THE PARTY DRESS.
It was now the first of December. Miss Elinor had been gone from home
nearly three months, and during this time Mr. Howland had spent one-half
of his evenings at least with Adelaide Huntington, who marvelled that he
did not ask her to be his wife. But the promise made to his sister must
be kept, and so, night after night, he came and went, while Adelaide
experienced fresh pangs of fear lest her deception should be discovered
ere Mr. Howland was secured.
About this time there were rumors of a large party to be given by Mrs.
Hayes, the most fashionable lady in Oakland, and knowing well how the
beauty of her person would be enhanced by a party dress, Adelaide
resolved to leave no means unspared for the procuring of such a dress.
She had always observed, she said, that Mr. Howland was unusually
attentive when she looked unusually well, and there was no knowing what
would happen if she eclipsed all the ladies who might be present at the
party, and then, as day after day went by, she grew impatient because no
letter came from one who, at the post-office, was designated as ma’s
provoking agent, but who at home, with none but mother to hear, was
called by a different name. Fretting, however, was of no avail—the
provoking agent did not write, and her purse contained only seven
dollars.
“If I could get the dress,” she said, “I might possibly manage the
rest,” and then, as she remembered the dainty fabric which Alice Warren
had worn upon that memorable Christmas Eve, she started to her feet
exclaiming, “That’s a good idea,” and ere her mother had time to
question her she was on her way to the brown house in the hollow.
For a few weeks past Mr. Warren had been seriously ill, and though Alice
worked both early and late, she could not procure for him the little
comforts which he needed and missed so much. Miss Elinor’s words, Do not
neglect the blind man, had been forgotten, and many a weary night had
the blind man’s daughter bent with aching head and tearful eyes over the
piece of work which her increased cares had not permitted her to finish
during the day. They were indeed drinking the bitter cup of poverty, and
the sick man in his sleep was moaning sadly for wine, which he said
would make him strong, when Adelaide Huntington entered the humble room.
Glancing hurriedly at the scanty fire and empty wood-box, she thought:
“They must be wretchedly poor—I dare say I can get it for almost
nothing.”
Then seating herself by Alice’s side, she told at once the object of her
visit. She had never forgotten the beautiful lace dress which Alice had
worn on the night of her party, and if there was one thing more than
another which she coveted, it was that. In short she wished to know if
Alice had it now, and if so, would she sell it, telling no one that it
had ever belonged to her.
At the first mention of the dress, Alice’s tears began to flow, for it
was almost the only relic of the past which she possessed, and now,
laying her head in Adelaide’s lap she sobbed out:
“Oh, Adelaide, my mother bought it for me, and can I let it go?”
“You know which you need the most, that or the money,” was Adelaide’s
cold reply, while from his pillow the sick man faintly murmured:
“Something to make me well.”
This was enough, and wiping her tears away, Alice took from her trunk
the dress, sighing deeply as she recalled the night when first and last
she wore it.
“I did not know it was so exquisitely beautiful,” was Adelaide’s mental
comment as Alice shook out the soft, fleecy folds, but she did not say
so. On the contrary she depreciated its value, saying, it had turned
yellow, was rather old-fashioned, and a second-hand article at most,
besides being quite too short for her in its present condition.
In this manner she paved the way to the price which she finally offered,
and which Alice at first refused to take. Four dollars seemed so little
for what had cost so much. But Alice’s necessities were great, and when
Adelaide offered her another dollar to change the dress as it would have
to be changed for her, she yielded, promising to have it in readiness
and bring it home on the night of the party. After trying it on and
giving numerous directions as to the changes she wished to have made,
Adelaide arose to go, saying nothing concerning the pay. With a beating
heart Alice saw her about to leave, and though it cost her a mighty
effort to do so, she at last conquered her pride and catching Adelaide’s
shawl as she was passing out, she said with quivering lips:
“If you only will pay me part to-day! Father is sick, and we are so
poor,” and the little blue veined hands were clasped beseechingly
together.
“There’s a dollar, if that will do you any good,” said Adelaide,
thrusting a bill into Alice’s hand, and then hurrying away.
She had no intention of cheating Alice out of her pay, but she hated to
part with her money, and on her way home she thought of so many things
which she must have, that she began at last to wonder if Alice would not
just as soon take something from the house, bread, or potatoes, or
soap—she heard old Peggy boasting of having made a barrel full, and soap
was a very useful article—she’d ask Alice when she brought the dress!
and, feeling a good deal of confidence in her plan, she stopped at Mr.
Howland’s store, where she spent a portion of her remaining six dollars
for white kids, satin ribbon, blonde lace and so forth.
As she was leaving the store, she met Mr. Howland, who accompanied her
to the door, casually asking if she knew how Mr. Warren was getting
along.
“It is some time since I was there,” he said, “and I think of going
round to-night. As he is sick, they may perhaps be suffering.”
“Oh, no, they are not,” Adelaide quickly rejoined, “I have just been to
see them myself. Mr. Warren is no worse, and they are doing very well. I
gave Alice some work, too, paying her in advance.”
“So, on the whole, you think I had better spend the evening with you,”
said Mr. Howland, playfully interrupting her, as he saw that one of his
clerks was desirous of speaking to him.
“Most certainly I do,” she answered laughingly, as she passed into the
street.
And so that night, while her father slept, poor Alice Warren trimmed her
little lamp, and with a heavy heart sat down to work upon the costly
garment, every thread of which seemed interwoven with memories of the
mother, who had bought it for her. Occasionally, too, she lifted up her
head, and listened for the footsteps which now but seldom came that way,
for only once had Mr. Howland been there since her father’s illness, and
brushing away a tear, she sighed:
“He does not care for such as we.”
That afternoon she had heard the rumor that the proud Miss Huntington
was to be his wife, and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren,
could ever be aught to him, had never entered her mind, the news
affected her painfully, and as she sat alone that night, the world
seemed darker, drearier than it had ever been before, while the future
home of Richard Howland’s bride looked very pleasant to her.
“Alice,” came faintly from her father, and in a moment Alice was at his
side. “Alice, are you sewing to-night?”
“Yes, father, I am sewing.”
“But I thought you finished the vest this afternoon. What are you doing
now?”
Alice hesitated. She could not tell him she had sold her party dress,
neither would she tell him a lie, so she finally said:
“Adelaide came here while you slept, and I am fixing a dress for her to
wear to Mrs. Hayes’ party. She gave me a dollar for it, too, and
to-morrow I shall buy you the wine which Dr. Martin says you need, and
maybe I’ll get you some oranges, too. Would you like some oranges,
father?”
“Yes, yes,” the tremulous voice replied, and the childish old man cried,
as he thought that to-morrow he would have the wine and the oranges,
too.
The morrow came, and with it came the delicacies so long desired. But
the sick man scarcely tasted them; “some other time he might want them
more,” he said, and with a feeling of disappointment Alice put them
away, while her father, turning wearily upon his pillow, prayed that the
deep, dark waters, through which he instinctively felt that he must ere
long pass, might not be suffered to overflow.
But to Alice there came no forebodings like these. She only knew her
father was very sick, and she fancied that the luxuries to which he had
been accustomed would make him well again.
So with untiring patience she worked on, thinking how the money which
Adelaide was to pay her should be expended for her father’s comfort.
Alas for the poor little girl, who, just as it was growing dark on the
night of the party, folded carefully the finished dress, and then stole
softly to her father’s bedside, to see if he were sleeping. He was
very—very pale, and on his face there was a look like that of her dead
mother.
But Alice was not alarmed. She had never thought it possible for him to
die, so quiet, so gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed.
“Father” she said, “can you stay alone while I carry Adelaide her dress?
She is to pay me more than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many
nice things.”
“By and by,” he whispered, “it is early yet,” and drawing Alice to him,
he talked to her of her mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him
that night—so near that he could almost feel her soft hand clasp his
own, just as it used to do in the happy days gone by. And while he
talked the darkness in the room increased—the clock struck six, and
releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go.
“He felt better,” he said, “and was not afraid to stay alone.”
“You must sleep till I return. I shall not be gone long,” were Alice’s
parting words, and going out, she walked rapidly in the direction of
Mrs. Huntington’s.
In a very unamiable mood Adelaide met her at the door, chiding her for
her delay, and saying:
“I began to think you were never coming.”
“Father has been worse, and I could not work so fast,” was Alice’s meek
reply, as she followed Adelaide into the sitting-room, helping her try
on the dress, which the petulant young lady declared:
Didn’t fit within a mile! It was too high in the neck—too long in the
waist—too short in the skirt, and must be fixed before it was decent to
wear!
“Oh, I can’t leave father so long,” said Alice, in dismay, as she
thought how much there was to be done.
“I’ll risk him,” returned Adelaide. “Any way, when I hire anything done
I expect it to suit me, or I don’t pay, of course.”
This remark was well-timed, for Alice could not go back without the
money, and with a heavy heart she sat down to her task. But the tears
blinded her eyes, and so impeded her progress that the clock struck
eight before her work was done.
“Now, put these flowers in my hair, and tie my sash just as yours was
tied,” said the heartless Adelaide, as she saw Alice about to put on her
bonnet.
In a box which stood upon the table lay the bead purse, and glancing at
that Alice did whatever was required of her, nor scarcely felt a pang
when at last the toilet was completed, and Adelaide Huntington stood
before her arrayed in the selfsame dress which she had worn but two
short years ago.
“I meant you should dress me all the time,” said Adelaide, glancing
complacently at herself in the mirror. “I meant you should dress
me—mother knows so little about such matters, and then, too, she is sick
up stairs with a violent headache, but I do not need you any longer—what
are you waiting for?” she continued, as Alice made no movement to go.
“I am waiting for the money which I want so much to-night,” answered
Alice.
“Ah, yes, the money,” said Adelaide, making a feint to examine the
purse, which she knew was empty.
Alice knew it, too, all too soon, and sinking down upon a little stool
she cried aloud:
“What shall we do? The wood is almost gone, and I baked the last cake
to-night. Oh, father, father, what will you do to-morrow?”
Adelaide Huntington was not hard-hearted enough to be unmoved by this
appeal, and forgetting entirely the soap, she glided from the room to
which she soon returned, bringing a basket of food for Alice, whom she
comforted with the assurance that she should be paid as soon as
possible.
“I’d no idea they were so poor,” said Adelaide to herself, as the door
closed upon Alice. “I wish he would send the money so I could pay the
debt and have it off my mind.”
Just then the village omnibus stopped at the door, and Adelaide ran for
a moment to show her mother how she looked, then gathering up the folds
of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her shawl, she entered the
carriage and was soon riding toward the scene of gayety, while Alice
Warren was hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into her heart, and
vaguely whispering that the morrow, for which she had been so anxious,
might bring her a sorrow such as orphans only know.