THE SOCIAL HOUSE.
The large building which had caused so much comment was at length
finished, and the mystery solved. It was indeed a mansion, with rooms
for recreation and study, but it was neither for young Early, nor any
other one person. It was, instead, the joint property of all the
village, and to be known as the Littleton Social House. On the lower
floor was a library, with well-lighted nooks, to be used as
reading-rooms; beyond that were the art-rooms one for modeling in clay,
one for sketching, and a third inner, sky-lighted, place for
photography. On the other side of the great hall was a large music-room
with a canvas floor, containing a piano and cabinet organ, also shelves
for music numbers, and a raised dais for art orchestra. Beyond was a
pleasant parlor, from which opened a small apartment provided with
conveniences for quiet table games; and all these were neatly fitted
with strong easy chairs, tables, and cabinets, the walls being
beautified with many good photographs from paintings of masters, both
old and new.
The supposed "ball-room," above, developed into a gymnasium and
entertainment hall, with a rostrum and curtains, where lectures,
concerts, pictured views, and little dramas might be given; and
surrounding this were roof balconies, with palms, vines, and potted
plants, making them into bowers of beauty and coolness. Here were seats
and tables where the warm and weary might stray for a cooling drink of
lemonade, or an ice, served at a price within the means of the very
poor. A trim little widow, whose husband when living had been a trusted
employee, and who was trying her best to raise her young family without
him, had been set up in this restaurant, apparently by Mr. Dalton, and
provided with the necessary outfit, for which she was to pay a living
rental during the summer months. The chance seemed heaven-sent to the
poor young creature, who had nearly succumbed before her heavy toil at
the washtub, for she was too delicately formed for such labors.
The janitorship of the whole large building brought independence to
another family where the capable mother dying had left a crippled
husband and two young girls to struggle on as best they could. With the
youthful help of these sturdy girls he could undertake the office of
caretaker, and, as pretty living rooms were furnished them in the high,
airy basement, the family felt almost as if they had been transported to
Paradise after the terrible experiences of the past winter, with a mere
shed for shelter, the coal running short at too frequent intervals, and
meat only compassed as a rare luxury on the "lucky" days when one or the
other could pick up an extra nickel, or two, by some special good
fortune.
To all the questions and conjectures over this miracle of a house Mr.
Dalton opposed an impassive front. "It is none of my doing," he averred
brusquely. "I never should have thought of it, and wouldn't have built
it if I had, no matter who furnished the money, for I don't believe
you'll appreciate it, or take care of it. But all I've got to say is, if
any one of you do abuse it, and go to spitting on the floor, or hacking
up the woodwork, or pulling things out of shape in any way, you'll be
lower than any truck that I care to have around, and you'll have me to
deal with when I'm at my ugliest--you understand what that means!"
The men, who had been grouped in the yard after hours, talking it over,
and whose hail for information as he passed by had brought out his
vigorous remarks, looked at each other and grinned half sheepishly. Then
one spoke up sturdily:
"I guess we know good manners when we see 'em, boss! We ain't pigs, nor
tramps."
Dalton laughed in his curt fashion.
"You know well enough, but you don't care pretty often. If young Early
is decent enough to give you boys a chance at some pleasure, you want to
show you appreciate it--that's all. And when you get your invite to the
house-warming, you'll be expected to show up as the gentlemen you can be
when you try."
Billy May, once a sailor, straightened up and touched his cap.
"Ay, ay, sir!" he bellowed, as if receiving orders in a towering gale,
at which all laughed and Dalton, smiling in spite of himself, passed on.
The invitations came in good time, and were in a somewhat comprehensive
form, each being addressed to the householder in person, with the words,
"and whole family" added. No family was forgotten, but as the building
could not accommodate the whole village, two evenings were set for the
reception and opening, all the names up to N, in alphabetical order,
being chosen for Tuesday evening and the rest for Wednesday, while
different hours were mentioned that there need be no crowding, though it
was discovered later that no matter at which hour one arrived, the most
of them staid till the very latest mentioned, loth even then to leave
the, to them, novel scene.
A day or two before this pleasant event, which had set the whole town
into a delightful turmoil of expectation and comment, a couple of
families quietly moved into the two neat, but by no means sumptuous
dwellings, lately built on the little knoll over against the broad end
of the park, and facing it. You will remember that the school-house was
at one side, the church near by, while the Social house fronted the
narrow point, with a street between. Thus the two homes overlooked park
and buildings, exactly facing the Social house, though at a distance,
while the Works at the other extreme of the village were half hidden by
intervening buildings, and soon would be quite overshadowed by the many
trees lately set out.
These were the homes which Joyce had built for herself and the
Bonnivels. Both of them, though fitted with many conveniences and
finished with taste, were of moderate cost, there being not one
extravagance, and only the modicum of room actually needed for refined
living, in either. Many a rich woman has thought nothing of putting more
expense into the fitting of one room, even, than Joyce had laid out on
her whole house. Indeed that reserved for Madame was much the costlier
of the two. Yet, with the pretty outlook across the green triangle
before the doors, the high situation, the soft roll of the lawns
surrounding them, and the majesty of the one immense maple which stood
between the buildings, and had grown for a quarter of a century in
lordly majesty, appropriating to itself all the juices of the soil for
yards around, until it was the famed landmark of that region, these
places were more attractive than many more palatial which fairly daunt
the stranger with their cold magnificence. These smiled in one's face
with a hospitable welcome.
Moving was not a difficult operation for Joyce, as she had little heavy
furniture to take from the hotel; and it had been a labor of love and
jollity to run about with Dorette and Camille, selecting and arranging,
first submitting everything to Madame's superior and almost faultless
judgment. And here the girl's passion for sharing--she liked the word
better than giving--often asserted itself. Obstinately declaring that
she should be wretched in a home where everything "smelled of its
newness," she had coaxed and cajoled her friends until, almost without
their realizing it, there had been such a division of the old Bonnivel
effects and the new Lavillotte purchases that both houses presented a
pretty equal mingling of the ancient and modern. For instance, Joyce
begged the small round table with claw legs from their dining-room, to
send in its place one of the handsomest large mahogany rounds she could
procure. So Ellen's room was neatly furnished with Madame Bonnivel's
square heavy set, stately if not graceful, while the latter's bloomed
out with pier-glass and satinwood of the daintiest. The Bonnivels' worn
cane chairs somehow found places on Joyce's veranda, while a new
half-dozen rockers, of quaint and comfortable shape, took their places
through the pretty living rooms next door.
"I feel," said Joyce gaily, "so much more respectable than if my things
were all new. These good old plantation souvenirs give to my indefinite
outlines a deep rich background that brings me out in stronger colors."
For, with all her wealth and power, Joyce often felt this
"indefiniteness," as she called it. She knew people were wont to ask,
"Who is she? Where is her family?" and to look with some misgiving on a
girl too rich to pass unnoticed, yet too poor to own a family and a past
about which she was free to babble. She found that riches set one out
from the crowd as does the search-light which cannot be dodged nor
dimmed, and sometimes she would have flung every dollar away, and given
up all her pet schemes, just to have crept into the safe shelter of the
Bonnivel home as a real child of that house, to become as happily
obscure as Dorette, or Camille.
The Tuesday night of the first house-warming fortunately fell upon a
cool evening, when no one could much mind the occasional sprinkle of
rain, so glad were they of a change from the fierce heat and drought of
the past fortnight. As it was, the clouds brooded low, and the breeze
held the freshness of showers near by, while now and then the moon
peered through a rift and lit up the hushed darkness, which was like
that of a chamber where sleep comes after pain.
The Social house, gleaming with electric lights to the very summit of
the flag-staff above its roof, from which the stars and stripes waved in
languid contentment, was not only near the center of the town,
geographically, but also in aim and interest, to-night. The half-world
which was not invited till to-morrow was anxious to see how the other
half would look in gala costume, to-night; and a stranger, suddenly
dropped into the neighboring streets, would have had to look twice to
convince himself these neat-looking females, tripping that way, were the
wives and daughters of artisans who worked for a few shillings a day.
Fortunately summer dress-goods cost little, and there were but few of
the girls who had not compassed a new six-cent muslin, or at least "done
up" an old one into crisp freshness. The men were equally disguised by
soap, water, and shaving, with coats instead of shirt-sleeves, but these
could not simulate the fine gentleman so readily as could their
daughters the fine lady.
Among these self-respecting Americanized families there was occasionally
seen a sprinkling of those who disdained any approach to dudishness, or
had not yet grasped it as anything that could possibly pertain to
themselves, and these--mostly new importations from Poland or
Italy--strode dauntlessly up to the wide-open doors in the deep Grecian
portico, the men in clumping shoes and the women in little head shawls,
jabbering noisily with wonder and curiosity.
Mr. Dalton, under sealed orders, had placed himself, with his aunt, near
the outer doorway of the broad entrance hall to receive the guests, and
when Joyce's party appeared all were welcomed exactly as had been the
other arrivals.
Their entrance was rather imposing, though, despite precautions, for
first came Larry with Madame, then Dorette with Joyce, and lastly
Camille leading Dodo, with Ellen stalking at their side, the very
picture of a duenna. Somewhat in the rear Gilbert and two other maids,
Kate and Thyrza--this latter from the Bonnivel house--followed with
dubious looks, feeling probably that they were neither "fish flesh, nor
good red herring," in this motley assemblage, which offered no such
companionship as they were accustomed to.
Joyce's eyes shone like stars, and even in her plain white Suisse gown,
without an ornament except the rings upon her fingers, there was a sort
of regal splendor about her that made every eye turn to watch her as she
entered. After Mrs. Phelps had greeted them all with evident pleasure at
having them for neighbors, they found an easy-chair for Madame, where
she might listen and feel the happy surging of the crowd about her. As
soon as seated she gently pushed Joyce away.
"Go," she whispered. "You want to see and talk with as many as possible.
I shall do nicely alone. All of you go, and then you can tell me more
when you come back. It will be fun to compare experiences. Who has
Dodo?"
"I have her just this minute," said Camille, "but she has sighted Larry
and I can't hold her. He is talking to two men in the window at your
left, and looking handsome as a picture! There, for goodness' sake, go,
if you must! I do believe the little tyke has torn my new dimity,
clutching at it so. Come, Joyce, let's go and speak to those girls. They
look positively wretched in their best clothes, poor things!"
"You go," said Joyce. "I see my old friend Mrs. Hemphill--Rachel's
mother, you know. See her, there with the three children? We must make
the most of ourselves, and you can jolly up the girls better than I. I'm
going to bring some of the interesting people to you, ma mère. You'll
know how to talk to all of them, but you shan't be bored!"
"We need no special vocabulary to be kind," smiled Madame. "I will soon
make friends right here, and I'm not afraid of being bored. People
always talk to the blind, and smile on the deaf. Run along!"
Joyce gave her a love-pat, and hurried after Mrs. Hemphill who, with a
strong grasp on her little ones, was stemming the tide of humanity with
a somewhat defiant mien, while her head was swinging around as if on a
pivot, so determined was she not to miss the sight of a single
decoration or picture, nor the passing of a single guest. She stopped to
speak to a much wrinkled dame in a real Irish bonnet, with a flapping
frill, who was smiling so broadly as to display with reckless abandon
her toothless gums.
"Purty foin, ain't it?" this one laughed, as they stopped abreast of
each other so suddenly that the babies nearly fell over backward. "And
say," lowering her voice so that Joyce barely caught the words, "they do
be tellin' they's to be sand-whiches, an' coffee, an' rale ice-crame
byme-by. Does ye b'lave it?"
"Umph! It gets me what to b'lieve, these days," muttered Mrs. Hemphill,
with a backward slap at one of the children who, upon hearing the
enumeration of goodies, began to tease for some. "What's ailin' you now?"
she cried fiercely. "Want somepin to eat, you say? You want a trouncin',
that's what you want!" lifting the little thing with a motion tenderer
than her words. "Ain't it all the craziest doin's? But say, Mis'
Flaherty, they tells me you won't go into one of the new houses, nohow."
"And why should I, tell me thot!" began Mrs. Flaherty on a high key,
just as Joyce stepped graciously forward, with the words,
"Isn't this the Mrs. Hemphill I remember?"
The latter turned quickly.
"Hey? Oh, why yes, I do mind you now. Let's see, you come to sell a
washin' machine, didn't you? Or was it a story-paper? Oh! no, now I
know," darting suspicious glances over the head of the child in her
arms, "you was talkin' about schools and tryin' to get one up."
"Well, partly," answered Joyce, rather crestfallen, and glanced up to
meet the dancing eyes of Larry, who was passing by and caught the
high-keyed sentence. "But you know I have come here to live now, and I
assure you I am not a teacher--just a private citizen."
"Do tell! Well, I thought you was something or other--they's sech a raft
of agents along; though my Mary tells me 'tain't a circumstance to the
city--Mate works out in the city. Let me make you acquainted with Mis'
Flaherty. She's the lady what lives in Bachelor's Row and takes in
boarders and washin's--now, Johnny, you stop a-tuggin' at my skirts,
will ye? You've started the gethers a'ready.--She ain't exactly a
bachelor herself, but she's next to it--a widder woman. He! he!"
Mrs. Hemphill's laughter was so much like the "crackling of thorns under
a pot" as to be far from pleasant. Joyce hastened to speak.
"But I can't see why you preferred not to move, Mrs. Flaherty. Don't you
like the new houses?" she asked, a bit anxiously, looking from one to
the other and feeling decidedly wet-blanketed.
"Oh, they'll do," nodding the cap frills vigorously. "It ain't fur the
loikes o' me to be sayin' anythin' agin 'em, but I never did take to
these new-fangled doin's, 'm. I've heered tell how them water pipes'll
be afther busting up with the first frost, just like an old gun, and I
don't want any sich doin's on my premises. No _sir_! I ain't so old but
I can pump water out of a well yet, and it's handy enough.' 'Tain't
more'n just across the strate, and whin 'tain't dusty, nur snowy, nur
muddy, it's all right enough."
"Well, I don't carry water when I can make it run by turning a
stopple--not much I don't!" cried Mrs. Hemphill vigorously, meanwhile
tilting back and forth on heels and toes with a jolting motion which was
gradually producing drowsiness in the infant she held. "And my man says
it can't freeze in them pipes 'cause the nateral gas is goin' to run day
and night and keep 'em hot. And Nate Tierney, he says 't water an' heat
an' lightin' is goin' to be jest as free, in our town, as sunshine an'
air is everywhere. That's what Nate says, and if it's true it's a mighty
big load off 'n us poor folks, and that's certain!"
"But we're goin' to be taxed for 'em," put in another woman, joining the
group--a lanky creature with washed-out eyes, and lips that she seemed
in danger of swallowing, so sunken were they.
"How's that?" cried Mrs. Hemphill, sharply.
"It's to be some way put onto the men in their drink and tobacco--so my
man says--and it'll make it a cent more on a glass and a plug. My man
says everybody what brings any into this town's got to pay somethin' fur
the privilege, and that goes into the heatin' and lightin' fund. And he
says it's a blamed shame, and the men won't stand it, either! Fur's
that's concerned, what do they care whether we're warm or cold, so 't
they gits their dram?"
Just here Rachel Hemphill came rapidly towards them.
"Mother," she began, then looked askance at Joyce, whose eyes, now
somewhat troubled, turned eagerly to meet her glance.
"Well, what is it now?" asked the mother crossly, for, though she liked
nothing better than to sit and praise Rachel by the hour, she always
kept her belligerent attitude toward her family, as if afraid she might
relent too much if she once gave way an inch.
"I was going to say," the girl continued excitedly, with another glance
at Joyce, "you'll miss the concert, if you don't hurry. It's upstairs in
the big room, and they're all hustling for seats. And mother," dropping
to a whisper, "our Kip is to sing!"
"Kip? You don't say! Who told you? Let's hurry! Johnny, come along and
stop dragging your feet. I'll lay the babby down some'ers and go right
up; he's sound fur an hour or two, I hope. You're coming, Rache?"
"Yes, in a minute," for Joyce had stepped towards her with outstretched
hand, partly barring her way.
"My name is Lavillotte," she said, "and I have seen you several times.
The Bonnivels and I have just moved into the two houses at the other end
of the park, and we want to get acquainted with our neighbors."
Rachel's cool fingers dropped into Joyce's eager jeweled ones, and fell
away again.
"You will find but a small set of your kind of people here, Miss
Lavillotte. There's the doctor's family, Mr. Dalton's, and one or two
others. I'm just one of the working girls," and before Joyce could speak
to protest she had turned away with a proud look, and hastened after her
mother.