THE BEAUTIFUL DRESS.
That evening, as Ermengarde was standing in her room, surveying with
critical eyes the heaps of finery she had brought with her, Lilias
knocked at her door.
"Come in," said Ermengarde.
Lilias had on a blue flannel dressing-jacket, and her long, bright,
golden hair was streaming down her back.
"I've rushed in to tell you," she exclaimed excitedly, "we are both to
come down to dinner to-night. Two guests have disappointed mother. She
has just had a telegram; Colonel Vavasour is ill, and of course his
wife can't leave him, so you and I are to fill the vacant places at
table. I do hope you won't mind, Ermie."
"I?" said Ermengarde, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, no; I shan't mind; I
like dining with grown people. I think it will be rather fun."
"It's sweet of you to take it in that way," said Lilias. "I had
planned a lovely walk by the lake, and we might have got into the
boat, and brought in some water-lilies. Late dinner takes a long,
long time, and it will be much too dark to go to the lake when it is
over."
"I don't mind, really," repeated Ermengarde. She did not want to tell
her friend that her worldly little soul infinitely preferred late
dinner and a talk with some of the grown-up guests to a ramble with
Lilias by the side of the lake.
"We can go to the lake another time, Lilias," she said, "and it seems
only right to oblige your mother now."
"Thank you for putting it in that way to me," said Lilias. She went up
to Ermengarde and kissed her. "What have you got to wear?" she asked.
"I know mother would like such young girls as we are to be dressed
very simply. I shall just put on a white muslin, a white silk sash
round my waist."
"Oh, I have a white dress, too," said Ermengarde, in a careless tone.
"I am sure I shall manage very well."
Her dark eyes grew brighter and brighter as she spoke.
"I must not stay to chat with you, Ermie," said Lilias, looking at her
friend with admiration. "Mother is so afraid you will miss your maid,
you shall have as much of Petite's time as ever I can possibly spare."
"Who is Petite?" asked Ermengarde.
"Oh, she's my dear little maid. We brought her over from France last
year. She was never out anywhere before, and I'm so fond of her. Her
name is Lucile Marat, but I call her Petite, because she is on a small
scale, and so neat in every way. It was she who unpacked your things.
I'll send her to you in a minute."
Lilias ran out of the room, and Ermengarde, closing the door, opened a
long drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, and taking out her white
_chiffon_ dress, viewed it with great complacency. This dress had been
given to Ermengarde by Aunt Elizabeth; she had brought it from Paris,
intending to wear it at a county ball herself, but finding it too
juvenile, she had handed it on to her niece. The local dressmaker had
cut it down to fit Ermengarde, and ever since she possessed it, Ermie
had sighed and longed for the occasion when she might don the lovely
robe.
The dress was in truth an exquisite one; it was delicately spangled
with what looked like dewdrops, and had a great deal of rich soft silk
introduced here and there, but if it was too young for Aunt Elizabeth,
it was a great deal too old for Ermie. It's voluminous and graceful
pillows of white were not suited to her slim little figure. It was a
grown girl's dress, and Ermie was only a child.
Still the occasion, the longed-for, the sighed-for occasion, when she
might dress herself in Aunt Elizabeth's white _chiffon_, had arrived.
Ermie pulled the dress out of the drawer, shook out its folds, and
regarded it with rapture.
There came a modest knock at the room door, and Petite, got up in
truly French fashion, entered. She was a rosy-cheeked, round-faced
girl, with sparkling black eyes, and rolls of black hair,
picturesquely arranged on the top of her head.
"I hope she understands English," thought Ermengarde. "French is not
my strong point, and I really must get her to dress my hair in some
grown-up fashion to-night."
Petite soon, however, relieved Ermengarde's fear.
"I have come to help you, ma'mselle," she said in her cheerful tones.
"Will you let me brush out your hair?"
"Thank you," said Ermie. "I want you to dress it on the top of my
head, please--_high_--something like an old picture--you understand?"
Petite's eyes sparkled.
"I know what you mean," she said. "Pouffed, ever so--like the pictures
of the ancient ladies in the picture-gallery."
"Yes," said Ermengarde. "I want my hair to be arranged like a young
grown-up lady. You understand?"
"Perfectly, ma'mselle. I will go and fetch hair-pins. But we haven't
too much time; Ma'mselle Lilias is dressed. She wears her hair
straight down her back."
Ermengarde said nothing. The mysteries of the toilet proceeded, and at
the end of half an hour Lilias knocked at her friend's door.
Ermengarde was now arrayed in the white _chiffon_ dress; it touched
the ground, and swept away in a short train at the back. It was cut a
little open at the neck, and the round childish arms were bare to the
elbow. Round her throat Ermengarde had hung Marjorie's Maltese cross,
and among the masses of her high piled-up hair reposed a lovely pearl
butterfly. The dress was most unsuitable, but the childish face,
colored high now with excitement and gratified vanity, looked quite
radiant in its loveliness.
Petite was in ecstasies.
"Ma'mselle looks as if she had stepped out of one of the old
picture-frames," she said. "Look how beautiful I have contrived her
hair to sit."
Lilias did not say much. She was an intensely polite girl, and she
crushed back the exclamation of dismay which rose to her lips. Her
own appearance was the extreme of simplicity. Her muslin frock was
short; her little white shoes and silk stockings were visible. Round
her waist she wore a plain white sash, and her golden hair fell in
masses down her back.
While Petite was dressing her, Ermengarde's silly heart was mounting
on higher and higher wings of gratified delight. But when she looked
at Lilias, an uneasy sensation came over her for the first time.
"Come," said Lilias in her gentle voice, "we'll go down to the
drawing-room, and stay together near one of the windows. I don't
suppose anyone will take us in to dinner; but that does not
matter--we'll take one another in."
"Do you like my dress?" suddenly asked Ermengarde.
"Well, Ermie, isn't it just a little old?"
"Nonsense, Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me. She ought to know, I
suppose."
Ermengarde did not care to mention then that the dress was a cast-off
garment of her Aunt Elizabeth's.
The two girls went downstairs hand in hand. Ermie's long dress and
train made her feel awkward. She began to be more and more sure that
her evening attire, notwithstanding its great beauty, was unsuitable.
She hoped no one would specially notice her. She felt uncomfortable as
she saw several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, as she and Lilias walked
across the drawing-room.
The two girls got behind the shelter of a curtain, and Ermengarde
rejoiced in the fact that her father had not yet come downstairs.
A few more minutes went by; the guests arrived in twos and
threes--then dinner was announced. As Lilias had foretold, she and
Ermengarde were to take each other in to dinner. They were the last to
enter the dining-room. Lady Russell had arranged that the two little
girls were to sit together, but at the very last moment some change
was made, and Ermie to her horror found herself between her father and
a stout old gentleman, who was inclined to regard her as an
overdressed, but pretty little doll.
Mr. Wilton never fussed about dress, but he had a keen eye for the
proprieties. He saw at a glance that Lilias looked exactly as she
ought, and that Ermengarde did not, but he could not tell where the
difference lay. Ermie as a rule was one of the neatest of little
maids. To-night she was not untidy, and yet--he could not tell
why--she looked all wrong.
Mr. Wilton sighed, thought of his dead wife, wondered how he could
ever manage his fast growing-up family, and then slightly turning his
back on Ermie, tried to forget his cares in conversation with his
neighbor on his other side.
The fat old gentleman began to talk to Ermengarde.
"Home for the holidays, eh, my dear?" he began, half-winking at her.
"I don't go to school," answered Ermengarde. She flushed angrily, and
her reply was in her primmest voice.
The fat old gentleman finished his soup calmly. Ermie's prim
indignation amused him. He glanced from her childish face to her grown
up head, and then said in a semi-confiding whisper: "Tell me, do you
consider a classical education essential to the development of women's
brains?"
"Oh, I don't know," stammered poor Ermie.
"Then you're not a Girton girl?"
"No; why do you ask?" answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little
flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite
grown-up.
"Well," he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, "I
thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young
face, you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive
my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls
attend some of the colleges."
Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old
gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He
considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was
quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her
chair, and toyed with her food.
"I'm not very old," she began.
"Not more than eighteen, I should think," replied the old gentleman.
Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.
"Eh? You're not more than that, are you?" asked her companion.
"No, sir," she answered. "I am not more than eighteen."
Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton
heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and
strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned
and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual
about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.
"Ermie!" he exclaimed, "what _have_ you done to your head? My dear
child, what a show you have made of yourself!"
His voice was quite clear enough for the old gentleman to hear him.
Ermengarde blushed painfully. She muttered something inaudible, and
looked down.
"What possessed you to make such a guy of yourself?" continued her
father, in a vexed tone, which was very low now. "A little girl like
you aping young ladyhood! I am very much annoyed, Ermengarde; I did
not think you could be so silly."
Then he turned his back once more, and addressed his neighbor on the
other side.
Poor Ermie felt her eyes swimming in tears. The mortification to which
her father had subjected her just at her moment of triumph was very
bitter. She could not eat a delicious _entree_ which was being offered
to her at that moment, and it is possible that, notwithstanding her
pride, she might have given way completely to her outraged feelings
had not the old gentleman come to her rescue. He was sorry for the
poor little maid who had aped the ways of the grown-up. He dropped his
quizzical manner, and entered into a pleasant conversation. He drew
Ermengarde on to speak of her home, and in especial of her brother
Basil, and he thought the little girlish face very charming indeed
when Ermie spoke eagerly of her favorite brother.
The rest of the dinner passed off fairly well, and Ermengarde hoped
she might be able to retire into a corner when she got into the
drawing-room, and so escape any more of her father's censure.
This, however, was difficult, for Lady Russell called both the girls
forward, and in especial introduced Ermengarde to several friends of
her own. Some of these ladies knew her mother, and they looked kindly
at Ermie, and only whispered together behind her back about the
extraordinary costume the poor little girl was got up in.
These ladies evidently blamed Ermengarde's father, and spoke of her as
a sadly neglected child.
Ermie felt that the ladies were whispering about her, and she began to
hate the beautiful _chiffon_ dress, and to long to tear it off her
back.