The above may serve as a specimen of Madeline's various exploits at the ball. After Juliet and her brother had got home, Edward stood for half an hour in the middle of the parlour-floor with his bed-candle in his hand, while he expostulated with his sister on her strange infatuation for her new friend; declaring that, with all her volatility and apparent frankness and good-humour, he had never known a girl more artful, selfish, and heartless than Madeline Malcolm.

Instead of returning the flowers and the necklace on the following morning, as she ought to have done, Madeline wore them in the evening to another ball; and finally when Mrs. Lansdowne sent for the flowers, they came home in a most deplorable state, soiled, crushed, and broken; so that they were no longer fit to ornament the vases, and some of them were entirely lost.

Madeline did not come in to see Juliet till she knew that she had quite recovered from her sore-throat; having, as she afterward told her, a perfect antipathy to a sick-room, and a mortal dislike to the dismals.

She forgot to return the necklace till Juliet, with many blushes, and much confusion, at last reminded her of it. "Why," said she, "you seem very uneasy about that necklace. Between friends like us, every thing ought to be common." Madeline, however, had never offered to lend Juliet the smallest article belonging to herself.

The next time Madeline came, she brought the necklace in her hand.

"Here," said she "is this most important affair; I took a fancy to wear it round my _head_ at Mrs. Linton's, and I can a.s.sure you I had a great deal of pulling and stretching to get it to clasp. Why did grandpapa give you such a short necklace? However, soon after I began to dance, snap went the thread, and down came all the pearls showering about the floor. How I laughed; but I set all the beaux in the cotillon to picking them up, and I suppose they found the most of them. You see I have brought you a handful. And now you can amuse yourself with stringing them again. Come now, don't look so like Ned.--How can you expect a wild creature as I am, to be careful of flowers, and beads, and all such trumpery? I dare say, you are now thinking that your sober Cecilia Selden would have returned the pearls 'in good order and well conditioned.' But I never allow any one to get angry with me: you know I am a privileged person. So now look agreeable, and smile immediately.

Smile, smile, I tell you." Juliet _did_ smile, and Madeline throwing her arms round her neck, kissed her, exclaiming, as she patted her cheek, "There's my own good baby. She always, at last, does as I bid her."

The next day Juliet heard that the windows of Mr. Malcolm's house were all shut up; but she was not long in suspense as to the cause, for shortly after, Madeline came running in the back way, and said with a most afflicted countenance, "O, Juliet, you may pity me now if you never did before. We have just heard from New Orleans of the death of aunt Medford, my father's only sister."

_Juliet._ I am very sorry you have received such bad news.

_Madeline._ Oh! but the worst of it is, that it will prevent our going to the play to-night. We had engaged seats with the Rosemores, in a delightful box. We were going to see the Belle's Stratagem, with the masquerade, and the song, and the minuet, and the new French dancers. I would not have missed such an entertainment for a hundred dollars. How very provoking that the bad news did not arrive one day later. If it had not come till to-morrow I should not have cared, for then our charming evening at the theatre would have been over. And now, to think that instead of going to the play, I must stay at home and look at my father grieving for old aunt Medford. There now, Juliet, your face is again in the style of Ned's. Positively, if you are so particular, I shall cut your acquaintance. Those that I consider my friends must enter into all my "whims and oddities," and not expect me to act according to rule. I hate hypocrisy. Why should I pretend to grieve for aunt Medford when I have never seen her since I was six years old?

_Juliet._ But sympathy for your father--

_Madeline._ Why, where is the use of sympathy? When people are in grief, sympathy only makes them worse.

_Juliet._ If you yourself were in affliction, Madeline, you would find the sympathy of your family and friends very gratifying.

_Madeline._ Wait till _I am_ in affliction and then I will tell you.

"_Toujours gai_," is my motto, and "_vive la bagatelle_" for ever.

So saying, she danced out of the room, and went home; but in a short time she returned, looking very mysterious, and peeping in at the door to ascertain if Juliet was alone. "Juliet, love," said Madeline in a low voice, "come with me into the back parlour, lest we should be interrupted. I have something of great consequence to tell you."

As Madeline often dealt in mysteries, Juliet thought this new secret nothing more than usual, and accompanied her into the back parlour, where Madeline cautiously bolted the folding-doors and locked the side door. "Now, Juliet," said she in an under voice, "I know I may depend on your secrecy." "Certainly you may," replied Juliet.

_Madeline._ Well then, I must confide to you a plan that has just struck me. I cannot bear the idea of giving up the play to-night, and you know it is out of the question for any of the family to be _seen_ there.

_Juliet._ Of course none of you can go to the theatre when your house is shut up for the death of a near relation, and when Mr. Malcolm is in such deep affliction.

_Madeline._ It is certainly a great pity that aunt Medford died; particularly just at the time she did, as it will spoil all our gayety for the winter. No more plays, and b.a.l.l.s, and parties this season.

People ought always to die in the summer. But you know, dear Juliet, I have not seen my aunt Medford for ten years, and I really have forgotten all about her. So, how can you expect me to be inconsolable? And I cannot endure the thought of being disappointed in going to the theatre.

I might as well go, as stay at home and think about it all the evening.

_Juliet._ O no, indeed! Even if you have no personal regard for your aunt, respect for your father's feelings and a proper regard for decorum, ought to subdue your desire of going at this time to a place of public amus.e.m.e.nt.

_Madeline._ That is exactly such a speech as Cecilia Selden would make on a similar occasion. It is a pity "the truly wise man" is not here.

How Neddy would applaud.

_Juliet._ But where is the use of talking in this manner. You know you _cannot_ go to the theatre.

_Madeline._ I know I _can_.

_Juliet._ How? In what way? I do not understand you.

_Madeline._ My going to the theatre to-night depends princ.i.p.ally on _you_.

_Juliet._ On me!

_Madeline._ Yes, for I will not venture alone, and you must go with me.

_Juliet._ Go with you--_I_ go with you!

_Madeline._ Yes.

_Juliet._ And who else?

_Madeline._ n.o.body else. Now don't look as if you were ready to run through the wall to get away from me; but listen and understand. Our nursery-maid, Kitty, has permission to go this evening and stay all night with a sick sister. So when she is off, I can easily slip into her room and select a suit of her clothes, (which I believe will nearly fit me,) and she has a tolerably large wardrobe for a servant. Then I will steal in the back way, bringing a suit for you. Don't look shocked.

I shall tell my father and mother that being very low-spirited, I am coming in here to spend a quiet evening with you. I heard Mrs.

Lansdowne, when I was here yesterday, propose to your father to leave her at her sister, Mrs. Wilmar's, on his way to the Wistar party to-night, and call for her as he comes back; which of course will not be before ten o'clock at the very earliest. Therefore the coast will be clear, as I suppose Ned will go to his beloved Athenaeum. So you see every thing seems to conspire fortunately to forward our plot.

_Juliet._ _Our_ plot. O! do not call it _ours_. I never will have any thing to do with a plot.

_Madeline._ Yes, but you _must_ though. Why this is nothing. I have plotted a hundred things in the course of my life, and so I shall again.

Well, now hear the whole. I will slip in the back-way, and you must be alone in your room ready to receive me. After we have put on our disguises, we will go down stairs very softly and steal out at the alley gate. Then we will make the best of our way to the theatre, and go in at the gallery-door, pa.s.sing, of course as two servant-girls. When we have reached the gallery we will mix with the crowd, and sit at our ease and enjoy the play; at least the masquerade-scene, which I would not miss for the world. I am absolutely dying to see the French dancers.

n.o.body can possibly discover us under our disguises. We will not go till the first act is over, and the audience settled; and we will come away before the last scene of the comedy. Then after we get home we will resume our proper dresses, and present ourselves to our parents, looking as demure as if we had been sitting by the fire, and talking sensibly, all the evening. No one will ever know what we have really been doing.

It will be a most charming frolic, and something for you and I to laugh about, ten years hence. I always enjoy these queer exploits that no one else has courage to undertake.

_Juliet_ (_firmly._) Madeline, I will _not_ disguise myself like a servant-girl; and I will _never_ accompany you secretly to the theatre, nor to any other place.

Juliet spoke in so firm a tone, that Madeline was at first abashed, and remained for a few moments silent. But, not easily repelled, she soon recovered from her confusion, and exerted all her eloquence to prevail on her dear friend, as she called her, to join in the scheme. By turns she flattered, caressed, and ridiculed her, and then tried to win her consent by representing the delights of the masquerade-scene, as she had heard it described by a lady who had recently seen the comedy of the Belle's Stratagem. Juliet held out steadily for a long time. But at length her firmness gave way, and she finally yielded; as Madeline had foreseen. Her reluctance was so great, that her consent was, after all, rather extorted than given, and Madeline, having kissed her rather oftener than usual, ran gayly to her own home, singing "I won't be a nun."

After Madeline had gone, Juliet felt so uneasy at having suffered herself to be persuaded against her conscience, that she was on the point of calling her back and retracting her promise. When she went to dinner, the consciousness of her intended deceit destroyed her appet.i.te, and made her feel as if she could not raise her eyes towards her parents, or answer them when they spoke to her.

Edward bent on her a scrutinizing glance, and saw that all was not right; but supposing that she had committed some fault in the course of the morning for which her mother had seriously reprimanded her, he was unwilling to notice her apparent mortification, and tried to divert the attention of his parents by talking to them of Cooper's last novel, which had been published that morning, and of which he had already gone through the first volume.

Mrs. Lansdowne, however, remarking that her daughter did not eat, inquired if she felt unwell, and Juliet replied that she had a violent headache: which was literally true. After dinner, her mother recommended that she should retire to her room and lie down, which she gladly did: her mind being too much agitated to take interest in any occupation.

Once in the afternoon, she heard Edward come up stairs and tap at her door; but fearing that he had observed her confusion at dinner, and that he might ask her some question concerning it, she lay still, and did not answer to his knock, so that, supposing her to be asleep, he softly withdrew.

Towards evening, her mother came to inquire after her: and Juliet, unwilling to meet the family at table in her present state of discomposure, requested to have her tea sent up. "My dear," said Mrs.

Lansdowne, "as you are not well, I will not go to my sister Wilmar's this evening, but I will stay at home and sit with you."

"O, no, dear mother!" replied Juliet, "I know you wish to see aunt Wilmar: I am sure my tea will relieve my headache, and I have no doubt, when I have drunk it, I shall feel well enough to rise, and sit up all the evening." Accordingly, after Juliet had taken her tea, she rose and adjusted her dress, and when Mrs. Lansdowne came up again, she found her daughter sitting by the fire with a book, and apparently so much recovered, that she felt no scruples about leaving her, as she was really desirous of pa.s.sing the evening with Mrs. Wilmar, who was confined to the house with the influenza.

At last Juliet heard her father and mother depart, and Edward went out soon after. In a few minutes, Madeline came cautiously up stairs, and glided into the chamber, carrying a large bundle. "All's safe," said she, "the coast is _quite_ clear, and we have not a moment to lose. It is a fine moonlight night."

Juliet's courage now failed entirely; and she vehemently besought Madeline to give up a scheme fraught with so much risk and impropriety.

But Madeline was immovable, declaring that she had set her heart on it, and that she enjoyed nothing so much as what she called an out-of-the-way frolic. "Since you are so cowardly, Juliet," said she, "I wish I could venture to go alone; but wild as I am, I confess I am not quite equal to that--Come, now, off with your frock, and get yourself dressed in these delectable habiliments."

She then began to unfasten Juliet's dress, who pale, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, arrayed herself in the clothes that Madeline had brought for her. The gown was a very dirty one of dark blue domestic gingham, and she put on with it a yellowish chequered handkerchief, and a check ap.r.o.n. Over this she pinned an old red woollen shawl, and she covered her head with a coa.r.s.e and broken black Leghorn bonnet. The clothes that Madeline had allotted to herself were a little better, consisting of a dark calico frock, a coa.r.s.e tamboured muslin collar, an old straw bonnet very yellow and faded, and a plaid cloak which belonged to the cook, and which she had taken out of a closet in the garret.

The two young ladies did not know, or did not recollect, that when _real_ servant-girls go to the theatre, they generally dress as well as they can, and take pains to appear to the best advantage. The clothes that Madeline had selected were quite too dirty and shabby for the occasion. To complete their costume, she gave Juliet a pair of coa.r.s.e calf-skin shoes, which were so large that as she walked her feet seemed to rise up out of them. Madeline, for her part, put on a pair of carpet-moccasins over her slippers.

After they were dressed and ready to depart for the theatre, Juliet's tremor increased, and she was again on the point of relinquishing her share in the business; but she again yielded to the solicitations of Madeline, who led her softly down stairs by the light of the moon that shone in at the staircase windows. They stole, undiscovered, across the yard and out at the alley-gate; and finding themselves in the street, began to walk very fast, as people generally do when they are going to the play.

When they came in view of the theatre, they saw no persons there, except two or three gentlemen who went in at the pit-door. Juliet's heart failed entirely; and she shrank back as Madeline, taking her hand, attempted to pull her towards the door that admitted the gallery-people.