Margaret felt deeply disturbed. It was something very new to her to see this phase in her cousin’s relationship toward her, and the very fact that she felt in her heart no response to these signs of tenderness, distressed her. She knew the time must come when she would have to deny and thwart him, and the idea gave her pain. If she had hitherto doubted that he really loved her, she doubted it no longer. That look of his, as he lifted her hand to kiss it, made doubt impossible. It was no cool, cousinly affection; it was a passionate emotion that looked out from his eyes.
She felt relieved when the carriage stopped at General Gaston’s door, and Alan, after handing her out, took leave, to be driven to his hotel to dine and dress. The remembrance of that look of his would not be shaken off, however, and she appeared before Mrs. Gaston in a somewhat pensive mood.
Cousin Eugenia was delighted to see her, and declared she had missed her unendurably. She informed her, hurriedly, that they were all well, and that Louis was in New York, having been there ever since the day after her own departure for Baltimore; and then they fell to discussing Margaret’s costume for the party.
“My white silk is all ready,” said Margaret, somewhat listlessly. “I have not worn it yet, you know. It is high, and perhaps better suited to a dinner, but I like it, and suppose it will do.”
“That splendid old lace would make it elegant enough for any occasion,” said Mrs. Gaston; “and as to the high neck, somehow that style suits you, in spite of the eminent presentability of your neck and arms. But go now to your room and take a good nap. Ring for a cup of tea when you get up. I want you to look very fresh to-night.”
When Margaret entered her apartment, she caught sight of a letter on her dressing-table, and immediately her brows contracted. She knew the hand. It was from Charley Somers, and, to tell the truth, this young gentleman was somewhat in disgrace. He had some friends in Washington, and, a short time back, he had written to Margaret to ask her to allow him to come on and see her, with the ostensible purpose of visiting these friends. Margaret had written at once, and distinctly forbidden him to come. The mere suggestion made her indignant. It had the air of asserting a claim when no shadow of such existed. She supposed she had finally settled the matter, and what had he to say in this letter? She tore it open hastily and ran her eyes down the length of its pages; when she reached the end she threw it from her, with a motion of angry indignation. Mr. Somers wrote to say that the tone of her letter had made him feel so uneasy that, even at the risk of incurring her displeasure, he was coming on to Washington. Margaret hastily pulled out her watch. There was yet time to catch the Southern mail. She threw off her hat and wraps, and sitting down at her desk scratched off a few hurried lines, saying to Mr. Somers, that he might come to Washington or not, exactly as it suited his pleasure, but forbidding him, in plain terms, to call upon her in the event of his doing so. Without pausing to read it over, she addressed and sealed the letter, and rang for a servant to post it.
CHAPTER XIII.
WHEN Miss Trevennon, dressed for the ball, descended to join her cousin that memorable December evening, she looked undeniably lovely, and so Mrs. Gaston admitted to herself with supreme satisfaction. The young girl’s tall beauty was superbly displayed by this rather severe costume—with its heavy, gleaming drapery falling about her, white and plain. The flounces of rich lace made a splendid trimming for the long skirt, which trailed behind her in a graceful, shimmering mass, and the pointed body outlined to perfection her round and pliant waist. The dress was cut high, and a fall of the lovely lace finished the throat and sleeves.