Wilkinsons being kind to a Miller! Mrs. Wilkinson conducting Benedicta
to a charming little bedroom, and actually kissing her at the door! Mr.
Wilkinson meeting her in the dining room and saying:
“It’s a pleasure to see the daughter of Mr. Hamilton Miller in my house.
Your father was one of my earliest customers.”
Mr. Wilkinson saying this, and not seeming at all ashamed of having had
customers! Nan--that was Miss Wilkinson’s name--doing everything
possible to make her somewhat difficult guest feel at home!
When at last she was left alone in her room to dress for dinner,
Benedicta had to struggle with a great desire to cry, for ridiculous
reasons--because Mrs. Wilkinson had kissed her, because the room itself
was so pretty, furnished in white and lit by a rose-shaded lamp, because
she was touched, and was ashamed of herself for being touched. She
reminded herself that she had come as a favor to Nan, and against her
own will. She remembered that everything in her chilly, bleak little
room at home was an heirloom.
“I ought to have more poise,” she told herself sternly.
When she came down to dinner, she had perhaps a little too much poise.
The Wilkinsons all kept on being kind, because it was natural to them,
and because they knew all about the Millers and understood Benedicta;
but the other guests saw in her nothing but a very stiff, cool, silent
girl in a dowdy frock, and they didn’t like her.
There were two girls and three others, whom Nan called “boys,” but who
were what Benedicta considered young men, and very frivolous ones. Three
men and four girls!
“Of course, I’m the extra one,” she thought. “It doesn’t matter to me,
of course.”
She felt still more extra and superfluous after dinner, when they began
to dance as a matter of course. One of the men asked her to dance, but
she declined. She told Mrs. Wilkinson that she didn’t care for dancing,
but the truth was that she knew nothing but waltzes and two-steps, which
were of no more use than minuets. It wouldn’t do, though, for a Miller
to confess herself ignorant of the art.
So she sat beside her hostess, consoling herself with pride, and finding
it a very dismal sort of thing. Indeed, she was scarcely able to speak,
for fear the unsteadiness in her voice might betray her misery.
“Oh, why did I come?” she asked herself. “Oh, why, why didn’t I stay
home, and not know how happy every one else is? Here I just have to sit
and look on. I’m young, too! Oh, I wish I wasn’t! I wish I was old--old,
like father. Then I wouldn’t care!”
“Here’s some one else who doesn’t care for dancing,” remarked Mrs.
Wilkinson, and beckoned to a newcomer who had strolled casually in
through the open French window. “It’s Francis Dumall. You know the
Dumalls, don’t you?”
The history of the Dumalls had been familiar to Benedicta from her
infancy. Like the Millers, they had come down in the world; but not
sadly and slowly like the Millers, or generation by generation. Paul
Dumall had caused the disaster alone and unaided, and had brought down
his family with a crash.
There was nothing discreditable in the debacle. Dumall had ruined
himself like a gentleman, and had aroused nothing but sympathy. What is
more, he had died before becoming _vieux jeu_, like poor Mr. Miller, and
he was now a sort of legend. His wife and child had gone away, no one
knew where.
“And this must be the son,” thought Benedicta.
She was pleased and a little excited at the idea of meeting some one
with a history so like her own--some one fallen from greatness like
herself, suffering the same humiliation and sadness. She would have
liked this young man, even if he hadn’t been so very likable.
He was a tall, slight fellow, a perfect Dumall, with gray eyes, fair
hair, and the fine, big Dumall nose. He was not handsome, but he was
agreeable to look at, because of his kind and rather shy smile, and the
sensitive intelligence of his face.
He was presented to Benedicta, and they looked at each other with rather
artless curiosity. How many Millers and Dumalls had met in the past, in
circumstances so different! Indeed, a Dumall had once married a Miller,
long ago, so that they were distantly related.
“Sit down, Francis,” said the hospitable Mrs. Wilkinson.
The affection in her manner impressed Benedicta. It was obvious that
Mrs. Wilkinson had a great regard for this boy. His dinner jacket was
shabby, his fair hair was a little ruffled, he had none of the sleek
elegance of the other guests; and yet his hostess showed him a sort of
deference not given to the others.
“It’s his family, of course,” thought Benedicta. “She ought to remember
that the Millers were just the same!”
In spite of their mutual interest, the two young people were constrained
and silent when Mrs. Wilkinson left them alone. Benedicta knew that she
ought to talk and be gracious and entertaining, but she completely
lacked practice. Young Dumall made no effort whatever, but sat looking
at the dancers in the next room, not enviously or wistfully, but in a
calm and thoughtful way.
“Don’t you care for it, either?” he asked suddenly.
That “either” pleased Benedicta. It seemed to place her with Dumall in
another and superior world. It made her feel that she really didn’t care
for dancing; so she said:
“No.”
“Sometimes I think people have forgotten how to enjoy themselves,” he
went on. “They did know long ago, in Greece. They danced out in the sun,
and did it beautifully. They were happy, instead of simply being
excited.”
Benedicta looked with amazement at his boyish face, but he did not look
at her. He was staring ahead of him with a strange, lost look that
fascinated her, and was talking earnestly of Greek festivals, now and
then using a Greek word.
From the next room Nan caught sight of her, and was impressed.
“Look at Miss Miller!” she said to her partner. “Isn’t she lovely?”
Benedicta was, just then. She was listening to young Dumall with shining
eyes and parted lips, entranced by his words. She thought he was
marvelous.
Well, perhaps he was. Another listener might have found him a little
dogmatic and immature; but, after all, he did think, and he did imagine,
and he had a rare and fine admiration for the perished beauties of the
ancient world. He knew his facts, too. He had studied honestly and
intelligently.
When he rose to go, darkness fell upon Benedicta.
“Aren’t you staying in the house?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. She knew very well that he was looking at her,
although she seemed unaware of it. “I have to go into the city
to-morrow, to buy some books; but I’ll be here on Sunday afternoon
again. I--I hope I’ll see you then!”