BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE
Love's Labor's Lost, ii. 1.
When Maurice Wynne's bitter word stung her, Berenice Morison stood for
a second too overwhelmed to speak or move. She felt the blood mount to
her temples, and she could see reflected in the eyes of acquaintances
around a mingled curiosity and amusement. Wynne passed on, and she
shrank into her seat, which fortunately was near.
"Who in the world is that, and what did he say to you when you gave him
that favor?" exclaimed her neighbor. "I don't see how you dared to do
it!"
A gentleman took the speaker away, so that Berenice was spared the
necessity of answering. She watched Wynne advance to the group of which
Mrs. Wilson was the centre, and she understood well enough that his
being here was some contrivance of the latter's. She was angry with
Wynne and humiliated by the insult that he had flung at her, yet she
had room in her heart for rage against the woman who had brought him
there. She looked at Mrs. Wilson laughing and jesting, she watched the
comedy proceed as the black domino covered the white shoulders and the
gown of gold and crimson, yet most of all was she conscious of how
straight and strong Maurice stood among the gay group which surrounded
him. The sternness of his mouth, the gravity and indignation of his
look, seemed to her most manly and noble. She felt that he had by his
bearing mastered the absurd circumstances in which he was placed; she
smiled bitterly to think how poor and flippant had been her own
thoughtless jest. When Maurice threw the favor on the table, Berenice
saw Clara Carstair take it up and give it to Parker Stanford. She
watched Wynne and Mrs. Wilson leave the hall, two solemn, black-robed
figures passing like shadows among the dancers. When they had
disappeared she sat with eyes cast down, her thoughts in a whirl of
regret, anger, and confusion.
"Well, did you ever know Mrs. Wilson to get up a circus equal to that
before?" queried her partner, coming back to his place beside her. "She
gets more amazing every day."
"She certainly gets to be worse form every day. It's outrageous that
everybody lets Mrs. Wilson do anything she chooses, no matter how bad
taste it is."
"Oh, she amuses folks," Mr. Van Sandt said. "Nobody takes her
seriously."
"It is time that they did," answered Berenice rather sharply. "Such a
performance as this to-night makes us all seem vulgar,--as if we were
her accomplices."
"Oh, you take it too seriously; besides, I thought that you helped it
on a bit."
Berenice was silenced, but she was none the happier for that. She was
vexed with herself for having any feeling about the incident; but the
word of Wynne came afresh into her mind, and brought the blood anew to
her cheek. She said to herself that she hoped that she should meet him
soon again, that she might wither him with a glance of burning
contempt, ever after to ignore him.
"You think I wouldn't do it," she sneered to some inner doubt; "but I
would!"
She was interrupted by a partner, and went whirling down the bright
hall to the tingling measures of a new waltz; yet all the while she was
thinking of the moment she had stood face to face with Maurice. She
scoffed at herself for giving so much weight to a thing so trifling;
she made a strong effort to appear gay, only the more keenly to realize
that at heart she was miserable.
Mrs. Staggchase, on her way out of the hall a little later, stopped and
spoke to her.
"Come, Bee, it is time for you to go home. You don't seem to profit by
the godly example of Elsie Wilson at all."
"Heaven forbid that I should take her as my exemplar!" Berenice flung
back with unnecessary fervor.
"Well," Mrs. Staggchase observed good-humoredly, "there are things in
which it is conceivable that you might find a better model. By the way,
what did Cousin Maurice say to you when you gave him that german favor?
Of course I haven't any right to ask, but you see I am interested in
bringing the boy up properly."
Berenice flushed with confusion and vexation.
"It was something no gentleman would have said!"
"Ah," the other returned with perfect calmness, "that is the danger of
doing an unladylike thing. It is so apt to provoke an ungentlemanly
return. Men, you know, my dear, haven't the fine instincts that we
have. However, I'm sorry that Maurice didn't behave better than you
did. Good-night, dear."
Mrs. Staggchase had hardly gone when Parker Stanford came up with a
favor.
"I am tired, Mr. Stanford," Berenice said. "Thank you, but you had
better ask some one else."
"I'd rather sit it out with you," he answered.
"Nonsense; one doesn't sit out turns in the german."
"They do if they wish."
"Well, instead of sitting it out," she said, rising, "let us go and get
a cup of bouillon. I feel the need of something to hold me up."
"Here is your favor," remarked Stanford, as they passed down the hall.
It was an absurd Japanese monster, with eyes goggling out of its head.
"How horrible!" cried Berenice. "It looks exactly like old Christopher
Plant when he is talking about his last invention in sauces. Don't you
know the way in which he sticks out his eyes, and says: 'It is the
greatest misfortune in nature that the nerves of taste do not extend
all the way down to the stomach!'"
Stanford laughed gleefully.
"Jove, I don't know but he's right. Think of tasting a cocktail all the
way down to the stomach!"
"Or a quinine pill!" returned she with a grimace. "Thank you, no.
Things are bad enough as they are."
At the door of the supper-room they encountered Dr. Wilson, with a bud
on his arm.
"Well, Miss Morison," he exclaimed, with his usual jovial brusqueness,
"I thought that my wife was the cheekiest woman in Boston, but you ran
her hard to-night."
"Oh, even if I surpassed her," Berenice retorted in sudden anger, yet
forcing herself to speak laughingly, "she is entirely safe to leave the
reputation of the family in the hands of her husband."
Dr. Wilson chuckled with perfect good-nature.
"Oh, we men are not in it with the women," laughed he.
He passed on with his companion, and Berenice, with feminine
perversity, avenged herself upon the girl he was escorting.
"How stout Miss Harding is," she commented. "It is such a pity for a
bud."
"But she is pretty," Stanford returned.
"Oh, yes, in a way. She has the face of an overripe cherub."
He laughed and led her to a seat.
"Take your picture of Mr. Plant," said he, "and I will get you the
bouillon."
"No, I can't have anything so hideous. Give me one of yours instead.
I'll have that little fat monk."
"All that I have is at your service," he responded with seriousness
sounding through the mock gravity, as he unpinned the little mask and
put it into her hand.
"Thank you, but I don't ask your all. I hope that you didn't value this
especially."
"Not that I remember. I haven't an idea who gave it to me."
"You don't seem to value a gift on account of the giver."
"That depends," returned he. "Now there are some givers whose favors I
cherish most carefully."
He took from his breast-pocket a little Greek flag of silk, neatly
folded. Berenice flushed, recognizing a favor which she had given him
early in the evening.
"Now this," he said, "I put away next to my heart, you observe."
"The giver would be flattered," Berenice observed. "Was it Clare
Tophaven?"
He looked at her, laughing; then seemed to reflect.
"I don't know that it is right to tell you," he returned; "but if you
won't mention it, I'll confide to you that it must have been Miss
Tophaven. Sweet girl."
"Very. Are congratulations in order?" Berenice inquired.
She was pleased that the talk had taken this bantering tone, and
secretly determined to keep it away from dangerous seriousness.
"Somewhat premature, I should say," Stanford replied. "You see she has
no suspicion of my devotion, and her engagement to Fred Springer is to
come out next week."
The bit of gossip served Berenice well. She had heard it already, but
it was easy to feign surprise, and to chat lightly about the match, as
if she had not a thought beyond it in her mind. To her amazement and
disconcerting Stanford cut through the light talk to demand with sudden
gravity:--
"And when may our engagement be announced, Berenice?"
She regarded him with startled eyes, but she held herself well in hand,
managing to use the same jesting tone in which she had been speaking.
"Certainly not before it exists," was her answer.
He leaned toward her eagerly. The room was almost deserted, and they
sat in the shelter of a great palm, so that she felt herself to be
alone with him.
"Don't try to put me off," he pleaded. "I am in earnest."
She rose quickly, setting her cup down in the tub of the palm.
"Come," she said, "you forget that I am dancing the german with Mr. Van
Sandt. He will have no idea what has become of me."
Stanford stood before her, barring her way.
"Hang Van Sandt! You should be dancing with me, only I had to do the
polite to this everlasting English girl. I wish she was in Australia. I
wonder why in the world an English girl is never able to learn to
dance."
"That I cannot answer. Perhaps their feet are too big; but you must go
back to her all the same, whether she can dance or not."
"Not until you answer me. You know you are keeping me on hot coals,
Berenice. You know I love you."
She flushed, drew back, grew pale.
"I have answered you already," she replied, hurriedly but firmly. "Why
must you make me say it again? I don't love you, and that is reason
enough why you shouldn't care for me."
"It isn't any reason at all. I should be fond of you anyway. Why, even
if you made a guy of me before everybody as you did to-night of that
clerical thing"--
"Stop!" Berenice interrupted, her color rising and her eyes shining. "I
will not have you speak of Mr. Wynne in that way. What I did was bad
enough."
"Berenice," demanded Stanford, regarding her keenly, "do you mean to
marry _him_?"
"You have no right to ask me whom I mean to marry! I am not going to
marry you, at least!"
"A clergyman. A man in petticoats! Well, I must say"--
She drew herself up to her full height, looking at him with anger and
excitement in her heart so great that they seemed to choke her.
"Do you see this?" she asked, holding up the little mask dangling from
her finger. "I fastened this to his cassock to-night. I insulted him in
the sight of everybody. Does that look as if"--
"Is that the same mask?" broke in Stanford. "You begged it of me
afterward!"
She could not command her voice to reply. Shame, grief, indignation,
struggled in her heart; yet her strongest conscious feeling was a
determination that the tears in her eyes should not fall. She slipped
past him, and moved toward the ball-room. With a quick step he gained
her side.
"I beg your pardon," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you.
You used to be nice to me, but lately"--
She mastered herself by a strong effort. She was fully aware that there
were too many curious eyes about her to make any demonstration safe.
"Let me take your arm," she answered. "Folks are watching. We need not
make a spectacle of ourselves. I haven't meant to treat you badly. A
girl never knows how a man is going to take things, and I only meant to
be pleasant. As soon as you began to show that you were in earnest"--
She was so conscious that her words were not entirely frank that she
instinctively hesitated.
"I have always been in earnest," interpolated he.
"But you will get over it," murmured she, desperately.
They had come to a group of palms, where they paused to let a bevy of
dancers pass.
"Do you really mean," Stanford asked, in a hard voice, "that there is
really no hope for me?"
"There is no hope that I shall ever feel differently about this."
"Then I shall certainly get over it," returned he with a touch of anger
in his voice. "I don't propose to go through life wearing the willow
for anybody."
She raised to his her eyes shining with shy but irresistible light.
"Ah," she half whispered, "that is the difference. I know he wouldn't
get over it."
"He!"
The monosyllable brought to her an overwhelming sense of the confession
which her words had carried. She pressed the arm upon which her
finger-tips rested.
"I have trusted you," she whispered hurriedly. "Be generous. Ah, Mr.
Van Sandt," she went on aloud, "I hope you didn't think I had deserted
you. Mr. Stanford found me incapable of dancing, and had to revive me
with bouillon."