Chapter XXX: The First Waltz

And now the house was filled. Brilliant groups passed every moment from their silken-lined carriages to the dressing-rooms overhead, and down the noble staircase again, chatting, gliding, and full of sweet noises, like tropical birds when the forests are in flower. The murmur and hum of enjoyment ran from room to room, for groups of the gay revellers might be found among the shadows of the conservatory, in the moonlight of the boudoir, or the stronger brilliancy of the library. Everywhere that night pleasure reigned triumphant; but happiest of all was the fair mistress of the revel, and most brilliant of all was her friend, Mrs. Ransom. She had shaken off her temporary indisposition, and gave out the brightness of her genius like a star, scattering wit and courteous sayings around her, as the German prince cast jewels from his vestments, reckless where the bright things fell. Wherever she was, a cloud of rustling silks, vapory laces, and waving feathers was certain to collect, for Gillian was sure to be near, and like two genii they reigned together, the one by her brightness and her beauty, the other by a power of genius that was irresistible.

Martha Hart, too, flitted through the rooms like a bird. With a dainty basket of flowers poised on her head, and a muslin apron gathered up in one hand, through which came the red glow of roses, she went from group to group bargaining for her flowers, full of wholesome glee and wit, not the less pleasant that it was a little saucy. In the distance, always in the distance, and fluttering on the outskirts of the crowd, was a little, pale woman, looking wildly from face to face as if in search, of some one. Sometimes she spoke furtively to the flower girl, who always answered with a careless laugh.

“Has he come, aunt? Indeed I do not know. Why should you or I trouble ourselves about him?” Then she would begin to hum,

“I’ve been roaming, I’ve been roaming,
Where the summer dews are sweet,”

and take wing again.

“Will you dance with me?” said a soft voice at her elbow.

“Will I dance with you, Mr. Hurst? Of course; but it is a waltz, or something that I never danced except alone with Gillian; but she is standing up too. Yes, yes, I’ll be ready in a moment.”

She darted off in search of Aunt Hetty, and found her on an iron seat in the conservatory, at an angle that commanded a view of the boudoir and drawing-room. She looked wild and anxious as Martha came up.

“Have you found him?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, and we are going to dance.”

“Dance! What, he dance to-night?”

“Yes, yes, do make haste and unfasten the basket from my head; there, undo the ribbons; all right; now hold it till I come back, or, if you get tired, put it on the seat; I can find it again. Now give me a pin: I want to fasten up my apron so that the roses cannot spill out. Now, I’m off.”

“Stop, stop. Are you going to dance with him—with Michael Hurst?”

“Dance! that isn’t the word, aunt. I’m going to waltz, to whirl around in this fashion, do you see?” She bent her left arm, pressed the hand to her side, and gave a whirl that sent her muslin robe dashing against the glowing shrubs that rained a storm of petals over her. As the bright leaves fluttered in the folds of her dress, she darted away, calling out,

“Take care of my basket, Aunt Hetty, or leave it, if you like, and come see us dance.”

Yes, Aunt Hetty had no reason for sitting there behind the plants any longer. Hurst was in the crowd: she would search for him there—she would do any thing to shake off the harassing anxiety that was almost killing her. In her dark dress she might pass for a nun or sister of charity, and so speak with him and no one observe it.

She left Matty’s pretty basket on the chair, and wandered off lonely as if she had been in a wilderness.

The waltz was at its height, and the crowd in a whirl of excitement. Here a Cleopatra swam by in the arms of a Roman senator; fair Greeks whirled past supported by Turkish pashas; and sons of the war-path flirted with novices of the white vail.

Aunt Hetty was bewildered and shocked. To her the people seemed going mad: she was crowded to the wall, and leaned against it out of breath and frightened. Among the whirl of dancers she could distinguish no one; and her heart was bent on speaking to Hurst; she could endure that torture of apprehension no longer.

A lady came and stood beside her—a tall, stately woman in the prime of mid-age, but who looked grand and youthful compared to her. The flash of jewels on her bosom, as the light struck aslant on them, made Aunt Hetty shut her eyes. The gorgeous brightness pained them. The lady, as if unconsciously, rested one hand on Aunt Hetty’s shoulder; she seemed weary and heavy-hearted. Notwithstanding all her splendor, there was something to pity in that sad face.

“Are you tired?—would you like a seat, madam?” said the little woman, shrinking beneath the touch of that strange hand as if it pained her.

The lady dropped her hand slowly, and looked down at the speaker. What a wild, troubled face it was that she gazed upon! The hair, parted so smoothly beneath her cap, seemed scattered with ashes. Alas! when gray hairs appear before their time, they usually spring from the ashes of dead hopes, the bitterest kind known to humanity.

Mrs. Ransom could not turn her eyes from Aunt Hetty’s face; something in the expression smote her to the heart. She noticed the little feet moving restlessly on the floor—the hands clasping and unclasping themselves under the black lace scarf—the arm, with its hair bracelet, from which a locket fell, containing the mingled tresses of two females, fair and dark, curling together. At last the lady spoke, but there was anguish in her voice.

“Yes, I am tired—ill I fear. Is there no place in which I can rest a moment? No private room where I should not be an intruder?”

“I—I will go up with you to my own chamber—that is always quiet; but excuse me if I do not stay: I must be here; oh, they are coming now! Mr. Hurst—Mr. Hurst, one moment!”

She darted forward as Hurst and Martha Hart went circling by among the dancers, and made a grasp at the young girl’s dress. The apron gave way; all the roses it contained fell to the floor, and were scattered abroad by a sweeping whirl of the next couple.

“Oh, aunt! how could you?” cried Martha, panting for breath, as she retreated from the circle. “See my poor roses, and my torn apron! It’s too bad.”

Aunt Hetty did not heed her—did not even know the mischief she had done.

“Hurst—Hurst, I must speak to you,” she said, with desperate resolution.

“Well, be quick then, or we lose our place in the ring. Oh, Mrs. Ransom! more beautiful than ever! This is a splendid affair. I enjoy myself with a zest; how is it with you?”

“I am beyond the age when gayety enchants,” she said, gravely; “but this lady desires to speak with you: she has been very anxious. Go with her.”

The words were softly spoken, but they seemed like a command.

Hurst whispered a few words to Martha, and followed Aunt Hetty to the conservatory. Gillian and Woodworth whirled by him as he went down the room. He started back as a rattlesnake coils for a spring, and the hate that shot from his eyes was venomous.

Mrs. Ransom was watching him. She saw the look, but thought the dancers had, perhaps, trod on him as they whirled by; and knowing his evil temper, this was enough to explain his evident wrath.

After a little time, the two came back. Hurst was excited; his cheek burned like fire, and he cast stern glances at the little woman, which made her shrink like a threatened child.

“Come,” he said, seizing Martha almost rudely by the waist, “let us see who will be crowded from the track.”

He gave the young creature a fierce whirl, and dashed in among the dancers like a storm.

An humble, heart-broken look had settled on Aunt Hetty; she was nervous no longer, but all the strength had left her limbs. Mrs. Ransom put one arm around her, and all the beauty of her countenance shone forth.

“Has he been unkind?” she whispered.

“He!—who?” said Aunt Hetty, with a wild look.

“Oh, I had forgotten that we are strangers,” said Mrs. Ransom with a sigh; “but you seemed troubled, and one sometimes forgets proprieties where sympathy is strong.”

“Troubled—I? Who said that? I am naturally a still person—a poor, nervous creature, they call me; but as for trouble, what trouble can a woman have who is so much alone?”

Mrs. Ransom felt the frail form shrink and tremble against her arm. She tightened its clasp a little and whispered,

“But I am both weary and ill; where is the room you promised?”

Aunt Hetty aroused herself.

“Yes, I can stay with you now: it is all over; when one is too weak for a struggle rest ought to come. Follow me through the supper-room: it is the shortest way.”

She seemed glad to cast the protecting arm away, and moved through the crowd to a side door, which she opened cautiously. Mrs. Ransom glided after her, and in a moment they stood in the supper-room, over, which Dinah was presiding in her gorgeous turban and flaming gown; oriental in her despotism as in her dress.

“So yer hab come ter take a look afore dey tousle ebbery ting up,” she said, marching toward them with patronage in every gesture. “Jes ’serve dat pyramid all ob sugar candy, an’ dat heap ob cake white as a tub of curd—an’ der glass, twinkling like ice, and de silver baskets a-running over wid strawberries, an’ grapes, an’ tings dat de Lord never ’tended to grow tergether, an’ dat never would if it hadn’t been for dem hot-houses. ’Serve dem wines in de ’canters, an’ de regiment ob glasses, red, yaller, green. Golly, ain’t it a show? I wonders what dem ornary folks at de corner ’ill say when I tells ’em ’bout it?”

But Dinah’s eloquence was exhausted in vain. Mrs. Ransom scarcely gave a glance at the tables, glittering with cut-glass, silver, and china, all laden, and tinted with fruits, wines, and rich masses of flowers, glowing out from a groundwork of snow. She was too deeply occupied by her own thoughts to heed the picture, beautiful as it was.

“Humph!” muttered Dinah, as the two women glided through her domain, “der am something in dat ar passage of Scripter as tells ’bout feeding pigs wid pearls, and t’ings ob dat sort.”

And she consoled herself with a glass of wine, which she called three waiters to pour out for her, taking plenty of time, as they stood in obsequious attendance, to decide on the color of glass which should be honored by an approach to her lips.

Mrs. Ransom followed Hetty Hart into her room. She looked around, with interest, as if searching among the objects the chamber contained for some idea of its inmate. Nothing was there which bespoke individuality. Furniture, rich in itself, but evidently uncared for, occupied such places as the chambermaid appropriated to it. There was no home-look, and seemed to be no home-feeling in the room. It was a place in which Hetty Hart sometimes shut herself up, and that was all.

“There is a bed,” said Aunt Hetty, wearily, “if you wish to lie down; and easy-chairs, if you like them better. Excuse me, but I am unable to talk. This night has almost killed me.”

Aunt Hetty sunk to a couch, as she spoke, and held her head between both hands. Mrs. Ransom looked at her a moment with strange interest, and at last sat down on the couch.

“It is no common distress that makes you so weak,” she said, very compassionately. “I have experience, and some power; if any one on earth can help you, confide in me. I am to be trusted, believe me.”

Aunt Hetty dropped her hands, and looked around eagerly, as if about to open her heart; but her countenance contracted again, and she turned moodily away without speaking.

“And you will not trust me! According to your own account, this nervousness—this vague terror which comes and goes on your face—unfits you for a struggle with real difficulties. Why not take counsel then? Why not take help? Both are offered in good faith.”

Mrs. Ransom paused; but Aunt Hetty only made a faint negative movement of the head.

“If money is wanting,” she went on to say. But Aunt Hetty gave that same mournful wave of the head. Like all weak persons she was obstinate in a negative, and in refusing to do any thing could be firm enough.

Mrs. Ransom was greatly troubled. She saw that some positive anxiety preyed upon the helpless creature at her side; and, full of kindness, ardent in her benevolence, she felt certain of the power to sweep this evil aside, could she but learn its nature.

“Then you will not speak?” she said.

Aunt Hetty became impatient. Of late fits of fretful irritability would seize upon her, and she, the quietest of human beings, would repulse kindness almost with insult.

“I have nothing to tell—nothing to say. Cannot a poor woman have a headache, or be a little vexed, without the whole world forcing itself upon her? I don’t know you, ma’am. God help me! I scarcely know any one. In the whole world there never was such a lorn creature. They call me an ‘old maid,’” she added, with a weak laugh, “and you know what fretful creatures they always are.”

Mrs. Ransom arose and walked the floor. What could she effect with a character like that! With all her genius she had no power to overcome that inert obstinacy which fear makes strong. Still she could not abandon the poor creature, whose sole wish was to conceal that she suffered. She sat down again, but Aunt Hetty moved on the couch to avoid her.

“Who are you?” she said, impatiently. “I ask you here, because you look tired, but you will neither lie down yourself nor let me rest.”

“I am a lone woman, like yourself.”

“Like me! Like me!”

“Worse! for I cannot be resigned. I struggle and suffer: you bow to the storm; I brave it.”

“That is the way Sarah used to talk.”

“And who was Sarah?”

“My sister. Oh, my God! my God! why did I mention her? What if she were here now! Tell me—for they pretend that you know every thing—tell me if spirits do come back? If they ever know what we are doing here? Oh, don’t look at me with those great eyes. I have no secret for you to search out. Only tell me this one thing.”

“I have no knowledge beyond this life—no means of knowledge which the Bible does not give to you as well.”

“The Bible! I will not search that. I have not touched the Bible since—almost since I came here.”

“Read it then.”

“No! no!”

“Let me read it for you: it will tranquillize us both.”

“While the house is shaken with dancers, and wine is running like water in the rooms below! This is no place or time for the Bible. Hark! they are laughing loud now!”

Mrs. Ransom started up.

“No! that was a shriek—a cry of anguish! Great heavens! it comes again! Something has happened!”

She opened the door and fled down the long passages; but Hetty Hart fell upon the couch and began to moan.