Its echoes ’mid that inner world—would shake
To dust our tenement of mortal clay.
PEARL
BY KATHLEEN O’MEARA, AUTHOR OF “IZA’S STORY,” “A SALON IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE,” “ARE YOU MY WIFE?” ETC.
CHAPTER I.
THE REDACRES.
The Redacres were at home on Saturday evening—at home in the pleasant, simple way that used to be the fashion in Paris some twenty, or even ten, years ago. They lived in an entresol in the Faubourg St. Honoré and their friends flocked to them in troops regularly every Saturday, crowding the spacious, old-fashioned salon, where there was always a cordial welcome to be had, cheerful conversation, excellent tea, and a blazing hearth when the weather was cold. It was bitterly cold on this January evening when I beg to introduce you to the Redacre family. The head of the house, Colonel Redacre, was a retired cavalry officer, who had lost his left leg at Balaklava; Mrs. Redacre had been a beautiful, and was still a lovely, woman; there were two sons who were at Eton, and two daughters, both at home, Pearl and Polly.
The colonel had spent ten years in India, and his wife had become so acclimatized to those burning skies that she could not bear the climate of England on leaving them. She was, indeed, a chronic invalid, and this was why they lived abroad. At least, Colonel Redacre always gave his wife’s health as a reason for not living in England, and took no small share of credit to himself for making this sacrifice of personal choice to his duty as a husband. When old friends, who knew how strong were his English predilections, pitied him for having to reside in France, he would heave a sigh, and, looking towards his wife reclining on her cushions, say: “Yes, yes; but she’s worth it, bless her!” And nothing was prettier than the smile with which Mrs. Redacre would thank him for this remark when it was made in her hearing, as it generally was.
It was past nine, and there were a good many people in the salon. Some of the ladies were in full evening dress, having turned in for an hour before going to some larger assembly; but the greater number were in plain morning dresses. There was a whist-table in a far corner of the large, square room, and the players were deep in their game, the partners being Mrs. Monteagle and the Comte de Kerbec, the Comtesse de Kerbec and Mr. Kingspring.
Polly Redacre was singing, accompanied by her sister Pearl. Polly was a beauty. The most fastidious critic could not have found a fault in her face; the lines and the coloring were alike perfect. And yet, when you had paid this inevitable tribute of admiration to the chiselled features and brilliant complexion, to the harmonious grace of her movements, your eyes turned to Pearl’s face and lingered there, riveted by some more potent spell than mere beauty. You never dreamed of analyzing Pearl’s face; you enjoyed it, and you said involuntarily, “What a sweet girl! I should like to talk to her. What a spirit there is in her eyes! what fun in those dimples!” And your own face broke into sympathetic smiles. There was a close family likeness between the sisters; both were rather above the medium height, and both were very fair. Polly’s eyes were deep blue, almond-shaped, and black-fringed. Pearl’s were brown, bright and limpid as a Scotch pebble; as to their shape, you never gave that a thought; you only saw that, whether the light in them was soft, mischievous, or merry, they were good to look at.
The song was over.