Marion Berkley Part 14

Now put on your dress; I want to see the whole effect before I get myself up."

"I don't think it is quite long enough, do you?" asked Marion, in a doubtful tone, as she shook out the folds of a rich Irish poplin, and threw it over her head; "it is so awfully hard to get a dress just the right length, when you are not old enough for a train, and too old to have it up to your knees! But there! how's that?" and she turned for her friend's final verdict.

"Lovely! just lovely! That is the prettiest shade of green I _ever_ saw; and _such_ a poplin! Where did you get it?"

"Uncle George brought it to me from Ireland; wasn't it good of him? But come, Florence, you really must hurry; I expect the tea-bell will ring any minute; it's a blessed thing Miss Stiefbach put tea off half an hour, or we should never have been dressed beforehand. O Flo! what a stunning dress! I never saw it before."

"_Do_ you like it? I didn't show it to you, for I was afraid you would think it was terribly n.i.g.g.e.ry; but I saw it in Chandler's window, and just walked in and bought it without saying boo to auntie, and it really is quite becoming to me, I'm so black."

"Becoming! I should think it was; I never saw you look so well in anything in your life. If the thing had been made for you it couldn't have suited your style better, and that Roman-gold jewelry is just right for it; in fact, as mademoiselle used to say, you are decidedly 'comme il faut.'"

The two girls certainly made a charming picture as they stood together, each interested and eager that the other should look her best.

Marion's beautiful hair fell slightly over her forehead in soft, curling waves, seeming even lighter and brighter than ever, and making the contrast with her dark eyes and eyebrows all the more marked. Her fair skin and glowing cheeks were set off to advantage by the rich green dress she wore, which, though simply trimmed and in keeping with her years, was very handsome.

It would have been hard to choose between the two, for each in her own style was certainly very lovely.

Florence's hair was drawn off from her low, broad forehead, as she always wore it, and she had nothing on it but a tiny gilt band, like a golden thread encircling her head; which, though she did not know it, was a perfect Clytie in contour. Her dress was a French poplin, the ground a rich blue, while all over it, at regular intervals, were embroidered singularly odd-shaped figures in the brightest-colored silks, giving it a peculiar, piquante appearance, and perfectly suiting the wearer's brunette beauty.

Perhaps I have given too much time and s.p.a.ce to dress; but parents and guardians may skip the above pa.s.sage, as it is written expressly for young girls, who, I know from personal experience, are very naturally interested in such matters.

The hour at last arrived. The grand-piano stood between the folding-doors which separated the two large parlors; in the back room was Miss Christine, surrounded by all the school, and in the front sat Miss Stiefbach and the invited guests, about twenty in number, all of them refined, cultivated persons, many of them quite severe musical critics.

Mr. Stein fluttered from one room to the other, trying hard to appear unconcerned; but I doubt if any of his pupils were in a greater state of excitement than he. It had been an undecided question whether or no he should stand by the piano and turn over the music; but the majority concluded that he would only make them more nervous, so he retired to the back of the front parlor, in a position where he could command a view of every note in the key-board.

M. Beranger made his appearance at an early hour, and declared his intention of sitting with Miss Christine, to help her preserve order.

She remonstrated with him, telling him he could hear the music to much better advantage in the other room; but nevertheless, when the company was all seated, and silence reigned supreme preparatory to the opening duet, M. Beranger quietly ensconced himself in the back parlor.

The fatal moment had at last arrived; the musicale was about to commence.

Marion sat through the first duet, trying hard not to think of herself, and to listen to the music; but she heard nothing but a confusion of sounds, the beating of her own heart sounding loudest of all. Florence's piece she did enjoy, and joined heartily in the applause which followed its 'finale,' and gave her friend's hand a congratulatory squeeze, as she came back to the seat beside her. But in a very few moments Alice Howard's song was ended, and as the murmurs of approbation died away, Marion took her seat at the piano.

To all outward appearance she was calm and self-possessed, and with a strong effort she summoned her almost indomitable will to her aid and struck the first chords clearly and decisively. Through the first two pages everything went well; but just as she was about to turn over her music, she missed one or two notes with her left hand. No one who was not perfectly familiar with every bar of the music would have noticed the omission; but to Marion it seemed as if she had made a terrible discord. Her forced composure left her, and all her nervousness came back again; she turned over hastily; the music slipped from her fingers and fell to the keys; she grasped it blindly with both hands, but the loose sheets fluttered to the floor, and confused, embarra.s.sed, and mortified almost beyond endurance; she stooped to pick them up, amid a silence which was unbroken, save by Miss Stiefbach, who said in cold, hard tones:--

"Miss Berkley, do not attempt to repeat your piece; such carelessness is unpardonable."

The hot blood rushed to Marion's face; then as suddenly receded, leaving it deathly white. She rose from the piano, and with a firm step and untrembling lips walked quietly to her seat. But although externally she was so calm as to appear almost indifferent, her mind was in a state of the wildest excitement. The air immediately about her seemed filled with a confusion of sounds, rus.h.i.+ng, whirring, whirling about her; while the dead silence of the room seemed to take palpable shape and weight, crus.h.i.+ng upon her, until she felt as if she must rush from the room to break through the unbearable stillness, or scream aloud to silence the imaginary sounds that were ringing in her ears.

But she did neither; she sat quietly in her seat, the object of stealthy but almost general scrutiny. Some of the girls looked at her with pitying, sympathizing eyes; those who did not like her exchanged glances of satisfaction; but all refrained from speaking to her, or otherwise showing their sympathy,--all but Florence; she slipped her hand into her friend's, and there it remained for the rest of the evening.

When Marion first struck the piano, and Georgie Graham saw what she was about to play, her rage and indignation knew no bounds; but when the music fell, and Marion stood mortified, and, as she thought, disgraced in the eyes of every one, her spirits rose to a most unparalleled height, and elated and radiant with satisfaction she took her seat at the piano, and played the Polonaise almost faultlessly; better than she had ever played it before.

With the exception of Marion, all the pupils acquitted themselves with a great deal of credit; but for a while her failure seemed to cast a slight shadow over the evening's enjoyment; for her beauty, and the heroic manner with which she had borne her disgrace, aggravated as it was by Miss Stiefbach's very unnecessary rebuke, had won for her the admiration of all the guests, most of whom were entire strangers to her.

After the close of the musicale, as pupils and guests were mingling together, and the room was noisy with animated conversation, Miss Christine went up to Marion, who was standing in a retired corner of the room talking to M. Beranger, and taking her hand said:--

"Marion, now that we are apparently un.o.bserved I must tell you how sorry I was that Miss Stiefbach should have spoken so severely to you. I am sure she was not aware how unkind it seemed; she did not intend to hurt your feelings, and probably thought from your apparent calmness that you were really not at all nervous, and that dropping your music was nothing but carelessness and want of interest."

Marion made no reply, her lips seemed glued together, and Miss Christine continued:--

"I was surprised that Georgie should have played the Polonaise. I rarely speak of the faults of one girl to another, and perhaps I ought not now, but I must say, I did not think I had a scholar who would be so unkind as to choose a piece she knew one of her companions had chosen."

The rebuke intended for Georgie struck directly home to Marion. She had been struggling with herself ever since Miss Christine had stood there, knowing that she ought, before the evening was over, to tell her teacher the unworthy part she had acted; now every sense of honor and justice compelled her to do so. But directly beside her stood M. Beranger, and her pride rebelled at being again disgraced in his eyes, for his kindness and forbearance, ever since their first lesson, had won for him her sincere esteem and regard. The struggle was severe, but momentary, for raising her eyes to Miss Christine, she said:--

"It was a very contemptible thing, Miss Christine; nothing but an intense desire for revenge could have induced me to select a piece I knew Georgie had previously chosen."

"You, Marion!" exclaimed Miss Christine; nothing else, just that exclamation; but the tone of her voice cut Marion more deeply than any harsh rebuke could have done.

"Yes, Miss Christine, I chose it, knowing that Georgie had practised it on purpose to play it to-night. I thought as I was to play first I should be able to disconcert her. I am heartily ashamed of myself; my disgrace was nothing but what I deserved."

For a moment there was silence. Miss Christine was shocked to find Marion could have done such a thing. Sarcastic, haughty, disagreeable to her companions in many ways, she had known her to be, but mean never; she could not understand it.

If she had known the disgraceful part Georgie had really taken in the affair; if she had heard of the eaves-dropping of which she had been guilty in the school-room, to punish which had been quite as great an inducement for Marion's conduct as a desire for revenge, she would have felt very differently; but of that Marion said nothing. But Miss Christine was too kind-hearted, and understood her pupil too well to speak sternly to her; besides, she knew it must have cost Marion a severe struggle to exonerate Georgie at the expense of herself, and doubly so in the presence of M. Beranger. In fact, when the first shock of surprise had pa.s.sed off, she felt that the n.o.bleness of Marion's expiation had atoned for her fault, and she could not help thinking that there were many girls in the school who would have held their tongues, and been only too glad to thrust the blame on to one who was so intensely disagreeable to them.

These thoughts flashed through Miss Christine's mind in a moment, and holding out her hand, she said in her kindest tones;--

"My dear Marion, I am sure this is the last time you will ever do anything so unworthy of yourself."

Marion's only reply was a warm pressure of that dear hand, as she turned and left the room.

"Do you not judge Mlle. Berkley too hasteelie?" whispered M. Beranger.

"There is something behind all this, which you do not yet perceive. I feel verie sure that Mees Georgie do know more tan she do tell."

CHAPTER XII.

SARAH BROWN SPEAKS HER MIND.

"Now where do you suppose they came from, Marion? I don't know of any one round here who has a conservatory; they must have come from Springfield. Who could have sent them?" asked Sarah Brown.

"I'm sure I don't know; aren't they lovely?" replied Marion; "but here comes Miss Christine,--let's ask her. Miss Christine," she said, turning round quickly as her teacher entered the room, "who sent you these lovely flowers yesterday?"

Miss Christine started at the abrupt, point-blank question, and looked a trifle confused:--

"Why, really, Marion, I--that is,--M. Beranger sent them here; but, as the box had no address, I presume they were for the benefit of the whole school. I certainly did not intend to monopolize them."

"No, of course you didn't, you dear old Christian!" exclaimed Marion with the affectionate familiarity she often used towards her teacher; "of course you didn't; and as they were meant for all of us, you won't mind it a bit if I appropriate this little sprig of geranium, and do just as I've a mind to with it, now will you?"

"No, I don't think I could refuse that, although it does seem a pity to take it out of water. Why, Marion, what are you going to do with it?--put it in my hair! No, no, it's too pretty, and it will wither in such a little while; do take it out!"

"No, I shan't do any such a thing. You gave it to me to do just what I chose with it, and I _choose_ to have it in your hair; so you must not take it out."

"No, Miss Christine, don't!" exclaimed Sarah Brown. "You ought to keep it in, even if it's only to please Marion, for most girls would have stuck it in their own heads; but she never _says_ anything or _does_ anything like most girls."

"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" peremptorily replied Marion; "you don't know what you're talking about."