’Twas throwing words away, for still
The little maid would have her will.
Wordsworth.
A week before the wedding Mr. Stanley arrived, and as Ada had been invited to join a family party at the house of Charles Ingleby’s sister, Catharine took the liberty of inviting Mr. Stanley on her own account, for she was determined to begin operations at once. She had deliberated for some time whether or not to apprize Ada of the important arrival; at last, it was decided in the negative, and as the decision had cost the impetuous Catharine a fearful exercise of self-denial, she repaid herself by hurrying off her mother, lover, and protégé, half an hour before the time appointed. She might as well have spared herself the trouble, as no Ada made her appearance, and it was not until the evening had almost passed away that Catharine learned from their hostess, Mrs. Howard, that Ada had excused herself early that morning, upon plea of a pre-engagement.
This was too impertinent of Ada, and Catharine resolved, early the next morning to go over and tell her so. The Somerses always spent their winters in town, and as a few squares only separated the friends, Catharine was soon at the door of Mr. Somers’ house, ringing the bell with the vehemence of a postman. The well-bred servant who opened the door, looked surprised when he found that it was Miss Ashton who had nearly broken his bell-wire; but as Miss Ashton was a privileged belle herself, and had been running tame about Mr. Somers’ house ever since he could remember, he stepped back respectfully, while she passed unannounced into the sitting-room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Somers, where is Ada?” asked she, taking off her bonnet.
“You will find her in the library, my dear,” replied Mrs. Somers, and away flew Catharine, with the easy familiarity of one whose welcome is unquestionable. She was prepared to heap abuse upon the head of the offending Ada, but when she flung open the door, she had not the heart to find fault with any thing so pretty.
Her blouse of rich Cashmere was fastened around the waist by a cord and tassel, its loose sleeves lined with crimson silk, were looped back so as to contrast with the snow-white cambric of the under sleeve; and the dainty little collar that encircled her white throat was fastened by a very small cameo brooch. Her dark hair was drawn over her ears à la comtesse, and the edge of its large twisted coronal, was just visible above one of the prettiest heads in the world. Ada had been poring, with rapture, over Jean Paul’s apostrophe to an old maid. She had found an advocate, and her large orbs were luminous with the enthusiasm of a mind that has just found, mirrored in another, the image of its own thoughts; and she looked so fair, so fresh, so any thing but like a student, that Catharine forgot her offences, and could only exclaim:
“Ada, you are radiant with beauty this morning. So should a woman look who has just parted from her lover. But you! you might as well be a mummy three thousand years old, as the beautiful girl you are.”
“Thank you,” said Ada quietly, while Catharine rattled on.