Fashion and Famine Part 20

"I did not know--indeed, madam, I thought you liked music" said Florence, casting the ribbon from her neck, and addressing the old lady.

"Only when we are alone; then I love to hear you both sing and play, dear child; but William--Mr. Leicester's voice; it is that I do not like."

"Not like _his_ voice?" exclaimed Florence, turning her eyes upon him with a look that made Robert press his lips hard together--"not like that--oh, madam?"

"Well--well, madam, you shall not be annoyed by it again," said Leicester, with a slight shrug of their shoulders, "I forgot myself, that is all!"

The old lady bent her head and sat down, but her coming cast a restraint upon the little group, and though she attempted to open a conversation with Robert, he was too much pre-occupied for anything more than a few vague replies that were sadly out of place.

From the moment of the old lady's entrance, Leicester changed his whole demeanor. He joined in the efforts she was making to draw the youth out, and that with a degree of quiet gravity that seemed by its respect to win upon her favor. He took no further notice of Florence, and seemed unconscious that she was sitting near watching this change with anxious eyes and drooping spirits.

"I have," said Leicester, after a few common-place remarks, "I have just been proposing that the young gentleman should give our pretty guest here some drawing lessons during the season, always under your sanction, madam, of course."

The old lady cast a more searching glance at the youth than she had hitherto bestowed on him, then bending her eyes upon the floor, she seemed to ponder over the proposal that had been made. After this her keen glance was directed to Leicester; then she seemed once more lost in thought.

"Yes," she said, at length, looking full and hard at Leicester, "it will occupy her--it will be a benefit, perhaps to them both."

Leicester simply bent his head. He conquered even the expression of his face, that the keen eyes bent upon him might not detect the hidden reason which urged this proposal. That some motive of self interest was there, the old lady well knew, but she resolved to watch closer. His projects were not to be fathomed in a moment. She did not leave the room again, and her presence threw a constraint upon the group, which prompted the visitors to depart.

Florence rose as they prepared to go out. Her dark eyes were beseechingly turned upon Leicester. With a mute glance she sought to keep him a few minutes longer, though she had no courage to utter the wish. He took her soft, little hand gently in his, held it a moment, and went away, followed by Robert and the old lady, who accompanied her guests to the door.

Florence had crept into the window recess, and while her panting breath clouded the gla.s.s, gazed wistfully at these two dark shadows as they glided through the flower-garden. She was keenly disappointed; his visit, the one great joy for which she had so waited and watched, was over; and how had it pa.s.sed? With the keen, cold eyes of that old lady upon them--beneath the curious scrutiny of a stranger. Tears of vexation gathered in her eyes; she heard the old lady return, and tried to crush them back with a pressure of the silken lashes, shrinking still behind the cloud of lace that her discomposure might not be observed.

The old lady entered the room, and, believing it empty, sat down in a large easy-chair. She sighed profoundly, shading her face with one of the thin delicate hands, that still bore an impress of great beauty. Her eyes were thus shrouded, and, though she did not appear to be weeping, one deep sigh after another heaved the black neckerchief folded over her bosom. As these sighs abated, Florence saw that the old lady was sinking into a reverie so deep, that she fancied it possible to steal away, unnoticed, to her room. So, timidly creeping out from the drapery, that in its cloud-like softness fell back without a rustle, she moved toward the door. The old lady looked suddenly up, and the startled girl could see that the usual serious composure of her countenance was greatly disturbed.

"Is it you, my dear?" she said, in her usual kindly tones, "I thought you had gone up stairs."

Florence was startled by the suddenness of this address, and turned back, for there was something in the old lady's look that seemed to desire her stay.

"No," she said, "I was looking out upon--upon the night. It is very lovely!"

"Paradise was more lovely, and yet serpents crept among the flowers, even there!" said the old lady, thoughtfully.

A vivid blush came into Florence's pale cheek.

"I--I do not understand you," she said, in a faltering voice.

"No, I think not--I hope not," answered the lady, bending her eyes compa.s.sionately on the young girl, "come here, and sit by me."

Florence sat down upon the light ottoman which the old lady drew near her chair. The blushes, a moment before warm upon her cheeks, had burned themselves out. She felt herself growing calm and sad under the influence of those serious, but kind eyes.

"You love Mr. Leicester!" This was uttered quietly, and rather as an a.s.sertion, than from any desire for a reply. As she spoke, the old lady pressed her hand upon the coil of raven hair that bound that graceful head; the motion was almost a caress, and it went to the young creature's heart. "Has he ever said that he loved you?"

"Loved me, oh yes! a thousand times," cried the young creature, her eyes and her cheek kindling again, "else how could you know--how could any one guess how very, very much I think of him?"

"And how do you expect this to end?" questioned the old lady, while a deeper shade settled on her pale brow.

"End?" repeated Florence, and her face was bathed with blushes to the very temples; "I have never really thought of that--he loves me!"

"Have you never doubted that?" questioned the old lady, with a faint wave of the head.

"What, his love? I--I--how could any one possibly doubt?"

"And yet to-night--this very evening?"

"No--no, it was only disappointment--regret, the--the flurry of his sudden visit--not doubt--oh, not doubt of his love!"

"Has this man--has Leicester ever spoken to you of marriage? Have his professions of love ever taken this form?" persisted the old lady, becoming more and more earnest.

"Of marriage? yes--no--not in words."

"Not in words then?"

"No, I never thought of that before--but what then?"

"Then," said the old lady, impressively--"then he is one shade less a villain than I had feared!"

"Madam!" exclaimed the young girl, all pallid and gasping with anger and affright.

"My child," said the old lady, taking both those small, trembling hands in hers, "William Leicester will never marry you, nor any one."

"How do you know, madam? how can you know? Who are you that tells me this with so much authority?"

"I am his mother, poor child. G.o.d help me, I am his mother!"

The young girl sat gazing up into that aged face, so pale, so still, that her very quietude was more painful than a burst of pa.s.sion could have been.

"His mother!" broke from her parted lips. "It is his mother who calls him a villain!"

"Even so," said the old lady, with mournful intensity. "Look up, girl, and see what it costs a mother to say these things of an only son!"

Florence did look up, and when she saw the anguish upon that face usually so calm, her heart filled with tender pity, notwithstanding the tumult already there, and taking the old lady's hands in hers, she bent down and kissed them.

"If you are indeed his mother," she said, with a sort of fond anguish, "to-morrow you will unsay these bitter words--you are only angry with him now--something has gone wrong. You will not repeat such things of him to-morrow--for oh, they have made me wretched."

"I am cruel only that I may be kind!" said the old lady with mournful earnestness. "And now, dear child, let us talk no more, you are grieved, and I suffer more than you think."

With these words, the old lady arose and led her guest from the room.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. GRAY'S THANKSGIVING DINNER.

Oh, I love an old-fas.h.i.+oned thanksgiving, When the crops are all safe in the barn; When the chickens are plump with good living, And the wool is all spun into yarn.