To-day, however, something seemed wrong with these equable nerves of hers: she could not keep still; her voice was never quiet; her laugh was constant. Once or twice she saw Annie Day's eyes fixed2 upon her; she turned from their glance; a more brilliant red than usual dyed her cheeks; her laugh grew louder and more insolent3.
On this evening the Elliot-Smiths would give their long-promised party. The wish of Annie Day's heart was gratified; she had angled for an invitation to this merry-making and obtained it. Lucy Marsh4 was also going, and several other St. Benet's girls would be present.
Early in the evening Rosalind retired5 to her own room, locked her door, and, taking out her new white dress, laid it across the bed. It was a very pretty dress, made of soft silk, which did not rustle6, but lay in graceful7 puffs8 and folds on body and skirt. It was just the dress to make this young, slight figure of Rosalind's look absolutely charming. She stood over it now and regarded it lovingly. The dress had been obtained, like most of Rosalind's possessions, by manoeuvres. She had made up a piteous story, and her adoring mother had listened and contrived9 to deny herself and some of Rosalind's younger sisters to purchase the white robe on which the young girl's heart was set.
Deliberately10 and slowly Rosalind made her toilet, her golden, curling hair was brushed out and then carefully coiled round her head. Rosalind had no trouble with her hair: a touch or two, a pin stuck here, a curl arranged there, and the arrangement became perfect— the glistening11 mass lay in natural waves over the small, graceful head.
Rosalind's hair arranged to her satisfaction, she put on her lovely white dress. She stood before her long glass, a white-robed little figure, smiles round her lips, a sweet, bright color in her cheeks, a dewy look in her baby-blue eyes. Rosalind's toilet was all but finished; she stood before her glass now and hesitated. Should she go to the Elliot-Smiths' as she was or should she give the last finishing touch to render herself perfect? Should she wear her beautiful coral ornaments13?
The coral was now her own, paid for to the uttermost farthing; Polly Singleton could not come up to Rosalind now and disgrace her in public by demanding her coral back again. The coral was no longer Polly's; it was Rosalind's. The debt was cleared off; the exquisite14 ornaments were her own. Unlocking a drawer in her bureau, she took out a case, which contained her treasures; she touched the spring of the case, opened it and looked at them lovingly. The necklace, the bracelets15, the earings and pins for the hair looked beautiful on their velvet16 pillow. For the sake of the pink coral, Rosalind had manoeuvred for her white dress; for its sake she had knowingly stinted17 her mother and sisters; for its sake she had also stolen a five-pound note from Maggie Oliphant. She dreamt many times of the triumphs which would be hers when she appeared at the Elliot-Smiths' in her white silk dress, just tipped with the slight color which the pink coral ornaments would bestow18. Rosalind had likened herself to all kinds of lovely things in this beautiful yet simple toilet— to a daisy in the field, to a briar rose: in short, to every flower which denoted the perfection of baby innocence19.
Yet, as she held the coral necklace in her hand tonight, she hesitated deeply whether it would be wise to appear at the Elliot-Smiths' in her treasured ornaments.
Rose had not felt comfortable all day. She had banished20 thought with the usual device of extra hilarity21: she had crushed the little voice in her heart which would persistently22 cry, "Shame! shame!" which would go on telling her, "You are the meanest, the most wicked girl in St. Benet's; you have done something for which you could be put in prison." The voice had little opportunity of making itself heard that day, and, as Maggie Oliphant evidently did not intend to investigate the matter, Rosalind had every hope that her sin would never be found out. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling uneasy; for why did Annie Day, her own chosen and particular friend, so persistently avoid her? Why had Lucy Marsh refused to walk with her yesterday? and why did Annie so often look at her with meaning and inquiry23 in her eyes? These glances of Annie's caused Rosalind's heart to beat too quickly; they gave her an undefined sense of uneasiness.
She felt as she stood now before her glass that, after all, she was doing a rash thing in wearing her coral. Annie Day knew of her money difficulties; Annie knew how badly Rosalind had wanted four guineas to pay the debt she still owed for the ornaments. If Rosalind wore them to-night, Annie would ask numerous questions. Oh, yes, there was a risk— there was a decided24 risk— but Rosalind's vanity was greater than her fears.
There came a knock at her room door. To Rosalind's surprise, Annie Day's voice, with an extremely friendly tone in it, was heard outside.
"Are you ready, Rosie?" she cried; "for, if you are, there is just room for you in the fly with Lucy Marsh and Miss Singleton and myself."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Rosalind from the other side of the door; "just wait one moment, Annie, and I will be with you."
Both fear and hesitation25 vanished at the friendly tones of Annie's voice. She hastily fastened on her necklace and earrings26, slipped on her bracelets and stuck the coral pins in her hair. She saw a dazzling little image in the glass and turned away with a glad, proud smile.
"We can't be kept waiting. Are you ready?" called Miss Day's voice in the passage.
"Yes, yes; in one moment, Annie, dear," replied Rosalind. She wrapped herself from head to foot in a long white opera cloak, pulled the hood27 over her head, seized her gloves and fan and opened the door. The coral could not be seen now, and Annie, who was also in white, took her hand and ran with her down the corridor.
A few moments later the four girls arrived at the Elliot-Smiths' and were shown into a dressing-room on the ground floor to divest28 themselves of their wraps. They were among the earliest of the arrivals, and Annie Day had both space and opportunity to rush up to Rosalind and exclaim at the perfect combination of white silk and pink coral.
"Lucy, Lucy!" she said, "do come and look at Rosalind's coral! Oh, poor Polly! you must miss your ornaments; but I am obliged frankly29 to confess, my dear, that they are more becoming to this little cherub30 than they ever were to you."
Polly was loudly dressed in blue silk. She came up and turned Rosalind round, and, putting her hand on her neck, lifted the necklace and looked at it affectionately.
"I did love those ornaments," she said; "but, of course, I can't grudge31 them to you, Rose. You paid a good sum for them— didn't you, dear?— although nothing like what they were worth, so, of course, they are yours by every right."
"You have paid off the debt? I congratulate you, Rose," said Annie Day.
"Yes," said Rosalind, blushing.
"I am glad you were able to get the money, my dear."
"And I wish she hadn't got it," retorted Polly. "Money is of no moment to me now. Dad is just rolling in wealth, and I have, in consequence, more money than I know what to do with. I confess I never felt crosser in my life than when you brought me that five-pounds note last Monday night, Miss Merton."
Rosalind colored, then grew very pale; she saw Annie Day's eyes blaze and darken. She felt that her friend was putting two and two together and drawing a conclusion in her own mind. Annie turned abruptly32 from Rosalind, and, touching33 Lucy Marsh on the arm, walked with her out of the dressing-room. The unsuspecting Polly brought up the rear with Rosalind.
The four girls entered the drawing-room, and Rosalind tried to forget the sick fear which was creeping round her heart in the excitement of the moment.
Nearly an hour later Maggie Oliphant arrived. She was also in white, but without any ornament12, except a solitary34 diamond star which blazed in the rich coils of her hair. The beautiful Miss Oliphant was received with enthusiasm. Until her arrival Rose had been the undoubted belle35 of the evening, but beside Maggie the petite charms which Rose possessed36 sank out of sight. Maggie herself never felt less conscious of beauty; the heaviness of her heart made her cheeks look pale and gave her brown eyes a languid expression; she was indifferent to the admiration37 which greeted her. The admiration which greeted her gave her a momentary38 feeling of surprise— almost of displeasure.
Meta Elliot-Smith and her mother buzzed round Maggie and expressed their gratitude39 to her for coming.
"We expect a friend of yours to arrive presently," said Meta— "Mr. Hammond. You know Mr. Hammond, don't you? I have had a note from him. He says he will look in as soon after ten as possible. I am so glad; I was dreadfully afraid he couldn't come, for he had to go suddenly into the country at the beginning of this week. You know Mr. Hammond very well, don't you, Miss Oliphant?"
"Yes," replied Maggie in her careless voice; "he is quite an old friend of mine."
"You will be glad to see him?"
"Very glad."
Meta looked at her in a puzzled way. Reports of Hammond's love affair had reached her ears. She had expected to see emotion and confusion on Maggie's face; it looked bright and pleased. Her "very glad" had a genuine ring about it.
"I am so delighted he is coming!" repeated Meta. "I do trust he will be here in good time."
She led Miss Oliphant to a prominent seat at the top of the room as she spoke40.
"I shall have to leave soon after ten," replied Maggie, "so, if Mr. Hammond cannot arrive until after that hour, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing him."
"Oh, but you must really stay later than that; it would be too cruel to leave us so early."
"I am afraid I cannot. The gates are closed at St. Benet's at eleven o'clock, and I do not care to remain out until the last moment."
Meta was obliged, with great reluctance41, to leave her guest, and a moment later Annie Day came up eagerly to Maggie's side.
"It's all right," she said, drawing Miss Oliphant into the shelter of a window; "I have found out all I want to know."
"What is that?" asked Maggie.
"Rosalind Merton is the thief."
"Miss Day, how can you say such dreadful things?"
"How can Rosalind do them? I am awfully42 sorry— indeed, I am disgusted— but the facts are too plain." Miss Day then in a few eager whispers, which Maggie in vain endeavored to suppress, gave her chain of evidence. Rosalind's distress43; her passionate44 desire to keep the coral; her entreaties45 that Miss Day would lend her four guineas; her assurances that she had not a penny in the world to pay her debt; her fears that it was utterly46 useless for her to expect the money from her mother. Then the curious fact that, on the very same evening, Polly Singleton should have been given a five-pound note by her. "There is not the least doubt," concluded Miss Day, "that Rosalind must have gone into your room, Miss Oliphant, and stolen the note while Priscilla was absent. You know Miss Peel said that she did leave your room for a moment or two to fetch her Lexicon47. Rosalind must have seized the opportunity; there cannot be a doubt of it."
Maggie's face turned white; her eyes were full of indignation and horror.
"Something must be done," continued Annie. "I am no prude, but I draw the line at thieves. Miss Merton ought to be expelled; she is not fit to speak to one of us."
"The affair is mine," said Maggie after a pause. "You must let me deal with it."
"Will you?"
"I certainly will."
"To-night?"
"I cannot say. I must think. The whole thing is terrible, it upsets me."
"I thought you would feel it. I am a good bit upset myself and so is Lucy Marsh."
"Does Miss Marsh know, too? In that case, Miss Day, it will, I fear, be my duty to consult Miss Heath. Oh, I must think; I can do nothing hastily. Please, Miss Day, keep your own counsel for the present, and ask Miss Marsh to do the same."
Annie Day ran off, and Maggie stood by the open window looking out at the starry48 night. Her head ached; her pulses beat; she felt sick and tired. The noise and laughter which filled the gaily49 thronged50 rooms were all discordant51 to her— she wished she had not come. A voice close by made her start— a hand not only clasped hers, but held it firmly for a moment. She looked up and said with a sudden impulse, "Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad you are here." Then, with a burning blush, she withdrew her hand from Hammond's.
"Can I help you?" he asked. His heart was beating fast; her words were tingling52 in his ears, but his tone was quiet. "Can I help you?" he repeated. "Here is a seat." He pulled a chair from behind a curtain, and Maggie dropped into it.
"Something is wrong," she said; "something dreadful has happened."
"May I know what it is?"
"I don't think I have any right to tell you. It is connected with the college; but it has given me a blow, and I was tired beforehand. I came here against my will, and now I don't want to talk to any one."
"That can be easily managed. I will stand here and keep off all intruders."
"Thank you." Maggie put her hand to her forehead.
The headache, which had scarcely left her for a fortnight, was now so acute that all her thoughts were confused; she felt as if she were walking in a dream. It seemed perfectly53 right and natural that Hammond should stand by her side and protect her from the crowd; it seemed natural to her at that moment, natural and even right to appeal to him.
After a long pause he said:
"I am afraid I also have bad news!"
"How?"
"I went to see my uncle, Mr. Hayes."
"Yes; it was good of you— I remember."
"I failed in my mission. Mr. Hayes says that Miss Peel, our Prissie's aunt, would rather die than accept help from any one."
"Oh, how obstinate54 some people are!" replied Maggie wearily. "Happiness, help and succor55 come to their very door and they turn these good things away."
"That is true," replied Hammond. "I am firmly convinced," he added, "that the good angel of happiness is within the reach of most of us once at least in our lives, but for a whim56— often for a mere57 whim— we tell him to go."
Maggie's face grew very white. "I must say 'good-by': I am going home," she said, rising. Then she added, looking full at Hammond, "Sometimes it is necessary to reject happiness; and necessity ought not to be spoken of as a whim."
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1
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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27
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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52
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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56
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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