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The lively garments were wrapped in rosy tissue paper, and tied with ribbons to match. It seemed to Becky as if those rosy wrappings held the last faint glow of her dreams. She untied the ribbons of the top parcel, and disclosed a frock of fine white lace there was cloth of silver for a petticoat, and silver slippers.
Meyerburg stepped quickly through the slit, as if to ward off its too heavy closing. A French maid, in the immemorial paraphernalia of French maids, stood by like a slim sentinel on stilts, her tall, small heels clicked together. Perfume lay on the artificial dusk of that room. "Therese, you can go down awhile. When Miss Becky wants she can ring." "Oui, madame."
For some seconds his mouth remained open, then the ridiculousness of shutting it again without speaking spurred him on to make some sound, however meaningless. He made a violent effort and there burst from his lips in Hebrew: "Happy are those who dwell in thy house, ever shall they praise thee, Selah!" It was not a compliment to Becky. Shosshi's face lit up with joyous relief.
But she had gone through it simply, quietly, unaffectedly, with the Judge by her side standing sponsor for his son's wife in chivalrous and stately fashion, with Mrs. Beaufort at her elbow helping her over the initial small talk of her presentation. With Truxton beaming, and with Becky drawing her into that charmed circle of the younger set which might so easily have shut her out.
Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of the circle of young painters who frequented the studio, who used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home.
Becky with her head under her wing was on top of the little bookcase, and the house was very quiet. Suddenly through the mists of the morning Judy saw a carriage coming down the road. It stopped at the gate and Launcelot leaped out. Judy spoke to him from the window. "Hush," she said, "every one is asleep. I will come down."
"But I like you," feverishly, "I like you, tremendously, and don't you want to marry me, Randy?" "God knows that I do," said poor Randy, "but I must not. It it would be Heaven for me, you know that. But it wouldn't be quite cricket to let you do it, Becky." "I am not doing it for your sake. I am doing it for my own. I want to feel safe. Do I seem awfully selfish when I say that?"
And, without waiting for an answer, Aunt Becky flashed out of the room, and up stairs to her chamber, the door of which she slammed fiercely; and Gertrude, who was writing a letter in her own chamber, heard her turn the key hastily in the lock.
She had time to build a splendid castle in the air and settle Becky in it with a crown of glory on her head, before the quiet figure in a faded sunbonnet came slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset on a tired but tranquil face. "Sit here and have a good rest, while I talk to you," said Emily, eager to act the somewhat dramatic scene she had planned.
In a moment the ashes disappeared, the hearth was clean and the fire was blazing. Every time the girl passed the window she saw the widow across the way staring hard at the hut. When she took the ashes into the street, the woman spoke to her. "I can't go to see Becky she hates me." "With good reason."
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