AN HOUR BEFORE THE BALL.
The child stands, meekly, by her mother.
Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!
Say, canst thou understand, or smother
The deep maternal mysteries
That rise and swell within thy breast;
That throb athwart thy aching brain,
Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,
Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?
We take the reader once more to the residence of Ada Leicester--not as
formerly, when the tempest raged around its walls, and darkness slept in
its sumptuous rooms--when the wail of tortured hearts and sobs of
anguish alone broke the gloomy stillness--not as then do we revisit this
stately mansion. Now it is lighted up like a fairy palace; through the
richly stained sashes, from the gables, and the ivy-clad tower, clouds
of tinted light kindle the bland autumnal atmosphere to a soft golden
haze. The tall old trees that surround the mansion seem bending beneath
a fruitage of stars, so thickly are they beset with lamps that light up
the depths of their ripe foliage. So broad is the illumination, so rich
the tinted rays, you might see to gather fall flowers from the ground,
even to their shaded extremity. White dahlias are amber-hued in that
mellow light; wax balls hang like drops of gold in the thickets; the ivy
leaves about the narrow windows of the tower seem dripping with
starlight; and a woodbine that has crept up one of the young maples, a
little way off, glows out along the golden foliage so vividly, that the
branches seem absolutely on fire.
Julia Warren approached this mansion with wonder. It seemed like
something she had read of in a fairy tale--the lamps gleaming among the
trees and in the thickets; the foliage so strangely luminous; the crisp
grass tinged with a brownish and golden green; all these things were
like enchantment to the child whose life had been spent in a comfortless
basement. She looked around in delighted bewilderment; the very basket
upon her arm seemed filled with strange blossoms as she entered the
lofty vestibule, and changed the richly hued atmosphere, without for the
flood of pure gas-light that filled the dwelling.
"Oh! here she is at last--why, child, what has kept you?"
A pretty young woman, in a jaunty cap and pink ribbons, made this
exclamation, while Julia stood looking about for some one to address.
Her manner, her quick but graceful movements, had an imposing effect
upon the child.
"Are you the lady?" she said.
"No--no!" answered the girl, with a pretty laugh, for the compliment
pleased her. "Come up stairs--quick, quick--my lady has been _so_
impatient."
They went up a flight of steps, the waiting-maid exchanging words with a
footman who passed them, Julia treading lightly under her load of
flowers. Her little feet sunk into the carpet at every step; once only
in her life had she felt the same elastic swell follow her tread. Yet
nothing could be more unlike than the dark mansion that rose upon her
memory, and the vision-like beauty of everything upon which her eyes
rested. The floors seemed literally trodden down with flowers. Rich
draperies of silk met her eye wherever she turned. A door swung open to
the touch of the waiting-maid. Julia remembered the room which they
entered--the couch of carved ivory and azure damask--the lace curtains
that hung against the windows like floating frost-work, and the rich
blue waves that fell over them. Clearer than all she recognised the
marble Flora placed near the couch, bending from its pedestal, with pure
and classic grace, and gazing so intently on the white lilies in its
hand, as if it doubted that the flowers were indeed but a beautiful
mockery of nature.
Julia drew a quick breath as she recognised all these objects, but the
waiting maid gave her but little time even for surprise. She crossed the
room and opened a door on the opposite side. They entered a
dressing-room, leading evidently to a sumptuous bed-chamber, for through
the open door Julia could see glimpses of rose-colored damask sweeping
from the windows, and a snow white bed, over which masses of embroidered
lace fell in transparent waves to the floor. The dressing-room
corresponded with the chamber, but Julia saw nothing of its splendor.
Her eyes were turned upon a toilet richly draped with lace, and littered
with jewels; a standing-glass set in frosted silver, was lighted on each
side by a small alabaster lamp, which hung against the exquisite chasing
like two great pearls, each with perfumed flame breaking up from its
heart.
It was not the sight of this superb toilet, though a fortune had been
flung carelessly upon it, that made the child's heart beat so
tumultuously, but the lady who stood before it. Her back was toward the
door, but Julia _felt_ who she was, though the beautiful features were
only reflected upon her from the mirror.
The lady turned. Her eyes were bent upon the diamond bracelet she was
attempting to clasp on her arm. Oh! how different was that face from the
tear-stained features Julia had seen that dark night. How radiant, how
more than beautiful she was now! Every movement replete with grace;
every look brilliant with flashes of exultant loveliness!
How great was the contrast between that superb creature, in her robe of
rich amber satin, heightened by the floating lustre of soft Brussels
lace, which fell around her like a web of woven moonlight, and the
humble child who stood there so motionless, with the flower-basket at
her feet. The pink hood, faded with much washing, shaded her eyes; her
hands were folded beneath the little plaid shawl that half concealed her
cheap calico dress. Notwithstanding this contrast between the proud and
mature beauty of the woman and the meek loveliness of the child, there
was an air, a look--something indeed indescribable in one, which
reminded you of the other. Ada turned suddenly, and moved a step toward
the child; a thousand rainbow gleams flashed from the folds of her lace
overdress as she moved; a massive wreath of gems lighted up the golden
depths of her tresses, but its brilliancy was not more beautiful than
the smile with which she recognized the little girl.
"And so you have found me again," she said, untying the pink hood, and
smoothing the bright hair thus exposed with her two palms, much to the
surprise of the waiting-maid. "Look, Rosanna, is she not lovely, with
her meek eyes and that smile?"
The waiting-maid turned her eyes from the lady to the child.
"Beautiful! why, madam the smile is your own."
"Rosanna!" cried the lady, "this is flattery; never again speak of my
resemblance to any one, especially to a child of that age. It offends,
it pains me!"
"I did not think to offend, madam; the little girl is so pretty--how
could I?"
Ada did not heed her; she was gazing earnestly on the little girl. The
smile had left her face, and this made a corresponding change in the
sensitive child. She felt as if some offence had been given, else why
should the lady look into her eyes with such earnest sadness?
"What is your name?"
The question was given in a low and hesitating voice.
"Julia--Julia Warren."
"That is enough. Rosanna, never speak in this way again!"
"Never, if madam desires it. But the flowers: see what quantities the
little thing has brought. No wonder she was late--such a load."
"True, we were waiting for the flowers; here, fill my bouquet
holder--the choicest, remember--and let every blossom be fragrant."
Rosanna took a bouquet-holder, whose delicate network of gold seemed too
fragile for all the jewels with which it was enriched, and kneeling upon
the floor, began to arrange a cluster of flowers. Her active fingers had
just wound the last crimson and white roses together, when a footman
knocked at the door. She started up, and went to see what was wanted.
"Madam, the company are arriving; two carriages have set down their
loads already."
Ada had been too long in society for this announcement to confuse or
hurry her, had no other cause of excitement arisen; as it was, the
superb repose, usual to her manner, was disturbed.
"Who are they? have you seen them before?" she asked.
"Yes, madam, often."
"No stranger--no gentleman who never came before--you are certain?"
"None, madam."
There was something more in this than the usual anxiety of a hostess to
receive her guests.
"I am insane to loiter here," she murmured, drawing on her gloves; "he
might come and I not there; for the universe I would not miss his first
look. The bouquet, Rosanna, and handkerchief--where is my handkerchief?"
"Is this it, ma'am?" said Julia, raising a soft mass of gossamer cambric
and costly lace from the carpet, where it had fallen.
This drew Ada's notice once more to the child.
"Oh! I had forgotten," she said, going back to the toilet and taking up
a purse that lay among the jewel cases; "I have not time to count it;
take the money, but some day you must bring back the purse--remember."
She took her bouquet hastily from the waiting-maid, and went out,
leaving the purse in Julia's hand. After crossing the boudoir, she
turned back.
"Remember, the flowers are for these rooms," she said, addressing the
maid, and waving her hand, with a motion that indicated the bed-chamber
and boudoir. "Let me find them everywhere."
With this command, she disappeared, leaving the doors open behind her.
Julia drew a deep breath, as the wave of her garments was lost in
descending the stairs; turning sorrowfully away, her eyes fell upon the
purse; several gold pieces gleamed through the crimson net work.
"What shall I do--these cannot be all mine? the flowers did not cost
half so much."
"No matter," was the cheerful reply; "she gave it to you. It is her way;
keep it."
The child still hesitated.
"If you think it is not all right, say so when you bring back the
purse," said the maid, good naturedly. "Who knows but it may prove a
fairy gift? I'm sure her presents often do."
Julia was not quite convinced, even by this kind prophecy. Still, she
had no choice but obedience, and so, bidding pretty Rosanna a gentle
good night, she stole through the boudoir and away through the front
entrance, for she knew of no other; and folding her shawl closer, as she
encountered crowds of brilliantly dressed people she passed through the
vestibule.