"Who pleasure follows pleasure slays;
God's wrath upon himself he wreaks;
But all delights rejoice his days
Who takes with thanks, yet never seeks."
COVENTRY PATMORE.
Two days after this, I was surprised by the appearance on my plate, at
breakfast, of two notes. The first proved to be an invitation for a
party from a Mrs. Humphrey, cards for which Mrs. and Miss Churchill had
received a week ago.
"Well!" exclaimed Josephine, unceremoniously, "I wonder what inspired
Mrs. Humphrey to send you an invitation."
"It would be difficult to say," I returned, taking up the second.
"Certainly no suggestion from you."
"Alps on Alps!" exclaimed Grace, looking over my shoulder. "Tickets for
the Charity Ball! What next?"
"What, indeed," I said. "John, some more sugar in my coffee, if you
please."
"Really, you don't seem much excited by your invitations. I suppose you
don't intend to accept them?"
"Accept them!" echoed Josephine. "What an idea! It would be perfectly
absurd to think of it, when it's understood that she's not out yet."
"I think I'll risk that," I answered, decidedly. "If Aunt Edith has no
objection, I will avail myself of any invitations that I may receive for
the next ten days. After that, Lent, you know, will decide the matter
for us all."
"You must follow the dictates of your own judgment," returned my aunt,
coldly. "Staying at home was your own choice, going out is at your own
option."
"I know, dear aunt," I replied, with unaltered _sang froid_, "that you
would do anything to indulge me in anything reasonable, and as I have
quite set my heart upon this, I am sure you will not make any objection
to it. You are the last person to put anything in the way of my pleasure
and advantage."
"Pleasure and advantage are not always synonymous terms, my dear. What
you might be pleased to consider pleasure, I might look upon as anything
but advantageous, you know."
"Oh! we shall not differ as to that, I fancy. You cannot be more careful
of me than of Josephine, and she has certainly tested pretty thoroughly
the merits of the question. I should not think of going out as she does,
to two or three parties of an evening, and spending the intervening
hours of daylight in bed; but just three or four balls before the season
closes, to see what it's all like, I really must enjoy, with your
permission."
"Or without it," muttered Josephine. "You have enough _aplomb_ to
sustain you in that or any other impertinence you might undertake."
"Josephine," said her mother, sternly, "you forget yourself. My dear,"
to me, "you know I shall put no obstacle in the way of your enjoyment.
You have my full permission to do as you think best."
"Thank you," I answered; "and I have the greatest desire to go to one of
these mammoth charity balls. How lucky that it comes to-night, and that
Mrs. Humphrey's is to-morrow, so that I can go to both."
"In what, if I may ask," said Grace, "do you propose appearing?"
"That's a question, I fancy, that has not occurred to our young friend,"
remarked Josephine.
"It's easily enough settled," I answered. "White muslin, 'with
variations,' will be a sufficient toilette for _me_, you know."
"You'll excuse me for saying, that I think it is a matter of very little
moment to any one but yourself," said she, with a laugh, as she rose
from the table.
"Don't be spiteful, Joseph," said Grace, the only error of whose tactics
was, that she could not confine herself to any one side in an encounter,
and could not resist administering a blow on any exposed cranium,
indiscriminately of friend or foe--"don't be spiteful, Joseph. She
couldn't help taking off Victor, you know. It was trying, to be sure,
but then it left you more time for 'the substantials.'"
Josephine, pressing her lips together, darted a threatening look at her
sister, who, with a pleasant little nod, slipped through the folding
doors and vanished.
"May I speak to you a moment?" I said, following Mrs. Churchill into the
butler's pantry.
"Certainly," she answered, in a tone that did not invite confidence.
I had followed my aunt to say two things to her: the first was about
myself, the second was about Esther. I had meant to say that if she
really thought I was doing an unwise thing in going to these balls, I
was willing to give them up. Conscience had made a suggestion or two
that morning, and I was not yet careless about its admonitions. A kind
word of advice, a look of motherly reluctance to deny me pleasure, and
yet of motherly solicitude for my good, would have settled the doubt,
and put me in the right way. But the tone in which she said "certainly,"
and proceeded to fit the key into the wine-closet, without so much as a
look toward me, roused all the evil in my heart.
"You will never be troubled with any of my repentances," I thought,
angrily; and then, in a tone that I suppose took its color from my
thoughts, I said:
"I came to say, Aunt Edith, that perhaps you are not aware how much it
irritates Essie to have Félicie take care of her. Félicie doesn't seem
to have a pleasant way with her, and now she is confined to the nursery,
she is continually fretted and unhappy. I find her more feverish every
time I go upstairs, and I thought perhaps if you were willing to let
Frances sit up there instead, she would amuse and keep her quiet better.
She seems to like Frances."
Mrs. Churchill turned around and regarded me attentively for a moment,
then said:
"I am sorry that your own good sense did not teach you the impropriety
of such an interference as this, and that I am obliged to remind you of
our relative positions, before you can understand how much such a thing
as this offends me. The management of the household is my province, and
any interference or advice concerning it I reject decidedly. If Esther
is peevish and ill-tempered, I certainly hope Félicie will be strict
with her. I have no intention of humoring her caprices, or disarranging
the family to suit her whims. You may dismiss the subject from your mind
entirely."
I bowed and left the room, with what bitter and resentful feelings it is
easy to imagine. When Essie came crying to the door of my room, half an
hour after, I sent her away; I was busy, she must not come in, and
though her miserable face haunted me, I stubbornly put back the counsel
that it gave me. I had been told not to interfere, and I would obey. All
day I did not interfere--all day the evil spirit ruled, and I heard,
without a remonstrance, the storm from the nursery, which, however,
gradually subsided as the day advanced. I had enough employment,
meantime, to keep down conscience; there was a flounce of my white dress
to be repaired, and the blue bows to be made before evening. Mr.
Waschlager did not come; Mr. Olman, poor man, had been ill for a week,
and to-morrow was Miss Berteau's day, so there was nothing of duty to
fill up the hours that would have hung heavily if it had not been for
the anticipations of, and preparations for, the evening,
I turned the key of my door on Grace, and the key of my heart on poor
little Essie, and toward evening threw myself into a chair by the fire,
and read the latest number of "The Newcomes." And who ever read
Thackeray without feeling the greatest longing to see the world which he
decries? Who ever laid down a volume of his without a more eager thirst
for the pomps and vanities than they had ever felt before? Who wouldn't
have been Ethel, "with all swelldom at her feet," even if she did cheat
herself of her happiness, and stored up sorrow for the heavy years to
come? Who could have the heart to say that Pen, in his zenith, wasn't to
be envied? or that George Osborne wasn't a good fellow? I, for one,
never felt any less attracted toward them because Mr. Thackeray, after
spending on them the finest colors on his pallet, tells us they are not
to be approved after all, and that they are not in the right way, and
that they have any amount of discipline to go through before they are
perfected. I always felt inclined to "skip" the discipline; the natural
man was the genuine one--the improvement wasn't spicy. So, on this
occasion, I read on, fascinated, till twilight's gradual fingers stole
between me and the page, and I reluctantly gave it up, and dreamed on
about the story till the dinner bell rang.
Then I started up, struck with a feeling of remorse that Essie had
missed her accustomed twilight story for the first time this winter. I
smoothed my hair and hurried into the nursery. Silence reigned there;
Félicie sat by the dim light, quietly pursuing her work. I asked for
Essie, and she rather sullenly pointed to the bed. It was unusual for
her to sleep at this hour; indeed at all hours she was a light sleeper,
and I had never before known her to be willing to lie down even in the
daytime, so it was with some surprise that, on stooping down, I saw she
was sleeping, and sleeping heavily.
"Why does she sleep so soundly, Félicie?" I said, looking up.
"Because she's sleepy, I suppose, mademoiselle," she answered, rather
shortly.
It was not worth while being angry with the woman, and indeed I did not
feel like resenting any impertinence to myself, as I looked down at the
quiet face of the little girl. Asleep, and free from the haggard,
restless expression that her features ordinarily wore, she was almost
pretty, almost child-like, but even in sleep there was a weary look
about her that was pitiful. "Poor little mite," I murmured, "I've been
unkind to you all day. Why won't you wake up and kiss me?"
But she did not wake; and when, in the selfishness of my self-reproach,
I lifted her up and kissed her, in the hope that it would rouse her, the
little arms fell down, limp and lifeless, and the little head sunk
heavily back on the pillow, and she slept on unmoved. My interference in
the morning had not been without its effect; as I left by one door, my
aunt entered by another. She had been up twice since morning, and I
could see she was uneasy; but, looking down at the child, I heard her
say, in a tone of relief:
"Ah! she's sleeping nicely now!" and the voice of Félicie responded
blandly. I think it was a load off her mind, for at dinner she was
unusually affable.
Phil and Captain McGuffy were dining with us, and were to accompany us
in the evening. The captain was extremely gracious to me; and as on
former occasions he had appeared as nearly unconscious of my presence as
was possible, I simply concluded that the sagacious captain was like the
rest of the world, and was better satisfied to trust looking through his
neighbors' glasses than through his own.
"Ever so many people," he said to me, as the soup was being removed (the
captain rarely conversed much while there was anything engrossing on the
table), "ever so many people have asked me about sending you
invitations, and I've told 'em by all means; for you certainly were
going out."
"Why didn't you remind them of Grace and Esther, and let them have the
whole of the nursery, while they were about it?" asked Josephine,
scornfully.
"Grace can speak for herself," said that young person, tartly. "You may
tell them, if they ask anything about me," she continued, turning to the
captain, "that they needn't look for my _début_ till Josephine is
disposed of, and I am, _par excellence_, Miss Churchill."
"Then," said the captain, gallantly, "you will not have a long time to
wait, if what they say is true. I hear it hinted, Miss Josephine, that
since Mr. Rutledge came from abroad this last time, he is quite changed,
softened, you know, and made rather a society man; and they _do_ say
that his friends in Gramercy Square have something to do with it."
"I can't imagine how," said Josephine, all smiles and blushes.
"If Joseph knew when she was well off," interposed Grace, who loved to
damp her sister's triumphs, "she wouldn't blush; she doesn't look well;
she grows mahogany color, doesn't she Phil. Why, you're blushing too!
What's the matter with everybody?"
"Everybody is blushing at your rudeness," said Mrs. Churchill, gravely.
"I am sorry to be obliged to reprove you at the table; but I assure you,
if you are not more careful"----
"Oh, mamma! you've always said it wasn't polite to deliver a reprimand
in company; don't break through your rule. I won't say another word
about blushing. Let's talk of something pleasanter. So," she continued,
turning to the captain, "they really say Mr. Rutledge wants to marry
Josephine?"
"Grace, leave the table," said her mother, concisely, but in a tone
there was no mistaking, and which fell on the ears of the startled
company with uncomfortable clearness, and on none more unexpectedly than
on those of the young delinquent herself, who had never been so
unequivocally disgraced before. She had trusted greatly to her mother's
partiality and her own acuteness in warding off reproof, and this took
her quite by surprise. She had not calculated the dangerous nature of
the ground she was treading on, nor the decision of her mother's
character when once roused, and so this edict came upon her like a clap
of thunder. She was constitutionally incapable of blushing, or of
looking confused, but she approached on this occasion more nearly to a
state of embarrassment than I had ever supposed she could; but
recovering herself in a moment, she deliberately folded her napkin and
put it on the table, pushed back her chair, made a low courtesy, and
saying, "Bon soir, mesdames; bon soir, messieurs," retreated in good
order.
Rather an awkward pause ensued upon her exit; but it was soon broken by
Mrs. Churchill's half laughing apology for her pertness, and Josephine
was too much delighted with her adversary's discomfiture to be long
silent. And she almost forgot to be spiteful to me, too, in the triumph
of her acknowledged conquest. Even the dreaded task of dressing and
preparing for the ball was accomplished without half of its accustomed
drawbacks. Grace wisely kept out of sight, and Frances was less
fluttering and timid than usual, so that at nine o'clock we all mustered
in the parlor with comparatively undisturbed tempers.
I had left Esther still asleep when I came down. Félicie had undressed
her and put her back in bed without arousing her. "You'd hardly let me
go so quietly if you were awake, I think," I said to myself, as I bent
down to kiss her.
I found myself much more excited than I meant to be, as the carriage
drew near the Academy of Music. My excitement, however, had time enough
to cool, for carriages choked the streets on every hand, and it was the
work of half an hour to effect an entrance. The steps were crowded, the
lobbies were crowded, the cloak-room was a hopeless crush, but the full
sense of bewilderment did not overcome me, till following the captain
and Mrs. Churchill, we ascended another pair of stairs, and passing
through a side door, stood looking down upon the magnificent scene
below. The captain said he had never seen anything finer in this
country, so I felt at liberty to be enchanted with it. The decorations
and lights were brilliant, the music delightful, and the sight of so
many thousands of gaily-dressed people crowding the boxes, the passages,
the floor, could not fail to excite the enthusiasm of one so new to such
scenes as I was. To Josephine, on the other hand, the ball seemed by no
means a wholly rapturous affair. A ruthless foot had trodden on her
dress, and torn the lowest flounce; Phil was out of humor, and refused
to be devoted; the captain had his hands full with mamma, and Josephine
searched in vain among the crowd for the one or ones she wanted. We were
in a private box, and too far from the floor to recognize the dancers
easily, and by some neglect, the opera-glasses had been left in the
carriage. Josephine was unspeakably annoyed. They might as well be
looking out of the third-story window at home, she declared. For me, the
scene was enough for the present, without any nearer interest in it. If
I could have been further forward, it would have been pleasure enough to
me to have looked on, but my aunt and cousin occupying the front of the
box, left me no view of the house, but over their heads.
By and by, however, the door of the box opened, and Mr. Rutledge
entered. He had exchanged a few words with me before Josephine saw him;
her face lighted up instantly, and after a cordial welcome from mamma, a
place was made for him in front. This, however, he declined to occupy,
as the captain had been on the ground before him, and was better
entitled to the position. He had an opera-glass, which he handed to
Josephine, and good humor was partially restored. The captain availed
himself of the front seat, and criticised the dancers for madame's
benefit; Phil stood behind his cousin's chair, and Mr. Rutledge was left
to me. I knew this arrangement did not suit; I knew my aunt was hearing
very little of the captain's commentary; I knew that Josephine, but for
Phil's jealous watchfulness, would have paid much more heed to Mr.
Rutledge's low conversation with me, than to her desired opera-glass. I
remembered, but too vividly, the conversation at dinner; and though I
struggled hard with my pride and my timidity, the words died on my lips,
my answers were hesitating and reserved, and for the most part,
insincere; I said the very things that, the next moment, I would have
given worlds to have unsaid; I felt that every word was estranging us
more hopelessly, and yet there seemed a spell upon us--I could not be
myself. The questions I had meant to ask him, if I should ever have a
chance, the sentences of which I had said to myself a hundred times, I
could now no more have uttered than if they had been in an unknown
tongue.
When he spoke of Rutledge, the blood that always flashed into my face at
the name, now rushed to my heart, and left me paler and more listless
than before. If my manner wore any change while he talked of his return
there in a few days, and of my friends, Kitty and Stephen, Madge and
Tigre, it was an increased indifference and coldness. I said no more
than "yes" when he asked me if I still remembered them with interest,
and "I don't know exactly," when he asked what message he should take to
them from me. Then he changed the subject, and with his accustomed way
of reading my face while he talked, he asked me about my impressions of
society. Which was most to my taste now, city or country?
"I don't know exactly," I said, hesitatingly.
"I think I know," he said, with a laugh that nettled me, low and
pleasant as it was. "I think there is small doubt about your
preferences just now. You acknowledge my wisdom at last, do you not? You
see it was best for you to come to the city?"
"Yes," I said, lifting my eyes for a moment. "You were very right. I
ought to thank you very much for your advice."
"My dear," said my aunt, leaning toward us, "you cannot see at all
there. You must take my place for a little while, I insist upon it."
The captain rose with great _empressement_, and insisted upon my
accepting his seat, and in the midst of the confusion consequent upon
this change, the door of the box opened again, and Mr. Viennet entered.
Mr. Rutledge was placing a chair for me as I looked up and recognized
the new comer. The chilled and frightened blood that had crept
fluttering round my heart, at this moment rushed into my face, and
burned guiltily in my cheeks, as I caught Mr. Rutledge's eye. Mr.
Viennet, after a moment devoted to salutation, inquiry and compliment,
entered a protest against our remaining any longer in such a detestable
corner, pronouncing it _de_testable, in his charming little French way.
No one could get at us; he had only found us by the merest chance. We
must come downstairs--everybody was on the floor--everybody was dancing.
He assured madame it was perfectly _convenable;_ it was spoiling the
pleasure of too many to hide ourselves any longer.
This met Josephine's views exactly, and she importuned "mamma" very
prettily to yield. "Mamma" looked doubtingly for a moment at Mr.
Rutledge, who responded to the look by saying that he really thought her
strict ideas of propriety might allow this liberty without suffering any
outrage. It was something new for New York, but these balls had taken
very well, and the best people attended them, not only as spectators,
but as participators. As for dancing, he said, with a slight shrug, he
rather wondered at any lady's liking such an exhibition; but a
promenade on the floor for half an hour or so, he really should think
we would find more entertaining than remaining in our box.
This partly settled the wavering in Mrs. Churchill's mind, and with a
dainty sort of reluctance, she gave her consent to our going on the
floor for a little while.
"Cheek by jowl with Tom, Dick and Harry," muttered Phil, giving his arm
to Josephine, who took it with but indifferent grace, and bit her lip in
annoyance, as, standing nearest the door, Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Viennet
at the same moment offered me an arm. Can any girl understand the
impulse that made me accept Mr. Viennet's? No man possibly can; my only
hope of comprehension is from my own incomprehensible, perverse,
self-torturing sex.
Once on the floor, it was hardly to be expected that we could obey my
aunt's injunction to keep together, and within sight of her. In five
minutes her ermine and diamonds, and the captain's moustache and
epaulettes, were, though very dear, of course, to memory, utterly lost
to sight, and Paul and Virginia were not more romantically alone than
were we, in that vast human wilderness. It was a very amusing and nice
thing to be lost. For half an hour we searched for our party, though
not, it must be confessed, as if our whole happiness in life depended on
our success, but no trace of them could be discovered.
"We must amuse ourselves _alors_, mademoiselle, and let them look for
us," said my companion. "Was there ever such a waltz before? You cannot
resist it any longer, I know you cannot."
Perhaps I might have resisted it, as well as his eloquent pleading, if,
raising my eyes at this moment to the boxes we had occupied, I had not
caught sight of Josephine and Mr. Rutledge, who had returned there,
evidently much more interested in each other than in anything below
them.
"I'll dance once," I said, and in a moment his arm was on my waist, and
we were floating along the elastic floor to such music as the fairies
dance to, on soft summer nights, with the blue vault of heaven above
their heads, and the green sward beneath their feet, and all wild
ecstatic and untamed rapture thrilling in their elfin bosoms.
Conscience was drugged that night; self-will and pride, self-appointed
regents, were holding sway as only usurpers can; and the glowing hours
fled away without record or remorse.
"_N'importe_," murmured my companion, when I suggested a doubt, and
_n'importe_ I allowed it to be, as, whirling giddily from end to end of
the vast area, or sauntering slowly through the gradually lessening
crowd, we let the minutes slip away into hours. It was rather a
startling recall to stern reality, when, at one end of the hall,
suddenly encountering Phil, he laid a heavy hand on my partner's arm,
exclaiming:
"Victor, my boy, if you've any mercy on that unlucky girl, come this
way. There is such a scolding in store for her as she never had before.
The carriage has been waiting an hour, and the captain and I, being
detailed for the detective service, have pursued you faithfully, but you
have eluded us most skillfully, I'll do you the justice to say! And Mr.
Rutledge and the ladies have watched you from upstairs, and said--well,
we won't say what pretty things."
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Victor. "Why, _we_ have been hunting for
_you_ till we were entirely discouraged, disheartened, in despair!"
"Ah, well!" exclaimed Phil, with a laugh, leading the way. "I only hope
you'll be able to make Mrs. Churchill believe it. It's my duty to
prepare you for the worst, however."
"And our duty to be brave," said my comrade. "And fortune favors such,
they tell us, mademoiselle."
Certainly I could not feel otherwise than grateful to my protector for
his ingenious and powerful defence, as we appeared before the offended
group at the door of the cloakroom. Though my aunt received it
politely, I well knew the wrath that her knit brow portended, and
Josephine's look of contempt was unmistakable. Mr. Rutledge had his
visor down; no earthly intelligence could discover anything of his
emotions through that impassive exterior. Even the captain was
irritated; Phil was neutral, but Victor was my only friend.
"Good night," he whispered, as he put me into the carriage. "We'll
finish that redowa at Mrs. Humphrey's to-morrow night."
I wished, with all my heart, it was to-morrow night, and all that I
foresaw must intervene, safely past. The scolding was not to come before
morning, I saw at once, and when my aunt, on our arrival at home,
dismissed me to my room, it was with a cold, "I wish to have a few
minutes' conversation with you after breakfast to-morrow."
With that dread before me--with a guilty sense of wrong-doing, and a
bitter sense of shame, a humbled condemnation of myself, and an angry
resentment toward others, the restless hours of that night offered
anything but repose, anything but pleasant retrospect or anticipation.
* * * * *