A Red Wallflower

Mrs. Dallas said nothing of this scheme at present to the young lady, though it comforted herself. Perhaps it would have comforted Betty too, whose hopes rested on the very faint possibility of another summer's gathering at Seaforth. That was a very doubtful possibility; the hope built upon it was vaporously unsubstantial. She debated with herself whether the best thing were not to take the first passable offer that should present itself, marry and settle down, and so deprive herself of the power of thinking about Pitt, and him of the fancy that she ever had thought about him. Poor girl, she had verified the truth of the word which speaks about going on hot coals; she had burned her feet. She had never done it before; she had played with a dozen men at different times, allowed them to come near enough to be looked at; dallied with them, discussed, and rejected, successively, without her own heart ever even coming in danger; as to danger to their's, that indeed had not been taken into consideration, or had not excited any scruple. Now, now, the fire bit her, and she could not stifle it; and a grave doubt came over her whether even that expedient of marriage might be found able to stifle it. She went away from Seaforth a few days after Pitt's departure, a sadder woman than she had come to it, though, I fear, scarce a wiser.

On her way to Washington she tarried a few days in New York; and there it chanced that she had a meeting which, in the young lady's then state of mind, had a tremendous interest for her.

Society in New York at that day was very little like society there now. Even granting that the same principles of human nature underlay its developments, the developments were different. Small companies, even of fashionable people, could come together for an evening; dancing, although loved and practised, did not quite exclude conversation; supper was a far less magnificent affair; and fashion itself was much more necessarily and universally dependent on the accessories of birth, breeding, and education, than is the case at present. It was known who everybody was; parvenus were few; and there was still a flavour left of old-world traditions and colonial antecedents. So, when Miss Frere was invited to one of the best houses in the city to spend the evening, she was not surprised to find only a moderate little company assembled, and dresses and appointments on an easy and unostentatious footing, which now is nearly unheard of. There was elegance enough, however, both in the dresses and persons of many of those present; and Betty was quite in her element, finding herself as usual surrounded by attentive and admiring eyes, and able to indulge her love of conversation; for this young lady liked talking better than dancing. Indeed, there was no dancing in the early part of the evening; it was rather a musical company, and Betty's favourite amusement was often interrupted; for the music was too good, and the people present too well-bred, to allow of that jumble of sounds musical and unmusical which is so distressing, and alas! not so rare.

Several bits of fine, old-fashioned music had been given, from Mozart and Beethoven and Handel; and Betty had got into full swing of conversation again, when a pause around her gave notice that another performer was taking her seat at the piano. Betty checked her speech with a little impulse of vexation, and cast her eyes across the room.

'Who is it now?' she asked.

There was a little murmur of question and answer, for the gentlemen immediately at hand did not know; then she was told, 'It is a Miss Gainsborough.'

'Gainsborough!' Betty's eyes grew large, and her face took a sudden gravity. 'What Gainsborough?'

Nobody knew. 'English, I believe,' somebody said.

All desire to talk died out of Betty's lips; she became as silent as the most rigid decorum could have demanded, and applied herself to listen, and of course those around her were becomingly silent also. What was the astonishment of them all, to hear the notes of a hymn, and then the hymn itself, sung by a sweet voice with very clear accent, so that every word was audible! The hymn was not known to Miss Frere; it was fine and striking; and the melody, also unfamiliar, was exceedingly simple. Everybody listened, that was manifest; it was more than the silence of politeness which reigned in the rooms until the last note was ended. And Betty listened more eagerly than anybody, and a strange thrill ran through her. The voice which sang the hymn was not finer, not so fine as many a one she had heard; it was thoroughly sweet and had a very full and rich tone; its power was only moderate. The peculiarity lay in the manner with which the meaning was breathed into the notes. Betty could not get rid of the fancy that it was a spirit singing, and not a woman. Simpler musical utterance she had never heard, nor any, in her life, that so went to the heart. She listened, and wondered as she listened what it was that so moved her. The voice was tender, pleading, joyous, triumphant. How anybody should dare sing such words in a mixed company, Betty could not conceive; yet she envied the singer; and heard with a strange twinge at her heart the words of the chorus, which was given with the most penetrating ring of truth —

'Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory be to God on high,
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises through the sky;
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory to the Father give:
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises, all that live!'

The hymn went on to offer Christ's salvation to all who would have it; and closed with a variation of the chorus, taken from the song of the redeemed in heaven, – 'Worthy is the Lamb that was slain.'

As sweet and free as the jubilant shout of a bird the notes rang; with a lift in them, however, which the unthinking creature neither knows nor can express. Betty's eye roved once or twice round the room during the singing to see how the song was taken by the rest of the company. All listened, but she could perceive that some were bored and some others shocked. Others looked curiously grave.

The music ceased and the singer rose. Nobody proposed that she should sing again.

'What do you think of the good taste of that?' one of Betty's cavaliers asked her softly.

'Oh, don't talk about good taste! Who is she?'

'I – really, I don't know – I believe somebody said she was a teacher somewhere. She has tried her hand on us, hasn't she?'

'A teacher!' Betty repeated the word, but gave no attention to the question. She was looking across the room at the musician, who was standing by the piano talking with a gentleman. The apartment was not so large but that she could see plainly, while it was large enough to save her from the charge of ill-bred staring. She saw a moderately tall figure, as straight as an Indian, with the head exquisitely set on the shoulders, the head itself covered with an abundance of pale brown hair, disposed at the back in a manner of careless grace which reminded Betty of a head of Sappho on an old gem in her possession. The face she could not see quite so well, for it was partly turned from her; Betty's attention centred on the figure and carriage. A pang of jealous rivalry shot through her as she looked. There was not a person in the room that carried her head so nobly, nor whose pose was so stately and graceful; yet, stately as it was, it had no air of proud self-consciousness, nor of pride at all; it was not that; it was simple, maidenly dignity, not dignity aped. Betty read so much, and rapidly read what else she could see. She saw that the figure she was admiring was dressed but indifferently; the black silk had certainly seen its best days, if it was not exactly shabby; no ornaments whatever were worn with it. The fashion of garments at that day was, as I have remarked, very trying to any but a good figure, while it certainly showed such a one to advantage. Betty knew her own figure could bear comparison with most; the one she was looking at would bear comparison with any. Miss Gainsborough was standing in the most absolute quiet, the arms crossed over one another, with no ornament but their whiteness.

'A good deal of aplomb there?' whispered one of Betty's attendants, who saw whither her eyes had gone.

'Aplomb!' repeated Betty. 'That is not aplomb!'

'Isn't it? Why not?'

'It is something else,' said Betty, eyeing still the figure she was commenting on. 'You don't speak of balance unless – how shall I put it? Don't you know what I mean?'

'No!' laughed her companion.

'You might save me the trouble of telling you, if you were clever. You know you do not speak of "balance," except – well, except where either the footing or the feet are somehow doubtful. You would not think of "balance" as belonging to a mountain.'

'A mountain!' said the other, looking over at Esther, and still laughing.

'Yes; I grant you there is not much in common between the two things; only that element of undisturbableness. Do you know Miss Gainsborough?'

'I have not the honour. I have never met her before.'

'I must know her. Who can introduce me?' And finding her hostess at this moment near her, Betty went on: 'Dear Mrs. Chatsworth, do take me over and introduce me to Miss Gainsborough! I am filled with admiration and curiosity. But first, who is she?'

'I really can tell you little. She is a great favourite of my friend

Miss Fairbairn; that is how I came to know her. She teaches in Mme.

Duval's school. She is English, I believe. Miss Fairbairn says she is very highly accomplished; and I believe it is true.'

'Well, please introduce me. I am dying to know her.'

The introduction was made; the gentleman who had been talking to Miss

Gainsborough withdrew; the two girls were left face to face.

Yes, what a face! thought Betty, as soon as it was turned upon her; and with every minute of their being together the feeling grew. Not like any face she had ever seen in her life, Betty decided; what the difference was it took longer to determine. Good features, with refinement in every line of them; a fair, delicate skin, matching the pale brown hair, Betty had seen as good repeatedly. What she had not seen was what attracted her. The brow, broad and intellectual, had a most beautiful repose upon it; and from under it looked forth upon Betty two glorious grey eyes, pure, grave, thoughtful, penetrating, sweet. Yet more than all the rest, perhaps, which struck Miss Frere, was an expression, in mouth and eyes both, which is seen on no faces but of those who have gone through discipline and have learned the habit of self-renunciation, endurance, and loving ministry.

The two girls sat down together at Betty's instance.

'Will you forgive me?' she said. 'I am a stranger, but I do want to ask you a question or two. May I? and will you hear me patiently? I see you will.'

The other made a courteous, half smiling sign of assent, not as if she were surprised. Betty noticed that.

'It is very bold, for a stranger,' she went on, making her observations while she spoke; 'but the thing is earnest with me, and I must seize my chance, if it is a chance. It has happened,' – she lowered her voice somewhat and her words came slower, – 'it has happened that I have been studying the subject of religion a good deal lately; it interests me; and I want to ask you, why did you sing that hymn?'

'That particular hymn?'

'No, no; I mean, why did you sing a hymn at all? It is not the usual thing, you know.'

'May I ask you a counter question? What should be the motive with which one sings, or does anything of the sort?'

'Motive? why, to please people, I suppose.'

'And you think my choice was not happy?'

'What does she ask me that for?' thought Betty; 'she knows, just as well as I do, what people thought of it. What is she up to?' But aloud she answered, —

'I think it was very happy, as regarded the choice of the hymn; it was peculiar, but very effective. My question meant, why did you sing a hymn at all?'

'I will tell you,' said the other. 'I do not know if you will understand me. I sang that, because I have given myself to Christ, and my voice must be used only as His servant.'