CURL-PAPER CONFIDENCES.
When two young women are closeted in their bedchamber after a pleasant
day, and preparing for repose, then is the time for the interchange of
sacred confidences. The events of the last few hours are touched upon
with significant emphasis, the gentlemen are discussed and judged, and
their personal peculiarities and excellencies commented upon with
approval or otherwise. However quiet, demure, and comparatively
unobservant the young ladies may have been, depend upon it not the
smallest detail of the gentlemen's dress and manners has escaped their
penetrating eyes. Especially is this the case upon the occasion of the
introduction of a new male acquaintance. Everything appertaining to him
is recalled, from the parting of his hair to the tying of his
shoestrings. It would much astonish him to hear the pretty girls (all
girls are pretty in their spring-time), who seemed to scarcely have
courage to glance at him, speak of the colour of his eyes, of the cut
of his clothes, of the quality of his moustache, of the size of his
hands and feet, and the shape of his finger-nails. No learned judge in
his summing up was ever so precise and correct, and the beauty or the
despair of it is that these gossiping damsels are not only judges but
juries, from whose verdict there is absolutely no appeal. Of course
such sacred confidences are all the more interesting when the subjects
for dissection are young unmarried men.
Many such conversations had Phoebe and Fanny held, and now, according
to their wont, they proceeded to discuss the incidents of the evening,
as they made their preparations for bed.
"I have often thought it a pity," said Phoebe, "that Mr. Kiss is not
married."
"It _is_ a pity," assented Fanny; "he is so good-natured and jolly that
he deserves a good wife."
"And so clever," remarked Phoebe.
"And so good-looking. Phoebe, depend upon it, he has been crossed in
love."
Phoebe sighed, and Fanny echoed the sigh. To these young hearts the
very idea of being crossed in love was terribly sad.
"I _do_ hope Mr. Linton's play will be a success," said Fanny, after a
little pause. "Isn't it wonderful how a person can think of it all?"
"It is certain to be a success," said Phoebe, taking the last hair-pin
out of her beautiful hair, which fell in waves over her shoulders.
Fanny gazed at her admiringly, and a charming picture indeed did the
young girl present at that moment.
"If I envy you anything, Phoebe," said Fanny, "it is your hair. No one
would think you had half as much."
"That's because it's so fine," said Phoebe, with a pleased smile.
"It's as fine as the finest silk," said Fanny, lifting bunches of it,
and giving her cousin a quick affectionate kiss. "But you mustn't think
I really envy you, Phoebe."
"I don't. I would change with you if I could."
"No, you wouldn't; no, you wouldn't," cried Fanny, with a merry laugh,
"any more than I would with you."
"I am sure your hair is lovely, Fanny."
"It is altogether too coarse," said Fanny, with pretended pettishness.
"But, there!--whoever gets me will have to make the best of it."
"Whoever gets you, Fanny, will have the dearest little wife in the
world, and if he doesn't love every hair in your head he will be the
most ungrateful of men--and I shall tell him so."
"I wonder who he will be," said Fanny, "and whether he knows that I've
been growing up for him?"
It was quite a natural remark for a light-hearted, innocent girl to
make. Why, therefore, should it cause both the cousins to fall
straightway into the mood ruminative--a mood which entails silence
while it lasts.
"One thing I am determined upon," said Fanny, waking up, as it were; "I
won't have him unless he can waltz."
"If he can't," said Phoebe, with an arch smile, "you can teach him."
"Well, yes; that _would_ be nice." And Fanny, brush in hand, commenced
to hum a favourite waltz, and took a few turns to it, saying, when she
was again before the glass, "What were we speaking of, Phoebe, before
my young man popped in?"
"About the play."
"We are all going on the first night--think of that! And in a private
box--think of _that_! The observed of all observers, as Mr. Kiss would
say. I shall feel so excited--almost as if I were the author--though
such a thing is impossible."
"Why impossible, Fanny? You wrote a story when you were nine years
old."
"Yes, and it commenced, "They were born in India without any father or
mother." Was there anything ever so absurd?"
"The success of Mr. Linton's play will mean a great deal to him. He is
not rich, I am afraid."
"If he isn't he ought to be," said Fanny, brushing with great care the
tresses she pretended to despise; "wearing his brains out in the way he
does. He _did_ look anxious, didn't he, while Mr. Kiss was reading it?
And how beautifully he read! I felt like kissing him when he was going
through the love scenes. They _do_ kiss a good deal on the stage, don't
they?"
"Yes," said Phoebe, speaking with difficulty, her mouth being full of
hair-pins; "but then they don't mean it."
Fanny made a face. "I shouldn't care for it that way," she said, and
then she laughed, as though she had said something funny.
"Do you think Bob meant it," asked Phoebe, "when he said he was going
to be an actor?"
"Bob's a riddle," replied Fanny. "I give him up."
"He might do worse. It's quite a fashionable profession."
"It isn't a profession. Didn't Mr. Kiss tell us that an actor was a
rogue and vagabond by Act of Parliament."
"That was only a joke. Mr. Kiss is a gentleman."
"Of course he is. The Prince of Wales once shook hands with him, and
_he_ wouldn't shake hands with any one _but_ a gentleman. Do you wish
you were a man, Phoebe?"
"No."
"_I_ do!" said Fanny, with a decided nod of her head, the hair of which
was by this time elaborately done up in curl-papers. Phoebe had also
completed her preparations for bed. "And now, Phoebe, let us have a
chat." She made this proposition with a feminine obliviousness of
having spoken a single word since she had locked the bedroom door.
"What about, Fanny?"
"Open your mouth and shut your eyes, and see what God will send you,"
said Fanny.
"Nonsense, Fanny."
"Very well--nonsense. Then we won't have a chat. Only"--and Fanny
pursed up her lips and shook her paper-covered little head wisely.
"Only what?"
"That you'll be sorry for it--that's all."
"What a tease you are! There!" Phoebe opened her mouth and shut her
eyes.
"Don't move--don't stir!" cried Fanny, and she took from her dress an
envelope, the edge of which she placed between Phoebe's teeth. "What is
this?"
"A piece of paper. I'd sooner have a chocolate cream."
"You would, eh? Well, here's your chocolate cream--here's a packet of
them--and if I don't tell him when he comes home, my name isn't Fanny
Lethbridge."
This remark caused Phoebe to open her eyes very quickly, and the colour
on her face to come and go. Fanny's right hand was behind her back.
"Tell whom, Fanny?"
"'Tell whom, Fanny?'" mimicked Fanny. "Now _is_ there more than one
Frederick Cornwall, Esq., in the world?"
"There may be--in the London Directory."
"But they don't all write letters from Switzerland to Camden Town, do
they?"
"Have you received another letter from Mr. Cornwall, Fanny?"
"Yes, I have; and here it is. It came this morning."
"And you kept it to yourself all this time!"
"How could I show it to you before? You had hardly been in the house
two minutes when papa came home with Mr. Kiss and Mr. Linton. Then
there was Bob hanging about, and you know how he scowls when I speak
lovingly of Fred--I beg his pardon, Mr. Frederick Cornwall. Then there
was helping mother with the tea. Then there was the reading of the
play. Then there were the songs. With all that excitement, the letter
went clean out of my head--except that I thought you would like it all
the better if we read it together quietly here, where nobody can
disturb us."
"You are a dear, good girl!"
"Of course I am, and you're another." Whereupon the cousins, with their
arms round each other's necks, fondly embraced. They were sitting now
on the bed very cosily, side by side. "Phoebe, I have something very
horrifying to tell you."
"He hasn't met with an accident--he isn't ill?" exclaimed Phoebe,
turning pale.
"Not a bit of it. He is as well as five feet eleven, aged
six-and-twenty, should be. No, it isn't that; but it is about him,
though."
"Tell me, Fanny."
"For a long time I have had my suspicions, but I wouldn't venture to
breathe them to you. I watched mamma; I watched papa. When we were
talking of him--it was always I who brought up his name--I set traps
for them, and they fell into them unsuspiciously. And then there was
what mamma said, in a pretended off-hand way, this morning, when she
gave me the letter from Fred. It amounts to this, Phoebe"--she dropped
her voice, and said in a whisper--"they think he comes after _me_!"
"Why shouldn't he, dear?"
"Why should he, dear?"
Phoebe stroked her cousin's face fondly, and rested her head on Fanny's
shoulder.
"I hope," said Fanny, "that they won't be disappointed when they find
out that he doesn't mean _me_, after all. But I don't think they will
be when they know it is you, darling."
"Oh, Fanny! And he has never said one word to me!"
"What of that, sly puss? I can speak with my eyes quite as well as I
can with my tongue; and Fred Cornwall is a great deal cleverer than I
am. I don't positively hate him, you know."
"It would be very wrong of you to do so."
"And I don't positively love him. I like him, just a little, in a
so-soish way. How it might have been if I didn't happen to have the
dearest, sweetest, prettiest cousin that a foolish girl could ever
boast of, isn't for me to say." (More hugs and embraces here.) "I
_might_ have fallen a victim to his lordship's charms; I don't say I
should, but I might."
"But, Fanny," said Phoebe, in a low tone, her lips slightly trembling,
"it is foolish, it is wrong, to speak like this."
"Now, Phoebe!" said Fanny, holding up a warning forefinger.
"Well, I won't say a word."
"That's a good, sensible, sweet-hearted cousin."
"You are not sorry, Fanny?"
"That he is not made for me? Well, it gives me a pang here to say
no"--she placed her hand on her heart, and emitted a comically pathetic
sigh--"because, you know, he _is_ the very loveliest waltzer that ever
put his arm round a girl's waist. You said so yourself. Now confess,
Phoebe, if Fred _did_--eh?--you wouldn't run away, would you?" Phoebe's
silence was the most eloquent answer she could give to her cousin's
question, which, enigmatical as it may sound in the ears of
unsentimental persons, was as clear and as sweet to the young girls as
the sound of wedding bells. "If he doesn't," added Fanny,
energetically, "I shall call him out!"
"Would Aunt and Uncle Leth be very angry?" murmured Phoebe.
"Why, Phoebe," replied Fanny, reproachfully, "they love you as much as
they love me. I should feel dreadful if I wasn't sure of that. We are
more than cousins, dear; we are sisters. Just put your ear to my heart:
don't you hear it beat, 'Phoebe, Phoebe'? It is a good job for Fred
Cornwall that I am _not_ a man. _He_ shouldn't have you, if I were;
no--not if he were fifty Fred Cornwalls. I would run away with you,
just as Young Lochinvar did with--I forget her name, but it doesn't
matter; I'd do it. Isn't it strange that elderly people can't see half
as well as young?--they don't look at what is under their noses; they
are always looking over their spectacles."
"Aunt and Uncle Leth don't wear them," said Phoebe smiling.
"I am speaking--metaphorically. That's not my word; it's Fred's--rather
a favourite with him, you know. Of course, if they asked me plainly, I
should tell them; but it wouldn't do for me to start it--would
it?--till things are properly settled. They will be overjoyed, Phoebe;
and so shall I be; for, don't you see, my dear, when you are disposed
of, there will be a chance for _me_, and if a young gentleman comes to
the house there will be no mistake the next time, because I shall be
the only disposable young lady in view. To that young gentleman,
whoever he is, wherever he may be, I extend an invitation--I say, with
a courtesy, 'Come!' Oh! but I must tell you, Phoebe, it was so funny.
You remember the last time Fred Cornwall had tea with us here--before
he went on his holiday trip?"
"Yes."
"_I_ invited him, and perhaps you may remember that I wrote to you and
told you to be sure and come and spend two or three days with us. I
didn't mention Fred's name in my letter to you, for you would have kept
away." It was delightful to hear Fanny's laugh at this innocent
badinage. "Well, you came--and Fred came--and I sent Bob off to the
theatre, with an order. Now what does mamma pride herself especially
upon in the way of jams?"
"Her gooseberry jam."
"Yes, and it really is very fine; I never tasted any half as good.
Well, all the while we were at tea I saw it was you Fred was feeding
on."
"Fanny, Fanny! You are incorrigible!"
"Am I? Nevertheless, I am right. When he wasn't looking at you, he was
thinking of you; when he wasn't thinking of you, he was looking at you.
I am quite an experienced person in love matters. 'Mr. Cornwall,' said
mamma, 'this is home-made gooseberry jam--my own making. What do you
think of it?' 'It is a dream,' replied Fred. He was gazing at you when
he passed that very remarkable opinion upon mamma's gooseberry jam.
Afterward I heard mamma say to papa, 'Did you hear what Mr. Cornwall
said of my gooseberry jam? He said it was a dream. Depend upon it, he
means something by it.' And I happening to pop into the room just then,
mamma looked at papa significantly; and papa looked at mamma
significantly; and then both of them kissed me. I couldn't help
laughing to myself and thinking, 'Mamma will have to try her gooseberry
jam on some other young man.' And now, Phoebe, we will read Fred's
letter."
"How is it, Fanny, that Mr. Cornwall has written you so many letters?"
asked Phoebe.
"Jealous?" inquired Fanny.
"No, I have no right to be; Mr. Cornwall is really nothing to me."
"You should have ended that sentence with 'yet.' 'Mr. Cornwall is
really nothing to me--yet!' Quite right for you to call him _Mr._
Cornwall; I shall call him Fred, to his face. He will like it--so shall
I."
"How you rattle on, Fanny!"
"Yes," said Fanny, composedly; "papa used to call me a regular little
chatterbox."
"You have not answered my question, Fanny."
"Oh, about the letters. How is it Fred has written me so many? I have
received one, two, three, and this is the fourth. A famous
correspondence, isn't it? The fact is," said Fanny unblushingly, "I
asked him to write to me, and he, being such a polite young fellow,
couldn't very well refuse. I did it quite openly; mamma was present.
'You might write me a nice chatty letter or two, Mr. Cornwall,' said I,
'while you are away.' 'I shall be very happy,' said he, looking at
mamma, 'if I may be allowed.' '_I_ have no objection,' said mamma. His
asking mamma was almost like a declaration, wasn't it? Many a man has
been had up for breach of promise for less than that. And to think of a
lawyer so committing himself! But I don't believe they are a bit
cleverer than other people; they only pretend to be. 'But I shall
stipulate,' said Fred, 'that you answer my letters.' 'Of course I
will,' said I, without asking mamma; and I have. In the last one I
wrote to him I said that you sent him your dearest love."
"I hope you did not say that, Fanny."
"If I didn't, I meant it; so that it amounts to the same thing. Don't
be ungrateful, Phoebe. I inveigled him into writing to me for your
sake, not for mine, though I _do_ wear his letters next to my heart. He
is supposed to be addressing me in his correspondence, but he is really
writing to you, and he knows that you read every word. Is there one of
his letters without a lot about you in it?"
"He is always thoughtful."
"A model young man; when he comes home we'll put him in a glass case.
And now we must really get to sleep, or we shall have mamma crying
outside in the passage, 'Girls, girls, put out the light!' Don't you
feel tired, Phoebe?"
"But the letter, Fanny!"
"Oh, the letter! Well, if I wasn't almost forgetting it! I suppose it
_must_ be read. See, it is addressed from the Grimsel Hospice. That's
where the monks are. What a splendid monk Fred would make! He really
ought to become one. What do _you_ think, Phoebe?"
Then Fanny kissed her cousin half a dozen times, and proceeded to read
Fred Cornwall's letter.