A good dinner in particular, and a comfortable sense of solvency in
general, had thrown me into a half whimsical, half melancholy musing,
from which I was roused by a small pair of hands placed over my eyes
from behind, and a challenge to guess.
There was not the least possibility of it being any one other than it
was, but I guessed “Jack Wharton,” and had my ears boxed. Jack Wharton
is a large creature with fat fingers, and more rings on each of them
than a Plantagenet sword has coronets--a well-meaning, meritorious kind
of man, and my sister Carrie’s special aversion.
Carrie sat on the arm of my chair, and paid little feminine attentions
to my hair, which she tried to make the most of--there is not so much of
it as there once was. A certain tendency to early harvest in hair is a
family trait, and I occasionally subdue the arrogance of my sister’s
youth by reading to her from the health column of some family paper.
She patted down the last wisp, and addressed me.
“Do you know, Rol,” she said, “I have an idea.”
“I leap for joy, my dear,” I replied.
Carrie is used to me. She went on unheeding.
“Suppose--suppose we give a children’s party.”
I looked at her in surprise. A children’s party in my flat! What did she
mean?
“Suppose we give a masked ball or a grandmother’s tea?” I suggested.
“Oh well, if you will be silly--” Caroline said, sitting straight up,
and adjusting the lace frivolity on her wrists.
“But who on earth are you going to ask to a children’s party?” I asked.
“Oh, Rol,” she replied, “there are lots and lots of children. There’s
Alice Carmichael’s nephew, Ted----”
“Ted Carmichael is seventeen years old,” I remarked.
“And Nellie Bassishaw,” she continued.
“Nellie Bassishaw is fifteen, and old-fashioned at that,” I replied.
“Well, you must have some one to take charge of the children, you know,
Rol. But there are heaps and heaps of nice children. There’s Molly
Chatterton, and little Chris Carmichael, and lots of others. I do think
it would be fun.”
“I daresay it would,” I replied. “And yourself and young Bassishaw would
look after them and amuse them, I suppose?”
“Yes, Arthur says he’ll come and help,” she answered. I had evidently
not been the first one to be considered.
“And Arthur will bring half a dozen young Bassishaws, younger than
Nellie?”
“Why, yes, I expect he will. Why not?”
“And has Arthur ordered a magic-lantern?” I asked.
“Not yet,” replied Carrie. “That is, he _did_ suggest a
magic-lantern--children like magic-lanterns, you know, Rol.”
I was aware of it--other people than children like magic-lanterns. I
leaned back and sighed; it was apparently all arranged.
“And what date did you say you had decided on?” I asked.
“The 17th,” replied my dutiful sister; “that is, if you’ll be a good
brother, and let us use your rooms, Rol.”
“Oh, anything you like,” I answered resignedly. “I’ll clear out to the
club and you can do as you please. Only, mind you,” I added, “I insist
that there shall be children. I will not be turned out of my rooms for
you and Bassishaw and all the Nellies and Teds of your acquaintance to
play any magic-lantern racket.”
“Oh, you dear brother!” cried Carrie, blowing a kiss down the back of my
collar. “But you mustn’t go out, Rol. We shall want you to help, you
know. You can----”
“Manage the gas, perhaps?” I suggested.
“Oh, the magic-lantern man will do that,” she replied, laughing. “You
can call the forfeits--you used to know a lot of forfeits, Rol--and pull
crackers and things.”
And have sprawling youngsters climbing my back, and nurse them when they
get cross, I thought. But it was of no use demurring before a determined
young sister. I must make the best of it.
I was given due notice on the 16th, and cleared my papers away. At
Carrie’s suggestion I also took down a print or two--children were so
quick at noticing things, she said. Then I had the satisfaction of
seeing a Christmas-tree placed in the corner devoted to my armchair, and
of being able to look forward to a week or two of occasional
pine-needles and grease-spots from toy candles whenever I wanted to
read. A hairy man also came with a tool-bag, which he threw on my
dining-table, and proceeded to make what seemed to me a radical
alteration in my gas system, trailing flexible tubes across the floor,
over which I scarcely dared to step. I took my hat and fled, leaving
Carrie to do as seemed good to her.
Carrie had made me promise to assist, and at five o’clock we were at the
top of the stairs receiving our young guests. Arthur Bassishaw was
there, of course--he had been about for the last two days, and had
really, Carrie said, been invaluable. Every few minutes a nursemaid
arrived with some pink-legged, fluffy little lump, muffled up to its
bright eyes. Young Ted Carmichael brought my little friend Chris, who
clasped my knees and demanded that I should be a dragon on the spot.
Miss Nellie Bassishaw came with half a dozen little Bassishaws, casting
a glance at Master Ted that made that young gentleman nervous about his
gloves. Altogether by six o’clock some twenty small people were sitting
round Carrie’s table, with an attendant maid or two tall behind them,
and the noise was just beginning.
Carrie, to do her justice, ordered young Bassishaw about as if he were
her own brother, and he assisted with piled-up plates and staggering
jellies in the most creditable manner. Master Ted Carmichael, however,
was evidently divided in mind as to whether he should consider himself
purely a guest, or whether his age qualified him for attendance on the
kids, a perplexity in which his palpable devotion to Nellie did not help
him much. Nellie was difficult to woo that evening, and was playing off
a smaller schoolboy on her half-grown-up admirer in a way that I liked
immensely. She has the germs of mischief in her, and is pretty into the
bargain. Ted, therefore, moved in a state of unrest--now helping in
ministering to younger needs, and now resuming his seat helplessly.
There was a speck of something in my memory that made me feel for Ted.
The noise increased, and by the time Master Chris--a most depraved
child--had thrust a handful of raisin-stalks and broken biscuits down
the neck of the lady of five whom he had taken in, children were romping
here and there, regardless of whispering nurses who reminded them they
were still at table. They were swept into another room by Carrie, with
stamping of sturdy legs and pulling of crackers. Ted tried to remain
behind to be near his disdainful lady, but I brought him along. I was
willing to help him.
I engaged Master Ted in conversation. The children, I said, would soon
be playing games, and then we men would have a few minutes to
ourselves--perhaps time for a cigar. He stiffened up in pleased pride,
and the front of his first dress-suit expanded. He _was_ grown up, then.
He ventured the remark that kids were awful slow, but they had to be
amused, he expected.
“Slow, do you think, Ted?” I asked. “Why, I find them most interesting.
Look at Miss Nellie there.” (She had just come in.) “She looks almost
grown up, but any one can see she’s the biggest child of the lot. Look
at her with little Molly Chatterton--she thinks she’s got a doll. Ah,
Ted, girls like that are at a very awkward age.”
“They _are_ awkward,” Ted admitted. “But Nellie, you know--Nellie’s not
so very--she was fifteen last--she’s almost--oh, hang it, let’s go out
for a smoke.”
We made for the balcony.
“Have a cigarette, Mr. Butterfield?” said Ted, proffering a small silver
case.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I think I’ll have a cigar. Won’t you have one of
these? They’re very mild.”
Ted looked doubtfully at it, and shook his head.
“No, thanks,” he said; “I don’t often smoke cigars. I’m very fond of a
pipe now and then--after breakfast, you know; but cigars are a little
too much for me. Light?”
He held me a light, and puffed elegantly at his cigarette. Then
continued thoughtfully:
“The worst of women is,” he said, “they seem to grow up so awfully
quick, you know. Why, Nellie Bassishaw there, you know--we used to be
rather flames when we were young. A year or two since, that is. We’re
not so very old yet, you know, Mr. Butterfield,” he added, with a
slightly conscious laugh.
“Call me Butterfield,” I said softly and encouragingly.
“I don’t mind saying,” he continued, “I was awfully stuck a while back.
I used to walk round the house at nights, you know--darned silly, of
course--and she used to drop me notes from her bedroom window. Of course
you won’t say a word to any of the men, but at one time she wanted me to
elope.”
“Indeed!” I said. “You surprise me. In that case I have greatly
misjudged her. She is not so young as I thought she was.”
“No, she’s not really, Butterfield,” he said eagerly. “She’s awfully
clever and grown up, and all that--that is, she was when we were so
thick. Some time ago, you know.”