Rutledge Part 30

"Frances is busy, and you'll forget all about me when you get down there among the people."

"No, I won't, my darling," I said, stooping down, as she put her arms around my neck. "I will send Frances, and come up and see you in a little while myself. Be a good child, and go get in bed. Good night."

She laid her burning little cheek against mine for a moment; then submissively went in, and I turned to go downstairs. As I rose from my stooping att.i.tude, I looked in at the nursery door, which, in my hurry, I had forgotten was the gentlemen's dressing-room; and that, as well as the hall, was strongly lighted. Two gentlemen, just within the door, had been witnesses of the scene of distress just enacted, and apparently not inattentive ones either. They were evidently strangers to each other, and one was so to me; I never remembered to have seen him before. The other was Mr. Rutledge.

He held out his hand with a smile, as I started back in confusion on seeing them. I gave him mine with a desperate blush, and saying, hurriedly, that I must go down for Frances, without giving him time for another word, I ran down the stairs, and into the second hall, whence, picking my way as daintily as I could, I threaded the narrowness and darkness of the private staircase, that led to the butler's pantry.

There I found, as I had expected, an eager group of domestics gazing in through the windows into the parlors, watching the dancing with an interest only second to that of the dancers themselves. I singled out Frances from the group, and calling her to me, told her my errand, and she, with a submissive sigh for the lost festivities, followed me upstairs. I saw her safely at the door of Essie's room, then, turning, began to descend, this time more slowly, and to think seriously of the alarming matter of my entree. As I neared the parlors, the music, the odor of the flowers, the brilliant lights, the gay dresses, all crowded intoxicatingly upon my brain.

"I only knew 'twas fair and sweet, 'Twas wandering on enchanted ground, With dizzy brow and tottering feet."

It was not a ball-room, it was the fairy-land, the magic, the romance, of which I had dreamed; what adventures lay within it for me; what untold delirious joy should I experience when I had crossed the threshold. And how should I cross it? Alone and timid, how could I stem that flas.h.i.+ng, glittering crowd? And, among them all, whose protection should I seek, to whose side should I make my way? There was no time for hesitation; I was at the door; the gentleman whom I had seen upstairs, stood aside to let me pa.s.s; two or three ladies made way for me, and in a moment more I found myself at my aunt's side.

"You are very late," she said, in a low tone.

"I could not help it, Aunt Edith," I began; but a new arrival took up her attention, and I was left to make my own reflections upon the scene before me. It took a few minutes for me to come to my senses sufficiently to look about, and see things reasonably. It was some time before I recognized Josephine among the many strange faces. She was not dancing, but, with an admiring crowd around her, stood at the other end of the room, dispensing her coquettish smiles with tact and judgment.

Grace was dancing with a lazy sort of grace that became her. Her partner was a painfully shy, undeveloped college youth, of whom, I could see, she was making all manner of ridicule, judging from the contortions of merriment visible on the face of her _vis-a-vis_, Captain McGuffy, with whom she exchanged a whispered witticism every time they met. Phil, with a self-denying heroism I had not given him credit for, was doing the agreeable to every one, dancing with all the girls who didn't seem to be having a nice time, and doing the honors of the house to the gentlemen without a groan. An occasional smile from Josephine, and a few words of approval from Mrs. Churchill, seemed to be all the reward he asked.

Many of the faces about me were familiar. Grace had pointed them out to me in the street, and I had occasionally met them in the hall; but, of all the crowd, only one was an acquaintance, and that very far from a familiar one. Josephine's most intimate and particular confidante, Miss Ella Wynkar, gave me a look in pa.s.sing, that was not striking for its graciousness, and a little nod. I had seen her at dinner more than once, when she had dined with us, and gone to the opera under my aunt's chaperonage. I never could understand her intimacy with Josephine; I knew they were dying of jealousy of each other, and Josephine, for one, never omitted an opportunity of saying an ill-natured thing about her friend behind her friend's back; and her friend, I felt certain, was not any more scrupulous; notwithstanding, they were the most loving and tender of companions, and continually seeking each other's society.

Josephine made visits with Ella, and Ella shopped with Josephine. Mrs.

Churchill took Ella to the opera, and Mrs. Wynkar chaperoned Josephine to matinees and weddings. Ella was the whitest of blondes, and neither intellectually nor physically at all in Josephine's style; she had not a pretty or expressive feature in her face; a general look of whiteness and sweetness about her, being her sole attraction. She was very much below Josephine in intelligence, but was not dest.i.tute of a certain shrewdness of her own, which, with some little exertion, kept her up to her friend's level. She lacked Josephine's nice French tact and polish, and was very American and very New York in her rather "loud" style, and very high-colored mode of expressing herself. Josephine must have an intimate friend, however, and so, I suppose, the most advantageous and proper one was selected. Such coalitions are recognized in society, whereunto, of course, people must conform.

Ella, as I have said, was not at the pains to recognize me very affably on the evening of the party. I bit my lip and didn't mind, but somehow the glamor of romance was beginning to recede from the scene, and I was beginning only to see a roomful of people, strange to me, and none too affectionate to each other, flirting, dancing, quizzing each other; dowagers in velvet watching daughters in tarletan, young beaux elbowing old beaux, and every man showing himself unmistakably for himself. At first, it amused me to watch the people and their ways, but soon, like Essie and her sleigh-ride, I began to feel as if it would be very pleasant to have somebody to talk to, and be entertained by, as the other young ladies had. I felt hopelessly frightened, and shrunk as far as possible into the corner behind my aunt, whenever I caught any one's eye; which wasn't often, however, for every one seemed too busy with themselves and their partners, or companions, to notice me. Grace, pa.s.sing near me with a young collegian or two, whispered, "Are you having a stupid time?" and the truth that I was having just such a time, made the blood rush to my cheeks. My aunt turned to me and said:

"Why are you so quiet? Go and amuse yourself; you are at home, you know--talk to some one," and she turned away.

I was at home, yes, I knew that. As one of the young ladies of the house, I was of course ent.i.tled to be freed from some of the trammels that society imposes upon those of my age and s.e.x. I might with propriety go and talk to any young ladies who were disengaged and silent; but I really felt no inclination to avail myself of this privilege. Every one seemed engaged but me; no one noticed me, and I retreated further into the corner than before. It was very kind in my aunt to tell me to go and amuse myself. I wondered if she had contented herself with giving such a kind permission to Josephine on the night of her first party, when she was new to society, and strange and partner-less in it?

"This is society, then," I said to myself. "Mr. Rutledge needn't have warned me so against it. I do not see much danger of my loving it too well. It isn't any too pleasant to be alone and unattended to; it is rather bitter to feel that every one who looks at me must think, 'what a dull time that girl is having!' and wonder why I know no one."

It _was_ bitter enough, and for a while I longed to get out of it all, and steal upstairs, and be by myself, but I knew for the present that was hopeless, so I did the wisest thing I could have done, viz., set to work to reason myself out of my discontent and folly, and tried the "dodge" recommended in the old Greek comedy, that is, "being revenged on fortune by becoming a philosopher." And a philosopher, in white muslin and coral, then and there I became; and in ten minutes, the pettishness had all vanished from my heart, and, _par consequent_, from my face, and I was myself again.

This was a strange termination of all my day-dreams; a strange entree into the world; but no doubt it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Had I not promised to renounce it, and had it not been very wrong for me to have gone on hoping to reap some pleasure from it, notwithstanding? Was not this the kindest way to bring to my remembrance the vow and promise that I had so nearly forgotten. Was it not better for me to remember at the outset, that it and I were never to be in league, never to be other than enemies? That if "there was no way but this," this was not so very hard and cruel a way? Poor Frances upstairs, with her swollen eyes and wan face, had doubtless a harder yoke to bear in her youth than I had, and so, with a hundred other swollen-eyed and wan-faced girls whom I daily met in the streets. "Let's think on our marcies," I mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, quoting with a half smile, the words of old "Aunt Chloe" to her husband on their cruel parting. Which, by the way, is the finest pa.s.sage in all that strange story of "Uncle Tom;" a pa.s.sage unalloyed by affectation, exaggeration or false sentiment--simple, great, and heroic--worth twenty little Eva's dying speeches, and unnatural angelhood.

After the lapse of an hour, I thought I might be allowed to keep my promise to Essie, so I stole quietly out of the gay crowd, and went up to my room. Esther had gone to sleep, and Frances, startled from an att.i.tude of weeping, obeyed my permission to go down and watch the dancing for half an hour, while I should relieve guard and take care of the child, whose burning temples and restless moaning made me certain that it was not right to leave her alone. She did not wake up, however, during my vigil, and Frances came back very punctually. I kissed the little sleeper again, and with a very much sobered fancy, descended to the parlors. Mr. Rutledge stood at the foot of the stairs, and joined me as I reached the hall.

"Hasn't _la pet.i.te_ gone to sleep yet?" he asked, offering me his arm.

"Oh yes! some time ago."

"Then you prefer upstairs to downstairs, even on gala nights?" he inquired, with a smile.

"I don't know exactly," I answered; but at this moment, Phil made his appearance with the gentleman who had been at the dressing-room door when Essie had made her unexpected _debut_.

"Ah, here you are!" he exclaimed; "we have been hunting you high and low for a good half hour." And he presented, "Mr. Viennet."

The name, and his very slight foreign accent, a.s.sured me that this was the young Frenchman of whom I had heard so much from Grace and Josephine. He was at once "the best dancer," "the handsomest fellow,"

and "the cleverest man" in society, so when he bowed very low and asked me to dance, it was as if the planet Mercury had slid down the starry floor of heaven and demanded the honor of my hand. All I could do was to drop my eyes, blush very much, and a.s.sent.

Mr. Rutledge released me instantly, bowed and drew back. Mr. Viennet gave me his arm, and in a moment we were on the floor.

n.o.body that dances well but loves it. I danced well, and I loved it. Mr.

Viennet told me he knew _that_, the moment he looked at me, and as he seemed to take a wicked pleasure in saying such things, and making me blush, I soon regained my self-possession, and a certain degree of sauciness wherewith to parry these remarks. The captain was my vis-a-vis, and he whispered as we met:

"Upon my soul, Miss Josephine'll have to look to her laurels; my friend Victor seems mightily _epris._"

"Is the captain asking you to dance?" demanded Mr. Viennet.

"Remember, mademoiselle, you are engaged to me for the next."

The next dance proved a polka. I had half resolved never to dance anything but quadrilles; I had not thought much about the matter, but I had an indefinite sort of idea that some people condemned polkas and waltzes, and that it would be better not to indulge in them. But I had made no resolution strong enough to resist my partner's persuasions, and that fine floor, and the magic of the music. Before I knew it, I was flying down the room with Mr. Viennet, and having once tasted of that delirious pleasure, there was no putting the cup from my lips. One dance merged into another, polka, redowa, waltz, succeeded each other in intoxicating rapidity; a turn in the hall, or an ice in the library, being the only rest between. It did not take one whit from my pleasure, rather added extremely thereunto, that a face I knew too well, but sterner and colder than I had ever seen it, was watching me with marked disapproval. I avoided meeting his eye as I floated past him; I never laughed so gaily or danced so well as when I knew we were near him; my handsome partner owed half the smiles I gave him, to the fact of that stern face. I had been unnaturally depressed too long not to be unnaturally excited now. I was all my school-days' self again, with an under-current of something stronger and deeper, and more dangerous.

"You don't look like the same girl. How you do love to dance!" said Phil, in a low tone, as he brought up some one else to introduce.

"Victor, my fine fellow, you must come and talk with somebody else. Mrs.

Churchill says you shall not dance with her niece again. Go and make your peace with her."

"_De tout mon coeur_," he returned. "And I will release mademoiselle for this dance; but of course she remembers that she has promised me the next."

I laughed at this bold invention, as I went off with my new partner; but Mr. Viennet claimed me resolutely at the end of the quadrille, and though there was no lack of partners now, still he continued to be the prominent one, _malgre_ Josephine's black looks, and Aunt Edith's distant coldness. Not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, could bring me back to where I had stood before I knew my power. I was dizzy with my triumph yet; it was no time to talk to me of moderation. I had just begun to feel that there was no reason why I should not enjoy myself as other girls enjoyed themselves. I did not feel submissive toward those who had kept me down so long. I answered Josephine's sarcasm with a sarcasm as biting. I returned Grace's compliment with interest. To Ellerton Wynkar, who asked me to dance, I regretted, but was engaged for the rest of the evening, and sent him away with a hauteur that paid off all old scores. At supper, I held a miniature court at one end of the room, and not Josephine's self ever swayed a more despotic rule. And when "the German" began, no one ever led the German but Victor Viennet, and with no one else would he dance, so I was then and there initiated into the intricacies of that genteel game of romps.

As we paused in the first figure, I glanced at my silent mentor. He was just bidding my aunt good night, and left the room without a look toward the dancers. My interest in the game began to flag somewhat after that, but still it was dancing, and I loved that well enough never to tire.

The dance was ended, and the room nearly deserted, before my partner left me. As the door closed on the last guest, Josephine threw herself into an easy-chair, exclaiming:

"I'm tired to death! I thought they would never go."

"Tired! I could dance till noon," I cried. "It's a positive punishment to go to bed. Good night," and I ran upstairs.

It was one thing to go to bed, and another thing to go to sleep--one thing to shut my eyes, but quite another thing to shut out the pageantry of fancy that the darkness did not quench. Conjecture, hope, antic.i.p.ation, longing, made wild work in my brain that night. Everything was too new, and strange, and dazzling, to yield at once to the control of reason. The curtain had risen upon too brilliant a scene to fade from my imagination, even after it had fallen. New faces, s.n.a.t.c.hes of music, conversations, danced through my mind; but above all other sensations, a new sense of injustice and resentment made itself felt, and defiance took the place of the unquestioning submission I had rendered before.

This was the thorn in my new crown of roses that took away from it its simplicity, its unalloyed beauty, and, perhaps, its innocence.

CHAPTER XXI.

"Who pleasure follows pleasure slays; G.o.d's wrath upon himself he wreaks; But all delights rejoice his days Who takes with thanks, yet never seeks."

COVENTRY PATMORE.

Two days after this, I was surprised by the appearance on my plate, at breakfast, of two notes. The first proved to be an invitation for a party from a Mrs. Humphrey, cards for which Mrs. and Miss Churchill had received a week ago.

"Well!" exclaimed Josephine, unceremoniously, "I wonder what inspired Mrs. Humphrey to send you an invitation."

"It would be difficult to say," I returned, taking up the second.

"Certainly no suggestion from you."