THE TABLEAUX PARTY.
This conversation did not have the effect of re-establishing the
intercourse between the cousins on its old familiar footing. When they
were together, both the girls felt that they must be very careful what
they said, lest they should injure each other’s feelings; and this
necessity of constant watchfulness over one’s words in presence of
another is any thing but pleasant. Nothing can be more surely fatal to
a friendship than such a state of mind. It was not strange, therefore,
that the cousins, though outwardly as fond of each other as ever,
rather shunned than sought each other’s society.
Susan felt this estrangement far more keenly than her cousin. She was
not one who made many friends; while Carrie was of a social nature,
and was a general favourite. Susie was proud, too, and her cousin had
taunted her with being jealous. This had stung her to the quick. It
prevented her from saying any thing more against the intimacy existing
between the room-mates; and her pride, too, forbade her to accept any
invitations to join them in their walks.
“Florence doesn’t want me,” was her invariable reply.
“But I do,” Carrie would say.
“I don’t care about being a third one,” was Susan’s answer,--a reply
which annoyed her cousin exceedingly.
“Let her alone: she’s a jealous thing. She must be every thing or
nothing,” was Florence’s consolation to her friend when she came to her
with these troubles; and at last the advice was taken. Carrie ceased to
ask Susan altogether.
Poor Susie spent many unhappy hours alone in her chamber, and shed many
bitter tears over this neglect, quite unconscious that she herself was
partly in fault. And (not a little conscience-smitten at her treatment
of the poor orphan) Carrie, instead of changing her course, tried to
keep out of sight of her sad face as much as possible. This threw her
still more into Florence’s society,--so that they were soon quite
inseparable.
One day, while walking to the village accompanied by Miss
Winthrop,--for it was against the rules to go out of the school-grounds
unless under the charge of a teacher,--they met a handsome carriage,
which suddenly stopped close by them, and a young lady, who was riding
alone, called out,--
“Is that you, my dear little Florence, or only your apparition?”
Florence looked up. “Oh, my dear Cousin Fanny!” she exclaimed; and,
springing to the carriage, she was up on the step in an instant, and
showering kisses enough on her relative to convince her of her identity.
“I was on my way to call on you,” said Miss Fanny, as soon as she
could take breath after her little cousin’s ardent embrace.
“I’ll go back at once, then, for I don’t want to lose your visit.”
“No,” said the young lady, “I have a better plan than that. Who is that
with you?”
“Miss Winthrop, and my best friend, Carrie Stanley.”
“Miss Winthrop,” said the stranger, with a most bewitching smile, “will
you not allow me to take my little cousin and her friend out for a
short drive?”
Miss Winthrop hesitated.
“Oh, I’ll make it all right with Mr. Worcester. I know him very well.
Tell him, if you please, that Miss Montague will be responsible for the
safe return of his pupils. Jump in, girls. It is not so very long since
Miss Winthrop and I have been school-girls ourselves; and we know what
a treat a drive is.”
Miss Winthrop smiled pleasantly.
“On condition that you don’t keep them out too long, Miss Montague, I
consent,” she said. “I hope you will enjoy your drive, girls.” And
amidst their thanks the carriage drove on.
“How lucky it was,” exclaimed Flora, “that hateful old Forester wasn’t
with us! She would never have let us go. I can see her shake her old
corkscrew curls and make up her mouth and say, ‘It’s contrary to the
rules, young ladies.’”
Florence was an excellent mimic; and she had caught Miss Forester’s
very tone.
Her cousin laughed.
“I expect you need one such dragon to keep you in order,” she said.
The drive was a very pleasant one, for Miss Fanny was most agreeable
company; and sorry indeed were both the girls when it was time to
return.
Mr. Worcester met them at the gate. He appeared very happy to see
Miss Montague, and promised to call on her during her visit at Mrs.
Sidney’s. The girls thanked her for their ride.
“I shall come for you again, with Mr. Worcester’s permission,” was her
reply. “Mr. Worcester knows that I am to be trusted.”
“You must have changed somewhat, then.”
“Oh, what an ungallant speech! But I have changed wonderfully. I have
grown so old and staid! Come and see for yourself!”
She looked at her watch. “It is really late,” she said. “Drive home as
quickly as you can, James. Good-night!”
The coachman touched his spirited horses with the whip; away rolled the
carriage, and in a few minutes all were out of sight. The girls went
to their room, full of animation and eager to tell their companions of
their adventure.
“Oh, Susie, how I wish you had been with us!” concluded Carrie.
Susie made no reply. Her throat swelled and her eyes filled; for she
had been crying almost all the time they had been gone.
Carrie did not observe her red eyes, for she was too full of the
subject of the drive; and the tea-bell rang while the girls were still
dilating on Miss Fanny’s charms.
A few days after this, Florence took her friend aside very
mysteriously, whispering to her that she had something to tell her.
“What is it?” asked Carrie, eagerly.
“I had a note from Cousin Fanny this morning; and--what do you
think!--Mrs. Sidney is going to have a tableaux party, and you and I
are to be invited! Won’t that be splendid?”
Carrie clapped her hands in delight.
“But do you suppose Mr. Worcester will let us go?” she asked, a little
doubtfully.
“Oh, yes! Cousin Fanny says she will make it all right,--that she can
manage Mr. Worcester; and I guess she can, for she always does make
everybody and every thing do just as she chooses. We shall go, I know;
and won’t we have a grand time?”
“I wish Susie could go too,” was her friend’s only reply. “It looks a
little selfish in me to go and leave her behind.”
“Nonsense! No, it doesn’t. She won’t think any thing of it. Cousin
Fanny never heard of her, you know. Of course, Susan wouldn’t want you
to stay at home on her account. That would be selfish enough!”
“If she were only invited too,” persisted Carrie, “I should be
perfectly happy.”
“She can’t think it strange that she isn’t, when Fanny never heard of
her existence,” replied Florence. “Sometimes I wish I never had myself.
She’s a regular nuisance. I’m sick to death of her very name. It’s
always ‘Susan! Susan!’ with you, if any thing comes up. But don’t let
us talk any more about her now. She isn’t invited; and that’s all about
it.”
Florence had her own reasons for not wishing to talk on this subject.
In her cousin’s note she had told her that if there were any others of
her school-mates whom she wished to invite, she had only to let her
know; and, though Florence was determined that Susan should not go,
Carrie’s regrets on the subject made her feel very uncomfortable.
“What shall you wear?” she asked, as much for the sake of diverting her
friend’s mind as for any other reason.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Carrie. “I wish mother had let me bring
some of my evening dresses; but there wouldn’t be time to send home for
one now.”
“Why not wear our white muslins? With pretty sashes and bows on the
sleeves, they will look quite nice.”
“It’s as well to think so, at least,” returned Caroline; “for they are
the only dresses we have here at all suitable.”
In the course of the next day the invitations came in due form.
Mr. Worcester was invited also. Cousin Fanny’s magic had not been
over-estimated: he yielded to its power; for he told the girls, when
they showed him their notes, that, if they learned their lessons well
during the two days that were to intervene before the party, they
should go under his escort.
The girls were half wild with excitement. There was nothing to mar
their happiness. Susan had so kindly tried to make her cousin feel that
she did not care at all about going, and was so much interested in the
necessary preparations for her dress, that Carrie’s pleasure was not
quite spoiled, as Florence at one time had feared it might be. Yet her
regrets that Susan could not go were so sincere that the latter, even
without an invitation, was happier than she had been for many weeks;
for she began to feel that Carrie had not ceased to love her altogether.
The morning of the anxiously-looked-for day at last dawned, but Mr.
Worcester was not at the breakfast-table. The girls were dreadfully
afraid that he was ill. Never had they felt so great an interest in
his health before; but in a short time they learned the cause of his
non-appearance at table. He had left a note for them, which he had
intrusted to Miss Forester, telling them that he had been called away
suddenly and unexpectedly on business and should not return in season
to accompany them to the party; but he had made arrangements for a
carriage to convey them to Mrs. Sidney’s, and he hoped they would have
a pleasant evening.
The morning wore slowly away. It was in vain that Carrie attempted
to study. Her head was too full of the delights of the evening to
permit her to devote herself to her lessons; and it must be confessed
that neither she nor Florence acquitted themselves remarkably well in
Arithmetic or History.
At the close of the morning session, Miss Forester informed them that,
as they had broken the conditions of perfect recitations, they had
forfeited the right to go to the party, and she should consequently
countermand Mr. Worcester’s order for the carriage which was to have
conveyed them to Mrs. Sidney’s. The disappointment of the girls may be
readily imagined. Their expostulations were numerous but ineffectual,
and their anger against Miss Forester was fierce indeed.
“If Mr. Worcester were at home, I know he would let us go,” persisted
Florence.
“I am head-teacher in his absence,” replied Miss Forester; “and, since
you have not recited perfectly, I shall not let you go.”
Carrie cried, and Susan attempted to comfort her, for Florence had no
time to devote to consolation. She was not so easily disheartened. She
said nothing, but proceeded to act. She had always an abundance of
pocket-money; for her father kept her liberally supplied, and she had
long since learned that “money is power.”
During her practice-hour in the afternoon, while Miss Forester was
engaged in school, she stole out to the livery-stable and made an
arrangement with the keeper to send a carriage a half-hour later than
Mr. Worcester’s order. She explained to him the circumstances of the
case, and assured him that Mr. Worcester, had he not been absent,
would have allowed them to go, and that he would not be offended at
their disobeying Miss Forester. These assurances, together with a
liberal bribe, induced him to agree to have a carriage in waiting at
the appointed hour, a little distance from the house.
Having accomplished this, on her return she made one of the
chambermaids her confidant, and promised to pay her well if she
would be in readiness to let her in after the party, promising to be
back at one o’clock. The girl readily agreed to do so; and when her
arrangements were all completed, Florence informed Carrie of what she
had done.
At first Carrie was too much frightened to think of accompanying her;
but Florence insisted that it “was no more than fair.” She rehearsed
again her arguments to the livery-stable-keeper, and, as a grand
finale, urged her to rely on Cousin Fanny, who would make it all right
with Mr. Worcester.
“The reason old Lady Forester won’t let us go is because she’s
affronted to think she isn’t invited: she is as ugly and hateful as
she can be, and she tried to make us miss. I shall go at all events:
you can do as you please.”
So said Florence, and then proceeded to depict the pleasures of the
evening and the certainty that their absence would never be discovered.
The temptation was too great for poor Carrie.
She yielded in spite of Susan’s remonstrances, and at the hour the two
friends stole softly out of the house. The carriage was ready according
to the agreement; and, once at the party, Carrie quite forgot all her
misgivings.
The tableaux were very beautiful, the ladies and gentlemen very polite,
and Fanny spared no pains to make her little guests perfectly happy.
Never was there so short or so delightful an evening.
The carriage at the appointed hour conveyed them home. They alighted
where they had been taken up, and crept softly up to the house. All was
dark. They tapped at the kitchen-window. The back-door opened at the
signal, and there stood Miss Forester!
“Good-evening, young ladies,” said she, with a grim smile.
She said not another word, and the girls, quite crest-fallen, crept up
to bed. They well knew that such an offence would never be overlooked.
Even from Cousin Fanny’s intercession little was to be hoped. But how
Miss Forester had learned their absence was a mystery.
Had Bridget turned traitor? Or had Susan been mean enough to think it
her duty to tell of their disobedience? Florence was impatient to see
Biddy, to upbraid her for her faithlessness, or Susan, to express her
contempt for her if she was the guilty one; but the next morning she
learned that both were quite free from blame.
Bridget’s mother, who lived in the vicinity, had sent for her in
great haste, as her youngest brother was in convulsions; and Bridget,
even in her distress, was not forgetful of her promise to the young
ladies. She had confided their secret to one of her fellow-servants,
who promised to perform her part in letting them in. Miss Forester,
happening to have occasion to go to the kitchen, had overheard all
this in the passage, and had sent the servants to bed, volunteering to
relieve Margaret of her attendance on the door.
“The mean old thing! The spying, prying old thing!” said Florence.
“She is always prowling round and eaves-dropping. The contemptible old
sneak!”
To all this Nora, her informant, assented,--for Miss Forester was no
favourite; but such epithets, though they might possibly act as a
safety-valve for Florence’s indignation, were powerless to extricate
the culprits from their dilemma.
It was in vain to look for counsel from Carrie; she was too much
frightened to be of the least service: indeed, it seemed to afford
her great relief when Florence, nerving herself up for the penalty,
exclaimed,--
“There’s one consolation, Carrie. They can’t kill us! For even Miss
Forester--though I’ve no doubt she’d be glad to do it--can’t make it
out a hanging-matter. At worst, it will only be the State’s prison for
life!”
“How can you talk so?” said Susan. “I believe you would make fun of any
thing.”
“We may as well laugh as cry,” retorted Florence. “We’re in for it.
There’s one thing certain, though: I won’t give Miss Forester the
satisfaction of thinking that I care a straw about it, or that I’m
afraid of her.”
On Mr. Worcester’s return, the facts were duly laid before him. The
girls were sent for into his study.
It was useless to attempt any defence of their conduct; and so Florence
wisely said nothing. Carrie could only cry; and perhaps her distress
touched their teacher’s heart, for after some deliberation he sentenced
them to the loss of all holidays for four weeks; and during that time
they must not go out of the school-grounds.
This was so much better than they had expected, that the delinquents
left him with a light heart. But, though at first it seemed a slight
punishment, it proved to be a severe one; for soon after Miss Fanny
called with an invitation for them to go on a picnic, which she had
arranged on a holiday expressly for the sake of their being able to
attend.
She interceded with Mr. Worcester for a reprieve, but in vain; and, as
she was expressing her sorrow and disappointment on leaving without
them, Miss Forester passed.
She had heard enough to understand what was going on; and, as they went
up the staircase to their rooms, she met them and smiled. It was a
smile of triumph,--or so, at least, the girls fancied.
It was too much for Florence. She turned and shook her clenched fist
behind her teacher’s back, and muttered, between her shut teeth,--
“I’ll be even with you yet.”