The same evening that all this discussion one might almost say plotting and counter-plotting concerning the Commonstone ball was going on at the Grange, there was a conversation going on at Todborough Rectory, which, could she but have heard it, would have somewhat opened Lady Mary’s eyes to the conspiracy of which she had been the victim.

“I wonder,” exclaimed Laura Chipchase, “whether Jim has carried his point? He vowed to-day the Grange party should go to the ball, and I hope they may.”

“Yes,” said Miss Sylla, “it is always nicer, I think, to be one of a large party in an affair of this sort. You are quite independent then, a ball within a ball, as it were.”

“Just so,” said the younger sister. “And though we know plenty of people, and are not likely to want for partners, yet it’s not the fun of going a big party. As for you, Sylla, I can’t imagine your wanting partners anywhere.” And the girl gazed with undisguised admiration at her pretty cousin.

“The young men are mostly good to me,” replied Miss Sylla demurely. “But what made Lady Mary set her face so dead against this ball? You told me she was full of fun, and either assisted at or promoted all the gaiety in the neighbourhood.”

“Ah, I cannot understand that,” rejoined Laura. “The excuse about Blanche requiring rest is all nonsense. Why, she told me to-day, she was never better, and, as you yourself heard, said she should like to go to this ball immensely.”

“Ah, well,” said Sylla, with a shrug of her shoulders and a slight elevation of her expressive eyebrows, “I don’t think I care much about your Lady Mary; your word-painting has been a little too flattering.”

“You mustn’t condemn her just because she has got this whim in her head. We know her well, and like her very much. We have been brought up so much with her own children, you know. But you never told us you knew Mr. Cottrell.”

“Why should I?” rejoined Sylla. “I hadn’t the slightest idea he was in these parts until I saw him. He is a dear clever old gentleman” (if Pansey could but have heard that!), “and one of my most devoted admirers. I met him at the Hogdens’ last autumn. It amused me so much to see how he always got his own way about everything, that I struck up a desperate flirtation with him, and then, you see, I got mine. Oh, you needn’t look shocked. It’s great fun when they have arrived at years of discretion, like Mr. Cottrell; they always get you everything you want, and are no more in earnest than you are. Then they are always at hand to save you ‘an infliction.’ I always said I was engaged to Mr. Cottrell whenever I didn’t want to dance with any one who claimed me, and if I made him a pretty speech, he would always forgive my throwing him over. My dear Laura,” continued the young lady gravely, “an admirer of that sort is worth a good half-dozen younger ones. But tell me a little more about the Bloxams.”

“There is nothing much to tell,” rejoined Laura. “The Squire is just what you saw him a fresh, genial, and hospitable country gentleman. Blanche is a dear unaffected girl, a good horsewoman, and good at lawn tennis, billiards, and all that sort of thing. Jim Bloxam is what you see as gay, light-hearted, and rattlepated a dragoon as any in the service; and as for Lady Mary, she is very much better than you give her credit for.”

“Whether the big house goes or not makes a difference in our staff of partners,” observed the younger Miss Chipchase sententiously. “Let’s see: there’s Captain Bloxam, Captain Braybrooke, and Mr. Sartoris all most eligible, don’t you think so, Laura? I wonder what this other man is like whom Blanche talked about Lionel Beauchamp? he comes to-night.”

“What, Lionel Beauchamp!” exclaimed Sylla: “do you mean to say Lionel Beauchamp is coming to the Grange?”

“So Blanche told me this afternoon; why, do you know him?”

“Know him? yes, pretty much in the same way you know Jim Bloxam. By the way, do you call him ’Jim’?” (The two girls nodded assent.) “Ah, I like to ask about these things: proprieties differ in different counties; it strikes me Fernshire is of the rigidly decorous order.”

“Well,” laughed Miss Chipchase, “it is past twelve; and if Todborough Rectory is to keep its character, we must be off to bed and listen no more to your Suffolk gabbling. It’s well mamma is laid up with a cold, or we should have been broomed off long ago.”

“Very well, Laura; in revenge for that last aspersion I will tell you nothing whatever more about Lionel Beauchamp. Only promise me one thing: don’t let out that he and I have known each other from childhood, please don’t. I do so want to see Lady Mary’s face when she hears me call him Lionel. I suspect she is inclined to think me a very fast young woman. She shall!” and with this ominous menace Miss Sylla danced upstairs to bed. Lady Mary, when she found that she must yield in the matter of the ball, was far too clever a diplomatist not to give a most gracious assent. She laughed, and vowed that she really thought a set of Londoners like they all were would have looked forward to quiet during the Easter holidays; but as they preferred racket, well, racket be it to their hearts’ content. Her duty towards her guests as hostess was simply to promote the happiness of the greater number. They would all go to Commonstone, and it only remained now to settle the matter of transport. The break would hold eight comfortably. If Mr. and Mrs. Evesham with their daughters, Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris, Mr. Cottrell, and the Squire would go in that, then she, Blanche, and either Captain Braybrooke or Mr. Beauchamp could go in the carriage, and Jim could drive one gentleman over in the dog-cart.

Jim Bloxam knew that he had carried his point sorely against his mother’s inclination; but he had got his cue now, and resolved to second all her arrangements loyally.

“All right, mother,” he said, “that will do very well, you take Beauchamp in the carriage, and Braybrooke can come in the cart with me.”

Although the party generally cared little about the manner of their going to the ball, there was one exception, and this was Mr. Pansey Cottrell. That gentleman was extremely fond of his own ease and comfort, and when a hostess presumed to take him out to a country ball, he did consider that she was at least bound to find him a front seat in a most comfortable carriage. “Breaks are all very well,” quoth Mr. Cottrell, “for tough country gentlemen; but I don’t expect to be carted about as if I was a stag on Easter Monday.” In short, although Pansey Cottrell could hardly have been said to be seriously annoyed, yet he held Lady Mary guilty of a want of consideration for a man of his status in the fashionable world. To the mischief inherent in his disposition, and which so often led him to thwart the schemes of those about him, was now added a mild feeling of resentment, not amounting to anger, but a feeling that he owed it to himself to mete out some slight punishment to his hostess. “Yes,” he muttered, as he arranged his white tie in the glass just before dinner, “I think, Lady Mary, the chances are that I shall contrive to make you a little uncomfortable this evening. That Sylla Chipchase is as full of devilry as she can be, and with a very pretty taste for privateering besides. If I give her a hint of your designs, I should think there is nothing she would like better than to do a little bit of cutting-out business, and temporarily capture Lionel Beauchamp under the very guns of the fair Blanche; however, I shall be guided by events. But there is one thing, my lady, you may be sure I shall not forget I was relegated to a break.”

When the ringers are not in accord the result is wont to be

“Sweet bells jangled, out of tune.”

Upon arrival at Commonstone it became at once evident that Lady Mary had shamefully libelled the Easter ball. It was a mixed ball, certainly; but by no means the tag, rag, and bobtail affair that Lady Mary had stigmatized it. If there was a sprinkling of the tradespeople and also of strangers, there was also a large muster of all the best people in Commonstone and its neighbourhood. The Rockcliffe camp, too, had sent a strong contingent; and altogether, with a good room and good music, there was every prospect, as Jim Bloxam said, of a real good dance. That the Misses Chipchase should meet the Grange party and attach themselves to it was but natural. They had always been encouraged to do so, and how were they to know that the avatar of such an incarnation of fun, spirits, and beauty as Sylla should have made Lady Mary repent of former good-nature? However, Jim showed the way with Mrs. Sartoris, and the whole party were soon whirling away to the strains of the “Zingari” valses.

“At last, Mrs. Sartoris,” said Jim, “I taste the sweets of successful diplomacy, and in the Commonstone terpsichorean temple publicly acknowledge the valuable assistance you lent me in the late great crisis.”

“I am very glad, Captain Bloxam,” replied Mrs. Sartoris, laughing, “that my poor exertions have been so fully recognized. I am terribly afraid that Lady Mary has registered a black mark against my name as a giddy and contumacious guest, not to be lightly entertained for the future.”

“No,” replied Jim, “I must stand up for my mother; she may fume a good deal at the time, but she never bears malice. But here comes one of my greatest allies, Dick Conyers; I hope you will allow me to present him to you.”

Mrs. Sartoris bowed assent; the introduction made, his name duly inscribed on the lady’s tablets, and Captain Conyers exclaimed,

“Of course you are coming to ‘our athletics’ to-morrow? I know cards have been duly sent to the Grange for the matter of that, round the country generally. There will be lunch all over the camp; but mind, I expect you to patronize our mess in particular. Mile races, half-mile races, quarter-mile races, sack races, barrow races, in short, humanity contending on its feet in every possible shape.”

“The very thing,” said Jim, “after a ball; don’t you think so, Mrs. Sartoris? Fresh air, amusement, gentle exercise, and a little stimulant close at hand if we feel low.”

“Ah, Mrs. Sartoris,” replied Conyers, “and I really am a little low about to-morrow. The best race of the day is a quarter-mile race for the ‘All Army Cup.’ There is a horribly conceited young Engineer of the name of Montague who already regards it as his own property; and saddest of all remains the fact that, notwithstanding his crowing, he can run above a bit; we have nobody in the camp with a chance of defeating him.”

“Why don’t you make Captain Bloxam, here, run?” said Mrs. Sartoris. “Why, you know,” she said, turning to Jim, “that you beat all the men at the Orleans Club a fortnight ago across the cricket-ground in that impromptu handicap.”

“Of course,” replied Conyers; “I never thought of that. I remember now you won the quarter mile at Aldershot last year. Capital! this race is open to the whole army, and the entries don’t close till to-morrow. I’ll stick your name down; and if ever you wish to do me a turn, mind you cut Montague’s comb for him to-morrow.”

“Well, I can only say,” replied Jim, “I am good to have a shy, and will do my best.”

Enthroned amongst the chaperons, and keeping a watchful eye upon her flock, Lady Mary so far views their proceedings with much complacency. After two successive dances with Blanche, Lionel Beauchamp has disappeared with that young lady, and though her daughter is no longer under her eye, still Lady Mary feels that events are marching in the right direction. However, it seemed as if Miss Bloxam had retired into the purlieus of the ball-room for the evening, and though, under the circumstances of her disappearance, Lady Mary felt no whit disturbed, about it, yet she thought she should like a cup of tea, and asked Mr. Sartoris to be her escort. But upon arrival at the tea-room, her equanimity was destined to be somewhat upset, for the first sight that met her eyes was Lionel Beauchamp and Sylla Chipchase seated in one of the corners, and apparently engaged in a tolerably pronounced flirtation. Now, in the confusion of the greeting between the Grange party and the rectory people, it had quite escaped Lady Mary that Lionel Beauchamp shook hands like an old acquaintance with Sylla. She had, therefore, no idea that they had met before this evening, and her dismay at finding Mr. Beauchamp improving his opportunities with Miss Sylla, when she had pictured him similarly engaged with Blanche, may be easily imagined. However, crossing over to the culprit, she observed, with a pleasant smile,

“Not half a bad ball, Mr. Beauchamp, I think. I can only hope you find it so. I really am quite glad I was persuaded into coming. By the way, what have you done with Blanche? She was dancing with you when I last saw her some half-hour ago.”

“Oh, the room was so warm,”, replied Lionel, “we came down here to get cool; and then Mr. Cottrell and Miss Sylla joined us; and then Cottrell told Miss Bloxam that it was his dance or you wanted her or something, and

“Left me as a substitute,” interrupted Sylla Chipchase.

“Ah, well,” said Lady Mary, “if Mr. Cottrell is taking care of her, Blanche is in good hands; I need not trouble myself much about her.”

“You make a terrible mistake there, Lady Mary,” said Sylla, in accents of mock anguish. “Mr. Cottrell is one of the most dangerous and inconstant of his sex. He made most desperate love last year to me in Suffolk, whispers pretty speeches into my ear the whole of this evening, and then turns me over consigns me, I believe, is the proper term to Mr. Beauchamp as if I were a bale of calico!” And the young lady assumed the prettiest attitude of most pitiable resignation.

“I was quite right,” thought Lady Mary, as she resumed her cavalier’s arm: “it is as I thought; that girl is as practised and brazen a flirt as ever crossed a poor woman’s schemes. It was an ill wind that blew her into Fernshire this Easter.”

“Come along, Lionel,” said Sylla; “remember that here we must not call each other by our Christian names. Fernshire don’t understand that we have been brought up together. In Suffolk it’s different; but Fernshire will be putting it down as my habit to call all gentlemen by their Christian names, and I certainly don’t want that.”

“As you like, Syl I mean, Miss Chipchase,” replied Lionel; and with that they made their way to the ball-room, where Jim Bloxam immediately claimed the young lady’s hand.

In the course of their dance Jim told his partner all about the programme for the morrow; how it was arranged that they should all drive up to the camp to lunch, look at the games, and either walk or drive back as seemed good to then. Then he confided to her how he was going to enter for the “All Army Cup.” “Principally,” continued Jim, “to oblige Dick Conyers, who is so extremely anxious to see the conceit taken out of a fellow in the Engineers called Montague.”

“And you,” said Sylla, who manifested great interest in the affair, “are you really a good runner?”

“Well, no, I can hardly say that remember that is rather a big thing to say; but I am a bit above the average, and have beaten good fields upon three or four occasions.”

“I understand; and what chance do you think you have with this Mr. Montague? Recollect, I mean plunging in gloves unless you assure me it is hopeless.”

“Well, if I thought it that,” replied Jim, “I shouldn’t run, and that’s about as much as I can say. I have never seen Montague run, and I don’t think either of us can possibly draw an estimate of the other’s form; still, the best man in a camp like Rockcliffe must be a pretty good amateur. I can only take for my comfort that Aldershot is bigger, and I proved myself the best man there over a similar distance last year.”

“That’s good enough for me. You must pardon my getting a little slangy,” replied Sylla, laughing; “but, dear me! when we come down to pedestrianism we can’t help it. I like your friend Captain Conyers. He is very anxious, you tell me, to see Mr. Montague’s colours lowered.”

“Yes, I assure you he was quite pathetic in his adjuration to me to do my utmost,” rejoined Jim.

“Ah, well, we must hope he will be gratified, and in spite of Punch’s wicked comparison of the dismounted dragoon to the goose on the turnpike-road, I shall hope to see the camp champion go down before Todborough to-morrow. But now tell me, how long have you known Lionel Beauchamp?”

“I met him this year in London for the first time.”

“What do you think of him?”

“He is a very good fellow as far as I can judge,” replied Jim; “very quiet; but you know I have had no opportunity of seeing much of him.”

“You never saw him ride, I suppose?”

“No, except in the Row. Does he hunt?”

“Oh, yes, he hunts in his own county,” replied Sylla. “You never saw him shoot, I suppose?”

“No, he doesn’t attend Hurlingham; that is to say, I mean he doesn’t go in for pigeons. But why all these questions, Miss Sylla?”

“Never mind; that’s my secret. You may be sure it is intended for your good,” laughed his interrogator. “In short, you never saw him ride, shoot, nor do any of those things.”

“No,” rejoined Jim, much amused; “I never saw him commit himself to rackets, skating, billiards, or any of those things.”

“Ah,” rejoined Sylla, “I was curious to see how much you knew about him. And now I think I must go and join the rest of them.”

Upon arriving at the part of the ball-room in which Lady Mary had taken up her abode, they found most of the elders of the party assembled, and the expediency of a move homewards prominently under discussion.

“Ah, make room for me, please,” exclaimed the vivacious young lady, “in that corner next to you, Mr. Cottrell. You have neglected me shamefully the whole of the evening, you know. The sole admirer I can reckon on in all Fernshire, an adorer privileged to say sweet things to me, and whose bounden duty it is never to neglect an opportunity of administering such sugarplums how dare you treat me so? You abandon me in the tea-room, leaving me to be picked up like any other derelict by the passing stranger. Now, Mr. Cottrell, I should just like to hear what you have got to say in your defence.”

“Well, Miss Sylla,” rejoined the accused, “I left you under very tolerable protection, and Lady Mary had given me a hint to find Miss Bloxam for her if I could.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” replied the young lady. “You got rid of me, you know you did, because you felt lazy and unequal to the exigencies of the situation.”

Of course Pansey Cottrell knew that this was all fooling; but then, like many other middle-aged gentlemen, he rather liked such fooling with a pretty girl; in fact, was somewhat given to what may be designated as fatherly flirtation.

“I don’t think I left you quite so desolate as you make out. I should imagine Beauchamp an eligible cavalier. He comes from your county, so no doubt you know him.”

“Yes, Mr. Beauchamp and I have foregathered before to-day.”

“Ah, it was provoking,” continued Cottrell, “after all the pains I took on your behalf, that Lady Mary, looking upon you as one of her charges, should be so sternly determined to do her duty by you as to penetrate the tea-room and nip such a promising flirtation in the bud.”

“Yes,” said the girl musingly, “I don’t think she was altogether pleased at finding me there. Still, I can’t see that Lady Mary’s duty extends to us just because we have joined her party.”

“Can’t you really, Miss Sylla?” replied Cottrell, with a twinkle in his eye and a preternatural solemnity of manner that immediately aroused the young lady’s attention. “Don’t you know that one of the most important duties of the governors of all communities is to see that the right men are in the right place?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Sylla.

“To speak more plainly, then, it is the duty of chaperons to see that the right men don’t sit out with the wrong ladies.”

“Ah,” replied Sylla, her eyes dancing with fun, “I think I begin to understand you now. I was the wrong young lady.”

“Well,” said Cottrell, “I am very much afraid you were. Do you see now why I so basely deserted you and changed partners with Beauchamp? You used to be quick enough in abetting me in such pranks last winter.”

“I declare,” rejoined Sylla, laughing, “you are the wickedest and most amusing man I ever came across. You dare to tell me that these Bloxam people have the audacity to come poaching on our Suffolk preserves?”

“Oh, I don’t say that; still, people are so unscrupulous now-a-days. But I want your help in another little bit of mischief.”

“What is it?” rejoined the young lady, with an animation which promised ready assent.

“Do you know Beauchamp well enough to ask him to dance?”

“Yes, certainly; only don’t you let them know it at the Grange.”

“Not I. The carriages have just been sent for; make him dance with you, and take him out of the way when I signal to you. He came here with Lady Mary and Miss Bloxam in the carriage. When he is not to be found, I shall volunteer to take his place, leaving him to follow and take mine in the break; and shall take care that the fact of his being left dancing with you does not escape Lady Mary’s attention.”

“Go across and tell Mr. Beauchamp I want him,” said Sylla. “I’ll take care he is out of the way when wanted.”

This little conspiracy was crowned with success; and when the carriage was announced, Lionel Beauchamp was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s nonsense waiting for him, Lady Mary,” said Mr. Cottrell. “As Miss Bloxam is not dancing, you had better be off at once; I will come with you, and Beauchamp can take my place in the break. What has become of him and Sylla Chipchase, goodness only knows!”

There was nothing for it but to submit to circumstances; and, with a feeling of no little asperity towards that “flirting Suffolk girl,” Lady Mary drove home to Todborough.