Thomsons, she returned to her post in the ante-room. There she stood, thinking or dreaming. She was startled back to actual life by a voice close to her.
One of the dancing young ladies had met with a misfortune. Her dress, of some gossamer material, had been looped up by nosegays of flowers, and one of these had fallen off in the dance, leaving her gown to trail. To repair this, she had begged her partner to bring her to the room where the assistants should have been. None were there but Ruth. "Shall I leave you?" asked the gentleman. "Is my absence necessary?" "Oh, no!" replied the lady; "a few stitches will set all to rights. Besides, I dare not enter that room by myself." So far she spoke sweetly and prettily.
But now she addressed Ruth. "Make haste--don't keep me an hour!" And her voice became cold and authoritative. She was very pretty, with long dark ringlets and sparkling black eyes.
These had struck Ruth in the hasty glance she had taken, before she knelt down to her task. She also saw that the gentleman was young and elegant. "Oh, that lovely galop! how I long to dance to it! Will it never be done?
What a frightful time you are taking; and I'm dying to return in time for this galop!" By way of showing a pretty, childlike impatience, she began to beat time with her feet to the spirited air the band was playing. Ruth could not darn the rent in her dress with this continual motion, and she looked up to remonstrate. As she threw her head back for this purpose, she caught the eye of the gentleman who was standing by; it was so expressive of amusement at the airs and graces of his pretty partner, that Ruth was infected by the feeling, and had to bend her face down to conceal the smile that mantled there. But not before he had seen it; and not before his attention had been thereby drawn to consider the kneeling figure, that, habited in black up to the throat, with the noble head bent down to the occupation in which she was engaged, formed such a contrast to the flippant, bright, artificial girl, who sat to be served with an air as haughty as a queen on her throne. "Oh, Mr. Bellingham! I'm ashamed to detain you so long. I had no idea any one could have spent So much time over a little tear No wonder Mrs. Mason charges so much for dressmaking, if her workwomen are so slow." It was meant to be witty, but Mr. Bellingham looked grave. He saw the scarlet colour of annoyance flush to that beautiful cheek, which was partially presented to him. He took a candle from the table, and held it so that Ruth had more light. She did not look up to thank him, for she felt ashamed that he should have seen the smile which she had caught from him. "I am sorry I have been so long, ma'am," said she gently, as she finished her work; "I was afraid it might tear out again if I did not do it carefully."She rose. "I would rather have had it torn than have missed that charming galop,"said the young lady, shaking out her dress as a bird shakes its plumage.
"Shall we go, Mr. Bellingham?" looking up at him. He was surprised that she gave no word or sign of thanks to the assistant.
He took up a camellia that some one had left on the table. "Allow me, Miss Duncombe, to give this, in your name, to this young lady, as thanks for her dexterous help." "Oh, of course," said she. Ruth received the flower silently, but with a grave, modest motion of her head. They had gone, and she was once more alone. Presently her companions returned. "What was the matter with Miss Duncombe? Did she come here?" asked they. "Only her lace dress was torn, and I mended it," answered Ruth quickly. "Did Mr. Bellingham come with her?--they say he's going to be married to her. Did he come, Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, and relapsed into silence. Mr. Bellingham danced on gaily and merrily through the night, and fitted with Miss Duncombe as he thought good. But he looked often to the side-door where the milliner's apprentices stood; and once he recognised the tall, slight figure, and the rich auburn hair of the girl in black; and then his eye sought for the camellia. It was there, snowy white in her bosom.
And he danced on more gaily than ever. The cold grey dawn was drearily lighting up the streets when Mrs. Mason and her company returned home. The lamps were extinguished, yet the shutters of the shops and dwelling-houses were not opened. All sounds had an echo unheard by day. One or two houseless beggars sat on doorsteps, and shivering, slept with heads bowed on their knees, or resting against the cold hard support afforded by the wall. Ruth felt as if a dream had melted away, and she were once more in the actual world. How long it would be, even in the most favourable chance, before she should again enter the shire-hall, or hear a band of music, or even see again those bright, happy people--as much without any semblance of care or woe as if they belonged to another race of beings! Had they ever to deny themselves a wish, much less a want? Literally and figuratively their lives seemed to wander through flowery pleasure-paths. Here was cold, biting, mid-winter for her, and such as her--for those poor beggars almost a season of death; but to Miss Duncombe and her companions, a happy, merry time--when flowers still bloomed, and fires crackled, and comforts and luxuries were piled around them like fairy gifts. What did they know of the meaning of the word, so terrific to the poor? What was winter to them?
