Anonymous

The Vandaleur function was over, and for a long time to come the young women of that part must feel a certain flatness in their days, as one does when an event eagerly expected is over and done with.

For the sisters the function had been a series of triumphs, to all appearance. They had been, as Miss Spencer put it, "dressed as befitted their position." They had not had, after all, to call in Mrs. Cullen's Nancy, for on the Christmas Eve a delightful box had come for each of the dÉbutantes, with Miss Spencer's love.

Pamela's contained a rather short-waisted frock of lilac silk, with a fichu of chiffon tied softly round the shoulders.

Sylvia's gown, made somewhat similarly, was of white satin, and her innocent face and golden head rose out of it a vision of loveliness.

It would be hard indeed to say which was the most beautiful girl that night; but Sylvia held her little court, or rather augmented it during the evening, while Pamela's, somehow, seemed to melt and fall away.

Miss Spencer found a comfortable seat for herself in one of the long galleries after dinner, and remained there, while one or another of her old cronies and admirers came up to talk with her.

She was almost as great a success in her way as Sylvia, of whom she caught glimpses now and again, waving her immense fan where she stood in the centre of the gallery, and playing with the conversation about her much as one plays at battledore and shuttlecock.

"The child will do," said Miss Spencer to herself, when Sir John Beaumont, an old admirer of hers, had gone to fetch her some refreshment. "Wonderful how she makes all those men look so delighted with her and themselves! It reminds me of a girl who could do that. Who was it? And what happened afterwards?... Ah! Pamela," she said, speaking aloud, "so you have come to see what I am doing."

"To stay with you awhile, Miss Spencer," said Pamela, creeping into the shadowy corner beside her.

"And where are all the beaux, my dear? It is not as if your heart was elsewhere."

Pamela smiled a wan little smile.

"I'm tired, Miss Spencer. I can't keep it up like Sylvia."

"Hoity-toity, tired! No, you can't be tired. It will be years before there is another event like this. Let me call Mr. Wandesforde over there to take you to hear this Dublin singer, Madame Squallini, or whatever the woman's name is. All the people have gone trooping off to the music-room to hear her."

"Please don't, dear Miss Spencer, I would so much rather sit here by you. I have heard a great many fine singers already."

"Why, what's come to you, Pam? You used to be as full of fun as Sylvia. Now you are like a girl whose lover has gone away—I know how such a one would feel—and has never come back to her."

Sir John Beaumont returned at this moment.

"I don't know whether your father or your sister is in the greatest demand, Miss Graydon," he said. "I heard peals of laughter as I passed the sitting-room, and, looking in, I saw your father delighting them. He's a charming fellow, upon my word. He's wasted on rusticity."

"Indeed, Sir John, I suppose the rustics ought all to be plain and stupid," said Miss Spencer.

"Ah, my dear lady," murmured the old gentleman, "that would be to do without you."

"Oh, I daresay; you always had a pretty speech ready. And what about Pam here?"

"Miss Pamela belongs to the country, as lilies and roses do."

"She likes to bloom in the shade," said Miss Spencer, a bit irritably. "What do you think of a girl who prefers to sit in the corner rather than hold a court as her younger sister is doing?"

"It's cruel to the young fellows, Miss Pamela—that's what it is."

"It isn't as if she were an engaged girl."

"Ah! that would be rough on the young fellows, before they had more than a chance of seeing her."

Pamela listened to this brisk interchange between her elders with a faint smile. She certainly looked tired, and as the evening went on she held her quiet place by Miss Spencer, who was very animated, and talked enough to cover her silence.

Once she had realised that Pamela was really tired and wanted to sit still, her kindness of heart was aroused. She even waved off the swains who came at intervals to coax Pamela out of her corner.

At last the evening, which Pamela had felt endless, was really drawing to an end.

"You poor dears," said Sylvia, standing over them, and still waving her great fan, "I'm afraid I've been keeping you out of your beds an unconscionable time."

"Hear her!" cried Miss Spencer. "You'd think we were her grandmothers."

"Only Pam," said Sylvia. "I've been watching you. You didn't seem to find it dull."

Miss Spencer laughed, well pleased.

"I'm afraid we're much of a muchness," she said; "but your sister here, I'm disappointed in her. I think she has a headache, poor child. It isn't as if she had a lover now."

Pamela did not answer, but walked meekly by Miss Spencer's side, with Sir John Beaumont murmuring his old-world compliments in her ear.

Sylvia went on before, surrounded by a phalanx of black coats, which escorted her to Miss Spencer's carriage.

Pam listened to all the gay good-nights with a throbbing head and an extreme flatness and dulness of spirit.

"Graydon'll be up all night," said Miss Spencer as they rolled away. "He enjoyed himself immensely and added to the enjoyment of others. Your father's well-fitted to shine in society, girls. 'Tis a pity, as Beaumont says, he should be shut up here."

"Didn't he propose Mr. Vandaleur's health beautifully after dinner?" said Sylvia. "I sat where I could see him, and all the time he had a twinkle in his eye."

"He ought to be in Parliament himself," said Miss Spencer emphatically. "Vandaleur isn't worth a rush."

"But what was the matter with Pam?" asked Sylvia. "Why, Pam's asleep!"

Her kindness of heart was aroused.

"Never mind your sister, minx, but tell me about your conquests. Which of them did you like best?"

"Let me see," said Sylvia. "There was Captain Vavasour—from the barracks. He asked leave to call."

"Did he, indeed, and what did you say?"

"I told him yes, if he'd chance finding me unemployed. I'd so much to do feeding the fowls, and washing the dogs, and keeping the pony clean, let alone my household duties."

"Why, you've none, except eating the jam—and that's a pleasure. What did he say?"

"He said he'd be enchanted to help me at any of these occupations."

"That was nice of him. What about the other lad from the barracks?"

"Mr. Baker? Oh, I like him. He's game for anything. He's coming ratting with Pat one day. He has an English terrier, but I told him he wouldn't be a patch on Pat."

"You talked of ratting in that frock?"

"Yes, he was delighted. He confessed it was a passion with him."

"I saw you talking to the Master. He's a fine-looking fellow, but not a patch on Tom Charteris."

"He asked me why I didn't hunt. I said I often thought of doing it on Neddy, only he was a buck-jumper. He said that wouldn't matter, except that all the world would be riding to hounds on donkeys presently and taking the ditches backward. He, too, is coming to call. They're all coming to call. I should like to see Bridget's face when she's expected to provide afternoon tea. If they keep ringing at the door, she won't pretend not to hear them; she has the excuse that the bell's broken. Then they'll have to go away in tears. I told that young St. Quintin, the Eton boy, so. He said, after he'd done crying, he'd come in by the window. I really believe he would. He's so cheeky."

"But you don't tell me which you liked best. I daresay they all thought you no end of a minx."

"Let me see," said Sylvia, with a dispassionate air. "Why, Lord Glengall, of course."

"Glengall! with his hatchet face and his forty odd years!"

"I think he has a dear face; his eyes are just like Pat's."

"I wouldn't think of Glengall—that is, if I were free."

"Ah, you see, I don't care seriously for boys. I like them well enough to talk to; but Glengall one can take seriously."

"He didn't join your court, though."

"No, he wouldn't. I actually went up to have a little chat with him, and he said, as if I were four years old: 'Now you must go and talk to the boys, Miss Sylvia. I don't want a dozen duels on my hands.'"

"I daresay he thought you a forward minx."

"I don't think he would. Only he would take some persuading to believe that I really preferred talking to him. He stood in a corner then, and watched Pam out of his nice, kind, faithful eyes."

"He wouldn't have any nonsense in his head about Pam? You don't mean that?"

"Oh, I don't think he's in love with Pam. He'd look just the same at me if he thought I was tired or melancholy. I think I'll try it."

"Let him alone, minx. But here we are," as the carriage stopped. "Wake up, sleepy-head!"—to Pam—"you can get to bed as fast as you like now."

But even when Pam was in bed, Sylvia still paced up and down, waving her big fan.

"I'm too excited to sleep, you old dunderhead," she said. "I wish it was all to come over again."

"You will be tired in the morning, Sylvia."

"No, I shan't; I shall be as fresh as possible. I shall dream it all over again. There, wait till I've brushed my hair, and I'll let you go to sleep. Not that I can understand your wanting to sleep; you were just as keen about this as I was."

"Yes," said Pam, languidly.

"I'm downright disappointed in you. Don't you know I'd have enjoyed it all twice as much if you were enjoying it too? I'm glad papa was there; the glances of enjoyment he sent me from the high table were exhilarating. Wasn't it nice the way all those little round tables were set out? And didn't Vandaleur junior do his duty well as a host? By the way, wasn't it low of Trevithick not to come back after all?"

"I daresay there was some good reason."

"Then he ought to have said there was. It is very uncivil to papa, too, not to return on the date arranged, and not to write."

"He couldn't mean to be uncivil," said Pamela, faintly.

"I'll tell you what. If I hadn't eaten those old sweets he sent me at Christmas I'd fire them back at his head: wouldn't you his old violets if they weren't dead and gone?"

Pamela touched in her dark corner a little basket of withered violets, which, for reasons best known to herself, she had taken to bed with her.

"You are too impulsive, Sylvia," she said, stung out of her silence. "Why should Sir Anthony be uncivil or unkind? I know he meant to return to-night."

"So I heard him say," said Sylvia, cynically; "but I never mind those boys, Pam; they've no ballast."

"Oh, Sylvia! I'm sure Sir Anthony has plenty of ballast. There must be some explanation, and when we have heard it you'll be ashamed of your rash judgment."

"Not I, for if it isn't true of him, it's true of most youths of his age. Do you think his mother's at the bottom of it, Pam?"

"How should I know, Sylvia? What makes you think of her?"

"Well, from something he let fall one day, I guessed that she didn't want him to come here. Then he showed me her photograph in his album. She looked chock-full of pride and insolence. I believe a woman who looked like that would do anything."

"I should think Sir Anthony would know his own mind in the matter."

"I daresay, but she may have been up to some mischief. And talking of mothers makes me think of Glengall."

"Why should it, Sylvia?"

"Well, there was that old mother of his. Think of his hard years, poor dear! No prosperity would wipe out the traces. He is as anxious-looking as Pat, and Pat is the very image of Micky Morrissy, who is always six months in arrear with his rent, and expects a notice of eviction any day. I say, Pam"—suddenly—"would you marry Glengall?"

"Sylvia!"

"Would you? I know he's nearly as old as dad, and all that—but would you?"

"No, Sylvia."

"Well, then, I would. But he likes you better than me."

"He likes us both as his friend's little girls."

"I know; he'd never think of us in any other light. Still, if he liked me best, I'd make him think."

"How, Sylvia?"

"Why, I'd just ask him to marry me."

"He'd think you wanted the gold."

"That he wouldn't. It shows how little you know of him."

"Well, then, other people would."

"We shouldn't care about that."

"We? Who?"

"Glengall and I."

"Sylvia, you're talking as if you were really in earnest."

"So I am, but he likes you better than me. You ought to marry him, Pam."

But, to Sylvia's dismay, Pamela suddenly burst into tears.

"I shall never marry anyone," she cried amid her sobs.

"You poor dear old duffer, I was advising you for your good. But you're tired out. There, go asleep. I shan't take you to any more functions."

And Sylvia blew out the candle and jumped into bed. But Pamela, with the withered violets close to her, cried herself to sleep.