Part 7 (1/2)
The Christmas festivities were to close on New Year's Eve with a grand ball at s.h.i.+rley.
It was to be a sumptuous affair with unlimited Chinese lanterns, handsome decorations, a magnificent supper, and a band from Was.h.i.+ngton.
The Smiths were going to requite the neighborhood's hospitality with the beating of drums, the clas.h.i.+ng of cymbals, and the flowing of champagne. This cordial friendly people had welcomed them kindly, and must have their courtesy returned in fitting style. Mrs. Smith suggested a simpler entertainment, fearing contrast, and any appearance of ostentation, but the general gauged his neighbors better. They were at once too well bred, and too self-satisfied for any idea of comparison to occur to them. They would eat his fruit-cake, or make him welcome to their corn-bread with the same hearty unconcern. His wealth, and their own poverty troubled them equally little; they were abstract facts with which hospitality had nothing to do. But in their way they were proud; having given their best without grudge or stint, they would expect his best in return, and the general was determined that they should have it. The risk of offense lay in simplicity, not grandeur.
Mrs. Royall Garnett came over to Lanarth a day or so before the grand event, bearing her family in her train, to a.s.sist in the weighty matter of a suitable toilet for Pocahontas. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a n.o.ble bearing, and great decision of character; and on most matters--notably those pertaining to the sacred mysteries of the wardrobe, her word with her family was law. Grace's taste was admitted to be perfect.
After an exhaustive discussion of the subject, at which both Berke and Royall ignorantly and gratuitously a.s.sisted, and were flouted for their pains, it was irrevocably decided that Pocahontas should appear in pure white unrelieved by a single dash of color.
”She looks cheap and common in any thing but dead black, or pure white, at a party,” p.r.o.nounced Grace with sisterly frankness, and of course that settled the matter, although Mrs. Mason did venture on the modest protest that it would look ”bride-like and unusual.”
”I want her to look unusual,” declared Grace; ”to make her so, is at present the object of my being. I shall hesitate at nothing short of cutting off her nose to secure that desirable result. To be admired, a woman must stand out distinctly from the throng; and I've set my heart on Princess's being the belle of the ball. Have you plenty of flowers, dear? As flowers are to be your sole garniture, you must have a profusion.
I can't tolerate skimpy, rubbis.h.i.+ng bouquets.”
”None at all, Grace,” confessed Pocahontas, ruefully, ”except a single calla. I cut my last white rosebuds and camellias to send to Nina Byrd Marion the very day before I heard about the s.h.i.+rley ball. Isn't it provoking?”
”Then somebody must get you some,” Grace responded promptly, pausing in her preparations, and regarding her sister with the air of an autocrat; ”if the men are not lost to all sense of honor and decency, you'll have plenty. Of course you _must_ have plenty. If only they will have sufficient intellect to select white ones! But they won't.
I'd better instruct Roy and Berkeley at once.”
On the morning of the ball, Berkeley entered his mother's room, where the three ladies sat in solemn conclave regarding with discontent a waiter full of colored flowers which a thoughtful neighbor had just sent over to Pocahontas. He held in his hand a good-sized box which he deposited in his sister's lap with the remark:
”Look, Princess! Here's a New Year's gift just come for you. I don't know the writing. I wonder what it is!”
”A subtle aroma suggests--fruit,” hazarded Grace, sniffing curiously.
”Perhaps flowers,” suggests Mrs. Mason, who that morning was a woman with one idea.
Pocahontas wrestled with the cords, unfolded the wrappers, and lifted the cover. Then she uttered a long drawn ”oh” of satisfaction.
”What is it?” demanded the others with lively impatience.
Pocahontas lifted a card and turned it in her hand, and a smile broke over her face as she answered: ”Flowers; from Jim Byrd.”
Then she removed the damp moss and cotton, and lifted spray after spray of beautiful snowy jasmin--Cape Jasmin, pure and powerful, and starry wreaths of the more delicate Catalonian.
Only white flowers--all jasmin, Jim's favorite flower; and with them were tropical ferns and gra.s.ses. As she held the exquisite blossoms in her hands and inhaled their rich perfume, the girl was conscious that when her old friend penned the order for the fragrant gift, his heart had been full of home, and of the evening beside the river when she had worn his flowers in hair and dress, and had bidden him farewell.
”How beautiful they are!” exclaimed Grace, excitedly, ”and just in time for to-night. To think of the way I've made that wretched husband of mine charge through the country since day-break, this morning, in pursuit of white flowers, and here they come like a fairy story. It was very nice of Jim. I'd no idea there was so poetical an impulse in the old fellow; as the selection of these flowers appears to indicate.”
”You don't appreciate Jim, Grace. You do him injustice. If thought and care and love for others, combined with tenderness, and delight in giving pleasure, const.i.tutes poetical impulses, then Jim Byrd is the n.o.blest poet we are likely ever to meet.” Pocahontas spoke warmly, the color flus.h.i.+ng to her cheeks, the light coming to her eyes. Poor Jim!--so far away.
Was it disloyal to her old friend to go that night to dance among strangers in the rooms that had been his,--that were full of a.s.sociations connected with him? At all events, no flowers would she wear save his; no other ornaments of any kind. It would seem, then, as though he partic.i.p.ated in her pleasure; rejoiced in her joy.
Jim loved always to see her happy. For reasons of their own, the two elder ladies had decided on remaining at home, so that Pocahontas repaired to the ball in male custody alone. Blanche, who was on the watch for the Lanarth party, came forward the instant of their arrival, accompanied by her father, to welcome them, and to bear Pocahontas away to the upper regions to warm herself and remove her wrappings. The rooms were a little chill, she explained, with a s.h.i.+ver, in spite of the splendid fires the general had kept roaring in them all day. Pocahontas must remain where she was and warm herself thoroughly, and she would send one of the boys for her presently. And after a little girlish gossip and mutual admiration of each others' appearance, the small maiden tripped away to her duties below.
Soon there was a knock at the door, and Pocahontas, catching up fan, bouquet and handkerchief, opened it and stepped into the hall. Nesbit Thorne, slender and distinguished looking, was awaiting her, Blanche having encountered and dispatched him immediately on her return to the parlors. As the girl stood an instant framed by the open door, thrown into relief by the soft glowing background of the warmly lighted room, Thorne's heart swelled with mingled gladness and impatience. Joy in the pure perfection of her beauty; impatience at the restraint circ.u.mstances forced him still to put upon his love.
At the foot of the stairs they were pounced upon by Percival, who had selected that coigne of vantage as least likely to attract his mother's attention, there to lay in wait for the cards of the unwary. He had been strictly forbidden to importune grown young ladies for dances unless they happened to be wall-flowers, and the injunction lay heavy on his soul. ”I _will_ ask girls other men ask,” he muttered, darkly, ”I hate putting up with refuse and leavings. I'm going to ask the ones I want to ask,” and he intrenched himself beside the stairway with intent to black-mail such girls as he should fancy.
Pocahontas, who had a natural affinity for boys, and a great fondness for Percival, yielded to his demand readily enough, surrendering her card to him in gay defiance of Thorne's outspoken reprobation, and laughing mischievously as the boy scrawled his name triumphantly opposite a waltz.
”B.M.! Who's B.M., Miss Princess?” he questioned, as he dextrously avoided Thorne's extended hand, and placed the card in Pocahontas's.
”You've got him down just above me, and you wrote it yourself. Who is he? Benevolent Missionary? Brother Mason?”