Pauline felt suddenly shy. As a rule she was not remarkable for this quality. She had a certain pretty assurance, and never, as her sisters expressed it, lost her head; but now her principal desire was to creep into her shell, not to answer the inane remarks made by the young men of the party, and on no account to allow them to put their arms round her waist and carry her round in the dance. Her face grew first red, then pale. She realized that she was very tired, and more than ever did she wish that she had never yielded to Nancy’s enticements.
Patty and Briar, on the other hand, were enjoying themselves very much. They had done this very naughty thing on account of Pauline; they were glad they were helping her—their consciences did not trouble them in the least. They leant upon Pauline more than they were themselves aware of. If trouble came, she would of course shield them. At present there was no trouble. A picnic in the middle of the night, miles away from home, was the most exciting thing they had ever imagined. It beat the joys of the birthday hollow. They were quite aware that by-and-by there would perhaps be repentance, but who could think of repentance now, with the feast—and such a feast!—on the board, and Fiddler Joe making such exquisite, mad, intoxicating music (it caused your feet to twitch so that they could scarcely keep still), and that floor as smooth as glass, and the summer moon entering through a chink in the big tent, and the gayly dressed people, and all the merry voices? Oh, it was an intoxicating time!
So Briar danced with the first man who asked her, and Patty did likewise. They danced with the ease and lightness and grace of children in whom the accomplishment is born. Nancy’s clumsy efforts, and the clumsy efforts of her friends, were nowhere beside them.
“That little girl,” said a rough-headed farmer, pointing to Patty as he spoke, “dances like the foam of the sea. I never saw anything like it in all my life.”
“But why doesn’t the elder Miss Dale dance?” asked Farmer King.
He had noticed that she was declining one partner after another.
“Come, Miss Paulie,” he said, going to her side: “this won’t do. May I have the pleasure of a barn-dance with you, miss? You can’t refuse me.”
Pauline did find it impossible to refuse the good man. He took her hand and led her out, and presently she, too, was being whirled round and round. But her sense of weariness increased, and the heavy pain and bewilderment at her heart grew worse. Oh, why had she come? Once the farmer, looking at her, saw tears in her eyes. In a moment he stopped dancing. He took her hand and led her to the other side of the tent.
“You dance beautifully, miss,” he said; “not quite so light as your little sister, but I am proud to be seen with you, miss, all the same. And now, if I may make so bold, what is the matter with you, Miss Pauline Dale?”
“Nothing,” answered Pauline.