“Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping—oh dear!”
“Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes, better than you,” said Isabel.
“That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good, while I am only able to wish to do either.”
“I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and look pretty.”
“That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary—my perfect uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful—living in a small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs; having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh, above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life, instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them necessary to my comfort.”
“She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life, every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.”
“It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted, and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for such objects?”
“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives. You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as quietly domestic as I am, Dora.”
“I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be quiet.”
“That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I can not wish for you!”