That Stick ...

So as they were at Westhaven, perforce, they would make up for it, Christmas Eve was spent in a tumult of preparation for the diversions of the next day.  Mrs. Morton had two maids now, but to her they were still ‘gals,’ not to be trusted with the more delicate cookeries, and Ida was fully engaged in the adornment of the room and herself, while Constance ran about and helped both, and got more thanks from her mother than her sister.

Ida was to end the day with a dance at a friend’s house, but she was not desirous of taking Constance with her, having been accustomed to treat her as a mere child, and Constance, though not devoid of a wish for amusement, knew that her uncle and aunt would have taken her to church, where she would have enjoyed the festal service.

Her mother would not let her go out in the dark alone, and was too tired to go with her, so she had to stay at home, while Herbert disported himself elsewhere, and Constance underwent another cross-examination over the photographs she had brought p. 154home, but Mrs. Morton was never unkind when alone with her, and she had all the natural delight of youth in relating her adventures.  Mrs. Morton, however, showed offence at not having been sent for instead of Mrs. Bury.—‘So much less of a relation,’ and Constance found herself dwelling on the ruggedness of the pass, and the difficulties of making oneself understood, but Mrs. Morton still persisted that she ‘could not understand why they should have got into such a place at all, when there were plenty of fashionable places in the newspaper where they could have had society and attendance and everything.’

‘Ah, but that was just what Uncle Frank didn’t want.’

‘Well, if they choose to be so eccentric, and close and shy, they can’t wonder that people talk.’

‘Mamma, you can’t mean that horrid nonsense that Ida talked about!  It was only a joke!’

‘Oh, my dear, I don’t say that I suspect anything—oh no,—only, if they had not been so close and queer, one would have been able to contradict it.  I like people to be straightforward, that’s all I have to say.  And it is terribly hard on your poor brother to be so disappointed, after having his expectations so raised!’ and Mrs. Morton melted into tears, leaving Constance with nothing to say, for in the first place, she did not think Herbert, as yet at least, was very sensible of his loss, and in the next, she did not quite venture to ask her mother whether she thought little Michael should have been sacrificed to Herbert’s expectations.  So she took the wiser course of producing a photograph of Vienna.

p. 155CHAPTER XXIII

VELVET

Constance created quite a sensation when she came down dressed for church on Christmas Day in a dark blue velvet jacket, deeply trimmed with silver fox, and a hat and muff en suite, matching with her serge dress, and though unpretending, yet very handsome.

Up jumped Ida, from lacing her boots by the fire.  ‘Well, I never!  They are spoiling you!  Real velvet, I declare, and real silk-wadded lining.  Look, ma.  What made them dress you like that?’

‘It wasn’t them,’ said Constance, ‘it was Lady Adela.  One Sunday in October it turned suddenly cold, and I had only my cloth jacket, and she sent up for something warm for me.  This was just new before she went into black, when husband died, and she had put it away for Amice, but it fitted me so well, and looked so nice, that she was so kind as to wish me to keep it always.’

‘Cast-off clothes!  That’s the insolence of these swells,’ said Ida.  ‘I wonder you had not the spirit to refuse.’

p. 156‘Sour grapes,’ muttered Herbert; while her mother sighed—‘Ah, that’s what we come to!’

‘Must not I wear it, mamma?’ said Constance, who had a certain attachment to the beautiful and comfortable garment.  ‘She told me she had only worn it once in London, and she was so very kind.’

‘Oh, if you call it kindness,’ said Ida, ‘I call it impertinence.’

‘If you had only heard—’ faltered Constance.

‘No, no,’ said their mother, ‘you could not refuse, of course, my dear, and no one here will know.  It becomes her very well too.  Doesn’t it, Ida?’

Ida made a snort.  ‘If people choose to make a little chit of a schoolgirl ridiculous by dressing her out like that!’ she said.

‘There isn’t time now before church,’ said Constance almost tearfully, ‘or I would take it off.’

‘No such thing,’ said Herbert.  ‘Come on, Conny.  You shall walk with me.  You look stunning, and I want Westhaven folk to see for once what a lady is like.’