38 A HASTY MARRIAGE.
Then, indeed, I realized what I had done.
But it was too late. The woman I kad left was
inexorable as death; she would never receive
me back. Meantime, the Drummonds were not
rich, and I felt bitterly what an additional burden I would be in their house. I shrank, too,
instinctively from compromising myself with
Walter by accepting such a favor at his hands.
It was impossible—I did not love him enough
to wish to owe so rash a debt to him. But what
then could I do? I could not teach—I had been
too indolently bred, and my education was too
superficial for that, nor labor with my needle;
nor did I know any other useful branch of
work—yet something I must do. My brain was
in a whirl that left me time to see or hear nothing through all our rapid, exciting drive; I was hardly conscious of Walter’s tender kindness, or his sisters’ endearing sympathy and
caresses.
A very gay party was assembled at the house where we stopped. But only a few persons, mostly gentlemen, old friends of my father’s and of mine, were in the library, whither Mrs. McDonald, my hostess, conducted me. She and the Drummonds gathered about me, exclaiming at my pallor and nervousness, as they began to remove my wrappings of velvet and fur. I did not like this being made a heroine of, however. I blushed and declined assistance, beginning with trembling fingers to unfasten the white furs from my throat and shoulders. As I did this, my little muff slid from my lap, and rolled across the hearth to the feet of a tall, bronzed, black-bearded man, who stood there intently regarding me.
Hitherto, I had known him by sight only. He was a Mr. Harter, a stranger, who had just bought a beautiful villa in the neighborhood, and was fitting it up with great taste and liberality. Report said that he had been merely a common miner, who had made a fortune in Australia. He picked up my muff and brought it to me with a low bow. Seen nearer, he looked even less prepossessing. His jet-black hair was cropped close to the head, like a private soldier’s. A heavy beard and whiskers concealed the lower part of his face; the upper was embrowned and reddened with long exposure to the sun and wind; only a pair of bright, dark eyes, and teeth white and beautiful as pearls, visible when he spoke or smiled, redeemed the rugged features from positive plainness. His clothes were quiet enough in cut and material, yet he did not seem at home in them; and his hands—how dark and long the fingers looked, grasping the silvery ermine and little blue tassels of my muff! He appeared, in short, just as I had fancied him, a large, almost coarse-featured man of forty, bearing marks all the exposures, hardships and vicissitudes he had seen; a self-made millionaire, a nouveau riche, whom once, from my patrician height, I should have despised; but whom I now felt only humiliated before, as I marked the contrast of his unpretending plainness with my deceptive magnificence.
For by this time my wraps had been removed, and the mirror over the mantle-piece reflected clearly my dazzling white poplin, whose thick, shimmering folds hung long and doubled, as they lay upon the floor, in a train that followed like a snowy wake as I moved. It was cut square in the neck a la Pompadour, and trimmed with a treasure of rich French lace; the sleeves were scarcely more than be-ribboned puffs, and arms, and throat, and ears were enriched with beautiful shining sapphires, glittering and blue as dew might look on a flax flower. Only a little while ago—but how long it seemed—I had been vain of these sparkling drops, had matched them against my eyes, and held them near my fair flaxen hair, as Margaret might have done with her jewels, delighted at the envy and admiration they provoked; but now I could scarcely bear the sight of the slender, elegantly-dressed figure, so delicate and so adorned, reflected in the mirror before me.
‘‘Another day shall not see me,” I vowed, ‘‘masquerading in this pauper splendor, and eating the bread of dependence—sparkling and smiling abroad, and devouring insults and tears at home. Home! I have no home! Shelterless, helpless, friendless, I am cast upon the world to-night as ‘poor, but for these baubles, as the night when I was born. They will support me till I show that I can work. But what shall I do—where shall I go?”
I could have wrung my hands in idle anguish; but this was no time for tears and heroics. The “little sleighing-party” had become a ball. Already the band had struck up a spirit-stirring waltz. Partners pressed round me; invitations, introductions followed; I could no longer delay to join them. My blood rose warmly through my veins as I listened; the lamps seemed to burn more brilliantly, the flowers to smell more sweetly; above all I heard pealing the wild, intoxicating notes of the music in the hall, entreating, defying, alluring. At the familiar sound, doubt, fear, and sorrow fled away; I was myself again, gay, reckless seventeen; and in an instant my feet were skimming
