by M.T. Caldor
CHAPTER 1.
CHAPTER 1.
The listener, a woman a little past middle life, was dressed in widow's weeds that, also a little rusty, matched appropriately the sad, worn face, the wistful, dreary eyes.
She was sitting with her hands clasped over the work, which had fallen away from her listless needle, staring off hopelessly toward the frowning sky.
The opening door and "Oh, mamma!" wrought a transformation almost as magical as the fairy surprise of the stage. It was like pouring into the previous silence the delicious melody of wild-wood songsters, such as sing their mad joy to the flowers and the sun from very exuberance of bliss. It was like sweeping off the dismal clouds of that gray March sky and letting down the golden glow and blue glory of a smiling June upon the shivering earth.
So fresh and glad and full of cheery hope and youthful energy was the musical voice—so sunny and brightening was the gay smile, the kindling glance of the bright blue eyes— the shabby, forlorn room really seemed to brightened as he stepped into it.
Mrs. Orton smiled before she sighed—an unusual circumstance in her case.
"Why, Florry, what is it?" she said. "You bring a whiff of fresh air as invigorating as a sea-breeze in August. What have you seen, or heard, or imagined? If it is anything cheery, I was never more in need of it than now.
The girl had been quickly but noiselessly removing her outdoor wraps, hanging them away in the little wardrobe that stood in one corner of the room. She came now and sank down softly upon the ottoman before her mother, and crossed her arms upon the latter's lap.
"You have been growing dismal, darling mamma, while I have been away. That is very wrong of you. I have disposed of the work, and I am promised some more. That is something, isn't it? And I'm glad to have it—for I am a little ashamed of my enthusiasm about the other. Mamma, I met Mrs. Yerrington at the store, and she was very kind. And—she gave me an invitation to a party at her house—an invitation for Ross and myself."
"A party! Oh, Florence, what will you wear? Mr poor darling, I am afraid it is impossible," sighed the mother.
"Oh, but that is the best of it! To think I can have the treat once more with no cruel debt to poison all it sweet. Don't look so grieved, darlingest mother. It's all beautiful—the whole of it, trust me it is. I am wild enough to dance before you this minute."
"I think you must be a little wild child. Will you wear that threadbare serge? No, no. I can't consent to that—you ought to shine in silk and satin. It will be wiser for you to stay at home."
The girl caught up the thin, trembling hands and kissed them fondly.
"Oh, unbeliever, didn't I say it was all right? It is to be an old folks' party. The antique costumes are the only admissible ones. And now isn't the old attic-trunk going to be fairy grandmother to this Cinderella? Don't you know grandmother's famous brocade? Shan't I be au fait in those dear little quaint sleeves, and that elegantly wrought bodice? I'll warrant there won't be its equal there. And Ross can wear grand-father's faded ruffles, knee-buckles and all. If the occasion were fitted especially to our needs it couldn't be more feasible."
The mother drew a long, low sigh of relief.
"I really believe it will be practicable."
The daughter kissed her again and again, and then went whirling lightly about the room.
"It will be a grand affair. There is no questions of that. The Yerringtons make success assured always. Oh, how refreshing it will be to enjoy a party once more!"
"Now you betray how much you have felt the deprivation, Florence," said the mother, watching her with wistful eyes, into which the tears would brim despite her best efforts. "Darling, I am afraid you have hidden away a good many sorrows from your mother."
"What a fertile imagination somebody always has!" chided the daughter. "But you may make sure that I shall have a treat of unalloyed pleasure now. So, no dismal forbodings, please. I am like a silly child having its holiday."
Mrs. Orton looked at her through brimming tears; but she suddenly smiled with a look of new bravery, and catching up a letter which all the while had lain in her lap, hidden by the neglected work, she slipped it into her pocket, murmuring, under her breath:
"No; she shall have nothing to alloy her pleasure. I can hide it a little longer that Ross has lost his situation."
"And now may I take the key and bring forth the hidden treasures?" asked Florence. "You know I have always been so proud of these sole relics of the ancient grandeur of our house. You used to tell the story over my pillow, and talk me into strange visions of courtly scenes. How thankful I am we resisted the old dealer's paltry offer for the 'old duds,' as he chose to call them. They were worn at the famous Lafayette ball. Dear, dear! if they could only talk, what stories they could tell! Ah, here is Ross! Oh, Ross, such fine doings as are before us."
And she ran gaily toward the slender youth of eighteen years, who came slowly and dejectedly into the apartment at that moment.
"Fine doings, Florry? I can't call them so," began he, in answer.
But his mother suddenly swooped forward and seized his hat.
"Let me take your hat, Ross. The band wants stitching." And she gave him a swift look of warning and laid her finger on her lip, before she said, carelessly, "Florry is planning a famous treat, and we are politely requested not to mar her enjoyment by any idle forebodings or dismal stories. Don't you see? Now, tell him about it, Florry." The fair young girl was nothing loath, and presently the contents of the dusty attic chest were transferred to the family room, and the brother and sister were laughing over the quaint old garments and admiring their richness with all the lightheartedness of buoyant youth.
The mother sat quietly watching them, with a far-off, dreamy look in her eyes.
"How many times I have heard my grandmother tell the story!" she said, slowly. "It was a memorable occasion, and the Dillinghams were among the first of the gentry in the country to be called upon in getting up the ball. But it was the beginning also of their sorrows. I can see her now shaking her head drearily while she said it. From that hour their fortunes were on the decline. It was at this ball, in that very dress, Florry, that she gave my grandfather her betrothal vow."
"Ah!"' said the girl, holding out the still lovely and dainty blue-and-silver brocade, "do you suppose the consciousness will thrill through me when I wear it? Somebody ought to propose to me. Who knows, Ross, but somebody will? Mamma, what shall I answer?"
But her mother's eyes were riveted upon the garment, and she went on, dreamily:
"How choicely they were kept! Grandmother would touch them as softy as if they were living things. It does almost seem as if the senseless cloth must creep and quiver with the knowledge that those self-same garments are to go together to another ball.
"Of course they will. To be sure they do!" laughed Florry. "Dear me, Ross, I believe they already bewitch me. I seem to be effervescing over with some secret cause of glee. If they began the misfortune of our race, who knows but now they will change the spell, and herald the dawn of better things? It's a long lane that has no turning; and ours has been rather long now, hasn't it? Do I look anything like grand-mother, I wonder? This ought to be rather becoming to me."
"She was a famous belle, and in those days that meant something more dangerous than the present article. There was a bitter feud came out of that night between the Dillinghams and another aristocratic family—what was the name?—oh, I remember! It was a Captain Percival, who persecuted her with his mad attentions, and she gave him his refusal there that night, and fairly maddened him with the show of her preference for your grandfather. The hot young men came to blows. There was a challenge, too; but it was someway prevented from execution. Percival swore a bitter revenge, and grand-mother sometimes thought he was the indirect cause of the gathering misfortunes that overtook my grandfather. But that could scarcely be, for the sorest of all was his uncle's death, which came that next day."
"Oh, yes," said Ross, "I remember that. It is told over so piteously in the old diary. His uncle brought him up as an adopted son, and always promised his great fortune to him. But he died, and it was all swallowed up in gifts to a distant relative by the old will—the only one to be found."
"The property is almost all intact now. It is worth several millions," said Mrs. Orton, dismally. "I never told you who possessed it, because I feared it might awaken bitter and envious thoughts in you."
"I think I have guessed, mamma," observed Florence, calmly. "I saw you looking at young Mr. Fitzgerald when he rode by the other day. But surely he is not to blame. It is unkind to feel any resentment. But what weird thoughts all this strange talk has conjured up! I am not sure but I shall feel like grandmother's ghost when I take this old brocade to another party."
"Young Fitzgerald is going, I'd wager a farm if I had one!" cried Ross, suddenly. "I heard him talking with Alfred Thorne about some famous old costume, which Thorne was warning him against wearing."
"Let him go," said Florence, a roseate flush stealing into her cheeks. "I shall be there in grandmother's brocade, as well dressed as himself, and you as fine a cavalier in grandfather's costume—the one that won grandmother's favor. Let him come!"
