Mary considered a moment with blank face, then cleared it rapidly, and said, though with some little effort:
“Oh, yes, mamma dear! the one I wore last year will do quite well.”
“Could we get it altered?” anxiously suggested Mrs. Pembroke.
“It will do quite well, mamma,” said Mary; “to have it altered will be nearly as expensive as getting a new one. I do not mind it in the least.”
So it was that when Mary sat in her little room, pondering over life and its difficulties, her last year’s dress lay on the bed. There was a nice little fire, an unusual luxury, burning in the grate, for her mother, guessing, but not interfering with, the struggle going on within her, had thought she might like to be alone, and had ordered it early.
It had been a pretty dress, but the trimmings were last year’s trimmings, so were the sleeves, and that which had been snow-white last year looked rather yellow now as it lay, reminding her of pleasant dances when he, who must be very dear no more, was by her side, listening for her voice above all others.
“I must go down,” said Mary, wearily, and she went down to the drawing-room, where she found Isabel and her mother discussing the merits of a beautiful set of pearls which the former intended to wear with a superb white lace dress over a pink satin petticoat.
Mary came behind them in the gentle dignity of a heart true to itself, and admired the pearls, as who would not.
The door opened, and Mr. Sandford was announced. He entered, carrying two bouquets, one of white and exquisitely scented flowers, and the other composed of different colours, and evidently inferior to the other in beauty. With a courtly little speech of ordinary flattery he handed the white flowers to Miss Vaughan, and with a kind gentlemanly manner he offered the others to Mary.
She took them with a gentle grace, quietly thanking him, while Isabella overwhelmed him with thanks and praise.
“Mary,” she said, “let me see if I do not like yours best,—I suppose I may have which I like best, Mr. Sandford?”
“I daresay Miss Pembroke will not object to give you hers, if you prefer it,” he said, quietly; “but I think I have chosen the best for you.”
Here was an opportunity for Mary to say she did not care for either, but she only said:
“The white one will match your dress with its white ornaments, and it is much the prettiest.”
“Well, if it is the prettiest, I will keep it,” said Isabella, coquettishly; “and the red roses will do best with your old dress, dear, will they not?”
“Only a year old,” said Mary, smiling, for she saw her mamma was deeply hurt that the fact should be brought before Mr. Sandford’s notice, “and it is almost as good as new.”
“Fancy!” cried Isabella; “hear her, Mr. Sandford! she says the dress she wore at the last Chillingham ball is as good as new.”
“Why did you not have a new dress?” asked Mr. Sandford.
“Papa had other needs for his money this year,” said Mary, “and mamma thought my dress would do.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Isabella; “as if papa was not always making the same outcry. I tell him I must have money, and I always get what I want.”
“Perhaps your papa is richer than mine,” said Mary; “but he cannot be kinder or more thoughtful. I would not tease him for the world.”
“Your society is so very tempting,” said Arthur Sandford, “that I almost forget I have business to do. Miss Vaughan, will you hold yourself disengaged for the first quadrille to-night?”
“Well, as a reward for such a pretty present, I think I must.”
“Good-by, ladies,” he said, and hurried off.
“How beautifully you do your back hair, Mary,” said Isabella, almost querulously; “I wish I could do mine as well.”
“Shall I do yours to-night?” said Mary.
“Oh, I wish you would—with those beautiful plaits, and my black hair would look so nice with them, black hair always dresses so much better than brown.”
“You must go up early then, my dears,” said Mrs. Pembroke, for anxiously she saw Mary’s pale cheek. “Mary does not look very well to-night, and I should not like her to look ill at the ball.”
Quickly and lovingly Mary looked up—she knew her mother felt for her, and was the more grateful that she did not force her into any confidence, which under the circumstances would be painful to both.
No sister decking another with careful hands could have braided Isabella’s hair more tenderly than did Mary that night. Step by step she walked in faith, not caring to question of to-morrow. Arthur Sandford loved her not, but she must not be unkind or impatient to her he did love, or judge her with over careful judgment.
The evening came, and when all the aristocracy of Chillingham and its neighbourhood assembled in the large dancing-room at the Angel Inn, Mary dressed in her last year’s dress—which, by the bye, no one remembered, except a few who secretly respected her for wearing it—followed Mr. Sandford and her elegantly dressed cousin into the room, leaning on her father’s arm. Her father was not so indifferent to what was going on as he might seem, but deemed her happiness so precious to him, and his dear child so far above all price, that if a word could have recalled Arthur against his will, he would not have uttered it.
The tide had set against Mary that night, however: many who had looked upon her as almost affianced to Arthur pitied her, but wished to be merry, and therefore did not ask her to dance, and as the gay music rattled on, she sat yet by her mother’s side, although her gentle looks and patient smile might have attracted any one.
Arthur was dancing with Isabella, and flirting—ah, could such attention be courtship?
Presently they came to her—Isabella laughing,