Part 36 (1/2)

Scarcely had they gone when in rushed the General and my prim duenna, Mrs.

Whitney; they'd been waiting until the coast was clear. It was with something like a scream that the two flew at me, crying in one voice:--

”Have you _really_ refused to be one of Peggy's bridesmaids? Why didn't you consult _me_?”

Peggy despairs of Mr. Poultney; she's going to marry some person in Standard Oil, and her wedding will be a function.

”Yes,” I said, ignoring the latter question.

”But why--_why_--” Mrs. Whitney squeaked and panted, and her breath failed.

”Because--was it because Ann Fredericks was asked too?” Meg demanded.

”Yes, if you must know.”

”But what has Ann done?” said Meg. She planted herself in front of me, her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. ”She's as homely as the Sunset c.o.x statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's only a cousin of _the_ Frederickses, you mustn't mind her. What has Ann done, Helen?”

”She weighs two hundred and they call her 'Baby'! She's a fat slug on a currant bus.h.!.+ I won't talk about her.”

I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.

”Just like Helen! Imagine Mrs. Henry's state of mind.”

”And Ann's,” said Mrs. Whitney.

”Oh, Ann's in mortal terror. But how can Helen expect pasty girls like Ann Fredericks--out last fall and already touching up--to forgive her beauty?

Trouble is, every girl who comes near Helen knows she makes her look like a caricature.”

Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.

”Oh, I've seen the women scowl at her,” said Mrs. Whitney.

”Scowl?” said Meg. ”Why, I've seen a woman actually put out her foot for Helen to trip over. Old women are the worst, I do believe; some of the young ones admire her. What do you think old Mrs. Terry said--Hughy Bellmer's aunt--at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music two hours more in indigestion. 'A lovely girl, my dear Mrs. Van Dam,' she said; 'a privilege to know her. Pity that so many of our best people fight shy of a protegee of the newspapers.' _That_ from Mrs. Terry, with her hair and her hats--”

”And her divorce record,” added Mrs. Whitney.

”She fears for her nephew; as if Helen would look at him! But the newspapers _have_ hurt Helen. I wish she'd announce her engagement; she has the cards in her hands, but she's got to play 'em; and poor Strathay's so devoted!--Why didn't you shade the lights Tuesday at your dinner? In that glare we were all worse frights beside her than usual.”

”I hate murky rooms!” I cried, breaking out upon them, for I couldn't stand it any longer. ”It's your 'rose of yesterday' who insists on twilight and shaded candles. I enjoy electricity!”

Meg gazed at me in despair.

”Helen, are you really bent on making enemies?” she asked. ”What _did_ Ann Fredericks do?”

I couldn't have answered; it would have been no answer to say that she angers me with a supercilious stare; but the trouble of replying was spared me, for Mrs. Henry appeared that minute in the doorway, greeting me in her nervous puffy voice:--

”How _well_ you look!” she said. ”_Such_ a treat to get a peep at you! Peggy really must try your dressmaker--but she's _so_ disappointed! You _must_ let me beg of you--_just_ like an own daughter and Peggy couldn't think more of a sister! You _will_ reconsider--”

Something in the way she thrust forward her head reminded me of how her tiara slipped and hitched about, on the night of her dance, and how Ned and I giggled when it had to be repinned.

”I'm afraid Peggy should have consulted me earlier,” I said with a spite born of the recollection.