Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/122

KNOWING ONE'S OWN MIND. 127 passed all those evenings, when she had remarked his absence from houses at which he had been formerly a favorite guest? The thought was entirely new. Lilian was young, but pretty——so pretty.

“A glorious morning, Miss Courtenaye,” said a voice at her elbow; and Mr. Goddard, looking unstylish and uncommonly plain, accommodated his steps to hers.

“Good-morning,” she returned, rather coolly, for Mr. Goddard looked so out of place on that animated promenade, that she did not feel in the mood to talk. solemn sentiment, especially with that merry couple just in sight.

Frank was always clever and entertaining; and there he was, seemingly as much occupied with Miss Dashwood, and forgetful of her as if she had been married a dozen years. It was trying, certainly; but she managed to pass them a few minutes afterward, looking rosy, flattered, and entirely content with her escort.

Mr. Goddard was shaken off with some difficulty by Blanche declaring that she had an important assignation with her milliner. He departed regretfully, but Blanche was not left long alone. As she entered the maze of hats, caps, and bonnets, a young woman with a great deal of pannier, quillings, and rustling silk, accosted her with eagerness,

“Why, Blanche, you are the very person I want to see; do come over here and help me to choose my bonnet for Hortense Bryce’s reception.”

Blanche walked soberly to the-table, where a smiling Frenchwoman was exhibiting bonnet after bonnet to catch the capricious notice of the lively purchaser. Miss Etta regarded the frail structures with discriminating eyes, keeping up an incessant chatter to Blanche.

“Oh! never, madam!” as madam held up a captivating creation of brightest Metternich green, “don’t suggest such a thing for a moment. There is only one complexion in town that could stand that with equanimity—Lilian Dashwood’s; that reminds me, Blanche, they say Frank Stuyvesant has eyes and ears for no one else. I am glad the redoubtable Frank is caught at last—they used to accuse you, didn’t they? There, madam, that pink; I think I like that better than any, only bring those roses a little further forward. Blanche, there is Nina Levering—how she does get herself up! Come, let us hurry out before she sees us.”

They descended the steps. As they reached the side-walk, as fate would have it, Mr. Stuyvesant and Miss Dashwood arrived at that point simultaneously with themselves. Miss Etta instantly had something that she must say to Lilian, so they stepped on in front, leaving Blanche to a ¢ete-a-tete with Frank.

“You are very gay,” he said, turning his eyes fixedly upon her.

“Oh, yes!” she said, with a laugh. “I have been going incessantly for the last month, and I am so excessively fond of going out.”

“Yes,” he replied, with bitterness. “You are only contented with constant adulation from all; the dullness of accepting the homage of but one heart is not much to your taste,”

Blanche turned away her face, whilst her eyes filled with tears; but words, light and mocking, rose to her lips.

“Good-morning, Lilian; good-morning, Mr. Stuyvesant,” and Miss Etta retook Blanche’s arm to cross the street.

“Stop, Etta, there’s mamma; I will call the coachman and make her take usin. One does feel so desperately tired in the morning.”

That evening Blanche could find nothing to interest her. She played one or two of her favorite waltzes of Chopin, but her fingers refused to pay their due attention; her embroidery got into a snarl; her book was stupid beyond measure; and she could find no other occupation than that of listening nervously for the door-bell, which rang, however, only to admit her father. At last came a sharp pull. Blanche looked up eagerly as the drawing-room door opened, but it was only her brother Jack who entered.

“Ho, Blanche!” he cried, patting her shoulder, “you look pale, little girl. Shall I take you to drive tomorrow with my blood-grays?”

“Oh, do, Jack! We will go to Central Park,”

“And call for Lilian Dashwood on the way,” added her brother.

“Violets, Lilian?” cried Blanche, the next morning, suspiciously stopping to bend over a Sevres dish as she followed her brother through the parlor of her cousin’s house.

Her pretty cousin greeted Jack first—Blanche was sure it was to avoid answering her.

During the drive she mused bitterly on the inconstancy of man, and the utter folly of looking for truth, or enduring affection from one of the masculine gender.

“Of course, he gave her the violets, and it was only a month ago that they were all for me, my especial flower, he called them. Not that it makes the least difference to me to whom Mr. Stuyvesant gives his attentions—but one likes to believe in a person’s profession.” Then her conscience asked her if it was not natural and right that Frank should cease to care for her.