Part 37 (1/2)

”Why not?” said Mistress Gainor, and they went up-stairs, where Nanny, delighted, opened the trunks and took out one by one the garments of a gayer world, long laid away unused. The maid in her red bandana head-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in bright colors.

The widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept her silent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to have an ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth.

Margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for her something like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own.

De Courval had eyes for the Pearl alone. Gainor Wynne, undisturbed by sentimental reflections, enjoyed the little business.

”Goodness, my dear, what brocade!” cried Miss Wynne. ”How fine you were, Mary! And a white satin, with lace and silver gimp.”

”It was my mother's wedding-gown,” said the widow.

”And for day wear this lutestring will fit you to a hair, Margaret; but the sleeves must be loose. And lace--what is it?” She held up a filmy fabric.

”I think I could tell.” And there, a little curious, having heard her son's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited, to Rene's surprise.

Miss Gainor greeted her in French I dare not venture upon, and this common interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenly bringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the one man stood by, with the unending wonder of the ignorant male, now, as it were, behind the scenes. He fell back and the women left him unnoticed.

”What is it, Madame?” asked Margaret.

”Oh, French point, child, and very beautiful.”

”And this other must be--”

”It is new to me,” cried Miss Wynne.

”Permit me,” said the vicomtesse. ”Venetian point, I think--quite priceless, Margaret, a wonder.” She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect.

”Is this my mother?” thought her son, with increase of wonder. He had seen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the more luxurious days and tastes of her youth.

”Does you remember this, missus?” said Nanny.

”A doll,” cried Gainor, ”and in Quaker dress! It will do for your children, Margaret.”

”No, it is not a child's doll,” said Mrs. Swanwick. ”Friends in London sent it to Marie Wynne, Hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last Quaker fas.h.i.+ons in London--a way they had. I had quite forgotten it.”

”And very pretty, quite charming,” said the vicomtesse.

”And stays, my dear, and a modesty fence,” cried Miss Wynne, holding them up. ”You will have to fatten, Pearl.”

Upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. He went down-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays with the fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a ma.s.s of black lace in her hand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect”]

”Spanish, my dear,” said Madame, with animation; ”quite a wonder. Oh, rare, very rare. Not quite fit for a young woman--a head veil.”

”Are they all mine, Mother?” cried Margaret.

”Yes, my child.”

”Then, Madame,” she said, with rising color and engaging frankness, ”may I not have the honor to offer thee the lace?”