The Choir Invisible [38]
he ever did in his life before!"
Mrs. Falconer made no rejoinder; she was too poignantly saying to herself:
"Ah! if it is too late, what will become of him? "
The bench was short. Instinctively they seated themselves as far apart as possible; and they turned their faces outward across the garden, not toward each other as they had been used when sitting thus.
The one was nineteen--the tulip: with springlike charm but perfectly hollow and ready to be filled by east wind or west wind, north wind or south wind, according as each blew last and hardest; the other thirty-six--the rose: in its midsummer splendour with fold upon fold of delicate symmetric structures, making a masterpiece.
"Aunt Jessica," Amy began to say drily, as though this were to be her last concession to a relationship now about to end, "I might as well tell you everything that has happened, just as I've been used to doing since I was a child--when I've done anything wrong." She gave a faithful story of the carrying off of her party dress, which of course had been missed and accounted for, the losing of it and the breaking of her engagement with John; the return of it and her going to the ball with Joseph. This brought her mind to the scenes of the night, and she abandoned herself momentarily to the delight of reviving them.
"Ah! if you had been there, Aunt Jessica! If they had seen you in a ball dress as I've seen you without one: those shoulders! those arms! that skin! You would have been a swan among the rough-necked, red-necked turkeys," and Amy glanced a little enviously at a neck that rose out of the plain dress as though turned by a sculptor.
The sincere little compliment beat on Mrs. Falconer's ear like a wave upon a stone.
"But if you did not go with John Gray, you danced with him, you talked with him?"
"No," replied Amy, quickly growing grave, "I didn't dance with him. But we talked yes--not much; it was a little too serious for many words," and she sank into a mysterious silence, seeming even to forget herself in some new recess of happiness.
Mrs. Falconer was watching her.
"Ah!" she murmured to herself. "It is too late! too late!" She passed her fingers slowly across her brow with a feeling that life had turned ashen, cold, barren."How is Kitty?" she asked quickly. "Well--as always; and stupid."
"She is always kind and good, isn't she? and faithful."
"Kindness is not always interesting, unfortunately; and goodness is dreadful, and her faithfulness bores me to death."
"At least, she was your hostess, Amy." "I lent her my silk stockings or she'd have had to wear cotton ones," exclaimed Amy, laughing. "We're even."
"If you were merely paying for a lodging, you should have gone to the inn."
"There was nobody at the tavern who could wear my silk stockings; and I had spent all my money."
"Don't you expect Kitty to return your visit?
"I certainly do-- more's the pity. She has such big feet!" Amy put out her toe and studied it with vixenish satisfaction.
"Aunt Jessica," she observed at length, looking round at her aunt. "You have to work too hard. And I have always been such a care to you. Wouldn't you like to get rid of me?"
Mrs. Falconer leaned quickly, imploringly, toward her.
"Is that a threat, Amy?"
Amy waited half a minute and then began with a composure that was tinged with condescension:
"You have had so much trouble in your life, Aunt Jessica; so much sorrow."
Mrs. Falconer started and turned upon her niece her eyes that were always exquisite with refinement.
"Amy, have I ever spoken to you of the troubles of my life?" The reproof was majestic in dignity and gentleness.
"You have not."
"Then will you never speak of them to me never again--while you live!"
Amy began again with a dry practical voice, which had in it the sting of revenge; her aunt's rebuke had nettled her.
"At least, I have always been a trouble to you. You sew for me, cook for me, make the garden for me, spin and weave for me, and worry about me. Uncle has to work for me and support me."
The
Mrs. Falconer made no rejoinder; she was too poignantly saying to herself:
"Ah! if it is too late, what will become of him? "
The bench was short. Instinctively they seated themselves as far apart as possible; and they turned their faces outward across the garden, not toward each other as they had been used when sitting thus.
The one was nineteen--the tulip: with springlike charm but perfectly hollow and ready to be filled by east wind or west wind, north wind or south wind, according as each blew last and hardest; the other thirty-six--the rose: in its midsummer splendour with fold upon fold of delicate symmetric structures, making a masterpiece.
"Aunt Jessica," Amy began to say drily, as though this were to be her last concession to a relationship now about to end, "I might as well tell you everything that has happened, just as I've been used to doing since I was a child--when I've done anything wrong." She gave a faithful story of the carrying off of her party dress, which of course had been missed and accounted for, the losing of it and the breaking of her engagement with John; the return of it and her going to the ball with Joseph. This brought her mind to the scenes of the night, and she abandoned herself momentarily to the delight of reviving them.
"Ah! if you had been there, Aunt Jessica! If they had seen you in a ball dress as I've seen you without one: those shoulders! those arms! that skin! You would have been a swan among the rough-necked, red-necked turkeys," and Amy glanced a little enviously at a neck that rose out of the plain dress as though turned by a sculptor.
The sincere little compliment beat on Mrs. Falconer's ear like a wave upon a stone.
"But if you did not go with John Gray, you danced with him, you talked with him?"
"No," replied Amy, quickly growing grave, "I didn't dance with him. But we talked yes--not much; it was a little too serious for many words," and she sank into a mysterious silence, seeming even to forget herself in some new recess of happiness.
Mrs. Falconer was watching her.
"Ah!" she murmured to herself. "It is too late! too late!" She passed her fingers slowly across her brow with a feeling that life had turned ashen, cold, barren."How is Kitty?" she asked quickly. "Well--as always; and stupid."
"She is always kind and good, isn't she? and faithful."
"Kindness is not always interesting, unfortunately; and goodness is dreadful, and her faithfulness bores me to death."
"At least, she was your hostess, Amy." "I lent her my silk stockings or she'd have had to wear cotton ones," exclaimed Amy, laughing. "We're even."
"If you were merely paying for a lodging, you should have gone to the inn."
"There was nobody at the tavern who could wear my silk stockings; and I had spent all my money."
"Don't you expect Kitty to return your visit?
"I certainly do-- more's the pity. She has such big feet!" Amy put out her toe and studied it with vixenish satisfaction.
"Aunt Jessica," she observed at length, looking round at her aunt. "You have to work too hard. And I have always been such a care to you. Wouldn't you like to get rid of me?"
Mrs. Falconer leaned quickly, imploringly, toward her.
"Is that a threat, Amy?"
Amy waited half a minute and then began with a composure that was tinged with condescension:
"You have had so much trouble in your life, Aunt Jessica; so much sorrow."
Mrs. Falconer started and turned upon her niece her eyes that were always exquisite with refinement.
"Amy, have I ever spoken to you of the troubles of my life?" The reproof was majestic in dignity and gentleness.
"You have not."
"Then will you never speak of them to me never again--while you live!"
Amy began again with a dry practical voice, which had in it the sting of revenge; her aunt's rebuke had nettled her.
"At least, I have always been a trouble to you. You sew for me, cook for me, make the garden for me, spin and weave for me, and worry about me. Uncle has to work for me and support me."
The