“You know what I mean, Harry. Why do you make my meaning worse than it is?”
“Good-bye, Yanna! I am too miserable to split hairs over a meaning.”
He was really petted and humiliated, and even a lover in this mood finds it hard to be just and kind. Without another word, he went to the stable for his horse and buggy; and Yanna, watching at the window, saw him drive furiously down the avenue, without giving her any further recognition. For the young man—little accustomed to disappointment of any kind, and still less to a want of personal appreciation—had become angry at his failure. Though he had not permitted himself consciously to make any account of his superior social position, it had influenced his 76 estimate of his probable success; and yet he was forced to acknowledge that his wealth or social position had never been taken into account at all. His acceptance or refusal had hung entirely upon a moral question—the expediency or inexpediency of a secret engagement. Altogether, he felt the situation to have been most unpleasant.
“Nothing has come of it,” he thought, “but an assurance of Yanna’s love; and what is the use of love that will not sacrifice anything for me?” And as he looked at this question only in its relation to Yanna’s sacrificing for him, he did not arrive at any just conception of his own duty in the circumstances.
Mrs. Filmer had been covertly watching for his return; and she was annoyed to find that he went directly to his own apartments, and did not reappear that night. Rose grumbled at his carelessness, and once she went to his door and asked him to come down and look at some of the arrangements; but he refused in the most positive manner. It was altogether a cross, unpleasant evening; the servants were quarreling in every part of the house; Rose was worrying over Harry’s indifference; and Mrs. Filmer had a slight sick headache, and said more unkind things than she permitted herself when in good health. Mr. Filmer did not improve the general tone, for he sat quiet, in a provoking mood, watching the burning hickory logs, and listening to the fretful remarks flying between the mistress and her servants, and the mother and her daughter. Their plain speech and honest opinions amused him; and he complacently remarked: “My dear Emma, this little household discussion is very interesting to me. I always have said, ‘Let us be 77 sincere and truthful with each other, no matter how unpleasant we may make ourselves.’”
In the morning the storm was over, and there was a clearer atmosphere in the house. But Harry did not appear at the breakfast table. “It is a shame!” said Rose, with great sincerity. “If Harry was against the ball, he ought to have said so at the beginning. I wonder what is the matter with him!”
Mrs. Filmer knew what was the matter, and she privately gave Yanna the blame of all her worries. But for Yanna, Harry would have been enthusiastically busy about all the necessary details which were so annoying to her. She did not love Yanna for her interference; but she was a modern lady, and she was able to keep her dislike to herself. About ten o’clock Yanna arrived at Filmer Hall, and Rose, who had seen her approach, went to the door to meet her.
“Come upstairs, Yanna,” she cried. “Come to my room, and I will show you something.” She was all impatience and excitement, and Yanna’s white face and serious manner did not impress her. With a little flourish, she flung wide the door of her sitting-room, and pointing to a garment lying upon the couch, cried:
“Is not that a dress worth living for, Yanna? It quite expresses me! Look at the opal tints in the silk, and the soft lace, and the pearl trimming! And in the greenhouse, there is the one flower possible to wear with it—a large, soft, feathery, white chrysanthemum! I love chrysanthemums! they give you an impression of poetic melancholy; they have the sadness of an autumn sunset! What do you think of the dress, Yanna?”
“It is beautiful.”