The daylight had faded, and moon and stars were rising, as they rejoined their companions at the parsonage.
CHAPTER IX
AFTER-THOUGHTS
Throughout the evening the extravagant gayety of the merry party continued. At supper, people did not return to their sober senses; dancing went on far into the night, and there was as little want of healths and other incitements to drinking as at noon. Amid a great deal of boisterous mirth, the last good-nights were exchanged after midnight, and the guests conducted to their various apartments. Alide was tripping through the silent hall, when she heard her name uttered in a suppressed voice, and, turning round, she saw her mother standing at her own door, beckoning to her to come in. She obeyed swiftly and noiselessly: preoccupied with joyous thoughts, she did not remark the serious, almost sad, expression of her mother's face.
"I have a word to say to you before you sleep," said Madame Duroc, seating herself on a couch and motioning Alide to a low bench at her feet. "I am afraid I must give you pain," she went on, gently caressing the golden little head at her knees. "I had thought to keep you still a child for awhile yet with me; but no, to-night I must speak to you as a woman, and let you know the grave significance of a life that has already begun in earnest. Alide, your conduct to-day has been very displeasing to me: beyond the limits of decorum and of courtesy to your old friends, you have evinced your preference for this young man Goethe, who has ingratiated himself so suddenly into your father's heart and into our family circle. It is now only a little over a month that you have known him; you are not giddy or thoughtless like some of your companions, but you are infatuated by the charm of his appearance and address. A word is sufficient, my child, for one so sensible and docile as you. Let this day be the last that you distinguish this stranger by so much kindness. Your fancy has been kindled, your imagination excited; but go to your room, examine yourself duly, pray to your heavenly Father for guidance and discretion, and try to stifle at once so vain a sentiment before it develops into something that may occasion a life-trouble."
She paused, but Alide did not stir or speak: she was conscious of a strange sort of double existence as she sat with her head buried in her mother's lap; she was the happy, fortunate Alide, Goethe's beloved, and she was the wayward child to be reproved and guided by the warning words of her elders. Seeing her so still, Madame Duroc was alarmed lest the effect of a reprimand had been too harsh upon such a sensitive temperament.
"Alide," she whispered, tenderly, "do not be so much overcome. I have only spoken now because I did not wish to leave it too late; nothing is lost as yet."
"Oh, mamma," said Alide, upturning suddenly a face neither blushing nor tearful, but smiling, trustful, and composed, "you are very, very good to me, but you do not understand: it is not shame that I feel, it is pride and joy and happiness. I love him!"
"My child, you do not know what you are saying!" cried Madame Duroc; "you do not know what those words mean. You cannot realize what disgrace it is for one of our sex to take the initiative in such a matter as this. You have not recognized his power, my poor, confiding child; the whole world is open to one of his force and genius. He will despise the choicest gifts your simple heart can proffer him; he will——"
"Oh, mamma, hush!" interrupted Alide, springing to her feet. "It is you who do not know him, who do not know me: we are already betrothed."
"Betrothed!" exclaimed Madame Duroc, sinking back in her seat.