“I don’t know what you mean by having my chance—and I don’t want any chance,” said Hester, in a flush of shame and indignation; but Ellen put her down with a wave of her gloved hand and arm, all tinkling with bangles.
“Of course you don’t know anything about it,” she said, “an unmarried girl! We don’t want you to know. Your mother and I will talk about that; but you can understand that a nice dance in a nice house like ours will be something pleasant. And you would be there not just like a visitor, but like one of the family, and get a good deal of attention, and as many partners as ever you liked.”
“Of course, Ellen, of course,” cried Mrs. John. “I am sure I understand you. It would be very nice for Hester. At her age every girl likes a little gaiety, and in my position I have never been able to give it to her. It was very different when my husband was alive, when we were in the White House. I am sure I have never grudged it to you, but it made a great difference. I was not brought up to this sort of thing. I had my balls, and my parties, as many as could be wished, when I was Hester’s age. If her poor papa had lived, and we had stayed in the White House, she would have held a very different position. It gives me a little prick, you will understand, to think of Hester wanting anybody to be kind to her; but still, as it is so, and as you are her relation, I never could object. You will find no objection from me.”
“No, I should think not,” cried Ellen, throwing back her warm coat. It was at the time when sealskins were rare, when they were just “coming in,” and Mrs. John looked at it with admiration. She did not ask, as the Miss Vernon-Ridgways did, why this little minx should have everything; but she remembered with a little regret the days when she too had everything that a young woman could desire, and wondered, with a little flutter at her heart, whether when Hester married she would have a sealskin and a victoria, and all the other crowns of happiness. She looked with something of a pathetic look at her daughter. Ah! if she could but see Hester as Ellen was!
Meanwhile Hester was elevating her young head as was natural, in special scorn of the “chance” which her cousin meant to secure for her, and in defiance altogether of the scheme, which nevertheless (for she was but human and nineteen, and the prospect of a dance every week took away her breath) moved her in spite of herself.
“When I was a child,” Hester said, “when you first came to see us, Cousin Ellen, you said you must see a great deal of me, that I must go to your house, that you and Harry would take me out, that I should have a share in your pleasures. Perhaps my mother and you don’t remember—but I do. How I used to look out for you every morning; how I used to watch at the window, thinking they will surely come or send, or take some notice today. I was very young, you know, and believed everything, and wished so much to drive about and to go to parties. But you never came.”
“To think she should remember all that!” cried Ellen, a little abashed. “Of course I didn’t. Why, you were only a child. One said so to please you; but how can you suppose one meant anything? What could I have done with you then—a little thing among lots of people? Why, you wouldn’t have been allowed to come! It would have been bad for you. You would have heard things you oughtn’t to hear. You wouldn’t have let her come, would you, Mrs. John?”
“Certainly not, my dear,” said Mrs. John, promptly. To tell the truth, it was she who had complained the most though it was Hester who had been most indignant. She forgot this, however, in the new interest of the moment. “It would never have done,” she said, with all sincerity. “Your cousin, of course, only spoke to please you, Hester. I never could have permitted you, a little thing at your lessons, to plunge into pleasure at that age.”
“Then why—” cried Hester, open-mouthed; but when she had got so far she paused. What was the use of saying any more? She looked at them both with her large brown eyes, full of light and wonder, and a little indignation and a little scorn, then stopped and laughed, and changed the subject. “When I go to Cousin Catherine’s,” she said, “which I never do when I can help it, we stand in a corner all the evening, my mother and I. We are thankful when anyone speaks to us—the curate’s daughters and the Miss Reynoldses and we—There is never anybody to take us in to supper. All the Redborough people sweep past while mamma stands waiting; and then perhaps some gentleman who has been down once before takes pity, and says, ‘Haven’t you been down to supper, Mrs. Vernon? Dear me! then let me take you.’ You will please to remember that my mother is Mrs. Vernon, Ellen, and not Mrs. John.”
“I only say it for—short,” said Ellen, apologetically; “and how can I help what happens at Aunt Catherine’s? I don’t go in for her ways. I don’t mean to do as she does. Why do you talk of Aunt Catherine to me?”
“It is only to let you see that I will not be treated so,” the girl said with indignation. “If you think I will go to your house like that, just because you are a relation, I won’t, Ellen; and you had better understand this before we begin.”
“What a spitfire
