Meanwhile, in a distant part of the city, in a dwelling far more humble than that of Hugo Warren, another family group was assembled, father, mother, daughter—all, save old Aunt Peggy, who, thankful for a home which saved her from the almshouse, performed willingly a menial’s part, bearing patiently the whims of the mother, and the caprices of the daughter, the latter of whom proved a most tyrannical and exacting mistress. Tall, dignified, and rather aristocratic in her bearing, Adelaide Huntington was called handsome by many, and admired by those who failed to see the treachery hidden in her large, dark eyes, or the constant effort she made to seem what she was not. To be noticed by those whose position in life was far above her own, was her aim, and when the envied Alice Warren extended to her family an invitation to be present at her birthday party, her delight was unbounded.
She would go, of course, she said, “and her father would go with her, and she must have a new dress, too, even if it took every cent they had.”
The dress was purchased, and though it was only a simple white muslin, it well became the queenly form of the haughty Adelaide, who, when her toilet was completed, asked her father if “he did not think she would overshadow the diminutive Alice?”
“I don’t see why there should be this difference between us,” she continued, as her father made no answer. “Here I must be poor all my life, while she will be rich, unless Mr. Warren chances to fail——”
“Which he will do before three days are passed,” dropped involuntarily from the lips of Mr. Huntington.
Then with a wild, startled look he grasped his daughter’s arm, exclaiming:
“Forget what I just said—breathe not a word of it to any one, for Heaven knows I would help it if I could. But it is too late—too late.”
It was in vain that Adelaide and her mother sought an explanation of these strange words. Mr. Huntington would give none, and in unbroken silence he accompanied his daughter to the house of Mr. Warren.
Very cordially Alice welcomed the young girl striving in various ways to relieve her from the embarrassment she would naturally feel at finding herself among so many strangers. And Adelaide was ill at ease, for the spirit of jealous envy in her heart whispered to her of slight and insult where none were intended; whispered, too, that her muslin dress which, at home with her mother and Aunt Peggy to admire, had been so beautiful, was nothing, compared with the soft, flowing robes of Alice Warren, whose polite attentions she construed into a kind of patronizing pity exceedingly annoying to one of her proud nature. Then, as she remembered her father’s words, she thought, “We may be equals yet. I wonder what he meant? I mean to ask him again,” and passing through the crowded apartments she came to the little ante-room, where all the evening her father had been sitting—a hard, dark look upon his face, and his eyes bent on the floor, as if for him that festive scene possessed no interest.
“Father,” she said, but he made her no reply; he did not even know that she was standing at his side.