Part 4 (1/2)

Mrs. Upjohn was going to give an entertainment. She was about to open the hospitable doors of the great house upon the hill, which seemed to have chosen that pre-eminence that it might the better overlook the morals of its neighbors. Joppa held its breath in charmed suspense. The question was not, Will I be asked? that was affirmatively settled for every West-End Joppite of party-going years; nor was it, What shall I wear?

which was determined once for all at the beginning of the season; but, What will be done with me when I get there? For to go to Mrs. Upjohn's was not the simple thing that it sounded. She wished it to be distinctly understood that she did not ask people to her house for their amus.e.m.e.nt, but for their moral and spiritual improvement; any one could be amused anywhere, but _she_ wished to show her guests that there were pleasanter things than pleasure to be had even in social gatherings, and to teach them to hunger and thirst after better than meat and drink, while at the same time she took pains always to provide a repast as superior to the general run as her sentiments, quite atoning to the Joppites for the spiritual accompaniments to her feast by its material and solid magnificence, which lingered appetizingly in their memories long after they had settled their consequent doctors' bills. Yes, the Joppites were not asked to Mrs. Upjohn's to eat and drink only, or merely to have a good time, with whatever ulterior intentions of so doing they may have gone thither. They were asked for a purpose,--a purpose which it was vain to guess, and impossible to escape. Go they must, and be improved they must, _bon gre mal gre_, and enjoy themselves they would if they could.

So there were mingled feelings abroad when Mrs. Upjohn's neatly written invitations found their way into each of the West-End houses, embracing natives and strangers alike in their all-hospitable sweep, and even creeping into some outlying less aristocratic quarters, where confusion worse confounded, in the shape of refurbis.h.i.+ng and making over, followed agonizingly in their wake. The invitations were indited by Miss Maria Upjohn, it being an opportunity to improve that young lady's handwriting which her mother could not have conscientiously suffered to pa.s.s, and stated that Mr. and Mrs. Reuben O. Upjohn requested the honor of your company on Thursday, July 14th, punctually at four o'clock. R.S.V.P.

Joppa immediately R.S.V.P.'d that it would feel flattered to present itself at that hour, and then looked anxiously around and asked itself ”What will it be this time?” The day dawned, and still the great question agitated public minds unsolved.

”There isn't a word to be coaxed or threatened out of Maria,” said Bell Masters. ”I believe it's something too awful to tell. Mr. De Forest, can't you hazard a guess?”

Mr. Ogden De Forest was lazily strolling past the Masters' front steps, where a knot of girls had gathered after a game of lawn tennis, and were imbibing largely of lemonade, which was being fabricated on the spot, according to demand, by Phebe and Janet Mudge. The spoons stopped clinking in the various gla.s.ses as Bell thus audaciously called out to the gentleman. He was not a Joppite by either birth or education; indeed, he had but lately arrived on his first visit as a summer guest, and was hardly known to anybody personally as yet, though there was not a girl in the place but was already perfectly well aware of his existence, and had placed him instantly as ”one of the very swellest of the swells.” He was a short, dark, well-dressed man, and so exceedingly handsome that every feminine heart secretly acknowledged that only to have the right to bow to him would be a joy and pride indescribable. And here was Bell, who had accidentally been introduced to him the day before, calling to him as unceremoniously as if he were d.i.c.k Hardcastle or Jake Dexter. He turned at her voice and paused at the gate, lifting his hat. ”I beg you pardon, Miss Masters, you called me?”

”Yes,” said Bell. ”Have some lemonade?”

”No, thanks.”

”Come in.”

”Thanks, not this morning. I shall see you later at Mrs. Upjohn's, I suppose.”

”Yes, you'll see us all later,” said Miss Bell, fis.h.i.+ng out a lemon-seed from her goblet. ”We shall have on different dresses, and you'll be offering us lemonade instead of our offering it to you. Take a good look at us so as to see how much prettier we are now than we shall be then.”

Mr. De Forest obeyed literally, staring tranquilly and critically at each in turn, his glance returning slowly to the young lady of the house.

”Unless you introduce me to your friends I shall not be able to tell them so,” he replied, in the slow, deliberate voice that seemed always to have a ring of suppressed sarcasm in it, no matter what he said.

”Then I'll certainly not introduce you,” said Bell, composedly, with a saucy shot at him from her handsome black eyes. ”And so I'll be the only girl to get the compliment. Phebe, more sugar, please.”

”I will endeavor to work one up between now and then regardless of cost.

Four o'clock, I believe. What is it to be? A dance?”

”Holy Moses! at Mrs. Upjohn's!”

”Oh, she doesn't go in for that kind of thing? A card-party, then?”

”Great heavens! Mr. De Forest, are you mad? I don't doubt she struggles with herself over every visiting card that she uses,--and playing-cards--!”

”Theatricals, then?”

Bell gave a positive howl. ”Theatricals! Hear him, girls!”

”We hear well enough. You don't give us a chance to do any thing but listen,” said Amy Duckworth, pointedly.

”My dear, you'll converse all the more brilliantly this afternoon for a brief period of silence now,” said Bell, sweetly. ”Mr. De Forest, you are not happy in your guesses.”

”I have exhausted them, unless it is to be a _musicale_.”

”No. That's what we are going to have to-morrow ourselves. I sing, you know.”

”Do you? Well, a garden party perhaps?”

”That's what the Ripleys are going to have Thursday.”