Arethusa had not the faintest idea what a "dinner-dance" might be. She
knew very well what a dinner was, and she could conceive of the glories
of a dance, but as a combination they eluded her. The only picture she
could form for herself of such an entertainment was a strange
conglomeration of eating and dancing; eating for awhile, and then
dancing; and so on, first one and then the other, until time to go
home. But whatever the exact nature of it, it would be her Very First
Party.
Hitherto, her expeditions into the social world had compassed nothing
more shattering to her nervous system than church entertainments and
occasional spend-the-days. Miss Eliza was no very great believer in
Parties as an influence for good in Arethusa's development.
Arethusa, had she been permitted, would have gone straight to bed and
slept soundly and dreamlessly until Friday night, asking only to be
waked when it was time that she dress before seeking the scene of
festivity. But her preparation for the Event helped to pass the two
days that she must wait.
She had once, long ago, found in the garret at the Farm, when poking
about there on a rainy day that had kept her housed, a little book with
her grandmother's name in faded writing on the fly-leaf.
Its title, almost indistinguishable outside on the worn board covers,
but plainly enough visible within, read:
"Advice to Young Ladies
of
Good Family
on
Entering Society
for the
_First Time_
By
A Former Belle"
This little volume she had brought with her to Lewisburg, packed in the
box with her green ribbon, the box that had been slipped into the
canvas-covered trunk unknown to Miss Eliza. Arethusa had been very sure
there would be Parties for her to attend; had not Miss Asenath told her
so? Had not a dress for them been provided? And the book would clear up
her ignorance of the line of conduct recognized as to be followed at
these entertainments.
The first time she had read it, it had seemed to her to cover every
contingency that might arise in the most varied and active of social
careers. But there was absolutely nothing in it, she was sorry to see,
when she fished it out of the trunk and climbed into her window-seat to
study it this day before the Party, relating at all directly to
dinner-dances; although two whole chapters were devoted to a full
discussion of the subject of dinners.
She went through the pages again and again, but not once did the magic
word she hunted greet her eyes. Then she went back to a paragraph in
one of those chapters headed "Dinners," which had particularly
attracted her attention.
"A Young Lady," so it ran, "should be thoroughly conversant with
the affairs of the day and able to take part in an intelligent
and lively way in conversation regarding the same with her fellow
guests, most especially that member of the other sex next whom she
may be seated at the festive board. In a manner of the proper
reserve and deference to masculine opinion, she should endeavor
to introduce topics that would promote animated and interested
discussion among those nearest her, thus adding to the enjoyment
of the party and assisting the efforts of her hostess to make
the occasion prove an auspicious Event, which is one of the very
first requirements of the true guest. It is well, also, before
attending a dinner-party, where most of the evening's entertainment
inevitably consists of conversation over the delicious viands, to
be ready with thoughts formed for expression as opinions in regard
to the polite arts; to be well-read in the current novels such as
are proper for young females of good family to have read: for talk
and discussion may often be led adroitly in such directions with
pleasure and profit."
Here, Arethusa dropped the little book, bitterly disappointed, to look
out of her window for awhile at the automobiles whirling past her down
Lenox Avenue. She leaned her head against the window-casing and
reviewed what she had read.
After all, there was nothing to help her very much. She knew scarcely
anything about the affairs of the day. Miss Eliza had never allowed her
to touch the only newspaper that came to the Farm, not considering her
old enough. She had not the vaguest idea what the "polite arts" were,
and as to the books she had read, she was very uncertain whether they
might be called "current novels."
She picked up her book to read further and discovered that....
"Poetry may often be introduced with charm and effect. A few lines
of verse, judiciously interspersed with the conversation; pearls
of the thought of our great masters of the world of rhyme falling
from the ruby lips of the young and fair daughters of Eve, have
often caused a masculine heart to beat faster and to be thrown
around the lovely borrower of words an atmosphere of gentle and
refined erudition that nothing else could so well impart."
Arethusa brightened up. Here, she felt more at home.
She could certainly learn Poetry! In fact, she had no need to learn it,
for she already knew quite a lot. She had read _The Family Poetry
Book_ through from cover to cover, a hundred times at least. It
contained a great deal of Scott and Burns, and many long-delightful
ballads such as "Lord Ullin's Daughter," and "The Cruel Sister," as
well as Irish melodies that charmed with their plaintive atmosphere.
England, however, had not been neglected, for the work of the Lake
Poets held a prominent place, and there was much of Tennyson, his "May
Queen" cycle, and "Sir Galahad." "The Prisoner of Chillon" was
Arethusa's favorite of Byron's representation; she knew it from end to
end. And she knew all of those specifically named off by heart, for the
swinging lines of a ballad form were Arethusa's idea of what real
poetry should be. But the compilers of the big brown book, which was
sacred to the marble-topped center table in the parlor at the Farm, had
not stayed entirely on the other side of the ocean; and so Arethusa
could recite many of the verses of our own sweetest singers of that
day; as well as many that were scattered throughout the book that were
signed "Anonymous"; and many that had been written by dead and gone men
and women whose very existence would have been forgotten by a fickle
world, had not _The Family Poetry Book_ preserved an imperishable
record of their achievements.
"Yes," exulted Arethusa, "I know some Poetry!"
She read on, greatly cheered.
"Conversation," continued the quaint little pamphlet of advice, "is
best carried on if some definite topic is introduced. This,
however, must he accomplished with ease and grace, lest a feeling
of awkwardness be aroused."
Arethusa descended to the library and hunted up a dictionary, to look
for "topic."
She discovered it to be:
"The subject of any distinct portion of a discourse; a theme or
subject as of talk or thought."
This was fairly clear. "I might find a Topic," she thought, for she
surely could not quote poetry all through the evening. "I might read
about something I could talk about."
Her eyes roved restlessly down the same row of the bookcase where she
had got the dictionary. It was nearly all Encyclopedia, stretching away
in a formidable array of volumes exactly alike, except for the tiny
gold lettering across the center of the back. She lifted out one at
random, the "L's," and it opened accommodatingly of its own accord,
when its heaviness slid out of her grasp, to "Lepidoptera." Which was a
strange and almost unpronounceable word; but the pictures which
accompanied this text were somewhat explanatory of its meaning, being
all of familiar looking butterflies and moths.
Arethusa grew interested. She spread herself comfortably out on the
floor, there in the corner, and began to read; and she gleaned as she
read several facts that might "with profit" be introduced into a
conversation.
For instance; she learned that there were over fifty different families
of these Lepidoptera, and that all of these family divisions were
divided also, so many times that they have never all been counted or
classified; that all common moths and butterflies belonged under this
big head, as well as some "cousins," so aristocratic and so wonderful
in their colorings that Arethusa exclaimed aloud over their beauty in
the large plate on the page just opposite; and that every single,
solitary member of every family, whether of high or low degree, came
from some sort of caterpillar. She discovered that these Lepidoptera
had traits of character which still further differentiated them. They
were exceedingly finicky about their food, she read; the meat of one
variety seemed to be the deadly poison of another. And some of them
could live under the water; some drowned in a drop of rain.
She committed to memory some of the most interesting and peculiar of
the names of the families, so as to be ready when the "member of the
other sex next whom she was seated at the festive board" should become
so interested in her Topic of Conversation as to inquire.
One of these names was "Nymphlidae," which the writer of the article
declared was the largest family of all; and included the commonest of
the gaily colored butterflies one saw flying about every day. Arethusa
took a deep personal interest in this family, because of its name. She
was well acquainted with nymphs, and knew exactly where her own pretty
name had been found. This was all sure to prove interesting to her
fellow diners-out. It was most fascinating to read.
Elinor and Nettie, Elinor's maid, helped Arethusa to dress for the
Party.
It was well that she had their assistance, for she could never have got
into that Green Frock alone and unaided. There was an intricacy and
invisibility of fastening about it that her trembling, excited fingers
could never have managed. Nettie, with the air of an artist loving her
work, piled Arethusa's hair up high to show the sweep of the line of
her neck and head which Elinor, watching critically from the green
sofa, decided was particularly good. And Nettie poked and pulled and
fussed with Arethusa as one who dressed a beloved doll, and the result
was altogether good.
Ross had hied himself to the florist and his daughter was the recipient
of her first flowers, an anonymous bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley
which caused much excitement, largely compounded of pleasure, when they
arrived; and which looked just as if they had grown with the other wee
blossoms out of the green of the frock when Elinor pinned them at its
waist.
Arethusa found it hard to believe that the reflection she gazed at in
her own long mirror was herself, even after seeing that other so
glorified Arethusa in the mirrors of the shop the other day; for this
was still more Wonderful. It was metamorphosis from the crown of her
head to the soles of her feet. The new arrangement of her hair imparted
an air of quaint dignity that was immensely becoming and that made her
appear a trifle older. Its piled masses shown like burnished copper
under the bright glare of numerous electric lights; and under the same
brilliance her arms and neck seemed more like creamy satin than ever.
She noted with deep satisfaction that the tiny bridge of freckles which
she considered absolutely spoiled her nose, was almost invisible when
viewed by this artificial illumination. She struck one satin slipper
from under the edge of her dress and lifted her skirts high to see her
feet. They looked Perfectly Wonderful also. She did not know them as
her own feet.
Elinor had gone to find Ross to show him the completed debutante, so
Arethusa had time alone in which to admire to her heart's content.
She curtsied to the figure in the mirror, a long, sweeping,
old-fashioned curtsey that ended with a "cheese," and the billowy gown
spread itself out around her shimmeringly like the party frock of some
belle of long ago; the "Former Belle" of her little book might have
curtsied and looked just so. This charmed her utterly, and she did it
again and again.
Then Arethusa suddenly leaned close to the mirrored figure and kissed
its face fleetingly.
"Oh, but you are beautiful! Beautiful! I'm so glad you're beautiful!"
And Ross and Elinor, arriving at the door just in time to hear the
exclamation, slipped away again lest they should spoil her rapture in
this impersonal admiration of her own fair self, by letting her know
that they had heard.
Mrs. Chestnut was sending a youth by name of Harrison to escort
Arethusa to the Party, a youth who did not want to come. He had fully
intended to go alone to the festivities since his own particular
inamorata was already provided with company, and thus he would have the
best of chances to show this lady a "real time."
But Mrs. Chestnut, being his own blood aunt, felt perfectly privileged
to call upon him in emergencies, and so his carefully laid plans were
all upset with the "country jane" shoved upon him for the evening.
He was one of the few beaux of Lewisburg who possessed an
automobile--entirely his own--in which to carry ladies to Parties. When
he appeared with it, he handed the cocoon that was introduced to him as
Arethusa into the back seat and climbed, ungraciously, in front all by
himself. Conversation on the road to the Party was clearly an
impossibility, so Arethusa reviewed her knowledge of the article on
"Lepidoptera," and recited under her breath a few selections of the
Poetry she had deemed most appropriate for use on this occasion. She
was as ready for eventualities as she knew how to be.
Mr. Harrison dumped his cocoon in the dressing-room and departed, in
search of a little refreshing man-talk before taking up his arduous
duties in connection with Arethusa.
As Elinor had instructed her to wait until he should return for her,
Arethusa waited. But they had been so late in their coming that the few
girls who had been in the room when she arrived, were soon gone with
their liveliness and laughter, and the tardiest guest was left alone.
She sat on the extreme edge of a chair quite near the door as she
waited, and tapped her feet impatiently.
The Party seemed already to be in full swing; music was playing, and
she caught a glimpse of dancers in the large ball room at the other end
of the hall. It was maddening to be so near It and not a part of It.
She went to the door and peered out. She considered that Mr. Harrison
was entirely too long in returning. But he was amusing himself in the
hall, and was not in the least hurry to take up the burden of his
evening.
One of the men in the little group where he stood, whose eyes were
towards that dressing-room door, noticed Arethusa.
"Who's the stranger?" he enquired, "And she's some looker, too, believe
me."
The whole group turned as one man to stare in Arethusa's direction. Mr.
Harrison was unpleasantly reminded of what was before him.
"I've got a skirt in there," he muttered, "and I might as well go get
her, I reckon."
"This one yours? Confide in us, Harry, and introduce us, immediately if
not sooner. The idea of your keeping anything like that all to
yourself!"
"No." Mr. Harrison was admiring Arethusa's lovely, eager face. "I
haven't any idea who she is! Wish I did know! But mine's a hayseed,
daughter of a friend of Aunt Nell's up from the country for the very
first time in her life! That's what I drew for being in the family!
Well, pray for me, fellows, for here goes!"
He made straight for Arethusa.
With each step he took towards her, the greater his admiration grew.
Mr. Harrison's affections fluttered from girl to girl like a moth in a
room, full of candles, unable to settle down steadily to one particular
flame. He did not recognize Arethusa as his lady for the evening. He
had been so late in going for her that she had been all muffled and
waiting for him when he arrived. And he had not cared to look very
closely at the figure in those wrappings. Mr. Harrison asked very
little of the damsels he honored with his attention, save that they be
pretty. He decided, without the slightest hesitancy, that Arethusa was
the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
She did not see him coming, or even hear his approach, with all her
thought for the gay scene before her, until he asked her if she would
mind telling Miss Worthington that Mr. Harrison was waiting for her.
Then she turned and smiled such a welcome of him from her shining eyes,
that the weather-vane of Mr. Harrison's volatile affections veered to
point straight Arethusa-ward.
"Oh, it's you! I'm so glad! I've been wishing you'd come! I thought
maybe you'd forgotten!"
And the weather-vane became firmly fixed.
But Mr. Harrison felt as if some audible apology were surely due this
dream of a girl for all those unkind things he had thought (and
uttered), earlier in the evening, that her entertainment should have
devolved upon himself. He considered himself now the very luckiest of
mortals.
Arethusa laughed at his attempt at vindication of his first greeting of
her, that ripply soft laugh of hers, and the susceptible Mr. Harrison
named it the most musical, and the prettiest, laugh he had ever heard.
"You didn't know me, did you? I don't wonder, because I was so wrapped
up when you came for me, and it was Mother's cloak! She thought I might
take cold, because I'm not used to going out at night, and my own cloak
wasn't near warm enough, she said; and so she...."
Then Arethusa paused, and flushed prettily with embarrassment. One did
not confide such intimate personalities to strange gentlemen at
Parties, she was quite sure, from that close study of the little book.
She must be more careful of her tongue.
But Mr. Harrison cared not a bit what she said, or whether she ever
said anything at all. She was a joy for him to behold if she never
opened her mouth. He escorted her, with the pride of a personal
possession, to Mrs. Chestnut and introduced her. Mrs. Chestnut held her
hand kindly for a moment and spoke of Elinor, and expressed a Hope that
Arethusa would have a Good Time; then passed her on to Emily, who was
almost hidden behind a mass of roses she carried, and so excited at the
Whole Affair, she could pay no real attention to Arethusa; but she
managed to transfer her to her older sister just next; and the older
sister to a cousin or so next to her, and a bosom friend or two thrown
in for good measure.
It was a long receiving line and Arethusa was so utterly bewildered
long before she had ever reached the end of it, by this way she was
shoved, so to speak, from person to person, without ever really finding
out who half of them were, for it would seem as if there had been a
conspiracy to mumble the names spoken to Arethusa, that she could
almost have fled the Party. "The Advice to Young Ladies" had said
nothing of such a proceeding as being part of the Routine of Parties,
nor had Elinor made any mention of it. Arethusa was totally unprepared.
And it was, as an experience, well calculated to dampen even the
exuberance of spirits with which Arethusa had fared forth to this new
adventure. Everyone about her seemed to know everyone else intimately;
she had no part in the gay greetings of old friends. It made her feel
herself, as she watched, the only stranger at the Dinner Dance.
So she clung to Mr. Harrison for an old acquaintance, as to a rock in a
weary land of unfamiliar surroundings. But such clinging was really
unnecessary; for he wanted not to leave her side. Arethusa's little
confusion only made her prettier.
"Am I going to sit by you at the dinner-table?" she asked him, when she
had summoned sufficient courage to add this bit to the general uproar
of pleasant conversation. It would help matters mightily, if she was.
"I don't know," he began slowly, but then he added, very briskly
indeed, "but I can go find out and change the cards around if you're
not."
"Oh, don't leave me! Don't leave me!" Arethusa fairly shrieked this
request, and she grabbed at his coat-tails as he started away. "Please
don't go off and leave me!"
Consequently, he was forced to leave her when they finally sought the
dining-room, and he was miles away on the other side of the huge
apartment at another table. Arethusa found herself next to a perfectly
strange youth, a rotund, almost moon-faced individual with eyes that
danced good-humoredly behind glasses.
This person addressed himself strictly to business, weeding out from
the silver by his plate with such a reassuring air of knowing that he
did the right thing, a small article shaped like a tiny pitchfork, that
Arethusa followed suit immediately.
But she had a very decided dislike of eating blindly ahead without
knowing what it was she ate, and although the objects before her
presented a rather familiar appearance, she wanted to be quite
positive. Having somewhat recovered her spirits by this time, it was
not so hard to ask her neighbor the question. He did not look at all
formidable, and one talked to one's partner at dinners, so the "Advice"
had said, and it had not specified any condition of previously knowing
that partner.