To her first ball Barbara went in a chair, just five days after her
arrival in New York. The method of locomotion appealed greatly to her
mood; and as the bearers jogged her gently along, she kept her piquant
face at the window and felt as if she were playing one of the pictures
of court ladies on their way to St. James's,--ladies such as she had
often dreamed over in the London prints. For this ball, given at the
Van Griff house, just a few blocks from her own lodgings, she was
dressed in the very height of the mode, as to all save her hair. She
was obstinate in her aversion to the high, elaborate coiffure,--in her
adherence to the simple fashion and the single massive curl which she
had decided upon, after many experiments, as best becoming her face.
She liked her hair, accounting it her only beauty, and rather than
disguise it she would let the mode go hang. For the rest, her attire
met the severest demands of Uncle Bob, who was even won, at the last,
to approve what he called her eccentricity in the matter of hair. He
decided that her very precise modishness in other respects would prove
her title to independence in the one respect; and it was with
unqualified satisfaction that he contemplated the effect she would
produce on the New York fashionables.
"Are you sure I look fit to be seen with you, Uncle Bob?" she had
inquired, anxiously, the last thing before they set out. "You are such
a beau, you dear; and so distinguished-looking!"
"I shall take no discredit by reason of you, I think!" answered
Glenowen, dryly. "Unless, indeed, by reason of the slayings of your
eyes! But slay the gallants, slay them, sweetheart! They be king's
men, mostly,--and there'll be so many the less to fight, by and by, for
the king!"
"I'll do what such a homely little brown thing can!" laughed Barbara,
blithely, an excited thrill in her voice. But even at the moment her
heart misgave her, at the thought that, more than likely, Robert was
one of these same "king's men!"
This first ball, at the Van Griffs', was to Barbara a whirl of lights,
and colours, and flowers, and bowing, promenading, pirouetting forms.
The spacious rooms and shining floors and smiling faces and stirring
music intoxicated her. The variety and brightness of the costumes
astonished her, the women's dresses being fairly outshone by the strong
colours of the uniforms worn by the English officers, and by the even
more dazzling garb affected by the civilians. Yet if all this
bewildered her heart, outwardly she was at ease, composed, and ready;
and Glenowen, across the room, watching her the centre of a group of
eager gallants,--fop, officer, and functionary alike clamouring for her
hand in the dance,--wondered if this could be the headlong, hard-riding
little hussy whom he had brought from the wilds of Second Westings.
The stately belles of Manhattan, beauties serene or beauties gay,
sisters to the lily or sisters to the poppy and the tulip, eyed with
critical half-disfavour this wilding rose from the backwoods, agreed
that she was queer-looking if not ugly, and resented her independence
in wearing her hair so as to display its beauties to full advantage.
That she was well gowned and danced well, they were in general fair
enough to acknowledge; but they could not see why so many men found her
interesting to talk to. In a word, she was a success from the start.
She went home at last, very wide-eyed, tired, triumphant, excited--and
disappointed. She had not seen Robert. She had just once heard his
name, spoken casually, as that of one whose absence seemed a thing
unusual, whose presence seemed a thing to be desired. She knew that
she had made an impression. She knew, even, that she had made herself
popular, at least with the men. With her accustomed candour she had
proclaimed herself a rebel, in response to some jest at the expense of
Boston, and had settled the score thrice over by her witty jibes at
King George. But even in that royalist circle her audacity had done
her no harm. The English officers themselves, carried away by her
brilliance and amused by her daring, were loudest in their applause.
They not unreasonably agreed in their hearts that it could do the king
no harm, while it undoubtedly would be a great satisfaction to
themselves, if they could win some favour in the eyes of this most
bewildering and provocative little rebel. Perceiving this, Barbara had
not spared her shafts; and the most deeply wounded of her victims had
been the most assiduous of her admirers. But of all the men who had
been presented to her, danced with her, paid court to her, of all the
women whom she had met, favoured, or in clash of glances subtly defied,
she retained but a bright jumble of unassorted names and faces. One
only had gained a foothold in her remembrance. A certain young officer
in the colonial militia, one Cary Patten by name, had been presented to
her by her uncle with particular commendation, as being altogether of
his own way of thought; and him, for his laughing blue eyes, his frank
mouth, his broad shoulders, and his boyish swagger, she had liked so
well that he stood out among her impressions, and she felt it would be
pleasant to meet him again. In fact, to his open and immense elation,
she had told him so.
"Well, mistress mine, how did you like it?" asked Glenowen, as, candle
in one hand and skirts in the other, she held up her face to be kissed
good-night.
"Oh, I loved it, Uncle Bob!" she answered, with conviction.
"Well, it loved you!" said Uncle Bob.
But as he turned away to his own room, he wondered if Barbara was
really quite as satisfied as she professed, or whether her failure to
meet Robert, and include him among the numbers of her slain, had
clouded at all the splendour of her triumph.
Two evenings later there was another ball, an altogether bigger and
more imposing function, at the house of the Surveyor-General half a
mile out of town. At this, as she was told, every one would be
present, and therefore, she agreed, Robert would certainly appear.
With a view to circumstances which might conceivably arise in the event
of Robert's appearance, she had with great difficulty kept a number of
dances free, when her admiring cavaliers at the Van Griffs' were
striving to fill her cards in advance. If he should fail to
come,--well, she had reason to think that she would not be left to
languish unattended.
Meanwhile, however, she little knew how violently her pretty scheme was
being brought to nought, she little knew how emphatically Robert was
being enlightened as to her presence in New York. She should, indeed,
have thought that the story of her triumphs at the Van Griffs' would
reach his ears, for on the day following that event, her maid, a
garrulous West Indian mulatto whom Glenowen had engaged immediately on
their arrival, had told her over her toilet that her name was already
the toast of the finest gentlemen in town. But somehow it never
occurred to her that Robert would hear anything. She thought of him
only as riding, or paddling a canoe, or sitting at his desk, or going
to balls and wandering about alone, thinking of her, gravely smiling
now and then, courteous, and silent. As a vital factor in this
glittering life he had never presented himself to her imagination,--or
it is possible she might have written to him from Second Westings more
often than twice or thrice in the year!
The house of the Surveyor-General stood behind its trees far back from
the road, on a series of terraces set with walks, parterres, trimmed
hedges, statuary, and secret arbours. The house was a blaze of light.
The terraces were lighted with a gay discretion, here shining, there
enshadowed. As she drove up with her uncle in the coach, a little
late, and heard the music and the musical babble of voices, Barbara
thrilled deliciously, with a prescience that this was to be an eventful
night. She was no longer dazzled,--only strung to the highest tension.
She realised that all this was her birthright, to be used, played with,
thrown aside when tired of, but meanwhile enjoyed to the topmost pitch
of relish,--hers just as much as the buttercup fields, the thrush-sweet
orchards, the ancient woods of Connecticut. She felt herself mistress
of the situation.
"Oh, Uncle Bob," she whispered, drawing a quick breath of anticipation,
as she gave him her hand and stepped daintily from the coach, her
high-buckled, high-heeled white satin slippers and little white silken
ankles glimmering for an instant to the ensnaring of the favoured
eye,--"oh, Uncle Bob, isn't it lovely?"
"You are, my Barbe!" he answered, peering down with high content upon
the small disastrous face half-hidden in the hood of her scarlet
cardinal.
"Let me tell you, Uncle Bob, you look extremely nice yourself!" she
responded, squeezing his hand hard. "I didn't see one other man at Mr.
Van Griff's so handsome and distinguished-looking as you!"
"Dear me!" retorted Glenowen, musingly, "what is the baggage going to
ask me for to-morrow? Whatever it be, she must have it!"
Barbara reached her hostess with difficulty, and was given small time
for her greetings. All through her first dance she was so absorbed in
looking for Robert that she paid scant attention to her partner's
compliments, though she realised that they contained imcomprehensible
veiled reference to something which she was supposed to know all about.
To her partner, one Jerry Waite by name, her ignorance seemed assumed,
and vastly well assumed; and presently with his growing admiration for
her cleverness came a dread lest he should transgress, so he
diplomatically shifted to new ground. But had she not been quite
absorbed in her quest, Barbara's most lively curiosity would have been
awakened by his meaning words.
At last she sat down by a curtained doorway and sent Mr. Waite to get
her fan, that she might make up her mind as to the advisability of
inquiring frankly about Robert. Her scheme was working too slowly for
her impatient spirit; and, moreover, it was beginning to dawn upon her
that Robert might not unnaturally feel aggrieved, and perhaps even
prove difficult and exasperating, if she did not see him soon. She had
about concluded to invoke the aid of Uncle Bob,--with whom she was by
and by to dance the minuet,--when a word behind the curtain caught her
ear.
"La! Mr. Gault!" cried a pretty, affected, high-pitched voice. "Who
thought we should be so favoured as to see you here to-night! Not
dancing, surely! But 'twere less cruel to us poor maids to stay away
entirely, than to come and let us look and pine in vain. But you are
very white,--sit down by me and tell me all about it. La, there's
nothing I so love!"
It was Robert's voice that answered,--Robert's voice, but grown deeper,
stronger, more assured, than as Barbara thought she remembered it.
"It was nothing at all, dear Miss Betty,--a mere scratch!" he answered.
"'Tis but the loss of a little blood makes me paler than ordinary, I
suppose. But the doctor said there was no reason in the world I should
not look in on the gaieties for a minute or two,--and see what new
wonder of a gown Miss Betty was wearing,--provided I gave my word not
to dance."
Barbara was conscious of the rustle of Miss Betty's flirtatious fan.
"La, sir!" cried the pretty, high voice again, "you make light, of it;
but they tell me it was very handsome done. And is it true that poor
Carberry is in a bad way? Fie upon you, Mr. Gault, to spit an officer
of the king and so strengthen the hands of the enemy."
Barbara's heart was beating very fast. So Robert had been fighting a
duel, had he! And been wounded,--but slightly! And the quarrel with
an officer of the king! This looked as if her anxieties were
unfounded. But on the other hand, this loquacious girl--whom Barbara
despised instantly and honestly--seemed to claim him as belonging to
the king's party. Barbara trembled with excitement, and with fear lest
her absent escort should come back too soon. He did come back, at that
moment; but with a ravishing look that turned his brain she sent off
again for an ice and a glass of punch. Meanwhile her alert ears had
heard Robert replying cheerfully to Miss Betty.
"Oh, Carberry will be all right in a week or two," said he. "'Twould
much hasten his recovery were one to send him word of Miss Betty's
solicitude. A three weeks at most will take him off my conscience and
the doctor's hands!"
Here another voice intervened.
"Traitress!" it exclaimed, "I have been seeking you this half-hour!"
"Let me talk to Mr. Gault one moment more, Jack!" pleaded Miss Betty.
"He was just going to tell me all about it,--weren't you, Mr. Gault?"
"Not if I know Bob Gault," retorted the voice. "Nay, nay, dear lady, I
will yield you not one minute more to Gault, on any pretext. Shall I
court disaster by leaving the most fickle as the fairest of her sex to
the wiles of this pale hero, this wounded champion of dames!"
"You're right, Jack!" cried Miss Betty. "I see he's dying with
impatience to go and find her, and claim a champion's reward! She's
here, Mr. Gault. I saw her but a moment back. Go wherever you see the
men a-crowding fiercest!"
So Robert had fought for some woman, had he? He had a tie, then!
Barbara felt a tightening about her heart, an impulse to rush from the
room. Then she said to herself, "What more natural? What are we but
the best of friends? And have I ever been really nice to him?"
Promptly anger took the place of the unreasonable hurt; and the anger
made her cool upon the surface, so that she had herself well gathered
in hand when the curtain was pushed aside, and Robert came
through--just at the same moment that her partner came up with the
punch.
Robert sprang forward with face transfigured. But to Barbara's chagrin
he did not seem at all surprised.
"I am glad to see you, Robert!" she said, gravely, holding out her hand.
Robert bent over it and kissed it in silence, unable, for the moment,
to find his voice.
"Are you not glad to see me--to see an old friend out of the old days?"
asked Barbara.
"I have no words to tell you how glad I am, my dear lady!" he answered,
in a low voice, wishing that Jerry Waite would have sense enough to go
away, instead of standing there in that idiotic fashion with the punch.
"But aren't you _surprised_ to see me, Robert?" Barbara went on,
forgetful of Mr. Waite and the punch.
"I suppose I ought to be surprised, my lady," answered Robert, with
some bitterness in his tone, "surprised that you have condescended to
see me at all, in view of the length of time you have been here without
letting me know! I learned yesterday of your coming--after every one
in town apparently knew of it!"
To Jerry Waite the scene was utterly incomprehensible. Oblivious to
all good manners, he was staring open-mouthed. Barbara saw the
astonishment in his face, quite naturally misunderstood it, and flushed
angrily. The pain and wrath which she had by such an effort of will
crushed down in her heart crept up again stealthily, and began to
mingle unrecognised with this superficial annoyance.
"I had thought to surprise you,--a harmless little play, Robert, to see
if you would recognise an old, old friend grown up!" she said, in a
cool voice. "But since you are so dissatisfied, we had better not talk
about it. You may call and see me some day soon, if you like. I am
just around the corner, on State Street. Uncle Bob will give you the
address. Will you take me back to my seat, Mr. Waite? Thank you so
much for the punch."
Robert could not believe his ears. Was he dismissed for the evening?
The blood began to beat fiercely in his head.
"But, Barbara," he exclaimed, "aren't you going to give me at least
_one_ dance?-- Hold on, Waite, just a minute, will you!-- You can't
be engaged for all so early in the evening. I came at the very first,
in hopes of catching you and getting several."
Barbara paused. By this time the thought of that other woman, for whom
he had fought,--for whom he was wounded,--for whom he carried now this
pallor,--for whom he had been too impatient to talk to Miss Betty
behind the curtain,--the thought of that other woman was gnawing at her
brain in a way to confuse her judgment. She was not exactly in love
with Robert, but she was intensely interested, and in the course of the
years a sense of proprietorship had grown up. The idea of another
woman, with a prior claim, outraged her pride at the same time that it
wrenched her heart with a sense of irremediable loss.
"You are not dancing, I understand, Robert," she said, looking coldly
into his eyes.
Robert's heart gave an exultant leap. She knew about the duel, then!
"I had thought, my lady," said he, softly, "that you might, under the
circumstances, consent to forego a dance or two, and talk with me about
old times."
The circumstances, indeed! Barbara's eyes blazed in spite of all her
efforts at self-control. This was insolence. Yet she could in no way
show she recognised it. For a second or two she held her tongue.
"I hear you have been greatly distinguishing yourself, Robert," she
answered, in a voice of somewhat artificial sweetness, "and have taken
some hurt in the affair, and really should not be here at all!" She
looked at her tablets with hypocritical care. "You should have found
me earlier. I shall not be free to give you a dance for _hours_
yet,--not till quite near the last. You will probably not be able to
stay so long!"
Robert grew tenfold whiter than before, and his mouth set itself like
iron. She knew,--it was clear she knew,--and yet she could act in this
hopelessly light, cruel, merciless way. It was inhuman. Had she no
spark of womanly tenderness? He would trouble her no more.
"No, I shall not stay," he said, quietly. "Good-night, Mistress Ladd!
Good-night, Waite!" He took her outstretched hand so lightly that she
saw rather than felt that he had taken it; bowed over it, so low that
he seemed to kiss it, yet did not actually touch it with his lips; then
nodded civilly to Waite, strode off down the side of the room, through
the door, and was gone. Barbara little guessed the many eyes that had
watched and wondered at the episode. She imagined that all were quite
engrossed in the dancing.
"Now please take me to the other room, Mr. Waite!" she commanded. "I
fear I was engaged for this very dance, and my partner will think me
rude!"
Waite was in hopeless bewilderment. He particularly liked and admired
Robert Gault. He was silent for a few moments, and then exclaimed with
seeming irrelevance: "Women do beat me!"
Barbara looked up at him quickly, as she took her seat.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I beg your pardon, most fair and inexplicable Mistress Ladd," replied
Waite, who had been puzzled almost out of his manners, "but,--if you
will permit me to say it,--if this be the fate of your friends, what,
oh, what must be the fate of your enemies!"
"I don't understand you!" said Barbara, haughtily. "Pray explain
yourself!" But just then a young scarlet-coated officer, Nevil Paget,
came up, claiming the hand of Mistress Ladd; and Jerry Waite, who had
begun to realise that he was in deep water, hailed the rescue gladly.
"I shall have the honour to claim you again, gracious mistress," said
he, "and I shall explain myself then, if you bid me. Meanwhile, I make
way for those more fortunate than I."
And now, in her bitterness and disappointment, Barbara flung herself
heart and soul into the folly. When the young Englishman started to
speak of a duel, she shut him up so mercilessly that for five minutes
he durst not open his mouth. But she proceeded to flirt and bedazzle
him, half flouting, half flattering, till in five minutes more he was
nigh ready to fling all the pedigree of all the Pagets at her small,
light-dancing feet and beg her to dance upon it her whole life long.
She danced everything, and between the dances held a court more crowded
and more devoted than that which had paid her homage at the Van
Griffs'. She was deaf to all attempts to lure her out upon the fairy
terraces, because when she first saw them she had decided that Robert
should take her out there to tell her what a wonderful surprise she had
given him. But the men whom she refused were not driven away by her
denial. She mixed bitter and sweet for them all so cunningly that none
could tell in which of the twain lay the magic that held them thrall.
And all the while her heart smouldered in her breast like a hot coal in
the ash.
At length came her minuet with Glenowen; and after it her uncle, who
thought he detected something feverish in her gaiety, and felt moved to
cool it a little if he might without damage, asked her if she had seen
Robert.
"For a moment or two," she answered, with an indifference beyond reason.
Glenowen had heard all the story of the duel, and wondered what had
gone wrong.
"Why did he go home, sweetheart, so soon after our coming?" he inquired.
"Did he go home?" she queried, casually. "You know he was hardly fit
to be out. Even heroes can't stand the loss of blood!"
"What did you do to him, child?" persisted Glenowen.
This questioning chafed on Barbara's raw and bleeding nerves.
"Robert made himself very disagreeable," she replied, crisply. "I
showed that I was disappointed in him, and he seems to have got angry
and gone home!"
"Disappointed in him!" exclaimed Glenowen. Then he hesitated, and went
on: "Really, Barbara, are you quite human? Forgive me if I--"
Barbara faced him squarely, and he felt, though he could not see, the
flood of tears pent up behind her shining eyes.
"Uncle Bob!" she whispered, in a tense voice, "if you are going to
criticise, take me home _right away_. I can't stand one thing more!"
Glenowen knew her better than any one else ever could, and his
displeasure melted as he caught signal of a distress which he did not
understand. Yet he knew better than to be too sympathetic, having more
than once experienced the perilous relaxing powers of sympathy.
"Well, well, sweetheart," he laughed, lightly, "forgive me. I've no
doubt it would seem all right if I knew. And what does it matter to me
about Bobby Gault, anyhow, so long as my little girl is happy?"
"She isn't happy, Uncle Bob! But that isn't _your_ fault, you dear,
not ever in the world!"
As they moved apart from the promenading throng, and paused at an open
window overlooking the terraces, Barbara's ears, acute as those of the
furtive kindred in Westings forest, again caught a word that was not
intended for them. She saw two painted and tower-headed dames, sitting
not far from the window, point her out to another who had just taken a
seat beside them; and she heard the newcomer remark, behind her fan:
"That ugly little rebel! Insult an officer of the king's troops for
her!"
Barbara's face flushed scarlet, and she looked at her uncle. But he
had heard nothing,--and she remembered that her ears were keener than
those of other people. The remark, however, puzzled her, and started a
vague, troublesome misgiving. Thereafter she found it difficult to
resume the spontaneous fervour of her gaiety. Fits of abstraction
would take her unawares; but her courtiers thought them merely another
touch of art, effective as they were unexpected. She was now looking
forward to the dance with Jerry Waite, and the explanation which he had
so rashly promised. She had intended to snub him severely, but when he
came for her at last he found her altogether gracious.
"Would you mind very much if we sat somewhere and talked, instead of
dancing?" she asked. And Waite, nothing loth, led her to a seat just
beyond the long windows,--nearer to the terrace than any other man had
succeeded in getting her to go. This filled him with elation, and he
was glad, rather than otherwise, that she had refused to go out among
the walks and arbours. Here his triumph was visible every moment to
his disappointed rivals. He was, of course, like the rest, half
infatuated with Barbara; but being a sane youth, with a sense of
humour, he knew the difference between infatuation and half
infatuation. He imagined there was more between Barbara and Robert
than there really was; and he did not hold himself any match for Robert
in a race for hearts. Therefore, he was capable of thinking of his own
prestige. And to heighten that he had an inspiration. When, after
waiting till she could wait no longer, for him to bring up the subject,
Barbara asked him to give her the promised explanation of his remark,
he fenced cleverly till the time was close at hand when he knew she
would be claimed by another partner. He saw this prospective partner,
Cary Patten, eyeing her hungrily, ready to swoop down and take
possession at the first permissible moment. Then he said: "In very
truth, fair mistress, the explanation necessitates a long story. To
tell you a little would leave me in a worse light than I could endure
you to behold me in. The story comes first,--and then the explanation
follows with ease!"
"When will you explain? My curiosity has been most artistically
aroused!" said Barbara, maintaining with an effort her tone of
sprightly merriment.
"If I might have the honour of waiting upon you to-morrow, I am bold to
hope I might succeed in interesting you!" suggested Waite.
"You may come in the morning," answered Barbara, promptly. "Say about
eleven o'clock."
The delighted Jerry was ceremoniously bowing his gratitude for this
command, conscious that it would make him the envied of all the
gallants of Manhattan, when Cary Patten came up and carried Barbara off
with rather more eagerness than ceremony. He had been most hard hit of
all her victims at the Van Griffs' ball, and had experienced deep
dejection over the rumour which had that day associated her name with
Robert Gault's. Robert's early departure from the ball had somewhat
cheered him, however; and now, with that simplicity, not unlike
Barbara's own, born of secure family position and careless disregard of
convention, he determined to find out if the field were open. He saw
that Barbara was distinctly friendly to him,--whether for his own sake
or for what Glenowen had told her of his sympathies,--and he trusted to
his directness to disarm her possible resentment of his questioning.
"If you will pardon me, gracious lady," he began, after the customary
interchange of compliment, "I am going to ask you something about our
friend Gault. Carberry was accounted till to-day the best sword in the
colony. Now he stands second best! It took uncommon high courage or
uncommon deep interest in the quarrel, to cross swords with such a
master,--but, of course--"
Barbara's face changed, and she interrupted him crisply. His first
phrases had been interesting enough, but at the words "uncommon deep
interest in the quarrel," the vision of that unknown woman floated up
and laughed in her face.
"I am weary of the subject, Captain Patten. It seems to me it should
be possible to talk of something else. If not, let us listen to the
music, please!"
Never before had Cary Patten been so snubbed. The experience was novel
to him, and he did not like it. But he found more than ample
compensation in the thought that Barbara's words showed no impassioned
interest in Robert Gault! If such a fight, and in such a cause, left
her indifferent, then surely he need have no great fear of Robert as a
rival. To be sure, he thought Barbara's indifference a little cruel, a
little heartless,--but so much the greater the reward if he could
awaken heart in this flashing, audacious, irresistible little witch.
Cary Patten had small knowledge of the feminine heart, being much
absorbed in his boyish ambitions, his dreams of splendid daring; and he
had a healthy, well-founded faith in his own powers. His bright,
handsome face looked glum for a moment or two; then he laughed frankly
and cried:
"Served me just right, for being so bold, sweet mistress. I implore
you forgive me, and be friends! On bended knee I sue--to speak
figuratively. I dare not do it in fact, you know, else all the men in
the room would be on their knees about you, which would look singular!"
Yes, he was a nice boy, and Barbara not only forgave him, but tried to
resume her old gaiety for his pleasure. So far as his pleasure was
concerned, she succeeded; though older and keener eyes than Cary
Patten's would have seen that her mirth was forced. He left her
feeling that he had made no small progress; and he trod on air in his
elation because she had promised him no less than three dances at the
very next ball at which they should meet. His succeeding partners
found him tender but absent-minded,--a combination which they
interpreted to their advantage or otherwise, according to their
knowledge of men's hearts.
But as for Barbara's heart, it was now yielding to the strain, and she
felt that she could keep up the play no longer. Her anger had given
out before the need of it, as a stimulant to flirtation, was past.
Only pain, humiliation, disappointment, remained to her, and she felt
that if she did not get away at once something would happen. With all
the obstinate force of her will she kept a hold upon her imperious
vivacity, and would hear no appeals when her next partner was bidden to
fetch her uncle and call her coach.
"Take me home, _please_, Uncle Bob!" she pleaded; and he, after a
glance into her eyes, yielded comprehendingly. Her reason for going,
indeed, he did not comprehend; but her need of going he comprehended
instantly. Till the very last moment she kept herself at pitch,
laughing, sweetly jibing, taunting, provoking, inviting, so that the
men who insisted on helping Glenowen escort her to her coach felt that
the glitter had gone from the dance with her departure. But once safe
inside the coach, and beyond the lights, she flung herself upon Uncle
Bob's neck and broke into a storm of sobbing. She vouchsafed no
explanation, and the sagacious Glenowen asked no questions; and she
wept, intermittently, all the way to the high-stooped old Dutch house
on State Street. To such a bitter end had come the evening, the
wondrous evening, of which she had hoped, expected, claimed so much!