Part 13 (1/2)
Martie said, when the three girls were going to bed that night. Lydia, loitering in her sister's room for a few minutes, made no denial.
”Well, by this time to-morrow night the party will be nearly over!”
yawned Sally.
Martie looked at the clock. A quarter past eleven. What would be happening at quarter past eleven to-morrow night?
The girls awakened early, and were early astir. A rush of preparation filled the morning, so soothing in its effect upon nerves and muscles that Martie became wild with hope. The parlours looked prettier than the girls had ever seen them; the pungent sweetness of chrysanthemums and evergreen stealing into the clean, well-aired s.p.a.ces, and bowls of delicious violets sending out currents of pure perfume. Martie swept, straightened, washed gas globes, shook rugs. She gathered the flowers herself, straightening the shoulders that were beginning to ache as she arranged them with wet, cool fingers. Sally was counting napkins, was.h.i.+ng china and gla.s.s. Belle dragged through the breakfast dishes.
Lydia was capably mixing the filling for sandwiches. Outside, the morning was still; fog dripped from the trees. Sometimes the sudden sputtering chuckle of disputing chickens broke the quiet; a fish cart rattled by unseen, the blare of the horn sending Mrs. Monroe with a large empty platter to the gate.
At two o'clock Lydia and Martie walked down town for the last shopping.
Martie was aware, under the drumming excitement in her blood, that she was already tired. But to buy bottled cherries for the lemonade, olives for the sandwiches, and flat pink and white mint candies was exhilarating, and Reddy Johnson's cheery ”See you to-night, Martie!”
made her blue eyes dance with pleasure. After all, a dance was no such terrible matter!
They were in Mason and White's, seated at a counter, in consultation over a purchase of hairpins, when two gloved hands were suddenly pressed over Martie's eyes, and a joyous voice said ”h.e.l.lo!” The next instant Rose's eyes were laughing into hers.
”Rose Ransome!” Martie and Lydia said together. The two younger girls began to chatter eagerly.
Why, when had she gotten home? Only this morning. And oh, it did seem so good to be home! And how was everybody? And how was college? Oh, fine! And was she still at the same house? Oh, yes! And so poor old Mrs. Preble was dead? Uncle Ben had felt so badly--
”Say, Rose, we're having a sort of party to-night,” Martie said awkwardly, and with a certain hesitation. Details followed. Rose, as pretty as a bird in her little checked suit and feathered hat, listened with bright interest. ”Why can't you come?” Martie finished eagerly.
”The more the merrier!”
”Well--no.” Rose hesitated prettily. ”My first evening at home, you know--I think I hadn't better. I'd love to, Martie. And about the picnic to-morrow; that I CAN do! What'll I bring?”
”Rose is a sweet little thing,” Lydia said, when the sisters were walking home again. ”I'm sorry she can't come to-night; she has a way of making things GO.”
Martie did not answer. She was mentally, for the hundredth time, putting on the black gown with the pink roses st.i.tched all about the flounce, and piling up her bronze hair.
The short afternoon waned, fog closing in the village again with the dark. Martie and Sally came down to supper with thin little crepe wrappers over their crisp skirts and best stockings and slippers. Both girls had spent the late afternoon in bathing, taking last st.i.tches, laughing and romping over the upper floor, but the blazing colour in their faces now was as much from nervous fatigue as from excitement.
Neither was hungry, nor talkative, and Mrs. Potts and their father monopolized the conversation.
Len was sulky because he had played his usual game badly this evening, and chance failing him had favoured the girls. He had asked to be excused from the party, to their deep but unexpressed indignation, and had almost won his father's consent to a request to go down town a while, when a casual inquiry from Malcolm as to what he intended to do down town inspired Len to a reminiscent chuckle and an artless observation that gee! he might get a chance to sit outside of the hotel and watch Colonel Frost's new automobile for him, if the Colonel, as was usual, came down to the monthly meeting of the Republican Club.
For a few seconds Malcolm did not sense the full indignity of his son's position as groom for Cyrus Frost. When he did, Leonard had a bad quarter of an hour, and was directed to get into his Sunday suit, make himself as useful and agreeable to his sisters as was possible, and let his father hear no more of this nonsense about old Frost and his automobile.
Chuckling over this turn of events, the girls went upstairs to finish dressing. Sally, in an old pink gown, freshly pressed, was pretty; but Martie, turning flushed and self-conscious from the dim old mirror, was quite lovely. The black gown made her too-generous figure seem almost slender; the cretonne roses glowed richly against the black, and Martie's creamy skin and burnished hair were all the more brilliant for the contrast. Her heart rose buoyantly as she realized the success of the gown, and she ran downstairs with sudden gay confidence in herself and her party.
Her father and mother, with Mrs. Potts, had considerately disappeared.
Malcolm had gone down town; the ladies, wrapped in shawls, were gossiping in Mrs. Potts's vaultlike chamber. Lydia was moving about in the downstairs rooms.
”Oh, Martie, Rose telephoned,” Lydia said as her sister came in, ”and she says that Mr. Rice and her mother say she must come up to-night, if it's only for a little while. She's going to bring her violin.”
”Oh, that's good,” Martie answered absently, sitting down to play ”The Two Grenadiers” with great spirit. ”There's some one now, Lyd!” she added in a half panic, as the doorbell rang. Lydia, her colour rising suddenly, went to the door, raising her hand above as she pa.s.sed under the gaslight to turn the lights to their full brilliancy. The first arrival was Angela Baxter, with her music roll under her arm. She kissed Lydia, and went upstairs with Sally.
Then there were other feet on the porch: in came the German girls and Laura Carter, hooded in knitted fragile scarfs, and wrapped in pale blue and pink circular capes edged narrowly with fluffy eiderdown.
Elmer King, hoa.r.s.ely respectful, and young Potter Street followed.
Martie, taking the girls upstairs, called back to them that she would send Len down. While they were all in Lydia's room, laying off wraps and powdering noses, Maude Alien came up, and ”Dutch” Harrison's older sister Kate, and Amy Scott, and Martie was so funny and kept them all in such roars of laughter that Sally was conscious of a shameless wish that this was what Monroe called a ”hen party,” with no men asked. Then they could have games, Proverbs and even Hide-the-Thimble, and every one would feel happy and at home.
When they went down Robert Archer, a quiet mild young man who was in the real estate business, had come; and he and Elmer and Potter were sitting silently in the parlour. Martie and Sally and the other girls went in, and every one tried to talk gaily and naturally as the young men stood up, but there seemed to be no reason why they should not all sit down, and, once seated, it seemed hard to talk. What Martie said was met with a nervous glimmer of laughter and a few throaty monosyllables.