‘Look, Molly, look! Here are bouquets for us! Long life to the givers!’
‘Who are they from?’ asked Molly, taking hold of one, and examining it with tender delight at its beauty.
‘Who from? Why, the two paragons of Hamleys, to be sure! Isn’t it a pretty attention?’
‘How kind of them!’ said Molly.
‘I’m sure it is Osborne who thought of it. He has been so much abroad, where it is such a common compliment to send bouquets to young ladies.’
‘I don’t see why you should think it is Osborne’s thought!’ said Molly, reddening a little. ‘Mr. Roger Hamley used to gather nosegays constantly for his mother, and sometimes for me.’
‘Well, never mind whose thought it was, or who gathered them; we’ve got the flowers, and that’s enough. Molly, I’m sure these red flowers will just match your coral necklace and bracelets,’ said Cynthia, pulling out some camellias, then a rare kind of flower.
‘Oh, please, don’t!’ exclaimed Molly. ‘Don’t you see how carefully the colours are arranged—they have taken such pains; please, don’t.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Cynthia, continuing to pull them out; ‘see, here are quite enough. I’ll make you a little coronet of them—sewn on black velvet, which will never be seen—just as they do in France!’
‘Oh, I am so sorry! It is quite spoilt,’ said Molly.
‘Never mind! I’ll take this spoilt bouquet; I can make it up again just as prettily as ever; and you shall have this, which has never been touched.’ Cynthia went on arranging the crimson buds and flowers to her taste. Molly said nothing, but kept watching Cynthia’s nimble fingers tying up the wreath.
‘There,’ said Cynthia, at last, ‘when that is sewn on black velvet, to keep the flowers from dying, you’ll see how pretty it will look. And there are enough red flowers in this untouched nosegay to carry out the idea!’
‘Thank you’ (very slowly). ‘But shan’t you mind having only the wrecks of the other?’
‘Not I; red flowers would not go with my pink dress.’
‘But—daresay they arranged each nosegay so carefully!’
‘Perhaps they did. But I never would allow sentiment to interfere with my choice of colours; and pink does tie one down. Now you, in white muslin, just tipped with crimson like a daisy, may wear anything.’
Cynthia took the utmost pains in dressing Molly, leaving the clever housemaid to her mother’s exclusive service. Mrs. Gibson was more anxious about her attire than was either of the girls; it had given her occasion for deep thought and not a few sighs. Her deliberation had ended in her wearing her pearl-grey satin wedding-gown, with a profusion of lace, and white and coloured lilacs. Cynthia was the one who took the affair most lightly. Molly looked upon the ceremony of dressing for a first ball as rather a serious ceremony ; certainly as an anxious proceeding. Cynthia was almost as anxious as herself; only Molly wanted her appearance to be correct and unnoticed; and Cynthia was desirous of setting off Molly’s rather peculiar charms—her cream-coloured skin, her profusion of curly black hair, her beautiful long-shaped eyes, with their shy, loving expression. Cynthia took up so much time in dressing Molly to her mind, that she herself had to perform her toilette in a hurry. Molly, ready dressed, sat on a low chair in Cynthia’s room, watching the pretty creature’s rapid movements, as she stood in her petticoat before the glass doing up her hair, with quick certainty of effect. At length, Molly heaved a long sigh, and said—
‘I should like to be pretty!’
‘Why, Molly,’ said Cynthia, turning round with an exclamation on the tip of her tongue; but when she caught the innocent, wistful look on Molly’s face, she instinctively checked what she was going to say, and, half-smiling to her own reflection in the glass, she said—‘The French girls would tell you, to believe that you were pretty would make you so.’
Molly paused before replying—
‘I suppose they would mean that if you knew you were pretty, you would never think about your looks; you would be so certain of being liked, and that it is caring——
‘Listen! that’s eight o’clock striking. Don’t trouble yourself with trying to interpret a French girl’s meaning, but help me on with my frock, there’s a dear one.’
The two girls were dressed, and standing over the fire waiting for the carriage in Cynthia’s room, when Maria (Betty’s successor) came hurrying into the room. Maria had been officiating as maid to Mrs. Gibson, but she had had intervals of leisure, in which she had rushed upstairs, and, under the pretence of offering her services, had seen the young ladies’ dresses, and the sight of so many nice clothes had sent her into a state of excitement which made her think nothing of rushing upstairs for the twentieth time, with a nosegay still more beautiful than the two previous ones.
‘Here, Miss Kirkpatrick! No, it’s not for you, Miss!’ as Molly, being nearer to the door, offered to take it and pass it to Cynthia. ‘It’s for Miss Kirkpatrick; and there’s a note for her besides!’
Cynthia said nothing, but took the note and the flowers. She held the note so that Molly could read it at the same time as she did.‘I send you some flowers; and you must allow me to claim the first dance after nine o’clock, before which time I fear I cannot arrive.‘C. P’
‘Who is it?’ asked Molly.
Cynthia looked extremely irritated, indignant, perplexed—what was it turned her cheek so pale, and made her eyes so full of fire?
‘It is Mr. Preston,’ said she, in answer to Molly. ‘I shall not dance with him; and here go his flowers ______’
Into the very middle of the embers, which she immediately stirred down upon the beautiful shining petals as if she wished to annihilate them as soon as possible. Her voice had never been raised; it was as sweet as usual; nor, though her movements were prompt enough, were they hasty or violent.
‘Oh!’ said Molly, ‘those beautiful flowers! We might have put them in water.’
‘No,’ said Cynthia; ‘it’s best to destroy them. We don’t want them; and I can’t bear to be reminded of that man.’
‘It was an impertinent, familiar note,’ said Molly. ‘What right had he to express himself in that way—no beginning, no end, and only initials! Did you know him well when you were at Ashcombe, Cynthia?’
‘Oh, don’t let us think any more about him,’ replied Cynthia. ‘It is quite enough to spoil any pleasure at the ball to think that he will be there. But I hope I shall get engaged before he comes, so that I can’t dance with him—and don’t you either!’
‘There! they are calling for us,’ exclaimed Molly, and with quick step, yet careful of their draperies, they made their way downstairs to the place where Mr. and Mrs. Gibson awaited them. Yes; Mr. Gibson was going—even if he had to leave them afterwards to attend to any professional call. And Molly suddenly began to admire her father as a handsome man, when she saw him now, in full evening attire. Mrs. Gibson, too—how pretty she was! In short, it was true that no better-looking a party than these four people entered the Hollingford ball-room that evening.
CHAPTER 26
A Charity Ball
At the present time there are few people at a public ball besides the dancers and their chaperons, or relations in some degree interested in them. But in the days when Molly and Cynthia were young—before railroads were, and before their consequences, the excursion trains,cb which take every one up to London nowadays, there to see their fill of gay crowds and fine dresses—to go to an annual charity ball, even though all thought of dancing had passed by years ago, and without any of the responsibilities of a chaperon, was a very allowable and favourite piece of dissipation to all the kindly old maids who thronged the country towns of England. They aired their old lace and their best dresses; they saw the aristocratic magnates of the country-side; they gossiped with their coevals, and speculated on the romances of the young around them in a curious yet friendly spirit. The Miss Brownings would have thought themselves sadly defraudedof the gayest event of the year, if anything had prevented their attending the charity ball, and Miss Browning would have been indignant, Miss Phoebe aggrieved, had they not been asked to Ashcombe and Coreham, by friends at each place, who had, like them, gone through the dancing-stage of life some five-and-twenty years before, but who liked still to haunt the scenes of their former enjoyment, and see a younger generation dance on, ‘regardless of their doom.’ They had come in one of the two sedan-chairs that yet lingered in use at Hollingford; such a night as this brought a regular harvest of gains to the two old men who, in what was called the ‘town’s hvery,’ trotted backwards and forwards with their many loads of ladies and finery. There were some postchaises, and some flys, but after mature deliberation Miss Browning had decided to keep to the more comfortable custom of the sedan-chair; ‘which,’ as she said to Miss Piper, one of her visitors, ‘came into the parlour, and got full of the warm air, and nipped you up, and carried you tight and cosy into another warm room, where you could walk out without having to show your legs by going up steps, or down steps.’ Of course only one could go at a time; but here again a little of Miss Browning’s good management arranged everything so very nicely, as Miss Hornblower (their other visitor) remarked. She went first, and remained in the warm cloak-room until her hostess followed; and then the two ladies went arm-in-arm into the ball-room, finding out convenient seats whence they could watch the arrivals and speak to their passing friends, until Miss Phoebe and Miss Piper entered, and came to take possession of the seats reserved for them by Miss Browning’s care. These two younger ladies came in, also arm-in-arm, but with a certain timid flurry in look and movement very different from the composed dignity of their seniors (by two or three years). When all four were once more assembled together, they took breath, and began to converse.