 | CHAPTER I.
THREE GIRLS. What can she do? |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THREE GIRLS.
IT was a very cold blustering day in early January,
and even brilliant thronged Broadway felt
the influence of winter's harshest frown. There
had been a heavy fall of snow which, though in
the main cleared from the sidewalks, lay in the
streets comparatively unsullied and unpacked.
Fitful gusts of the passing gale caught it up and
whirled it in every direction. From roof, ledges,
and window sills, miniature avalanches suddenly
descended on the startled pedestrians, and the air
was here and there loaded with falling flakes from
wild hurrying masses of clouds, the rear guard of
the storm that the biting northwest wind was
driving seaward.
It was early in the afternoon, and the great
thoroughfare was almost deserted. Few indeed
would be abroad for pleasure in such weather, and
the great tide of humanity that must flow up and
down this channel every working day of the year
under all skies, had not yet turned northward.
But surely this graceful figure coming up the
street with quick, elastic steps, has not the aspect
of one driven forth by grave business cares, nor in
the natural course of things would one expect so
young a lady to know much of life's burdens and
responsibilities. As she passes I am sure the
reader would not turn away from so pleasant a
vision, even if Broadway were presenting all its
numberless attractions, but at such a time would
make the most of the occasion, assured that nothing
so agreeable would greet his eyes again that
sombre day.
The fierce gusts make little impression on her
heavy, close-fitting velvet dress, and in her progress
against the wind she appears so trim and
taut that a sailor's eye would be captivated. She
bends her little turbaned head to the blast, and
her foot strikes the pavement with a decision that
suggests a naturally brave, resolute nature, and
gives abundant proof of vigor and health. A trimming
of silver fox fur caught and contrasted the
snow crystals against the black velvet of her dress,
in which the flakes catch and mingle, increasing
the sense of lightness and airiness which her
movements awaken, and were you seeking a fanciful
idealization of the spirit of the snow, you might
rest satisfied with the first character that appears
upon the scene of my story.
But on nearer view there was nothing spirit-like
or even spirituelle in her aspect, save that an extremely
transparent complexion was rendered positively
and the face was much too full and blooming
to suggest the shadowy and ethereal.
When near 21st street she entered a fruit store
and seemed in search of some delicacy for an invalid.
As her eye glanced around among the fragrant
tropical fruits that suggested lands in wide
contrast to the wintry scene without, she suddenly
uttered a low exclamation of delight, as she turned
from them to old friends, all the more welcome
because so unexpected and out of season. These
were nothing less than a dozen strawberries, in
dainty baskets, decked out, or more truly eked
out, with a few green leaves. Three or four baskets
constituted the fruiterer's entire stock, and
probably the entire supply for the metropolis of
America that day.
She had scarcely time to lift a basket and inhale
its delicious aroma, before the proprietor of
the store was in bowing attendance, quite as openly
admiring her carnation cheeks as she the ruby
fruit. The man's tongue was, however, more decorous
than his eyes, and to her question as to
price he replied,—
“Only two dollars a basket, Miss, and certainly
they are beauties for this season of the year. They
are all I could get and I don't believe there is another
strawberry in New York.”
“I will take them all,” was the brief, decisive
answer, and from a costly portmonnaie she threw
down the price, a proceeding which the man noted
the fair face as he made up the parcel with ostentatious
zeal. But his customer was unconscious, or
more truly, indifferent to his admiration, and seemed
much more interested in the samples of choice
fruit arranged on every side. From one to another
of these she flitted with the delicate sensuousness
of a butterfly, smelling them and touching them
lightly with the hand she had ungloved, (which was
as white as the snow without,) as if they had for
her a peculiar fascination.
“You seem very fond of fruit,” said the merchant,
his amour propre pleased by her evident interest
in his stock.
“I have ever had a passion for fine fruits and
flowers,” was the reply, spoken with that perfect
frankness characteristic of American girls. “No,
you need not send it; I prefer to take it with me.”
And with a slight smile, she passed out, leaving
the fruiterer chuckling over the thought that he
had probably had the pleasantest bit of trade of
any man on Broadway that dull day.
Plunging through the drifts, our nymph of the
snow resolutely crossed the street and passed down
to a flower store, but instead of buying a bouquet,
ordered several pots of budding and blooming
plants to be sent to her address. She then made
her way to Fifth Avenue and soon mounted a
broad flight of steps to one of its most stately
houses. The door yielded to her key, her thick
walking boots clattered for a moment on the marble
step as she tripped up the winding stair and pushed
open a rosewood door leading into the upper
hall.
“Mother, mother,” she exclaimed, “here is a
treat for you that will banish nerves, headache, and
horrors generally. See what I have found for you
out in the wintry snows. Now am I not a good
fairy for once?”
“O, Edith, child, not so boisterous, please,” responded
a querulous voice from a great easy chair
by the glowing grate, and a middle aged lady turned
a white, faded face towards her daughter.
“Forgive me, mother, but my tramp in the
January storm has made me feel rampantly well.
I wish you could go out and take a run every day
as I do. You would then look younger and prettier
than your daughters, as you used to.”
The invalid shivered and drew her shawl closer
around her, complaining,—
“I think you have brought the whole month
of January in with you. You really must show
more consideration, my dear, for if I should take
cold—” and the lady ended with a weary, suggestive
sigh.
In fact, Edith had entered the dim heavily-perfumed
room like a gust of wholesome air, her young
blood tingling and electric with exercise, and her
heart buoyant with the thought of the surprise and
pleasure she had in store for her mother. But the
manner in which she had been received had already
She therefore opened her bundle and set
out the little baskets before her mother very quietly.
The lady glanced at them for a moment and
then said, indifferently,—
“It is very good of you to think of me, my
dear; they look very pretty. I am sorry I cannot
eat them, but their acid would only increase my
dyspepsia. Those raised in winter must be very
sour. Oo; the thought of it sets my teeth on edge,”
and the poor, nervous creature shrank deeper into
her wrappings.
“I am real sorry, mother, I thought they
would be a great treat for you,” said Edith, quite
crestfallen. “Never mind; I got some flowers,
and they will be here soon.”
“Thank you, dear, but the doctor says they
are not healthy in a room—Oh, dear— that child!
what shall I do!”
The front door banged, there was a step on the
stairs, but not so light as Edith's had been, and a
moment later the door burst open, and “the child”
rushed in like a mild whirlwind, exclaiming,—
“Hurrah, hurrah, school to the shades. No
more teachers and tyrants for me,” and down went
an armful of books with a bang on the table.
“O, Zell,” cried Edith, “please be quiet, mother
has a headache.”
“There, there, your baby will kiss it all away,”
and the irrepressible young creature threw her
arms around the bundle that Mrs. Allen had made
ceased, the red pouting lips left the faintest tinge
of their own color on the faded cheeks of the
mother.
The lady endured the boisterous embrace with
a martyr-like expression. Zell was evidently a
privileged character, the spoiled pet of the household.
But a new voice was now heard that was
sharper than the “pet” was accustomed to.
“Zell, you are a perfect bear. One would think
you had learned your manners at a boys' boarding
school.”
Zell's great black eyes blazed for a moment towards
the speaker, who was a young lady reclining
on a lounge near the window, and who in appearance
must have been the counterpart of Mrs. Allen
herself as she had looked twenty-three years before.
In contrast with her sharp, annoyed tone, her
cheeks and eyes were wet with tears.
“What are you crying about?” was Zell's
brusque response. “Oh, I see, a novel. What a
ridiculous old thing you are. I never saw you
shed a tear over real trouble, and yet every few
days you are dissolved in brine over Adolph Moonshine's
agonies, and Seraphina's sentiment, which
any sensible person can see is caused by dyspepsia.
No such whipped syllabub for me, but real life.”
“And what does `real life' mean for you, I
would like to know, but eating, dressing, and flirting?”
was the acid retort.
“Though you call me `child,' I have lived long
and while you are about it you might as well add
drinking, is the `real life' of most of the ladies of
our set. Indeed, if my poor memory does not fail
me, I have seen you take a turn at these things myself
sufficiently often to make the sublime scorn of
your tone a little inconsistent.”
As these barbed arrows flew, the tears rapidly
exhaled from the hot cheeks of the young lady on
the sofa. Her elegant languor vanished, and she
started up; but Mrs. Allen now interfered, and in
tones harsh and high, very different from the previous
delicate murmurs, exclaimed,—
“Children, you drive me wild. Zell, leave the
room, and don't show yourself again till you can
behave yourself.”
Zell was now sobbing, partly in sorrow, and
partly in anger, but she let fly a few more Parthian
arrows over her shoulder as she passed out.
“This is a pretty way to treat one on their birthday.
I came home with heart as light as the snowflakes
around me, and now you have spoiled everything.
I don't know how it is, but I always have
a good time everywhere else, but there is something
in this house that often sets one's teeth on
edge,” and the door banged appropriately with a
spiteful emphasis as the last word was spoken.
“Poor child,” said Edith, “it is too bad that
she should be so dashed with cold water on her
birthday.”
“She isn't a child,” said the eldest sister, rising
“though she often acts like one, and a very bad
one too. Her birthday should remind her that if
she is ever to be a lady, it is time to commence,”
and the stately young lady passed coldly away.
Edith went to the window and looked dejectedly
out into the early gloom of the declining winter
day. Mrs. Allen sighed and looked more nervous
and uncomfortable than usual.
The upholsterer had done his part in that elegant
home. The feet sank into the carpets as in
moss. Luxurious chairs seemed to embrace the
form that sank into them. Everything was padded,
rounded, and softened, except tongues and
tempers. If wealth could remove the asperities
from these as from material things, it might well
be coveted. But this is beyond the upholsterer's
art, and Mrs. Allen knew little of the Divine art
that can wrap up words and deeds with a kindness
softer than eider-down.
“Mother's room,” instead of being a refuge and
favorite haunt of these three girls, was a place
where, as we have seen, their “teeth were set on
edge.”
Naturally they shunned the place, visiting the
invalid rather than living with her; their reluctant
feet impelled across the threshold by a sense of
duty rather than drawn by the cords of love. The
mother felt this in a vague, uncomfortable way,
for mother love was there, only it had seemingly
turned sour, and instead of attracting her children
to them and to her husband of their neglect.
He would sometimes laugh it off, sometimes
shrug his shoulders indifferently, and again harshly
chide the girls, according to his mood, for he varied
much in this respect. After being cool and wary
all day in Wall street, he took off the curb at
home. Therefore the variations that never could
be counted on. How he would be at dinner did
not depend on himself or any principle, but on
circumstances. In the main he was indulgent and
kind to them, though quick and passionate, brooking
no opposition; and the girls were really more
attached and found more pleasure in his society
than in their mother's. Zelica, the youngest, was
his special favorite, and he humored and petted
her at a ruinous rate, though often storming at
some of her follies.
Mrs. Allen saw this preference of her husband,
and was weak enough to feel and show jealousy.
But her complainings were ineffectual, for we can
no more scold people into loving us than nature
could make buds blossom by daily nipping them
with frost. And yet she made her children uncomfortable
by making them feel that it was unnatural
and wrong that they did not care more for
their mother. This was especially true of Edith,
who tried to satisfy her conscience, as we have seen,
by bringing costly presents and delicacies that
were seldom needed or appreciated.
Edith soon became so oppressed by her moth
that she sprang up, and pressing a remorseful kiss
on the white thin face, said,—
“I must dress for dinner, mamma; I will send
your maid,” and vanished also.
| CHAPTER I.
THREE GIRLS. What can she do? | |