but he’s fast becoming a perfect bear under the strain on his temper. What’s the matter? You don’t seem to be listening to me.”

This last remark was perfectly justified. In telling the Captain’s love-story, Major Mulvany had revived his young friend’s memory of the lady in the blue dress, who had haunted the visions of Doctor Lagarde.

“Tell me,” said Percy, “what is Miss Bowmore like? Is there anything remarkable in her personal appearance? I have a reason for asking.”

As he spoke, there arose among the guests in the rapidly-filling ballroom a low murmur of surprise and admiration. The Major laid one hand on Percy’s shoulder, and, lifting the other, pointed to the door.

“What is Miss Bowmore like?” he repeated. “There she is! Let her answer for herself.”

Percy turned toward the lower end of the room.

A young lady was entering, dressed in plain silk, and the color of it was a pale blue! Excepting a white rose at her breast, she wore no ornament of any sort. Doubly distinguished by the perfect simplicity of her apparel, and by her tall, supple, commanding figure, she took rank at once as the most remarkable woman in the room. Moving nearer to her through the crowd, under the guidance of the complaisant Major, young Linwood gained a clearer view of her hair, her complexion, and the color of her eyes. In every one of these particulars she was the living image of the woman described by Doctor Lagarde!

While Percy was absorbed over this strange discovery, Major Mulvany had got within speaking distance of the young lady and of her mother, as they stood together in conversation with Captain Bervie. “My dear Mrs. Bowmore, how well you are looking! My dear Miss Charlotte, what a sensation you have made already! The glorious simplicity (if I may so express myself) of your dress is—is—what was I going to say?—the ideas come thronging on me; I merely want words.”

Miss Bowmore’s magnificent brown eyes, wandering from the Major to Percy, rested on the young man with a modest and momentary interest, which Captain Bervie’s jealous attention instantly detected.

“They are forming a dance,” he said, pressing forward impatiently to claim his partner. “If we don’t take our places we shall be too late.”

“Stop! stop!” cried the Major. “There is a time for everything, and this is the time for presenting my dear friend here, Mr. Percy Linwood. He is like me, Miss Charlotte—he has been struck by your glorious simplicity, and he wants words.” At this part of the presentation, he happened to look toward the irate Captain, and instantly gave him a hint on the subject of his temper. “I say, Arthur Bervie! we are all good-humored people here. What have you got on your eyebrows? It looks like a frown; and it doesn’t become you. Send for a skilled waiter, and have it brushed off and taken away directly!”

“May I ask, Miss Bowmore, if you are disengaged for the next dance?” said Percy, the moment the Major gave him an opportunity of speaking.

“Miss Bowmore is engaged to me for the next dance,” said the angry Captain, before the young lady could answer.

“The third dance, then?” Percy persisted, with his brightest smile.

“With pleasure, Mr. Linwood,” said Miss Bowmore. She would have been no true woman if she had not resented the open exhibition of Arthur’s jealousy; it was like asserting a right over her to which he had not the shadow of a claim. She threw a look at Percy as her partner led her away, which was the severest punishment she could inflict on the man who ardently loved her.

The third dance stood in the programme as a waltz.

In jealous distrust of Percy, the Captain took the conductor of the band aside, and used his authority as committeeman to substitute another dance. He had no sooner turned his back on the orchestra than the wife of the Colonel of the regiment, who had heard him, spoke to the conductor in her turn, and insisted on the original programme being retained. “Quote the Colonel’s authority,” said the lady, “if Captain Bervie ventures to object.” In the meantime, the Captain, on his way to rejoin Charlotte, was met by one of his brother officers, who summoned him officially to an impending debate of the committee charged with the administrative arrangements of the supper-table. Bervie had no choice but to follow his brother officer to the committee-room.

Barely a minute later the conductor appeared at his desk, and the first notes of the music rose low and plaintive, introducing the third dance.

“Percy, my boy!” cried the Major, recognizing the melody, “you’re in luck’s way—it’s going to be a waltz!”

Almost as he spoke, the notes of the symphony glided by subtle modulations into the inspiriting air of the waltz. Percy claimed his partner’s hand. Miss Charlotte hesitated, and looked at her mother.

“Surely you waltz?” said Percy.

“I have learned to waltz,” she answered, modestly; “but this is such a large room, and there are so many people!”

“Once round,” Percy pleaded; “only once round!”

Miss Bowmore looked again at her mother. Her foot was keeping time with the music, under her dress; her heart was beating with a delicious excitement; kind-hearted Mrs. Bowmore smiled and said: “Once round, my dear, as Mr. Linwood suggests.”

In another moment Percy’s arm took possession of her waist, and they were away on the wings of the waltz!

Could words describe, could thought realize, the exquisite enjoyment of the dance? Enjoyment? It was more—it was an epoch in Charlotte’s life—it was the first time she had waltzed with a man. What a difference between the fervent clasp of Percy’s arm and the cold, formal contact of the mistress who had taught her! How brightly his eyes looked down into hers; admiring her with such a tender restraint, that there could surely be no harm in looking up at him now and then in return. Round and round they glided, absorbed in the music and in themselves. Occasionally her bosom just touched him, at those critical moments when she was most in need of support. At other intervals, she almost let her head sink on his shoulder in trying to hide from him the smile which acknowledged his admiration too boldly. “Once round,” Percy had suggested; “once round,” her mother had said. They had been ten, twenty, thirty times round; they had never stopped to rest like other dancers; they had centered the eyes of the whole room on them—including the eyes of Captain Bervie—without knowing it; her delicately pale complexion had changed to rosy-red; the neat arrangement of her hair had become disturbed; her bosom was rising and falling faster and faster in the effort to breathe—before fatigue and heat overpowered her at last, and forced her to say to him faintly, “I’m very sorry—I can’t dance any more!”

Percy led her into the cooler atmosphere of the refreshment-room, and revived her with a glass of lemonade. Her arm still rested on his—she was just about to thank him for the care he had taken of her—when Captain Bervie entered the room.

“Mrs. Bowmore wishes me to take you back to her,” he said to Charlotte. Then, turning to Percy, he added: “Will you kindly wait here while I take Miss Bowmore to the ballroom? I have a word to say to you—I will return directly.”

The Captain spoke with perfect politeness—but his face betrayed him. It was pale with the sinister whiteness of suppressed rage.

Percy sat down to cool and rest himself. With his experience of the ways of men, he felt no surprise at the marked contrast between Captain Bervie’s face and Captain Bervie’s manner. “He has seen us waltzing, and he is coming back to pick a quarrel with me.” Such was the interpretation which Mr. Linwood’s knowledge of the world placed on Captain Bervie’s politeness. In a minute or two more the Captain returned to the refreshment-room, and satisfied Percy that his anticipations had not deceived him.