had been invited to Eureka for a ball. She had stayed with her friend
Miss Jennie Blood; by whose advice and with whose help she had worn for
the first time a low-necked dress. She had been uncomfortable in it at
first, very uncomfortable, but the men liked it, all of them. She had
seen their admiration in their eyes; as Jennie had said, it fetched
them. If only George could see her in a low-necked dress--she flushed
as she thought of it--perhaps he'd admire her, and then she'd be quite
happy. But there were never any balls or parties in this dead-and-alive
township! How could she manage it?
The solution came to her with a shock of half-frightened excitement. It
was warm still, very warm, in the middle of the day; why shouldn't she
dress as for a dance, somethin' like it anyway, and go into George's
room to put it straight just before he came home from school? Her heart
beat quickly as she reflected. After all, what harm was there in it? She
recollected hearing that in the South all the girls wore low dresses
in summer, and she loved George, and she was sure he loved her. Any one
would do it, and no one would know. She resolved to try on the dress,
just to see how it suited her. There was no harm in that. She took off
her thin cotton gown quickly, and put on the ball-dress. But when she
had dragged the chest of drawers before the window and had propped up
the little glass on it to have a good look at herself, she grew hot. She
couldn't wear that, not in daylight; it looked, oh, it looked--and she
blushed crimson. Besides, the tulle was all frayed and faded. No,
she couldn't wear it! Oh!--and her eyes filled with tears of envy and
vexation. If only she were rich, like lots of other girls, she could
have all sorts of dresses. 'Twas unfair, so it was. She became desperate
with disappointment, and set her wits to work again. She had plenty of
time still. George wouldn't be back before twelve. She must choose a
dress he had never seen; then he wouldn't know but what she often wore
it so. Nervously, hurriedly, she selected a cotton frock, and before the
tiny glass pinned and arranged it over her shoulders and bust, higher
than the ball-dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the
daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form
that a Parisian _couturière_ might have envied, and went to work. Her
nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and
then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision
of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue
ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and
round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of
colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of
her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely,
prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved
beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd
be pleased.
She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved.
After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed
a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the
feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders,
and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she
could throw it back or draw it round her at will.
At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for
the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her
so--and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides--why, she
couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he
must--why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of
her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other
men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out.
Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his
fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush
of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any _man_.
An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo
turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise,
drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight
across her breast.
“Oh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixin' up your things.” And
the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.
“Thank you,” he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of
expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: “Why,
Loo, how well you look! I like that dress; it suits you.” And he stepped
towards her.
She held out both hands as if to meet his, but by the gesture the
woollen scarf was thrown back, and her form unveiled. Once again her
mere beauty stung the young man to desire, but something of a conscious
look in her face gave him thought, and, scrutinizing her coldly, he
said:
“I suppose that dress was put on for Mr. Barkman's benefit.”
“Oh, George!” she cried, in utter dismay, “he hain't been here to-day.”
And then, as the hard expression did not leave his face, she added
hurriedly: “I put it on for you, George. Do believe me.”
Still his face did not alter. Suddenly she understood that she had
betrayed her secret. She burst into bitter tears.
He took her in his arms and spoke perfunctory words of consolation; her
body yielded to his touch, and in a few moments he was soothing her
in earnest. Her grief was uncontrollable. “I've jest done everythin',
everythin', and it's all no use,” she sobbed aloud. When he found that
he could not check the tears, he grew irritated; he divined her little
stratagem, and his lip curled. How unmaidenly!
In a flash, she stood before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked.
The pity of it did not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt
only contempt for her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long,
choking sob she moved to the door and disappeared. She went blindly
along the passage to her room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried
as if her heart would break. Then followed a period of utter abject
misery. She had lost everything George didn't care for her; she'd have
to live all her life without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.
The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was
intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her
in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his
eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd
tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated
him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded
her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she
must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could.
They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but
these tears relieved her, did her good.
She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her
away to New York. Marry him?--she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make
up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her.
Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do
that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd
go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet
kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid
time.
She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble--no
one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if
she told her anythin', she'd only set down an' cry. She'd write and
say she was comfortable; and her father?--he'd get over it. He was
kind always, but he never felt much anyway--leastwise, he never showed
anythin'. When they got her letter 'twould be all right. That was what
she'd do--and so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she
sat and thought, letting her imagination work.
A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly,
had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won
easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or
two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply:
“Hev you seen Loo yet?”
“No. Is she down?”
“I reckoned you'd know ef she had made out anythin' partikler to do
to-day.”
“No,” he repeated seriously, the Elder's manner impressing him. “No! she
told me nothing, but perhaps she hasn't got up yet.”
“She ain't in her room.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn't hear buggy-wheels last night--along towards two o'clock?”
“No, but--you don't mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!” And Bancroft started
up with horror in his look.
The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he
gradually took in the sincerity of the young man's excitement, he
turned, and left the room.
To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his
knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head
the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell.
At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips:
“Lord, Lord! 'Tain't right to punish her. She knowed nothin'. She's so
young. I did wrong, but I kain't bear her to be punished.
“P'r'aps You've laid this on me jes' to show I'm foolish and weak.
That's so, O Lord! I'm in the hollow of Your hand. But You'll save her,
O Lord! for Jesus' sake.
“I'm all broke up. I kain't pray. I'm skeered. Lord Christ, help her;
stan' by her; be with her. O Lord, forgive!”
June and July, 1891.