THE GREAT EVENT.
The Vandaleur function was over, and for a long time to come the
young women of that part must feel a certain flatness in their days,
as one does when an event eagerly expected is over and done with.
For the sisters the function had been a series of triumphs, to all
appearance. They had been, as Miss Spencer put it, "dressed as
befitted their position." They had not had, after all, to call in
Mrs. Cullen's Nancy, for on the Christmas Eve a delightful box had
come for each of the _débutantes_, with Miss Spencer's love.
Pamela's contained a rather short-waisted frock of lilac silk, with
a fichu of chiffon tied softly round the shoulders.
Sylvia's gown, made somewhat similarly, was of white satin, and her
innocent face and golden head rose out of it a vision of loveliness.
It would be hard indeed to say which was the most beautiful girl
that night; but Sylvia held her little court, or rather augmented it
during the evening, while Pamela's, somehow, seemed to melt and fall
away.
Miss Spencer found a comfortable seat for herself in one of the long
galleries after dinner, and remained there, while one or another of
her old cronies and admirers came up to talk with her.
She was almost as great a success in her way as Sylvia, of
whom she caught glimpses now and again, waving her immense fan
where she stood in the centre of the gallery, and playing with
the conversation about her much as one plays at battledore and
shuttlecock.
"The child will do," said Miss Spencer to herself, when Sir John
Beaumont, an old admirer of hers, had gone to fetch her some
refreshment. "Wonderful how she makes all those men look so
delighted with her and themselves! It reminds me of a girl who could
do that. Who was it? And what happened afterwards?... Ah! Pamela,"
she said, speaking aloud, "so you have come to see what I am doing."
"To stay with you awhile, Miss Spencer," said Pamela, creeping into
the shadowy corner beside her.
"And where are all the beaux, my dear? It is not as if your heart
was elsewhere."
Pamela smiled a wan little smile.
"I'm tired, Miss Spencer. I can't keep it up like Sylvia."
"Hoity-toity, _tired_! No, you can't be tired. It will be years
before there is another event like this. Let me call Mr. Wandesforde
over there to take you to hear this Dublin singer, Madame Squallini,
or whatever the woman's name is. All the people have gone trooping
off to the music-room to hear her."
"Please don't, dear Miss Spencer, I would so much rather sit here by
you. I have heard a great many fine singers already."
"Why, what's come to you, Pam? You used to be as full of fun as
Sylvia. Now you are like a girl whose lover has gone away--I know
how such a one would feel--and has never come back to her."
Sir John Beaumont returned at this moment.
"I don't know whether your father or your sister is in the greatest
demand, Miss Graydon," he said. "I heard peals of laughter as
I passed the sitting-room, and, looking in, I saw your father
delighting them. He's a charming fellow, upon my word. He's wasted
on rusticity."
"Indeed, Sir John, I suppose the rustics ought all to be plain and
stupid," said Miss Spencer.
"Ah, my dear lady," murmured the old gentleman, "that would be to do
without you."
"Oh, I daresay; you always had a pretty speech ready. And what about
Pam here?"
"Miss Pamela belongs to the country, as lilies and roses do."
"She likes to bloom in the shade," said Miss Spencer, a bit
irritably. "What do you think of a girl who prefers to sit in the
corner rather than hold a court as her younger sister is doing?"
"It's cruel to the young fellows, Miss Pamela--that's what it is."
"It isn't as if she were an engaged girl."
"Ah! that would be rough on the young fellows, before they had more
than a chance of seeing her."
Pamela listened to this brisk interchange between her elders with a
faint smile. She certainly looked tired, and as the evening went on
she held her quiet place by Miss Spencer, who was very animated, and
talked enough to cover her silence.
Once she had realised that Pamela was really tired and wanted to sit
still, her kindness of heart was aroused. She even waved off the
swains who came at intervals to coax Pamela out of her corner.
At last the evening, which Pamela had felt endless, was really
drawing to an end.
"You poor dears," said Sylvia, standing over them, and still waving
her great fan, "I'm afraid I've been keeping you out of your beds an
unconscionable time."
"Hear her!" cried Miss Spencer. "You'd think we were her
grandmothers."
"Only Pam," said Sylvia. "I've been watching you. You didn't seem to
find it dull."
Miss Spencer laughed, well pleased.
"I'm afraid we're much of a muchness," she said; "but your sister
here, I'm disappointed in her. I think she has a headache, poor
child. It isn't as if she had a lover now."
Pamela did not answer, but walked meekly by Miss Spencer's side,
with Sir John Beaumont murmuring his old-world compliments in her
ear.
Sylvia went on before, surrounded by a phalanx of black coats, which
escorted her to Miss Spencer's carriage.
Pam listened to all the gay good-nights with a throbbing head and an
extreme flatness and dulness of spirit.
"Graydon'll be up all night," said Miss Spencer as they rolled away.
"He enjoyed himself immensely and added to the enjoyment of others.
Your father's well-fitted to shine in society, girls. 'Tis a pity,
as Beaumont says, he should be shut up here."
"Didn't he propose Mr. Vandaleur's health beautifully after dinner?"
said Sylvia. "I sat where I could see him, and all the time he had a
twinkle in his eye."
"He ought to be in Parliament himself," said Miss Spencer
emphatically. "Vandaleur isn't worth a rush."
"But what was the matter with Pam?" asked Sylvia. "Why, Pam's
asleep!"
[Illustration: =Her kindness of heart was aroused.=]
"Never mind your sister, minx, but tell me about your conquests.
Which of them did you like best?"
"Let me see," said Sylvia. "There was Captain Vavasour--from the
barracks. He asked leave to call."
"Did he, indeed, and what did you say?"
"I told him yes, if he'd chance finding me unemployed. I'd so much
to do feeding the fowls, and washing the dogs, and keeping the pony
clean, let alone my household duties."
"Why, you've none, except eating the jam--and that's a pleasure.
What did he say?"
"He said he'd be enchanted to help me at any of these occupations."
"That was nice of him. What about the other lad from the barracks?"
"Mr. Baker? Oh, I like him. He's game for anything. He's coming
ratting with Pat one day. He has an English terrier, but I told him
he wouldn't be a patch on Pat."
"You talked of ratting in that frock?"
"Yes, he was delighted. He confessed it was a passion with him."
"I saw you talking to the Master. He's a fine-looking fellow, but
not a patch on Tom Charteris."
[Illustration: "Wake up, sleepy-head!"]
"He asked me why I didn't hunt. I said I often thought of doing it
on Neddy, only he was a buck-jumper. He said that wouldn't matter,
except that all the world would be riding to hounds on donkeys
presently and taking the ditches backward. He, too, is coming to
call. They're all coming to call. I should like to see Bridget's
face when she's expected to provide afternoon tea. If they keep
ringing at the door, she won't pretend not to hear them; she has
the excuse that the bell's broken. Then they'll have to go away in
tears. I told that young St. Quintin, the Eton boy, so. He said,
after he'd done crying, he'd come in by the window. I really believe
he would. He's so cheeky."
"But you don't tell me which you liked best. I daresay they all
thought you no end of a minx."
"Let me see," said Sylvia, with a dispassionate air. "Why, Lord
Glengall, of course."
"Glengall! with his hatchet face and his forty odd years!"
"I think he has a dear face; his eyes are just like Pat's."
"I wouldn't think of Glengall--that is, if I were free."
"Ah, you see, I don't care seriously for boys. I like them well
enough to talk to; but Glengall one can take seriously."
"He didn't join your court, though."
"No, he wouldn't. I actually went up to have a little chat with him,
and he said, as if I were four years old: 'Now you must go and talk
to the boys, Miss Sylvia. I don't want a dozen duels on my hands.'"
"I daresay he thought you a forward minx."
"I don't think he would. Only he would take some persuading to
believe that I really preferred talking to him. He stood in a corner
then, and watched Pam out of his nice, kind, faithful eyes."
"He wouldn't have any nonsense in his head about Pam? You don't mean
that?"
"Oh, I don't think he's in love with Pam. He'd look just the same at
me if he thought I was tired or melancholy. I think I'll try it."
"Let him alone, minx. But here we are," as the carriage stopped.
"Wake up, sleepy-head!"--to Pam--"you can get to bed as fast as you
like now."
But even when Pam was in bed, Sylvia still paced up and down, waving
her big fan.
"I'm too excited to sleep, you old dunderhead," she said. "I wish it
was all to come over again."
"You will be tired in the morning, Sylvia."
"No, I shan't; I shall be as fresh as possible. I shall dream it all
over again. There, wait till I've brushed my hair, and I'll let you
go to sleep. Not that I can understand your wanting to sleep; you
were just as keen about this as I was."
"Yes," said Pam, languidly.
"I'm downright disappointed in you. Don't you know I'd have enjoyed
it all twice as much if you were enjoying it too? I'm glad papa was
there; the glances of enjoyment he sent me from the high table were
exhilarating. Wasn't it nice the way all those little round tables
were set out? And didn't Vandaleur junior do his duty well as a
host? By the way, wasn't it low of Trevithick not to come back after
all?"
"I daresay there was some good reason."
"Then he ought to have said there was. It is very uncivil to papa,
too, not to return on the date arranged, and not to write."
"He couldn't mean to be uncivil," said Pamela, faintly.
"I'll tell you what. If I hadn't eaten those old sweets he sent me
at Christmas I'd fire them back at his head: wouldn't you his old
violets if they weren't dead and gone?"
Pamela touched in her dark corner a little basket of withered
violets, which, for reasons best known to herself, she had taken to
bed with her.
"You are too impulsive, Sylvia," she said, stung out of her silence.
"Why should Sir Anthony be uncivil or unkind? I know he meant to
return to-night."
"So I heard him say," said Sylvia, cynically; "but I never mind
those boys, Pam; they've no ballast."
"Oh, Sylvia! I'm sure Sir Anthony has plenty of ballast. There must
be some explanation, and when we have heard it you'll be ashamed of
your rash judgment."
"Not I, for if it isn't true of him, it's true of most youths of his
age. Do you think his mother's at the bottom of it, Pam?"
"How should I know, Sylvia? What makes you think of her?"
"Well, from something he let fall one day, I guessed that she didn't
want him to come here. Then he showed me her photograph in his
album. She looked chock-full of pride and insolence. I believe a
woman who looked like that would do anything."
"I should think Sir Anthony would know his own mind in the matter."
"I daresay, but she may have been up to some mischief. And talking
of mothers makes me think of Glengall."
"Why should it, Sylvia?"
"Well, there was that old mother of his. Think of his hard years,
poor dear! No prosperity would wipe out the traces. He is as
anxious-looking as Pat, and Pat is the very image of Micky Morrissy,
who is always six months in arrear with his rent, and expects a
notice of eviction any day. I say, Pam"--suddenly--"would you marry
Glengall?"
"Sylvia!"
"Would you? I know he's nearly as old as dad, and all that--but
would you?"
"No, Sylvia."
"Well, then, I would. But he likes you better than me."
"He likes us both as his friend's little girls."
"I know; he'd never think of us in any other light. Still, if he
liked me best, I'd make him think."
"How, Sylvia?"
"Why, I'd just ask him to marry me."
"He'd think you wanted the gold."
"That he wouldn't. It shows how little you know of him."
"Well, then, other people would."
"We shouldn't care about that."
"We? Who?"
"Glengall and I."
"Sylvia, you're talking as if you were really in earnest."
"So I am, but he likes you better than me. You ought to marry him,
Pam."
But, to Sylvia's dismay, Pamela suddenly burst into tears.
"I shall never marry anyone," she cried amid her sobs.
"You poor dear old duffer, I was advising you for your good. But
you're tired out. There, go asleep. I shan't take you to any more
functions."
And Sylvia blew out the candle and jumped into bed. But Pamela, with
the withered violets close to her, cried herself to sleep.