Part 8 (1/2)
The above may serve as a specimen of Madeline's various exploits at the ball. After Juliet and her brother had got home, Edward stood for half an hour in the middle of the parlour-floor with his bed-candle in his hand, while he expostulated with his sister on her strange infatuation for her new friend; declaring that, with all her volatility and apparent frankness and good-humour, he had never known a girl more artful, selfish, and heartless than Madeline Malcolm.
Instead of returning the flowers and the necklace on the following morning, as she ought to have done, Madeline wore them in the evening to another ball; and finally when Mrs. Lansdowne sent for the flowers, they came home in a most deplorable state, soiled, crushed, and broken; so that they were no longer fit to ornament the vases, and some of them were entirely lost.
Madeline did not come in to see Juliet till she knew that she had quite recovered from her sore-throat; having, as she afterward told her, a perfect antipathy to a sick-room, and a mortal dislike to the dismals.
She forgot to return the necklace till Juliet, with many blushes, and much confusion, at last reminded her of it. ”Why,” said she, ”you seem very uneasy about that necklace. Between friends like us, every thing ought to be common.” Madeline, however, had never offered to lend Juliet the smallest article belonging to herself.
The next time Madeline came, she brought the necklace in her hand.
”Here,” said she ”is this most important affair; I took a fancy to wear it round my _head_ at Mrs. Linton's, and I can a.s.sure you I had a great deal of pulling and stretching to get it to clasp. Why did grandpapa give you such a short necklace? However, soon after I began to dance, snap went the thread, and down came all the pearls showering about the floor. How I laughed; but I set all the beaux in the cotillon to picking them up, and I suppose they found the most of them. You see I have brought you a handful. And now you can amuse yourself with stringing them again. Come now, don't look so like Ned.--How can you expect a wild creature as I am, to be careful of flowers, and beads, and all such trumpery? I dare say, you are now thinking that your sober Cecilia Selden would have returned the pearls 'in good order and well conditioned.' But I never allow any one to get angry with me: you know I am a privileged person. So now look agreeable, and smile immediately.
Smile, smile, I tell you.” Juliet _did_ smile, and Madeline throwing her arms round her neck, kissed her, exclaiming, as she patted her cheek, ”There's my own good baby. She always, at last, does as I bid her.”
The next day Juliet heard that the windows of Mr. Malcolm's house were all shut up; but she was not long in suspense as to the cause, for shortly after, Madeline came running in the back way, and said with a most afflicted countenance, ”O, Juliet, you may pity me now if you never did before. We have just heard from New Orleans of the death of aunt Medford, my father's only sister.”
_Juliet._ I am very sorry you have received such bad news.
_Madeline._ Oh! but the worst of it is, that it will prevent our going to the play to-night. We had engaged seats with the Rosemores, in a delightful box. We were going to see the Belle's Stratagem, with the masquerade, and the song, and the minuet, and the new French dancers. I would not have missed such an entertainment for a hundred dollars. How very provoking that the bad news did not arrive one day later. If it had not come till to-morrow I should not have cared, for then our charming evening at the theatre would have been over. And now, to think that instead of going to the play, I must stay at home and look at my father grieving for old aunt Medford. There now, Juliet, your face is again in the style of Ned's. Positively, if you are so particular, I shall cut your acquaintance. Those that I consider my friends must enter into all my ”whims and oddities,” and not expect me to act according to rule. I hate hypocrisy. Why should I pretend to grieve for aunt Medford when I have never seen her since I was six years old?
_Juliet._ But sympathy for your father--
_Madeline._ Why, where is the use of sympathy? When people are in grief, sympathy only makes them worse.
_Juliet._ If you yourself were in affliction, Madeline, you would find the sympathy of your family and friends very gratifying.
_Madeline._ Wait till _I am_ in affliction and then I will tell you.
”_Toujours gai_,” is my motto, and ”_vive la bagatelle_” for ever.
So saying, she danced out of the room, and went home; but in a short time she returned, looking very mysterious, and peeping in at the door to ascertain if Juliet was alone. ”Juliet, love,” said Madeline in a low voice, ”come with me into the back parlour, lest we should be interrupted. I have something of great consequence to tell you.”
As Madeline often dealt in mysteries, Juliet thought this new secret nothing more than usual, and accompanied her into the back parlour, where Madeline cautiously bolted the folding-doors and locked the side door. ”Now, Juliet,” said she in an under voice, ”I know I may depend on your secrecy.” ”Certainly you may,” replied Juliet.
_Madeline._ Well then, I must confide to you a plan that has just struck me. I cannot bear the idea of giving up the play to-night, and you know it is out of the question for any of the family to be _seen_ there.
_Juliet._ Of course none of you can go to the theatre when your house is shut up for the death of a near relation, and when Mr. Malcolm is in such deep affliction.
_Madeline._ It is certainly a great pity that aunt Medford died; particularly just at the time she did, as it will spoil all our gayety for the winter. No more plays, and b.a.l.l.s, and parties this season.
People ought always to die in the summer. But you know, dear Juliet, I have not seen my aunt Medford for ten years, and I really have forgotten all about her. So, how can you expect me to be inconsolable? And I cannot endure the thought of being disappointed in going to the theatre.
I might as well go, as stay at home and think about it all the evening.
_Juliet._ O no, indeed! Even if you have no personal regard for your aunt, respect for your father's feelings and a proper regard for decorum, ought to subdue your desire of going at this time to a place of public amus.e.m.e.nt.
_Madeline._ That is exactly such a speech as Cecilia Selden would make on a similar occasion. It is a pity ”the truly wise man” is not here.
How Neddy would applaud.
_Juliet._ But where is the use of talking in this manner. You know you _cannot_ go to the theatre.
_Madeline._ I know I _can_.
_Juliet._ How? In what way? I do not understand you.
_Madeline._ My going to the theatre to-night depends princ.i.p.ally on _you_.
_Juliet._ On me!