asked Dr. Thomas if I could go, and he said, of course not.
I was so provoked, for if she hadn't spoken of it, he would
never have dreamed of forbidding me to go out--he never
does. Most likely he never imagines that anybody will go
anywhere if they are not obliged to. Now that I am not
going, mother won't go herself. She wants to go to Cousin
Jane's little tea. She says they are so far apart she can't
do both. So stupid in Cousin Jane to put hers the same day
as the Bracketts'--but I dare say she will have a sufficient
number of her own set to fill up. I doubt if she gets many
of the girls. You are so soft-hearted that I dare say you
will struggle for both. Do get through in time to drop in
here any time after half-past six. I am going to have a few
girls to tea in my room to cheer me up and tell me all about
the Bracketts'. They have asked everyone they possibly can,
and I dare say everyone will go to see what it is like. I am
sure I would if I could. Remember you must come.
"Ever your
"GRACE G. D.
"_Tuesday P.M._"
As Miss Caroline Foster, after lunch on the tenth of December, inspected
the cards and notes which encircled her mirror in a triple row, she
selected these three as calling for immediate attention. Of course she
meant to go to all: when was she ever known to refuse an invitation?
Though young and pretty, well connected and well dowered, and far from
stupid, she occupied in society the position of a down-trodden pariah or
over-worked galley-slave, for the reason that she never could say no to
anyone. She had nothing--money, time, sympathy--that was not at the
service of anyone who chose to beg or borrow them. At parties she put up
with the left-over partners, and often had none--for even the young men
had found out that she could always be had when wanted. Perhaps this was
the reason why, with all her prettiness and property, she was not
already appropriated in marriage. Of course she had hosts of friends,
who all despised her; but one advantage she did enjoy, for which others
might have been willing to barter admiration and respect; no one, man,
woman, or child, was ever heard to speak harshly to Caroline Foster, or
to say anything against her. Malice itself must have blushed to say that
she was too complying, and malice itself could think of nothing else.
This tenth of December marked an uncommon event in her experience, for
on it she had, for the first time in her life, made up her mind to
refuse an asked-for gift; and the consciousness of this piece of spirit,
and of a beautiful new costume of dark-blue velvet trimmed with otter
fur, which set off her fair hair and fresh face to perfection, gave her
an air of unwonted stateliness as she stepped into a handsome coupe and
drove off alone. She was by no means an independent or unguarded young
woman; but her aunt, with whom she lived, had two committee meetings
that afternoon, and told Caroline that she might just as well go to Miss
Caldwell's little tea for ladies only, alone. They would meet at Mrs.
Brackett's; and if they didn't they could tell everyone they were trying
to--which would do just as well.
Miss Caldwell lived in an old house on Mount Vernon Street which gave
the impression that people had forgotten to pull it down because it was
so small; but within it looked spacious, as it sheltered only one lady
and two maids. Everything about it had an air of being fresh and faded
at once. The little library in front was warm dull olive-green; and the
dining-room at the back soft deep grey-blue; and the drawing-room, up
one flight of an unexpected staircase, was rich dark brick-red--all very
soothing to the eye. They were full of family portraits, and old brass
and pewter, and Japanese cabinets, and books bound in dimly gilded
calf-skin, and India chintzes, all of which were Miss Caldwell's by
inheritance. Even sunlight had a subdued effect in these rooms; and now
they were lighted chiefly by candles, and none too brilliantly.
Miss Caldwell had been receiving her guests in the drawing-room; but
there were not many, and being a lady accustomed to do as she pleased,
she had followed them down to the dining-room, which was just
comfortably full. Conversation was, as it were, forced to be general,
and the whole room heard Mrs. Spofford remark that "Malcolm Johnson
would be a very poor match for Caroline Foster."
"Caroline Foster and Malcolm Johnson, is that an engagement?" asked the
stout, good-natured Mrs. Manson, who was tranquilly eating her way
through the whole assortment of biscuits and bonbons on the table.
"Well, Caroline is a dear, sweet girl--just the kind to make a good wife
for a widower."
"With five children to start with, and no means that I know of!" said
Miss Caldwell, scornfully. "I am sure I hope not!"
"I have heard it on the best authority," said the first speaker.
"It will take better authority than that to make me believe it."
"If he proposes to her," said Mrs. Manson, "I should say she would take
him. I never knew Caroline to say no to anyone."
"Well," said Miss Caldwell, "I suppose it's natural for a woman to be a
fool in such matters--for most women," she corrected herself; "but if
Caroline marries Malcolm Johnson I shall think her _too_ foolish--and
she has never seemed to me to be lacking in sense."
"Perhaps," said the pourer out of tea, a pretty damsel with large dark
eyes, a little faded to match the room--"perhaps she wants a sphere."
"As if her aunt could not find her fifty spheres if she wanted them!"
"Too many, perhaps," said a tall lady with a sensible, school-teaching
air. "I have sometimes thought that Mrs. Neal, with managing all her own
children's families and her charities, had not much time or thought to
spare for poor little Caroline. She is kind to her, but I doubt if she
gives her much attention."
"A woman likes something of her own," said Mrs. Manson.
"Her own!" said Miss Caldwell. "How much good of her own is she likely
to have if she marries Malcolm Johnson?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Spofford, "his motives would be plain enough; I dare
say he's in love with her. Caroline is a lovely girl, but of course in
such a case her money goes for something."
"But she has not so very much money," said Mildred, dropping a lump of
sugar into a cup--"plenty, I suppose, for herself, but it would not
support a large family like Mr. Johnson's."
"It would pay his taxes, my dear, and buy his coal," said Miss Caldwell,
"and he has kept house long enough to appreciate the help _that_ would
be."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Manson, "coal is so terribly high this winter!"
"It would be a saving for him to marry anybody," said a thin lady with a
sweet smile, slightly soiled gloves, and her bonnet rather on one side.
"He tells me that his housekeepers are no end of trouble. He is always
changing them, and his children are running wild with it all. He's a
very old friend of mine," she added with a conscious air.
"They are very troublesome children," said Miss Caldwell. "I hear them
crying a great deal."
"Poor little things!--they need training," said Mrs. Manson.
"Caroline would never train them; she is too amiable."
"They have so much illness," said Mrs. Eames, the "old friend." "Poor
Malcolm tells me he is afraid that little Willie has incipient spine
complaint; he is in pain most of the time. The poor child was always
delicate, and his mother watched him most carefully. She was a most
painstaking mother, poor thing, though I don't imagine there was much
congeniality between her and Malcolm. I wish I could do something for
them, but I have _such_ a family of my own."
"Someone ought to warn Caroline," said Miss Caldwell. "I wonder he has
the audacity to ask her. If he wasn't a widower he wouldn't dare to."
"If he wasn't a widower," said Miss Mildred, "her loving him in spite of
all his drawbacks would seem more natural."
"If he wasn't a widower," said Mrs. Manson, "he wouldn't have the
drawbacks, you know."
"If he wasn't a widower," said Mrs. Eames, "he might not be so anxious
to marry her. Good-by, dear Miss Caldwell. Such a delightful tea! I may
take some little cakes to the dear children?"
"Good-by," said Mrs. Manson, swallowing her last macaroon. She turned
back as she reached the doorway; and her ample figure, completely
filling it up, gave opportunity for a young lady who had been standing
in the shadow of the staircase to dart across the hall unseen. Miss
Caroline Foster had sought her hostess in the drawing-room, but finding
it empty, had come downstairs again, and had been obliged to listen to
the conversation, which she had not the courage to interrupt; and she
now threw on her wrap and rushed past the astonished maid out of the
house before Mrs. Manson's slow progress could reach the cloak-room.
* * * * *
At half-past five o'clock the Brackett tea was in full swing. The
occupants of the carriages at the end of the long file were getting out
and walking to the door, and some of the more prudent were handing in
their cards and departing, judging from the crush that if their chance
of getting in was but small, their chance of getting away was none at
all. The Bracketts were at home; but of their home there was nothing to
be seen for the crowd, except the blazing chandeliers overhead, the
high-hung modern French pictures in heavy gilded frames, the intricate
draperies of costly stuffs and laces at the tops of the tall windows,
here and there the topmost spray of some pyramid or bank of flowers, and
the upper part of the immense mirrors which reflected over and over what
they could catch of the scene. The hostess was receiving in the middle
drawing-room; but it was a work of time and pains to get so far as to
obtain a view of the sparkling aigret in her hair. A meagre, carefully
dressed woman had accomplished this duty, and might now fairly be
getting off and leaving her place for someone else; yet she lingered
near the door of the outer room, loath to depart, looking with an
anxious eye for familiar faces, with an uneasy incipient smile waiting
for the occasion to call out. Sometimes it grew more marked, and she
made a tentative step forward; and if the person went by with scant
greeting or none at all, she would draw back and patiently repair it for
future use. For the one or two who stopped to speak to her she kept it
carefully up to, but not beyond, a certain point, while still her
restless eye strayed past them in search of better game. Just as she had
exchanged a warmer greeting than her wont with a quiet, lady-like woman
who was forced on inward by the crowd, she was startled by a smart tap
on her shoulder, and as she turned sharp round towards the wall, the
rich brocade window-curtains waved, and a low voice was heard from
behind them.
"Come in here, won't you, Miss Snow?"
Miss Martha Snow, bewildered, drew aside the heavy folds, and found
herself face to face with a richly arrayed, distinguished-looking,
though _passee_ woman, who had settled herself comfortably on the
cushioned seat between the lace curtains without and the silk within.
"My dear Mrs. Freeman! how do you do? How you did frighten me!"
"I have been trying to get at you for an age," said Mrs. Thorndike
Freeman, laughing. "I thought you would never have done falling into the
arms of that horrid Hapgood woman."
"I could not help it. She would keep me. She is one of those people you
can't shake off, you know."
"I! _I_ don't know her."
"But why are you here, out of sight of everyone? Are you waiting for a
chance to get at Mrs. Brackett?" hurried on Miss Snow.
"I'm waiting for a chance to get away from her. I would not be seen
speaking to her for any consideration whatever."
"I--I _was_ surprised to meet you here!"
"I came because I wanted to see what it would be like, but I had no
conception it would be so bad. Did you ever see such a set as she has
collected?"
"It does seem mixed."
"Unmixed, I should call it. I have been waiting for half an hour to see
a soul of my acquaintance. Sit down here, and let us have a nice talk."
A nice talk with Mrs. Thorndike Freeman foreboded a dead cut from her
the next time you met her; for she never took anyone up without as
violently putting them down again--and then there was no one now to see
and envy. However, Miss Snow dared not refuse, and seating herself with
a conciliatory, frightened air, somewhat like a little dog in the cage
of a lioness, asked in timid tones:
"Why do you stay? Is not your carriage here?"
"I want to get something to eat first," said Mrs. Freeman, "for I
suppose their spread is something indescribable."
"Oh, quite! The whole middle of the table is a mass of American Beauty
roses as large as--as cabbages, and around that a bank of mignonette
like--like small cauliflowers, and all over beneath it is covered with
hothouse maiden-hair ferns, and----"
"And what's the grub?"
"I--did not eat much; I only wanted to see it; but I had a delicious
little _pate_--chicken done in cream, somehow; and I saw aspic jelly
with something in it handed round; and the ices--they are all in floral
devices, water lilies floating on spun sugar, and roses in gold baskets,
and cherries tied in bunches with ribbons, and grapes lying on tinted
Bohemian glass leaves--and------"
"It sounds appetising. I'll wait till I see a man that doesn't know me,
and he shall get me some. I don't want it known that I ever entered
their doors."
"Shall I not go back to the dining-room and send a waiter to you?"
"No, indeed--he would be sure to know me, and I should get put on the
list."
"The stationers who sent out the invitations will do that."
"Oh, well--I can only say I never came. But the waiter would swear to
me, and very likely describe my dress. No, I shall wait a little longer.
Stay here and keep me company."
"Oh, it will be delightful!" quavered Miss Snow, though worrying at the
prospect of getting away late on foot, and ill able to afford cab-hire.
"You've heard of the engagement, I suppose?"
"Which of them?" asked Miss Snow, skilfully hedging.
"Why, the only one, so far as I know. Why, haven't you heard? Ralph
Underwood and Winnie Parke."
"Oh, yes! has that come out? I have been away from home for a few days,
and had not heard. Very pleasant, I'm sure."
"Very--for her. It was her sister who did it, Mrs. Al Smith. She's a
very clever young woman; fished for Al herself in the most barefaced
way, and now she's caught Ralph for her sister; and she's not nearly so
good-looking, either, Winnie Parke, though I should say she had a better
temper than Margaret. You know Margaret Smith of course?"
"Not very well," said Miss Snow, deprecatingly. "I thought when you
spoke of an engagement you meant Malcolm Johnson and Caroline Foster."
"That never will be an engagement!" said Mrs. Freeman scornfully.
"Oh! I am very glad to hear you say so--only I have met him so much
there lately, and it quite worried me; it would be such a bad thing for
dear Caroline; she is a sweet girl."
"You need not worry about it any longer, for I know positively that she
has refused him."
"I am very glad. I was so afraid that Caroline--she is so amiable a
girl, you know, and so apt to do what people tell her to--I was afraid
she might say yes for fear of hurting his feelings."
"She would never dream of his having feelings--her position is so
different. Why, Caroline is a cousin of my own."
"Oh, yes, of course--only he would doubtless be so much in love; and
many people think him delightful--he _was_ very handsome."
"Before Caroline was born, maybe. No, no, Caroline has plenty of sense,
though she looks so gentle--and then the family would never hear of it.
His affairs are in a shocking condition. Why, you know what he lost in
Atchison--and I happen to know that his other investments are in a very
shaky condition."
"He has that handsome house."
"Mortgaged, my dear, mortgaged up to its full value. No, he's badly
off--and then there are such discreditable rumours about him; Thorndike
knows all about it."
"Dear me! I never heard anything against his character."
"I could tell you plenty," said Mrs. Freeman, with a little shrug. "And
then he drinks, or at least he probably will end in drinking--they
always do when they are driven desperate. Oh, no, Caroline is a cousin
of mine, and a most charming girl. Don't for heaven's sake hint at such
a thing."
"Oh, I assure you, I never have. I am always so careful."
"Yes, I never say a thing that I am not certain is true," said Mrs.
Freeman, yawning. "Why, where do all these lovely youths come from? Ah!
I see; past six o'clock; the shop is closed, and they have turned the
clerks on duty here. Well, now, I can get something to eat, for I never
buy anything of them. Tell that one over there to come to me, the
light-haired one, I mean; he looks strong and good-humoured."
As Miss Snow rose to obey this order, a fair-haired girl in a dark-blue
velvet gown, who on entering had been pinned close against the wall
within hearing by the crowd, made a frantic struggle for freedom, and
succeeded in reaching the entrance hall, to the amazement of the other
guests, who did not look for such a display of strength in so
gentle-looking and painfully blushing a creature.
* * * * *
At half-past six a select party was assembling in Miss Grace Deane's own
room, the prettiest room, it was said, in Boston, in the handsomest of
the new Charlesgate houses; a corner room, with a bright sunny outlook
over the long extent of waterside gardens. The high wainscot, the
chimney-piece, the bed on its alcoved and curtained _haut pas_ were of
cherry wood, the natural colour, carved with elaborate and unwearied
fancy; and its rich hue showed here and there round the Persian rugs on
the floor. At the top of the wall was a painted frieze of cherry boughs
in bloom, with now and then one loaded with fruit peeping through, and
the same idea was imitated in the chintzes. The wall space left was
papered in a shade of spring green so delicate and elusive that no one
could decide whether it verged on gold or silver, almost hidden with
close-hung water colours and autotypes; and the ceiling showed between
cherry beams an even softer tint in daintily stained woods. The Minton
tiles around the fireplace and lining the little adjoining bathroom were
all in different designs of pale green and white sparingly dashed with
coral pink. There were sofas and low chairs and bookcases and cabinets
and a tiny piano and a writing-desk and a drawing-table, and a
work-table and yet more tables, all covered with smaller objects.
Useless, and especially cheap, bric-a-brac was Miss Deane's abomination,
but everything she used was exquisite. The bed and dressing-table were
covered with finest linen, drawn and fretted by the needle, into filmy
gossamer; and from the latter came a subdued glitter of a hundred silver
trifles of the toilet, beaten and chiselled like the fine foamy crest of
the wave.
Miss Deane, the owner of this pretty room, for whom and by whom it had
been devised and decked with abundant means held well in check by taste,
was very seldom in it. The Deanes had two country houses, and they spent
a great deal of time abroad, and in the winter they often went to
California or Florida or Bermuda; and when they were at their town
houses they were usually out. But Miss Deane did sometimes sleep there,
and when she had a cold and had to keep in she could not but look around
it with gratification. It certainly was a pleasant room to give a little
tea in. Its being her bedroom only made the effect more piquant. She
believed the ladies of the last century used to have tea in their
bedrooms; and this was quite in antique style--yes, the tea-table and
some of the chairs were real antiques. By the time she had arranged the
flowers to her taste and sat down arrayed in a tea-gown of rose-coloured
China crape and white lace to make tea in a Dresden service with little
rosebuds for handles, she felt quite well again, and ready to greet a
dozen or so of her dearest friends, who ran upstairs unannounced and
threw off their own wraps on the lace-covered bed.
Some of these young women were beautiful, and all looked pretty, their
charms equalised by their clothes and manners. They had all been on the
most intimate terms with each other from babyhood, and they had the
eagerness to please anyone and everyone, characteristic of the American
girl. Each talked to the other as if that other were a lover, and they
had the sweetest smiles for the maid.
"So it was pleasant at the Bracketts'?" asked Grace, beginning to fill
her cups.
"Oh, delightful!" exclaimed the whole circle; "that is"--with modified
energy--"it was crowded of course, and very hot, and it was hard to get
at people, and there was no time to talk when you did; but everybody was
there," they concluded with revived spirit.
"I was not there," sighed Mildred; "I had to make tea for Miss
Caldwell--mother said I must--and some of the people stayed so late that
it was no use thinking of the other place, though I put on this gown to
be all ready. I thought it would do to pour out at such a little
tea"--surveying her pale fawn cloth gown dashed with dark velvet worked
in gold.
"Oh, perfectly! most appropriate!" said the others.
"Who else poured out?" said Grace.
"Why, she told me that Caroline Foster was coming, and I was so
delighted; but when I got there I found Mrs. Neal had sent a note saying
she could not allow Caroline to give up the Bracketts' altogether; and
Miss Caldwell had invited that Miss Leggett, whom I hardly know--wasn't
it unpleasant? And she wore regular full dress, pink India silk and
chiffon, cut very low--the effect was dreadful!"
"Horrid!" murmured her sympathising friends.
"Caroline was there, I suppose?" queried one.
"No--she never came at all."
"Probably she went to the Bracketts' first, and couldn't get away," said
Grace. "I wonder she isn't here by this time. Who saw her there?"
General silence was the sole answer, and she looked round her only to
have it re-inforced by a more emphatic "I didn't."
"Why, she must have been there! She told me she should surely go. How
odd--" but her words died away, and the group regarded each other with
looks of awe, till one daring young woman broke the spell with, "Do you
think--can it be possible--that she's really engaged?"
"To Mr. Johnson?" broke out the whole number. "Oh! I hope not! It would
be shocking--dreadful--too bad!"
"We shouldn't see a thing of her; she would be so tied down," murmured
Dorothy Chandler, almost in tears.
"Everyone who marries is tied down, for that matter," cheerfully
remarked a blooming young matron, who had been the rounds of the teas.
"I assure you," she went on, nibbling a chocolate peppermint with
relish, "I am doing an awful thing myself in being here at this hour;
aren't you, Anna?"--addressing a mate in like condition, who blushed,
conscience-stricken as she said, "Perhaps Caroline is in love with Mr.
Johnson."
"I don't see how any one can fall in love with a widower," said Mildred.
"That depends on the widower," said the pretty Mrs. Blanchard. "I do
think Mr. Johnson is rather too far gone."
"Oh, yes," said Mildred; "he looks so--so--I don't know how to express
it."
"What you would call dowdy if he were a woman," said her more
experienced friend. "He looks as if he wanted a wife; but I don't see
why someone else would not do as well as Caroline--some respectable
maiden lady who could sew on his buttons and make his children stand
round. I don't think Caroline would be of the least use to him."
"It would be almost impossible to keep her up," said Grace.
"Yes," said Mrs. Blanchard; "I'm very fond of Caroline, but I'm afraid I
could never get Bertie up to the point of intimacy with Malcolm Johnson;
he thinks him underbred--says his hats show it."
"Is your tea too strong, Harriet, dear? There is no hot water left,"
said Grace, ringing her little silver bell with energy. But no one came.
"I told Marguerite to keep in the sewing-room, in hearing," she went on,
ringing it again.
"I thought I heard her at the door just now," said the outermost of the
circle.
"_Would_ you mind looking, dear? If she's not there I'll ring the other
bell for someone from downstairs."