 | CHAPTER XXV.
THE PARTY. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE PARTY.
“Bring me my new dress, Jenny; I want to see if the Honiton
lace on the caps is as wide as Ida Selden's.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jenny, turning quickly
towards her sister, whose white, wasted face looked fitter for a
shroud than a gay party dress.
“I mean what I say,” returned Rose; “Im not going to
be cooped up here any longer. I'm going to the party to-morrow
night, if I never go again!”
“Why, Rose Lincoln, are you crazy?” asked Jenny.
“You haven't been in the street yet, and how do you expect to
go to-morrow night? Mother wouldnt let you, if she were
here.”
“Well, thank fortune, she and father both are in Southbridge;
and besides that, I'm a great deal better; so hand me
my dress.”
Jenny complied, and reclining on pillows scarcely whiter
than herself, Rose Lincoln examined and found fault with a
thin gossamer fabric, little suited for any one to wear in a
cold, wintry night, and much less for her.
“There, I knew it wasn't as wide as Ida's into an eighth
of an inch,” said she, measuring with her finger the expensive
lace. “I'll have some new. Come, Jenny, suppose you
go down street and get it, for I'm bent upon going;” and the
thoughtless girl sprang lightly upon the floor, and chasséd
was.
Jenny knew that further expostulation from her was useless,
but she refused to go for the lace, and Sarah, the servant
girl, was sent with a note from Rose saying she wanted a nice
article, 8 or 10 dollars per yard.
“I don't believe father would like to have you make such
a bill,” said Jenny when Sarah was gone. “Mother didn't
dare tell him about your new dress, for he told her she mustn't
get any thing charged, and he said, too, something about
hard times. Perhaps he's going to fail. Wouldn't it be
dreadful?”
If Rose heard the last part of this sentence she did not
heed it, for to her the idea of her father's failing was preposterous.
When the dinner bell rang she threw on a heavy
shawl, and descending to the dining parlor, remained below
stairs all the afternoon, forcing back her cough, and chatting
merrily with a group of young girls who had called to see
her, and congratulated her upon her improved health, for excitement
lent a deep glow to her cheek, which would easily
deceive the inexperienced. The next day, owing to overexertion,
Rose's temples were throbbing with pain, and more
than once, she half determined not to go; but her passion
for society was strong, and Mrs. Russell's party had so long
been anticipated and talked about that she felt she would
not miss it for the world, and as she had confessed to Jenny,
there was also a mean curiosity to see how Mary Howard
would appear at a fashionable party.
“Saturate my handkerchief with cologne, and put the
vinaigrette where I can reach it while you arrange my hair,”
said she to Sarah, who at the usual hour came up to dress
her young mistress for the evening. “There, be careful and
bring me the glass and let me see if I do look like a ghost.”
“Pale, delicate folks is always more interesting than red,
hearty ones,” said the flattering servant, as she obeyed.
“Mercy, how white I am!” exclaimed Rose, glancing at the
ashen face reflected by the mirror. “Rub my cheeks with
cologne, Sarah, and see if that won't bring some color into
them. There, that'll do. Now hand me my dress. Oh,
isn't it beautiful?” she continued, as she threw aside the
thickly wadded double gown, and assumed a light, thin dress,
which fell in soft, fleecy folds around her slight figure.
“Faith, an ye looks sweet, God bless you,” said Sarah as
she clasped the diamond bracelet around the snowy arms,
and fastened the costly ornaments in the delicate ears.
When her toilet was completed, Rose stood up before the
long mirror, and a glow of pride came to her cheeks, as she
saw how lovely she really was.
“You's enough sight handsomer than Miss Jenny,” whispered
Sarah, as the door opened and Jenny appeared, more
simply arrayed than her sister, but looking as fresh and
blooming as a rose-bud.
“How beautiful you are, Rosa,” said she, “only it makes
me shiver to look at your neck and arms. You'll wear
your woollen sack, besides your shawl and cloak, won't you?”
“Nonsense, I'm not going to be bundled up this way, for
don't you see it musses the lace,” said Rose, refusing the
warm sack which Jenny brought her.
A rap at the door and a call from Henry that the carriage
was waiting, ended the conversation, and throwing on
their cloaks and hoods, the girls descended to the hall, where
with unusual tenderness Henry caught up his invalid sister,
and drawing her veil closely over her face, carried her to the
covered sleigh, so that her feet might not touch the icy walk.
“What! Rose Lincoln here!” exclaimed half a dozen
voices as Rose bounded into the dressing-room.
“Yes, Rose Lincoln is here,” she replied, gayly divesting
herself of her wrapping. “I'm not going to die just yet,
I guess, neither am I going to be housed up all winter. The
fresh air has done me good already,—see,” and she pointed
to a bright round spot which burnt upon her cheeks.
A young girl, whose family had one by one fallen victims
to the great New England plague, consumption, shuddered
and turned way, for to her eye the glow which Rose called
health was but the hectic bloom of death.
“How beautiful she is!” said more than one, as with her
accustomed grace Rose entered the brilliant drawing-room.
And truly Rose was beautiful that night, but like the gorgeous
foliage of the fading autumn 'twas the beauty of decay,
for death was written on her blue-veined brow, and lurked
amid the roses on her cheek. But little thought she of that,
as with smiling lip and beaming eye she received the homage
of the admiring throng.
“Upon my word, you do look very well,” said Henry,
coming for a moment to his sister's side. “Why, you'd be
the star of the evening, were it not for ma belle Ella. See,
there she comes,” and he pointed to a group just entering
the room.
An expression of contempt curled Rose's lip as she
glanced at Ella, and thought of being outshone by her dollish
figure and face. “I'm in no danger, unless a more formidable
rival than that silly thing appears,” thought she; and
she drew up her slender form with a more queenly grace, and
bowed somewhat haughtily to Ella, who came up to greet
her. There was a world of affection in Ella's soft hazel
eyes, as they looked eagerly up to Henry, who for the sake
of torturing the young girl feigned not to see her, until she
he said, with the utmost nonchalance, “Why, Ella, are you
here? I was watching so anxiously for your sister that I did
not notice your entrance.”
Ella had dressed herself for the party with more than
usual care, and as she smoothed down the folds of her delicate
pink silk, and shook back her long glossy curls, she thought,
“He cannot think Mary handsomer than I am to-night;” and
now when the first remark he addressed to her was concerning
her sister, she replied rather pettishly, “I believe you
are always thinking about Mary.”
“Now, don't be jealous,” returned Henry, “I only wish
to see the contrast between you.”
Ella fancied that the preference would of course be in
her favor, and casting aside all unpleasant feelings, she exerted
herself to the utmost to keep Henry at her side, asking
him numberless questions, and suddenly recollecting something
which she wished to tell him, if he made a movement
towards leaving her.
“Confound it. How tight she sticks to a fellow,”
thought he, “but I'll get away from her yet.”
Just then Ida and Mary were announced. Both Aunt
Martha and Ida had taken great pains to have their young
friend becomingly dressed, and she looked unusually well in
the embroidered muslin skirt, satin waist, and blonde bertha
which Aunt Martha had insisted upon her accepting as a
present. The rich silken braids of her luxuriant hair were
confined at the back of her finely formed head with a golden
arrow, which, with the exception of a plain band of gold on
each wrist, was the only ornament she wore. This was her
first introduction to the gay world, but so keen was her perception
of what was polite and proper, that none would ever
have suspected it; and yet there was about her something so
ere many were struck with her easy, unaffected manners, so
different from the practised airs of the city belles.
Ella watched her narrowly, whispering aside to Henry,
how sorry she felt for poor Mary, she was so verdant, and
really hoping she wouldn't do any thing very awkward, for
'twould mortify her to death! “but, look,” she added, “and
see how many people Ida is introducing her to.”
“Of course, why shouldn't she?” asked Henry; and Ella
replied, “I don't know,—it seems so funny to see Mary here,
don't it?”
Before Henry could answer, a young man of his acquaintance
touched his shoulder, saying, “Lincoln, who is that
splendid-looking girl with Miss Selden? I haven't seen a
finer face in Boston, for many a day.”
“That? Oh, that's Miss Howard, from Chicopee. An
intimate friend of our family. Allow me the pleasure of introducing
you,” and Henry walked away, leaving Ella to the
tender mercies of Rose, who, as one after another quitted
her side, and went over to the “enemy,” grew very angry,
wondering if folks were bewitched, and hoping Ida Selden
“felt better, now that she'd made so many notice her protegée.”
Later in the evening, William Bender came, and immediately
Jenny began to talk to him of Mary, and the impression
she was making. Placing her hand familiarly upon his
arm, as though that were its natural resting place, she led
him towards a group, of which Mary seemed the centre of
attraction. Near her stood Henry Lincoln, bending so low
as to threaten serious injury to his fashionable pants, and redoubling
his flattering compliments, in proportion as Mary
grew colder, and more reserved in her manner towards him.
Silly and conceited as he was, he could not help noticing how
himself. But all in good time, thought he, glancing at Ella,
to see how she was affected by his desertion of her, and his
flirtation with her sister. She was standing a little apart
from any one, and with her elbow resting upon a marble
stand, her cheeks flushed, and her eyelashes moist with the
tears she dared not shed, she was watching him with feelings
in which more of real pain than jealousy was mingled,
for Ella was weak and simple-hearted, and loved Henry Lincoln
far better than such as he deserved to be loved.
“Of what are you thinking, Ella?” asked Rose, who,
finding herself nearly alone, felt willing to converse with almost
any one.
At the sound of her voice Ella looked up, and coming
quickly to her side, said, “It's so dull and lonesome here, I
wish I'd staid at home.”
In her heart Rose wished so too, but she was too proud
to acknowledge it, and feeling unusually kind towards Ella,
whose uneasiness she readily understood, she replied, “Oh, I
see you are jealous of Henry, but he's only trying to teaze
you, for he can't be interested in that awkward thing.”
“But he is. I 'most know he is,” returned Ella, with a
trembling of the voice she tried in vain to subdue; and then
fearing she could not longer restrain her emotion, she suddenly
broke away from Rose, and ran hastily up to the dressing-room.
Nothing of all this escaped Henry's quick eye, and as
sundry unpaid bills for wine, brandy, oyster suppers, and
livery, came looming up before his mind, he thought proper
to make some amends for his neglect. Accordingly when
Ella returned to the drawing-room, he offered her his arm,
asking “what made her eyes so red,” and slyly pressing her
weren't red.”
Meantime William Bender, having managed to drop
Jenny from his arm, had asked Mary to accompany him to a
small conservatory, which was separated from the reception
rooms by a long, and brilliantly lighted gallery. As they
stood together, admiring a rare exotic, William's manner
suddenly changed, and drawing Mary closer to his side, he
said distinctly, though hurriedly, “I notice, Mary, that you
seem embarrassed in my presence, and I have, therefore,
sought this opportunity to assure you that I shall not again
distress you by a declaration of love, which, if returned,
would now give me more pain than pleasure, for as I told
you at Mr. Selden's, I am changed in more respects than
one. It cost me a bitter struggle to give you up, but reason
and judgment finally conquered, and now I can calmly think
of you, as some time belonging to another, and with all a
brother's confidence, can tell you that I, too, love another,—
not as once I loved you, for that would be impossible but
with a calmer, more rational love.”
All this time Mary had not spoken, though the hand
which William had taken in his trembled like an imprisoned
bird; but when he came to speak of loving another, she involuntarily
raised his hand to her lips, exclaiming, “It's
Jenny, it's Jenny.”
“You have guessed rightly,” returned William, smiling at
the earnestness of her manner. “It is Jenny, though how
such a state of things ever came about, is more than I can
tell.”
Mary thought of the old saying, “Love begets love,”
but she said nothing, for just then Jenny herself joined them.
Looking first at William, then at Mary, and finally passing
her arm around the latter, she whispered, “I know he's told
Wisely thinking that his company could be dispensed
with, William walked away, leaving the two girls alone. In
her usual frank way, Jenny rattled on, telling Mary how
happy she was, and how funny it seemed to be engaged, and
how frightened she was when William asked her to marry
him.”
Fearing that they might be missed, they at last returned
to the parlor, where they found Ella seated at the piano, and
playing a very spirited polka. Henry, who boasted that he
“could wind her around his little finger,” had succeeded in
coaxing her into good humor, but not at all desiring her
company for the rest of the evening, he asked her to play, as
the easiest way to be rid of her. She played unusually
well, but when, at the close of the piece, she looked around
for commendation, from the one for whose ear alone she had
played, she saw him across the room, so wholly engrossed
with her sister that he probably did not even know when
the sound of the piano ceased.
Poor Ella; it was with the saddest heartache she had ever
known that she returned from a party which had promised
her so much pleasure, and which had given her so much pain.
Rose, too, was bitterly disappointed. One by one her old
admirers had left her for the society of the “pauper,” as she
secretly styled Mary, and more than once during the evening
had she heard the “beauty” and “grace” of her rival extolled
by those for whose opinion she cared the most; and
when, at one o'clock in the morning, she threw herself exhausted
upon the sofa, she declared “'twas the last party
she'd ever attend.”
Alas, for thee, Rosa, that declaration proved too true!
| CHAPTER XXV.
THE PARTY. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |