 | CHAPTER V.
THE GENERAL JUBILEE. A woman in armor |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
THE GENERAL JUBILEE.
THE night fixed upon for the general
jubilee came over Little Boston's hills
like a giant among nights. It came with
stately steppings and carried ponderous luggage.
It had been whispered and sighed about many
days. Long domestic consultations were held
over it. The immense preparations which the
Stokesbury-Joneses were making clothed it
with majesty and terror in the eyes of quiet
folks. They looked at their old clothes, felt
their long, lean purses, and lay awake o' nights.
In those days every man inquired of his neighbor:
“Knowest thou what Smith or Johnson
hath selected to present to the Stokesbury-Joneses?”
And there were blue faces on the streets,
which were not the faces of them that dealt in
silver!
The firm of which Mr. Stokesbury-Jones was
the figure-head met, groaned, cursed custom,
engraved with their names, compliments, and
the date of the occasion.
The Charitable Society on whose neck was
set the executive foot of Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
held a secret meeting, and being elated by such
unusual liberty, wrangled half a day on the rival
merits of dinner-services and argent-clasped
Bibles, and finally separated like a convention
of cats, looking fire and hissing venom at each
other.
But the night arrived and confronted all, and
Little Boston rose bravely out of her misgivings
to meet it. She took hold of the Stokesbury-Joneses'
bell-handle, and ceased not ringing till
her very suburbs were rung in: her great and
small; her avenue residents; and her little
street householders struggling to get into society.
Mr. Jones and that scion of superior stock
whom he had twenty-five years previously transplanted
into his own ignominious lot received
their guests in the very vestments they had worn
on that occasion. Poor Mr. Jones, shrunken
from his youthful proportions, was scarcely perceptible
in the broadcloth draped around him,
while Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones burst out of her
scant white satin like a peony in full bloom.
Miss Stokesbury - Jones — who inherited her
mamma's majestic proportions and mustache
—supported her position and an elegant toilet
with stern and soldier-like demeanor; but the
girlish freedom as their daily discipline left in
them, fluttered from room to room, or hovered
like vestals about that altar whereon shone the
social tithes and offerings. That altar made a
striking background to the figures of Mr. and
Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones. It was a large rosewood
table, bearing no end of precious things
extorted by them.
Had you watched the stream of guests flowing
past host and hostess you could have
estimated the value of every man's gift by his
demeanor. People who felt they had been
weighed and found wanting took the hospitable
hand in fear and trembling, and shrunk immediately
away to some far corner, out of sight of
that burdened table, which glared at them like
a convinced jury! while those acceptably
heralded advanced with bold fronts, and afterwards
gathered round the silver to examine it in
detail and estimate its cost.
There were bowls and services, spoons, forks,
napkin-rings, castors, crumb-scrapers, cake-baskets,
vases, thimbles, nut pickers and
crackers, ice-pitchers, goblets, salvers—I might
hazard to say, everything in silver which has
been invented by man.
A few—a very few—folks cast amused, contemptuous
eyes at the whole array and deigned
not to approach it—but these were eccentric
people, not in tune with society, who failed to
Such an one was Stanthorne.
“Jove!” sniffed Stanthorne as he sauntered
past, after doing duty on the right-hand gloves
of the Stokesbury-Joneses. “Jove!” emphatically,
with a broad smile levelled at the
costly, shining tax. “Tell me no more we are
a civilized people! We only differ from the
aborigines whom we supplanted in not wearing
our victims' scalps and wampum upon our persons!
We like to take 'em just the same!”
It struck him to fancy the Stokesbury-Jones
family decked out in their spoil. He saw in his
mind's eye the ample neck of Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
clasped by a tinkling necklace of goblets,
a caster swung from her pierced nose, and
strings of napkin-rings depending from her ears.
Then he gave the meek Jones a savage aspect
by sticking silver-knives in his belt, inverting a
pitcher over his brow, fringing his pantaloons
with bristling forks, and binding him with
salvers for snow-shoes. And having finished
his picture, by adorning the young ladies plentifully
with cake-baskets, he felt he had placed
the family in their true position!
The rooms were filled, many dances danced,
heat and fatigue were descending on the crowded
mass, and it was nearly time for refreshments
before Helen Dimmock arrived. Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
was vexed. She had on her mental
as one of the opening entertainments of
the evening.
When Helen floated quietly down from the
dressing-room, Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones met that
young lady in the hall, intending to show her
displeasure and extort apologies. But the
young lady had the air of a person who could
do nothing for which she need apologize! She
had simply chosen not to enter as a guest, when
she was invited merely to make herself useful.
She bowed to Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones, and
said, “I am ready,” like the well-bred woman,
consenting to do a favor for another woman,
that she was. Something about her awed the
hostess. It was not her perfect dress, though
that was so perfect that its whiteness and gauziness
and grace seemed a part of herself; she
looked like a rose in flesh; she had the same
exquisite, sweet-breathing presence. Nor was
it her manner. I suppose it was the Helen
Dimmock, the self-respecting, finely made,
tenderly kind nature, whom Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
never recognized before.
“I am ready,” she repeated, standing on the
lowest step of the stair, her gloved hand resting
on the balustrade, her eyes meeting that lady's
with perfect good-will and complaisance.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones, coming
off her high ground and offering a cordial hand;
“so I see, and I'm glad of it. I was afraid you
a very fashionable hour. Well, we are ready
whenever you are, Miss Dimmock.”
“I will go directly to the piano, then,” replied
Helen. And, crossing the drawing-room, she
seated herself to wait until the hostess marshalled
up those two daughters whom the
musician had chosen to sing her composition.
These were Miss Stokesbury-Jones and Miss
Flora; the child had a bird-like voice, and the
eldest a heavy contralto. Both of them she had
trained into sympathy with the subject; so she
drew her gloves, arranged her manuscript, and
waited without any tremors.
Miss Stokesbury-Jones came up on Stanthorne's
arm, and Flora on mamma's—looking
flushed and vexed at being called out of an interminable
round dance with a most engaging
student. As soon as she saw Miss Dimmock,
however, she took her place and her interest in
the performance.
Guests crowded near to listen. Stanthorne
wondered where she had been all the evening,
that he hadn't caught a glimpse of her before.
Standing at Miss Stokesbury-Jones's left hand,
he watched those deft hands on the keyboard,
the round and supple wrists, her perfect poise,
the waxen full lids shading her eyes, the floating
hair, soft as mist, confined yet not confined.
She had a changing face, but its usual expression
was childlike and restful.
The two young women sung their duet. It
was sweet and natural, and breathed of home.
It drew tears to your eyes; but just when you
were ready to shed them some quaint, humorous
turn set them to dancing with laughter. I do
not know that this composition made mention
of silver weddings in general, or hinted at the
amount of silver which may suitably be presented
on such occasions. It was a fireside
song; it put the family group in your eye and
filled you with that feeling—strong as life and
only next below patriotism in the scale of emotions—which
men and women have for the sanctuary
of their love.
Helen's touch was full of suppressed power.
Again Stanthorne quivered under it. He felt
a sudden sympathy with Prince Geraint, who
wanted to kiss the little thumb his unknown
love flattened against the dish with which she
served him.
The song ended and everybody murmured
applause. Youths crowded around the Misses
Stokesbury-Jones to compliment them, and to
look wistfully at Helen Dimmock. She rose
from her place and would have gone as she came,
but Stanthorne marched immediately upon her
with Miss Stokesbury-Jones as his right wing,
and cut off retreat by getting himself introduced.
Helen had never seen him before. She
glanced quickly over his compact frame, his
his thinking forehead and liked him.
Stanthorne at once offered his arm and led her
out of the crush into a cool, wide hall.
Most young men moving against a fortress
begin their siege — very appropriately — by
taking observations of and making comments
on the weather. But Stanthorne had original
military tactics.
He began directly to tell her how he had
heard her play in church, and how her music
touched and pleased him. Thus he drew her to
speak of the art she loved, and having begun to
discuss it, they found it was a subject of which
neither could tire. So, when brisk, aproned
waiters appeared with refreshments, and chattering
guests grouped themselves in every available
pleasant place, Stanthorne and Miss Dimmock
sat on the stairs talking as naturally and
reading one another as well as if they had been
bred up side by side.
He was fastidious about her supper, and
went himself for half a dozen things he imagined
she wanted. But finding on his last return a
lanky, tallow-faced student — whom he suspected
of being the author of villanous poetry
thrust weekly at his paper — gazing aloft and
making Helen his Muse, Stanthorne remained
vigilantly by her thereafter, looking all the contempt
at that student which he felt.
The orchestra began to breathe again the
on their gloves, pair after pair flitted out, and
distant feet throbbed in music.
“Would Miss Dimmock dance?” he asked.
No, Miss Dimmock did not wish to dance.
Then neither did Stanthorne. It was better
than dancing to watch her rhythmic motion and
quiet power.
But presently she was going home. It had
been her intention to go late and return home
early.
Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones sincerely regretted her
adieux. The duet had been a “decided hit.”
She intended taking some notice of her daughter's
music-teacher after supper was off her
hands, and bringing that young woman out a
little.
“You have given me a great deal of pleasure,
Miss Dimmock,” she confessed warmly, when
Helen would not be detained.
“I am glad!” said Helen. “That is what I
came to do. I am always glad to accomplish
what I undertake.”
For a moment Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones was
puzzled to know why she should thus be acknowledging
a favor who had meant to confer
one! But this perplexity passed from her
mind as Stanthorne also offered his adieux.
He had discovered that Miss Dimmock came
without escort or carriage, and the knight was
uppermost in him.
“Don't trouble yourself,” laughed Helen,
but with a slight, haughty, backward sweep of
the head, when she came down furled and
cloaked, and was recaptured by him at the
threshold. “I'm never afraid. I've always
been accustomed to walking alone after night.”
But Stanthorne went demurely out under the
sky with her. There was nothing impertinent
about his persistence. It was his nature to protect.
He drew her wraps closer around her,
tucked her under his arm, and assured her
solemnly that she was reasoning against his instincts.
So they both laughed, and together
threaded gas-lamp mazes or unlighted streets.
Hours afterwards Stanthorne leaned from his
den into the town's smoky air.
He pictured the little house he had seen, the
last glimpse of her face turned over a white
shoulder, and he saw himself tramping feverishly
from street to street to bring up before that
house again at the end of every half-hour.
He did not then tell himself what had come
to him, but he leaned on the sill thinking far into
the night. And he could but notice how
many sweet-eyed holy stars there were.
| CHAPTER V.
THE GENERAL JUBILEE. A woman in armor | |