"Mr.and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy. Lady Portrann at home Tuesday, the 16th of January, 10P.M.Dancing."
"Addie, that means a ball, doesn't it? How delightful! You're going, of course?"
"I suppose so. Mr. Armstrong wishes it."
"And you'll wear your whitebrochéand pearls. Oh, isn't it wellfor you?" groans Pauline wistfully. "Miss Lefroy—that's me, of course. It was nice of them to ask me, wasn't it, Addie?"
"Yes. I suppose they did not know you were still in the school-room, Polly."
"I'm past seventeen, and eldest daughter now that you're married and done for, Addie, and I do think it's hard lines keeping me down."
"If Mr. Armstrong wishes to give you the advantage of education, no matter how late, I think you ought to be extremely grateful to him, instead of grumbling as you continually do," says Mrs. Armstrong severely.
"You're so remarkably well educated yourself, Addie," retorts Pauline, "you can well afford to preach. Didn't you see how Tom stared the other night when you asked him which would take longest, to go to New York or Calcutta? I'm sure, if he keeps me in the school-room, he ought to keep you too. 'Lady Portrann at home, 10P.M.Dancing.' How lovely it sounds! How I wish I could go, just to see what it would be like! I wouldn't dance, you know, Addie, or wear a silk dress, or anything in that way, but just sit in a corner and look on quietly; and—and don't you think, if you put it to your husband mildly like, that he might—might—"
"I think nothing in the matter, my dear," answers Addie decisively; "and I'll put nothing to my husband, mildly or otherwise; so it's of no use asking me."
"Don't then!"
"I won't."
The sisters glare at each other; then Addie moves away, humming a tune, and the vexed question is not alluded to again that day.
The next morning, when she is seated at her desk, composing her acceptance, Pauline bounces in with dancing eyes and leans over her.
"'Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong have much pleasure in accepting—' It won't do—it won't do! You'll have to begin again, my dear, though this is the third sheet I see you've spoiled. Begin again, Addie, begin: I'll dictate to you—
"'Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy have much pleasure in accepting Lady Portrann's kind invitation for Tuesday, the 16th proximo.' Yes, you may stare; but I'm going to the ball. Tom says I may, if I can get your consent; and I know I shall get that—you couldn't be such a—a—fiend, Addie, as to refuse when he has consented?"
"I suppose I couldn't," she answers meekly, attacking her fourth sheet. "If I did, you'd lead me such a life that—"
"I should, dear," admits Miss Lefroy briskly—"I certainly should. Now give me the note; I'll put it into the post-bag myself."
"Wait a moment, Polly! About your dress? As you don't mean to dance, I suppose one of your ordinary evening grenadines, with a little furbishing up, will do very well?"
"But, as I do happen to mean to dance if I'm asked, one of my ordinary evening grenadines won't do for the occasion at all."
"But I thought you said—"
"I said nothing to Tom, but just asked if I might go, and he answered 'Yes,' without conditions or qualifications of any kind. So I'll go now in regulartenue."
"Then you can have one of mytrousseaudresses—that pretty blue silk, if you like; our figures are not very unlike, and a little altering—"
"Thanks, dear—you are very kind; but, as this is my first ball, I must appear in virgin white, and I could not exactly wear your wedding dress, could I?"
"I shall wear it myself."
"Exactly. So I think we had better order the carriage this morning, and we'll drive to Kelvick and interview Armine at once on the subject. I know what I'll have to a flounce—the exact copy of a dress described in the 'Queen' last week—it was worn at a Sandringham ball—all white satin and gauze with clustering bunches of white lilac and maiden-hair, and a corsage of that lovely pearlpassementerie."
"Pearlpassementerie, satin, gauze! Pauline, are you aware that those are about three of the most expensive materials you could hit upon? Where is the money to come from?"
"The money is here; don't trouble your head about that!" breaks in Pauline, triumphantly displaying a bundle of crisp notes. "He gave me it at once, and said besides that anything over and above was to be entered to your account at Madame Armine's. Now are you satisfied?"
"Satisfied!" she echoes passionately. "Satisfied! Oh, Polly, Polly, dear sister, I wish you wouldn't—wouldn't take money like that! And you know I have no account at Madame Armine's—you know I haven't!"
"Stuff!"
"Our hands are always outstretched—always; we give nothing and take everything. How can you bear it—how?"
"Oh, Addie, I have no patience with you! You talk of your husband as if he were a stranger, a complete outsider—as if we had no interest in him or he in us; it is a shame! I protest I understand him better than you. I saw at once that it was a pleasure to him to give me a dress; and I foresee too that it will give him pleasure to see me fashionably and becomingly got up on the 16th. I'm determined not to balk him. I think your feeling in the matter is both unnatural and absurd—absurd in the extreme!"
Miss Lefroy has her way, and that same afternoon is fingering gauzes, satins, and laces at Madame Armine's. Her sister, seeing that it would be of no use venturing on delicate ground again, with a feeling of impotence to wrestle against her will in particular, and the tide of events in general, gives in with a weary sigh.
On the night of the 16th Armstrong is standing under the drawing-room chandelier, anxiously working his large bony hands into a pair of evening gloves of treacherous texture and about half a size too small for him, when his womenfolk rustle in, fully equipped for conquest.
"Do you like me, Tom?"
He looks down at his wife standing before him in the bridal finerywhich she refused to wear at the altar, her fair white shoulders shining through folds of delicate lace, a necklet of pearls—his wedding-gift—encircling her pretty throat, a bunch of pale pink roses loosely hanging from her rough brown hair.
"How fair, how bright, how young you look, my love, my love!" he thinks, with a sort of hungry pain; while her gray eyes meet his with the strange expression they always wear now, half wistful, half defiant, and a little scared as well—an expression which he sometimes feels, with a pang of impotent remorse, that no act, or word, or wish of his can ever chase thence again, even if he labored as manfully as he is now doing to the end of his days.
"Do I like you," he repeats softly—"like you, Addie!" Then, with a quick return to his usual self-possessed, matter-of-fact manner—"Certainly, my dear; your dress is very nice indeed."
"Rapturous commendation!" she answers, with a light vexed laugh.
"Now, Addie, clear away; it is my turn, please. What have you to say to me, Mr. Armstrong?"
"You?" he cries, staggering back, and shading his eyes as if overcome by the vision. "Who are you, pray—the Queen of Sheba?—Cleopatra?"
"Miss Pauline Lefroy, at your service, exemplifying the old proverb of 'Fine feathers make fine birds.' Now, honestly, what do you think of my feathers, Tom?"
Pauline steps forward, giving her train a brisk twitch, and poses under the chandelier, her lithe stately figure draped in clouds of silky gauze, her masses of dusky hair piled high on her head, interwoven with chains of pearls, her lovely gypsy face sparkling with the glow of excitement and anticipated pleasure.
"'Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of NightAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,'"
"'Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of NightAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,'"
quotes Armstrong dramatically. "Will that homage to your plumage do fair sister-in-law?"
"Yes, it sounds like Shakespeare or Milton. Shakespeare, is it? 'Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of Night like a—' What?"
"'Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.'"
"It is a fine idea, strongly put—better than being told flatly that I was nice, like a bit of well-fried beefsteak. And so you think I shall do?"
"By Jove, yes," thinks he, in startled admiration. "I rather think you will, Miss Polly! What a splendid specimen of womanhood you are, to be sure! Strange I never seemed to take in the power of your comeliness until to-night!"
He glances at the two sisters standing side by side—at the girl, lastly, who, in a ragged cotton dress, without even the ornament of ladylike neatness, without one word or smile of attractive intent, chained his senses in one luckless moment and robbed him of his peace forever. He shakes his head; it is of no use going over the old story again; the mischief is done, and there is an end of it.
"She is not beautiful, my little Addie, she is but a pallid spring-blossom beside the tropical coloring of her sister," he thinks bitterly."Few men, I suppose, would waste a glance on her when they could feed on the other's beauty; and yet she is all I want—all. My life would be full if I had her. Oh, the irony of fate to think that what is by law my own, my very own, what no man covets, I can not grasp—to think that she, the delight of my eyes, the one love of my life, must live under the same roof with me, and yet be as far apart as if the poles sundered us! And we are drifting further day by day; we can not even be friends. I have more in common now with her sisters, even with her cub of a brother, than with her. A wall of constraint is rising hourly between us. We can not talk together five minutes without falling into an uncomfortable silence, or tripping over matter we had agreed to bury. I wonder how it will all end! By Jove, I should like to have a peep at our position, say, this day ten years! Please Providence, the boys will have struck out lines for themselves ere then, and some fellows will have induced the girls to quit my fireside too, if—if I see fit to make it worth their while. Miss Pauline, with five or six thousand pounds, would be a prize many men would like to secure. Lottie too would have a chance under the same conditions; there would be only Addie and I left to drift into autumn together. By Jove, I should like to know how it will end! Hang it, my glove is gone at last!" he exclaims aloud, in dismay.
"I thought as much, Tom. I hope you have another pair, because the most skillful needle-and-thread in the world wouldn't bridge that chasm. Oh, I see you have another pair! Now, will you concentrate your powerful intellect on my train for a minute? I'm going to walk slowly from the piano to the window, and I want you to tell me it you can detect the faintest outline of steel or wire, the merest suggestion of string or tape anywhere."
"No, Pauline, on my honor as a British merchant!" he answers solemnly. "I can detect not one trace of the inward mechanism of your dress. It is veiled to me in darkest art. You are inflated in a manner wonderful and fearful to behold."
"I believe you! That is what I call the perfection of a fan-tail; Armine is the only dress-maker in Kelvick who can work them like that," remarks Pauline complacently. "I flatter myself there won't be another train surpassing mine in the room. And fancy, Tom—Addie wanted me to appear in a home-made muslin or grenadine, with a blue silk sash and blue ribbons in my hair, like a school-girl going out to a suburban tea-party! Wasn't I right to resist? Haven't I your entire approbation?"
"Certainly, I think the most extreme measure would justify the end you have achieved, Miss Lefroy," he answers, laughing.
"Well, one end you have certainly achieved, my dear sister," says Addie ruefully. "You have certainly crushed my poor dress, put me out of the field altogether, which is rather hard lines, considering I'm a—a bride and all that. Nobody will look at me when you are near."
"Then I must keep well out of your way, dear," she answers sweetly. "Ah, here comes the carriage at last! Where's my fan, bouquet, handkerchief? Oh, dear, if I should get myself crushed or squeezed before I arrive! Tom, I engage the front of the brougham;you and Addie must sit together at the back. It's wrong to separate those whom Heaven has joined together, you know."
"Pauline," cries Addie sharply, "I wish you would not make those flippant remarks; they're extremely unbecoming!"
Pauline raises her saucy eyes to her brother-in-law's disturbed face, and asks innocently—
"Am I flippant, Tom? Have I said anything wrong? Tell me—do you want the back all to yourself?"
"I want neither the back nor the front, my dear," he answers placidly. "I'd rather not be brought into close contact with the mysteries of your dress. I'm going to enjoy my cigar on the box-seat."
"Are you? I dare say you'll like it better than being squashed between us," assents Pauline lightly.
"You are going to do nothing of the kind," interposes Addie, with flaming face. "I will not allow it. Going to sit outside for a seven miles' drive on a snowy night in January, just to save a few wretched flowers from being crushed! Pauline, I'm ashamed of you!"
"My dear Addie, don't get so hot about it, it was my own suggestion, not your sister's. I do not mind the weather in the least. It's not a bad kind of night for the season of the year, and I have a famous overcoat lined with fur, and my cigar."
They are all three standing in the porch. Addie suddenly walks back into the hall, and begins undoing her wraps; they follow her in quickly.
"What are you doing? What is the matter?"
"I am not going to the ball, Pauline; I should not like to crush your flounces, dear," she answers, with sparkling eyes.
Pauline crimsons.
"Addie, how—how spiteful you are!" she cries, angrily. "You know I did not want your husband to sit on the box-seat; he suggested it himself. There is plenty of room for us all inside. Oh, come along, Addie; don't be so nasty and spiteful!"
But she is not to be propitiated; she shakes off her sister's protesting hands, and moves away upstairs.
"I am not nasty or spiteful, Pauline; but I do not feel inclined for this ball. I feel a headache coming on. Mr. Armstrong will take you there without me."
Pauline remains motionless, and casts an appealing look at her brother-in-law.
"Tom, go after her—see what you can do. I should only make matters worse."
After a second's hesitation, he follows Addie up the stairs, and lays his hand gently on her shoulder.
"Addie, come back; I won't go to the ball without you. Come back!"
"What nonsense! You can go very well without me. I do not care for it, I tell you."
She speaks sharply and sullenly enough; but a few hot tears trickle down her cheeks as she turns away her face from his scrutiny.
Before he knows what he is about, he takes her handkerchief, and wipes them away softly, whispering, beseechingly—
"I will do what you like, sit where you like. Come, my own dear little girl—come!"
She puts her hand on his arm.
"You will sit inside with us?"
"Of course, if you wish it. I would not have proposed the box-seat if I had known you would not like it, Addie. I never thought of the weather. Why, I have slept out of doors in Canadian backwoods in three times as severe weather as this, and I'm alive to tell the tale—ah, scores of times!"
The drive is an uncomfortable one for all three, though Pauline, anxious to remove the impression of the scene, rattles "nineteen to the dozen." Her sister speaks not a word, and Armstrong is too wrapped up in somber, anxious thought to respond.
Clearly as one would read an open book, he can now read the page of his little wife's troubled life—can read the meaning of flushing cheek, quivering lip, tearful eye—can see the passion of revolt that stirs her sensitive being—can feel how her pride, her delicacy is daily, hourly, outraged by the condition of their lives—and his heart yearns over her.
"If," he thinks, with an impotent sigh, "I had chosen the other sister, it would have been different; her coarser, more selfish nature would have adapted itself to the circumstances without a pang. She would have accepted without murmur or protest the best I had to give, would have put her hands into my pocket and spent my money with the freedom andinsoucianceof esteemed wifehood, would never have disturbed my equanimity by one of those piteous pleading looks, half pain, half defiance, that thrill through me with a foreboding of coming tragedy. I wonder how it will all end! Why will she not accept the inevitable, and give me peace at least? Peace is all I ask from her. If she would take things as her sisters and her brothers do, I should in time become reconciled to my fate, should learn to feel toward her as I feel toward them; but she will not—she will not. She will go her own way, and keep my heart in a ferment, watching her every movement, straining my ears to catch every tone of her ever-changeful voice."
He looks with a sort of admiring impatience at her, as she sits by his side, her eyes closed, the trace of tears staining her flushed cheeks, and something tells him that it will always be so between them, that she will never harden, never learn to eat his bread with the easy unconsciousness of her kindred, never suffer him to despise her, and thus emancipate himself.
Armstrong is an epicure in sexual sentiment. He can love no woman whom he cannot esteem. The loveliest face shielding a venal soul has no attraction for him; and women for the possession of whose frail fairness men in his rank of life have bartered the hard-earned wages of years, have abandoned home, wife, and children, to him are as innocuous as the homeliest-featured crone. Having always been a comparatively successful man, in his many wanderings he has been waylaid by harpies of various nationalities, experienced in attack; but honeyed speech or melting glance has never charmed a guinea from his pocket or a responsive smile from hisgranite lips—and this through no sense of moral or religious rectitude, but simply because he can not value the favoring of any woman in whom self-respect does not govern every other feeling, sway every action of her life. The woman he loves shall be a lady to the core, pure-minded, dainty, sensitive, and proud. In his wife he recognizes these qualities, and worships them accordingly; and yet, with the perverse selfishness innate even in the best of mankind, he would fain see her stripped of them all in order to shake himself free from her thralldom and heal up the wound she has unwittingly dealt his pride and self-esteem.
He knows, if she can but lower herself in his eyes by some act of meanness, folly, or ingratitude, her downfall will be permanent, and he will regain the even tenor of his life, and be his own master again.
"Here we are at last, Addie; wake up—wake up! How lovely the house looks blazing with light! Listen to the music; they must have begun dancing. Oh, Tom, get out quick!"
However, when they appear on the gay and crowded scene, Miss Pauline's effervescence somewhat subsides. A feeling of diffidence, of timidity almost, seizes her. She half shrinks behind her brother-in-law's broad shoulders when one of their hostess's sons appears, a smiling partner in tow. However, it is Mrs. Armstrong who is borne off first; and then Pauline steps a little forward and sends her roving eye round the room with success. A little later Addie returns breathless, with eyes sparkling with excitement and pleasure.
"I've had such a lovely dance, Tom; I never thought I should like it so much or keep in step as I did! Where's Polly? How is she getting on?"
Armstrong points across the room, where Miss Lefroy, with her deer-like head erect, stands surrounded by a group of young men eagerly seeking to inscribe her name on their cards.
"She's getting on fairly for a beginner, isn't she? I don't fancy she'll trouble us much more with her society to-night."
He is right. Miss Pauline, whether ignorant of or regardless of the etiquette of ball-room proprieties, returns no more to the corner she left in maiden trepidation at the request of a dapper little squire, fair-haired and blue-eyed, whose heart she stormed the first moment she entered the room.
"Tom," says Addie, two hours later, when she returns again, a little exhausted with the unusual exercise, to the spot where he stands so patiently propped up against the wall watching theéliteof Nutshire taking their pleasure, "look at Pauline; she is dancing again with that blue-eyed boy—the fourth time, I think. I tried to attract her attention two or three times; but she either did not or would not see me. I don't know much about the proprieties; but don't you think—"
"I know even less about them than you, my dear. I think I have not been to half a dozen balls in my life, and never before as the guardian of a young lady's morals; so I won't presume to advise you. It seems to me she is enjoying herself in a very innocent and above-board manner. I wouldn't try to stop her."
"Do you know her partner, Tom?"
"Oh, yes. Jack Everard of Broom Hill, a thorough little gentleman and a general favorite in the county, I believe, but not much of a lady's man. I'm surprised to see him here."
"Horsy?"
"Yes, and doggy; he keeps a famous breed of greyhounds. Pauline seems to have made quite a conquest."
"I wonder what they are talking about so earnestly? Dogs, I suppose; Pauline loves dogs, you know, better almost than human beings."
"Hem!"
"You think she is flirting? Oh, there you make a mistake! There is nothing Pauline despises so much as flirting and love-making and nonsense. I wouldn't be the man to make a soft speech to her, I know!"
"Everard is a plucky little fellow."
"Pauline's snubs are hard to get over."
"I say, Addie—look! There's an engagement going on now; the tall cavalryman seems to be getting the worst of it. I suppose it's about a disputed dance; they're referring to their cards. How red Everard is! the quiver of his nostrils indicates bloodshed, nothing else."
"He just looks like an angry turkey-cock."
"And, by Jove, look at your sister, Addie! Look at the supreme indifference of her attitude, the queenly wave of her fan! Wouldn't you say she was the heroine of half a dozen London seasons at the least? Bravo, Polly, bravo! You'll get on, my dear."
Miss Lefroy is the acknowledged belle of the evening; every man in the room seeks to be introduced to her, and people who for the last twelve years have sat in the pew next to hers at church, who have never taken the trouble of noticing her presence during her long Cinderellahood, now load her with fulsome compliments and attentions when they see the tide of popular favor turning her way; and she receives it all with the dignity and gracious indifference of one bred in the purple and fed on adulations from her cradle. Poor Jack Everard never suspects that the few hot words so gravely yet soothingly suppressed by his lovely partner, that escaped him after supper, are the first whispers of love that have ever tickled her cold ear, that this is the first night any one has told her she is fair in the eyes of men.
"Miss Lefroy," exclaims that young gentleman in a stealthy whisper when the night is far advanced and the ball-room thinning visibly, "there's a plot against you; they want to take you home. Your brother-in-law is skirmishing for you briskly in all the passages. Unless you deliver yourself into my hands at once, you can not fail to be caught."
"They want to go? Oh, impossible," she cried in dismay, "when I'm engaged for half a dozen dances yet! It's quite early; they couldn't be so selfish!"
"Couldn't they! Your sister says that Mr. Armstrong is very tired and has to be up early in the morning to go to his business, and that she won't wait another minute. She commissioned me to bring you to her at once; allow me."
She puts her hand mechanically on his arm, and he leads her offin the opposite direction to that where Addie, sleepy and impatient, sits waiting, knowing that her husband's thoroughbreds have been pawing the gravel for the last half hour in the frosty night, and that he himself, somewhat weary, is longing for a few hours' rest before the busy day begins.
The culprits are passing through a distant conservatory, when a tall handsome girl with masses of golden hair stops them, unceremoniously and holds up her card for Everard's inspection.
"Yes, Jack; indeed you may blush! To three dances you scribbled your name, and never came up for one. If we moved in a different sphere of life I think my feelings would find rather strong expression."
Pauline crimsons to the roots of her hair, and, scenting an insult, draws away haughtily; but her suspicions are speedily allayed.
The young lady cuts Everard's excuses short.
"There, there! I'll forgive you, on condition that you present me to your partner, whom I am anxious to know. Our mothers were friends long ago, before either of us was born."
He speedily complies with her request.
"Miss Lefroy, will you allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Miss Wynyard, who is anxious to make your acquaintance?"
The girls bow. Miss Wynyard puts out her hand and says, with a frank laugh—
"Miss Lefroy, do you know that this is a very generous overture on my part, considering the attitude that you and I must henceforth assume toward each other?"
"I don't understand. What attitude?" asks Pauline, puzzled, yet interested.
"That of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth; of Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Oldfield—the rival queens, in fact. You've deposed me to-night; for three years since I came out I have been the undisputed belle of Nutshire society—haven't I, Jack, haven't I? You know you can't deny it, sir!"—impatiently to her cousin, who receives her bold statement with a contemptuous chuckle.
"I don't deny that you have been pretty popular, Flo," he answers quietly; "but let me tell you, my dear, that you did not go down with lots of fellows I know. They thought you a good deal too free and fast. They may have liked to talk with you and have enjoyed your society for the time; but afterward—afterward—I've heard them—heard them—"
Miss Wynyard's face flushes; her bold eyes droop for a second.
"Isn't a cousin a detestable institution, Miss Lefroy?" she says, with a vexed laugh. "Don't you believe a word he says; you can get my character from any one you like but him, and you'll hear there is nothing very reprehensible in me."
"I'll take your character from yourself," answers Pauline, who finds herself taking a sudden fancy to this outspoken young person.
"Thank you. Then you must learn that my bark is worse than my bite, and that, though I'm fast and speak out plainly, I'm not a bad person at bottom, and not a bit of a sneak. What I have to say I say to your face, and you know the worst of me at once. Will you take me as you find me and strike up a friendship with me? Half the men and all the old women of the place will swear that Ishall hate you like poison for being younger and handsomer and fresher than myself. Suppose you and I strike up a defensive alliance in the cause of common womanhood, and refute their slanders with an eternal friendship?"
"Don't, Miss Lefroy, don't!" puts in Everard aggravatingly. "You don't know what her bark is when she's in full cry. Her style is as bad—"
"Be quiet, Jack, do! I'm not speaking to you."
"And I'm not listening to him in the least, Miss Wynyard," says Pauline quickly; "and I'm quite ready to enter an alliance with you on the spot."
"Done! We'll never let a man or the pattern of a frock come between us—never."
"Certainly not."
"The last friend I had—for whom I'd have sacrificed my very life—broke from me because I happened to copy her Ascot dress and look better in it than she did."
"You may copy every article of clothing I wear," says Pauline warmly.
"Thank you; you are thorough. I'll send over my maid to-morrow to take off the cut of that train—it was the best-setting one in the room. And now nearest and dearest must part. You'll see me soon—before the end of the week. By the bye, what's your name?"
"Pauline. And yours?"
"Florence."
"Good-night, Florence."
"Good-night, Pauline."
Thus Miss Pauline cements the first friendship outside her erst all sufficing family-circle, a friendship which, as the months go by, takes her further and further from the sister with whom she has hitherto shared every thought, every hope of her life, and who has sacrificed herself irretrievably to give her a home.
"There, Bob—there was my bill of fare for the night"—throwing a glossy pink card across the table—"two lords, three baronets—at least, eldest sons of baronets—a colonel, a couple of majors, no end of smaller fry, captains, lieutenants, militia and regulars, for whom of course I hadn't dances, though they kept buzzing about me half the night, all the same."
"Bravo, Polly—you have been going it, and no mistake! I thought you'd have been a wall-flower, knowing so few, being fresh 'on the flure,' and all that."
Pauline tosses her pretty head.
"Me a wall-flower? Small fear of that, sir, I can tell you! Why, several of my partners told me I was the belle of the room!"
They are all at dinner on the day after the ball, Robert having been driven over with his brother-in-law to get a full account of his sister's first appearance in society.
"Well, I'm glad you weren't fated to blush unseen, Polly. Have you any other festivity in prospect?"
"No," she answers lugubriously, "not a thing. The Chomley Arkwrights have cards out for a dance on the thirty-first, but you know Mrs. Arkwright never called on Addie—I can't imagine why—and so I suppose we shall not be asked. It's really too bad—though they may relent at the eleventh hour. If they don't you will have to give a ball for me, Tom, instead. I feel I can't exist without another soon."
"Let us hope they will relent, my dear."
"I can't imagine why they didn't ask us, for the whole county is to be there; several of my partners said that it was a shame to leave us out, and that they wouldn't go there if I didn't get an invite."
"Your partners seem to have been very pronounced in their remarks for so short an acquaintance, Pauline," says Armstrong, a little gravely.
"They were, Tom, rather," she answers, giggling and blushing somewhat. "I had hard work to suppress some of them after supper, I can tell you."
"O Mary Ann, O Mary Ann,I'll tell your mar!I never thought, when you went out,You'd go so far,"
"O Mary Ann, O Mary Ann,I'll tell your mar!I never thought, when you went out,You'd go so far,"
hums Robert, with music-hall jocularity.
A faint expression of disgust crosses Armstrong's dark face, which his wife notes with a wondering start. What does it mean? Is it possible that he, Armstrong of Kelvick, the plebeian bred, who never, according to his own admission, had familiar intercourse with gentlewomen until he married her, thinks her blue-blooded sister, Pauline Lefroy, the offspring of Bourbon chivalry, a little vulgar now and then? Is it possible that her manner, so boastfully elated, her unabashed account of her conquests, jars on him, as it does on her—Addie? If so, how much they have in common, this husband and wife, severed by nearly a score of years, by position, education, and mode of life, estranged by fate from communion of thought, from interchange of sympathy—how much in common still!
"I wish Pauline would not talk like that," she thinks, with shamefaced irritation. "I wonder she does not feel that it is unladylike, indelicate. I wonder Robert, who has such keen perception, does not try to check her, instead of backing her up."
"Yes, it is most aggravating, I must say," continues Pauline, harping on her grievance. "I can't imagine what those Arkwrights mean by it, and they such near neighbors too! I wish you, Tom, or Addie, would do something in the matter."
"I can't see what we could do, Pauline," he answers, smiling, "unless you would have us follow Thackeray's advice—go straight to head-quarters and 'ask to be asked.' It would be rather an extreme measure, but I believe it has been successful in many cases."
"Polly," says Goggles, nodding her head mysteriously, "I think I know why you weren't asked, only—only—perhaps you wouldn't like me to tell."
Pauline laughs contemptuously.
"You know, Goggles? A very likely story indeed!"
"I just do know!" answers Goggles, stung into retort. "They don't ask you, Pauline, because papa owes Major Arkwright a lotof money, which he never paid—a debt of honor, I think they call it, and—"
"What nonsense you are talking!" breaks in Robert sharply. "I never met such a senseless chatterbox as you are, Lottie—always chattering of things you know nothing about, taking the wrong end of every story."
"I am doing nothing of the kind, Bob, and I know perfectly well what I am talking about. I heard Aunt Jo tell her Cousin Jenny Bruce the whole story. Major Arkwright and papa were in the same regiment, and they had an awful row together over cards, and the major called papa a black something or other—black-foot was it? No, not black-foot, but black-leg—I remember now I thought it such a funny word—black-leg!"
Before the end of this unfortunate speech, Armstrong, with innate delicacy, rises to his feet and begins addressing his wife in a loud voice; but it is of no use—he can not drown his sister-in-law's shrill triumphant tone, and so he hurries from the room, and leaves the family to fight it out among themselves.
Robert's handsome face is scarlet; he turns to his eldest sister fiercely.
"Addie, what in the world do you mean by letting that child loose as you do? If you have not sufficient authority to keep her in the school-room, where she ought to be, you ought at least to be able to muzzle her in society; she is getting perfectly intolerable!"
"What can I do?" answers Mrs. Armstrong, with quivering voice. "Nobody minds what I say, nobody pays the least attention to my wishes. I am a cipher in my own house."
"That's because you don't assert yourself properly," strikes in Pauline trenchantly. "You are all fire and fury for the moment, Addie, and then you subside and let things go. There is nothing solid in your character, and there is a want of dignity and repose in your manner that you really ought to supply now that you are a married woman. Don't you agree with me, Robert?"
"Perfectly, my child. What you want is backbone, Addie—backbone."
"It seems to me that I want a good many things to content you all," she says bitterly. "I sometimes wonder, if I had gone to Birmingham as a nursery-governess, instead of doing as I did, whether I shouldn't have given you all, myself included, more satisfaction in the long run, and—"
"Now, Addie, now why will you fly off at a tangent like that, and drag in matter that has nothing to do with the question? You know you did everything for the best; and I'm sure your marriage so far has turned out most satisfactory, and—"
"Suppose you leave my marriage and its result out of the question, Robert!" she interrupts quickly. "It is a subject I would rather not discuss with you, if you do not mind."
"Whew—what a little spitfire she has become!" exclaims Bob, somewhat discomfited, when Addie has left the room. "She must be hard to get on with, Polly, if she often pulls like that."
"Oh, I don't mind her in the least!" answers Polly lightly. "As you say, Bob, she has no backbone; so I let her calm down, stick quietly to my point all the time, and get what I want in the end.The brother-in-law is harder to manage; but I think I have discovered the way to work him too."
"Have you?" he asks eagerly. "D'ye know, it strikes me you're a pretty sharp customer to deal with, sister mine; there's more in you than appears on the surface."
"I don't want to boast; but I think I shall get on," she answers, with becoming modesty.
"But the discovery, Polly, the discovery? You'll share it with your beloved brother, won't you?"
"I will, if you promise not to overwork it."
"I promise!"
"Well, then, when you want to coax anything out of him, want to go anywhere, or get him to do anything for you, just hint to him judiciously that you think Addie would like it, or is anxious on the subject, and you'll find somehow that the thing will work as you want."
"Oh!" says Robert, with a sigh of enlightenment; and then he falls into a "brown-study," in which he seeks the most diplomatic way of introducing his sister's name into a certain personal project that lies very near his heart, and which he is half afraid to broach to his indulgent brother-in-law.
"I managed the ball on that principle," says Pauline, with a low laugh. "I hinted to him that it had been the dream of Addie's life that we two should go to our first ball together, and he took the bait at once. It was only a partial falsehood, Bob, you know, because long ago she and I used occasionally to build castles in the air; we always entered fairyland in a double pair of glass slippers, Addie and I—we always met our prince at the same magic ball. Hers, I remember, poor dear, was a tall slim youth, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and scarlet-coated; mine was dark and fierce, mysteriously wicked."
"You didn't see his shadow last night, Polly?"
"No," she answers, with a gay heart-whole laugh—"no, he wasn't there. I doubt if I shall ever meet him in the flesh. Besides, I don't think my ideal would make what you call a comfortable every-day husband—an article I mean to go in for one day or another."
"Yes," says Bob, oracularly, "I suppose that is your game, Polly—matrimony. You must act like the sensible prudent girl I take you to be, and give the family a good lift in that way."
"I mean to do so."
"You must have position—good unassailable county position—as well as money, remember, to make up for poor Addie'smesalliance."
"I certainly ought to do better than Addie, for I'm much handsomer than she, and my manners are more taking—and—and dignified. Oh, yes, I hope I shall do better than she!"
Onthe following day Lady Crawford calls to congratulate Mrs. Armstrong and her sister on the success of their first appearance. She is the prime busy-body, scandal-monger, matrimonial agent of Nutshire, who, having most successfully secured partners for three sons, five daughters, and innumerable nephews and nieces, hasturned her energies and interests to the manipulating of her neighbors' affairs, and is quite eager to take the "new people" in hand, seeing a promising figure in Miss Lefroy.
"You did very well, very well indeed, my dears," she says, in a tone of friendly encouragement. "That dress of yours, Miss Lefroy, was particularly well made—Armine, wasn't it? Yes, so I thought. Just a leetle too much trimming to my mind; but then I believe I'm very antiquated in my tastes, and do not care to see a young girl at her first ball dressed like a bride.Autres temps, autres modes, you will say; and I dare say you are right. Girls nowadays would rather overdo a thing ten times than run the risk of looking a little dowdy."
"I hope, Lady Crawford," says Addie meekly, though with twinkling eyes, "that you do not think we overdid it?"
"Oh, no, no, my dear young lady!" protests the dowager, with graciousempressement. "Pray do not imagine such a thing. I thought you both looked and behaved charmingly, I am sure."
"You are very kind indeed."
"Not at all, not at all. I would not say so if I did not think it. And I must say"—turning quickly to Pauline, who is quite unprepared for the attack—"that I was especially struck with the judgment and discernment you showed, Miss Lefroy, in your marked encouragement of young Everard of Broom Hill."
"Lady Crawford!"
"You danced with him four times, wasn't it?—and let him take you down to supper," she says emphatically, her eyes fixed on Pauline's blushing face.
"I—I don't remember; I believe so," she stammers, too taken aback to defend herself.
"And my daughter, Mrs. Stanley Roberts, overheard him offering you a mount for the meet next week. I hope you accepted. Let me tell you, my dear, that I consider there is not a more eligible young fellow in the county for a girl circumstanced as you are than Jack Everard of Broom Hill."
"Lady Crawford," breaks in Addie, with spirit, "let me thank you in my sister's name for the kind interest you take in her welfare; but I'm greatly afraid she does not deserve your encomiums on her judgment. She is very young—not eighteen yet—and is not up to the point of looking at her partners in the light of future husband, I fancy."
"Isn't she?" returns her ladyship, no whit taken aback. "Then she'll soon learn sense. At any rate, she cannot do better than encourage young Everard. She couldn't get a husband to suit her better; and for a girl circumstanced—I mean that he is a right good-hearted little fellow, and Broom Hill is a nice sunny spot, the house in perfect order, fit for a bride any day. He paid off the last charge on the property last Christmas, when his sister married Fred Oldham—wretched match it was too for her; and now he has a clear rent-roll of two thousand five hundred, and not an acre mortgaged. I have it on the best authority. You may trust me, Miss Lefroy; I never make a mistake in these matters."
"You are very kind, Lady Crawford, but I have no intention—"
"Of course not, of course not, my child!"—tapping Pauline'sshoulder good-humoredly as she rises to depart. "No girl has the slightest intention of getting married until she is asked point-blank; we all know that. However, don't snub poor Jack, for he has been badly used already. He was, you must know, devotedly attached to my daughter Alice, now Lady Frampton; but she preferred Sir Charles, and of course I couldn't interfere; besides, he was the better match. Still poor Jack felt the blow keenly, gave up society for a time, and all that; but now I am happy to see he is getting cured by degrees, and you must not throw him on the sick-list again—ha, ha! Good-by, Mrs. Armstrong, good-by; I'll soon give you a friendly call again. By the bye, you're not going to the Arkwrights on Friday? No, of course not—I forgot. Foolish woman that Susan Arkwright, keeping up—Well, well, I must be off.Au revoir, don't forget my advice, either of you."
"There, Addie," laughs Pauline—"your snub did not have the least effect! I wouldn't try it again, if I were you. After all, she means well, and I'm sure is a most good-natured old soul on the whole. Oh!"—drawing back suddenly from the window.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing—I mean only a dog-cart driving up the avenue, with two men in it. I—I—think they are Mr. Everard and a cousin who is stopping with him."
"They are coming here!" exclaims Addie. "Send down word at once to say 'Not at home,' Pauline."
"Not at home! Why should we say that?"
"Oh—well—because neither of the boys nor my husband is in! I—I don't care about receiving young men I scarcely know in their absence."
"What absurd nonsense! Why, you are a married woman, Addie; you can receive as many men as you like! Fancy saying 'Not at home' after their driving such a distance to see you! Absurd!"
So the young men enter, warm their frozen hands at a cozy fire, are fed on hot tea and "cushiony" muffins, and, what they relish most, bask in the welcoming smile of Miss Lefroy's beautiful face.
"Do you know, Mrs. Armstrong," says Everard presently, when the stiffness due to their first appearance has worn off, "you were very near not having the pleasure of our society this afternoon. It was touch and go with you, I can tell you, five minutes ago."
"How was that, Mr. Everard?"
"Why, just outside your gate we came full tilt against Lady Crawford's equipage, coming out, and I turned to Cecil and said, 'My boy, if we're wise, we shall beat a retreat, for I expect we've not a shred of character left;' but he, fearless in his innocence, callous to the breath of calumny, urged me onward. What are you laughing at? Mrs. Armstrong, Miss Lefroy, I was right; she did backbite me—said something about me—eh?"
"'Conscience makes cowards of us all,' Mr. Everard," says Addie. "I do not say Lady Crawford mentioned your name."
"Oh, but she did!" he persists, in an anguish of apprehension. "I can see it in both your faces; I know she did. Miss Lefroy"—turning a crimson face and pair of imploring blue eyes to that young lady—"say you don't believe a word she said. Don't judge me onher report; every one knows that she's the most infer—I mean outrageous gossipmonger, the most extravagant—"
"Mr. Everard, Mr. Everard," laughs Pauline, "you are putting your foot deeper and deeper into the mire with every word! If you go on longer in that strain, I shall be inclined to believe that you are a villain of the deepest stage-dye."
"Turn your eyes my way, Miss Lefroy," pleads Mr. Cecil Dawson, a handsome saucy Oxonian. "I challenge your closest scrutiny. Gaze into my limpid countenance, and tell me can you detect therein the faintest trace of uneasiness or apprehension? Could anything be more calm, more effulgent with the glow of seraphic virtue and—and—"
"Inordinate conceit! No, Mr. Dawson. I think not."
He draws himself up in mock indignation, and then, deeming it wiser to leave the field to his more eligible cousin, strolls languidly over to Addie, whom he seeks, with but scant success, to entice into a light flirtation, that young person being quite unversed in the art ofpersiflageor delicately-flavored "chaff" in which he excels.
"You'll tell me what she said, won't you, Miss Lefroy?" implores Everard, hanging ardently over the low chair where Pauline sits diligently working in the breast of a crewel-stork. "You'll give a fellow a chance, won't you? In common fairness you must. Just an idea, a hint—that's all I want—and I'll make her eat her own words—by Jove, I will! Tell me, tell me!"
"But, Mr. Everard, what am I to tell you? I never said that Lady Crawford even—"
"No, no; but you looked it, and you can't deny that she mentioned my name. You can't look me in the face now, and say she didn't. No; I thought not. By Jove, it's an awful fate to be at the mercy of a woman of that kind, to be taunted with—with sins you don't even know the name of, with crimes you never—"
"Mr. Everard, am I taunting you?"
"Yes, you are, Miss Lefroy—you know you are," he answers bitterly. "Your eyes are taunting me, your laugh is taunting me; you—you are making me utterly miserable."
"Am I really?" answers Pauline, jumping up and moving across the room. "Then I had better leave you at once."
He makes no effort to follow her, but sits staring blankly out at the chill winter landscape, for the poor young fellow is wofully in love and full of despondent diffidence.
"Don't look so sad," says a small mysterious voice at his side. "I heard what she said, and it was not very bad, after all."
"You did, you jolly little girl?" he exclaims eagerly. "You'll tell me what it was, won't you?"
"Oh, I daren't! I'm forbidden to open my lips when there are visitors. I always say the wrong thing, you know. They'd be mad if they knew I was talking to you now. I've been hiding behind the curtain for the last hour, and heard everything."
"You'll tell me? I'll swear, if you like, that they shall never know. Do, do, you dear little girl! I will promise to bring you the biggest box of sweets you ever had in your life, if you do."
"When?" asks Lottie skeptically.
"To-morrow."
"Will there be 'chocolate-cream' and 'Turkish delight' in it?"
"There will—pounds of both!"
"Then she only said that you were a very nice eligible young man, that your property was worth two thousand five hundred pounds, and that you had been frightfully in love with her daughter Alice, Lady Something or Other, but that you were beginning to get over it now."
"It's a lie—a shameless, impudent lie, a most confounded lie!" cries the faithless Everard, striding quickly to Pauline's side, his face crimson with wrath. "Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lefroy—don't. I never cared a straw for Alice Crawford—never! A little, pale-faced, snub-nosed chit—she's the last girl in Nutshire I'd wish to marry! Say you don't believe it!"
"Who—who told you?" stammers Pauline, with flaming face, suddenly guessing the truth. "I know it was my sister."
She darts across to the curtains, seizes the culprit in a vicious grip, and leads her to the door, where she pauses to take breath and review her position.
Having come to the conclusion that she has tried her lover sufficiently, Miss Pauline takes another course, which is so soothing and satisfactory that in a very short space of time the clouds have disappeared from Everard's ruddy brow and he is in Paradise again.
The short afternoon wanes, twilight advances, then dusk; still Mrs. Armstrong's guests linger.
"I wish they'd go!" she thinks a little uneasily. "This is not a visit, but a visitation; and we look so—so familiar grouped round the fire in this easy way. I wish Pauline would sit on a chair, and not loll on the rug playing with the kitten; I wish that ridiculous boy would not sprawl at my feet in that affected high-art attitude—it looks too idiotic. What will Tom say when he comes in? Dear me, six o'clock, and not a move between them yet! Will they never go?"
When Tom comes in, he seems startled for a moment by the strange invasion of his hearth; but what he says is courteous and hospitable in the extreme. When the dressing-bell sounds, and the young men rise at last to their feet, full of confused apologies, he begs them to remain to dinner, which they do unhesitatingly.
It is midnight before they leave; Armstrong, who has been seeing them off, meets his sister-in-law going to bed. She stops him, and lays her hand coaxingly upon his arm.
"What a jolly little evening we've had, haven't we, Tom? Do you know, I think I enjoy a little family gathering like this quite as much as a big ball; and so does Addie. What spirits she was in this evening, wasn't she?"
"Yes," he says, in half soliloquy, "I think she enjoyed herself; society suits her."
"Of course it does; it suits all healthy-minded young people. It's the best tonic she could have. You must remember, Tom, she's very young—only two years older than me."
"Why do you say that to me?" he asks, fixing his somber eyes on her face. "Do you think my years weigh on her life? Do I—oppress her?"
"Oh, no, no! I only meant that, though she is married, she stillcan enjoy fun and—and society just as well as any of us; and, as for dancing, I know she delights in it."
"You think so?"—eagerly.
"I am sure of it. I am sure, too, that though she sometimes tries to put on heavy matronly airs before you and others, she has the same wild fund of spirits in reserve as ever, and is at heart, as I've said before, just as fond of fun and society as any of us."
"Thank Heaven for that!" he mutters to himself. "Patience! A few years—nay, a few months more, and all these shadows will have passed away. I must give her society." Then, aloud—"You think she enjoyed herself this evening, Pauline, and, if I proposed giving a few dinner parties, and perhaps a dance occasionally, she would not think it a trouble, a bore—eh?"
"I am certain there is nothing would give her greater pleasure; but at the same time, Tom," says Miss Pauline, with wily impressiveness, "if she thought, suspected even, that you were doing it solely for her sake, she would be the first to oppose it, to say she hated entertaining, thought it a bother, and so on."
"I see."
"So, Tom, you must not pay the least attention to her if she pretends to dislike gayety, for I, who have known her all her life, can assure you that there is nothing she is so fond of, or that agrees so well with her. And, as for the trouble of writing invitations and entertaining guests, why, there are always Bob and I at hand to take our share of the labor and make ourselves as useful to you and Addie as we can, Tom."
"What a good girl you are, Pauline," says Armstrong, patting her shoulder approvingly, with a smile which she does not quite understand—"quite a fireside treasure!"
"Andso you like her, Bob?"
"Rather, Polly; she's an A 1 specimen, and no mistake! I suspect I should soon be her slave if I saw too much of her," says Mr. Lefroy, smoothing his budding mustache.
The subject of this encomium is Miss Florence Wynyard, who has run over on a tricycle to luncheon, and who has laid herself out to fascinate the whole family, deeming Nutsgrove extremely comfortable quarters in which to establish herself when affairs are uncomfortable at home.
Florence is the only unmarried daughter of the house of Wynyard. Her mother is a weak-minded peevish old lady, entirely under the dominion of her husband, a gentleman of convivial nature, but extremely uncertain temper, whose periodical attacks of mingled rage and gout render him for the time being fit for a menagerie or a lunatic asylum; hence life at head-quarters is not always very pleasant, and Florence has established for herself a firmpied à terrein some half dozen neighboring houses, whither she can fly at the first paternal growl and remain until the storm has blown over. Within ten minutes after her arrival she determined that Nutsgrove shall ere long be included among her harbors of refuge.
"Yes," she thinks, "I should decidedly like the run of this house."
At a glance she takes in the luxury, the comfort, the freedom, the festive atmosphere that reigns throughout, and easily sees that with judicious management she could twist the simple family round her fingers.
Her demeanor under the critical eyes of her host and hostess is admirable. She is lively, amusing, unaffected, almost ladylike, in fact, the faint ring of "loudness" she can not shake off passing for merely the effervescence of youth, robust health, and good temper. When alone with Pauline and Robert she casts off the mask at once, thus thoroughly fascinating those inexperienced young persons with the full flavor of her "fastness" and the quality and compass of hercamaraderieand good-fellowship.
Miss Wynyard is a debonair and not unkindly type of the girl of the period, eminently selfish, but not ill-natured. She is not beyond making a friend of one of her own sex if the conquest is an easy one, but her great object in life is to be "all things to all men," to charm all men of all ages, all classes, all conditions of nature, from the schoolboy to the veteran, from the lord of the soil to the serf. She is successful in an unusual degree, her weapon of attack being one which, when skillfully used, seldom fails, for it tickles the most vital part of male human nature—its vanity. Her list of conquests is inexhaustible, varied, and not altogether creditable to her reputation, if the whispers of the county clubs are to be accepted, which fortunately they are not—very generally at least. For instance, the version of her rupture with Lord Northmouth a week before her marriage—which, rumor said, was owing to that infatuated nobleman's discovering the existence of a correspondence with a good-looking railway-guard at Kelvick Junction—was entirely discredited in the county; and, though Miss Wynyard was certainly left lamenting with seventeen trousseau dresses on hand, not even the most exclusive doors were closed to her on that account, and she wore her brilliant weeds so gallantly, alluding to her recreantfiancéso easily, lightly, and kindly, that in time it came to be pretty generally accepted that she had thrown him over, not he her.
"And you mean to tell me you are not going to the Arkwrights' on Friday, Polly?" she asks incredulously, when the two girls are exchanging confidences, and examining dresses in the seclusion of Pauline's bedroom. "What a shame. I'll soon make that right for you. Susan Arkwright is a connection of mine, you—"
"You are very kind," interrupts Pauline a little confusedly; "but on the whole perhaps it would be better, Flo, not to—to say anything about it. You see, I—I believe there was some misunderstanding or other between our family and theirs in days gone by, and—"
"Misunderstanding? Ha, ha!" breaks in Miss Wynyard, with her frank bold laugh. "That's a good way of putting it, and no mistake! Don't you know, my dear, that Robert the Dev—I mean your father—nearly drove Syd Arkwright to the wall in their soldiering days, and then invited his wife to elope with him? Susan was a very pretty woman a dozen years ago. Misunderstanding indeed! But that's all past and gone now, and it's ridiculousof them to visit it on you—very bad policy indeed. Just as if scores of others in the county hadn't as deep a grudge against your name as they! Polly, what's the matter? Why do you turn away? You absurd child, to mind my chatter! You can't be such an utter baby as not to know what your father was! Why should you mind talking about him with me, your dearest friend, your own Florrie? It it comes to that, you may discuss my oldpater'syouthful peccadilloes as freely as you like. I dare say they were not more edifying than yours, only he did not wear such a bold front. Your father, my dear, was one of the handsomest, most reckless, and fascinating scamps of his generation. I was just thinking this afternoon if that very good-looking son of his takes to his ways, the husbands, fathers, brothers of Nutshire ought to rise in crusade and drive him from the soil—ha, ha!"
"Bob is not like that. Bob is a well-minded boy," murmurs the sister, in a rather stifled voice.
"The boy is father to the man, you would say. Well, time will reveal. Now hold up your head and give me a kiss, you absurd little goose! I must soon knock that nonsense out of you; and you'll come to the Arkwrights' if I work the invite? That's right. Jack would never forgive me, he said, if I didn't make you promise to come; and I can't afford to fall out with Jack; he's useful to me in many ways—though I do loathe cousins."
Miss Wynyard "worked the invite" in time. On the very morning of the ball cards came for Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy.
"The eleventh hour in every sense of the word; they hadn't a post to spare. Addie, have you your dress ready? Do you care to go?"
"No, Tom, no," she answers, with downcast eyes, "I would rather not go if you don't mind."
"Certainly not, my dear. Do exactly as you like in the matter. I quite agree with you. I think the invitation rather too unconventional in its delivery. Mrs. Arkwright ought at least to have called on you if she wished you to go to her ball."
"I'll refuse at once, politely of course."
"You needn't refuse for me, Addie," says Pauline lightly, when Armstrong has left. "I mean to go to the ball."
"What—alone, Pauline?"
"No—the Wynyards have offered to take me. I had a note from Flo, telling me to come over early and put up with her for the night—that is in case you refused to go."
"You are wise in your generation, Pauline!" says Addie, with a contemptuous smile.
"Wiser than you in yours, Addie," she retorts angrily. "I think it shows a churlish and ill-bred—yes, ill-bred spirit to refuse the hand of good-fellowship when it is so frankly offered. The Arkwrights and the Lefroys have been at feud for the last generation; for all we know, we may be the parties in fault, and yet they are the first to make an advance which you—you—"
"That is enough, Pauline," says her sister coldly; "we need not discuss the matter further. You evidently mean to accept these people's tardy hospitality, whether I wish it or not; so go—go to thisball and enjoy it, if you can. I dare say your enjoyment won't be much marred by the fact that I am both hurt and deeply disappointed by your conduct."
"It takes very little to hurt and disappoint you nowadays, Addie."
"I don't know that, Pauline," she says wearily. "It seems to me that I have food daily for disappointment, pain, and remorse."
"In other words, Addie, you mean that you are tired of us, tired of your brothers and sisters, who once were all to you! You would like to be rid of us!" says Pauline bitterly.
"Tired of you?" she echoes drearily. "I don't know; I think I'm most tired of myself, of my life, of my fate, of everything."
Pauline is moved, deeply moved for the moment, by the blank hopeless sorrow of the young face. She opens her arms, draws her sister's head on her bosom, and whispers, half crying herself—
"What is it—what is it, Addie, my darling? Are you very unhappy? If—if—you like we will go away all of us somewhere—somewhere where he shall never find you again. Tell me, sister darling—is he unkind to you?"
"Oh, no, no," she answers back, in a torrent of tears, her hot face buried in her sister's neck—"not that—not that! I can not tell you—you would not understand; it is only sometimes I feel so miserable that I should like to die. You must make allowance for me, Polly love, when I'm like that. You must try to bear with my peevishness, my ill-temper, my nastiness, for I can not help it, dear—indeed I can not. I feel so sore, so miserable, so nerveless, that I long to make every one as wretched as myself. I don't know what comes over me, what is the matter with me. I have no cause, no reason—oh, no, no! He is good to me, Polly, good—the best husband any woman could have; never believe anything but that—never! Look into my eyes if you doubt my word. You will read the truth there."
"Then what does it mean? What makes you so miserable and uneasy?"
"I don't know—I can not tell you—I have not an idea. I think I'm possessed!" she answers wildly; then, after a pause, throwing her arms round Pauline's neck in feverish appeal—"But it makes no difference to you, Polly; you love me just the same, don't you, dear sister? You have not changed, or grown cold, or ceased to care for me; you love me just the same? Oh, Polly, Polly darling, say you do!"
Pauline's answer is soothing, tender, and reassuring enough to calm the sudden storm; and the two sisters spend the morning together in loving amity; then, at Lottie's suggestion, they all three adjourn to the kitchen, to make a big plum-cake for Hal's Easter hamper, to the astonishment and dismay of Mrs. Armstrong's accomplished cook, who strongly objects to the "messin' and mashin' and worritin'" of amateurs in her domain.
The woolly snow-clouds clear away in the afternoon, and the leafless branches of the grove are bright with crisp frosty sunlight.
"Lottie, Lottie," calls out Addie from the drawing-room, where she has been finishing letters for the post, a ring of the coming spring in her fresh young voice, "tell Poll to put on her hat andcloak quickly, and we'll all three have a scamper through the grove. The pond behind Sallymount farm ought to be frozen now; we might have a grand slide on the sly."
"Oh, but, Addie, don't you know Poll's gone? She ordered the carriage after luncheon, packed up her ball-dress, and went off to the Wynyards' for the ball. Didn't she tell you?"