DRESSING FOR THE PARTY.
Eva Laurence was dressing for her first party, and the very anticipation
of its delights gave resplendence to the wonderful beauty of her face.
She was young, ambitious, and rich in that vivid talent which doubles
enjoyment and gives a keener edge to pain than ordinary natures ever
endure.
Ruth was sitting up, among the cushions of her couch, looking bright and
happy as an angel. Her soft eyes were full of serene love-light; a faint
color came and went in her cheeks; and little quivers of delight stirred
her fingers, as she smoothed the drifts of snow-white tarlatan that
draped her sister’s slender person.
“Oh, how beautiful it is! How soft and white! You look like a bride,
Eva!”
“Or a ghost!” muttered Mrs. Laurence, in a troubled undertone. “The
ghost of a child we have sheltered and loved, but who will belong to
others when we want her most.”
“What are you saying, mother?” cried Eva, who was stooping forward to
look at herself in a little mirror between the windows, which just took
in the outlines of her splendid neck and shoulders. “Something about my
dress that you don’t like, I suppose. It was extravagant spending so
much money; but you must scold Ruth. She would do it, wouldn’t you,
Ruthy, dear?”
“Oh, yes! mother must scold me! but she won’t do it, in earnest. I’m not
afraid. Didn’t she work like a regular seamstress, to help finish the
dress; and isn’t it beautiful? All it wants is a little warm color.”
“It wants nothing in the world,” said Eva, passing both hands over the
dark braids of hair that fell in rich loops down her neck, making its
whiteness like the leaves of a magnolia flower. “I never was dressed so
well in my life, and, perhaps, never shall be again, who knows?”
“I know,” answered Ruth. “These fashionable people adore good looks;
and, oh! sister Eva, how beautiful you are! Come down here, and let me
kiss you. How warm and red your cheeks are; it is like feeling a peach
at one’s lips. How I would love to paint you just this way, only a
little color in the dress. I insist on that for the picture; it costs
nothing, you know.”
“Come in,” Mrs. Laurence called, a little sharply, for she was ill at
ease that evening, and even a knock at the door annoyed her.
It was only little Jimmy, who peeped through the door, after knocking,
to make sure that even his presence might not create some confusion,
while that momentous toilet was in progress. He carried a mass of loose
roses in his arms, white, golden-tinted, and red, some half open, some
in full bloom, and others folded buds, clasped in with moss.
No wonder Ruth uttered a glad cry, and clapped her delicate hands,
gleeful as a child who suddenly finds its wishes gratified. No wonder
Eva sprang forward, and put a hand on either side the boy’s face, and
kissed him, rapturously, over and over again.
“You darling! You boy of boys! Where did you get them?” she cried. “Oh!
how could I be so careless?”
In her eagerness, she had swept half, the flowers from Jimmy’s arms, and
they lay at her feet, sending up odors that filled the little room. She
stooped to gather them up, still questioning him.
“Where did they come from, so fresh, and such long stems? There is one
on your train; it seems to be buried in snow—such a lovely color,” cried
Ruth, fairly trembling with delight. “Now I will make the dress
perfect.”
“Where did I get them?” answered James, emptying his fragrant burden on
Ruthy’s couch, and kneeling down to gather up the portion scattered
around Eva. “It’s a pretty way to find out, smothering a fellow with
kisses, and asking him to talk. Well, if you want to know, a friend of
mine gave them to me.”
“A friend? Oh, James!”
“Yes, I say it again—a friend. You have seen him, Eva, through an iron
fence; gray hair; legs like broomsticks. Does it strike you?”
“What, that old man?. No!”
“I tell you, yes! He was watching for me by the gate. I’d been leaving
some groceries in the basement, you know, and took a peep through the
railing. Always do. The gate opened softly, and his queer old face
looked through.
‘Come in!’ says he. ‘Have you got a basket?’
“‘No,’ says I. ‘The cook hadn’t time to empty it.’
“‘Well, come along; I want to send something to that pretty sister of
yours,’ says he.
“I went in, so astonished, that I was steering through the middle of a
flower-bed, when he called out, ‘This way!’ and went on among a whole
heap of bushes, just as full of roses as they could hold. Here he took
out a great jack-knife, and cut away like fun, giving the flowers to me
till my arms were full, and their breath made me long to dance.
“‘Take them to the young lady,’ says he, ‘and say it wasn’t just old
Storms that sent ’em, but some one else that——’”
“Oh, James! did he say that?”
“Of course he did, and more yet; but I’ll tell you that when we are all
alone. It’s sort of private.”
Here the boy made signs, and whispered mysteriously, glancing at his
mother, who was retreating to the kitchen with a cloud of unusual
darkness on her face. She saw in all these excitements only signs of
disaster and separation.