and holding up her beautiful lace dress which had a long rent in it.
“Miss Pembroke,” said Arthur (how happy and handsome he looked), “we need you—your cousin has torn her dress—do you mind coming with us to the cloak-room?”
It was said in that tone which implies that all the world must give way before one person.
“Certainly,” said Mary, and she rose and took his arm, that arm which used almost to belong to her, and accompanying them to the cloak-room, borrowed a needle and thread, and mended the dress as carefully as delicate lace could be mended in such a time, Arthur standing by and receiving all Isabella’s badinage with good-natured smiles. Oh, Mary felt, if she might but lie down and hide herself in the cloak-room until the ball was over, and that dreadful music silent. But Arthur’s eyes were on her, watching her curiously, she thought, and she drew on her gloves with a steady hand, and accompanied them back to her mother, with whom they left her.
She had not danced once—she had begged her mother not to seek for partners, and none had come of themselves—for that evening she had been a perfect “wall-flower,” but at the end of the evening Arthur himself came and asked her. She did not refuse—she had no pretence for doing so—she had no intention of showing pique, and she endeavoured to talk in the friendly style of old.
Once again his arm was about her waist,—could it be possible that it would soon be a crime to love him?
“I have a very great favour to ask you,” he said, when they were walking after the dance.
“Indeed!” she said, in some surprise; “I will grant it if I can.”
“My new house is finished,” he said, his voice slightly changing, “and Miss Vaughan is very anxious to see over it, if Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke and you will bring her to-morrow.”
Was it pique which induced her eager promise to do so if she could? Shall we condemn her very much if it were so?
“You will really persuade them, and come yourself?”
“Oh yes, if you particularly wish it.”
“I do particularly wish it. You cannot do me a greater favour,” he said with emphasis.
“Then you may depend on my persuading papa and mamma to come.”
“And have you no curiosity to see my new house?” he asked.
The question was too cruel, and tears sprang to her sweet brown eyes. Her feelings had been over-wrought, her strength outdone; but even then she did not try to hide her confusion by an angry word. She only said unaffectedly, “I hope you have made yourself very comfortable.”
“I want you to see,” he said, looking straight at her, and with a lurking smile in his blue eyes, “if you think it comfortable enough for a lady. I told Miss Vaughan I intended to be a bachelor all my life, but I do not think she believes me.”
But Mary was now on her guard, her rosy blushes had died away to a shadow-like paleness, and no words of his, however thoughtless, were capable of recalling them that night.
“Papa says you understand furnishing,” she answered; “and I suppose, as there has been so much talk of your new house, there is something worth looking at inside?”
“There will be,” said Arthur, smiling, “when all is completed.”
She took his words as they were probably meant, as referring to Isabella, and did not reply to them. Even on the part of her cousin she could not assume that he had proposed until he had actually come forward.
“I see mamma looking at me,” she said, “she is going, I suppose; let us go to her.”
No stiffness in her manner, no unkindness to the last.
He took her to Mrs. Pembroke, and resigning her, gave his arm to Isabella, whom he attended so assiduously to the cloak-room and the carriage, that he quite forgot to say good-night to the others.
Did Mary throw herself passionately down when that night she reached her little chamber? Did she say her heart would break, and, Jonah-like, require that she might die? Did she cast from her the love of parents, the blessings of a well-ordered home, the esteem of many friends, and call them valueless?
No! strengthened as she had asked to be, and lowly kneeling by the snowy coverlid, she hid her pretty head, as she softly breathed with fervent lips and hallowed thought, “Thy will be done.”
The next day at breakfast she made the request she had promised, and father and mother both respecting her wishes during her trial time, looked at Isabella’s blushing face and consented without comment. If it must be, the sooner over the better.
It was snowing heavily, but Isabella had a new set of sables, which she was anxious to display, she said; and as they cost fifty guineas, she laughingly observed, they would enhance her value in the eyes of Mr. Sandford.
No need of that, Mary thought; Isabella looked so charming, and in such high and mysterious spirits, as if some secret were upon her lips, and longing to be disclosed.
“What farce are we called upon to see performed?” asked Mr. Pembroke, not able wholly to withhold his sympathy from the happy Isabella.
Isabella only laughed and coloured. What better answer could she give? It was impossible to be very angry with her, though she had done them so much mischief, and had so much self-assurance and vanity, for she had a way of coming round those who blamed her most which was irresistible.
“I shall quite eclipse your old cloak, Mary,” she said, as she displayed herself in her sables.
“It is not an old cloak,” said Mary, trying to be light-hearted; “it was new this winter, and one of Chillingham’s newest fashions. Do not call it old,” she whispered, “for mamma is looking as if she ought to buy me some sables.”
“Well, are they not beautiful?” she said, and proceeded in her rambling self-loving way to give the whole history of their purchase.
Plain French merinos were then all the fashion,