tall, dark, well-grown young fellow, who might have been handsome but
for a look of gloomy sulkiness which made his face repulsive. He
muttered something indistinguishable and held out his arm, and Margaret,
understanding it as an invitation to dance, mechanically rose, and
allowed herself to be conducted to the ballroom. She made one or two
remarks to which he never replied, and after pushing her once or twice
round the room in as perfunctory a manner as if he were moving a table,
watching the door over her head, meanwhile, with an attention which made
him perpetually lose the step, he suddenly dropped her a little way from
her former seat, on which she was glad to take refuge. She thought she
must have made a worse figure on the floor than sitting down, and then
a terrible fear rushed over her like a cold chill. Was there something
very much amiss with her appearance? Had anything very shocking happened
to her gown? She looked at it furtively; but just then the bustle of a
late arrival diverted her thoughts a little, as a short, plump,
black-eyed girl came laughing in, followed by a quiet, middle-aged lady,
and a rather bashful-looking young man. Margaret thought her only rather
pretty, not knowing that she was Miss Kitty Chester, the beauty of
Boston for the past two seasons; however, she did observe that she had
the most gorgeous gown, the biggest nosegay, and the highest spirits in
the room. She hastened up to Mrs. Underwood, with an effusive greeting,
which that lady seemed trying, not quite successfully, to return in
kind. Half of the girls in the room, and most of the men, gathered round
her in a moment; and a confused rattle of lively small talk arose, of
which Margaret could make out nothing. She noticed, however, that the
other girls, many of them momentarily deserted, appeared to regard the
sensation with something of a disparaging air, and she heard one of them
say, that it was a little too bad, even for Kitty Chester. What "it"
might be remained a mystery, but there was no doubt that it contributed
amazingly to the success of Mrs. Underwood's dance, which went on,
Margaret thought, with redoubled zest, for all but herself; nor, indeed,
did Ralph Underwood appear enlivened, for she caught a glimpse of him
across the room, sulkier than ever. To her surprise, as he looked her
way, a sort of satisfaction, it could not be called pleasure, suddenly
dawned on his face. Surely she could never be the cause! And then for
the first time she perceived that someone was standing behind her; and,
as one is apt to do in such a consciousness, she turned sharply and
suddenly around, the confusion which came too late to check her movement
coloring her face. It was a relief to find that it was a very
insignificant person on whom her glance fell, a small, plain man of
indefinite age, who looked, as the girls phrase it, "common." He was
dressed like the other men, but his clothes had not the set of theirs,
and he had the air, if not of actual ill-health, of being in poor
condition. In that one glance her eyes met his, which sent back a look,
not of recognition, but of response. There was nothing which she could
notice as an assumption of familiarity, but if anyone else had seen it
they might have thought that she had been speaking to him. Of course,
she could do nothing but turn as quickly back; but she was conscious
that he still kept his place, and somehow it seemed a kind of protection
to have him there. He stood near, but not obtrusively so; a little to
one side, in just such a position that she could have spoken to him
without moving, and they might have been thought to be looking on
together, too much at their ease to talk. When people paired off for
supper and nobody came for her, he waited till everyone else had left
the room, so that he might have been thought her escort. He then
disappeared; but in a moment Margaret was amazed by the entrance of a
magnificent colored waiter, who offered her a choice of refreshments
with the finest manners of his race. His subordinates rushed upon each
other's heels with all the delicacies she wished, and more that she had
never heard of, and their chief came again to see that she was properly
served. Not a young woman at the ball had so good a supper as Margaret;
but that is the portion of the entertainment for which young women care
the least.
Just before the crowd surged back from the supper-room, her protector,
as she could not help calling him to herself, had slipped back into his
old place, so naturally that he might have been there all the time
during the supper, whose remains the waiters were now carrying off with
as much deference as they had brought it. Margaret wondered how a person
who looked, somehow, so out of his sphere, could act as if he were so
perfectly in it. Very few people seemed to know him, and though when
one or two of the men spoke to him it was with an air of being well
acquainted, he seemed rather to discourage their advances, and Margaret
was glad, for she dreaded his being drawn away from her neighbourhood.
While she was puzzling over the question as to whether he were a poor
relation, or Ralph's old tutor, the wished-for, yet dreaded hour of her
release sounded,--dreaded, for how to say her good-by and get out of the
room. But somehow the unknown was close behind her, and one or two of a
party who were going at the same time were speaking to him, so she might
have been of, as well as in, the group. Mrs. Underwood looked worried
and tired and had hardly a word for her, but seemed to have something to
say to her companion of a confidential nature, by which, however, he
would not allow himself to be detained, but excused himself in a few
murmured words, which seemed to satisfy his hostess, and passed on,
still close behind Margaret, to the door, where they came full against
Ralph Underwood, who barely returned Margaret's bow, but exclaimed:
"What, Al, going? Oh, come now, don't go."
"Al" said something in a low voice, as inexpressive as the rest of him,
of which Margaret could only distinguish the words "coming back," and
followed her on, waiting till she came down the stairs and out of the
house. He did not offer to put her into the carriage, but somehow it was
done without any exertion on her part, and as she drove off, she saw him
on the steps looking after her.
Margaret had a fine spirit of her own, and could have borne the downfall
of her illusions and hopes as well as ninety-nine young women out of a
hundred. She could even, when her distresses were well over, have
laughed at them herself, and turned over the leaf in hopes of a better.
But what was she to write home about it? how satisfy her father, mother,
and Winnie, eager for news of her? how bear their disappointment? There
lay the sting. "If it were not for them," she thought, "I should not
mind so very much." She was strictly truthful both by nature and
education, and though she did feel that if ever a few white lies were
justifiable, they would be here, she dismissed the notion as foolish, as
well as wicked, and lay awake most of the night, trying to
diplomatically word a letter which should keep to the facts and still
give a cheerful impression. "Mrs. Underwood's dance was very pretty,"
she said, and she described the decorations and dresses. She had "rather
a quiet time" herself, not knowing many people, and did not dance more
than "once or twice." Here was a long pause, until she decided that
"once or twice" might literally stand for one as well as more. She did
not see much of Mrs. Underwood or Ralph, as they were busy receiving,
but "some of the men were very kind." Here again conscience pricked her;
but to say one man would sound so pointed and particular--it would draw
attention and perhaps inquiry which she could but ill sustain; and then
luckily the devotion of the black waiters darted into her mind, and she
went off peacefully to sleep, her difficulties conquered for the
present, and a feeling of gratitude toward the unknown warm at her
heart. Of course "a man like that" could only have acted out of pure
good-nature, and couldn't have expected that she should dream of its
being anything else. She wished she could have thanked him for it.
The lesser trial of having to tell Cousin Susan about it was fortunately
averted. Mrs. Manton never left her room the next day, and when Margaret
saw her late the day after, the party was an old story, and Margaret
could say carelessly that it had been rather slow, and her host not
particularly attentive, without exciting too much comment. Cousin Susan
said it was a pity, but that it would be better at the next, as she
would know a few people to start with. Margaret did not feel so sure of
that, and wished she could stay away; but she had no excuse to give
without telling more of the truth than she could bring herself to do;
and then, she reasoned, things might be different next time. Mrs.
Underwood might have more time or inclination to attend to her, when she
was not occupied with her other guests; and there were other matrons,
some of whom might be good-natured,--perhaps some of the men might
notice her at a second view, and ask her to dance; at any rate, she
thought, it could not well be worse than the first. She wished she had
another gown to wear than that pink silk, which might be unlucky, but
the white muslin prepared as an alternative was by no means smart
enough. So she put on the gown of Monday, trying to improve it in
various little ways, and waited with something that might be called
heroism.
Mrs. Underwood called at the appointed hour. She bade Margaret good
evening, and asked if she minded taking a front seat, as she was going
to take up Mrs. Thorndike Freeman; and that, and Margaret's
acquiescence, was about all that passed between them till the carriage
stopped, and a faded-looking, though youngish woman, plain, but with an
air of some distinction got in, and acknowledged her introduction to
Margaret with a few muttered indistinguishable words.
"Dear Katharine, I am so glad!" said Mrs. Underwood; "I thought you
would certainly have some girl to take, and I should have to go alone."
"I'm not quite such a fool, thank you," said Mrs. Freeman, in a quick
little incisive voice that somehow brought her words out; "I told them
I'd be a patroness, if I need have no trouble, and no responsibilities;
but you needn't expect to see me with a girl on my hands."
"Oh, but any girl with you would be sure to take."
"You can never tell--unless a girl happens to hit, or her people are
willing to entertain handsomely, you can't do much for her. A girl may
be pretty enough, and nice enough, and have good connections, too, and
she may fall perfectly flat. I had such a horrid time last winter with
Nina Turner; I couldn't well refuse them. Well, thank Heaven, she's
going _in_ this winter;--going to set up a camera and take to
photography."
"I wish more of them would go in," said Mrs. Underwood with a groan.
"Here has Bella Manning accepted, if you will believe it. I should think
she had had enough of sitting out the German. Well--I shan't trouble
myself about her this winter. She ought to go in and be done with it."
"The mistake was in her ever coming out," said Mrs. Freeman, with a
laugh at her own wit.
"It is a mistake a good many of them have made this year. Did you ever
see a plainer set of debutantes?"
"Never, really; it seems to have given Mabel Tufts courage to hold on
another year. I hear she's coming."
"Yes," said Mrs. Underwood scornfully. "It's too absurd. Why, her own
nephews are out in society! They go about asking the other fellows,
'Have you met my aunt?' Ned Winship has made a song with those words for
a chorus, and the boys all sing it. And yet, Mabel is very pretty
still--I wonder no one has married her."
"Mabel Tufts was never the sort of girl men care to marry."
Margaret wondered in her own mind at the sort of girl Mr. Thorndike
Freeman had cared to marry. She tried to keep her courage up, but it
grew weaker as she followed the other ladies upstairs and took off her
wraps and pulled on her gloves as fast as she could, while Mrs.
Underwood stood impatiently waiting, and Mrs. Freeman looked Margaret
over beginning with her feet and working upward.
"Have you a partner engaged, Miss Parke?" asked Mrs. Underwood suddenly.
"No"--faltered Margaret, unable to add anything to the bare fact.
"I am afraid you won't get one then, there are so many more girls than
men."
The "so many more" turned out, in fact, to be two or three, but Margaret
had no hope. She felt that whoever got a partner, it would not be she.
The dancers paired off, the seats were drawn, the music began, and she
found herself sitting by Mrs. Underwood on the back row of raised
benches, with a quarter view of that lady's face, as she chatted with
Mrs. Thorndike Freeman on the other side. There were only two other
girls, as far as Margaret could make out, among the chaperons. Some of
the latter were young enough, no doubt, but their dress and careless
easy manner marked the difference. A pretty, thin, very
fashionable-looking elderly young lady sat near Margaret;--perhaps the
luckless Mabel Tufts; but she seemed to know plenty of people, and was
perpetually being taken out for turns. She laughed and talked freely, as
if defying her position, and Margaret wished she could carry it off so
well, little guessing how fiercely the other was envying her for the
simplicity that might not know how bad her plight was, and the youth
that had still such boundless possibilities in store. Another small,
pale girl in a dark silk sat far back, and perhaps had only come to look
on,--too barefaced a pretence for Margaret in her terribly obtrusive
pink gown. She could not even summon resolution to refuse young
Underwood when he asked her for a turn, though she wished she had after
he had deposited her in her chair again and stalked off with the air of
one who has done his duty.
The griefs of a young woman who has no partner for the German, though
perhaps not so lasting as those of one who lacks bread and shelter, are
worse while they do last, for there may be no shame in lacking bread,
and one can, and generally does, take to begging before starving. As the
giraffe is popularly supposed to suffer exceptionally from sore throat,
owing to the length of that portion of his frame, so did Margaret, as
she sat through one figure, and then through another, feel her torture
through every nerve of her five feet, eight inches. What would she not
have given to be smaller, perhaps even plainer,--somehow less
conspicuous. Man after man strolled past her, and lounged in front of
her, chatting and laughing with Mrs. Thorndike Freeman; but it was not
possible they could help seeing her, however they might ignore her.
"_Le jour sera dur, mais il se passera._"
Margaret could have looked forward to all this being over at last, and
to night and darkness, and bed for relief; but--here rose again the
spectre--what could she write home about it? She could not devise
another evasive letter; she must tell the whole truth, and had better
have done so at first--for of course she should never, never come to one
of these things again. The hands of the great clock crept slowly on;
would they never hurry to midnight before the big ball in her throat
swelled to choking, and her quivering, burning, throbbing pulses drove
her to do something, she could not tell what, to get away and out of it
all?
The second figure was over, and she looked across the great hall,
wondering if she could not truthfully plead a headache, and go to the
cloak-room. But how was she to get there? and what could she do there
alone? She would have died on the spot rather than make any appeal to
Mrs. Underwood. No, she must go through with it; and then as she looked
again, a great, sudden sense of relief came over her, for she saw in the
doorway the slouching figure of her friend of Monday. He did not look at
her, and she doubted if he saw her; but it was something to have him in
the room. In a moment more, however, she saw him speak to Ralph
Underwood; and then the latter came up to her and asked if he might
present a friend of his, and at her acquiescence, moved away and came up
again with "Miss Parke, let me introduce Mr. Smith."
"I am very sorry to say I don't dance," Mr. Smith began, "but I hear
that there are more ladies than men to-night; so perhaps if you have not
a partner already, you won't mind doing me the favour of sitting it out
with me."
Margaret hardly knew what he meant, but she would have accepted, had he
asked her to dance a _pas de deux_ with him in the middle of the hall.
She took his arm and they walked far down to a place at the very end of
the line of chairs; but it did not matter; it was in the crowd.
Mr. Smith did not say much at first; he hung her opera cloak over the
back of her chair carefully, so that she could draw it up if she needed
it, and somehow the way he did so made her feel quite at home with him,
and as if she had known him for a long time; even though she perceived,
now that she had the opportunity to look more closely at him, that he
was by no means so old as she had at first taken him to be. His hair was
thin, and there were one or two deeply-marked lines on his face, but
there was something about his figure and motions that gave an impression
of youthfulness. Without knowing his age, you would have said that he
looked old for it. He was rather undersized than small, having none of
the trim compactness that we associate with the latter word, and his
face had the dull, thick, sodden skin that indicates unhealthy
influences in childhood.
"That was a pleasant party at Mrs. Underwood's the other evening," he
began at last.
"Was it?" said Margaret, "I never was at a party before--I mean a party
like that."
"And I have been to very few; parties are not much in my line, and when
I do go I am generally satisfied with looking on; but I like that very
well, sometimes."
"Perhaps," said Margaret ingenuously, "if I had gone only to look on, I
should have thought it pleasant too; but I did not suppose one went to a
party for that."
"You do not know many people in Boston?"
"Oh, no! I live in the country--at Royalston. I don't know anyone here
but Mrs. Underwood; but I thought--mamma said, that she would probably
introduce me to some of her friends; but she didn't--not to one. Don't
people do so now?"
"Well, it depends on circumstances. I certainly think she might have;
but then she has so much to think about, you know."
"I suppose I was foolish to expect anything different, but I had read
about parties, and I thought--I was very silly--but I thought I didn't
look so very badly. I thought I should dance a little--that everybody
did. Perhaps my gown doesn't look right. Mamma made it, and took a
great deal of pains with it. Of course, it isn't so new or nice as the
others here, but I can't see that it looks so very different; do you?"
"It looks very nice to me," said Mr. Smith, smiling. He had a pleasant,
rather melancholy smile, which gave his face the sole physical
attraction it possessed, and would have given it more, if he had had
better teeth. "It looks very nice to me, and as you are my partner, I am
the one you should wish most to please."
"Oh, thank you! it was so kind in you to ask me. I can tell them when I
write home that I had a partner at any rate; and you can tell me who
some of the others are."
"I am afraid not many," said Mr. Smith, "I go out but very little. I
only went to the Underwoods because Ralph is an old friend of mine, and
I came here because--" He checked himself suddenly.
"I am sorry, since he is your friend, but I must say that I do think him
very disagreeable. I did not know a man could be so unpleasant. I had
rather he had not danced with me at all than to do it in that terribly
dreary way, as if he were doing it because he had to."
"You mustn't be hard on poor Ralph. He's a very good fellow, really, but
he's almost beside himself just now. The very day of their dance, Kitty
Chester's engagement came out. She had been keeping him hanging on for
more than a year, and at one time he really thought she was going to
have him; and not only that, but she and Frank Thomas actually came to
his party, and they are here to-night. Ralph acts as if he had lost his
senses, and his mother is almost wild about him. Why, after their dance,
I was up all the rest of the night with him. He can't make any fight
about it, and I think it would be better if he were to go away; but he
won't--he just hangs about wherever she is to be seen. We all do all we
can to get him to pluck up some spirit, but it's no go--yet."
"I am very sorry for him," said Margaret, with all a girl's interest in
a love story; and she cast an awe-struck glance toward the spot where
Miss Chester was keeping half a dozen young men in conversation; "but he
need not make everyone else so uncomfortable on account of it--need he?"
"He needn't make himself so uncomfortable, you might say, for a girl who
could treat him in that way; but it doesn't do to tell a man that. It
doesn't seem to me that I should give up everything in the way he is
doing; but then I was never in his place; of course, things are
different for Ralph and me."
"Yes, I am sure, you are different. I don't believe you would ever have
behaved so ill to one girl in your own mother's house, because another
hadn't treated you well."
"I have had such a different experience of life; that was what I meant.
It made me sympathise with you when you felt a little strange; though of
course, it was only a mere accident that things happened so with you.
Now, I was never brought up in society, and always feel a little out of
place in it."
"I don't know much about society either; we live very quietly at home,
and when we do go out, why it is at home, you know, and that makes it
different."
"I suppose you live in a pretty place when you are at home?"
"Oh, Royalston is lovely!" said Margaret, eagerly; "there are beautiful
walks and drives all round it, and the streets have wide grass borders,
and great elms arching over them, and every house has a garden, and our
garden is one of the prettiest there. The place was an old one when
father bought it, and the flower-beds have great thick box edges and
they are so full of flowers; and there is a long walk up to the front
door, between lilac bushes as big as trees, some purple and some white;
and inside it is so pleasant, with rooms built on here and there, all in
and out, and stairs up and down between them. Of course we are not rich
at all, and things are very plain, but mamma has so much taste; and then
there are all the old doors and windows, and the big fireplaces with
carved mantel-pieces, and so much old panelling and queer little
cupboards in the rooms--mamma says it is the kind of house that
furnishes itself."
"I see--it is a good thing to have such a home to care about. Now I was
born in the ugliest village you can conceive of in the southern part of
Illinois; dust all summer, and mud all winter, and in one of the ugliest
houses in it; and yet, do you know, I am fond of the place; it was home.
We were very poor then--poorer than you can possibly conceive of--and I
was very sickly when I was a boy, and had to stay in most of the time. I
was fond of reading, though I hadn't many books, but I never saw any
society--what you would call society. When I was old enough to go to
college, father had got along a little, and sent me to Harvard. I liked
it there, and some of the fellows were very kind to me, especially Ralph
Underwood, though you might not think it. I tried to learn what I could
of their ways and customs, but it was rather late for me, and I never
cared to go out much; and then--there were other reasons." A faint flush
rose on his sallow face and he paused. Margaret fancied he alluded to
his poverty, and felt sorry for him. She hoped he was getting on in the
world, though he did not look very well fitted for it. By this time they
were on a footing of easy comradeship, such as two people of the same
sex and on the same plane of thought sometimes fall into at their first
meeting. It is not often that a young man and a girl of such different
antecedents slide so easily into it; but as Margaret said to herself,
this was a peculiar case. He had told his little story with an apparent
effort to be strictly truthful and put things in their proper position
at the outset. There could be no intentions on his part, or foolish
consciousness or any reason for it on hers, and she asked him with
undisguised interest:
"Where do you live now,--in Illinois?"
"Not that part of it. Father and mother live in Chicago when they are at
home. I am in Cambridge, just now, myself; it is a convenient place for
my work"; and then as her eyes still looked inquiry, he went on, "I am
writing a book."
"Oh! and what is it about?"
"The Albigenses--it is a historical monograph upon the Albigenses."
"That must be a very interesting subject."
"It is interesting. It would be too long a story to tell you how I came
to think of writing it, but I do enjoy it very much indeed. It's the
great pleasure of my life. It isn't that I have any ambition, you know,"
he said in a disclaiming manner. "It's not the kind of book that will
sell well, or be very generally read, for I know I haven't the power to
make it as readable as it ought to be; but I hope it may be useful to
other writers. I am making it as complete as I can. I have been out
twice to Europe to look up authorities, and spent a long time in the
south of France studying localities."
"Oh, have you? how delightful it must be! Father writes too," with a
little pride in her tone, "but it's all on medical subjects; we don't
understand them, and he doesn't care to have us. He hates women to
dabble in medicine, and he says amateur physicians, anyhow, are no
better than quacks."
Mr. Smith made no answer, and they sat silent, till Margaret, fancying
that perhaps he did not like the conversation turned from his book,
asked another question on the subject. She was a well-taught girl, fond
of books, and accustomed to hear them talked over at home, and made an
intelligent auditor. The evening flew by rapidly for both of them,
though their tete-a-tete was seldom disturbed. The man who sat on
Margaret's other side, after staring at her for a long time, asked to be
introduced to her, and took her out once; but it was not very
satisfactory, for he had nothing to talk of but the season, and other
parties of which she knew nothing. However, the figure brought a group
of the ladies together for a moment in the middle of the hall; and a
smiling girl who had been pretty before her face had taken on the tint
of a beetroot, made some pleasant remark to Margaret on the excessive
heat of the room, but was off and away before the answer. Margaret
thought the room comfortably cool--but then she had been sitting still,
while the other had hardly touched her chair since she came. Almost at
the end of the evening too, it dawned upon good-natured, short-sighted,
absent-minded Mrs. Willy Lowe, always put into every list of patronesses
to keep the peace among them, that the pretty girl in pink did not seem
to be dancing much; and she seized and dragged across the room, much as
if by the hair of the head, the only man she could lay hold of--a shy,
awkward undergraduate, of whose little wits she quickly deprived him, by
introducing him as Warner, his real name being Warren. She addressed
Margaret as Miss Parker; but she meant well, and Margaret was grateful,
though they interrupted Mr. Smith in his account of the Roman
Amphitheatre at Arles, and the "Lilies of Arles." But it was well that
she should have something to put into her letter home besides Mr.
Smith--it would never do to have it entirely taken up with him. By the
by, what was his other name? Mr. Smith sounded so unmeaning. She had
heard Ralph Underwood call his friend "Al," which it would not do for
her to use. It might be either Alfred or Albert, and with that proneness
to imagine we have heard what we wish, it really seemed to her as if she
had heard that his name was Albert; she would venture on it, and if she
were mistaken it would be very easy to correct it afterwards; and she
wrote him down as "Mr. Albert Smith." His story she considered as told
in confidence and nobody's affair but his own.