Part 16 (1/2)
”I made pa give me a new dress for it,” continued Bell, leaning forward to pick off the biggest grapes from a bunch on the table. ”I mean to look just too-too. Mr. De Forest is going to row me up. I don't know exactly how I made him ask me, but I did. It's such a triumph to get him away from Miss Vernor for once, though I suspect I'll have to pay for it by doing more than half the rowing myself. I don't suppose he would exert his precious self to pull an oar more than five minutes at a time. Amy tried her best to get Mr. Halloway, and so did the Dexters. The way those girls run after him is a caution even to me; but they didn't get him.
He's monstrously clever in keeping out of people's clutches. I gave him up long ago as a bad job. Well, good-by, Phebe. Awfully sorry you can't go. Everybody'll be there, and it's to be the biggest lark out.”
During the few days that intervened before d.i.c.k's birthday, little else was talked of anywhere than Mr. Hardcastle's party, which was never spoken of, by the way, as Mrs. Hardcastle's party, though upon that good lady devolved the onus of the weighty preparations. It seemed purely Mr.
Hardcastle's affair, just as every thing did in which he was in any way concerned. Impromptu meetings were held at every house in turn to discuss the coming event, and the latest bits of information regarding it were retailed with embellishments proportionate to the imagination of the accidental narrator. Not a soul in Joppa but knew every proposed feature of the entertainment better than the hosts themselves. The old people said it would be damp and rheumatic and would certainly be the death of them. The young people said it would be divine, and quite worth dying for. The people who were neither old nor young said n.o.body could tell how it would be till after it was over, and they felt it their duty to go to look after the others. The day came, brilliantly clear and soft and warm: such a day, in short, as Mr. Hardcastle had felt to be his due, and had expected of the elements all along as the one token of regard in their power to accord him, and he accepted his friends' congratulations upon it with a grave bow which seemed to say: ”I ordered it so. Pray, did you suppose I had forgotten to attend to the weather?” The sun set in a cloudless heaven; the evening star hung quivering over the green-topped hills; the twilight dropped noiseless and fragrant over earth and water, and the long-dreamed-of moment had arrived at last.
”Just let me have one more look at you, Gerald, before you start,” said Phebe, wistfully. ”Oh, how beautiful you look! n.o.body's dresses ever fit like yours, and that great dark-red hat and feather,--I thought I should not like it,--but it makes a perfect picture of you.”
”For pity's sake do stop!” begged Gerald. ”You know of all things I hate compliments. Where's that boy Olly?”
”He's coming to me later. I promised to make up to him for his not going to the party, poor little fellow.”
”Phebe, dear,” said Gerald, suddenly stooping to give her one of her rare kisses, ”I cannot bear to leave you all alone so. That miserable Miss Lydia and Olly aren't any sort of company. Let me stay with you. I had a great deal rather.”
”Oh, no, no, no!” cried Phebe, almost pus.h.i.+ng her toward the door. ”I don't mind a bit being left, and I wouldn't have you stay for anything.
How lovely of you to propose it! You are an angel, Gerald, even though you don't like being told so, Good-by. And--Gerald,”--she had followed her friend out into the hall, and stood leaning against the banisters,--”Gerald, dear, will you tell Mr. Halloway I am going down-stairs to-morrow?”
Halloway was to be Gerald's escort that evening, and stood waiting for her now in the hall below, and looking up at sound of Phebe's voice, he gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and immediately sprang up the stairs.
”Miss Phebe!” he said, taking both her hands in his. ”How glad I am to see you once more!”
Phebe shrank back from him with a little cry of dismay. Ah! when does ever any thing happen exactly as we plan it shall? She had pictured this meeting to herself over and over again during the long days of her seclusion,--just what he would say and what she would say, and just how she would dress on that first day when she went down-stairs. She meant to look so particularly nice on that first day! And now to be caught in her plain little gray flannel wrapper with its simple red tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, her hair all loose and mussy, and even her very oldest slippers on,--and with Gerald standing beside her in her rich, dainty, becoming attire as if to make the contrast all the more painfully striking! Poor little Cinderella Phebe! She looked up at Denham almost ready to cry, and said never a word.
”It has been such a long, long time!” he said, still holding her hands.
”I do not know how we have made out to spare you.”
”We shall not have to spare her much longer,” said Gerald. ”She is coming down-stairs to-morrow.”
And then Halloway dropped Phebe's hands, and turning to Gerald, held out a hand to her.
”Forgive me for not even noticing you, Miss Vernor. At first I could only see Miss Phebe.”
”Doesn't Gerald look nice?” asked Phebe, trying to choke back the uncomfortable lump rising so unreasonably in her throat. Halloway moved back a little and looked at Gerald, who stood fastening her long glove, utterly unconscious or unheedful of his scrutiny. The light in the niche at the head of the stairs threw its full glow over both her and Phebe.
”Yes,” he answered, quietly, after an imperceptible pause, and, as he turned back to Phebe, it seemed to her that his eyes glanced over her with a suddenly awakened consciousness of the wrapper and the tumbled hair and even of the little worn-out slippers. ”You look pale,” he said, kindly. ”I know I am wrong to keep you standing here just because it is so pleasant to see you again. And it is easier to say good-by, knowing I have only till to-morrow to wait now. _A demain_.”
”Good-night,” murmured Phebe, without looking up; ”good-night, Gerald.”
And then she turned quickly into her room, and closed the door, and stood stock-still behind it, holding her breath and listening intently till she heard the front door close upon them and the last echo of their footsteps die away in the street outside. Then she flung herself face downward upon the bed and cried miserably to herself out of sheer disappointment. Why did it have to be all so very, very different from her dream?
CHAPTER XI.
”MY SON d.i.c.k.”
Never had there been a more perfect night than that whereon d.i.c.k Hardcastle's coming of age was celebrated. Only enough wind stirred to toy softly with the gay little pennons streaming from the many boats winding their way to the rendezvous, and to throw dancing shadows of light upon the water from the torches at their prow. All along the banks of the lake, where high hills shut out the moonlight and bound the sh.o.r.e in an almost Egyptian darkness, rafts were stationed at intervals, blazing with colored lights. The sound of distant music floated far down upon the air, mingled with the swish of steady oars and laughter and happy voices as the occupants of the various boats called out merrily to each other across the water, or here and there broke into light-hearted song. Denham's boat glided stilly along through all this carnival-like revelry. Gerald was not in a mood for talking, and he felt little inclined to disturb her. It was companions.h.i.+p enough merely to glance at her ever and anon as she sat silently in the stern, the red ropes of the tiller drawn loosely around her slender waist like a silken girdle. He wondered idly what she was thinking of. Her broad hat threw too deep a shadow for him to see her face save when they neared one of the beacon rafts; then it was suddenly in brilliant illumination, and it was impossible not to watch for these moments of revelation, which lit her up to such rare beauty. He fancied he could almost see her thoughts as there flashed across her face some new, swift expression more speaking than words,--now a n.o.ble thought, he was sure; now an odd fancy, now a serious meditative mood, that held her every sense and faculty in thrall at once.
Through all her revery she never forgot her duty with the rudder, though she quite forgot her oarsman. She made no effort whatever toward his entertainment, and he felt sure that he could do no more toward hers than simply not to obtrude himself upon her. Were there many, he wondered, even among her chosen friends (in whose ranks he could not count himself), who would have enjoyed this silent sail with her so much as he?
They neared the destined spot all too soon for him, and Gerald at last roused herself.
”Are we there now? I had no idea it was so far.”