"You find us, in humble imitation of Mr. Turveydrop, still using our
little arts to polish--polish!" said Jessie Kirke, mimicking the
famous trowel gesture of the Professor of Deportment, as Orrin
Wyllys entered Mrs. Baxter's drawing-room on the evening of the
fourth of January.
The Lady President's "collegiate re-unions" on the first and third
Thursdays of each month had, up to this winter, been declared a
nuisance by the class for whose benefit she had inaugurated the
series; to wit, the homeless, graceless students whose intellectual
training was committed to her husband and his _confreres_, while
their polite education was left to Fate and the hap-hazard culture
of promiscuous society. Now, promiscuous society--(the term is Mrs.
Baxter's--not mine) in Hamilton, although less detrimental to the
principles, manners, and conversational powers of unguarded youth
than the same foe would have been in a region more remote from the
great humanizing and refining centre expressed, to the visual
organs, by the square, cream-colored mansion at the right of the
college campus--was yet inimical to the best interests (another
stolen phrase!) of the aforesaid matriculated youngsters. To
counteract the evil, the presidential residence was converted, on
the evenings I have designated, into a social reformatory, and the
mistress put forth her utmost energy to render the process of
amelioration pleasant to the subjects thereof. The success of her
system, which had gone into operation two years before, had been
less than indifferent up to the date of her young kinswoman's
arrival. Simultaneously with her appearance at the pillared portal
of the cream-colored Centre, the cause of elegant deportment and
colloquial accomplishments began to look up in the contiguous halls
of learning. The "reception" on the ensuing Thursday was well
attended, the second was a "crush "--the supply of lemonade and
sponge-cake inadequate to the demand.
This was the third, and the hostess, elate with past, and sanguine
of prospective, victories, had, with the assistance of her guest,
bedecked her rooms with New Year's garlands and floral legends. As
an ingenious tribute to the learning of the major portion of the
assembly, Mrs. Baxter had accomplished a Latinization of certain
stock phrases of welcome, and was immensely proud of the "classic
air" imparted to her saloon by these.
"I suppose they are all right," Jessie said dubiously to Orrin, when
he inspected them. "My knowledge of the dead tongue is confined to
the musty sayings everybody has learned by heart--_'Sic transit
gloria mundi,' 'Mirabile dictu,'_ and the like."
"SALVE!" blossomed into being in heather, and pink-and-white paper
roses over the mantel opposite the door of the front parlor. Over
that in the back--"_Jubemus vos salvere_," while "_O faustum et
felicem hunc diem!_" was tacked above the piano in the music-room.
"To polish! to polish!" reiterated Jessie, stroking her gloved left
hand with her right, and looking so roguishly beautiful that Orrin
had no difficulty in throwing an expression of intense admiration
into his gaze.
"Stand off, and let me look at you!" said he, brusquely for him,
drawing back for a better view.
She was well worth it. Native quickness, aided by the marvellous
intuition as to effect, and the daring that attempts new
combinations of color and untried styles of coiffure and dress,
which people name "French taste," had wrought together in her
attire. She had a "genius for apparel," Mrs. Baxter pronounced
delightedly, adding "So much for blood! The Parisian eye and
Parisian aptitude are, like the poetic afflatus, _nascitur, non
fit_. You are a true Lanneau." There would be no better-dressed
woman in the assembly to-night than the country girl, whose toilette
had yet cost less than that of any other who laid claim to the
honors of belleship.
Her maize-colored tissue had a full double skirt; the upper looped
with rosettes of black lace and narrow black velvet. A bunch of
fuschias--scarlet with purple hearts, drooped above her left temple.
Not a jewel was visible except her engagement-ring--a fine solitaire
diamond. Instead of a brooch she wore another spray of fuschias,
mixed with feathery green, at her throat, and her only laces were
those edging her neck and sleeves. But she was dazzling enough to
turn stronger heads than those of the sheepish sophomores, pert
juniors, and priggish seniors, who would compose her train, thought
Wyllys, surveying her with the deliberate freedom of a brotherly
friend. Her eyes sparkled into splendor, her bloom deepened, and the
white-gloved fingers toyed nervously with her bouquet as his
inspection was prolonged. As the finale, he offered his arm with a
sweeping obeisance, and they strolled through the rooms, untenanted
as yet save by themselves.
"I hardly expected to see _that_, to-night," said Orrin, touching
her bouquet. "The utmost I hoped was, that it might please your eye
for a moment, as it passed in review among a host of others."
"There is a degree of modesty which is laughable," she returned.
"Pray, whose flowers did you suppose I would prefer to yours?"
"Perhaps I feared the rivalry of the chaste assortment of sweet
alysseum and white rose-buds I saw left at Professor Fairchild's
door this morning."
"Eminently suitable to my 'style'!" interrupted she, ironically.
"The fear reflects credit upon your discrimination--and my taste."
"Or--" he went on--"the astounding array of camelias, azaleas, and
orange-blossoms that arrived last night, duly enveloped in wet
cotton, sent per express from the green-house of a city florist to
the millionnaire's son--Senior Lowndes. Rumor affirms that he has
neither studied nor eaten since he was first pierced by Cupid's
arrows--your eyelids doing service as bows, and the sight of the
magnificent offering which is to propitiate the blind god, has
driven him clean daft with rapturous anticipation. Seriously and
frankly, my advice is that you discard my simple gift in favor of
the exotics. I am content--or I should be--with the grace already
shown me by your intention to give my flowers the place of honor.
But Mr. Lowndes may be offended if you do not exhibit his
Brobdingnagian bouquet. It is already the talk of the place, and
everybody expects to see it in your hands to-night."
"It will not be everybody's maiden disappointment," said Jessie,
obstinately. "The floral behemoth has a big vase and a table all to
himself in the music-room, so Mr. Lowndes can play show-man to his
satisfaction. I reserve the right of wearing what I please, and my
bouquet is part of my toilette. Could anything harmonize better with
my dress than these scarlet verbenas, divided from the purple
violets by the circlet of white blossoms, and capped by one snowy
cape-jessamine--like a queen in her ermine?"
"That is the only member of your family to be had in this frozen
region," rejoined Orrin. "I telegraphed to Baltimore in the vain
hope of obtaining the golden bells you love."
"Did you? They do not bloom anywhere at this season, I imagine. But
your effort to procure them was an evidence of thoughtful kindness
beyond my expectation and desert. You do too much for me! I am
humbled yet happy when I recount to myself your favors."
"Don't say 'favors!' If you knew--"
"Knew what?" queried Jessie, innocently, looking up. He held her
eyes for a second by the irresistible magnetism of his, then,
saying, with a short laugh that sounded like bitter self
disdain--"What you will never hear from me!" commenced talking fast
and gayly about other things.
Mrs. Baxter ran in, opportunely, to give Jessie time to collect her
thoughts. Unobservant of the gravity of one of the parties to the
broken dialogue, and the forced liveliness of the other, the hostess
dashed into a profusely illustrated description of the _contretemps_
that had detained her in her dressing-room. It was nothing less
serious than the doctor's mistake, in taking from a closet a bottle
of ink instead of the scented glycerine she asked him to get.
"For my tender skin (we Lanneaus are deplorably thin-skinned) is
frightfully chapped this winter, and there is no better remedy for
this affliction than bay-water and glycerine, as perhaps you
know--you who are ignorant of nothing! 'Now, my dearest,' I said,
'_may_ I trouble you to pour it upon my hands as I hold them over
the basin? Gently, doctor, darling!' When, presto! down came an inky
deluge!" screaming with laughter, as she had with alarm when the
mischance had occurred. "I spent nearly an hour in endeavoring to
efface the murky stains, and I shall be compelled to keep my gloves
on the entire evening. Isn't it a pitiable predicament?"
The scarlet scarf was on duty again to-night, but now tied about her
waist, the knot at the side.
"I never feel quite dressed unless I have a speck of scarlet
artfully brought into my costume," she had said to Jessie, on the
evening of her arrival. "It individualizes my attire. I should not
know--should not _be_ myself without it."
Jessie joined in her merriment over the catastrophe that would have
angered a wife whose temper was less even, but her heart was beating
hard and hurriedly with vague alarms. Orrin had altered inexplicably
of late. His sudden alternations of spirits and mysterious
allusions were more than an enigma--they were a distress to her.
"If I knew!" she repeated mentally. "What was he about to say, and
why did he look at me so intently? Why did he refuse to finish the
sentence? I have wounded or offended him--but how?"
Self-condemnation was her first impulse when she noted a change in
the demeanor of those she loved. Orrin ridiculed it as a morbid
trick of mind that might be cured by reproof or raillery. Roy bore
with it patiently and hopefully, recognizing in it an hereditary
strain of melancholy which she would conquer or outlive in time. Her
eyes were darker, her voice a tone lower, her smile a trifle subdued
all the evening, for the incident that preceded the festivities.
Nobody complained of the change. She was new, handsome, and
sprightly, a triumvirate of recommendations that would have made her
a star of note among her associates had her "style" been less
unique, her cast of thought and conversation as commonplace as it
was original. She was surrounded continually, to-night, by a group
of gentlemen--most of them young, while there were some whose
attentions--paid as they were by men of mature years and high
standing, intellectual and social--were a compliment of which the
_debutante_ might justly be proud.
Orrin kept aloof from her, playing his part among the guests with
his wonted spirit and grace. But his eyes followed her furtively
wherever she went, until she was provoked with herself for meeting
them so often. He would suspect her of impertinent curiosity, accuse
her of forwardness, or feel that he was under espionage. She would
not look in his direction again. A resolution she was certain to
break within three minutes after it was made, tempted to the
infraction by the stealthy yet piercing ray she imagined she could
feel, when her face was turned away from him, and which, struggle as
she might against the inclination, drew her regards again and again
in his direction.
She descried a new meaning in his watchfulness before long,--a sad
yearning that would not let her out of his sight; mournfulness that
might signify either compassion or regret. Unused to dissemble, she
must have grown _distrait_, unmindful of the gay scene and the
duties it imposed upon her, but for the example of his fidelity in
the performance of these. Emulating what she plainly perceived was
self-denial in him, she talked, promenaded, and laughed with
conscientious diligence, to the delight of her _chaperone_ and the
distraction of the smitten swains of three classes, the freshmen
counting as nobodies.
The crowd was thinning fast when Orrin again approached her.
"We will finish our promenade now that there is room to move and
breathe," he said, drawing her hand within his arm. "I want to have
a moment's talk with you before I go. I leave town early in the
morning."
The involuntary clasp of the gloved fingers upon his sleeve was all
it should be, but the deprecating glance and exclamation were too
frank and sisterly.
"Are you going away? Not to be absent long, I hope?"
"A week certainly--probably a fortnight."
"I shall be very lonely without you! absolutely lost, in fact!"
replied Jessie, feeling all she said.
"I could stay, I suppose--but I ought to go," said Orrin, slowly.
"Yes, it is the best thing left for me to do! Don't think, however,
that it costs me nothing to leave Hamilton while you are in it. I
shall carry the image of my docile pupil, my bright-faced,
sunny-hearted friend, with me wherever I go. You have been a
beautiful revelation to me, Jessie. Let me speak, for a moment, out
of the sad sincerity of a spirit, wrung as I trust yours will never
be. Should we never meet again upon earth, you will not cease to be
to me--pshaw! what am I saying? I talk wildly to you, I doubt not,
but there are times of battle and tempest and desolation in the
which incoherence is pardonable. When you are married, you may be
sorry for me in a calm, sisterly way, as people on the cliff above
the beat of the surf, pity the wretches suffocating in the waves."
"Let me help and comfort you now!" begged Jessie, her tell-tale eyes
glistening until Orrin was fain to halt before Mr. Lowndes' monster
bouquet in the last room of the suite, and keep her back to the
company, while she struggled for composure. "It breaks my heart to
hear you!" came at last in a half sob from the trembling lips.
"Don't talk of breaking hearts, dear!" he returned, smiling sadly.
"It is an idle phrase in the mouths of the loved and happy. May you
always be both!"
He squeezed her hands until she winced with pain, took one lingering
look into her eyes that seemed to compel her soul to their surface,
whispered, "GOD bless you!" and before she could move to stay him,
he was making his _conge_ to Mrs. Baxter.
Regardless of the stranger and inquisitive eyes that might be upon
her, Jessie watched the parting; the hostess' dramatic start, and
fingers joined in hospitable supplication; the toning down of her
physiognomy from tragic consternation, at the announcement of his
contemplated journey, to plaintive resignation, as he declared the
fixedness of his purpose; marked the animated pantomime, and felt no
inclination to smile that it was over-wrought to extravagance.
Assuredly, Orrin's going at all was a serious discomfort to herself.
Taken in connection with his evident unhappiness, his disjointed
confessions of grief and trial, that, despite the absurdity of the
imagination, she could not help believing had some reference to her;
finally, her inability to soothe or aid him,--these all combined to
make the farewell the saddest--save one--she had ever gone through.
"You are weary, my dearest girl!" said Mrs. Baxter, sympathizingly,
twining her arm around her and pulling her down upon the sofa, when
she had bidden a widely smiling adieu to all her guests, with the
exception of a bald, mild man in spectacles, who was penned in the
angle formed by the chimney and the wall, while the doctor, planted
in front of him, held to his argument and his handkerchief at such
length that only half the knots were yet untied. "But you have been
charming this evening! have really outdone yourself! I prognosticate
a dazzling season for you--scores of conquests and troops of
friends."
"I don't care for the conquests, but the friends will be welcome to
one who has so few," returned Jessie. "Not that I have any enemies,
but my circle of acquaintances is small."
She tried to speak brightly, lest her dispirited mood should reflect
discredit upon her friend's endeavors to make her happy.
"It will enlarge rapidly within the next few weeks. The _prestige_
of Mr. Wyllys' approval and friendship would ensure the success of a
_debutante_ whose personal claims upon popular favor were far
inferior to yours, my sweet. I shall always cherish a grateful
recollection of his attentions to you, as my relative and friend. It
is a high compliment, as you would understand, were you better
acquainted with the materials and structure of our best society. His
influence in Hamilton is ex-tra-_or_-di-na-ry. I have promised to do
my best to fill his place while he is away, but I am painfully
conscious of my inability to prevent you from missing him
continually. He was averse to going, but said the necessity laid
upon him to do so was imperious. He was rather out of spirits, I
fancied--but it might be _only_ a fancy. Doctor, dear! do let Mr.
Barnard come to the fire! The rooms are growing chilly, now that
they are so nearly empty."
"Empty!" The doctor turned amazed. "Where are all the people, Jane?"
Jessie did smile now, impolite as she feared it was, at the alacrity
with which the mild victim wriggled from the corner at the momentary
diversion of his jailor's notice, muttered apologetically to the
hostess, and got himself out of the apartment and house.
"As I was saying--" pursued the doctor, consulting his handkerchief
and collecting his wits--"my objection to Darwin's theory and to the
hypothesis advanced by Agassiz is one and the same. I maintain--"
"Dearest husband!" interposed his wife. "Since Mr. Barnard has
followed the rest of our friends, suppose we postpone the further
discussion of that point until to-morrow. Jessie and I are quite
exhausted by the excitement of the evening."
Jessie was sorry for him as he began, with a rueful visage, to
disentangle his cambric and his brains.
"I hope you have had a pleasant evening," she said, affectionately,
going up to bid him "good-night."
His eyes cleared at sound of the frank, sweet voice, and the sight
of her face. She had never been shy of him, had understood him
better and sooner than young girls did generally, and made herself
useful to him in many little ways. He caught himself dreaming,
sometimes, in looking at and listening to her, of what his life and
home might have been, if daughters of his own had graced and blessed
it. Jessie had taken very kindly, on her part, to the rustic,
eccentric scholar. Roy had made her acquainted with his excellences
as well as his peculiarities, and bespoken for him a worthy place in
her regard. He talked of "my young friend, Professor Fordham," to
her more frequently than he was aware of, won to communicativeness
by her deep and evident interest in the theme. She had not thought
it best, up to this time, to reveal her engagement to him or to his
talkative spouse, although Roy's last letter had gently advised her
to do so, at the first favorable opportunity. The doctor might let
slip the _morceau_ of news in one of his tits of abstraction, while
"Cousin Jane" would, she was sure, be in a twitter of mysterious
importance, and desire to announce it formally and publicly. And
Jessie, being new to the fashionable world, shrank from having her
heart-history gossipped about. Her conscience was pricked slightly
now for her want of confidence in Roy's dear old co-laborer, as he
laid a hand on either shoulder, and gazed steadfastly at her, his
hard, Scotch lineaments softening into kindliness and paternal
affection.
"You are very handsome, my dear! Do you know it?"
Jessie blushed deeply, but she did not laugh or bridle, and her
answer was straightforward and unaffected as was the query.
"I have been told so, sir!"
"Very handsome, but somewhat wilful!" continuing his physiognomical
examination. "Undisciplined, too! A warm heart, but hasty judgment.
Loving and lovable. A nature powerful for good as for evil. My
daughter! when the crisis in your life shall arrive--for there is a
turning-point in every human life--hesitate long and pray earnestly
that you may be directed into the right path. If you take the wrong,
great woe will ensue to yourself and others."
Then, with the grave simplicity that sometimes invested the quaint
little man with dignity at which the most irreverent could not mock,
he laid his withered hand upon her head:
"The LORD bless thee and keep thee; make the light of His
countenance to shine upon thee, and give thee peace!"
After which he kissed her between the great, solemn eyes, and wished
her "sound slumbers and happy dreams."
"It seems a ridiculous thing when it is put into words, but it
reminded me of the way Roy used to say 'Good-night,' last summer, at
the close of our happiest evenings!" thought Jessie, on her way
upstairs, a mist between her and the glittering stair-rods. "Oh! I
ought to be a good woman!"
Too much excited by this little episode, or the other events of the
evening, to sleep, Jessie sat down by her chamber-fire, when she had
donned her dressing-gown, and unbound the hair that oppressed her
head by its weight of braids. She had kept up her Parsonage habit of
reading a portion of Scripture before retiring each night, and her
Bible lay upon her knee now--but unopened. She was heavy-hearted,
notwithstanding Mrs. Baxter's congratulations and predictions.
Was it home-sickness that painted the images of her father and
Eunice in the fiery bed of coals filling her grate? that showed her,
in the violet-tinted flames quivering above the ignited mass, her
chamber in the manse among the hills; her mother's portrait over the
white tent bedstead; her mother's escritoire, between the windows,
that contained Roy's letters? Was she already tired of the life that
had been so pleasant four hours ago? Was this dissatisfaction with
herself and those with whom she had talked and laughed within that
time, satiety or chagrin? She had enjoyed every moment of her visit
heretofore, with the avidity of a novice in the scenes to which her
cousin's kindness had introduced her; the rides with Mrs. Baxter;
the walks with Orrin, and the Hamilton girls who had extended to her
a hearty and generous welcome; the parties, lectures, and concerts
she had attended; the German and music lessons; the books she read
aloud to Mrs. Baxter, and those Orrin had read to them both on the
delightful stormy nights that kept other callers away; had caught
eagerly at Fanny Provost's offer to teach her billiards, and Orrin's
proposal that she should learn to skate. In fact, the day and
evening had been so crowded with occupation, recreation, and
incident, as to leave her scanty space for letters to Dundee, and
oblige her to steal hours from sleep that she might live her
enjoyments over in describing them to Roy. She had studied
faithfully, too, and successfully under Orrin's direction, and
spurred on by his encouragement. She was sure she could never learn
so rapidly and zestfully again. Life seemed such hard and dreary
labor.
She wished herself back in the quiet Parsonage, where the evening's
talk, music, or reading was seldom interrupted by neighbors or
strangers; where one day went by like every other, within doors;
where, on snowy afternoons, the ticking of the hall-clock could be
heard all through the house--by Patsey in the kitchen; by Mr. Kirke
in his study; by Eunice, sewing in her room overlooking the
church-yard; most distinctly by herself as she read, drew, or wrote
in her favorite oriel, or, in the twilight, walked up and down the
parlor, dreaming visions that put winter and gloom to flight--dreams
of Roy's return and their united lives. Wished herself back, if she
could be once more the girl who had left home six weeks ago. She
forgot that latterly she had sickened there in mind and body, under
the strain of her grief at Roy's absence, and the pressure of her
self-imposed tasks, unrelieved by the diversions needful for a girl
of her age and temperament. That life seemed such a safe, wholesome
one--simple, pure, pastoral. It beckoned her as might a living
friend, beloved and trusted. She verily believed, after the fashion
of young and ignorant dreamers, who take to misanthropic reverie at
the first blast of disappointment, as a frightened deer to the
water, that she had exhausted the pleasures of existence; had proved
the gay world, and found it all "hollow, hollow, hollow"--the while
she, a _blase_ cynic, could never return to relishful participation
in the innocent joys that had once satisfied her.
The touch of Dr. Baxter's hand was yet warm upon her head; the grave
accents of his admonition and blessing had scarcely left her ear,
but she had no thought that the predicted crisis was upon her; that
her feet stood upon the very point where turning was to be blessing
or curse. No! she was fatigued in body, unsettled in spirits. The
eccentric doctor's warning had joined to the reaction succeeding the
excitement of the day, to put her out of conceit with her present
mode of life--and Orrin Wyllys was to be out of town for a
fortnight.
This was the diagnosis she made of her discontent after an hour's
melancholy lucubration over the restless tongues of flame, and their
scarlet substratum. All her causes of discomfort were absurd and
childish vagaries, she said, severely,--excepting the last. And oh!
of course, the separation from Roy! Orrin's absence would make her
feel this the more--would be an actual trial. For was he not the
oldest and best friend she had in America, outside of Dundee? She
had thought much, tenderly, and regretfully, since she had become so
dependent upon Orrin's kindly offices, of her own dead brother--the
day-old baby whom she had never seen; who would, had he lived, have
been to her all that her brotherly friend was--and more, if that
were possible. She had mourned that little baby always. It is
natural for girls to want an older brother upon whom to lean for
protection and guidance. She had not guessed what a comfort and joy
such would be to her until Roy's adopted brother had, in some
degree, supplied this need. She had seen him every day since her
arrival in Hamilton, and each interview had strengthened her regard
and admiration for him. His interest in her studies, her amusements,
her health--in all that went to make up the sum of her earthly
happiness, was marked and unvarying. A brother in blood could not
have been kinder, more thoughtful, in providing whatever could
increase her comfort or contribute to her pleasure. She had learned
to expect his coming on the evenings she spent at home; to watch for
glimpses of his figure in a crowd of unfamiliar forms and faces; to
refer doubtful questions to his arbitrament, and appeal to his
sympathy in her moments of sadness and anxiety. In fine, he had
gained what may be called Cupid's best vantage-ground--he had
rendered himself necessary to her enjoyment and peace of mind. His
going made a void in her daily life and in her heart.
Although romantic and immature, she was not weak or mawkish.
Therefore, she did not repeat--"I never loved a tree or flower," as
she ended her musings with a sigh to the memory of the student in
foreign lands, and for him to whom she had that night said a tearful
"Good-bye." But she remembered both in her prayers. If she named
Orrin with more earnestness than breathed in her petitions for Roy's
welfare, it was because she believed his present need of comfort to
be greater. The very mystery veiling the cause of his unhappiness,
led her to dwell upon the subject longer and more interestedly than
if he had confided to her the nature of the trouble he was in.
With the morrow came a note.
"DEAR JESSIE:--I am scribbling this before sunrise on this dark
morning, to ask your forgiveness for my abruptness and
moodiness last night. I puzzled--maybe, pained you--kind heart
that you are! Do not let a thought of my unhappiness mar the
brightness of your existence, now or ever. If you cannot think
of me without sadness, forget me. I could bear that better than
the thought that I had distressed you. Believe me you have no
truer friend than he who signs himself in sorrowful sincerity,
"Yours faithfully,
"ORRIN WYLLYS."
"Doesn't he mean to write to me while he is away?" said Jessie,
after reading the ten lines through twice, wonderingly and
attentively. "He is evidently in great trouble. If I could only help
him!"
If he meant her to forget him, he had taken extraordinary measures
to secure this end. At six o'clock, every evening, a bouquet was
left at Mrs. Baxter's door for Miss Jessie Kirke. Mr. Wyllys' card
accompanied the first. The rest needed no other label than the
snow-white cape jessamine, that, lurk in whatever ambush of greenery
and bloom it might, was instantly betrayed by its subtle aroma.
Eight days went by more laggingly than Jessie had believed time
could pass in Hamilton, and Eunice's weekly bulletin of home news
announced that Dundee had been honored by Mr. Wyllys' presence.
"He spent the Sabbath with us," wrote she. "It was a pleasant day to
us all. Mr. Wyllys kindly took my place as organist in church, and
played with even more than his usual taste and feeling. His news of
you would of itself have made him a welcome guest. His report of
your health, sports, and progress in your studies was very
favorable. He says, moreover, that Mrs. Baxter will not consent to
give you up before Spring. Do not abridge your stay, for fear we
shall be lonely without you. We miss you, of course, but we are
consoled for the pain of separation, by the knowledge that you are
improving in health and enjoying social and educational advantages
such as our secluded valley cannot furnish.
"I enclose a letter from Roy, directed, as usual, under cover to
Father. In the accompanying note, he alludes to his gratification at
learning that you are so pleasantly situated and happily employed
this winter. We are glad that he is heartily in favor of the
important step we ventured to take without waiting to consult him.
"I wish you could see your oriel now. Our flowers have flourished
this winter as they never did before. The Daphnes are in full bloom.
The Stephanotis is almost encumbered by buds, and the fragrant
petunias and double nasturtiums (the seed of which Mr. Wyllys gave
me in the Fall) are thriving bravely, the latter climbing rapidly.
"Our excellent neighbors are very kind and attentive," etc., etc.
Jessie re-read this letter when she had finished Roy's; perused it
with a half smile that was more mournful than amused, and an odd
stricture about her heart. Eunice's round of duties and pleasures
seemed to her like something she had passed--outgrown ages since;
yet there was, far down in her spirit, a piteous longing for those
gone days. She might be wiser--she was not better or happier for the
glimpses lately granted her of a world of stormy and contending
passions and mixed motives.
"He spent the Sabbath with us!" she read aloud. "And I was not at
home! He said nothing to me of his intention to visit Dundee. Since
he has changed his plans in one respect, he may in another, and be
absent three or four weeks instead of two. Heigho!"
She folded up her sister's letter, and addressed herself very slowly
to the task of getting ready for a party at Judge Provost's--the
great house of the town. It was given in honor of a niece of his,
who was visiting his daughter, and was to be a grand affair. Jessie
had never attended one half so fine, but she was _ennuyee_ in
anticipation.
"There will be the stock company of beaux," she meditated. "The one
unmarried professor; the ten almost marriageable seniors, and the
ten utterly ineligible ones, who are without beards or moneyed
capital; the whole army (I had nearly said 'herd') of juniors and
sophomores; the dozen or fifteen gentlemen detailed for the occasion
from the doctors' and lawyers' offices, and the higher rank of
tradespeople in Hamilton. There will be dancing in one parlor, and
small-talk in another; promenading in the halls and billiard-room;
flirtations in all stages among the oleanders and lemon-trees of the
conservatory, and a "jam"--_not_ sweet--in the supper-room. As a
clergyman's daughter and the guest of a clergyman's wife, I must not
dance in public. I am sick to nausea of callow collegians and
small-talk, and I don't care for late suppers of indigestible
dainties. I would rather spend the evening with Mariana in the
moated grange, for that mopish damsel would let me sit still and
sulk if I wanted to. And I believe I do!"
"A little more fire, my love!" whispered Mrs. Baxter in the
dressing-room, affecting to be busy in shaking out Jessie's pink
silk drapery. "I have a presentiment that you are to meet your fate
to-night. But you must positively exert yourself to seem less quiet
and preoccupied. Repose and lofty indifference are considered
well-bred, and are a very safe _role_ for the commonplace to adopt.
But they are unbecoming to _us_."
The novice did her best to throw light into her eyes and warmth into
her complexion. Being a novice, the attempt was a failure; but Mrs.
Baxter, perceiving that ignorance, not obstinacy, hindered the
desired effect, forbore to hint that, in spite of Jessie's elegant
attire and becoming _coiffure_, she had never seen her look worse.
Trusting to the animating influences of the festive scene to restore
that which friendly expostulation had proved inefficient to recall,
she committed her to the officious homage of young Lowndes, and
turned her attention to the part she was herself to play in the
evening's drama.
"What a magnificent creature your niece is, Mrs. Baxter; or is she a
cousin?" said an elderly gentleman--also one of the judge's
visitors--to her, at length.
The pleased and amiable chaperone looked over her shoulder, directed
by his gaze, just in time to see Jessie pass, treading as if on air;
her eyes luminous orbs of rapture; her cheeks like the inner
foldings of a damask rose; her lips apart in a smile, sweet and
happy, and her hand on Orrin Wyllys' arm.