She turned shortly away, putting the letter in her pocket. Her face relapsed again, into what seemed its habitual look of gloom and discontent.
"He's like all the rest of the world," she thought, bitterly, "out of sight, out of mind. I was a fool to think he would remember me long. I only wonder Beatrix takes the trouble of writing to this dead-and-alive place. One thing is very certain—she won't do it long."
She returned for her parcels, and set out on her wet return walk home. Mr. Doolittle volunteered to escort her thither, but she made short work of him. Through the rain, through the slop, wet, cold, comfortless, the girl left the ugly town behind her, and came out on the lonely road that led along to the sea. Five minutes more, brought her in sight of her home—a forlorn house, standing bleak and bare on a cliff. One path led to it—another to the sands below. At the point where she must turn either way, Miss Darrell stood still and looked moodily up at the house.
"If I go there," she muttered, "she'll set me to hem the towels, or trim the bonnet, or make a pudding for dinner. It's wash day, and I know what that means in our house. I won't go—it's better out in the rain; the towels and the drab bonnet may go au diable, and my blessed stepmother with them, if it comes to that."
She turned sharply and took the path to the right. Half way down she came to a sort of projection in the cliff, partly sheltered from the rain by a clump of spruce-trees. Seating herself on this, with the grey sea sending its flying spray almost up in her face, she drew forth her letter, broke the seal, and read:
NEW YORK, March 13, 18—.
"DEAREST DITHY:—Just half-an-hour ago I came home from a splendid ball, the most splendid by far of the winter, and before one ray of all its brilliance fades from my frivolous mind, let me sit down and tell you all about it if I can.
"The ball was held at the De Rooyter house, up the avenue, in honor of their distinguished English guests, Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, Cheshire, and Sir Victor Catheron, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire. How grand the titles sound! My very pen expands as it writes those patrician names. Lady Helena. Oh, Dithy! how delicious it must be to be, 'My Lady!'
"What did I wear, you ask? Well, my dear, I wore a lovely trained green silk—gas-light green, you know, under white tulle, all looped up with trailing sprays of lily of the valley and grasses—ditto, ditto, in my hair, and just one pink, half-blown rose. A trying costume you say? Yes, I know it, but you see, the only beauty poor Trixy can claim is a tolerable pink and white complexion, and a decent head of light brown hair. So I carried it off—everyone says I really looked my very best, and—don't set this down to vanity dear—the gentlemen's eyes indorsed it. I danced all night, and here is where the rapture comes in, three times with the baronet. I can't say much for his waltzing, but he's delightful, Dithy—charming. Could a baronet be anything else? He talks with that delightful English accent, which it is impossible to imitate or describe—he is very young, about three-and-twenty, I should judge, and really (in that blonde English way) very handsome. His hair is very light—he has large, lovely, short-sighted blue eyes, and wears an eye-glass. Now, I think an eye-glass is distinguished looking in itself, and it is haut ton to be short sighted. Why are they in New York do I hear you say? Lady Helena was recommended a sea voyage for her health, and her nephew accompanied her. Lady Helena is not young nor beautiful, as you might imagine, but a fair, fat, and sixty, I should say, British matron. She is the daughter of the late Marquis of St Albans, and a widow, her husband having died some time ago. And they are immensely rich. IMMENSELY, Dithy! Capitals can't do justice to it. And of course all the young ladies last night were making a dead set at the young baronet Oh, Dithy—child, if he should only fall in love with me—with ME, and make me Lady Catheron, I believe I should just die of pure ecstasy (is that word spelled right?) like Lord Berleigh's bride in the story. Fancy yourself reading it in the papers:
"'On the ——th inst, by the Rev. Blank Blank, assisted by etc., etc., at the residence of the bride's father, Sir Victor Catheron, Baronet, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, England, to Beatrix Marie Stuart, only daughter of James Stuart, Esq., banker of Fifth avenue, New York. No Cards!