THE INKED DRESS.
MABEL was willing enough to take her share of the home duties now, even
to sitting down to sow under the direction of the dressmaker. But as
she was turning over the things on the crowded table that afternoon in
search of her thimble, she came upon the overturned ink-bottle, and
exclaimed, "Who has done this? Who has had the ink here?"
"You had it yourself, Miss Mabel," said the dressmaker. "No one else
has used ink in this room."
"But—but I put it away," she said, trying to remember whether she had
done so.
"I don't know, I'm sure, miss. I moved the book and pen because they
were in my way, but I don't remember seeing the ink."
While they were talking, Mabel was looking under the pile of work
to see whether any mischief had been done, and now she saw with
consternation, that her new claret merino dress had a large ink stain
upon it.
"Oh dear, what shall I do?" she said in affright, unfolding the roll
of merino, and seeing that the large ink stain had soaked through fold
after fold.
The dressmaker looked scarcely less concerned. "What will your mamma
say?" she exclaimed. "The dress is quite spoiled; it can never be made
up as it is."
Mabel burst into tears as she looked at her ruined dress. "Can nothing
be done with it?" she said. "The ink is not quite dry. Don't you think
we might get it out somehow?"
But the dressmaker shook her head.
And at this moment Mrs. Randolph herself came into the room.
"What is the matter?" she asked, seeing Mabel in tears. But the next
minute she saw the ink stains on the bright-coloured merino lying in
her lap. "Oh dear, who has done that?" she exclaimed.
"Well, it has just been lying on the table, ma'am," said the
dressmaker, anxious to spare Mabel as much as she could.
But both knew well enough how it had been done.
And Mabel said through her tears, "I have been writing here, and must
have left the ink on the table, and it got covered over with some of
the things and upset."
"Dear, dear me! I told you, Mabel, to do your lessons with the others,
and not to use the ink in this room while the work was about. What can
we do with it, Miss Simpson? The ink has gone through every fold."
"Well, ma'am, I've been thinking if I took it at once to the dyer's, he
might be able to get it out, as it is not quite dry, or dye it a colour
that will not show the stain."
"I am afraid it is the only thing we can do with it," said Mrs.
Randolph, still examining the merino. "Will you put your bonnet on at
once and take it? Ask him to keep it the same colour if possible,"
added the lady.
"Oh, yes, I sha'n't like any other colour," said Mabel, wiping her eyes
when she saw there might be a way out of the dilemma.
"You can scarcely have any choice in this, I am afraid," said her
mother severely. "The stuff must be dyed any colour it will take, so as
best to erase the ink stains. You should have thought of this, if you
did not of my wishes, before you sat down to your lessons."
When Miss Simpson came back, it was with the message that the only
colour it could be dyed, after the ink stains had been partially
removed, so as to hide all marks of these, was brown.
"Oh, I don't want another brown dress!" exclaimed Mabel. "You are
making one, Miss Simpson."
"Just what I told them, but the dyer said it would be impossible to
make it look nice in any other colour than a very dark brown."
"Then it must be done," said Mrs. Randolph with a sigh. "It's of no use
grumbling, Mabel. You will have to wear two brown dresses now instead
of having a change of colour."
But although she spoke severely, reminding her daughter that it was
entirely owing to her own wilfulness that the accident had occurred,
she nevertheless so far pitied Mabel that she gave her a light silk
dress of her own to be cleaned, turned, and altered. For the spoiling
of the merino would reduce her outfit to great monotony of colour, and
they could not justly afford to lay out more than they were doing on
her wardrobe just now.
The making, altering, and preparing Mabel's dresses occupied some
little time, and so it was decided that she should not go to Glenavon
until after Christmas, when her father would be able to take her on his
way to see a gentleman on important business, whom he was anxious to
consult.
Mabel wore one of her unfortunate brown dresses to travel in. It was
a perpetual reminder of her own self-will and disobedience, but I am
afraid it rather vexed and annoyed her than led her to resolve upon any
severe struggle with it for the future. And this vexation increased
when she arrived at her uncle's house, and saw how much larger and
finer it was than even she had ever supposed.
The carriage had been sent to meet them at the station. And as they
drove up, she thought how much she should enjoy all this luxury. But on
arriving at her uncle's house, the thought of the other brown dress in
her box made her feel uncomfortable at once, and she wondered how she
would look going up and down that broad staircase, perpetually wearing
brown dresses.
The thought that she "might" be treated as a poor relation made her
draw herself up and assume an air of haughtiness, so that her aunt was
not altogether to blame for the coolness of the welcome she received.
It was not in the elder Mrs. Randolph's nature to be affectionate, even
to her own children. She was proud of her elder daughter, and just
now fully occupied in efforts to secure her an entrance into the best
society in the county, and make her a social success.
By and by, when Isabel was old enough, she would be quite as willing
to do the same for her younger daughter, but meanwhile Isabel was left
very much to her own devices and the care of the various masters who
had taken the place of a governess in directing her studies. That she
could want more than this—facilities for following her sister's example
in making herself an ornament to society—never entered her mother's
head.
"Isabel's turn will come by and by," she said sometimes when reminded
of her younger daughter's wants or wishes.
And so it was scarcely to be expected that she would accord a very warm
welcome to a niece she had scarcely seen before.
Isabel was too shy and Mabel's manner much too haughty for their
greeting to be very warm. But Isabel had heard from her father about
her aunt and cousin, and how eager Mabel was to make her life useful
instead of merely ornamental—how she had tried to help the poor by
visiting them, and teaching in a Sunday-school, all which news had
given gentle, timid Isabel a very exalted idea of her cousin. And so
far from resenting her rather haughty demeanour, she wished she could
behave with such coolness and dignity, and not feel such a strong wish
to throw her arms round everybody's neck who was at all kind to her.
She took her cousin to her room, which was near her own.
And Mabel instantly saw that loving hands had prepared a welcome for
her here, although her reception had been so cold down-stairs. A bright
little fire was burning in the grate, a cosy low chair was drawn up to
it, with a table on which stood a vase of choice flowers.
"Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Mabel, bending over them, and forgetting all
her dignified stiffness.
"You like flowers. I am glad of that," said Isabel timidly.
"You prepared this sweet surprise for me," said Mabel, turning to
Isabel. "Oh, thank you, thank you, dear." And the tears stood in
Mabel's eyes as she stooped and kissed her cousin. "It is foolish, you
will think," said Mabel, hastily brushing the tears aside, "but this
has made me think of mamma; it is just the sort of thing she would have
done. I shall always love this room now, and think of your welcome to
me here."
"I want you to tell me about your mother by and by. Papa says she is
such a noble woman," said Isabel.
"Well, this room is like her. I could almost fancy she had been here
getting it ready for me," said Mabel.
But Isabel shook her head. "I got it ready," she said, "all but
lighting the fire, and the housemaid did that."
"Yes, dear, I know none but loving hands could have made everything
look so nice. Do you think we might have a cup of tea together here,
instead of going down-stairs?" she ventured to ask.
"We will have it in the next room. See, this is our sitting-room," and
she led the way through an opposite door into a larger room beyond.
"My bed-room is on the opposite side, and opens into this, the same as
yours. Julia used to have your room. But since she has grown up, and
goes to so many parties and balls, and don't learn lessons, she has a
room near mamma, with a dressing-room to herself."
"And this is where we shall learn our lessons," said Mabel, gazing
round the handsomely-furnished room, almost equal to their drawing-room
at home, with its pictures and piano, and vases of fresh-cut flowers.
"Do you like lessons?" asked Isabel.
Mabel was a little puzzled how to answer the question. At length she
said, "I don't think I do—at least, not now, for I want to be of some
use in the world. I want to go abroad and be a missionary by and by,
and I sha'n't want any fine learning to teach the heathen to read the
Bible."
"No, I suppose not," said Isabel, with a little gasping sigh, and
looking at Mabel with something like awe, as she thought of her exalted
aims. "I am afraid I have never thought about the heathen," she added.
"Perhaps you will tell me about them by and by."
But Mabel was busy examining a watercolour sketch on the wall, and did
not notice her cousin's question. "This is very pretty," she said—"I am
so fond of drawing and painting. Is it yours?"
"No, that is one of Julia's. Nothing of mine will ever be worth
framing, I am afraid, for I like music best, and care very little for
sketching. But I am glad you like it, for it will give Mr. Gibson so
much pleasure to teach you."
"Oh, shall I really have lessons in painting too?" exclaimed Mabel.
And then she seated herself in a low luxurious chair by the fire, and
gave herself up to the enjoyment of her surroundings, while Isabel went
to ask that tea might be brought up to their own room.
While they were at tea, the two girls chatted over their plans for the
future, during which Mabel learned that her uncle filled a large share
of his younger daughter's heart. That it was for "papa" that Isabel
took so much pains with her music, because to hear her play often
soothed him when he came home tired of an evening, and his wife and
elder daughter were out.
"It rests him more than anything when he is very much worried," said
Isabel; "and sometimes when I play, as I often do, in a minor key, it
helps him to go to sleep."
Mabel looked as though she thought this a very poor compliment—a very
questionable aim to study music for. And she began to think her cousin
must be a poor insignificant little thing to be satisfied with such a
result. "I don't think that would quite please me," she said aloud.
"But if it was the only thing you could do for your father, you would
not think so," said Isabel quickly. "You see, I don't know anything
about being useful. Cook knows just what he likes for dinner, so I
cannot help that way, and the upper housemaid sews on all the buttons
neater than I could, so there is nothing else left for me to do."
"No, I suppose not," said Mabel in a pitying tone, "but still I think
we ought to have an aim in life, and to aim high."
"I am afraid I have not thought much about such things," said Isabel
with something of a sigh, "but papa said you would be able to help me
in many ways, and so you must tell me what I ought to do."
But at this moment there came an interruption. A servant came to summon
Mabel down-stairs, for her father was going, as he wanted to reach the
end of his journey that night. And when she came back again, there was
the work of unpacking to be done. Mabel learned that there was a young
servant whose special work it was to wait upon them, and do anything
they might require, and she was not slow in availing herself of this
help, although Isabel eagerly pressed to be allowed to assist.
"No, no, dear. Ann can help me just as well. She can reach the pegs in
the wardrobe even better than you, I think."
For Isabel was not only slight and frail-looking, but short for her
age too. Another but unconfessed reason was that it was a new and
altogether unexpected pleasure to Mabel to have a maid at her own
disposal, and she was not slow to avail herself of the full benefit
of her service. When the unpacking was done, and the boxes carried
away, Mabel sat down by the fire and bade Ann brush out her hair and
plait it up afresh, before she put on another dress in readiness to go
down-stairs.
Isabel had changed hers, putting on a pretty dark silk, and Mabel felt
that she must put on the light silk that had been intended for state
occasions. So the companion brown merino that had been laid out on the
bed in readiness was put away and the other donned in its stead. And
Mabel felt and looked quite radiant in her pale blue glace, trimmed
with white lace.
When they entered the dining-room together, a displeased frown crossed
Mrs. Randolph's face. And Julia stared at her cousin as though she
was not quite sure of her identity. But her uncle made some kindly
inquiries as to how she felt after her long journey.
But it was an intense relief to Mabel when dinner was over and they
were free to retire to the drawing-room.
But it soon became evident that something had displeased both Mrs.
Randolph and Julia. And Mabel surmised that she must have displeased
them, for they never spoke a word to her the whole evening, but allowed
her to sit and turn over an album of photographic views without taking
the slightest notice of her.
Now the fact was, she had raised a storm of anger and suspicion in her
aunt's mind by wearing such a pretty dress. To the jealous watchful
mother, this seemed like an attempt to put herself on a level with
Julia at once, and she resolved to thwart it. So she told her daughter
to take no notice of her cousin, while Isabel slipped away to spend
the evening with her father in his study, leaving, as she thought, her
cousin and sister to become mutually acquainted with each other.
Poor Mabel! She felt ready to cry with mortification before the evening
was half over, for there sat her aunt toying with a piece of fancy
work, but never speaking a word, while Julia reclined in a low chair
reading a novel, and utterly ignoring her presence. How dreary that
grand drawing-room looked to Mabel in spite of its splendid satin
furniture and luxurious lounges, and costly and elegant trifles that
everywhere abounded! She grew tired of looking at photographic views
very soon, and then took to looking round the room. Then she ventured
to cross over and look at her aunt's work, and timidly put a question
about it, but Mrs. Randolph gave a short answer and at once folded up
her work and took a book that was lying near.
Thus repulsed, Mabel could only return to her seat and yawn through the
next hour, until Isabel came from the study to announce that it was
time to go to bed, and bid her mother and sister good-night.
It was an unutterable relief to Mabel to escape from the presence of
her aunt, and yet she somehow resented the idea of being sent up to bed
in this summary fashion. She felt hurt and angry, too, at the treatment
she had received. And so her farewell to Isabel before she went to her
own room was not so warm and cordial as they otherwise would have been.
And gentle, sensitive Isabel was sent to bed with an aching heart and a
dim foreboding that her cousin would not love her after all.
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