In the long glass which faced them from floor to ceiling, Mrs. Fenchurch beheld the full-length reflections of her niece and herself; she, in a rough tweed gown, spare, weather-beaten, long-nosed, elderly; the girl, in a cheap blue serge, slim, erect, beautiful as the morning—and with all her best days to come! A sharp spasm of anger and jealousy darted through her mind. Alas! alas! Her own best days had gone by. She, Dorothy Fenchurch, was entering on the season of the sere and yellow leaf—and was conscious of an agonising self-pity.
“Oh yes, it’s about your ball dress. Here,” tearing open her parcel, “are the materials—they came to-day.”
It was undeniably a heavy and matronly brocade that she unfolded, and as for the green satin ribbon, whatever it might look at night, it was hideous by day!
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, “so you got the brocade after all—and I have sent for the white crêpe.”
“You have sent for the white crêpe—without consulting me!” repeated Mrs. Fenchurch, speaking as it were in capital letters.
“Well, you see uncle gave me the money to spend as I pleased. The crêpe has come too, and is really lovely. May I show it to you?”
“No, I don’t want to see it! I am amazed at your daring to do such a thing as order a dress without my permission. One thing I can promise you, and that is, that it won’t be made up! You go to the ball—if you go at all—in a gown of my selection.”
“Then, I think,” and the girl became very red, “that I will stay at home. Yes—I should look too ridiculous.”
“You will look exactly as I choose!” declared Mrs. Fenchurch, suddenly losing her self-control; the smouldering resentment which had been gathering for weeks now bursting into flames; a strange, wild fury, all the long-pent-up grievances, annoyances, jealousies, finding outlet at last. It must be confessed that just at the moment, she was suffering torture from neuralgia in her face—the result of long rides in piercing cold, or damp evenings, when the day’s sport was over.
“May I ask if you understand your position here? Do you realise that but for me, you would be now out earning your bread as a nursery governess—are you aware, that ever since you were born, your father’s people have never given you a single penny, and that all the burden of your maintenance has fallen on us—or rather, I should say, on me? And here, instead of being grateful for a happy home, and for every luxury and indulgence, you are setting yourself up, and saying what you will wear, and defying me to my face. Go to your room—I hate the sight of you!”