University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE RESULTS OF A FASHIONABLE PARTY.

In truth, it was rather a difficult matter for
Mrs. Harley to commence learning domestic
arts at that time. The house was so thronged
with company from one o'clock to three every
day, it could not fail to have a dissipating influence
upon the mind; besides, there were
other vexations; for who ever gave a party
without offending some one who claimed to be
considered their friends? Mrs. Harley was
very unfortunate in this respect. There were
the Carters, whom she had entirely forgotten,
and they had been loudly declaiming against
such a direct slight; and old Mrs. James told
Mrs. Gerrish “she should as soon have
thought of having been neglected by her own
daughters, for she had always been like a
mother to Mrs. Harley.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, former friends of Mrs.
Harley's mother, told Emma “they should never
call again; for if they were not acknowledged

as friends in public, they should not try
to be in private;” while, to make the matter
worse, Emma added, “I am very sorry, dear
Mary, for you, it makes you so liable to censure;
for, between ourselves, do you know
you committed an unpardonable error in not
inviting Sister Billings?”

“You don't tell me she is offended!” cried
Mrs. Harley; “why, I would rather have lost
half my acquaintances than her friendship, she
is so sensible and agreeable; but I thought she
never attended large parties. I am sorry—
very sorry. How can I atone for it, Emma?”

Say nothing about it, for pity's sake,” said
Emma. “It only makes a bad matter worse
to tell a friend you forgot her. If you had
only let me have seen your list, I should have
added several others. You omitted the Paines:
they ought, by all rules of courtesy, to have
been invited.”

“But you know,” answered Mrs. Harley,
“they are in deep mourning. Surely they
would not have accepted.”

“Never mind that, my dear; they ought to
have been invited.”

Poor Mrs. Harley was again heart-sick. She

could not discover that her party delighted any
one who came, while it made bitter enemies
of those she had forgotten. In the midst of
these reflections, Colonel Morton entered.

“I regretted,” said he, very politely, “that I
could not attend your party, Mrs. Harley. I
have been informed there was a brilliant assemblage,
and I hear Miss Tilman was the belle
of the evening. But do tell me why Mr. Morlay
was not here?”

Mrs. Harley blushed, and frankly owned that
till that moment she had entirely forgotten him
as much as if he never were in existence.

“Well, I dare say,” observed the colonel,
with his usual pleasant manner, “you can make
it all right with him. You must make another
party, and invite all the disaffected ones to
come together.”

The very thought of that made Mrs. Harley
shudder. Everything was continued in
the same quiet comfort as when Aunt Ruth
first restored it. She had a temporary servant
till Marianne, of whom we spoke before,
could come, which was not until the company
had ceased calling; for her former mistress
wisely judged that so many people would dishearten

her at once, since it took Dorcas nearly
all the time to answer the door-bell. She
had found Mrs. Harley apparently willing to
go in her kitchen a little while every morning;
still, she noticed that her appearance was dejected
and unhappy. She mentioned it to her
nephew, but he concluded it was only because
she felt her incompetency, and was satisfied it
would soon wear off.

Going suddenly in the room one morning,
Aunt Ruth found Mrs. Harley in tears. She
was arranging her little boy's hair, and evidently
trying to conceal some hidden grief.
With characteristic kindness, Aunt Ruth begged
her to confide to her her troubles. “I am
afraid,” said she, “you are not pleased with
the part I have taken in your house: perhaps
you think I have been too officious, or that I
impose too much upon you?”

“Oh no, it is nothing of that kind,” exclaimed
Mrs. Harley, earnestly. “To tell you the simple
truth, aunt, I am mortified to death about
that party I gave. There are so many unpleasant
things which conspire to vex me, and
it is so provoking, too, after one has exhausted
so much time, and spent so much money, to

find we derive so little real enjoyment from it.
Do tell me, were you ever so treated?”

“No, my dear, not exactly. I never gave
such kind of parties. We used to meet socially
to drink tea when I was keeping house for
myself, but in those days we seldom gave
splendid entertainments; our incomes would
not admit of it. It was a maxim of my husband's,
that “slow gains must be slowly spent:”
but I really think we enjoyed a great deal more
in those times, when we went visiting early,
and returned by nine in the evening. I never
heard such remarks then as I do now. Every
one knew their friends, and felt confidence in
them. But come, Mary, cheer up; if this is
all that troubles you, I see no occasion for
tears; besides, it is all over now, and if you
have done wrong once, try and do better next
time.”

“But, aunt, I begin to feel that there is no
pleasure in the kind of life I lead.”

What an honest confession! There is no
pleasure in empty ceremony, formal parade,
and idle display! How often would this cry
be echoed from the hearts of the merely fashionable,
if they would but declare their real
sentiments!