When Jessie was nineteen her Mother gave a large party, inviting most of the young lady’s school friends, also a number of Charlie’s fellow-students, besides the Rector of the church and his wife and a few of the neighbors who had always been friendly to Mrs. McClintock, although having their own ideas regarding her pretensions. All went merry as a marriage bell, and they beguiled the time with music, whist, bezique, and like recreative amusements, after which supper was announced, and the party sat down to a spread such as few of them had ever been partakers before, and all served in the most elegant style.
The viands having been thoroughly discussed, the Rector rose and proposed the health of the young lady in whose honor they were then assembled, and in a highly moral speech wished her many happy returns, and all the joys this world (and also the next) can afford. The toast was honored with acclamation, and then one of the guests stood up and proposed “the health of Captain and Mrs. McClintock.”
A damper was thrown suddenly on the whole company. Every one seemed to feel embarrassed, and though no one dared to look at his neighbor, and the toast was immediately drank by all, yet there came a peculiar feeling over each person present, as if some spiritualistic influence were at work restraining their speech and laughter, aye and even forbidding them to breathe freely.
For a time the silence remained unbroken. At length Mrs. McClintock motioned to Jessie to rise, thus giving the signal for a general departure to the drawing-room. Here the music was again brought into requisition, and a few of the young people enjoyed themselves with a game of casino, but the hilarity of the early part of the evening was conspicuously absent, those assembled taking an early leave and departing homeward. The gentleman who had unwittingly worked on the feelings of the remainder of the guests felt that there was something oppressive in the atmosphere, and tried to elicit an explanation from a neighbor; but he could get no reply excepting a tongue thrust into that gentleman’s cheek as much as to say—“You’ve put your foot in it, old fellow,” and a significant squeeze of the left arm near the elbow. He had essayed a solo of the harp, and, unfortunately had struck the one cord [not chord] which was out of tune.
Mrs. McClintock preserved an even demeanor throughout the entire evening; indeed, it is questionable if one of the whole party (the young people excepted) there, was one so fully self-possessed; and she had such command over her facial muscles that she bid her guests adieu with a smile as gracious as that with which she had received them. She gave no more parties, however, but, confined herself to inviting a few of her most intimate acquaintances to tea or an informal dinner, to which they were ever ready to accept an invitation; as, whatever might be the antecedents of the McClintocks, they were certainly refined and elegant people, and kept the best table in the city. In time the old gentleman went the way of all flesh, leaving Mrs. M. independent in every respect. She continued to pass for some time as a grass widow, but after a few months she coolly inserted in the Montreal fit papers the following:—“At Calcutta, on the 18th ult., Captain Charles McClintock, in the 56th year of his age.” Then she went into deep mourning, the children also dressing in mourning and refusing to go into society for a time. In about eighteen months after they donned their ordinary attire, and, as many of those now forming the circle known as the “upper ten” did not know, and others did not care to remember, anything concerning their past history, they were received with open arms, being young, accomplished, and, best of all, tolerably wealthy.
Jessie is now married to a wealthy dry goods merchant, and one of the leaders of fashionable society. Charlie is making headway as a lawyer, but, having an independent allowance, does not exert himself very much. The old lady lives pretty much to herself, and, it is said, not unfrequently takes a glass of Curacoa or Moraschino to drown unpleasant reflections. Let us, however, before sitting in judgment upon her, put ourselves in her place, and consider if we would have done half as well (morally) under the circumstances. Although a disobedient daughter, she has proved herself a true wife till shamefully deserted, and a self-denying and tender-hearted mother, who, though giving herself up to shame for their sake, kept her children from every breath of even scandalous report, and placed them as well-educated and respectable members of society. At such a one let only he who is without guilt among us cast a stone.
CHAPTER XIV. — The Unfortunate Sailor.
Among the many thousand pretty girls that might be seen any fine afternoon walking down the shady side of Buchanan Street, Glasgow, few would be found possessing more attractive features and pleasing expression than Agnes Malcolm. Not that she was the most beautiful girl in Glasgow, for Agnes was hardly what one would call a beauty; but there was a something in her face that made it particularly attractive, and caused every passer-by involuntarily to turn and look after her, although, were the pedestrian cross-questioned as to what he found to admire in the young lady, he would have been puzzled what to reply. Agnes had regular features, good hazel eyes, but not unusually bright ones, a high intellectual forehead, and tresses of a light auburn hue; her cheeks were soft as peaches and as delicately tinted, and when she smiled, which was often, she displayed a complete set of teeth for which no dentist had ever received a fee. Her sister Alice was the acknowledged belle of the circle in which the Malcolm family revolved, and was already of a much more decided type, but Agnes had a frank, lovable expression of countenance that brightened everywhere she went like a sunbeam, and although she was not particularly witty (being indeed rather reserved and shy in her manner), yet she had such a sweet voice, and talked so naturally and with such a lack of affectation, that it was a pleasure to hold converse with her.