small red morocco case, inclosing a beautiful pearl necklace, and
accompanied by a note from her grandfather, in which he requested her
acceptance of it as a new-year's gift, and desired that she would wear
it on that evening at Mrs. Templeton's ball.
While Juliet was admiring the necklace, Madeline took it out of her
hand, saying, "Let me see how this looks on _my_ neck. Beautiful--really
beautiful. Ah, Juliet, it is so pretty I cannot bear to take it off
again. Come _I_ shall wear it this evening."--"But indeed," said Juliet,
"I should like very much to wear it myself; particularly as it is my
grandfather's request."--"Nonsense," answered Madeline; "grandpa is not
going to the ball himself, and how will he know whether you wear it or
not? And your father and mother are both at the theatre, and are
ignorant even of its arrival. I forgot to bring a necklace with me: so
this comes quite _apropos_. Come, I am not going to give it up this
evening. Possession, you know, is nine points of the law: and your white
neck requires no pearls to set it off."
"You know very well that my neck is _not_ white," said Juliet.
"Well then," replied Madeline, "if it is brown, the pearls will make it
look browner still. Positively you shall not have it to-night, if I run
for it." Upon which she ran down stairs into the front-parlour, and
pretended to hide behind the window-curtain, to save herself, as she
told Edward, from the vengeance of Juliet, whose new necklace she had
seized and carried off. Edward did not think this a very good joke;
however, he made no comment, and his sister coming down immediately
after, he handed her and Madeline into the carriage, and accompanied
them to Mrs. Templeton's.
At the ball the volatility of Madeline reached its climax. She talked,
laughed, flirted, jumped, and occasionally appealed to those in the same
cotillon to know if they had ever seen such a wild creature. Edward,
however, could not help observing her unkindness and rudeness to the
little children, whom she pushed about and scolded, whenever they came
in her way. Two of her younger sisters were preparing to dance together,
when Madeline and Edward, who were looking for a place, came up. "This
cotillon is completed," said Edward, "and so, I believe, are all the
others. Let us stand by, and look on. I always enjoy seeing the children
dance." "No indeed," said Madeline, "I had rather dance myself. Here,
Ellen and Clara, go and sit down, and give us your places." The children
began to object; but she pushed them away and commenced the cotillon,
saying she was determined to dance every set.
The next set, however, no one asked Madeline to dance. She looked very
much displeased at being obliged to sit still, and was yet more so, when
Charles Templeton brought up a very handsome little midshipman, in his
uniform, who, on being introduced to both the young ladies, immediately
requested the pleasure of Miss Lansdowne's hand for the next set.
Juliet stood up with the midshipman; but there was some delay in forming
the cotillons, and her partner perceived that one of his shoe-strings
was broken. He asked Charles Templeton, who was in the next cotillon, if
he would put him in a way of repairing the accident; and Charles desired
the midshipman to accompany him to his room for the purpose. Madeline,
who had heard all that passed, stepped up to Juliet and said to
her--"Juliet, as you are one of the modest people, I suppose it will
embarrass you to stand here till your partner comes back again; so do
you sit down, and I will stand and keep your place for you. You know I
have brass enough for any thing."
Juliet, grateful for Madeline's unexpected kindness, and feeling really
some embarrassment at standing up in the cotillon without her partner,
consented willingly, and took Madeline's seat. In a few minutes the
midshipman returned, and looked much surprised when he saw another young
lady in the place of his partner; but before he had time to consider why
it was so, the music commenced, and Madeline began to right and left,
and led off the cotillon; disappointing Juliet of her dance.
The midshipman, however, did not speak to Madeline during the whole set;
and when he had led her to a seat, he left her, and went up to Edward,
and expressed his surprise that Miss Lansdowne, after being engaged to
dance with him, had substituted another young lady in her place. Edward,
to whom his sister had explained how it happened, repeated her account
to the midshipman, who was much vexed, and went immediately to apologize
to Juliet, and to ask her hand for the next set, which she was obliged
to refuse, as she was pre-engaged both for that set and the following.
"So," said Madeline, as she passed Juliet on her way to the cotillon
with a new partner, "you see I tricked you out of the smart young
midshipman, who is the prettiest fellow in the room, and I was
determined not to sit still a single set."
Madeline's volatility attracted the attention of the whole company, and
the delight of finding herself an object of general notice gave her
fresh spirits as she ran to the very top of the country-dance,
oversetting a little boy on her way, afterwards romping down the middle,
and throwing herself into a seat the moment she had got to the bottom.
Soon after, while refreshments were handed round, she took an
opportunity of purposely spilling a glass of lemonade on Cecilia
Selden's pink crape frock, and she threw a piece of orange-peel in
Edward's way that he might slip on it, which he did, and very nearly
fell down.
Juliet, who had recently recovered from a severe cold, brought with her
into the ball-room a very handsome blue silk scarf, which her mother had
lent her, enjoining her to put it on whenever she was not dancing, as a
guard against being suddenly chilled when in a perspiration. Madeline,
happening to look at Juliet, observed the scarf and thought it very
becoming. She suddenly twitched it off Juliet's shoulders and threw it
over her own, saying, "Now, Juliet, you have been beautified with this
scarf long enough. It is my turn to wear it awhile." Poor Juliet knew
not how to object, though her seat (the only one she had been able to
obtain) was directly against a window, from which there was a draught of
air on the back of her neck. The consequence was a renewal of her cold,
and a sore throat which confined her for several days to the house.
The above may serve as a specimen of Madeline's various exploits at the
ball. After Juliet and her brother had got home, Edward stood for half
an hour in the middle of the parlour-floor with his bed-candle in his
hand, while he expostulated with his sister on her strange infatuation
for her new friend; declaring that, with all her volatility and apparent
frankness and good-humour, he had never known a girl more artful,
selfish, and heartless than Madeline Malcolm.
Instead of returning the flowers and the necklace on the following
morning, as she ought to have done, Madeline wore them in the evening to
another ball; and finally when Mrs. Lansdowne sent for the flowers, they
came home in a most deplorable state, soiled, crushed, and broken; so
that they were no longer fit to ornament the vases, and some of them
were entirely lost.
Madeline did not come in to see Juliet till she knew that she had quite
recovered from her sore-throat; having, as she afterward told her, a
perfect antipathy to a sick-room, and a mortal dislike to the dismals.
She forgot to return the necklace till Juliet, with many blushes, and
much confusion, at last reminded her of it. "Why," said she, "you seem
very uneasy about that necklace. Between friends like us, every thing
ought to be common." Madeline, however, had never offered to lend Juliet
the smallest article belonging to herself.
The next time Madeline came, she brought the necklace in her hand.
"Here," said she "is this most important affair; I took a fancy to wear
it round my _head_ at Mrs. Linton's, and I can assure you I had a great
deal of pulling and stretching to get it to clasp. Why did grandpapa
give you such a short necklace? However, soon after I began to dance,
snap went the thread, and down came all the pearls showering about the
floor. How I laughed; but I set all the beaux in the cotillon to picking
them up, and I suppose they found the most of them. You see I have
brought you a handful. And now you can amuse yourself with stringing
them again. Come now, don't look so like Ned.--How can you expect a wild
creature as I am, to be careful of flowers, and beads, and all such
trumpery? I dare say, you are now thinking that your sober Cecilia
Selden would have returned the pearls 'in good order and well
conditioned.' But I never allow any one to get angry with me: you know I
am a privileged person. So now look agreeable, and smile immediately.
Smile, smile, I tell you." Juliet _did_ smile, and Madeline throwing her
arms round her neck, kissed her, exclaiming, as she patted her cheek,
"There's my own good baby. She always, at last, does as I bid her."
The next day Juliet heard that the windows of Mr. Malcolm's house were
all shut up; but she was not long in suspense as to the cause, for
shortly after, Madeline came running in the back way, and said with a
most afflicted countenance, "O, Juliet, you may pity me now if you never
did before. We have just heard from New Orleans of the death of aunt
Medford, my father's only sister."
_Juliet._ I am very sorry you have received such bad news.
_Madeline._ Oh! but the worst of it is, that it will prevent our going
to the play to-night. We had engaged seats with the Rosemores, in a
delightful box. We were going to see the Belle's Stratagem, with the
masquerade, and the song, and the minuet, and the new French dancers. I
would not have missed such an entertainment for a hundred dollars. How
very provoking that the bad news did not arrive one day later. If it had
not come till to-morrow I should not have cared, for then our charming
evening at the theatre would have been over. And now, to think that
instead of going to the play, I must stay at home and look at my father
grieving for old aunt Medford. There now, Juliet, your face is again in
the style of Ned's. Positively, if you are so particular, I shall cut
your acquaintance. Those that I consider my friends must enter into all
my "whims and oddities," and not expect me to act according to rule. I
hate hypocrisy. Why should I pretend to grieve for aunt Medford when I
have never seen her since I was six years old?
_Juliet._ But sympathy for your father--
_Madeline._ Why, where is the use of sympathy? When people are in grief,
sympathy only makes them worse.
_Juliet._ If you yourself were in affliction, Madeline, you would find
the sympathy of your family and friends very gratifying.
_Madeline._ Wait till _I am_ in affliction and then I will tell you.
"_Toujours gai_," is my motto, and "_vive la bagatelle_" for ever.
So saying, she danced out of the room, and went home; but in a short
time she returned, looking very mysterious, and peeping in at the door
to ascertain if Juliet was alone. "Juliet, love," said Madeline in a low
voice, "come with me into the back parlour, lest we should be
interrupted. I have something of great consequence to tell you."
As Madeline often dealt in mysteries, Juliet thought this new secret
nothing more than usual, and accompanied her into the back parlour,
where Madeline cautiously bolted the folding-doors and locked the side
door. "Now, Juliet," said she in an under voice, "I know I may depend on
your secrecy." "Certainly you may," replied Juliet.
_Madeline._ Well then, I must confide to you a plan that has just struck
me. I cannot bear the idea of giving up the play to-night, and you know
it is out of the question for any of the family to be _seen_ there.
_Juliet._ Of course none of you can go to the theatre when your house is
shut up for the death of a near relation, and when Mr. Malcolm is in
such deep affliction.
_Madeline._ It is certainly a great pity that aunt Medford died;
particularly just at the time she did, as it will spoil all our gayety
for the winter. No more plays, and balls, and parties this season.
People ought always to die in the summer. But you know, dear Juliet, I
have not seen my aunt Medford for ten years, and I really have forgotten
all about her. So, how can you expect me to be inconsolable? And I
cannot endure the thought of being disappointed in going to the theatre.
I might as well go, as stay at home and think about it all the evening.
_Juliet._ O no, indeed! Even if you have no personal regard for your
aunt, respect for your father's feelings and a proper regard for
decorum, ought to subdue your desire of going at this time to a place of
public amusement.
_Madeline._ That is exactly such a speech as Cecilia Selden would make
on a similar occasion. It is a pity "the truly wise man" is not here.
How Neddy would applaud.
_Juliet._ But where is the use of talking in this manner. You know you
_cannot_ go to the theatre.
_Madeline._ I know I _can_.
_Juliet._ How? In what way? I do not understand you.
_Madeline._ My going to the theatre to-night depends principally on
_you_.
_Juliet._ On me!
_Madeline._ Yes, for I will not venture alone, and you must go with me.
_Juliet._ Go with you--_I_ go with you!
_Madeline._ Yes.
_Juliet._ And who else?
_Madeline._ Nobody else. Now don't look as if you were ready to run
through the wall to get away from me; but listen and understand. Our
nursery-maid, Kitty, has permission to go this evening and stay all
night with a sick sister. So when she is off, I can easily slip into
her room and select a suit of her clothes, (which I believe will nearly
fit me,) and she has a tolerably large wardrobe for a servant. Then I
will steal in the back way, bringing a suit for you. Don't look shocked.
I shall tell my father and mother that being very low-spirited, I am
coming in here to spend a quiet evening with you. I heard Mrs.
Lansdowne, when I was here yesterday, propose to your father to leave
her at her sister, Mrs. Wilmar's, on his way to the Wistar party
to-night, and call for her as he comes back; which of course will not be
before ten o'clock at the very earliest. Therefore the coast will be
clear, as I suppose Ned will go to his beloved Athenaeum. So you see
every thing seems to conspire fortunately to forward our plot.
_Juliet._ _Our_ plot. O! do not call it _ours_. I never will have any
thing to do with a plot.
_Madeline._ Yes, but you _must_ though. Why this is nothing. I have
plotted a hundred things in the course of my life, and so I shall again.
Well, now hear the whole. I will slip in the back-way, and you must be
alone in your room ready to receive me. After we have put on our
disguises, we will go down stairs very softly and steal out at the alley
gate. Then we will make the best of our way to the theatre, and go in
at the gallery-door, passing, of course as two servant-girls. When we
have reached the gallery we will mix with the crowd, and sit at our ease
and enjoy the play; at least the masquerade-scene, which I would not
miss for the world. I am absolutely dying to see the French dancers.
Nobody can possibly discover us under our disguises. We will not go till
the first act is over, and the audience settled; and we will come away
before the last scene of the comedy. Then after we get home we will
resume our proper dresses, and present ourselves to our parents, looking
as demure as if we had been sitting by the fire, and talking sensibly,
all the evening. No one will ever know what we have really been doing.
It will be a most charming frolic, and something for you and I to laugh
about, ten years hence. I always enjoy these queer exploits that no one
else has courage to undertake.
_Juliet_ (_firmly._) Madeline, I will _not_ disguise myself like a
servant-girl; and I will _never_ accompany you secretly to the theatre,
nor to any other place.
Juliet spoke in so firm a tone, that Madeline was at first abashed, and
remained for a few moments silent. But, not easily repelled, she soon
recovered from her confusion, and exerted all her eloquence to prevail
on her dear friend, as she called her, to join in the scheme. By turns
she flattered, caressed, and ridiculed her, and then tried to win her
consent by representing the delights of the masquerade-scene, as she had
heard it described by a lady who had recently seen the comedy of the
Belle's Stratagem. Juliet held out steadily for a long time. But at
length her firmness gave way, and she finally yielded; as Madeline had
foreseen. Her reluctance was so great, that her consent was, after all,
rather extorted than given, and Madeline, having kissed her rather
oftener than usual, ran gayly to her own home, singing "I won't be a
nun."
After Madeline had gone, Juliet felt so uneasy at having suffered
herself to be persuaded against her conscience, that she was on the
point of calling her back and retracting her promise. When she went to
dinner, the consciousness of her intended deceit destroyed her appetite,
and made her feel as if she could not raise her eyes towards her
parents, or answer them when they spoke to her.
Edward bent on her a scrutinizing glance, and saw that all was not
right; but supposing that she had committed some fault in the course of
the morning for which her mother had seriously reprimanded her, he was
unwilling to notice her apparent mortification, and tried to divert the
attention of his parents by talking to them of Cooper's last novel,
which had been published that morning, and of which he had already gone
through the first volume.
Mrs. Lansdowne, however, remarking that her daughter did not eat,
inquired if she felt unwell, and Juliet replied that she had a violent
headache: which was literally true. After dinner, her mother recommended
that she should retire to her room and lie down, which she gladly did:
her mind being too much agitated to take interest in any occupation.
Once in the afternoon, she heard Edward come up stairs and tap at her
door; but fearing that he had observed her confusion at dinner, and that
he might ask her some question concerning it, she lay still, and did not
answer to his knock, so that, supposing her to be asleep, he softly
withdrew.
Towards evening, her mother came to inquire after her: and Juliet,
unwilling to meet the family at table in her present state of
discomposure, requested to have her tea sent up. "My dear," said Mrs.
Lansdowne, "as you are not well, I will not go to my sister Wilmar's
this evening, but I will stay at home and sit with you."
"O, no, dear mother!" replied Juliet, "I know you wish to see aunt
Wilmar: I am sure my tea will relieve my headache, and I have no doubt,
when I have drunk it, I shall feel well enough to rise, and sit up all
the evening." Accordingly, after Juliet had taken her tea, she rose and
adjusted her dress, and when Mrs. Lansdowne came up again, she found her
daughter sitting by the fire with a book, and apparently so much
recovered, that she felt no scruples about leaving her, as she was
really desirous of passing the evening with Mrs. Wilmar, who was
confined to the house with the influenza.
At last Juliet heard her father and mother depart, and Edward went out
soon after. In a few minutes, Madeline came cautiously up stairs, and
glided into the chamber, carrying a large bundle. "All's safe," said
she, "the coast is _quite_ clear, and we have not a moment to lose. It
is a fine moonlight night."
Juliet's courage now failed entirely; and she vehemently besought
Madeline to give up a scheme fraught with so much risk and impropriety.
But Madeline was immovable, declaring that she had set her heart on it,
and that she enjoyed nothing so much as what she called an
out-of-the-way frolic. "Since you are so cowardly, Juliet," said she, "I
wish I could venture to go alone; but wild as I am, I confess I am not
quite equal to that--Come, now, off with your frock, and get yourself
dressed in these delectable habiliments."
She then began to unfasten Juliet's dress, who pale, trembling, and with
tears in her eyes, arrayed herself in the clothes that Madeline had
brought for her. The gown was a very dirty one of dark blue domestic
gingham, and she put on with it a yellowish chequered handkerchief, and
a check apron. Over this she pinned an old red woollen shawl, and she
covered her head with a coarse and broken black Leghorn bonnet. The
clothes that Madeline had allotted to herself were a little better,
consisting of a dark calico frock, a coarse tamboured muslin collar, an
old straw bonnet very yellow and faded, and a plaid cloak which belonged
to the cook, and which she had taken out of a closet in the garret.
The two young ladies did not know, or did not recollect, that when
_real_ servant-girls go to the theatre, they generally dress as well as
they can, and take pains to appear to the best advantage. The clothes
that Madeline had selected were quite too dirty and shabby for the
occasion. To complete their costume, she gave Juliet a pair of coarse
calf-skin shoes, which were so large that as she walked her feet seemed
to rise up out of them. Madeline, for her part, put on a pair of
carpet-moccasins over her slippers.
After they were dressed and ready to depart for the theatre, Juliet's
tremor increased, and she was again on the point of relinquishing her
share in the business; but she again yielded to the solicitations of
Madeline, who led her softly down stairs by the light of the moon that
shone in at the staircase windows. They stole, undiscovered, across the
yard and out at the alley-gate; and finding themselves in the street,
began to walk very fast, as people generally do when they are going to
the play.
When they came in view of the theatre, they saw no persons there, except
two or three gentlemen who went in at the pit-door. Juliet's heart
failed entirely; and she shrank back as Madeline, taking her hand,
attempted to pull her towards the door that admitted the gallery-people.
"We have now gone too far to recede," whispered Madeline,--"You must
stand by me now. I _will not_ go back, and _you must_ come forward.
Here, take my money and put it down with yours--I forgot my gloves, and
my hands will betray me, so I must keep them wrapped up in my cloak."
Juliet laid the money on the ledge before the doorkeeper, who looked at
them with some surprise. They pulled their bonnets more closely over
their faces, and passed up the stairs; Madeline running as fast as
possible, and Juliet entreating her in a low voice to stop a little, as
she could not keep pace with her. They soon found themselves in the
gallery, and being assisted over the benches by a very polite black man,
they took their seats among some coloured people about the centre of the
middle row.
The crowd and heat were intolerable. Juliet kept her eyes cast down;
afraid to look round the house, or even to steal a glance towards the
stage. Madeline, however, looked round boldly, and in a few minutes, to
her great consternation, she perceived Edward Lansdowne standing up in
the back part of one of the stage-boxes. Having finished his novel, and
feeling no inclination to read any more that night, he had concluded to
go to the theatre, reminded of it by seeing the bill in the evening
paper. "Juliet," whispered Madeline, "there is my evil genius." "Where,
where?" exclaimed Juliet, thrown almost off her guard. "If we can
distinguish _him_ at so great a distance, he can also discover
_us_."--"You forget," replied Madeline, "that we are in disguise." These
words, though uttered in a whisper, were evidently heard by the people
round, who all turned to look at them; and some tried to peep under
their bonnets, which made Juliet draw hers down over her face till her
sight was entirely obscured by it.
The play went on; but Madeline and Juliet could not enjoy it, all their
attention being engaged by the continual fear of discovery. Juliet,
however heard enough to convince her that her parents would never have
taken her to see the Belle's Stratagem; as when they did indulge her
with a visit to the theatre, they always selected a night when the play
was unexceptionable, and the whole entertainment such as a young lady
could witness with propriety.