 | CHAPTER XIV. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
“What loud uproar, bursts from that door?”
Coleridge.
We shall follow the example of the good people of Longbridge,
its party-going inhabitants, at least, and discard, for
the moment, all other topics, in order to give due justice to
the expected ball at the Hubbards. It was understood that
this house-warming was to be the most brilliant affair, of its
kind, that had taken place, in the neighbourhood, within the
memory of man. Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline Hubbard
had staked their reputations, for elegance and fashion, upon
the occasion. The list of invitations was larger than any yet
issued at Longbridge, and all the preparations were on a
proportionate scale of grandeur.
About ten days before the eventful evening, Mrs. Hilson
and Miss Emmeline were closeted with their intimate friends,
Mrs. Bibbs and Mrs. Tibbs, engaged in drawing up a plan
of operations for the occasion. Probably the `city-lady,' as
as counsellors, more with a view of astonishing them by a
display of her own views of magnificence, than from any
idea that their suggestions would be of importance.
Miss Emmeline was seated, pencil in hand, with several
sheets of paper before her, all ready, to take notes of the
directions as they were settled. Mrs. Bibbs and Mrs. Tibbs
were placed on a sofa; and Mrs. Hilson threw herself into
a rocking-chair.
“In the first place, Emmeline,” said the `city-lady,' we
must have boned turkey: put down boned turkey.”
“I thought you were going to make out the list of invitations
first,” said the sister.
“Just put down the boned turkey, for that is absolutely
necessary; and then we can run over the names.”
Miss Emmeline wrote as she was directed. A long list
of names was then put down; there had already been a
private family meeting upon the subject, at which, after many
endeavours of Mrs. Hilson to unite the two advantages of
extreme exclusiveism, and the largest number of invitations
ever heard of at Longbridge, Mr. Hubbard had decided the
matter by insisting that his daughters should ask every person
who had ever been a guest at their house before, and all
those from whom they themselves had accepted invitations.
“Don't talk to me of fashionable people, and exclusives
and inclusives—I choose to have all my old neighbours, do
you hear, girls, and any one else you please.”
This was the only point upon which their father insisted;
and as he left the expense of the arrangements entirely to
themselves, the ladies thought it most prudent not to argue
the matter. Instead, therefore, of aiming at having their
party very select, it was now agreed that it should be very
general.
“It will be a regular mob,” said Mrs. Hilson, as she
finished reading to her sister scraps of lists of which her lap
was full; “but with so large a visiting circle as ours, it was
turkey, Emmeline? that at least will give to the entertainment
an aristocratic character, at once.”
“Yes, to be sure, here it is,” said Emmeline, taking up
another sheet of paper. “We must have boned turkey, of
course.”
Now it so happened that neither Mrs. Bibbs nor Mrs.
Tibbs, though such fascinating ladies, had ever seen, tasted,
or heard of boned turkey before. But, of course, they did
not confess such shameful ignorance. Boned turkey had
never yet figured at a party at Longbridge. We say figured
at a party, and we speak advisedly, as all must know who
are aware of the all-important position occupied at an American
party by the refreshments, in the opinion of both host
and guests. The brilliancy of the lights, the excellence of
the music, the wit and gallantry of the gentlemen, the grace
and beauty of the ladies—would be of no avail in giving
fame to a party if the refreshments were not as abundant,
and as varied as possible. It is true these good things are
generally excellent in their way, which is probably one
reason why they receive so much attention. The highest
distinction to be attained in these matters is the introduction
of some new delicacy; next to this, is the honour of being
one of the first to follow so brilliant an example; but, of
course, those unfortunate individuals who have neglected to
procure the favourite dainty of the season, after it has once
appeared on fashionable tables, lose all claim to honourable
mention, and sink beneath notice. In this way, each dish
has its day; a year or two since, Charlotte Russe was indispensable
at an entertainment; last winter Bombes were in
high request; and at the period of the Hubbard house-warming,
Boned Turkey had received the place of honour
on the New York supper-tables. People could neither flirt
nor dance, they could talk neither pure nonsense, nor pure
speculation, without the Boned Turkey in perspective. The
fashion had indeed spread so far, that it had at last reached
what Mrs. Hilson generally called her clique.
“Pa thinks we shall have some difficulty in getting boned
turkey at this season; it is rather early; but I am determined
to have it if money can procure it. You know I am very
ambitious, Mrs. Tibbs—I am not easily satisfied.”
Mrs. Tibbs, a pretty little woman with light hair, wearing
a fashionable lilac muslin, assented, of course.
“Taking for granted then, that we have the boned turkey,
what shall we put down next?” asked Miss Emmeline.
“Terrapin-soup, pickled-oysters, lobsters, chicken-salad, and
anything in the way of game that can be found in the
market; do you think that will do for the substantial dishes,
Mrs. Bibbs?”
Mrs. Bibbs, a pretty little woman with black hair, wearing
a fashionable green muslin, assented, of course.
“I think that will do, Emmeline, said Mrs. Hilson; “a
large supply of each, you know. By-the-bye we must have
four dishes of boned turkey; nothing so mean as to have a
small quantity.”
Then followed a long list of lighter delicacies; gallons of
ice-cream with every possible variety of flavour; flour and
eggs, cream and sugar, prepared in every way known to
New York confectioners. Kisses and Mottoes were insisted
upon. Then came the fruits, beginning with peaches and
grapes, and concluding with bananas and other tropical productions,
until at length even Mrs. Hilson's “ambition” was
thus far satisfied.
“I think our set-out will have quite an aristocratic appearance,
Emmeline; including, of course, the boned turkey.
Then we must have coloured candles, they are so much more
tasty—all green and pink. Alonzo will secure the orchestra,
the best in the city; —'s band. We must have two
dressing-rooms in the third story, one for the gentlemen, one
for the ladies—and a little fainting-room besides; the small
east room will do for that—we can put in it the easy-chair,
with the white batiste cover I brought over from the city,
with a pitcher of iced-water, and restoratives, all ready. It
prepared beforehand—it makes the thing more complete.”
The lady in the green muslin agreed entirely with Mrs.
Hilson; she though it would be unpardonable not to have
a fainting-room.
“The third story will be reserved for the dressing-rooms,
the second entirely devoted to the supper and refreshments,
and the first floor given up to the dancers and promenaders.
I declare I shan't know how to look if we can't procure the
boned turkey.”
The lady in the lilac muslin agreed that when everything
else was so genteel, it would be unfortunate indeed to fail in
the boned turkey.
The disposition of the furniture, the variety of lemonades,
&c., was then settled, as well as other minor matters, when
the four ladies sat down to write the invitations on the very
elegant and fanciful note-paper prepared for the occasion.
“The first thing I shall do, Emmeline, will be to write a
letter expressly to Alonzo, to insist upon the confectioner's
procuring the boned turkey.”
We shall pass over the labours of the ensuing week,
devoted to the execution of what had been planned. Various
were the rumours floating about Longbridge in the interval;
it was asserted by some persons that a steamboat was to bring
to Longbridge all the fashionable people in New York; that
it was to be a sort of “Mass-Meeting” of the “Aristocracy.”
By others, all the fiddlers in New York and Philadelphia
were said to be engaged. In fact, however, nothing was
really known about the matter. Mrs. Bibbs and Mrs. Tibbs
had confided all the details to a score of friends only, and
every one of these had, as usual, spread abroad a different
version of the story. We have it, however, on the best
authority, that every day that week a letter in Mrs. Hilson's
handwriting, directed to the most fashionable cook and confectioner
in New York, passed through the Longbridge post-office,
upon the negotiation for the boned turkey, which at that
season it was not easy to procure in perfection.
The eventful evening arrived at length. The fanciful
note-papers had all reached their destination, the pink and
green candles were lighted, the fainting-room was prepared,
the kisses and mottoes had arrived, and though last, surely
not least, four dishes of boned turkey were already on the
supper-table. Mrs. Bibbs and Mrs. Tibbs had gone the
rounds with the two ladies of the house, and admired everything,
after which they returned to the drawing-room. Mrs.
Bibbs in blue, and Mrs. Tibbs in pink, were placed in full
array on a sofa. Mrs. Hilson and Miss Emmeline stationed
themselves in a curtseying position, awaiting their guests.
Mr. and Mrs. Clapp, with Miss Patsey and Charlie, were
the first to arrive. Our friend, Patsey, looked pleasant,
good-natured, and neatly dressed, as usual; the silk she
wore was indeed the handsomest thing of the kind she had
ever owned—it was a present from Uncle Josie, who had
insisted upon her coming to his house-warming. Patsey's
toilette, however, though so much more elegant than usual,
looked like plainness and simplicity itself, compared with the
gauzes and flowers, the laces and ribbons of Mrs. Tibbs and
Mrs. Bibbs, who were sitting on the sofa beside her.
Presently, a thin, dark, sober-looking young man walked
in at a side-door; it was Alonzo, Mrs. Hilson's husband.
Honest, warm-hearted Mr. Hubbard soon followed, looking
as usual, in a very good humour, and much pleased with
the holiday he had provided for his daughters, and the satisfaction
of seeing all his old friends in his new house, which
he had prepared for himself. If ever there was a man who
spoilt his children, it was Mr. Joseph Hubbard. Had he had
sons, it might possibly have been different; but his wife had been
a very silly, very pretty, very frivolous woman; the daughters
resembled her in every respect, and Mr. Hubbard seemed to
have adopted the opinion that women were never otherwise
at their nonsense, was indulgent to their folly, and let them
do precisely as they pleased; which, as he had made a
fortune, it was in his power to do. As for Uncle Dozie, the
bacheler brother, who had lived all his life with Mr. Joseph
Hubbard, he was already in the drawing-room, seated in a
corner, with folded arms, taking a nap. It was singular
what a talent for napping this old gentleman possessed; he
had been known to doze over a new book, pronounced by
the papers “thrillingly interesting,” and “intensely exciting;”
he has slept during a political speech, reported as one continued
stream of enchaining eloquence, delivered amid
thunders of applause; and now, under the blaze of astral
lamps, and pink and green candles, while the musicians
were tuning their fiddles, and producing all sorts of discordant
sounds, he was dozing as quietly as if in his own rocking-chair.
Uncle Dozie seldom talked when he could help it; the chief
business and pleasure of his life consisted in superintending
his brother's vegetable-garden; he had never been known
to take a nap among his beets and cabbages, which he
seemed to admire as much as he did his nieces. The vegetables,
indeed, engrossed so much of his care and attention,
that three times in the course of his life, he had lost by carelessness
a comfortable little independence which his brother
had made for him.
The company began to pour in. Mrs. Taylor and the
talkative old friend were among the earliest, and took their
seats on the sofa, near Miss Patsey, Mrs. Bibbs, and Mrs.
Tibbs. Adeline, with the Saratoga fashionables, soon followed;
having remained longer in the dressing-room, in
order to wait until each could appear with a beau to lean on.
The Longbridge élite arrived in large numbers; Uncle
Dozie woke up, and Uncle Josie shook hands as his friends
wished him many happy years in his new house. Miss
Emmeline and Mrs. Hilson flitted hither and thither; while
the dark and sober-looking Alonzo occasionally bent his
and directions from his more elegant moiety. No
one was received by the ladies of the house with more fascinating
smiles, than a tall, slim Englishman, with a very
bushy head of hair, who had made Mrs. Hilson's acquaintance
at their boarding-house not long since, and being tired
of occupying a third or fourth-rate position in his own
country, was now determined to show off what he thought
airs of the first water, in this. He was just the attendant in
whom Mrs. Hilson gloried.
“I think the West-End is fully represented here, this
evening, Emmeline,” said the fair lady as she tripped past
her sister, followed by Captain Kockney, after the rooms
were uncomfortably full.
“Some very pretty women 'ere, Mrs. 'Ilson,” observed
Captain Kockney; “that's really a lovely creature just
come in, and what a piece of ugliness it is alongside of her.”
“Miss Graham? Yes, she is our great beauty. Shall I
introduce you?”
“Not now, for pity's sake; wait till that ugly face has
moved out of sight.”
“Do you think Miss Wyllys so very ugly? Perhaps she
is; but she is one of our country neighbours, and I have
seen her so frequently that I am accustomed to her appearence—indeed
we are quite intimate. When one knows her,
her conversation is excessively delightful; though she wants
more association with city-life to appear to advantage.”
“Now, pray don't introduce me there, I beg. I saw too
many ugly women the last season I was at 'ome. Our
colonel had three daughters, 'orrid frights, but of course we
had to do the civil by them. It almost tempted me to sell
out; they were parvenues, too—that made the matter worse,
you know.”
“Oh, yes, I hate parvenoos; I am thoroughly aristocratic
in my nature. Indeed, it is a great misfortune for me that I
am so, one is obliged, in this country, to come so often in
the same cause, while travelling in the United States.”
“What, from the plebeians? Oh, I made up my mind to
that before I came, you know; I believe I shall enjoy the
change for a time. One doesn't expect anything else from
you Yankees; and then I had a surfeit of aristocracy in
London, the last season. We had half-a-dozen crowned
heads there; and first one met them everywhere in town,
you know, and then at every country-house.”
“How delightful it must be to live surrounded by royalty
in that way!”
“There you're quite out. It's a great bore; one has to
mind their p's and q's at court, you know—I never go to
Windsor if I can help it.”
“Well, I should never tire of a court—I am thoroughly
patrician in my disposition. I have a good right to such
tastes, Captain Kockney, for I have a great deal of noble
blood in my veins.”
“Now, really! what family do you belong to?”
“The duke of Percy; a noble family of Scotland. Pa's
name is Joseph P. Hubbard. Don't you pity people who
have no nobility in their families?”
“'Pon my soul, I don't know how a man feels under such
circumstances. It's a queer sensation, I dare say.”
“Dr. Van Horne,” continued Mrs. Hilson, to a young
man who came up to make his bow to her, “I have a great
mind to ask a favour of you. Will you undertake to bleed
me?”
“I should be sorry if you required my services in that
way, Mrs. Hilson.”
“Ah, but it would be a real obligation; I want to get rid
of all but my Percy blood. Perhaps you don't know that
our family is distinguished by its descent?”
“From `old Mother Hubbard,”' thought young Van
Horne; but he merely bowed.
“Yes, our ancestors were dukes of Percy, who were
very possible we might claim the title of a Scotch Peer.”
Mrs. Hilson had read too many English novels, not to have
a supply of such phrases at command. “If you could only
find the right vein, I would insist upon your taking away all
but my patrician blood.”
“Would not the operation leave you too perfect, Mrs.
Hilson?”
“Perhaps it might make me vain. But it could scarcely
unfit me more for living in a republic. How I wish we
were governed by a despot!—don't you?”
“Not in the least,”—`but I wish you were,' the young
man added, to himself, as he moved away towards Jane and
Elinor, who were in a corner talking to his sisters. “All
the fools in this country are not travelled fools, as I wish my
father would remember,” he continued, as he edged his way
through the crowd.
May not well know the misery,
The wrath, the strife, the hate, and all,
That's compassed in the name of thrall.”
“You have mustered quite a pretty set of little plebeians
'ere to-night. Now, that's quite a nice-looking little creature
standing by the door,” continued Captain Kockney; “what
do you call her?”
“Her name is Taylor—Adeline Taylor; they belong to
the aristocracy too; shall I introduce you?”
“Is she married? If she is, I've no objections; but if she
isn't, I had rather not. It's such a bore, you know, talking
to girls—bread-and-butter misses!”
“How ungallant you are!”
“Ungallant! Why? I suppose you know it's a settled
thing that none of us talk to girls in society. Most of them
are so milk-and-water, and the rest are so deep, they're
always fancying a man means something. Why, last spring
he made a fool of himself, dangling after the girls.”
“But don't gentlemen ever speak to an unmarried lady
in England?”
“The saps do—but not your knowing ones. We make
an exception though, in favour of a regular beauty, such as
that little girl on the other side of the room; that Thomson
girl, didn't you call her.?”
“Miss Graham—you are difficult to please if nothing else
will suit you. But of course it is natural for aristocratic
minds to be fastidious.”
“To be sure it is, that's what makes us English aristocrats
so exclusive. If that little Graham girl comes in our way
though, I've no objection to making her acquaintance. And
if you have got a great fortune 'ere to-night, I'll make an
exception for her—you may introduce me. Is there such a
thing as an heiress in the room?”
“An heiress? No, I believe not — but Miss Taylor is
quite a fortune.”
“Is she? Well then, you may introduce me there too.
We have to do the civil to the rich girls, you know; because
after a while most of us are driven into matrimony. That's
the governor, I take it, near the door.”
“The governor? Oh, no, our governor does not live at
Longbridge.”
“Doesn't he? Well, I thought you introduced him just
now as the governor, and I fancied some one called him
'Ubbard; that's the governor's name, isn't it?”
“No, indeed. That's Pa you are speaking of.”
“Just so—that is what I said. You call your paternities
Pa, do you?—we always call the old fellows governors, in
England.”
“Do you call your father Gov. Kockney? I did not know
that governor was an English title; it sounds very plebeian
in my ears.”
“Now, what do you mean? ha! ha!—you are delightful.
last June. Though, perhaps, you don't know what the
drawing-room is?”
“Oh, yes; I know that it means Court. My tastes are so
exclusive, that I may say I have lived in English High-Life
from the time I married, and became intimate with Mrs.
Bagman. I feel quite at home in such scenes, for I read
every novel that comes out with Lords and Ladies in it.
What were you going to tell me about Court?”
The story was interrupted by Miss Hubbard, who tripped
across the room to carry her sister off with her.
“Now you are not going, I hope? Why not stay 'ere;
I am sure this sofa is the most comfortable thing in the
room.”
“I must go to receive some friends of mine, come over
expressly from the city.”
“Pray, keep me clear of the cits! But now, if you will
go, just leave me your bouquet as a consolation. Thank
you.—Oh, yes, I'll take good care of it.”
“I hope you will, for it's a ten dollar bouquet, and I'm
very proud of it. You must not steal a single flower, mind.”
“Mustn't I? — Do you dare me?” and the agreeable
Captain began to pull out several flowers. Mrs. Hilson,
however, was hurried away.
Mr. Taylor, Mr. Hubbard, and Alonzo moved towards the
sofa where she had been sitting.
“Do you think that Stewart will be chosen President of
the Franklin Insurance?” inquired Mr. Hubbard.
“I think not, sir—he rather mismanaged the affairs of the
Hoboken Bank. Lippincott will be the President, I take it.
He has magnificent talents for business. You know he has
purchased the thirty lots in 50th street, that were sold at
auction, yesterday.”
“A good purchase, I should say.”
“How's the Hoboken stock now?” inquired Alonzo.
A murmuring about `five per cent.'—`six per cent.'—
the approach of young Van Horne and Elinor.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Wyllys,” said Mr. Hubbard,
making room for her. “Oh, yes, Mr. Van Horne, here is a
place for you, and another couple besides. Whom are you
looking for?”
“Charles Hubbard, sir; I want him for a vis-à-vis.”
“Charlie is already placed, I see; but here is a gentleman;
perhaps you would like to dance, sir?”—addressing
Captain Kockney, who was still in possession of the sofa
and the flowers. “I hope my daughter has introduced you
to some of the young ladies.”
“Now, really; if I am to dance, I prefer Mrs. 'Ilson.”
And, accordingly, the Captain, by no means sorry to be
forced to dance, rose with a victim-like look, half strode, half
sidled towards Mrs. Hilson, and putting his elbow in her
face by way of an invitation, led her to the quadrille. The
contrast between these two couples, placed opposite to each
other, was striking, and yet common enough in a mixed ball-room.
Captain Kockney was desperately nonchalant, his
partner full of airs and graces; their conversation was silly,
ignorant, and conceited, beyond the reach of imagination—
such things must be heard to be believed. Young Van
Horne was clever, and appeared to less advantage in dancing
than in most things. Elinor the reader knows already; it
was a pleasure to follow her as she moved about with the
happy grace which belonged to her nature. Her partner,
half in joke, half in earnest, was engaging her interest
with his father in behalf of the visit to Europe. Elinor
promised to do all in her power; and they chatted away
cheerfully and gaily, for they were young and light-hearted;
and yet, even in a ball-room, they meant what they said, and
knew what they were talking about, for both were sensible
and well educated. Jane and young Bernard were next to
Mrs. Hilson; Adeline and Charlie Hubbard next to Elinor.
Miss Taylor had declared that she would allow no one but
decision no little flirtation, and rattling merriment; but, of
course, this was just what the young lady aimed at. These
two pretty, thoughtless creatures, the belle and the beauty,
held a middle position between Mrs. Hilson and Elinor.
Frivolous as they were, there was more latent good about
them, than could be found in the `city lady,' who was one
frothy compound of ignorant vanity, and vulgar affectation.
The class she represented was fortunately as small in its
extreme folly, as that to which Elinor belonged, in its simple
excellence.
Any one, indifferent to dancing or speculation, seeking
amusement as a looker-on, would have been struck, at Uncle
Josie's house-warming, with the generally feminine and
pleasing appearance of the women; there were few faces,
indeed, that could be called positively ugly. Then, again,
one remarked, that puerile as the general tone might be,
mixed as the company was, there were no traces whatever
of coarseness, none of that bold vulgarity which is so revolting.
There was a certain proportion of elderly men collected
on the occasion — they were seen, with a few exceptions,
standing in knots, talking great speculations and little politics,
and looking rather anxious for supper, and the boned turkey.
Of the mothers and chaperons, who filled the sofas, as representatives
of a half-forgotten custom, some were watching
the flirtations, others looking on and enjoying the gaiety of the
young people. Both fathers and mothers, however, were
very decidedly in the minority, and, according to American
principles, they allowed the majority undisputed sway. The
young people, in general, held little communication with their
elders, and amused themselves after their own fashion; the
young ladies' bouquets afforded a favourite subject for small-talk;
they were all carefully analysed—not botanically, but
according to the last edition of that elegant work, the Language
of Flowers, which afforded, of course, a wide field
for the exercise of gallantry and flirtation.
Among the dancers, the four young ladies we have pointed
out were acknowledged the most conspicuous. According
to Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bibbs, Jane's was the most beautiful
face in the room, although there were two or three competitors
for the title; Adeline was pronounced the most successful
of the rival belles; Mrs. Hilson the most elegant and airy;
Elinor the plainest of the gay troop. Probably, most of
those who thought about the matter, would have decided as
the Longbridge ladies did—although, on the point of Mrs.
Hilson's elegance, many would have protested. There was
one person, at least, who followed Elinor's graceful figure
with partial interest; Miss Agnes found so much that was
pleasing to her, in the fresh, youthful appearance of her
adopted child—in the simple good-taste of her white dress—
in the intelligence and character of her expression—in her
engaging manner, that she forgot to regret her want of
beauty; she no longer wondered, as she had sometimes
done, that Harry should so early have appreciated her niece.
Those who knew Elinor thoroughly, loved her for the excellence
of her character; strangers neglected her for any
pretty face at her side; but every one thrown in her society,
must have acknowledged the charm of her manner. This
pleasing manner, however, so frank, yet so feminine, so
simple, yet so graceful, was only the natural result of her
character, and her very want of beauty. She was never
troubled by the fluttering hopes and fears of vanity; she
never seemed to think of effect; when in society, her attention
was always given in the simplest and most amiable way
to others. Forgetful of self, she was a stranger to every
forward affectation, to every awkwardness of mauvaise honte;
her good sense, her gaiety, a sweet disposition, and an active
mind were allowed full play, under no other restraints than
those of a good education; those of principle, and those of
youthful, womanly modesty. Such was Elinor in the eyes
of her aunt, but it must not be supposed that this was the
general opinion of Uncle Josie's guests; by no means; many
plain; and even her dancing was thought inferior by some
of the company to the more laboured graces of Mrs. Hilson,
or the downright indifference of Adeline: as for Jane, she
unfortunately never danced in time.
At the proper moment supper was announced—the boned
turkey appeared in full glory. “What is that?”—“Boned
turkey”—“Shall I give you boned turkey?”—“I'll thank
you for a little boned turkey”—were sounds heard in every
direction. It was very evident the boned turkey was fully
appreciated, and gave great satisfaction—thus putting the
finishing touch to the pleasures of Uncle Josie's house-warming.
We must not forget to mention the mottoes,
which were handed about in silver baskets, for, as usual,
they caused many tender and witty speeches. This was a
part of the entertainment in which Adeline delighted; Jane
seemed quite satisfied with it, and Mrs. Hilson was in her
element among these little bits of pink paper and sentiment.
Before the supper was more than half over, however, the
rattling of spoons and plates, the requests for “boned turkey,”
and the flirting over mottoes were suddenly interrupted, and
everything hushed for a moment, by calls for a doctor!
“Where is Dr. Van Horne?” “Have you seen Dr. A?”
“There is Dr. B.”
“Alonzo, the fainting-room; remember,” said Mrs. Hilson.
But it proved to be none of the company who required a
physician. A stranger, a sailor, some one said, who had
been for the last week at a low tavern opposite, had been
seized with a fit. Dr. Van Horne was soon found, and
hastened to the relief of the sick man. The interruption
was soon forgotten; the mottoes and boned turkey were
again in demand. Dr. Van Horne did not return, however;
his family went home without him; and Mrs. Clapp, on
looking around for her husband, found that he also had disappeared.
“I saw Clapp going into the tavern last evening,” observed
his; he may have gone to look after him.”
Mrs. Clapp was obliged to ask Uncle Dozie to accompany
her home; and as he was no somnambulist, with all his
napping, he carried his niece safely to her own door.
Miss Wyllys was one of those who left the house immediately
after supper. Adeline and Jane ran up stairs before
Elinor and herself—like the Siamese twins, each with an
arm encircling the other's waist. The close intimacy between
Jane and Adeline continued to surprise Elinor. She began
to think there must be something more than common, something
of the importance of a mystery which drew them so
often together, causing so many confidential meetings. Even
when the two girls were in society, she could not but observe
that Adeline often made some allusion, or whispered some
remark that seemed both pleasing and embarrassing to Jane.
Miss Taylor was evidently playing confidante, and occasionally
Jane appeared to wish her less open and persevering in
the affair. As for Mrs. Graham, she was too much occupied
with the care of her younger children to pay much
attention to her daughter's intimacies. She rather disliked
Adeline and all her family, and Mr. Graham had a real
antipathy for Mr. Taylor; still Jane was allowed to do as
other young girls about her, select whom she pleased for her
associates. Mrs. Graham was one of those mothers who
devote themselves with great assiduity to the care of their
childrens' bodies, their food and raiment, pains and aches—
leaving all anxiety for their minds to the school-mistress,
and their characters to themselves. With the eldest daughter
this plan had succeeded very well; Louisa Graham was
clever and well-disposed, and had taken of her own accord
what is called a good turn; and Mr. Robert Hazlehurst had
every reason to congratulate himself upon his choice of a
wife. Mrs. Graham seemed to take it as a matter of course
that the same system would succeed equally well with all her
family. But Jane's disposition was very different from her
easily led by those about her. The greatest fault in her disposition
was thought by her family to be indolence; but
Miss Wyllys sometimes wished that she had less selfishness,
and more frankness.
Elinor was not a little startled at something which passed
in Miss Hubbard's dressing-room, between Jane and Miss
Taylor, and which she accidentally overheard, before she
was aware the conversation was confidential.
“Don't pretend any longer, Jane, that you didn't know it,”
whispered Adeline, as they were stooping together over a
bundle of hoods and shawls. Jane made no answer. “Now,
confess that you knew he was serious before you left Paris.”
“I did not think much of it for some time,” said Jane.
“Well, I supposed from your letters that you knew long
ago that he was desperately in love with you. Trust me,
we'll settle it all between us.”
“Oh, hush,” said Jane, “there is somebody coming—I
know it's wrong—”
“Nonsense—wrong indeed! I should like to know where
is the great harm if he does break his engagement?”
Elinor moved away when she found the conversation was
meant to be private. But she had unintentionally heard
enough to make her anxious for Jane. “Was not Adeline
leading her into difficulty?” She felt uneasy, and thought of
nothing else during her drive home. It would not do to consult
Miss Wyllys; but she determined to speak to Jane herself,
the first time she saw her. Unfortunately, her cousin was
going to New York, and nothing could be done until she
returned to pass a fortnight at Wyllys-Roof before going to
town for the winter.
| CHAPTER XIV. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |