“For their sakes—those who loved and believed in us—and for the babies; we will acquit ourselves bravely, sister. There are times when work that we must do—systematic and sustained effort for others, is God’s best cure for soul-morbidness. I know!”
The others exchanged a silent look over the bright head bowed on Emma’s shoulder—a glance of blended pity and indignation. Then, Blanche pulled back the glass door of her flower-case with needless rattle, and busied herself with a pendant of glossy ivy.
“Another year I will devise some such plan as this for showing off my feathers—something like an aviary—see if I don’t!”
Not one of the three ever referred, in so many words, to the fact that handsome, accomplished Harding Walford had not entered the house in more than a month; that his visits had slackened perceptibly in frequency and length since it became generally known that Mr. Hiller would never recover. He had been Imogen’s most devoted attendant for almost a year. Her family had not doubted what would be her answer to the declaration they saw was pending. The world reported that he had broken a positive engagement, and ran no risk in so doing, since she had neither father nor brother to defend her rights. But there was not, on this account, meted out to him a formidable share of censure. He was “the best judge of his own affairs.” He was not rich. Had he been, he might still, with reason, hesitate to take a step that would entail upon him such a weight of responsibility as would a connection with the no longer prosperous Hillers, even had not Imogen’s eccentric conduct of late, in banding with her sisters “to undermine the distinctions of SOCIETY,” been ample excuse for his defection. He was wise in his generation, and the applause showered upon him who doeth good unto himself, was his due. SOCIETY always pays this sort of debt.
Only—Imogen had believed in him; and the shivering of her trust beyond the hope of repair, was very hard to bear. So much more cruel than the thought of being the target of gossip’s shafts, that the latter rattled unheeded against her armor of proud rectitude that day, and ever afterward. Desertion had stung its worst when the man she loved had looked for the last time, with love-full eyes, into hers.
Customers did come; singly, in twos and threes, and, a little past midday, when they had discussed the Hillers’ affairs comfortably over their luncheon-tables, in droves. They gathered in the spacious rooms, as Mrs. Hiller had predicted, not so much to buy or order, as to criticise and wonder. The most comic part of the exhibition to fun-loving, dauntless Blanche was that so many were disconcerted at finding that they were not singular in their curiosity and the resolve to gratify it. Hardly second to this was the ludicrous uncertainty on the part of most of the visitors as to the proper line of conduct to be pursued in greeting the gentlewomen so abruptly transformed into trades-people whom they were here to scrutinize. That the cordial yet respectful familiarity of equals was not to be thought of, now, was the dominant impression with the majority. Yet few were so indurated in worldliness, or so barefaced in the display of it as to attempt to treat their late social compeers exactly as they would “quite common persons.” The result was a combination of stiffness and patronage totally at variance with the carriage of well-bred ease, flavored with hauteur, they adjudged to be “the thing in the circumstances.”
The proprietors of the elegant apartments were mistresses of themselves and the position from the beginning. With a single eye to business, they adroitly evaded all allusion to the novelty of the scene; received the compliments to their establishments and their wares with smiling composure; showed the stock and took orders with professional dexterity, and entirely ignored glances and veiled hints of commiseration.
“Have you no assistants?” queried more than one.
“At present, none,” Imogen returned, quietly. “Should our business require it, we shall procure help, keeping everything, of course, under our own personal supervision.”
“It is not an untried field to us, you know,” subjoined Blanche, in her blithest tone. “Much practice has taught us swiftness and the artistic sleight of hand that distinguishes the work of the modiste from that of the amateur.”