’Twas throwing words away, for still
The little maid would have her will.
WORDSWORTH.
A week before the wedding Mr. Stanley arrived, and as Ada had been
invited to join a family party at the house of Charles Ingleby’s sister,
Catharine took the liberty of inviting Mr. Stanley on her own account,
for she was determined to begin operations at once. She had deliberated
for some time whether or not to apprize Ada of the important arrival; at
last, it was decided in the negative, and as the decision had cost the
impetuous Catharine a fearful exercise of self-denial, she repaid
herself by hurrying off her mother, lover, and _protégé_, half an hour
before the time appointed. She might as well have spared herself the
trouble, as no Ada made her appearance, and it was not until the evening
had almost passed away that Catharine learned from their hostess, Mrs.
Howard, that Ada had excused herself early that morning, upon plea of a
pre-engagement.
This was too impertinent of Ada, and Catharine resolved, early the next
morning to go over and tell her so. The Somerses always spent their
winters in town, and as a few squares only separated the friends,
Catharine was soon at the door of Mr. Somers’ house, ringing the bell
with the vehemence of a postman. The well-bred servant who opened the
door, looked surprised when he found that it was Miss Ashton who had
nearly broken his bell-wire; but as Miss Ashton was a privileged belle
herself, and had been running tame about Mr. Somers’ house ever since he
could remember, he stepped back respectfully, while she passed
unannounced into the sitting-room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Somers, where is Ada?” asked she, taking off her
bonnet.
“You will find her in the library, my dear,” replied Mrs. Somers, and
away flew Catharine, with the easy familiarity of one whose welcome is
unquestionable. She was prepared to heap abuse upon the head of the
offending Ada, but when she flung open the door, she had not the heart
to find fault with any thing so pretty.
Her _blouse_ of rich Cashmere was fastened around the waist by a cord
and tassel, its loose sleeves lined with crimson silk, were looped back
so as to contrast with the snow-white cambric of the under sleeve; and
the dainty little collar that encircled her white throat was fastened by
a very small cameo brooch. Her dark hair was drawn over her ears _à la
comtesse_, and the edge of its large twisted coronal, was just visible
above one of the prettiest heads in the world. Ada had been poring, with
rapture, over Jean Paul’s apostrophe to an old maid. She had found an
advocate, and her large orbs were luminous with the enthusiasm of a mind
that has just found, mirrored in another, the image of its own thoughts;
and she looked so fair, so fresh, so any thing but like a student, that
Catharine forgot her offences, and could only exclaim:
“Ada, you are radiant with beauty this morning. So should a woman look
who has just parted from her lover. But you! you might as well be a
mummy three thousand years old, as the beautiful girl you are.”
“Thank you,” said Ada quietly, while Catharine rattled on.
“Pray, whose is the spell that has brought such brilliancy to your eye?”
“Jean Paul’s.”
“Jean Paul’s!” echoed Catharine, disdainfully, “Only think of giving
one’s best feelings to an author! Literally falling in love with a set
of abstractions!”
“Falling in love!” returned Ada, laughing. “Who but you would have
applied such a term to such a passionless recreation as reading? Ah, my
poor Kate, you are far gone, indeed, and there is no method in your
madness!”
“Well, don’t preach, but shut your book, and listen to me. I am very
angry with you. Why were you not at Julia’s last night?”
“Why, because I was engaged to go and hear Mr. —— lecture on
Shakspeare.”
“How absurd! These lecturers are a nuisance to society, and ought to be
suppressed. I wonder the ghost of Shakspeare has not risen long ago, to
beg that they will leave his ashes in peace.”
“He ought to be much obliged to them, for unfolding his beauties to the
million who have a comprehension, but no perception of the beautiful,
and are quite capable both of seeing and admiring, when they have been
told _what_ to see and admire.”
“You are very wise and eloquent, no doubt, Ada, but I am not able this
morning to take part in a discussion on literary acumen,” said her
lively friend, “I am here for something less profound, and more
important, Julia’s soirée.”
“Well, what had you to offer, that could weigh in the balance with Mr.
——’s eloquence?”
“Mr. Stanley.”
“Who is Mr. Stanley? A rival lecturer?”
A rival lecturer! This was too provoking of Ada to forget the name of
Charles’ friend, and Catharine looked up to see if the forgetfulness
might not possibly be assumed. Alas! it was but too real, and she gave
full vent to her indignation, as she recalled to Ada, who and what Mr.
Stanley was.
“True, I had forgotten,” quietly rejoined the offender. “But surely,
Kate, there is no occasion for so much warmth. How should I remember
him, when I have never even seen him?”
“That is just the reason why I am provoked—I wanted to present him to
you last evening.”
“Another time will do just as well.”
“But there is no time to be lost,” replied Catharine, vehemently.
“Why _we_ have no preliminaries to settle about the wedding ceremony,
have we?” asked Ada, ingenuously.
The question recalled Catharine to a sense of the blunder she had been
about to commit, and she answered carelessly:
“Oh, no! but it would be pleasanter for both, had you met before the
wedding. By the bye, Ada,” added she, to change the subject, “you should
have seen how handsome Charles was last night.”
“I dare say! Had he chosen to deck himself with an ass’s head, Titania
would have found him so.”
“Poor Charles! That I should live to hear him likened to Bottom, the
weaver. But I ought to know better than to expect you to appreciate him;
you, who waste your love upon books and music, and—”
“Saucy girls like yourself, Kate. But when you begin to wander over your
‘Carte du pays tendre,’ pray don’t expect me to keep you company, for I
have never explored it. I will acknowledge, at the same time, that
Charles is handsome—nay, the handsomest man of my acquaintance.”
“Ah, you will!” said Catharine, with a bright smile. “Then I forgive
you, but I predict that the day will come, when you will be punished for
despising this ‘Carte du pays tendre,’ for mark me, Ada! yours is the
very nature for _une grande passion_, and when you love—angels and
ministers of grace defend me!—it will be Ætna poured into Vesuvius.”
Ada laughed heartily, and a very sweet laugh was hers—low and musical,
as the chime of fairy bells.
“Pray, Kate,” asked she, “when did the mantle of divination fall upon
those pretty shoulders?”
“Oh, I became wise like Cassandra. Love has made me a prophetess.”
“And like Cassandra, a prophetess whom nobody heeds.”
“Right, Ada,” exclaimed Catharine, exultingly, “and to complete the
resemblance, a true prophetess, notwithstanding.”
“You are clever at repartee, my Kate, but you have mistaken your
vocation. If at the mature age of twenty-three I have never loved—”
“You forget James Darrington.”
“Pshaw,” said Ada, slightly coloring, “as if that deserved a name.”
“It does—for it proves that the object, not the feeling, is wanting.”
“It proves no such thing, so stop weaving romances for me, and make up
your mind, like a good girl, to see me live the life, and die the death
of an old maid.”
“The death of an old maid!” Catharine lifted up her hands in horror.
“I could not die in better company, Catharine, and I am surprised to
hear any thing so _missish_ from one who was once a rational being.”
“Thank you, Ada. But if I err, I have the comfort of erring with the
whole world; and as I am no Briareus, I cannot lift my single arm to do
battle with its errors. Besides, the prejudice against old maids is not
one of yesterday; remember the lament of Jeptha’s daughter.”
“Do not quote the Jews to me for any thing!” cried Ada. “A wicked and
idolatrous race, who, in the very desert where heaven rained manna for
their food, and the rocks gushed forth water for their drink, could turn
from the visible presence of the living God, and bow down before a
golden calf! The heathens, for their opportunities, were both wiser and
better than the children of Israel; and among them, the priestesses of
the temples, the most honored of their women, were virgins. But stay! we
do not need their sanction. The most perfect of created beings, she who
was chosen to be the mother of the Saviour, is she not called ‘the
blessed Virgin?’”
“Ay, dear Ada,” said Catharine, dropping her levity, “but she was a
mother, and so fulfilled woman’s highest and dearest mission.”
“In her case it was both; and in all cases, the vocation of the wife and
mother is a beautiful and joyous one; but precisely because in the eyes
of the world it _is_ so graceful and honorable, does it seem to me less
noble than that of the lonely woman, who, first in the heart of none,
devotes herself to all, for the love of heaven. The sister of charity,
whose gentle hand smoothes the pillow of the dying outcast, the pensive
nun, who sits at the Redeemer’s feet, are they not the Marys, ‘who have
chosen the better part;’ and the busy wife, with her thousand cares, is
she not that Martha troubled about many things?”
Catharine was touched by the eloquent earnestness of her friend’s
manner, but it was not in her nature to be serious; she could only
pause, to get over the embarrassment of feeling solemn, and then answer:
“Ada, your ideal of an old maid is charming, but unluckily, it _is_ but
an ideal. Who that saw the faultless picture you have just drawn, would
recognize as its original Miss Trott, who, instead of sitting at
anybody’s feet, spends her days pattering about town as a fetcher and
carrier of scandal, or Miss Dolly Wiggin, whose religion is made up of
pious detestation of her neighbors’ faults, and whose life is an epitome
of the Pharisee’s prayer?”
Dearly as she loved Catharine, Ada felt sometimes that she deserved
chiding for her levity; but as in all her attempts at reproof, Catharine
invariably got the better of her, through her drollery and good-humor,
Ada merely shook her head as she answered:
“Trifler! trifler! will nothing be sacred from your indomitable spirit
of fun?”
“Certainly not old maids—and if you persist in being one, expect no
bounds to my contempt.”
“My nature will steel me against it,” replied Ada, “for you well know
that I am not one to be turned from any purpose by ridicule; and as
argument on this subject, is about as unavailing as a homily on the
virtues to a staring idiot, you had better leave me to my unhappy fate,
and confine your exertions to the shaping of your own destiny. Marry if
you will, dear Kate,” continued she, rising, “and swear by the
simplicity of Venus’ doves; but don’t expect all your friends to go
philandering over the world after your example. And now, come with me to
my room, and tell me whether my dress for your wedding shall be of
Organdie or Tarlatane.”
“I will, with pleasure,” exclaimed Catharine, gayly, “for I was just
beginning to fear that you were:
‘A creature _far_ too bright and good,
For human nature’s daily food,’
but, thank Folly! you remind me that you are nothing but a woman after
all!”
The next morning Ada ordered the carriage early; for besides having
various purchases to make, she wished to deliver to Catharine Ashton, in
person, a dressing-case, which she had ordered as a wedding-present for
her friend.
Ada was ushered into Catharine’s own room, where on a centre-table lay
scattered the countless pretty offerings, which, at such a period, never
fail a bride, (I mean a bride rich enough to buy them for herself,) for
it is a remarkable fact in the physiology of present making, that gifts
are carefully _dis_proportioned to the need of the donees; to the rich,
much, to the poor, little is invariably given. Miss Ashton was wealthy,
and, therefore, her friends had spent a great deal of money in her
honor; and many a rich bauble calling itself “Friendship’s offering,”
had it been labeled “Gift of ostentation,” would have worn the livery of
the motive that sent it.
Over the glittering heap that dazzled Ada’s eyes, as she entered the
room, was flung the scarf of delicate Brussels, no longer the veil but
the ornament of brides; and Kate herself was standing before a
Cheval-glass, adjusting the folds of a bright Cashmere, which fell, soft
as silk, around her slight figure.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Ada, herself an exquisite judge of dress: “and
how becoming.”
“Which is more to the purpose,” replied Catharine, laughing; and she
threw her shawl upon the bed, thereby disturbing the flounces of six
silk dresses, which flew up like so many peacocks’ tails. The next
moment she was snapping asunder the cords that bound up Ada’s package,
and her busy fingers had soon torn off the papers that enveloped it.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” cried she, delighted, “the very, the _only_
thing I wanted. Oh,” cried she, opening it, “this is really prettier
than Mrs. Darrington’s gift to you in days of yore, Ada. Do you remember
your exultation, and my envy on that memorable evening? And the
ring—poor James’ emerald! Suppose he were to return with _another_
ring, do you think your heart could be made to beat to the tune of ‘Auld
lang syne’?”
“I should not know him if I met him,” replied Ada; but she was so busy
fastening her glove that Catharine could not see whether her saucy
question had made an impression. She knew that Ada disliked the least
allusion to her early love, a symptom which, as Catharine was “herself
and not Œdipus,” puzzled her exceedingly.
“What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” said she, carelessly, and after
replacing all the boxes and flacons she had taken out of her
dressing-case, she continued: “Well! I suppose I must give you up.
George wouldn’t do, would he?” asked she, with a saucy smile, and then
shaking her head: “No—No—I see you resent my old offer of him as
successor to the unfortunate James, whose memory now lies ‘five fathom
deep under the blade waters of Lethe.’”
Ada leaned her head upon her hand, and her fancy wandered back to the
days of her childish love, and the spell of memory was so potent that
her heart beat as if the black waters of Lethe had not engulfed _all_
remembrance. Catharine looked at her in some surprise, and then
snatching from the table a little Cupid of _bronze artistique_, whose
quiver was filled with harmless lamplighters, she placed it before Ada,
saying:
“‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître
Il est, le fut, ou le doit être.’
After all, Ada, there is nothing but the difference of a tense between
you and me. I _am_, and you _have been_ in love, and if ‘_Il a bu
boira_,’ I think I may venture to hope that ‘_Elle a aimée, aimera_.’”
Ada shook her head. “Bad taste and false reasoning, Kate. The false
reasoning I pass over, for there is often poetry, if seldom justice in
comparisons between things tangible and immaterial, but for the crime of
sinking love to a level with intemperance, you deserve ‘La peine forte
et dure.’” And having enlisted Catharine in a defense of her taste and
judgment, Ada took advantage of the first pause that ensued, to take her
leave.
She threw herself back into her carriage, and her reveries were of auld
lang syne. Her rescue—(it had been no jest!) her subsequent love for
the noble boy who had risked something to save her—his departure—her
childish grief—one by one, in the twilight of memory, rose the phantoms
of the past; and then, as Ada’s fancy sketched its ideal of James
Darrington’s present self, she wondered whether—
But just at that moment she felt the carriage violently thrown back, and
heard a tumult of voices, giving token that something unusual had
happened.
A child had just been rescued from under her horses’ feet.
“Is he killed?” exclaimed the shuddering girl; but no answer was
vouchsafed to her terrified inquiries; for the crowd was like all other
crowds, and a fine lady was of less consequence than a mangled
child—for a mangled child was a spectacle!
There was much pushing—many oaths—much angry contention; for every man
in the crowd was determined to see the child himself, and was fiercely
engaged in forcing his way, and in abusing the curiosity of his fellows.
Ada shuddered again—but it was with disgust.
At length the dense mass before her began to thin—and the oaths to
cease. The child was not mangled, and there had been nothing to see.
There was now room for her to act. She dared not alight, but she called
her footman. “Quick! Quick, Grey, go bring me news of that poor child,
and say that I will take it in my carriage to the nearest physician.”
The footman disappeared, and Ada counted five minutes of intense
anxiety. At length he returned. The gentleman who had rescued the child,
accepted her offer, for no physician resided any where near, and this
was the best plan that as yet had been proposed.
“Then fetch him, Grey, and let us begone,” said his trembling mistress.
Grey pointed to an opening, where a gentleman was seen advancing with
the child in his arms. He then opened the door, and Ada leaned forward
to receive the little plebian, but his preserver drew back.
“Nay,” said he, respectfully, “that would be repaying benevolence with
imposition. The child is heavy and unfit for such hands as yours. If you
will not deem me impertinent then,” added he, slightly coloring, “I will
carry him myself.”
Ada comprehended the implied request, and permission was as frankly
given as it had been asked.
The stranger had foreseen every exigency. The first object was to
consult a physician, and then the child would be conveyed home. Ada
thought only of the speediest means of relieving its suffering; she
therefore approved of every thing, and the carriage rolled away from the
gaping crowd.
This was rather a perplexing position for two young people who had never
met before, but strange to say, neither of them felt it. They were too
much engrossed with benevolence, to remember convention.
Meanwhile, the carriage drew up before the door of the physician, and
as, contrary to the custom of the faculty, he was sometimes to be found
at his own house, no delay ensued. To Ada’s infinite joy, he pronounced
the child sound in limb. There was nothing, he said, to prevent its
immediate removal; and if the lady and gentleman would allow him, he
would accompany, instead of following them; it would be safer than to
wait for his own phæton.
“Lady and gentleman!” These were the first words that awakened Ada to
the fact of her having allowed a handsome young man, a perfect stranger,
to enter her carriage. She blushed, and inwardly blessing the doctor for
his proposal, she soon found herself going, she knew not whither, in the
company of, she knew not whom.
Dr. B. was an eminent surgeon, and a very humane man, and to prevent any
offer of remuneration for his services, he expressed his pleasure to his
new acquaintances, at the opportunity they had afforded him, of being
included in a deed of charity. Something more he added, which would have
been all very admissible, had he rightly conjectured the relation, or
rather the non-relation of the parties addressed; but as he mistook them
for husband and wife, his words not only brought a glow of burning shame
upon the cheek of our poor Ada, thoughtless, through excess of
thoughtfulness for another, but they somewhat heightened the complexion
of her guest also.
With a delicacy and tact, for which the young girl thanked him from her
heart, he explained the accident which had brought them together; and
while the disturbed Ada was beginning to accuse herself of culpable
imprudence, the doctor scarcely knew whether most to admire her for her
disinterestedness or to pity her for confusion.
Ada was sensibly relieved, when, having restored the child to its
mother, and promised to call again on the morrow, she was once more
alone on her way home.
The stranger watched her till she was out of sight, and then went home
with the doctor.
As they walked together, the doctor thought that if so remarkable a
meeting between two such interesting persons came to nothing, it would
be a great waste of romance in real life.
The next day Ada begged her mother to accompany her on her visit to
little Johnny Wilson; she had some scruples about going alone. But when
the hour came, Mrs. Somers was indisposed, and Ada was forced to go
unaccompanied. The first person she saw on entering Mrs. Wilson’s little
parlor, was the stranger; and not even the sight of his arm in a sling
had power to soften Ada’s displeasure at his appearance. Good Mrs.
Wilson, however, was in high spirits; Johnny was better; the gentleman
had brought him some toys, and she attributed entirely to the said
Johnny’s attractions, the two hours which her guest had been spending at
her front window. When in the height of her volubility, Mrs. Wilson
deposed that he had spent the whole morning with Johnny, the culprit had
once more recourse to the window, to hide his embarrassment; and while
he was wondering what he should do next, Ada, after a few brief
inquiries as to Johnny’s wants, bowed coldly, and took her leave in
serious displeasure; for she felt that this interview had all the
appearance of a rendezvous.
Just as she opened the street door, she was met by Doctor B., the sight
of whom by no means contributed to diminish her vexation or confusion.
The doctor saw that she seemed uneasy, and a glance at the person
looking out of the parlor window accounted to him for it; he therefore
checked the greetings he was about to offer, and gracefully bidding Ada
good morning, he entered the house.
Doctor B. comprehended the whole matter, without help or hint—for he
was in the habit of studying the mental as well as the bodily ailments
of mankind.
“Foolish fellow!” said the kind-hearted physician, to himself. “No
wonder that pretty creature is offended. I must really tell him that
there is no tact in his proceedings. What a magnificent creature she
is!” continued he, musing, “with her wide brow and intellectual eye. I
must find out her name, and give my friend here a hint not to dog her
steps, as if she were a vain and silly miss of every-day mould.”
Meanwhile the subject of his musings walked home in no serene state of
mind. If she had been disturbed yesterday, to-day she was cruelly
mortified. But it was all owing to her own misconduct. How could she so
far forget herself as to share her carriage with an entire stranger! Why
had she not resigned it to him, and walked home? But what
indiscretion—what utter absence of delicacy to go with him! She could
never forgive herself. And poor Ada’s cheek burned with the stinging
shame of delicacy compromised. And then she colored, and asked herself
“what right she had to suppose herself an object in a visit so natural?
Perhaps he had not thought of her at all;” and she began to breathe more
freely, when she suddenly remembered his conscious look, when Mrs.
Wilson had expatiated upon his kindness in sitting with them so long.
Back, then, came thronging confusion and shame; so that by the time Ada
reached home, she had tortured herself into a headache, and was obliged
to send an apology to Catharine, with whom she had promised to spend
that evening.
Early the next morning came Catharine on a visit of inquiry. Mr. Stanley
(whom she had invited expressly to meet Ada) had been so stupid and so
unlike himself that she had been several times on the point of going to
sleep; and she had half forgiven him, in the belief that he was stupid
with disappointment, when he suddenly interrupted a long pause by
relating an adventure which had befallen him the day before. There was a
beautiful girl in question, and she it was, and not Ada, who had made
Mr. Stanley “duller than the fat weed of Lethe.”
Ada then heard _his_ version of their meeting, and Catharine, in the
fullness of her indignation, grew so red and angry as she dwelt on the
marks of his visible infatuation, that Ada laughed outright. Still she
was sufficiently ashamed of the whole affair to have kept it quietly to
herself, had the hero thereof been any one but Mr. Stanley. This she now
saw was not possible, for in four days the wedding was to take place,
and for her own sake the confession must not be withheld.
It was made as briefly as possible, and Catharine was so overjoyed that
she scarcely marked the cold and discouraging tone of Ada’s recital.
“Just like him,” exclaimed she, “to sprain his wrist in saving the life
of a little ragged democrat—it is not the first time he has risked
himself for others.” And she was now as loud in praise as she had just
been in condemnation.
Ada never doubted for a moment, that Catharine, whose impetuous nature
converted life into a series of telegraphic dispatches, would fly off
and relate what she had just heard to Charles, Mr. Stanley, and the
whole world. She implored her therefore to confine her disclosures to
the two former, and to be as sparing as possible of raptures. Catharine
promised every thing, for she had just been seized with the humorous
idea of saying nothing at all about it, and so of witnessing the effect
of Ada’s unexpected appearance upon Mr. Stanley.
Four days are not long in passing, even to lovers—and the
wedding-evening came at last. Catharine was as free in step, as joyous
in heart as ever. She laughed and talked of her happiness, as she twined
her fingers around her glossy curls; and she spoke gayly of her love for
Charles, as she gathered up the folds of her veil, and requested Ada to
fasten in her hair, so as to make it becoming, as well as emblematic.
Catharine was more than ever an enigma to her friend, for Ada could not
comprehend that happiness which wears the form of so much gayety. To the
one, happiness was a deep and subdued feeling; to the other she came
“With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
But the two girls were as dissimilar—as friends usually are.
At length, with heightened color, and eyes dewy with emotion, (for she
dearly loved Catharine,) Ada followed the bride; and perhaps she had
never looked so lovely as she did to the astonished eyes of Mr. Stanley,
when, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, he recognized the
face which for one whole week had visited him in dreams.
His surprise was not to be mistaken, and Ada, overwhelmed with
confusion, turned upon Catharine a glance so reproachful, that the
glaring impropriety of what she had done instantly flashed upon her. She
remembered that Stanley knew her too well, not to be assured that she
had poured the history of his adventure into Ada’s ears; and now it
seemed as if both had been conspiring to enjoy his surprise—as if poor
Ada had been accessary to a joke—a thing for which she had the greatest
aversion. Catharine was so displeased with her heedless conduct, that
she was unable to detest herself sufficiently; and not possessing Ada’s
habitual self-control, her penitence and apologies only made the matter
ten times worse.
Ada’s humiliation is not to be described. The mistake of Dr. B.—the
visit to Johnny Wilson were bad enough—but this was a positive
indelicacy, a thing for which Mr. Stanley must justly despise her. But
she was mistaken. Mr. Stanley knew Catharine well enough to recognize
her as sole author of the plot, and his behaviour on the occasion
testified his conviction of the same. Ada felt his kindness, but her
wounds bled none the less; and with bitter reluctance she placed her arm
within his, and descended to the parlor.
What a dangerous thing it is to interfere with the inclinations of
others. If there is anything in the world calculated to disgust two
people with one another, it is the discovery that their friends are
laboring “to make a match between them.”
Ada had just made this discovery.
The ceremony over, etiquette required that for a time at least she
should endure the attentions of her luckless admirer. He really was in a
position of some difficulty, but he acquitted himself therein with such
perfect tact and good-breeding, that Ada felt bound to hate him less.
But as soon as an excuse presented itself, she crossed the room, to join
another group, and left Mr. Stanley to the civilities of a young lady,
who seemed disposed to pay him every attention in her power. He, poor
fellow, almost sighed, as he followed her graceful figure; but he
resolved not to distress her with pursuit; so he addressed himself to
the young lady beside him—talked a variety of elegant nonsense to half
the company, and finally took his seat by Catharine.
“What have you done?” said he, reproachfully.
“Enough to mar the pleasure of my bridal day,” replied the penitent
bride; “but how could I dream—it was all a jest springing from my
unbounded delight, when I found that, like Romeo, you had fallen in love
with her at first sight.”
Mr. Stanley shook his head and smiled.
“It might as well have been,” answered she, and then lowering her voice,
she added, “How strange! how very strange! and how delightful!”
“Delightful for you, perhaps,” said her companion, in a serious tone;
“but first from my own, and now from _your_ blunder, Catharine, I fear
that the day on which I first met her, will be an inauspicious one for
me.” He then related to Catharine all that Ada had omitted—blamed
himself for the indiscretion of his visit to Mrs. Wilson; “and now, my
dear Catharine,” said he, “have you and I together not done enough to
make her hate me?”
“Hate you! Heaven forbid! for then I shall have held my tongue to no
purpose, and shall have wasted a great deal of good feeling in your
service.”
“Your feelings are just what they ought to be, ardent and affectionate,
but your judgment, I fear,” added he, with a smile, “is no better—than
my own.”
“Then what _shall_ I do?” asked Catharine, despairingly.
“Do, my dear Catharine? Do—nothing.”
“Well, this is sentence of death, indeed, upon my talents for meddling;
but never mind, I am so much more anxious to serve you than to
distinguish myself, that I will—try.”
She kept her promise; and for a month at least, Ada was suffered to like
or dislike Mr. Stanley in peace. During this time, many parties were
given to the popular bride; and though Ada was not fond of balls, still,
as bridemaid, she was forced not only to attend them, but to accept as
much attention as the enemy chose to offer. He was careful that this
attention should be no more than etiquette required of him; and it was
so unobtrusive, that at length Ada felt less and less embarrassed in his
presence, and ceased to think of his acquaintance as the greatest
misfortune of her life.