WHAT PAUL COULD NOT KNOW.
It was a pity that Paul Brion, looking at Patty's charming figure in
the gaslight, could not have looked into her heart. It is a pity, for
us all, that there is no Palace of Truth amongst our sacred edifices,
into which we could go--say, once a week--and show ourselves as we
are to our neighbours and ourselves. If we could know our friends from
our enemies, whom to trust and whom to shun--if we could vindicate
ourselves from the false testimony of appearances in the eyes of
those whom we love and by whom we desire to be loved--not to speak of
larger privileges--what a different world it would be! But we can't,
unfortunately. And so Paul carried away with him the impression that
his Patty had become a fine lady--too fine to have any longer a thought
for him--than which he had never conceived a baser calumny in his life.
Nor was he the only one who misread her superficial aspect that night.
Mrs. Duff-Scott, the most discerning of women, had a fixed belief
that her girls, all of them, thoroughly enjoyed their first ball.
From the moment that they entered the room, a few minutes in advance
of the Governor's party, received by a dozen or two of hosts drawn
up in line on either side of the doorway, it was patent to her that
they would do her every sort of credit; and this anticipation, at any
rate, was abundantly realised. For the greater part of the evening
she herself was enthroned under the gallery, which roofed a series of
small drawing-rooms on this occasion, eminently adapted to matronly
requirements; and from her arm-chair or sofa corner she looked out
through curtains of æsthetic hues upon the pretty scene which had
almost as fresh an interest for her to-night as it had for them. And
no mother could have been more proud than she when one or other was
taken from her side by the most eligible and satisfactory partners,
or when for brief minutes they came back to her and gave her an
opportunity to pull out a fold or a frill that had become disarranged,
or when at intervals during their absence she caught sight of them
amongst the throng, looking so distinguished in their expensively
simple toilettes--those unpretending white muslins upon which she had
not hesitated to spend the price of her own black velvet and Venetian
point, whereof the costly richness was obvious to the least instructed
observer--and evidently receiving as much homage and attention as they
well knew what to do with. Now it was Eleanor going by on the arm of
a naval foreigner, to whom she was chatting in that pure German (or
equally pure French) that was one of her unaccountable accomplishments,
or dancing as if she had danced from childhood with a more important
somebody else. Now it was Patty, sitting bowered in azaleas on the
steps under the great organ, while the Austrian band (bowered almost
out of sight) discoursed Strauss waltzes over her head, and Mr. Smith
sat in a significant attitude on the crimson carpet at her feet. And
again it was Elizabeth, up in the gallery, which was a forest of fern
trees to-night, sitting under the shade of the great green fronds with
Mr. Yelverton, who had such an evident partiality for her society.
Strange to say, Mrs. Duff-Scott, acute as she was in such matters, had
never thought of Mr. Yelverton as a possible husband, and did not so
think of him now--while noting his proceedings. She was taking so deep
an interest in him as a philanthropist and social philosopher that
she forgot he might have other and less exceptional characteristics;
and she left off scheming for Elizabeth when Mr. Smith made choice
of Patty, and was fully occupied in her manoeuvres and anxieties for
the welfare of the younger sisters. That Patty should be the second
Mrs. Smith she had quite made up her mind, and that Eleanor should be
Mrs. Westmoreland was equally a settled thing. With these two affairs
approaching a crisis together, she had quite enough to think of; and,
with the prospect of losing two of her children so soon after becoming
possessed of them, she was naturally in no hurry to deprive herself
of the third. She was beginning to regard Elizabeth as destined to
be her surviving comfort when the others were gone, and therefore
abandoned all matrimonial projects on her behalf. Concerning Patty,
the fairy godmother felt that her mind was at rest; half-a-dozen times
in an hour and a half did she see the girl in some sort of association
with Mr. Smith--who finally took her in to supper, and from supper
to the cloak-room and carriage. For her she had reached the question
of the trousseau and whom she would invite for bridesmaids. About
Eleanor she was not so easy. It did not seem that Mr. Westmoreland
lived up to his privileges; he did not dance with her at all, and was
remarkably attentive to a plain heiress in a vulgar satin gown and
diamonds. However, that was nothing. The bachelors of the club had all
the roomful to entertain, and were obliged to lay aside their private
preferences for the occasion. He had made his attentions to Eleanor
so conspicuous that his proposal was only required as a matter of
form; and Mrs. Duff-Scott felt that she would rather get the fuss of
one engagement over before another came on. So, when the dissipations
of the night were past, she retired from the field with a pleasant
sense of almost unalloyed success, and fondly believed that her pretty
_protégées_ were as satisfied with the situation as she was.
But she was wrong. She was mistaken about them all--and most of all
about Patty. When she first came into the room, and the fairy-land
effect of the decorations burst upon her--when she passed up the
lane of bachelor hosts, running the gauntlet of their respectful but
admiring observation, like a young queen receiving homage--when the
little major took her for a slow promenade round the hall and made
her pause for a moment in front of one of the great mirrors that
flanked the flowery orchestra, to show her herself in full length and
in the most charming relief against her brilliant surroundings--the
girl certainly did enjoy herself in a manner that bordered closely
upon intoxication. She said very little, but her eyes were radiant
and her whole face and figure rapturous, all her delicate soul spread
out like a flower opened to the sunshine under the sensuous and
artistic influences thus suddenly poured upon her. And then, after an
interval of vague wonder as to what it was that was missing from the
completeness of her pleasure--what it was that, being absent, spoiled
the flavour of it all--there came an overpowering longing for her
lover's presence and companionship, that lover without whom few balls
are worth the trouble of dressing for, unless I am much mistaken. And
after she found out that she wanted Paul Brion, who was not there,
her gaiety became an excited restlessness, and her enjoyment of the
pretty scene around her changed to passionate discontent. Why was
he not there? She curled her lip in indignant scorn. Because he was
poor, and a worker for his bread, and therefore was not accounted the
equal of Mr. Westmoreland and Mr. Smith. She was too young and ardent
to take into account the multitudes of other reasons which entirely
removed it from the sphere of social grievances; like many another
woman, she could see only one side of a subject at a time, and looked
at that through a telescope. It seemed to her a despicably vulgar
thing, and an indication of the utter rottenness of the whole fabric
of society, that a high-born man of distinguished attainments should
by common consent be neglected and despised simply because he was not
rich. That was how she looked at it. And if Paul Brion had not been
thought good enough for a select assembly, why had _she_ been invited?
Her answer to this question was a still more painful testimony to the
generally improper state of things, and brought her to long for her
own legitimate and humble environment, in which she could enjoy her
independence and self-respect, and (which was the idea that tantalised
her most just now) solace her lover with Beethoven sonatas when he
was tired of writing, and wanted a rest. From the longing to see
him in the ballroom, to have him with her as other girls had their
natural counterparts, to share with her in the various delights of
this great occasion, she fell to longing to go home to him--to belong
to Myrtle Street and obscurity again, just as he did, and because he
did. Why should she be listening to the Austrian band, eating ices
and strawberries, rustling to and fro amongst the flowers and fine
ladies, flaunting herself in this dazzling crowd of rich and idle
people, while he plodded at his desk or smoked a lonely pipe on his
balcony, out of it all, and with nothing to cheer him? Then the memory
of their estrangement, and how it had come about, and how little chance
there seemed now of any return to old relations and those blessed
opportunities that she had so perversely thrown away, wrought upon her
high-strung nerves, and inspired her with a kind of heroism of despair.
Poor, thin-skinned Patty! She was sensitive to circumstances to a
degree that almost merited the term "morbid," which is so convenient
as a description of people of that sort. A ray of sunshine would light
up the whole world, and show her her own pathway in it, shining into
the farthest future with a divine effulgence of happiness and success;
and the patter of rain upon the window on a dark day could beat down
hope and discourage effort as effectually as if its natural mission
were to bring misfortune. At one moment she would be inflated with a
proud belief in herself and her own value and dignity, that gave her
the strength of a giant to be and do and suffer; and then, at some
little touch of failure, some discovery that she was mortal and a woman
liable to blunder, as were other women, she would collapse into nothing
and fling herself into the abysses of shame and self-condemnation as
a worthless and useless thing. When this happened, her only chance of
rescue and restoration in her own esteem was to do penance in some
striking shape--to prove herself to herself as having some genuineness
of moral substance in her, though it were only to own honestly how
little it was. It was above all things necessary to her to have her
own good opinion; what others thought of her was comparatively of no
consequence.
She had been dancing for some time before the intercourse with Mr.
Smith, that so gratified Mrs. Duff-Scott, set in. The portly widower
found her fanning herself on a sofa in the neighbourhood of her
chaperon, for the moment unattended by cavaliers; and, approaching
her with one of the frequent little plates and spoons that were
handed about, invited her favour through the medium of three colossal
strawberries veiled in sugar and cream.
"I am so grieved that I am not a dancing man," he sighed as she refused
his offering on the ground that she had already eaten strawberries
twice; "I would ask leave to inscribe my humble name on your programme,
Miss Patty."
"I don't see anything to grieve about," she replied, "in not being a
dancing man. I am sure I don't want to dance. And you may inscribe your
name on my programme and welcome"--holding it out to him. "It will keep
other people from doing it."
The delighted old fellow felt that this was indeed meeting him half
way, and he put his name down for all the available round dances that
were to take place before morning, with her free permission. Then, as
the band struck up for the first of them, and the people about them
began to crystallise into pairs and groups, and the smart man-o'-wars
men stretched their crimson rope across the hall to divide the crowd,
Mr. Smith took his young lady on his arm and went off to enjoy himself.
First to the buffet, crowned with noble icebergs to cool the air, and
groaning with such miscellaneous refreshment that supper, in its due
course, came to her as a surprise and a superfluity, where he insisted
that she should support her much-tried strength (as he did his own)
with a sandwich and champagne. Then up a narrow staircase to the groves
above--where already sat Elizabeth in a distant and secluded bower with
Mr. Yelverton, lost, apparently, to all that went on around her. Here
Mr. Smith took a front seat, that the young men might see and envy him,
and set himself to the improvement of his opportunity.
"And so you don't care about dancing," he remarked tenderly; "you, with
these little fairy feet! I wonder why that is?"
"Because I am not used to it," said Patty, leaning her white arms on
the ledge in front of her and looking down at the shining sea of heads
below. "I have been brought up to other accomplishments."
"Music," he murmured; "and--and--"
"And scrubbing and sweeping, and washing and ironing, and churning and
bread-making, and cleaning dirty pots and kettles," said Patty, with
elaborate distinctness.
"Ha-ha!" chuckled Mr. Smith. "I should like to see you cleaning pots
and kettles! Cinderella after twelve o'clock, eh?"
"Yes," said she; "you have expressed it exactly. After twelve
o'clock--what time is it now?--after twelve o'clock, or it may be a
little later, I shall be Cinderella again. I shall take off my glass
slippers, and go back to my kitchen." And she had an impulse to rise
and run round the gallery to beg Elizabeth to get permission for their
return to their own lodgings after the ball; only Elizabeth seemed to
be enjoying her _tête-à-tête_ so much that she had not the heart to
disturb her. Then she looked up at Mr. Smith, who stared at her in a
puzzled and embarrassed way. "You don't seem to believe me," she said,
with a defiant smile. "Did you think I was a fine lady, like all these
other people?"
"I have always thought you the most lovely--the most charming--"
"Nonsense. I see you don't understand at all. So just listen, and I
will tell you." Whereupon Patty proceeded to sketch herself and her
domestic circumstances in what, had it been another person, would have
been a simply brutal manner. She made herself out to be a Cinderella
indeed, in her life and habits, a parasite, a sycophant, a jay in
borrowed plumage--everything that was sordid and "low," and calculated
to shock the sensibilities of a "new rich" man; making her statement
with calm energy and in the most terse and expressive terms. It was her
penance, and it did her good. It made her feel that she was genuine in
her unworthiness, which was the great thing just now; and it made her
feel, also, that she was set back in her proper place at Paul Brion's
side--or, rather, at his feet. It also comforted her, for some reason,
to be able, as a matter of duty, to disgust Mr. Smith.
But Mr. Smith, though he was a "new rich" man, and not given to tell
people who did not know it what he had been before he got his money,
was still a man, and a shrewd man too. And he was not at all disgusted.
Very far, indeed, from it. This admirable honesty, so rare in a young
person of her sex and charms--this touching confidence in him as a
lover and a gentleman--put the crowning grace to Patty's attractions
and made her irresistible. Which was not what she meant to do at all.