THE DANCE
WITH the approval of her audience ringing in her ears, and Mr.
Derwent’s kindly presence and support to bridge over the awkward first
moments that assail the drawing-room entertainer when her work is
done, Rosalie might scarcely have been able to keep her slender white
slippers touching earth but for an anchor, a ball and chain, which
Betsy had in all kindness attached to her on the last evening they
spent together.
They had sat on the edge of the bed in their boarding-house, talking,
and Betsy plunged boldly into a subject that lay heavy on her heart.
“I feel just as certain as I sit here,” she said, “that you’re goin’ to
make a success of it at that inn.”
“O Betsy,—” the young girl took her friend’s hand joyously,—“I like to
hear you say so, and I do really believe I can please them because I
love to do it so.”
“You’ve showed me a lot o’ your pieces, and it’s a sensible selection.
You ain’t goin’ to tear up the ground and try to be a Burnhard. You’re
goin’ to make ’em laugh, and if they’re as soft as I am, you’re goin’
to make ’em cry, same as you have me to-night. That’s where you’ve got
good judgment. You’ve got as sweet a voice as I ever heard, and your
glass tells you you’re good-lookin’.”
The girl leaned toward her eagerly. “Do you think I’m very pretty,
Betsy?” she asked.
“Yes; and it’s a good thing for your work; but listen here, Rosalie, it
ain’t a good thing for anything else.”
The girl laughed. “You silly, dear Betsy!” she exclaimed.
“Mr. Irving was talkin’ about somebody in your line o’ work lately;
and I listened hard on your account. He said she wa’n’t any good—her
programmes wasn’t. He said she didn’t have ‘the instinct of the
entertainer’! Those were his very words. I said ’em over to myself so’s
to remember; for I saw his point.”
“Do you think he’ll believe that I have?” The girl’s azure eyes
darkened as she asked it.
“Yes, I do. The way you’ve made me act silly to-night, shows that you
know how to make folks laugh while they’re cryin’; and that’s as near
the secret o’ success as any one can come, I guess; but it ain’t goin’
to be all roses, dear child.” Betsy patted the hand that held hers. It
was hard for her to dim the blue light shining upon her so hopefully.
“I said your good looks were a disadvantage, and they are from the
minute you stop actin’. We happened to speak of Mr. Irving just now, so
I’ll take him for an example. He’s the apple o’ my eye, Rosalie, and I
believe in him just as much as I do in any man, as far as intentions
go; but he’ll be one of a whole lot o’ young men you’ll meet at the
inn, and you’re a little bit acquainted with him, and he’s sure to
enjoy your work, and your good looks, and he’s liable to flatter you,
and when the summer’s over—”
Betsy could scarcely go on, the expression of the blue eyes was
changing so fast as their gaze clung to her; but she braced herself.
“_That’ll_ be over, too. Men-folks are selfish. They don’t know what
they’re doin’. Irving Bruce has inherited quite a lot o’ money. He
knows dozens o’ the finest girls in Boston. Mrs. Bruce probably expects
that some crown princess from the other side o’ the water’ll be over
here after him yet. Have a good time, Rosalie,” Betsy again patted the
relaxed hand, which she could feel tremble, “but be mejum. I speak this
way to you because I know your disposition, and your unhappiness would
cut me deep.”
The girl withdrew her hand quietly. “Thank you,” she said.
“Old Kill-joy that I am!” thought poor Betsy as she lay awake that
night, and knew that Rosalie was awake beside her; but the very effect
of her words convinced her that it was necessary to have spoken them;
and when she supplemented this by her appeal to Irving later in the
garden, she felt that she had done her worst, and her best; and
whatever came, her conscience was clear.
As Rosalie stood in the living-room of the inn to-night, her hand
within Mr. Derwent’s arm, she was too excited to be conscious that it
was his action which heightened the effusiveness of the guests. They
might laugh and weep under her efforts to entertain them, but many who
would not have taken her hand afterward advanced graciously when it was
quickly whispered that the man beside her was Henry Derwent of Boston.
“Your brother is a trump!” murmured Irving to Mrs. Nixon.
The lady looked resigned.
“When Henry takes it into his head to befriend any one,” she said, “he
carries his point. Since the day he found, out there in the Park, that
this girl was the daughter of his old friend, I suppose he has never
really forgotten her. It is like him to be so rejoiced in this change
in her fortunes that he immediately takes her under his wing.”
“He’s a trump!” repeated Irving.
Mrs. Nixon was dimly aware that Mrs. Bruce would be fuming at her
action, for she had overheard her refusal of Irving’s request.
“I can’t do otherwise than stand by my brother,” thought Mrs. Nixon. “I
can’t help it if she is offended.”
And now they had reached Rosalie, and for the first time Irving noticed
that she was very pale.
He had counted on a special look from those blue eyes,—a look that
would recall the last time they had stood together, in a world of
beauty created for them alone.
He heard Mrs. Nixon say in her grave, sonorous tones:—
“Your work is charming!”
And yet he had not caught her eye.
Betsy had said—fond, foolish Betsy! who could suppose that she would be
so imaginative, Betsy had said—and the expression and manner with which
Rosalie now turned to him at last, gave the lie direct to all those
implications.
“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce. How tanned you are!” the girl said, raising
her eyebrows with a little smile, as if they had met yesterday on
Tremont Street.
Then she turned to meet a couple of young men who pressed forward under
the guidance of Mr. Beebe.
“These gentlemen are anxious to meet you, Miss Vincent, and say some
pretty things. Mr. Ames and Mr. Foster, Miss Vincent, and Mr. Derwent,
too.”
Mr. Derwent inclined his head, his hand hanging by his side, and
Rosalie’s tightened on his arm as she turned from Irving to meet the
somewhat embarrassed expressions of enthusiasm from the young men,
who seemed to find Rosalie’s immobile and white-mustached companion
somewhat of a bar to their loquacity.
“Hope to see you again, Miss Vincent, when the dancing begins,” said
Mr. Ames as they withdrew.
Now came Robert and his companions.
“Dancing?” repeated Robert in a high key. “Anybody taken your first
waltz, Miss Vincent?” Rosalie shook her head.
“Mine, then. Is it?”
“If you wish,” said the girl, and then took Mrs. Bruce’s mechanically
offered hand.
This lady had keyed herself to one master-effort, and she said now:—
“You know, I always believed you could.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bruce!”
Rosalie’s smile of gratitude, her low tone, and the sudden moisture
that dimmed her eyes, should have touched the heart of her
benefactress; but that organ could not hold another emotion. Mrs. Bruce
slightly bowed and smiled, and moved slowly away.
At Robert Nixon’s invitation to Rosalie, Helen bit her lip.
“Rude,—incredibly rude cub!” she thought. “I’ll never forgive him for
that!”
The clinging of Rosalie to Mr. Derwent’s arm was another item in her
disfavor; and Helen approached, her habitual self-control standing her
in good stead, but all the rose-color of the opening of her evening
turned to ashes of roses.
“I had no idea you were so proficient, Miss Vincent,” she said calmly.
“Why haven’t you gone into this long ago?”
Rosalie met her cool regard admiringly.
“Things have changed for us both wonderfully since we met in the Park,”
she said. “You look very lovely to-night.”
“Oh, really?” Helen gave a little laugh and quietly met Mr. Derwent’s
eyes. “How kind!”
“Me next,” said Robert. “We’ll have to beat it in a minute, ’cause
there are a lot more coming; but I want to tell you you’re a wonder. My
nose felt like your foot when it’s asleep, and a pearly tear coursed
down my rounded cheek—”
Here the speaker was pushed aside, and found it best to skip after
Helen’s pink robe.
“Brute says this floor’s all right when the minions get the rugs up,”
he said, as he joined her. “They don’t have any cards here, but you’ll
give me the—yes, the second dance, won’t you—and the—yes, I remember
you dance like a fairy. You must give me a lot.”
Robert ended in a rush of crimson embarrassment as Helen moved steadily
onward toward the corner where Mrs. Nixon had taken a seat.
“Thank you,” she returned. “It is fortunate for me that you dance as
well as you do other things; because after all, I’m a stranger here,
you know, and beggars mustn’t be choosers.”
Mrs. Nixon received the pair with a smile. “Well, my dears,” she said,
“we’ve all done our duty, haven’t we?”
“_Pourvu seulement_ she doesn’t tell mamma,” thought Robert with a
sinking of the heart.
“Haven’t we?” he responded airily. “And look at my noble uncle—I’m not
quite sure whether his name is Quixote or Casabianca; but I hope he’ll
get off the rug soon, so it can be taken up.”
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Nixon graciously. “I’m glad there’s to be
dancing, for I may be a fond mamma, but I do think when you and dear
Helen dance, that the poetry of motion is reached. Where has Mrs. Bruce
disappeared to?”
“Never end your sentences with a preposition, mother! But despite your
inelegance I will go and find her for you;” and Robert moved away, his
eager eyes searching, but not for Irving’s stepmother. He soon descried
the tall outline of his friend, standing alone in the dusk of the
veranda, and he charged upon him.
“Brute, I’ve put my foot in it!” he ejaculated.
Irving turned slowly and regarded him.
“That’s all you ever take it out for, so far as I can discover,” he
replied pessimistically.
“Cruelly unjust, but I’ll pass it by. Say, there aren’t so many peaches
here but that you can do me a favor.”
“Say on.”
Robert made a grimace of rueful self-disgust.
“Of course I ought to have taken the first dance with Helen Maynard.”
“You couldn’t do anything else.”
“Yes, I could. I can always do things that to others would seem
impossible. To me they’re mere bagatelles. I’m about to be snubbed
evermore by the heiress, and disinherited by mother.”
“Speak out.”
“It was an attack of emotional insanity. They always come out of a
clear sky, and she was _so_ enchanting—”
“Who?”
“Hebe. I asked her for the first dance, in Helen’s presence.”
Irving looked the culprit over from head to foot.
“Well,” he remarked, with a severity which seemed disproportionate to
the occasion, “you _are_ the limit!”
“And a transfer!” added Robert humbly. “Now you’re the only person that
can save the day—I mean the evening. If you’ll go in, this minute,—go
in eagerly, you know, just as soon as she sees you, fall over your own
feet in your hurry,—do the thing handsomely, why, you’ll be acting like
a friend! Get your breath as well as you can, and ask her for the first
dance. So you will avert the storm from your tried and true Nixie!”
Irving looked unpromisingly gloomy. “I wasn’t thinking of dancing
to-night,” he said.
“Well, think of it quick, now.” Robert dragged at his reluctant
companion. “Put on a gilt edge by asking for the second one, too. She
can’t give it to you, because I’ve engaged it. When you see me in the
light, you’ll think I’ve turned gray in a single night; but it’s only
the frosty rime that she cast over me when she accepted. Beside, you’ve
got to ask Miss Vincent, haven’t you? You seem to have in_flu_ence with
mamma, and I’d rather you’d bring her over to be chaperoned than do
it myself. Uncle Henry can’t play watchdog very well when it comes to
partners.”
Irving allowed himself to be shoved and pulled toward the door. He
felt the force of Nixie’s last argument, but he was still conscious of
a strange disappointment in the carelessness of Rosalie’s greeting.
Betsy’s earnest talk had fallen upon a wondering credulity, because of
the tenderness that he had felt for this girl from the beginning,—a
feeling totally different from anything he had ever experienced.
Her self-possession, and fleeting notice of himself just now, had given
him an odd shock, and opened his eyes to the fact that he had given
absurd weight to Betsy’s words.
Now, under Robert’s vigorous appeal, he shook himself together.
“I’m a worse sentimental idiot than dear old Betsy,” he thought.
Robert, lurking cautiously in the background, viewed his friend’s
deliberate advance to Mrs. Nixon’s corner, and heaved a sigh of relief.
Slinking into the hall with intent to seek Rosalie, he saw her,
still leaning on the arm of Mr. Derwent, who was leading her, also,
toward the corner where Mrs. Nixon sat enthroned. Robert remained
unostentatiously behind the jamb of the door, and his small bright eyes
twinkled appreciatively as he watched his uncle place a chair near by
for his charge.
“Mrs. Bruce has slid out of it,” he thought gleefully, “and mamma is
Hebe’s chaperon, willy-nilly. I’ll bet she don’t like it a little bit!
Now, Nixie, look bland and don’t let your upper lip wiggle. You may
pull it off yet!”
The rugs had been swiftly removed, and the music started. A number of
couples swung promptly out upon the floor.
Robert saw Irving say something to Rosalie, and then smile and bow to
Helen, who rose and floated away with him.
Then, only, Robert, with an expression of singular innocence, came
leisurely across the floor to his mother’s corner.
She looked at him with a fixed regard, and her nostrils dilated.
“Where were you, Robert?” she asked. “Irving has taken Helen out for
the first dance.”
“Just like him,” returned Robert brazenly. “Mother, you must accustom
yourself to such blows, or your parental pride will be constantly
wounded. I’m not one, two, three with Brute where girls are concerned,
but I’ve had to learn to turn a sunny side to the world in spite of it,
and weep only when alone. I don’t want to grow cynical, but I find that
it is too true that others care little for our sorrows. Miss Vincent,
shall we show them how to do this?”
Rosalie rose, smiling a farewell to Mr. Derwent, and started off in
such perfect step with her partner that he emitted a joyous exclamation.
“Perhaps Hebe isn’t some dancer!” he said. “Say, do you mind my calling
you Hebe? It takes so much less time than Terpsichore.”
“Mr. Nixon, your mother didn’t like this at all,” said Rosalie.
“Well, when you come right down to it,” remarked her partner
philosophically, “there are so few things she does like.”
“But—ought you not to have had this with Miss Maynard?”
“Some carping critics might say so,—Look out, there! Didn’t we duck
neatly under Brute’s elbow? The fact is, Miss Vincent, I’ve graduated
in almost every line except diplomacy; and _you_—you just swept me off
my feet to-night. No—don’t be afraid I shall try to flirt with you.
That requires diplomacy, too, and I make too many breaks ever to be
successful at it. I was crazy about you to-night, and when I heard Ames
say ‘dancing,’ I blurted my innocent wish right out. I’m just a child
of nature—fresh, unspoiled.”
Rosalie laughed. “I’ve heard people say you were fresh,” she said.
“Naughty, naughty!” returned Robert.
“No, you’re the naughty one,” said the girl. “You’ve put me in a
disagreeable position.”
“I don’t believe it, Hebe. I know you are enjoying this.”
She sighed. “You do dance like a—a ribbon,” she admitted.
Robert laughed.
“And what has Helen to complain of?” he asked. “Hasn’t she the great
and only Brute? I’m making the most of your approval of my dancing
before you try it with him. He is one of these haughty heroes, who
h-excel in everything, you know.”
“Including flirting, I suppose,” said Rosalie.
“Couldn’t say. He’s never flirted with me. Humble observation, however,
would deduce that all he ever does is to allow himself to be made love
to.”
Rosalie swallowed, and essayed a laugh.
“Companionship with Brute has made me a socialist, socially, Hebe. Here
I am, cheerful, willing to please—average good-looking. Yes, I maintain
it. Now, Hebe, am I not average good-looking? Don’t speak too quickly.
Remember, Chinese, African, American-Indian—”
“Oh, Mr. Nixon,”—Rosalie did laugh now,—“how can you talk so
constantly, and dance too?”
They were passing Mrs. Nixon, and that lady heard the girlish laugh.
She sighed.
“She certainly dances well. Helen said she was noted for it at school.
I suppose she is a really artistic creature; but Robert should have
been here in time to ask Helen. College has absolutely ruined his
manners.”
Mrs. Nixon leaned toward her brother, who was watching his _protégée_,
pleased in her pleasure.
“Where can Mrs. Bruce be?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I suppose she has many friends here.”
But Mrs. Nixon doubted if sociability were keeping her friend away.
“I’m afraid she’s pouting somewhere,” she reflected. “I don’t see how I
could have done any differently. It wasn’t _my_ fault that she refused
to go with Irving. It is annoying to have this incident occur right
at the outset of our stay. It would be stupid of her to be offended.
Really that Vincent girl from first to last has given us a great deal
of annoyance!”