CHAPTER XXXII.
DRESSING FOR THE PARTY.
Eva Laurence was dressing for her first party, and the very anticipation of its delights gave resplendence to the wonderful beauty of her face. She was young, ambitious, and rich in that vivid talent which doubles enjoyment and gives a keener edge to pain than ordinary natures ever endure.
Ruth was sitting up, among the cushions of her couch, looking bright and happy as an angel. Her soft eyes were full of serene love-light; a faint color came and went in her cheeks; and little quivers of delight stirred her fingers, as she smoothed the drifts of snow-white tarlatan that draped her sister’s slender person.
“Oh, how beautiful it is! How soft and white! You look like a bride, Eva!”
“Or a ghost!” muttered Mrs. Laurence, in a troubled undertone. “The ghost of a child we have sheltered and loved, but who will belong to others when we want her most.”
“What are you saying, mother?” cried Eva, who was stooping forward to look at herself in a little mirror between the windows, which just took in the outlines of her splendid neck and shoulders. “Something about my dress that you don’t like, I suppose. It was extravagant spending so much money; but you must scold Ruth. She would do it, wouldn’t you, Ruthy, dear?”
“Oh, yes! mother must scold me! but she won’t do it, in earnest. I’m not afraid. Didn’t she work like a regular seamstress, to help finish the dress; and isn’t it beautiful? All it wants is a little warm color.”
“It wants nothing in the world,” said Eva, passing both hands over the dark braids of hair that fell in rich loops down her neck, making its whiteness like the leaves of a magnolia flower. “I never was dressed so well in my life, and, perhaps, never shall be again, who knows?”
“I know,” answered Ruth. “These fashionable people adore good looks; and, oh! sister Eva, how beautiful you are! Come down here, and let me kiss you. How warm and red your cheeks are; it is like feeling a peach at one’s lips. How I would love to paint you just this way, only a little color in the dress. I insist on that for the picture; it costs nothing, you know.”
“Come in,” Mrs. Laurence called, a little sharply, for she was ill at ease that evening, and even a knock at the door annoyed her.
It was only little Jimmy, who peeped through the door, after knocking, to make sure that even his presence might not create some confusion, while that momentous toilet was in progress. He carried a mass of loose roses in his arms, white, golden-tinted, and red, some half open, some in full bloom, and others folded buds, clasped in with moss.
No wonder Ruth uttered a glad cry, and clapped her delicate hands, gleeful as a child who suddenly finds its wishes gratified. No wonder Eva sprang forward, and put a hand on either side the boy’s face, and kissed him, rapturously, over and over again.
“You darling! You boy of boys! Where did you get them?” she cried. “Oh! how could I be so careless?”
In her eagerness, she had swept half, the flowers from Jimmy’s arms, and they lay at her feet, sending up odors that filled the little room. She stooped to gather them up, still questioning him.
“Where did they come from, so fresh, and such long stems? There is one on your train; it seems to be buried in snow—such a lovely color,” cried Ruth, fairly trembling with delight. “Now I will make the dress perfect.”
“Where did I get them?” answered James, emptying his fragrant burden on Ruthy’s couch, and kneeling down to gather up the portion scattered around Eva. “It’s a pretty way to find out, smothering a fellow with kisses, and asking him to talk. Well, if you want to know, a friend of mine gave them to me.”
“A friend? Oh, James!”
“Yes, I say it again—a friend. You have seen him, Eva, through an iron fence; gray hair; legs like broomsticks. Does it strike you?”
“What, that old man?. No!”
“I tell you, yes! He was watching for me by the gate. I’d been leaving some groceries in the basement, you know, and took a peep through the railing. Always do. The gate opened softly, and his queer old face looked through.
‘Come in!’ says he. ‘Have you got a basket?’
“‘No,’ says I. ‘The cook hadn’t time to empty it.’
“‘Well, come along; I want to send something to that pretty sister of yours,’ says he.
“I went in, so astonished, that I was steering through the middle of a flower-bed, when he called out, ‘This way!’ and went on among a whole heap of bushes, just as full of roses as they could hold. Here he took out a great jack-knife, and cut away like fun, giving the flowers to me till my arms were full, and their breath made me long to dance.
“‘Take them to the young lady,’ says he, ‘and say it wasn’t just old Storms that sent ’em, but some one else that——’”
“Oh, James! did he say that?”
“Of course he did, and more yet; but I’ll tell you that when we are all alone. It’s sort of private.”
Here the boy made signs, and whispered mysteriously, glancing at his mother, who was retreating to the kitchen with a cloud of unusual darkness on her face. She saw in all these excitements only signs of disaster and separation.