The night of the ball arrived at last. The stables in Rosmore, and all the accommodation to be had in the neighbourhood, were filled with horses and carriages of every description. Everybody had come. The great element of success, which predetermines the question, the arrival of all expected, made the hearts of the hosts glad. Rowland had forgotten that little episode which still hung heavy on Archie’s soul, and stood beaming, the proudest man in the county, to receive his guests. The sound of the arrivals was music to his ears. That he, so simple as he stood there, the foundry lad, the railway man, the creator of his own fortune, should be receiving the best people in the countryside, opening large and liberal doors of hospitality, entertaining in the superior position of a host people whose names he had heard afar off in those early days, was a sort of happiness which he could scarcely believe, and which filled his heart with a glow of elation and proud delight. Perhaps it was not a very elevated or elevating sentiment. To shake hands with the Earl of Clydesdale, and welcome him to one’s house, might not fill one’s own bosom with any sense of bliss. But Lord Clydesdale was to James Rowland the king of his native district, high above all cavil or partnership, and there could be no such evident sign to him of the glorious position to which he had himself attained. This sense of triumph beamed all over him, and made his accent more and more cordial, his anxiety about the pleasure of his guests more and more warm. There was nothing he would not have done to add to the brightness of the joyous assembly. The least little momentary shade of dullness in any corner went to his heart. When he saw either girl or boy who was not dancing, he would come down upon them like a rescue party, providing partner, or supper, or refreshment, or repose, whatsoever they wanted. It could not be said that his success and glory made him selfish. He wanted everybody to enjoy as he was himself enjoying. Impossible to imagine a more beneficent form of success.

He had quite forgotten his censure of Archie. He clapped him on the shoulder when he appeared, with an exhortation—“Now Archie, man! shake yourself together—put your best foot foremost—make it go off! Mind we are all upon our promotion. If it is not the finest ball that has been given on Clydeside, I will never hold up my head more.” This address a little lightened Archie’s heart, still sore and heavy from the blame to which he had been subject—so undeservedly as he knew, but as nobody else was aware. And he was young, and though alarmed by the part he had himself to play, it was not in human nature not to feel some stir of exhilaration in the arrival of all that fine company, the music striking up, the crowd of other young people streaming in. What he would have thought of admission to such a scene a year ago! To be sure, this was chastened by the thought of the important part he had to play, as son of the house. He found Rosamond at his elbow, after his father had given him that exhortation.

“You should ask Lady Jean first,” said the young lady, holding, as usual, her head high and not looking at him while she spoke.

“Me—ask Lady Jean! to what?” he asked, with an uneasy laugh.

“To dance, of course—unless the Duchess comes: is the Duchess coming? Without her you have nothing better than a baronet and his wife. Therefore, unless your father dances, you must take out Lady Jean.”

“My father—dances?” cried Archie, with an uncontrollable laugh. It seemed to him the most ridiculous idea in the world.

“Most gentlemen do in their own houses,” said Rosamond, “but if he does not, then you. Lady Jean first. Then Lady Marchbanks: and not for some time that little pretty woman, whose husband was knighted the other day. She is my lady too, and perhaps you would never know the difference. But please to mind what I say.”

“Lady this, and Lady that—and when am I to come to you?” said Archie, taking a little courage.

“Oh, I will keep one for you—not till you have got through all your duty dances. That is the disadvantage many people say of a ball in one’s own house. But I like responsibility,” said Rosamond. “It is better than thinking merely what will be most fun.”

By the inspiration of this double charge, Archie became a new man. He led Lady Jean very tremulously, it must be allowed, through a quadrille—or she led him, it would perhaps be better to say; but he was very docile and very humble, and her ladyship did not dislike the modest young man, who, for the first time for some days, opened full his mother’s eyes, innocent and honest, upon those to whom he spoke. She said, “He’s not an ill lad, that young Rowland,” to the ladies about her. And Miss Eliza repeated it up and down the room. “We all know what dear Lady Jean means,” cried that lady. “She is maybe sparing of her praises, but when she does say a good word, it comes from the heart. He has many things to contend against, but he’s not an ill lad. I have always said it myself. Few women have greater opportunities of studying young folk than I have, though I’m only, as you may say, an old maid myself. And so is Lady Jean for that matter. We are just a real respectable fraternity—or would it be better to say sisterhood?—but that’s a word with other meanings. No, he’s not an ill lad. He has always been very civil to me, and the boys all like him. They say there’s no humbug in him. But Lady Jean is the one to give a thing it’s right name.”

Whether any echo of this comforting report reached Archie’s ken it would be hard to tell, but it somehow blew across his father’s ears, and made him laugh till the tears came to his eyes. He sought out Evelyn in the midst of her guests to report it to her. “It’s Scotch praise,” he said, “but it means more than you would suppose.”

“I think it is very poor praise, and Archie deserves a great deal better,” said his wife, which pleased him too.

“But that from Lady Jean is more than raptures from another,” he replied.

As for Eddy Saumarez, though he was not much to look at, he was always a popular man, as he himself said, in a ball-room. He did not dance very gracefully, nor indeed, though his confidence in himself carried him through all kinds of performances creditably, was he a graceful person in anyway: but he was adroit, and despite his somewhat insignificant person, strong, and carried his partner skilfully through the most complicated crowd. His enjoyment of the evening was interrupted or increased (it would be difficult to say which) by the appearance of a man whom nobody knew, and most people took for one of the servants (a supposition very injurious to Mr. Rowland’s servants, who were well-made, well-set-up individuals, excellent specimens of humanity). Johnson wore an evening coat with long tails, too long for him, and a white tie with long ends too big for him, and gloves with half-an-inch of vacant finger, which made his hands look like a bundle of loose skeins of white yarn. His face wore an anxious look as he came in unnoticed, eagerly looking for the only face he knew. Even the genial Rowland, who was ready to welcome everybody, passed over this personage with vague surprise, supposing that he must belong to some reserve force of the pantry, or had been brought in in attendance on some guest. He knew nobody but Eddy, and Eddy, who was dancing without intermission, contrived never to catch his protÉgÉ’s eyes. It was not that he was unconscious of the presence of this visitor, whom nobody took any notice of. On the contrary, Eddy kept a careful watch upon him in his corner.

“Look yonder,” he said to his partner; “but don’t look as if you were looking. Do you see that queer little being in the corner? Oh, yes, I know him; but I don’t mean to see him. He has got an invitation here by mistake, and he depends on me to introduce him right and left.—Who is he? ah, that’s what I can’t tell. He is not a man I shall introduce to you. Did you ever see such a droll little beggar? I knew he would be fun. There he goes prowling into the other corner, where he thinks he will catch my eye. But I don’t mean him to catch my eye. Oh, you know well enough, don’t you, how to avoid seeing any one you don’t want to see? Cruel? no: he has no business to be here. The little brute must pay for his impudence. Reverse, shall we? Ah, he thought he had me then!” Eddy said with a laugh. “We were running right into him. But you’ll see I shall get clear away.”

Perhaps Rosamond heard some part of this talk as her brother darted past. For it was she in all her pride who sailed up to poor Johnson in his corner, who was diving under the dancers’ arms and stretching over their shoulders, in a vain attempt to attract the attention of his false friend.

“You are looking for my brother,” she said, “and he is paying no attention. He seldom does when it is not for his own advantage. But perhaps I may do as well.”

Johnson murmured something about surprise and honour. “You will do just as well, Miss Saumarez, if you will introduce me to some nice girls,” he said eagerly. “Master Eddy promised me: but I know his promises is like pie crust. May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

Rosamond almost looked at him in her scorn—the next dance! as though every place on her card had not been filled in the first five minutes.

“I will dance a quadrille with you,” she said, “if you will remain here quietly till I am ready, and not ask any one else.”

“Oh, miss!” cried Johnson, in delight; “fancy my conducting myself like a gay Lothario, and asking any one else, when I have an offer from you!”

Rosamond was not used to blushing, but she coloured high at this. She did not see the fun of it as Eddy would have done. She had no sense of humour.

“If you will wait here till I am ready, I will dance with you,” she said.

Johnson had been very indignant and deeply disappointed, not to be introduced to “the big-wigs,” as Eddy had promised. But when Eddy’s beautiful sister proposed to him to dance with her, not even waiting to be asked, his feelings sustained a wonderful change. He relaxed his watch upon Eddy, and waited with wonderful patience for the blissful moment when he should take his place among that dazzling throng. With this before him, he could enjoy the sight and the ecstatic sensation of forming part of the assembly, even though he knew no big-wigs. When they saw him dancing with Miss Saumarez, who was one of the beauties, if not, Johnson thought, flattered and flattering, the beauty of the evening, they would change their minds about him. And indeed, the shabby little man made an extraordinary sensation when he joined, by the side of Miss Saumarez, the next quadrille. Who was he? where did he come from? everybody asked. And whispers ran among the throng, that a person so shabby, dancing with Miss Saumarez, one of the house party, must to the blood of the millionaires belong, and was probably the scion of a secondary Rothschild. Much curiosity was roused concerning him, and shabby as he looked, there is little doubt that after Rosamond he might have danced with almost any one he pleased. As a matter of fact, Archie, always good-natured, and unsuspicious of anything remarkable about Johnson, introduced him to several ladies, who did not object to allow him to inscribe his name upon their programmes. And Marion did more than this. She was just standing up with him for a waltz, and with her hand on his arm was about to enter the field, when another change occurred which made Johnson’s appearance and behaviour more extraordinary than ever. He suddenly stopped in the midst, just at the moment when he ought to have put his limp hand upon her waist, a contact which Rosamond had been unable to submit to, but which Marion, with her much less cultivated sense, found quite unobjectionable.

“Excuse me, miss, for a moment,” Johnson said, dropping her arm, and leaving her alone in the midst of the dancers.

He had seen something in the distance which made him turn pale. And it happened that at that moment, after so long and so ineffectually attempting to catch Eddy’s eye, he at last succeeded in doing so without the slightest difficulty. Eddy had been startled beyond expression by the sight of Johnson’s shabby figure by his sister’s side, and distracted by this sight from all idea of fun; and restraining with difficulty the impulse he had to seize the fellow by the shoulders and turn him out—which evidently he had no right to do—had followed him, no longer now with laughing eyes that saw every movement while appearing to see nothing, but with the furious gaze of the plotter upon whom the tables are turned. When Johnson started, shrank, and dropped Marion’s arm, Eddy, watching, saw the whole pantomime, and saw also the fellow’s almost imperceptible signal towards the window, which stood open behind its drawn curtains for the ventilation of the great warm, heated hall. Eddy turned his own sharp, suspicious eyes toward the spot at which Johnson had looked, and there he saw a somewhat startling sight—a man in morning dress, buttoned up in a warm overcoat, like a visitor newly arrived, standing at the hall door, and gazing with astonishment as at a totally unexpected scene. The sight startled him, though he did not know why. It could be nothing to him, so far as he knew. He did not know what it could be to Johnson. But he was startled. The man looked like some commercial functionary, business-like, and serious, surprised beyond measure to find himself suddenly introduced from the open air and quiet, frosty, chilly night, to the crowded ball-room with all its decorations.

Eddy made a dive through the throng towards the window, with an explanation to those around him that the draught was too much for Lady Jean.

“I must try and draw the curtains down,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders at the unreasonableness of women. And in another moment was outside, standing under the brilliant cold stars, which looked down coldly upon this curious little unexpected effect.

“What’s the matter?” he said breathlessly to the other dark figure, conspicuous only by the whiteness of his large shirt, among the bushes.

“I don’t know,” said Johnson, “unless you’ve been at it again, Master Eddy. Did you see that man? that’s the clerk at the bank that cashed your cheque. I don’t know what brings him here, if you don’t. Anyhow, I thought it the best policy to slip away.”

Eddy’s teeth began to chatter—perhaps with the cold.

“You confounded fool,” he said, “did you give them the chance of identifying you? I didn’t think you would have been such an ass.”

“As for that,” cried Johnson, “I’m square. I’ve only got to say it was given me by you, my fine young fellow. By George, I never had no suspicion. And p’raps it aint that—p’raps it’s something else; but it looks fishy seeing that fellow in the middle of all the folks dancing. It has given me a turn! I hope, Master Eddy, for your own sake, as you have not been at it again.”

“Oh, what’s that to you?” cried Eddy impatiently. He was biting his lower lip till it bled, unconsciously to himself.

“It might be a great deal to me,” said Johnson, “if it is not on the square. They’ve a set of queer laws of their own in Scotland: you never know where you are with them; and you didn’t trouble yourself very much to get me partners, Mr. Eddy. Oh, ah, didn’t see me; tell that to them as will believe it.”

“If you think you are in danger, Johnson, from the arrival of that fellow,” said Eddy, “you’d better scuttle. They don’t understand a joke these bank men.”

“A joke,” cried Johnson. “Me that am on the square if ever a man was! and you that—”

“Have nothing at all to do with it,” said Eddy with cool superiority. “If you think that you’re likely to get into trouble, take my advice and walk home. I’ll pitch you out a coat, and it’s a fine night. You should start to-morrow, as soon as it’s day; and I advise you to get over the hills to Kilrossie, and take the boat there. Good-night—it’s cold standing out here jabbering about nothing. You should never have come; and how dared you touch a lady, you little snob!” Eddy cried.

“By George,” cried the other; and then he added with complacency in his tone: “If it’s Miss Saumarez, she is a stunner, Master Eddy. It was she—that offered to me.”

“You confounded, miserable little cad,” said Eddy, furiously driving him back among the bushes with a sudden blow. But he stole back to the house on the outskirts of the crowd, and seizing the first coat he could find, pitched it out of a window above, on Johnson’s head. He had humanity enough, though he was not unwilling to sacrifice the scapegoat, to give him something warm to wrap himself in. After this he returned to the ball-room, with a thousand apologies to his partner, and eloquent description of the difficulty he had found in so arranging the curtains as to keep the draught from Lady Jean. “The shortest way would have been to shut the window, I know,” said Eddy, “but we can’t have the ball-room made into a black hole of Calcutta, can we? So I compromised matters, as I always do.”

“Do you, Mr. Saumarez?” said the young lady with a look of faith, such as young ladies often wear—ready to receive what he said as truth, or to laugh at it as transparent humbug, it did not matter which. And Eddy danced all night undisturbed and imperturbable. The bank clerk was nothing to him. He sat out two square dances with Miss Monteith, the heiress. But every other on the programme Eddy danced, even the Scotch reel, of which he said, “I shall only make you all laugh, of course, but never mind.” Everybody did laugh, no doubt, at his performance, but they liked him all the better for trying it. It was a part of the programme into which Archie entered with spirit, for once sure of his ground. This was at a tolerably advanced period, when the guests who lived at the greatest distance were already ordering their carriages, and Archie, in the absence of his father, after the reel was over, had to preside over all the arrangements for the conclusion of the most successful entertainment that had ever been known in Rosmore, and to give Lady Jean his arm to the door. “It has been a pleasant party,” said Lady Jean. “And you must come over and see us, and have a day or two with my brother on the moors. Clydesdale, I am telling young Mr. Rowland he must come over and see what he can do among the grouse, some fine day very soon.”

“You must do that,” said the Earl himself. “You must do that. I will write and fix a day.”

What greater honour could have been done to the son of the railway man? He felt the glory of it, though the thought of such a visit was enough to take all the courage out of Archie. He stood a little dazed by the honour that had been done him, watching the carriage as it drove away, and pleased to feel the cold fresh air upon his forehead, when the butler came up to him with a serious face. “Mr. Archibald,” he said, “the Master would like to see you in the library as soon as the principal people are gone.”

“Very well,” said Archie, a little surprised; but he made no haste to obey his father’s call. There were a few more dances after the great people were gone, and Miss Eliza had made three or four ineffectual starts before she could collect her party together, who were the last to go. “Indeed, Mr. Archie,” she said, “you will just be worn off your feet hunting up these wild lassies for me. For the moment you’ve found one, there’s a new waltz started, and the other three are on the floor. And when they’ve done, Helen’s off again just to have a last turn, and there’s nothing left for it that I can see but for you and me to perform a pas seul to frighten them all away—Here they are at last, the whole four, which is all that can be squeezed into Alick Chalmers’s coach, whatever we do. And the lads must just walk, it will do them good after the three or four suppers they’ve had. And it has been a beautiful ball. I see your mammaw and papaw have stolen away, which I’m not surprised at, considering how late it is. You will say good-night to them for me, and many thanks for a delightful evening. And ye must all come up to your tea to-morrow and talk it over. Good-night—and good-night.”

Eddy was at the carriage door also, superintending with much laughter the packing in of the five ladies in their ball-dresses into Alick’s fly. All the dignified and ceremonious leave-takings were over—this was pure light-hearted fun and frolic. While Miss Eliza’s four young ladies were still waving their handkerchiefs from the windows of the coach as it disappeared into the darkness, and “the boys,” an equal number of them, four young men, were buttoning their coats and lighting their cigars, the butler appeared again. Once more he touched Archie on the shoulder, this time with more solemnity than ever. “Mr. Archibald,” he said, “the Master is waiting for you in the library. You’re to go to him without another moment’s delay.”

“What have you been doing, Rowland—are you going to get a wigging?” said Eddy. “Thank heaven,” he added with a yawn, “my governor’s several hundred miles away.”

Archie did not make any reply: but he was not at that moment in any fear of a wigging. Lady Jean’s gracious words, and the fun of Miss Eliza’s good-humoured party, had brought warmth and confidence to his heart. There could be nothing to be laid to his charge to-night. He knew that he had done his duties well, better than ever before. He had been careful of everybody’s comfort, emancipating himself by that thought from his native shyness and fear of putting himself forward. Perhaps his father meant to say something kind to him, to express some satisfaction. It was with this feeling of confidence and ease, a feeling so unusual to him, and even with a little pleasureable sense of expectation, that Archie turned the handle of the library door.