MARTHA HART’S FIRST POLKA.
In the meantime the rooms below had been the scene of some little
revolt. Late in the evening a young man, in the holiday costume of a
country farmer, had presented himself in the hall. Old Dinah, who was
ubiquitous that evening, saw the young man, and gave him a welcome that
quite astonished the other servants, who had remarked, hitherto, that
her approbation was graduated by the splendor of costume which each
visitor presented. But here was an exception; and Dinah not only
condescended to receive the farmer guest, but preceded him, with her
flowing dress and turban, through the suit of rooms, watching his
amazement triumphantly, as if the whole establishment had been her own
individual property.
As they passed into the drawing-room, Dinah halted.
“Dar!” she said, pointing to a couple that flitted in and out among the
dancers, “there’s her whizzin’ ’bout like a top. Wait jes one minute,
and I’ll cotch her.”
“What, that!—that girl with the bare arms and white shoulders! That
girl, my—my—look here, old snow-ball, none of that, for I won’t stand
it!”
Dinah drew up, and her nose curled, in a small way, like the trunk of an
elephant.
“Ole snow-ball! Well, dar, if dem isn’t words to come out ob a gemman’s
mout’ in de presence ob de fair sect, an’ in scenes ob festialities like
dis. If ’twasn’t for despairing de blum ob my ’plexion, I’d blush for
yer; as de ’casion is, I dus dat inside, hi!”
The young man did not heed her, but pushed forward into the crowd, where
he could gain a better view of the dancers. A scene like that had never
presented itself to the young countryman before. He had seen dancing, in
a pleasant way, at a Fourth of July ball, and sometimes at an apple cut
or husking, where tidy young girls, in white dresses and colored
ribbons, went through a French four, or opera reel, with a certain
rustic grace; but the scene before him was new even to his imagination:
the whirl, the music, the euphonious tread of the dancers, the floating
plumes, and cloud-like dresses bewildered, while the dance itself
repulsed him. In all this crowd his eyes followed one couple only; and
as they grew familiar to the scene, the color deepened on his ruddy
cheek, and his eyes glittered with rage.
The polka, that most frivolous of all dances, had been introduced into
society that season, making the old-fashioned waltz a puritanical affair
in comparison. Into this last French inspiration the more reckless of
the company had plunged, rushing up and down the room in pairs, stifling
the first idea of an old-fashioned shuffle in its premonitory symptoms,
and giving every indication of beginning some rather elaborate dance
which failed utterly in the completion. Tall men bent themselves into
the form of an ancient bow, in order to clasp short ladies by the waist;
and diminutive youngsters looked pert as quails, while aspiring to lift
their shoulders to a convenient level for the queenly race of dancers.
Altogether the exhibition was a graceless affair in every way; and men
of less inherent delicacy than John Downs might well have changed color
on seeing it for the first time. The poor fellow grew red and white
every instant, for there was pretty Martha Hart—the plump, wholesome,
little Hebe—circled by the arm of a handsome young fellow, with her arm
half round his neck, her cheek warm and red, leaning to his stooping
face, her eyes sparkling, her heart panting beneath the pressure of his
hand. Breaking up her steps and giving her pretty foot a stamp now and
then, she whirled off like a rocket or went rushing like mad toward the
conservatory, and back again into the crowd, all in a frenzy of motion,
which ended in nothing but a repetition of the same silly manœuvre.
No wonder John Downs could not bear the sight—no wonder he thought of
the time when, standing on the deck of that steamer, he had trembled
while pressing the hand to his lips, which now lay so lovingly on a
stranger’s shoulder. His breath came heavily, his eyes gleamed, and he
stood with his hand clenched hard, panting to knock the man down on the
instant, and only withheld by the fact that half a score of other men
were giving countenance to this impudent fellow’s audacity.
Gillian was not dancing; she had practised the polka with Martha many a
time, but that exquisite delicacy which springs from new-born love made
her shrink from it now. So leaning upon Woodworth’s arm, she moved away
among her guests, diffusing some of the bright happiness which glowed in
her own heart all around.
She saw John Downs standing alone watching the dancers. It had been a
kind thought with her when she sent a card for her ball to Martha’s
lover, hoping to surprise the dear girl into happiness like her own. But
a glance from that wrathful face to the young girl and Michael Hurst,
her partner, betrayed the mistake she had innocently made. With an
anxious flush on her face, she went up to the young countryman, holding
out her hand.
“Ah, Mr. Downs, how glad I am that you accepted my invitation!”
Downs started and took her hand softly, as if it had been a white rose,
from which he feared the leaves would fall away.
“Ah, Miss, I—I didn’t know what it was—I didn’t expect———”
He broke off abruptly, and dropping her hand, turned his face away.
“Have you seen my father?”
“No, Miss, I haven’t seen anybody, that is to speak of, except old
Dinah, and she went off in a huff.”
Gillian laughed sweetly, and quitting Woodworth’s arm with a little
imperative nod, took possession of the stranger.
“Come now, we will find him somewhere; by that time Cousin Matty will be
through with her first polka.”
“Her what?”
“Why, the dance you were looking at—we have practised it together so
often. She never danced it with any one but me before; but ladies cannot
dance together here, you know, and I was watching to see how she got on
with Aunt Hetty’s young friend—almost a relation, I might say, for Aunt
Hetty has known him since he was a boy, I believe—I am quite sure the
dear old lady would not have been satisfied if Martha hadn’t danced with
him.”
“Then it is to please Miss Hetty Hart that she dances this new
fandangle?”
“I’m sure of it!” said Gillian, leading him away.
Downs turned his head over one shoulder and cast a lingering glance at
the dancers.
“She—she don’t seem in great trouble about it—she’s willing enough, I’ll
be bound!” he said, with a gust of jealousy. “But I might have known how
it would end.”
Gillian felt a throb of compassion for the poor fellow. “What a terrible
thing it must be to doubt any one!” she thought. “Besides, Martha does
plunge into gayety this evening like a child. What shall I do?”
She was quietly forcing her companion away from the room, but he checked
her near the conservatory, and wheeling round looked back upon the
dancers. The music changed, Martha left the floor, it seemed a little
reluctantly, for she shook her head and pouted, while Hurst searched for
a seat and left her.
“One minute—please excuse me one minute, Miss Bentley; but I must speak
with that chap before he gets away!”
Before Gillian could speak, Downs had dropped her hand from his arm, and
hurried away through the crowd, following Hurst, who was softly stealing
towards the vestibule, intent on the interview with Mr. Bentley which we
have just described. Downs overtook him just as he was about to mount
the stairs, and laid a heavy hand on his arm.
“I say, you sir, just one word. I’ve been watching your way of dancing
with a respectable man’s daughter, and I don’t like it. Do you
understand?”
Hurst looked back at his questioner, laughed a little quiet laugh, and
said:
“What the deuce do I care whether you like it or not?”
“But I will make you care, Mr. Jackanapes. The young lady is a—a friend
of mine—or at any rate, her father is—and I won’t see her innocent
nature imposed on by any of you city gentlemen.”
“Oh! I see you are a real countryman—no fancy character—an admirer of
Miss Martha’s, perhaps—no one could act the part so well. With all my
heart: I have no wish to interfere with you.”
The young man spoke contemptuously, but with an evident wish to get rid
of the whole thing.
“Then you have no interest? You don’t care for the young lady?”
“Not a particle. Shouldn’t care if she disappeared from the face of the
earth in half an hour; so don’t bore me about her, my good fellow.”
Downs clenched his hand, while his face burned like fire.
“And it is with a fellow like you she—she—I tell you what, this air
don’t suit me. I never was so tempted to lock horns with an animal in my
whole life!”
“Why, my dear sir, what have I done? Danced the polka—a confounded
insipid affair, by-the-way—with a pretty girl who would never have
forgiven me if I had not asked her. Go quarrel with her if you are in a
particularly belligerent humor, for the fact is, she tired me out; I
cannot boast of your athletic strength!”
“That’s true,” said Downs, unclasping his hand, and looking very much
like a great Newfoundland dog pitted against a terrier. “You arn’t worth
whipping, and wouldn’t a-been worth minding but for the wrong you’ve
done.”
“Wrong! Now, my good fellow, do be reasonable. What harm is there in
dancing the polka with a pretty girl?”
“What is the harm in brushing all the down from a ripe peach just as it
takes its last red from the sun? What’s the harm in dashing the purple
dew from a plum? What’s the harm of setting a coarse foot into
new-fallen snow, that other coarse feet may tread after you? I’m a plain
man, a farmer, and in driving cattle I get a rough way of speaking; but
I’d as soon steal the blue eggs from a robin’s nest, as lead any girl
into exhibiting herself, as you have tempted the sweetest, the most
innocent—Oh Jupiter! if you only had the muscle of a man, I’d break
every bone in your body!”
“But only having a slight frame, and no inclination for battle, you will
be good enough to let me pass on; especially as the servants are amusing
themselves with your gestures and rather loud conversation.”
Downs looked around, and saw that a group of idle waiters had gathered
near them; and in their midst stood Aunt Dinah grimly regarding him.
With a lofty shake of the turban she came forward.
“Now I isn’t gwine ter see yer maken an obstreperous fool ob yerself and
not ’pose my ’thority, if yer did call me olprobationary names,” she
said, with an accession of dignity, that, in spite of his annoyance,
made Downs laugh. “Ain’t yer ’shamed ob yerself, a-bringin’ up der
apperlations ob ’spectable young ladies to raise a muss ’bout? I’m
’shamed an’ ’stonished, I is, John Downs; whar’s yer ’scretion? whar’s
yer broughten up—whar?”
Under cover of this authoritative remonstrance, which edified the
waiters immensely, Hurst made his escape, and from that scene went into
the private room of Mr. Bentley, whose very existence seemed shaken by
that visit.
Downs returned to the festal rooms ashamed of his recent outbreak, and
anxious to apologize for the rudeness of his departure from Miss
Bentley: perhaps, too, he hoped that some excuse or explanation of
Martha’s offence might meet him. So, in a state of contrition, and but
half-subdued excitement, he went into the library and was swept on by
the living current that crowded through the rooms. All at once he came
upon Gillian. She was standing with one arm around the naughty
flower-girl, who looked very subdued and depressed, like a child that
bad been unexpectedly called up for punishment in the midst of play.
John took a little circuit in the crowd, and came close up to the young
girls as they stood together. All his anger had left him at the sight of
that pretty, clouded face, and compunction for his violence rendered him
diffident as if he had been the culprit. He dared not speak, nor touch
her, but stood holding his breath, afraid to move.
“What did you let him go for? How could he act so unfeelingly? It’s too
bad!” There was a sob in Martha’s voice, and she began biting the corner
of her embroidered handkerchief in sorrowful anger, repeating again and
again, “It’s too bad—it’s too bad!”
John’s heart rushed to his mouth, and he was about to speak, when Martha
broke forth again:
“I wish you hadn’t invited him.”
“Who?” said Gillian, “Michael Hurst?”
“Michael Hurst! No, but John Downs.”
Here John shrank back with a heart like lead.
“But I thought it would give you pleasure—that you liked him.”
John did not breathe.
“What is the good of liking him?” cried Martha, with tears in her eyes.
“He hates, he despises me, and all because of that hateful Hurst, just
as if I cared for him or thought of him; a post would have been just the
same if it kept step, I’m sure.”
Again Downs felt his heart rising.
“I never thought of him once while we were rushing about there. It
seemed nice enough when you and I practised: didn’t you think so,
Gillian? and now I can’t bear the idea of it. Oh, how I hate that Mike
Hurst!”
John Downs was trembling all over now. His quick breath caught Gillian’s
attention: a glance and she stole away.
“Martha.”
Martha Hart gave a dainty shriek, and struggled a little to get her hand
away from the strong fingers that grasped it.
“I—I wonder how you dare, Mr. Downs. I thought you had gone for
good—indeed I hoped so.”
“It is not too late, Martha,” said the young man, forgetting, in the
pain of her present coquetry, the words she had uttered a moment before,
“Good-night!”
Martha looked frightened; her fingers clung around his; and she gave him
a glance from her fine eyes that would have brought an eagle to her
feet.
“Yes, go. Good-night!” cried the little rogue, tightening her clasp,
“go.”
John struggled a little, as you have seen a fly with all his feet
tangled in a spider’s web.
“Perhaps you wish to dance again?”
“Yes,” said Martha, demurely, “I’m so very, very fond of dancing.”
“Very well!”
Here Downs made a great struggle, tore his hand from her clasp, and
smitten with instantaneous repentance, gave it back again.
“Yes,” she said, taking the truant hand, as if she did not know what to
do with it, “I’m very fond of dancing; if one could only get a partner
worth while; you never dance, I suppose?”
“Who told you so, Martha? Yes, I do.”
“Yes, French fours, the Virginia reel, and all that,” cried the little
vixen, with a lift of her white shoulders, “skim milk!”
“I rather think I could go a notch higher than that,” said Downs,
proudly.
“Ha! what, you?” cried Martha, brightening, but instantly her
countenance fell.
“Quadrilles, perhaps.”
Downs nodded.
“But they are so stiff after——”
“After waltzing?”
“Yes, after waltzing!”
“But I know the step. I—I’ve been to dancing-school, and used to waltz
with, with——”
“A pretty girl, I dare say—some lady that I’ve never heard of,” cried
Martha, pouting.
“No, never—I waltzed with the other boys—only with boys, I promise you.”
“And you wouldn’t like it,” said Martha, glancing down to her waist;
“you prefer great awkward boys, I dare say.”
Downs blushed to the temples, as his eyes followed her suggestive
glance.
“Will you?” he said, trembling all over, and stealing one arm round her
waist.
Martha’s eyes flashed under the long lashes like diamonds.
“There, put out your foot this way; that’s right now.”
Away the pair whirled through the boudoir, and into the library, which
was almost empty, but they had scarcely gone a round when the music
changed. Martha kept close to her partner. “There, break step this way;
try again; how awkward you are! Now, now, that’s splendid; through this
door into the drawing-room; one has more confidence in a crowd. Now for
it.”
“Dear—what’s that?” cried Gillian, as a couple came sweeping by the
place where she was standing with a velocity that stirred the air, and
sent her vail flashing around her like a cloud. “What on earth does that
mean?”
“Oh,” said Woodworth, laughing, “it’s only Miss Hart with another
captive in full training; see, isn’t the little rogue brilliantly
happy?”
That moment Martha, who had stopped for breath, gave Gillian a pretty,
triumphant nod, while she dropped a hand on her partner’s shoulder.
“Captive!” said Gillian, laughing brightly, as the pair rushed by again;
“he seems resigned, at any rate. Oh, there comes young Hurst; I thought
he had gone; it is full half an hour since I saw him go up-stairs; I
hope there will be no trouble about Cousin Martha. See how disturbed he
looks.”
“Yes,” said Woodworth, “but it is not on her account. There, he has just
caught sight of her among the dancers; upon my word, he is smiling; the
whole thing amuses him evidently. So, my queen, you need have no
apprehension from that quarter, Hurst loves himself too much for
unnecessary quarrels. Look, he is going to speak with them; how pale the
fellow is, though.”
“With jealous rage, perhaps,” said Gillian, struck with the strange look
of Hurst’s face.
“Nothing of the kind, fair lady! I fancy that feeling would be aroused
in this direction; I’m not quite blind if you are silent! That young man
cares no more for Miss Hart than you do about the rose-leaves dropping
from your bouquet; watch how quietly he addresses them!”
Hurst had in reality sauntered up to the dancers as they stood still for
a moment.
“Oh, Miss Martha! you must be spending a heavenly evening; it quite
wakes one up to see you dance: what power you ladies have! Now, I dare
say this young gentleman, to whom I haven’t been introduced, by-the-way,
has forgotten all about the bloom from ripe peaches, the purple dew from
plums, and the tread of coarse feet in newly-fallen snow, ha!”
Hurst had mistaken his man. Downs was not to be quietly brow-beaten
after that fashion, though the crimson did flash over his face.
“It makes a difference,” he said, looking at Martha; “my hand is not
that of a stranger. Come, Miss Hart, shall we join in the march?”
“It is for the supper-room. Where is Gillian? Where can Uncle Bentley
have hid himself this long time?”
Gillian was asking the same question. Where was her father? Where had
Mrs. Ransom and Aunt Hetty Hart gone? No one could tell; but Dinah
volunteered to make inquiries while her young mistress represented the
family in the supper-room. Directly she came back with word that Mr.
Bentley was asleep in his little study—sound asleep, she was sure, for
his arms were folded on the table, and his face buried in them; besides,
he neither spoke nor moved when she asked him to come down—a piece of
impoliteness which Dinah knew to be impossible had he been awake.
“Poor, dear papa!” sighed Gillian, “this confusion has been too much for
him; let him rest: we must find some excuse for his absence.” Thus, with
a little tender regret, Gillian entered the supper-room, leaning on the
arm of her betrothed.
There is something really beautiful in an artistically-arranged table,
which admits of an endless variety of form and tints; the glitter of
crystal, the frosted gleam of plate, the glow of purple, amber, and
ruby-hued fruits, snow-white pyramids of cake, pagodas of golden-hued
candy, and a thousand luscious trifles imbedded in flowers and sharing
their perfume, take all the combinations of a vast picture gorgeously
lighted up.
In this house the supper-room, in all its prodigal magnificence, was
duplicated by tall mirrors, each fitting the arch of a diminutive
colonnade, separated from the room itself by a line of light Corinthian
pillars, around which blossoming vines from the green-house had been
trained for the occasion. These vines, multiplied by the mirrors behind,
and emitting a delicate perfume, formed a succession of living garlands
that trembled in the clear, soft light, while a bay window at the upper
end of the room was a perfect bower of tropical leaves and blossoms.
Into this room the company flowed from the drawing-room and vestibule.
Behind the graceful shelter of the pillars the ladies retreated,
gathering into close groups, which the tall mirrors answered back, till
the gay multitude seemed twice its real size, and the scene resembled
the gathering of a court in some royal palace, more closely than any
thing ever attempted on this side the Atlantic.
For a little time the picture was sumptuously grand: even the waiters
hesitated to break up the gorgeous richness of the tables; but appetite
in a crowd will always drive taste to the wall. The first bunch of
hot-house grapes lifted from its silver dish was the signal for a score
of descending hands; towers of ice-cream began to tremble; jellies that
lay like masses of amber in beds of cut crystal, were cleft in a dozen
pieces, and sent off to all parts of the room; fruits that science alone
could have forced into ripeness at the same time, loaded the plates of
delicate Sevres china, which passed from the tables back to the fair
hands beyond. But there is no pleasure in describing the scene now—the
flash of crystal goblets, the explosions of champagne, the broken
pyramids and ruined towers. Every thing was broken up, fruit blossoms
and ices fell into interminable confusion; that which intellect and
taste had been weeks in creating, appetite seized upon, rent in pieces
and swept away in a single hour.
In the midst of the scene, while the scent of flowers was overborne by
the breath of a crowd of revellers, and the flash of champagne broke the
hum and laughter around, Gillian was startled by a whisper close to her
ear.
“The moment these people depart, go to your father; he is in the little
study!”
Gillian turned quickly, but no one whom she knew intimately enough for a
confidential whisper like that stood near. Still the whisper troubled
her. She must run away for a moment; no one would miss her in that
confusion: perhaps her father was ill.
Gillian had not entered her father’s private study half a dozen times in
her whole life. It was considered sacred to her father, who was always
remarked to retire into its seclusion whenever those deep fits of
sadness came upon him to which he had been subject ever since her
remembrance. A feeling of tender sorrow always came upon her when she
thought of her father in that place, and she approached it with a
sinking heart.
A light knock at the door brought no answer. She turned the latch softly
and looked in. Her father sat by the table with an old letter in his
hand, which he was pondering over in deep thought.
“Papa!”
Bentley started, and looked round.
“Gillian!” His voice was troubled.
“Papa! come down, if you are not quite tired out; the company will soon
be going away.”
“Not yet, my child; it is not time!”
“Indeed, father, it is very late. I have taken leave of some already;
and it is very awkward, you know, to be so entirely by myself: even Mrs.
Ransom, whom I depended on, forsakes me. I haven’t seen her these two
hours. Do come, papa, and show yourself, if it is only for ten minutes.”
“Hush! Gillian. Ask nothing of me yet. I must have one other interview
with this young man. If this proves true, why then, Gillian—then—but I
am talking vaguely,” Bentley continued, lifting a hand to his forehead,
“do not mind me, child, but go down.”
“And you will not come, dear father?”
“Not to-night; I am very busy. Don’t you see how busy I am?”
Gillian went into the room, and leaned over her father. She had never
seen that expression in his face before. It took her by surprise. A
fountain unlocked from ice could not have sent forth water more
brightly. Long hidden feelings had gushed up and illuminated his
features.
“Why, father, what is this?” she said, kissing his forehead; “you look
strangely.”
“I feel strange, very strangely.”
“But it is not trouble—surely it is not trouble?”
“It is almost happiness, Gillian!”
“Then I will leave you a little while. If you had been ill I could not
do it, company or not.”
“Yes, go; it is very pleasant here.”
“But kiss me, dear father, before I go,” she said, tenderly.
Bentley put her away, very gently, but with firmness.
“No, Gillian; another’s kiss was on my lips a little while ago. It was
only a dream, but let it rest there to-night.”
“Another’s?” cried the startled girl; “a kiss dearer than mine? Oh,
papa!”
“It was your mother’s, Gillian, given in my dreams. Now leave me, and
good-night.”
Gillian went away perplexed, and conscious that her father did not seem
like the same man.
An hour after, and those vast rooms were empty—a dark, confused ruin of
the beauty that had been. Gillian retired to her room, and slept, but
there were watchful eyes in that mansion all night.
And what had become of Mrs. Ransom? One or two persons remembered seeing
her, about the supper hour, leaving by one of the doors near which
Gillian was standing; then a servant in the hall remembered that she had
hurried past him, not far from the same time, without cloak or hood, and
entered her carriage, which had remained near the entrance, in great
haste.
The man was correct. Julia Ransom sprang into her carriage, and fell
upon the back seat, pressing both hands upon her heart. The coachman
held the door, waiting for orders.
“Home—home; drive fast, home!” she gasped, and, falling back to the
seat, muttered, “Oh, if I could but die at will!”
The horses dashed off, and she sat moaning within. “Years, time,
philosophy, religion, are they nothing? Can a moment sweep them off like
straws? Am I so weak? God help me! God help me!”
The carriage stopped. She sprang out, entered her house, and awoke Ruby
from a sound sleep.
“Ruby, my friend! Ruby, I say! get up and help me pack. I am going away.
Be quick, Ruby!”
The mulatto sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.
“What is it, Missus?”
“We are going away, Ruby, to Europe. A steamer sails in the morning—we
must reach it by daylight. Do you understand me, Ruby?”
“Yes, Missus, we am going to sea right off. I’m ready. I’ll pack up
every thing in less than no time. Go, lay down, Missus, for you look
tired out.”
“No, no! I will help. For my life I could not rest. That is a good
girl—now let’s begin.”
That woman seemed to have the strength of a giant that night. She flung
off her ball costume, and worked hand in hand with Ruby; only pausing
now and then to say, “Make haste, girl, make haste!”
At daylight, that morning, she stood on the deck of an ocean steamer,
outward bound.