A DANCE

It is impossible to love and to be wise.

Bacon.

Niente piú tosto se secca che lagrime.

“This is what we must do about it,” said Kilian, as we sat around the breakfast-table. “If you are still in a humor for the dance to-night, I will order Tom and Jerry to be brought up at once, and Miss Pauline and I will go out and deliver all the invitations.”

“Of which there are about five,” said Charlotte Benson. “You can spare Tom and Jerry and send a small boy.”

“But what if I had rather go myself?” he said, “and Miss Pauline needs the air. Now there are let me see,” and he began to count up the dancing inhabitants of the neighborhood.

“Will you write notes or shall we leave a verbal message at each door?”

“Oh leave a verbal message by all means,” said Charlotte Benson, a little sharply. “It won’t be quite en règle, as Miss d’Estree doesn’t know the people, but so unconventional and fresh.”

“I do know them,” I retorted, much annoyed, “conventionally at least: for they have all called upon me, though I didn’t see them all. But I shall be very glad if you will take my place.”

“Oh, thank you; I wasn’t moving an amendment for that end. We have made our arrangements for the morning, irrespective of the delivery of cards.”

“I shall have time to write the notes first, if Sophie would rather have notes sent,” said Henrietta, who wrote a good hand and was very fond of writing people’s notes for them.

“Oh, thank you, dear; yes, perhaps it would be best, and save Pauline and Kilian trouble.”

So Henrietta went grandly away to write her little notes: a very large ship on a very small voyage.

“And how about your music, Sophie,” said Kilian, who was anxious to have all business matters settled relating to the evening.

“Well, I suppose you had better go for the music-teacher from the village; he plays very well for dancing, and it is a mercy to me and to poor Henrietta, who would have to be pinned to the piano for the evening, if we didn’t have him.”

“As to that, I thought we had a music-teacher of our own: can’t your German be made of any practical account? Or is he only to be looked at and revered for his great powers?”

“I didn’t engage Mr. Langenau to play for us to dance,” said Sophie.

“Nor to lounge about the parlor every evening either,” muttered Kilian, pushing away his cup of coffee.

“Now, Mr. Kilian, pray don’t let our admiration of the tutor drive you into any bitterness of feeling,” cried Charlotte Benson, who had been treasuring up a store of little slights from Kilian. “You know he can’t be blamed for it, poor man.”

Kilian was so much annoyed that he did not trust himself to answer, but rose from the table, and asked me if I would drive with him in half an hour.

During the drive, he exclaimed angrily that Charlotte Benson had a tongue that would drive a man to suicide if he came in hearing of it daily. “Why, if she were as beautiful as a goddess, I could never love her. Depend upon it, she’ll never get a husband, Miss Pauline.”

“Some men like to be scolded, I have heard,” I said.

“Well then, if you ever stumble upon one that does, just call me and I’ll run and fetch him Charlotte Benson.”

The morning was lovely, and I had much pleasure in the drive, though I had not gone with any idea of enjoying it. It was very exhilarating to drive so fast as Kilian always drove; and Kilian himself always amused me and made me feel at ease. We were very companionable; and though I could not understand how young ladies could make a hero of him, and fancy that they loved him, I could quite understand how they should find him delightful and amusing.

We delivered our notes, at more than one place, into the hands of those to whom they were addressed, and had many pleasant talks at the piazza steps with young ladies whom I had not known before. Then we went to the village and engaged the music-teacher, stopped at the “store” and left some orders, and drove to the Post-Office to see if there were letters.

“Haven’t we had a nice morning!” I exclaimed simply, as we drove up to the gate.

“Capital,” said Kilian. “I’m afraid it’s been the best part of the day. I wish I had any assurance that the German would be half as pleasant. I beg your pardon, I don’t mean your surly Teuton, but the dance that we propose to-night; I wish it had another name. Confound it! there he is ahead of us. (I don’t mean the dance this time, you see.) I wish he’d turn back and open the gate for us. Holloa there!”

Kilian would not have dared call out, if the boys had not been with their tutor. It was one o’clock, and they were coming from the farm-house back to dinner. At the call they all turned; Mr. Langenau stood still, and told Charles to go back and open the gate.

Kilian frowned; he didn’t like to see his nephew ordered to do anything by this unpleasant German. While we were waiting for the opening of the gate, the tutor walked on toward the house with Benny. As we passed them, Benny called out, “Stop, Uncle Kilian, stop, and take me in.” Benny never was denied anything, so we stopped and Mr. Langenau lifted him up in front of us. He bowed without speaking, and Benny was the orator of the occasion.

“You looked as if you were having such a nice time, I thought I’d like to come.”

“Well, we were,” said Kilian, with a laugh, and then we drove on rapidly.

At the tea-table Mr. Langenau said to Sophie as he rose to go away: “Mrs. Hollenbeck, if there is any service I can render you this evening at the piano, I shall be very glad if you will let me know.”

Mrs. Hollenbeck thanked him with cordiality, but told him of the provision that had been made.

“But you will dance, Mr. Langenau,” cried Mary Leighton, “we need dancing-men terribly, you know. Promise me you’ll dance.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte Benson, “he has promised me.” Mr. Langenau bowed low; he got wonderfully through these awkward situations. As he left the room Kilian said in a tone loud enough for us, but not for him, to hear, “The Lowders have a nice young gardener; hadn’t we better send to see if he can’t come this evening?”

“Kilian, that’s going a little too far,” said Richard in a displeased manner; “as long as the boys’ tutor conducts himself like a gentleman, he deserves to be treated like a gentleman.”

“Ah, Paterfamilias, thank you. Yes, I’ll think of it,” and Kilian proposed that we should leave the table, as we all seemed to have appeased our appetites and nothing but civil war could come of staying any longer.

It was understood we had not much time to dress: but when I came down-stairs, none of the others had appeared. Richard met me in the hall: he had been rather stern to me all day, but his manner quite softened as he stood beside me under the hall-lamp. That was the result of my lovely white mull, with its mint of Valenciennes.

“You haven’t any flowers,” he said. Heavens! who’d have thought he’d ever have spoken in such a tone again, after the cup of tea I poured out for the tutor. “Let’s go and see if we can’t find some in these vases that are fit, for I suppose the garden’s robbed.”

“Yes,” I said, following him, quite pleased. For I could not bear to have him angry with me. I was really fond of him, dear, old Richard; and I looked so happy that I have no doubt he thought more of it than he ought. He pulled all the pretty vases in the parlor to pieces: (Charlotte and Henrietta and his sister had arranged them with such care!) and made me a bouquet of ferns, and tea-roses, and lovely, lovely heliotrope. I begged him to stop, but he went on till the flowers were all arranged and tied together, and no one came down-stairs till the spoilage was complete.

All this time Mr. Langenau was in the library restless, pretending to read a book. I saw him as we passed the door, but did not look again. Presently we heard the sound of wheels.

“There,” said Richard, feeling the weight of hospitality upon him, “Sophie isn’t down. How like her!”

But at the last moment, to save appearances, Sophie came down the stairs and went into the parlor: indolent, favored Sophie, who always came out right when things looked most against it.

In a little while the empty rooms were peopled. Dress improved the young ladies of the house very much, and the young ladies who came were some of them quite pretty: The gentlemen seemed to me very tiresome and not at all good-looking. Richard was quite a king among them, with his square shoulders, and his tawny moustache, and his blue eyes.

There were not quite gentlemen enough, and Mrs. Hollenbeck fluttered into the library to hunt up Mr. Langenau, and he presently came out with her. He was dressed with more care than usual, and suitably for evening: he had the vive attentive manner that is such a contrast to most young men in this country: everybody looked at him and wondered who he was. The music-teacher was playing vigorously, and so, before the German was arranged, several impetuous souls flew away in waltzes up and down the room. The parlor was a very large room. It had originally been two rooms, but had been thrown into one, as some pillars and a slight arch testified. The ceiling was rather low, but the many windows which opened on the piazza, and the unusual size of the room, made it very pretty for a dance. Mary Leighton and the tutor were dancing; somebody was talking to me, but I only saw that.

“How well he dances,” I heard some one exclaim.

I’m afraid it must have been Richard whom I forgot to answer just before: for I saw him twist his yellow moustache into his mouth and bite it; a bad sign with him.

Kilian was to lead with Mary Leighton, and he came up to where we stood, and said to Richard, “I suppose you have Miss Pauline for your partner?”

Now I had been very unhappy for some time, dreading the moment, but there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. So I said, “I hope you are not counting upon me for dancing? You know I cannot dance!”

“Not dance!” cried Kilian, in amazement; “why, I never dreamed of that.”

“You don’t like it, Pauline?” said Richard, looking at me.

“Like it!” I said, impatiently. “Why, I don’t know how; who did I ever have to dance with in Varick-street? Ann Coddle or old Peter? And Uncle Leonard never thought of such a thing as sending me to school.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before, and we wouldn’t have bothered about this stupid dance,” said Kilian; but I think he didn’t mean it, for he enjoyed dancing very much.

Richard had to go away, for though he hated it, he was needed, as they had not gentlemen enough.

The one or two persons who had been introduced to me, on going to join the dance, also expressed regret. Even Mrs. Hollenbeck came up, and said how sorry she was: she had supposed I danced.

But they all went away, and I was left by one of the furthest windows with a tiresome old man, who didn’t dance either, because his legs weren’t strong enough, and who talked and talked till I asked him not to; which he didn’t seem to like. But to have to talk, with the noise of the music, and the stir, of the dancing, and the whirl that is always going on in such a room, is penance. I told him it made my head ache, and besides I couldn’t hear, and so at last he went away, and I was left alone.

Sometimes in pauses of the dance Richard came up to me, and sometimes Kilian; but it had the effect of making me more uncomfortable, for it made everybody turn and look at me. Bye and bye I stole away and went on the piazza, and looked in where no one could see me. I could not go away entirely, for I was fascinated by the dance. I longed so to be dancing, and had such bitter feelings because I never had been taught. After I left the room, I could see Richard was uncomfortable; he looked often at the door, and was not very attentive to his partner. No one else seemed to miss me. Mr. Langenau talked constantly to Miss Lowder, with whom he had been dancing, and never looked once toward where I had been sitting. A long time after, when they had been dancing hours it seemed to me Miss Lowder seemed to feel faint or tired, and Mr. Langenau came out with her, and took her up-stairs to the dressing-room.

Ashamed to be seen looking in at the window, I ran into the library and sat down. There was a student’s lamp upon the table, but the room had no other light. I sat leaning back in a large chair by the table, with my bouquet in my lap, buttoning and unbuttoning absently my long white gloves. In a moment I heard Mr. Langenau come down-stairs alone: he had left Miss Lowder in the dressing-room to rest there: he came directly toward the library.

He came half-way in the door, then paused. “May I speak to you?” he said slowly, fixing his eyes on mine. “I seem to be the only one who is forbidden, of those who have offended you and of those who have not.”

“No one has said what you have,” I said very faintly.

In an instant he was standing beside me, with one hand resting on the table.

“Will you listen to me,” he said, bending a little toward me and speaking in a quick, low voice, “I did say what you have a right to resent; but I said it in a moment when I was not master of my words. I had just heard something that made me doubt my senses: and my only thought was how to save myself, and not to show how I was staggered by it. I am a proud man, and it is hard to tell you this but I cannot bear this coldness from you and I ask you to forgive me”

His eyes, his voice, had all their unconquerable influence upon me. I bent over Richard’s poor flowers, and pulled them to pieces while I tried to speak. There was a silence, during which he must have heard the loud beating of my heart, I think: at last he spoke again in a lower voice, “Will you not be kind, and say that we are friends once more?”

I said something that was inaudible to him, and he stooped a little nearer me to catch it. I made a great effort and commanded my voice and said, very low? but with an attempt to speak lightly, “You have not made it any better, but I will forget it.”

He caught my hand for one instant, then let it go as suddenly. And neither of us could speak.

There is no position more false and trying than a woman’s, when she is told in this way that a man loves her, and yet has not been told it; when she must seem not to see what she would be an idiot not to see; when he can say what he pleases and she must seem to hear only so much. I did no better and no worse than most women of my years would have done. At last the silence (which did not seem a silence to me, it was so full of new and conflicting thoughts,) was broken by the recommencement of the music in the other room. He had taken a book in his hands and was turning over its pages restlessly.

“Why have you not danced?” he said at last, in a voice that still showed agitation.

“I have not danced because I can’t, because I never have been taught.”

“You? not taught? it seems incredible. But let me teach you. Will you? Teach you! you would dance by intention. And would love it madly as I did years ago. Come with me, will you?”

“Oh, no,” I said, half frightened, shrinking back, “I am not going to dance ever.”

“Perhaps that is as well,” he said in a low tone, meeting my eye for an instant, and telling me by that sudden brilliant gleam from his, that then he would be spared the pain of ever seeing me dancing with another.

“But let me teach you something,” he said after a moment. “Let me teach you German will you?” He sank down in a chair by the table, and leaning forward, repeated his question eagerly.

“Oh, yes, I should like it so much if .”

“If if what? If it could be arranged without frightening and embarrassing you, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if you are not more afraid of being frightened and embarrassed than of any other earthly trial. There are worse things that come to us, Miss d’Estree. But I will arrange about the German, and you need have no terror. How will I arrange? No matter when Mrs. Hollenbeck asks you to join a class in German, you will join it, will you not?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You promise?”

“Oh, anything.”

“Anything? take care. I may fill up a check for thousands, if you give a blank.”

“I didn’t give a blank; anything about German’s what I meant.”

“Ah, that’s safer, but not half so generous. And yet you’re one who might be generous, I think.”

“But tell me about the German class.”

“I’ve nothing to tell you about it,” he answered, “only that you’ve promised to learn.”

“But where are we to say our lessons, and what books are we to Study?”

“Would you like to say a lesson now and get one step in advance of all the others?”

“O yes! I shall need at least as much grace as that.”

“Then say this after me: ’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN, WAS SIE MICH LEHREN.’ Begin. ’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN’ ”

“’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN’ but what does it mean?”

“Oh, that is not important. Learn it first. Can you not trust me? ’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN, WAS SIE MICH LEHREN.’”

“’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN’ ah, you look as if my pronunciation were not good.”

“I was not thinking of that; you pronounce very well. ’ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN ’”

“ICH WILL ALLES LERNEN, WAS SIE MICH LEHREN: there now, tell me what it means.”

“Not until you learn it; encore une fois.”

I said it after him again and again, but when I attempted it alone, I made invariably some error.

“Let me write it for you,” he said, and pulling a book from his pocket, tore out a leaf and wrote the sentence on it. “There keep the paper and study it, and say it to me in the morning.”

I have the paper still; long years have passed: it is only a crumpled little yellow fragment; but the world would be poorer and emptier to me if it were destroyed.

I had quite mastered the sentence, saying it after him word for word, and held the slip of paper in my hand, when I heard steps in the hall. I knew Richard’s step very well, and gave a little start. Mr. Langenau frowned, and his manner changed, as I half rose from my seat, and as quickly sank back in it again.

“Is it that you lack courage?” he said, looking at me keenly.

“I don’t know what I lack,” I cried, bending down my head to hide my flushed face; “but I hate to be scolded and have scenes.”

“But who has a right to scold you and to make a scene?”

“Nobody: only everybody does it all the same.”

“Everybody, I suppose, means Mr. Richard Vandermarck, who is frowning at you this moment from the hall.”

“And it means you who are frowning at me this moment from your seat.”

All this time Richard had been standing in the hall; but now he walked slowly away. I felt sure he had given me up. The people began to come out of the parlor, and I felt ready to cry with vexation, when I thought that they would again be talking about me. It was true, I am afraid, that I lacked courage.

“You want me to go away?” he said, fixing his eyes intently on me.

“O yes, if you only would,” I said naively.

He looked so white and angry when he rose, that I sprang up and put out my hand to stop him, and said hurriedly, “I only meant that is I should think you would understand without my telling you. A woman cannot bear to have people talk about her, and know who she likes and who she doesn’t. It kills me to have people talk about me. I’m not used to society I don’t know what is right but I don’t think I am afraid I ought not to have stayed in here and talked to you away from all the others. It’s that that makes me so uncomfortable. That, and Richard too. For I know he doesn’t like to have me pleased with any one. Do not go away angry with me. I don’t see why you do not understand.”

My incoherent little speech had brought him to his senses.

“I am not going away angry,” he said in a low voice, “I will promise not to speak to you again to-night. Only remember that I have feelings as well as Mr. Richard Vandermarck.”

In a moment more I was alone. Richard did not come near me, nor seem to notice me, as he passed through the hall. Presently Mr. Eugene Whitney came in, and I was very glad to see him.

“Won’t you take me to walk on the piazza?” I asked, for everybody else was walking there. He was only too happy; and so the evening ended commonplace enough.