On Christmas morning, Emma complained of a cold and a sharp pain in her chest. She did not venture to church, as it was a bitterly bleak day, but nursed herself up for the evening, declaring that in a snug brougham, with furs and a foot-warmer, she could brave Greenland itself. Mrs. Gabb and family were also spending the evening abroad.
“Hearing as you was dining and sleeping at the Abbey, ma’am, I take the liberty of leaving you,” she explained. (It was not the first liberty she had taken.) “I’ll have everything ready—candles and coal and hot-water—to last till half-past seven. We—Gabb and me and the children and Annie—are invited to my sister’s for six o’clock, and she lives a good bit the other side of the town. But, if it will inconvenience you, I’ll leave Annie to help you to dress, or anything.”
“No, no; not on any account.” Emma assured her that we could manage perfectly. “Please do not trouble about us,” she added, “but just see to the lights and fire. We will turn down the lamp before we leave.”
“There is nothing in the house for breakfast. But I suppose it won’t be required. You won’t be back till late in the forenoon?”
To which Emma smilingly assented.
As Emma believed that this festivity would be merely the forerunner of many, she took great pains with my dress, was most fastidious about the arrangement of my hair and the fit of my gloves, and put a finishing touch to my toilet in the shape of a curious old native necklet, made of amethysts and real pearls.
At last we were ready—all save our cloaks. Emma looked wonderfully pretty—her color was so brilliant, her eyes shone—the light of other days was in her face. Excitement and anticipation had thrown her into a fever of restlessness; it seemed to her active brain that so very much—in fact, all my future—was to hinge upon this eventful evening. If Lady Hildegarde (who was devoted to young people, and extremely fond of society) took a fancy to me, the thing was done—I was launched. If not, there was, I’m sure she firmly believed, an end of everything. I was doomed, and for life, to social extinction and obscurity.
We sat waiting, with merely the blinds down, so that we could easily scan the street. It was a bright moonlight night, and there was a sharp frost. The lamp was sputtering and blinking and making itself extremely unpleasant for lack of wick.
“We will turn it out,” I said, “and light the candles. There are only two small bits, but the carriage will be here immediately—in fact, I hear it now.”