THE FIRST OF THEM.
Young Mrs. Merridew's _Thés Dansantes_ made a great commotion in
Redborough. Dancing teas--what did it mean? It meant some nonsense or
another. You might be sure it meant nonsense of some kind, as it was
Ellen Vernon that was at the bottom of it, the elder people said; but
the younger ones were of a different opinion. It did not matter to them
so much that Ellen Vernon was silly; indeed the greater part of them
were so dazzled by the furs and the bracelets, and the victoria, if not
by the brilliant fairness and beaming smiles and prettiness of the
bride, that they did not remember Ellen Vernon had been silly, and
thought Mrs. Algernon Merridew not only the leader of fashion, but the
most amiable and good-natured of all queens of society, the most "easy
to get on with" and most full of "go." Nothing like her and her dresses,
and her house and her company, had ever been seen in the quiet,
steady-going country town. She made it known graciously, that she was
always at home at lunch, and there was scarcely a day that a merry party
did not assemble at her house, filling the newly-furnished pretty room
with chatter and laughter, and all the distracting devices of careless
youth to get rid of a few of its golden hours. And already there had
been half a dozen dinners, far too soon and quite unnecessary, as all
the elders said. She ought to have waited until everybody had given her
and her husband a dinner before she began to return their hospitalities.
But Ellen had no idea either of waiting or returning the heavy dinners
to which she, as a daughter of one of the reigning houses of the town,
and her husband as belonging, if not to that rank, at least to the
foremost respectability, were invited by all the principal people. The
entertainments she gave were reckless young dinners, where there was no
solemnity at all, and perhaps not much wit, but where laughter abounded
and all sorts of wild schemes of pleasure were invented. And just as the
solid people who had made a point of having a dinner for the Algernon
Merridews began to feel a little offended at the goings-on of the young
household which paid no attention to ordinary rules of civility, the
younger portion of the population was thrown into the wildest excitement
by the announcement of the _Thés Dansantes_, and frowning mothers were
courted to smiles again, by the anticipated pleasure of their children.
The old Merridews, the father and mother, looked on with pride but
misgiving, the brothers and sisters with pride and delight, as they felt
themselves already rising high upon the topmost wave of society by means
of their brilliant sister-in-law.
"Only mind what you are about and keep hold on the reins, my boy," old
Merridew said to his son, which Algernon promised with a laughing "Trust
me for that."
"Trust Algy, indeed!" his mother said, shaking her head. "I would not
trust him a step further that I saw him with that crazy little thing by
the side of him; all my hope is that being a Vernon her people will step
in." They were all sure that no great harm could happen to a Vernon in
Redborough. Harry, her brother, was always at her side, as faithful as
her husband, backing her up. And Catherine herself could not disapprove,
for she went to the house now and then, and laughed when she was spoken
to on the subject. "Ellen was always like that," she said, "wild for
pleasure and amusement. She has asked me to her dancing teas, as an
entertainment quite suited to my years and habits." All which things
reassured the Merridews and the other anxious persons about.
"And you are going to this dancing tea?" Catherine Vernon said.
"I suppose so," said Edward, indifferently. "They would think it strange
if I did not go. And they expect you--Merridew told me so. He said it
would add such dignity to their little party!"
There was something in the tone with which Edward said this which
Catherine did not like. It was true that she herself had always
represented the invitation as ludicrous, yet it was quite true that her
presence would have added dignity to the party, and there was nothing
ridiculous in the idea that Algernon Merridew thought so. This annoyed
her a little, but it was the annoyance of a moment. She said, "I hope
you will enjoy yourself," with a laugh, which Edward on his side found
as offensive: but he did not betray this, and smiled in reply, as he
knew she meant him to smile, with a sort of apologetic indulgent air.
"I shall do the best I can," he said, and they both laughed. She
tenderly, thinking how good he was to take this trouble in order to
gratify the frivolous young pair and keep up the Vernon traditions; he
with a fierce question to herself, why shouldn't he enjoy it? at least
it would be an evening to himself, with nobody to keep watch over him
and make a note of every girl he danced with. Alas for Catherine! if she
noticed the girls he danced with it was in order to invite them
afterwards (if she approved of them), for she had no jealous desire to
keep him to herself, but wanted him to marry. But then there was one at
least whom she could never have tolerated. And the chief point in
Edward's anticipations, as in Hester's, was the freedom of intercourse
permitted under Ellen's easy young wing, and the opportunity he would
have of seeing how the eager, large-eyed girl would look among other
girls, when he could approach her freely. This gave him something of the
same sense of curiosity which was so warm in Hester's mind. How would
she look among other girls--how would she receive him? It did not occur
to him as probable that she would resent that avoidance of her when
under Catherine's eye which he had so often assured her made him
wretched. He felt that the little secret between them, the stolen glance
he would give her at the Grange parties, the little shrug with which he
pointed her attention to his bondage, would have an attraction even
greater than had he been always at her side; and in some sense this was
true. But he did not think of Hester's judgment and of the natural
indignation of her high spirit; neither did he think of the comparison
she made between him and Harry, who had never hesitated to show his
devotion. To compare himself and Harry, seemed to Edward impossible. A
big idiot--a nonentity. She had more sense than that.
Never was there such a spectacle seen in Redborough as the first of the
_Thés Dansantes_. The Merridews' house was near the White House, and
consequently on a little eminence, which answered all the purposes of a
great eminence in that flat country. It stood in the midst of a little
shrubbery above which it rose on white steps, to make the position still
more commanding. There was a long domed conservatory at one side, the
windows were all plate glass, and when you consider that within and
without the place was lighted up--like the Crystal Palace, people
said--you may imagine something of the imposing effect. The conservatory
was all hung with Chinese lanterns, and was fairy land to the young
guests inexperienced in such glorious effects; the two drawing-rooms
were both thrown open for dancing. There were very few chaperons; only
here and there a middle-aged mother, too devoted to her charge, yawned
behind her fan with nobody to speak to, not a lady of her own age to
exchange experiences with, no elderly gallant to get her a cup of tea.
All was youth, rampant, insolent, careless--feeling that the world was
made for it, and rejoicing to shake itself free of every trammel. Mrs.
Ellen set them the example in the most daring way.
"What do we want with the old things here?" she said; "they would much
rather be in bed, and the best place for them. I don't suppose you mean
to do anything wrong, any of you girls, and if you did they wouldn't
stop you. If you can't take care of yourselves, if you want a chaperon,
there's me. And there's Fanny Willoughby, and Lilian Melville, and Maud
Seton; they've all been married as long as I have. Where could you find
steadier married women? and ain't we enough to chaperon a couple of
dozen girls? I never pretend to ask old people, unless it was just to
let them see how everything looks, poor old things, once in a way."
This being the creed of the mistress of the feast, it is not to be
supposed that her disciples were more catholic. And there was no limit
to the fun which the young people promised themselves. To do them
justice, it was very innocent fun. The greatest sin on the conscience of
the wildest romp in the place was that of having danced ten times with a
favourite partner, besides sitting out all the square dances (of which
there were only two) in his company. Algernon himself had insisted upon
two. He said it was respectable: and he danced both with the least
popular of the young ladies, that they might not feel themselves
slighted, for he was a very good fellow.
"Did you ever see such a muff?" his wife said, who never condescended to
the Lancers. "I do believe he likes to hop about with the ugliest thing
he can pick up. I thought I had kept out all the ugly girls, but I
haven't succeeded. If there is one, Algy is sure to find her out."
"To show you that you have no need to be jealous," some one said.
"Oh, _jealous_!" cried Ellen, with supreme disdain.
The young Merridews, brothers and sisters, thought her the most
wonderful creature that had ever been born. Her light hair was in curls
and frizzes (newly come in and extremely captivating) all over her head.
Her dress was a sort of purple, a colour nobody but herself ventured to
wear, but which threw up her fairness with the most brilliant effect.
She had all her jewellery on, from the diamonds Harry had spent all his
available money (under her own directions) in buying for her, to the
little bracelet contributed by the clerks at the bank. Her arm was
covered nearly up to the elbow, and the sound she made when they fell
over her hands and she had to push them back again was wonderful. It was
like a whole concert of fairy music, the bangles representing the higher
notes, the big golden manacles furnishing a bass. She liked to hold up
her hands and shake them back with a pretty cry of "Tiresome! Why is one
forced to wear all this upon one?" Ellen said.
And Mrs. John had accomplished her wish. She had got, if not three, at
least two new dresses for Hester, one upon her shoulders at this moment,
the other, the blue one, laid up all ready in the box. White of course
was the first. It had the silk slip upon which Mrs. John had set her
heart, which was so much more thrifty than anything else, which could be
covered over again and again, as she pointed out to her daughter, and
which at the present moment was veiled in floods and billows of
tarlatan. Tarlatan was the fashion of those days: anything that was
limp, that took--as people now love to say, "nice folds," being
considered utterly dowdy. And when Hester appeared in those crisp
puffings, with her pearls round her throat, and white flowers in the
hair which her mother called auburn, even young Mrs. Merridew herself
held her breath. She turned her cousin round and round to examine her.
"Well, I call that a _beautiful_ dress," she said. "Who put it into your
head to get a dress like that? Why, it is the height of the fashion!
Those _bouillonées_ are just the right thing to wear. And do you mean to
say these are real pearls? Oh, go away, or I shall kill you! Why have I
not pearls? They are far more _distingués_--oh, far more!--than my
paltry bits of diamonds. Oh, take her away, or I shall not be able to
keep my hands off her. And such flowers! they must have come from
Forster's. I am certain they came from Forster's. Mine are French, but
they are not so pretty," Ellen said.
Hester stood and smiled while these comments were made, though with a
half sense of shame. She thought it annoyed her very much to be
subjected to such a survey, and so no doubt it would have done had not
the result been so satisfactory; but it is hard to be really displeased
by approbation.
As for Ellen, she whispered behind her hand to Harry, "The old lady must
have a great deal more than we think for. She must have been saving up.
You don't get a dress like that for nothing."
"It's not the dress--she always looks nice, whatever she puts on," said
faithful Harry.
His sister contemplated him with eyes full of contempt. "What is the use
of talking to such a silly?" she said. "Not the dress! She never looked
one ten-thousandth part so well all her life, and that you know just as
well as me."
No, she had never looked so well all her nineteen years. Her dress was
simple indeed, but it was perfect in all its details, for Mrs. John had
remembered everything. The flowers were artificial, which also was the
fashion then, but they were from Forster's, procured by Roland Ashton
and brought down by his sister Emma, who had arrived that same
afternoon. The pearls were beautiful, more beautiful than any other
ornament in the room. Hester stood beside her cousin to receive the
guests with a sense that there were no imperfections about her. In the
days of the washed muslin there was always a fear that the flounces were
not quite even, the bows were not quite firmly sewed on, or something
else which at any moment might come to pieces and betray the
homemadeness of the garment. But she stood up in her virgin robes with a
sense of delightful security--a knowledge that all was complete, which
was exhilarating to her spirits. She was not the one white swan in this
little provincial party: there were faces quite as lovely as Hester's,
which, as a matter of fact, was not so perfect as her dress; but there
was no one to whom the anticipated pleasure was so entirely ideal. Her
mind did not come down to practical delights at all. She was going to be
happy--was she going to be happy? How does it feel to be happy? These
were the questions in her mind. She had been so, she was aware, as
children are, without knowing it; but this would be conscious, whatever
it was.
The dancing began. It was a very pretty scene, and Hester, not in
herself perhaps so overwhelmingly gay as the others about her, was
caught upon that stream of careless youth and carried with it in spite
of herself. An atmosphere of pleasure was about her; eyes looked upon
her admiring, almost caressing, every glance was pleasant; the rougher
part of the world had disappeared altogether. It was as if there was
nothing but merry dancers, laughing engagements, an interchange of
enjoyment, all about. Happy! Well, she could not say that this was not
happiness. It might be so, for anything she could tell. There was not
much that was ideal about it, but yet--. Just as she was thinking this,
she felt in a moment of repose her hand suddenly taken, drawn into some
one else's hand: and, looking round suddenly, saw Edward close to her,
looking at her with a subdued glow in his eyes, a look of admiration and
wonder. It was quite a steady, straightforward gaze--not furtive, not
flying. She started at the touch and look, and attempted to draw away
her hand, but it was held fast. But he had not lifted her hand, he had
taken it where it hung half-veiled by her furbelows, and he had turned
his back towards the company isolating her in a corner, while he
inspected her. He drew a long breath apparently of satisfaction and
pleasure.
"I am late," he said, "but this was worth waiting for. Cinderella, where
have you left your pumpkin coach?"
Hester's brow grew dark, her heart seemed to swoon away in her bosom
altogether, then came to itself again with a rush of heat and
indignation. She wrenched her hand out of that hold, a flood of colour
came to her cheeks.
"I suppose you mean to insult me," she said; "but this is not a place to
insult me--I am among friends here."
"Why do you say so, Hester? Insult you! What an ungenerous thing to say!
as if I was in the habit of doing so, and must not here because you have
friends. What a cruel thing to say!"
"Would you rather have it in your power to insult me always?" said
Hester. Her lip began to quiver a little. What an odious thing it is to
be a woman, to be always ready, when you would rather not, when you want
to show yourself most strong and angry, to cry! She clenched her hands
tightly to keep herself down. "I am no cinder-wench, Mr. Edward Vernon,"
she said. "I have given you no reason to call me so. It is a pitiful
thing for a man to notice a girl's dress. If I am dressed poorly, I am
not ashamed of it. It is not a sin to be poor."
"Hester! a girl of your sense to be so foolish! How could I mean that?
What I meant was, that you have come out glorious, like the moon from
the clouds. Nothing could be sweeter than that little house-frock you
used to wear out on the Common. I liked it better than all the finery.
But to-night you are like a young princess. Why did I say Cinderella?
Heaven knows; just because I was dazzled and bewildered, and because you
are a princess; and the pleasure of seeing you made my head go round.
Have I made my peace? Well then, there's a darling, turn round and let
me see you, that I may see all the finery, and everything that makes you
so lovely, in detail."
"You may have made it a little better," said Hester; "but why do you go
on talking like that? I am neither lovely nor a darling; and you shall
not say so--you! that would not see me if this, instead of being Ellen's
house, were the Grange."
"You have me at your mercy there," said Edward. "I confess you have me
at your mercy, there."
Upon which Hester melted a little, and, perceiving the abashed look
which he had put on, began to falter, and presently found herself guilty
of the commonplace expedient of asking if he did not think it a pretty
scene.
"Oh, very pretty," said Edward; "that is to say, I don't know anything
about it. I looked for one individual when I came in, and as, as soon as
I found her, she began to bully me violently, I feel a little muddled,
and I don't know what to think. Give me a little time."
By this time, as was natural, Hester began to think herself a monster of
folly and unkindness, and to feel that she was ready to sink through the
floor with shame.
"I did not mean to be cross," she said. "I thought--that is, I had been
looking--that is----"
Here she stopped, feeling herself get deeper and deeper into difficulty.
Her countenance changed from the girlish freshness of complexion, which
everybody admired, into a burning red; her eyelids unable to keep up,
her heart beating as if it would burst through silk slip, and tarlatan
_bouillonée_, and all----
"Come, let us have this dance. I like the music," said Edward, drawing
her hand suddenly through his arm.
"But I am engaged."
"Oh, never mind, if you are engaged. You were engaged to me before ever
you came," he said, lightly, and drew her into the whirl. Hester was at
the age (in society), when, to throw over a partner, looks like the
guiltiest treachery. She could not take any pleasure in the dance, for
thought of it.
"I must go and ask his pardon. I am sure I am very sorry. I did not
intend to be so false; and there he is, poor man, not dancing."
These words Hester said breathless over the shoulder of the enterprising
intruder, who had carried her off under the victim's eyes.
"Poor man!" Edward echoed, with a laugh. "I am glad he has nobody to
dance with. What right had he to engage you? and you regret him; and you
don't want me."
Here Hester rebuked her cousin.
"You have no right to say so. I might want--I mean I might like very
well to dance with you when you condescended to ask me; but not to be
run away with, without a word, and made to do a false thing. False
things are what I hate."
"You say that with such meaning. You must be thinking of more than a
dance. Am I one of the false things you hate?"
"I do not hate you," said Hester, as they came to a pause, looking
doubtfully into his face; "but I do not think you are very true."
"You mean I don't blurt out everything I mean, and am capable now and
then of keeping something to myself. I can keep my own counsel--not like
that fellow there," Edward permitted himself to say: which was a
mistake; for Hester looked up and saw the gaze of honest Harry dwelling
upon her with some regret, and much tenderness, and was touched at once
with sympathy and indignation.
"If you mean Harry, no one could ever doubt _him_," said Hester, in the
warmth of her compunction. "If he is your friend, he is always your
friend. He is not afraid of what any one says."
"Ah, Hester, you are always harping on that string," said Edward. "I
know what you mean; but can't you understand the position I am in, and
understand _me_? Don't you know I am in bondage? I cannot say my soul is
my own. I dare not think nor feel but as I am told. If I were to follow
my own heart without disguise, I think it would be my ruin. We will not
name any names, but you know. And I know what you think about that big
stupid there, but you are mistaken. It is not that his heart is more
true. It is that he has not brains enough to see what is liked and what
is not liked. He is not even sympathetic enough. He does what he likes,
and never considers if it is good for him or not."
"Sympathetic!" cried Hester. "He is sympathetic with me. When he sees me
lonely and neglected he comes and stands beside me. If he cannot do
more, he does do that. I don't pretend to say that he is very amusing,"
she continued, with a laugh, "but he does what he can. He stands by me.
Oh! failing other things that are better, I like that. Rather than being
sympathetic with Catherine, I like him to sympathise with me."
"There is no question of names," said Edward, "We must not get personal.
But I am glad you find Harry amusing. I never heard that he was so
before. He is standing by Ellen now; that's what he's here for. They
will come to grief, these young people. They are beginning a great deal
too fast. You know young Merridew, or old Merridew either, can never
keep up this. Ellen ought to know better. But Harry will have scope for
this great accomplishment that you appreciate so highly. He will have to
stand by his sister."
"And he will," Hester said.
She scarcely thought of the dancing, so much did this conversation--so
unlike a conversation to be carried on in the whirl of a waltz--occupy
her. It occurred to her now, as breath failed her, to remember how in
all the accounts of a first ball she had ever read, the heroine had felt
all other sentiments melt away in the rapturous pleasure of dancing with
the man of her heart. Novels were all Hester's experience. She
remembered this, and it gave her a half comic, half miserable sensation
to realise that she was not thinking about the dancing at all. She was
carrying on her duel with Edward. There was always a warm sense of
gratification in that--a stirring up of all her faculties. She liked to
go on carrying it a step further, defying and puzzling him, and
wondering on his side how much he meant, how much that he left to be
inferred, was true. The heroine in a novel is generally the point of
everybody's admiration in the ball-room, and to look at the perfection
of the waltz which she and her lover enjoy so deeply, the whole
assemblage stands still. But nothing of this kind occurred in Hester's
case. As she had so little experience, the chances are that she was by
no means the best dancer in the room, and certainly Edward was not the
other best. Their waltz was the means of carrying on the discussion
which to both was the most attractive possibility. When she realised
this, Hester was a little amused, but likewise a good deal disappointed.
She felt a disagreeable limit thus placed to her power to enjoy.
"Come into the conservatory," Edward said. "Don't you think you have had
enough? Oh, it is your first ball. I suppose you like it; but I am
beginning to lose my relish for those sort of affairs."
"You are not so old that you should give up dancing, Cousin Edward."
"Old! No, I hope I am not old yet, and I don't intend to give up
dancing; but I like to walk here better--with you. I like to talk
better--with you. I like to see your face, Hester, and see how it
changes from kindness to wrath, from friendship to indignation, from a
patient sense that I am endurable, to a violent consciousness---- Come
and sit here."
"You seem to think I never do anything but think of you: and that is the
greatest mistake," Hester said.
Upon which he laughed. The place he had led her to was only partially
lighted. There were many other groups scattered about among the plants
and stands of flowers. Flirtation was openly recognised in this youthful
house as one of the portions of the evening's entertainment, and large
provision made for it. There was nobody to notice with whom it was that
Edward was amusing himself, and he felt fully disposed to take advantage
of his opportunities. He laughed at Hester's indignant disclosures. "If
you did not think a little about me, dear, you would not notice so
distinctly my course of conduct in other places, you could not be sure
that it was much more agreeable to me, instead of standing by your side
and trying to be as amusing as Harry, to lead down Mrs. Houseman and old
Lady Kearney to supper or to tea."
"My mother should go out of the room before either of them," cried
Hester. "Do you know who she is? Sir John Westwood is her cousin: a
duke's daughter once married into her family----"
"I quite understand you and agree with you, Hester. It is nothing that
she is a perfect little gentlewoman, and has far better manners than any
of us; but because she is a cousin to a heavy baronet, who is not good
enough to tie her shoe----"
"Edward!" The girl was so startled she could not believe her ears.
"Oh, I know very well what I am saying. You don't know me, that is all.
You think I am a natural snob, when I am only a snob by circumstances.
You yourself, Hester, do you really think your mother should stand upon
her cousin and upon Lady Ethelinda (or whatever was her name), her
great-grandmother, and not upon herself far better than either? I can't
imagine you think that."
Hester was surprised and silenced for the moment. She had been so often
reminded of the noble grandmother and the baronet cousin, and so hard
put to it to find a ground of superiority on which her pride could take
refuge, that this sudden appeal to her better judgment bewildered her.
She was startled to find those advantages which were indisputable, and
to which everybody deferred in theory, so boldly under-valued; but yet
the manner of doing it made her heart beat with pleasure. Yes; people
thought her dear little mother silly, and Hester was aware that she was
not clever. Sometimes, in the depths of her own soul, she had chafed, as
children will, at the poor lady's dulness and slowness of comprehension;
but she _was_ a perfect little gentlewoman. And he saw it! He felt in
his heart that she was above them all--not because of Lady Ethelinda
(she was Lady Sarah in reality) and Sir John, but herself.
"I did not know you were a Radical," she said. She knew nothing about
Radicals, though instinctively in her heart she agreed with them. "I
thought you cared for family and that sort of thing."
"Do you?"
Hester paused. She flung higher her young head, which was proud with
life and a sense of power unknown. "I should like to be a king's
daughter," she said, "or a great soldier's or a great statesman's. I
should like my name to mean something. I should like people to say, when
they hear it, that is----"
"But you don't care much about Sir John?--that is what I thought. I am
no Radical; I am all for decorum and established order and church and
state. How could you doubt that? But, by the way, there is a person whom
neither of us like, who certainly has the kind of rank you prize. Don't
you know who I mean, Hester? When a stranger comes to Redborough, there
is one name he is sure to hear. If she were a duchess she could not be
better known. To be her relation carries a certain weight. We were
always a leading family in the place, I suppose. But why are we, for
instance, so much better than the Merridews and all the rest of the
respectable people? She has something to do with it, I can't deny,
though I don't like her any more than you."
"Edward," cried Hester breathlessly, "about that we ought to understand
each other. I have no reason to like Catherine. Yes, I will say her
name; why shouldn't I? She has not liked me. I was only a child, and if
I was saucy she might have forgiven me, all these years. But she has
taken the trouble on the contrary to humiliate me, to make me feel that
I am nobody, which was unworthy. But you: she has been kind to you. She
has been more than kind--she has loved you. I have seen it in her eyes.
She thinks that nobody is worth thinking of in comparison with you.
If--if--who shall I say?--if Sir Walter Scott came here, or Mr.
Tennyson, she would rather have you. And yet, you that ought to be so
grateful, that ought to love her back, that ought to be proud--oh, I
should if I were you. If she were fond of me I should be proud. I hate
all those wretched people who take from her hand, and then sneer and
snarl at her, like dogs--no, not like dogs: dogs are far nobler--like
cats; that is better."
Hester's eyes were shining with eloquence and ardour; the little
movement of her head so proud, so animated, so full of visionary
passion, threw back and gave a certain freedom to the hair which her
mother called auburn. Her whole figure was full of that force and
meaning which is above beauty. Edward looked at her with smiling
admiration. If his conscience was touched, or his temper at least, he
did not show it.
"Do you call me a cat?" he said.
"Oh, I am not in fun. I am as earnest as ever I can be. It is wicked, it
is miserable, and I cannot understand you. All the others are as nothing
in comparison with you."
He grew a little pale under this accusation; he would not meet it
directly. "But you know," he said, "why she hates you. It is for your
mother's sake."
"My mother!" cried Hester astonished. "But no one could hate my mother."
The suggestion took away her breath.
"It is true, all the same. I thought you did not know. She was to have
married John Vernon, your father, and he preferred----that is the whole
account of it; then he got into trouble, and she had her revenge."
"Did she ruin my father?" said Hester in a low whisper of horror.
"I--don't know if it went so far as that," Edward said.
A hesitation was in his speech. It was scarcely compunction, but doubt,
lest a statement of this kind, so easily to be contradicted, might be
injudicious on his part--but then, who would speak to Hester on such a
subject? And her mother was a little fool, and, most likely, did not
know, or would be sure to mistake, the circumstances.
"Don't let us talk of that: it is so long past," he said; "and here is a
wretch, a scoundrel, coming up with his eye fixed upon you as if he was
a partner. How I loathe all your partners, Hester! ind, the rest of the
dances are for me. I shall watch for you as soon as you have shaken that
fellow off."
But Hester did not care for the dances that followed. She went through
them indifferently, faithful to the partners who had presented
themselves before he came on the scene; and, indeed, the conversation in
the conservatory had not drawn her nearer to Edward. It had given her a
great deal to think of. She had not time in the whirl and fluster of
this gaiety to think it all out.