THE YOUNG COQUETTE.
"For some had perished in her stern neglect--
Fell on the sword of their own hope and died;
While she in triumph, scornfully erect,
Swept o'er their ashes with the skirts of pride."
Before returning to Brackenside, Doris had demanded a room for herself,
and for this room certain furnishings. She did not know that Mark and
Patty would say to each other:
"It is only fair, since we have for her a hundred pounds a year;" but
she did know that her will would be law to them.
She brought with her, when she came back to the farm, many little
adornments, purchases of her own, or gifts from her school friends; and
these Mattie dutifully arranged for her, just as she had polished the
windows and nailed down the carpet, and ironed the curtains before Doris
came. Doris never thought of helping her. She perched herself, Turk
fashion, on the foot of the bed, and issued her orders as a good-natured
little mistress to her maid. There were knickknacks for the
toilet-table, pictures for the wall, a little book-case of hanging
shelves.
"Your room will be fit for a princess, Doris," said Mattie.
"For a princess!" said Doris, with scorn. "If I were half a princess, or
only rich, I would clear out the rubbishy things at once. You might have
them, Mattie, since you like them. I would have gold-mounted furnishings
for my dressing-table, silk hangings, velvet carpets, upholstery in
plush and satin, gold, white, pale-blue. I would have exquisite marbles,
and pictures that cost a fortune each."
"But you never saw such things," said Mattie.
"No; only I have read of them, and find in myself a fitness for them. I
would give _anything_ for such luxury."
"Do not pine, dear, for what you can never have."
"I may have it some day," said Doris, defiantly.
"But how would you get it?"
"By my beauty. The world belongs to beauty."
Mattie was shocked. She was putting the books on the shelves, and her
honest face clouded. She said to Doris:
"I fear your books are worse than none. How did you come to get such
books? I have heard Monsieur D'Anvers say some of these were vile trash;
and I notice sentences in the others that are not fit reading for a
young maid."
"They are French," said Doris.
"That does not make them better. There are good books to be had in
French; and you have Byron for your only poet. I have heard our rector
say Byron is unfit reading for girls."
"You ridiculous, strait-laced creature!"
"And I don't quite like your pictures, dear. The _subjects_ are not
pleasant to me. These French beauties were famous for vice. La
Pompadour, and Diana, and the rest. This Cleopatra is too scantily
attired to suit my taste, and this Trojan Helen is not a nice picture. I
would have chosen Joan of Arc, and tender Margaret More, and sad
Hecuba, and martyr Margaret. Pictures should elevate our souls."
"My goodness, Mattie! have you been taking lessons of that gentleman
poet you mentioned? Where does he live!"
"At Lindenholm--his mother owns it, and came there two years ago, when
she was left a widow. Her husband was a curate."
"Then I don't believe your Earle Moray is very rich. He is just a
farmer, if he has only Lindenholm. I remember the place, half villa,
half farm-house, with great linden trees around it. Does he write
books?"
"He has written one small one--'Songs of the Country-side.' I have it
here. You can read it; it is like music."
"Ta, ta! I hate poetry. What does the man look like?"
"Why, he looks as he is, a gentleman, a good man."
"I foresee I shall have a surfeit of goodness here. If the man is
neither rich nor handsome, he will hardly pay to flirt with, unless one
is desperate."
"To flirt with!" cried Mattie, aghast. "You would not _flirt_, Doris?"
"And why wouldn't I?"
"Why, it is wicked. It is cruel, it is deceitful."
"Hear the girl talk!" cried Doris, flinging herself back on the bed with
peals of musical laughter. "Why, goosey, I flirted with every male
creature I set eyes on at school."
"But I thought they did not allow such things."
"Allow? You will undoubtedly be the death of me, with your simplicity,"
said Doris, sitting up, her golden hair distractingly rumpled, her eyes
shining with glee, her dimples dancing like tricky sprites among the
deepened roses on her cheeks. "_Don't_ you understand that it was our
chief aim to do what we were not allowed? Men, I admit, were scarce. The
writing-master was engaged to one of the teachers; but I flirted with
him until _she_ nearly cried her eyes out; and after he withstood me
three months he surrendered at discretion, and I laughed at him. The
French master vowed he would kill himself on my behalf; the music-master
fell so conspicuously into my power that the preceptress dismissed him,
and got a gorgon of a woman in green spectacles in his place. As for the
dancing-master, he played the fool and erred exceedingly whenever I was
in sight; so the girls said it was better than any theater."
"Doris, I am ashamed of you."
"What odds does that make, so long as I am not ashamed of myself?"
"But you will not act in that way with Earle?"
"Why won't I? Are you afraid of losing him?"
"He doesn't belong to me," said Mattie, blushing.
"How soon am I likely to see him?" demanded Doris.
"To-morrow. Every day. His mother wants him to be a farmer. She manages
Lindenholm now, and sends him to take farming lessons of father. Father
thinks everything of Earle, and so does mother."
"A farmer! The game is not worth the candle. I wouldn't be a farmer's
wife for anything. I loathe being a farmer's daughter."
"I don't," said Mattie, with spirit. "I'm proud of my home, my honest
race, my good, sweet mother, my dear father."
"How queer!" said Doris, meditatively. "Now, I couldn't see anything to
be proud of in all _that_. I should be proud of a coach and grays, and
men in livery--of suits of jewels, of a French maid, of velvet, satin,
lace, brocade dresses."
"Doris," said Mattie, anxiously, "_have_ you any soul?"
"Soul? If we cannot live without one, and soul makes the heart go, I
suppose I have; otherwise, I don't feel aware of the property you
mention."
"I believe you are only jesting, to tease me. You were always brighter
than I am, and a real rogue. You have higher ideas and better intentions
and wishes than you say."
"No, really I haven't--not one bit."
"Why, then," said poor Mattie, deeply distressed, "it must be your moral
nature that is lacking."
"_Moral nature?_ That's just it," said Doris, with infinite
satisfaction. "Moral nature--I haven't any. I think all the nature I
have must be immoral; I always side with the sinners in all stories."
Mattie had finished arranging the pretty little room. Doris jumped from
her place on the bed.
"Really you have made it look very well, considering what you have to do
it with. A sort of household fairy, you, Mattie; your name should be
Brownie. Now we will play you are my maid. I am going to bed, and I like
to have my hair brushed a long time. It is good for my nerves, and good
for my hair. Will you be my maid?"
"With great pleasure," said Mattie, letting down the golden flood of
Doris' silken hair. "How beautiful it is!"
"I think I am beautiful every way," said Doris, calmly.
"You are, indeed," said Mattie, without the least envy.
"Your hair will not brush straight! It is all in wavy clusters."
"You will brush it every night, and then I shall like you."
"Surely I will brush it, when you wish. But I like you in all cases,"
said Mattie. "And I want you to be good, dear."
"And not flirt with Earle Moray? Or other men? I'll not promise that.
Flirting is my nature. I will flirt with this Earle until he puts his
heart in my hands, and I will crush it up _so_--as I do this
rosebud--and drop it--_so_! You watch and see how it is done, Mattie."
Tears rushed to Mattie's eyes. She hurriedly left the room.
"In love with him! Jealous! Oh, delightful! Here is something to amuse
me. I thought I must surely die of dullness here, but I can flirt with
the 'gentleman and poet,' and drive this preaching little puritan mad
with envy, and that may fill up a year for me. Then, if the prince has
not come along to woo, I shall go out somewhere to seek my fortune.
Anything but stagnation. I will go where no one of the name of Brace
shall follow me."
Meanwhile, Mattie, in her own neat, snug room, sat in the moonlight,
mourning over the perverseness of this beautiful beloved sister, and
trembling for Earle Moray, whom she called her friend, and held far
dearer, without knowing it. How could any man help loving such a
dazzling creature as this Doris? And his manly, noble heart must then be
crushed and flung away like that ruined rose? She looked up to the
moon-lit sky. There was her helper and her friend. She prayed:
"God keep poor Earle."
Then, comforted, she sought her bed and slept the sleep of faith. Doris
slept the sleep of youth and abounding health, until Mrs. Brace awoke
her.
"It is almost seven, dear. I let you sleep late this morning."
"This late? Now, mother, you might as well know I made my own hours for
rising, and I will never rise at seven!"
Patty sighed, and left her; she knew Doris would always have her own
way.