“Better talk to Tom Barton, then. See, he is asking her to dance,” was Will Ransom’s reply, and glancing where Gertie sat, Godfrey saw Tom bending before the child, who, remembering the insult on the night of the party, coolly declined the honor intended her without offering an excuse. But Tom understood her, and after standing an awkward moment and regarding her intently, he said:
“Miss Gertie, you are right to refuse me unless I apologize for my rudeness the other night. I was drunk, to speak plain, and did not know what I was doing. I beg your pardon, and by and by if I ask you to dance I hope you will not refuse.”
Tom could be very agreeable and polite, and in spite of his fault he was a favorite with many, and when he spoke so frankly to Gertie she felt that she forgave him, and promised to join him in the next dance if he liked. Gertie did not lack for partners that night, and what was best of all, they were from the “crême de la crême” of the town. Will Ransom twice, Robert Macpherson twice, Tom Barton once, and at last Godfrey himself, who had only danced the first set in order to get the thing going, he said. It was the Lancers, Gertie’s favorite, and Godfrey led her to a conspicuous place, and all through the dance felt a thrill of pride in the graceful creature, who seemed to float rather than walk through the different changes.
A little apart Edith stood, watching the child, wondering at her skill. With a sign to Godfrey she made him understand that he was to bring Gertie to her when the dance was ended.
“Who taught you to dance?” she asked, as she looked down upon the sparkling face.
“I had a teacher in London two quarters,” was Gertie’s reply, and then as her hand was claimed again she glided away, leaving Edith to watch and wonder and try to recall, if possible, the face or the expression of which Gertie reminded her.
It was very gay at Schuyler Hill that night, for as the evening advanced the stiffness which had at first characterized the strangers wore away, and those who did not dance joined in the games which were played in an adjoining room, and Miss Rossiter, in her lone chamber, corked her ears with cotton to shut out the noise, which was far more harsh and discordant because it came from what she termed the “canaille.” Financially, too, the Sociable was a great success, for after the colonel had added his donation in the shape of a “twenty,” it was found that they had raised seventy dollars, and that the melodeon was sure. Had it not been, the colonel would have paid the balance rather than open his doors again, for the affair was not to his taste, and he was glad when the last guest had said good-night and his house was cleared of them all. He did not like church sociables, and his daughters did not like them, and Mrs. Tiffe did not like them, though there was one comfort, that worthy matron said—“They ate up all the dry cake left from the party,” and she congratulated herself upon having two fresh loaves of sponge left as she locked up her store-room and silver, and retired for the night.
Gertie was too much excited to sleep, and long after her return home she sat and talked of the Sociable and what she had seen, and when at last she laid her head upon her pillow it was with the conviction that she never could be as happy again as she had been that night at Schuyler Hill, dancing the Lancers with Godfrey.
CHAPTER XXXII.
MRS. ROGERS SPEAKS HER MIND.
