Margaret drew a low chair to the sofa, and took her work; "are you suffering in your head?" she asked Blanche, in a gentle voice.
"No, not much; I'm glad you are come down," said she. "It will be somebody to talk to; that is a very pretty pattern for a plain collar. I like the black studs down the front. Do you waltz?" But here the recollection of having waltzed with Lieutenant Watkins overcame her, and she became rather hysterical. Mrs. Somerton scolded her, Blanche got angry, and then order was restored. Mrs. Somerton took Margaret to the window, and whispered to her the state of the case, and then Blanche called out to her, mother and scolded her for having told Margaret when she wanted to tell her all about it herself. Margaret turning her eyes full of wonder from one to the other, could scarcely comprehend that Blanche was suffering from a disappointment; she contrasted the total desolation of her own feelings, with the frivolous annoyance that the other seemed to endure, and could understand nothing of the case.
Quiet was again restored. Mrs. Somerton plied her worsted work. Margaret netted in silence. Blanche, lying on the sofa, was eating French chocolate. Presently Mrs. Somerton began to count aloud the stitches in the bunch of grapes she was working, "thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine."
A burst of crying from Blanche, louder than anything Margaret had heard, except from a baby; Mrs. Somerton had inadvertently named the number of Mr. Watkins's regiment.
The fresh scolding, fresh sobs, and, at last, a glass of sal-volatile, tranquillised her spirits for the present.
It must be admitted that such scenes were rather fatiguing to a young girl in bad health, and suffering deeply from the reality of which this was but the shadow.
She learned, however, to set some value upon her own power of self-command. She could not help feeling that the unrestrained sorrow of Blanche lost in dignity what it gained in publicity.
Mason knew all about it; and frequently alluded to poor Miss Somerton with pity; and to Mr. Watkins with all the violence which a waiting-woman is pretty sure to feel towards a man who has thwarted a young lady in her laudable endeavours to get married.
In two or three days Margaret was happy to find that Blanche could talk of waltzing without a sigh; and her mamma might safely count threads from thirty to forty without awakening any painful reflections.
But their ensued another annoyance to poor Margaret. Whenever she was alone with Blanche, which was the greatest part of the day, Mr. Watkins was the one topic of conversation.