She was interrupted by the sound of footfalls and smothered voices on the piazza without.
“I would not be an impertinent listener,” she said, “but I recognize Charlotte’s voice. Something of interest to you, Mr. Style, I presume, for I hear your name.”
The footsteps drew nearer, and the voices grew more clear and audible.
“Now we are alone, Elizabeth,” said Charlotte, “I must tell you my troubles. I had every reason to believe Mr. Style was in love with me—mamma says I had—and I have no doubt he was on the eve of a declaration, which would have made me the proudest and happiest creature in the world, when Mrs. Tower brought about the advent of that minx of a low-bred Jessie Lincoln, whose true place in the world you have been good enough to disclose. How I do despise her! I know Mrs. Tower got her here on purpose to foil me. They say she manages admirably to keep them together, and that Mistress Jessie is ready to dog him everywhere, and throw herself eternally in his way. And then that saucy Emilie Jones, my worst enemy, sustains her in it all, and helps it forward. I don’t know what ridiculous things that bewitched mantuamaker wont do to raise herself into genteel society, and save any more mantuamaking. But I declare, Elizabeth, I shall die without him! What shall I do? How shall I manage it? Come, you know?” Charlotte’s voice began to tremble as if she were in tears.
A crimson blush—but it was the blush of indignant innocence—burnt Jessie’s face, neck and arms. She rose to go, but Mr. Style, with contempt and disgust, and utter indignation battling with discretion for the mastery in every lineament of his face, gently drew her to a seat again.
“Do?” responded the heartless and unprincipled Elizabeth, “why, let me think. He does somehow seem to be a prize worth capturing, he is so stately and handsome. I am not sure, Lottie, but I shall come into the ranks to contend for him myself, ha! ha! ha! At least you could afford me the pleasure of a flirtation, just while I stay! I would not snap my finger, however, for a little obscure country parson for a husband! Well, I guess you must manage to get some story into currency, that will give her an impulse back to her patterns and fashion-plates, and make him a chance to forget such a very meek and meaching face, and sanctimonious demeanor; but mind you, don’t mention your authority. I shall be terribly angry if you do, for these sewing-girls get possession of a great many things they might circulate to one’s disadvantage you know—and they are so touchy and jealous, they are really a very mischievous class of persons. But let me tell you a fact. I lost a splendid bracelet that cost me forty dollars at one dress-maker’s! I will not mention her name, but you can make your own inferences!” And Elizabeth Tyler and Charlotte Varley maliciously giggled.
“I may draw mine too, may I not?” said Emilie Jones, as she sprang to her feet, with dashing eyes and indignation burning in every feature. Thrusting aside the drapery, she presented herself on the piazza, with an air as imperial as a second Zenobia defending the honor of her Palmyra. But the offending parties had hastily retreated, and mingled with the other guests who were returning from a stroll in the beautiful garden, which was gayly enough illuminated to be the trysting-place of Houries.
“Be calm, Jessie—Miss Lincoln,” said Mr. Style, as he drew her unresisting arm within his own. “Such malice always works ruin to those who cherish it.”
Jessie’s wounded heart fluttered strangely. The cruel and unprovoked injustice she suffered, awoke her pride, and made her stronger in body and spirit, while the mingling of the champion and the lover in Mr. Style’s tone and manner reassured her, and restored her self-possession. He placed her by the side of Mrs. Tower, who was chatting agreeably, wholly ignorant that any thing had occurred to disturb or distress Jessie, then attached himself to one and another circle, as he saw their entertainment flagging, and at length he found himself by the side of Miss Charlotte and her friend.
“Really, Mr. Style,” said Charlotte, as she laid her small, fair hand on his arm, and looked up languidly in his face; “you have been so choice of yourself or so democratic to-night, I have hardly seen you at all. Now it is your duty as a knight-errant, to make yourself agreeable to my dearest friend, Miss Tyler.”