Arethusa's trembling fingers could hardly find the telephone receiver
at first, and even when once located, they could scarcely keep it to
her ear.
"Hello!" her greeting was soft and almost breathless.
"Hello!" And she recognized the deep drawl immediately. "Is this Miss
Worthington at the 'phone?"
"Yes, it's me, all right!" Arethusa was too excited to be quite
grammatical. "But I've been running to get here, and I've lost my
breath!"
At the other end of the line, Mr. Bennet smiled rather broadly, and his
stenographer, just then depositing a pile of letters to be signed on
his desk, could not help wondering what the young lady had said that
was so funny. Mr. Bennet did not often smile so into a mere telephone.
"Well, this is Gridley Bennet talking."
"I knew it was!" happily.
"And I should like to know if you have any engagement for to-morrow
night?"
"Oh, Mr. Bennet!"
"Have you?"
"Of course, I haven't!" Arethusa considered it a foregone conclusion
that if he wanted her for anything, she was free.
"Then will you go to see the 'Earl and His Girl' with me?"
"What is that?"
"A musical comedy, and quite a good one, I've heard them say."
"Is.... Is it the Theater?"
"Why.... Yes! Certainly!" This surprised him just a bit.
"Oh, Mr. Bennet!" exclaimed Arethusa once more.
"I take it, then, you'll go with me?"
"You just bet! I should just love it! Why, I've never been to the
Theater in all my life! Not even to the Opera House in Hawesville!"
Hawesville was the county-seat.
Mr. Bennet laughed outright then. He had been smiling right straight
through this conversation, to the deep interest of his blonde
stenographer, who smiled herself in sympathy for the laugh. She took a
frank pride in Mr. Bennet's popularity, his many invitations and his
telephone calls. It was something to be stenographer to the very
handsomest man in the fourteen-story building without his being one of
the very nicest to work for, as well.
"That surely makes it all the better," said Mr. Bennet, "and I'll call
for you about eight." Then he added, being what he was, "I was rather
afraid I wasn't going to be allowed this great pleasure; I was sure one
of those many youths that surrounded you the other evening had been
before me."
"Well, they haven't. And I'm awfully glad they weren't, because I would
so much rather go with you."
It was only the truth which Arethusa spoke, just as she had been taught
it was best to do on every occasion.
Mr. Bennet was still smiling when he hung up the receiver and turned to
the blonde stenographer. "Please get me two seats for to-morrow night
at the Masonic, Miss Ford. You'd better telephone first to see what
they have, and then you can go after them." He looked up at the tall
clock between the office windows. "And you needn't come back any more
to-night, unless you yourself have something to do," he added kindly,
"because these letters were all, and I can mail them. Just bring the
tickets with you to-morrow."
Miss Ford, with a beaming face, sat down to telephone for the seats
which were to introduce Arethusa to the world of the theater, while Mr.
Bennet busied himself with the signing of his letters.
It was a kindly Providence that spared Arethusa the loss of life or
limb on her way back to impart this Marvelous piece of news, for such a
plunge across slippery floors was never made before. Ross and Elinor
seemed quite as excited over it as she could have wished, and had a
very proper appreciation of the Signal Honor paid their daughter by the
Princely-looking Mr. Bennet, although Ross was rather regretful that he
had not realized before that she had never attended the theater. He
would have taken her himself.
Elinor's most immediate concern was for the costume, and after due
deliberation of Arethusa's slender wardrobe, it was decided a purchase
must be made for this Occasion.
The next day was the longest that Arethusa had ever spent, in spite of
all that had to be done toward getting ready for the theater
expedition. The hands of the little silver clock on her mantel seemed
to Arethusa to be afflicted with a sort of palsy, during the last hours
of that day. She consulted them with frequency, but they never seemed
to move forward enough to be noticeable. And deeming something to have
happened to the clock, for surely time could not creep so slowly by,
she was ready and waiting for Mr. Bennet long before the stroke of
eight.
On this visit to Miss Rosa, she had produced a Dress of the soft colors
of the tinted autumn leaves, shading into almost the color of the
bronzy hair of the girl who was to wear it. It was made with soft skirt
on top of soft skirt, in these tones, of shimmering chiffon. It was as
Wonderful a Frock in its way as the Green Frock itself. Arethusa fairly
held her breath with delight when she saw it. And as it was such a very
Momentous Occasion, far too momentous for anything borrowed to be worn,
Elinor purchased her daughter, to wear with this dress, a cloak of soft
velvet in deep olive green with a collar of fluffy brown fur that
framed her glowing face in the most fascinating way possible.
So Mr. Bennet could not help but approve her appearance as he handed
her into the automobile. He liked those ladies he escorted to
festivities to do him credit. He was as much addicted to a liking for
feminine loveliness as was ever Mr. Harrison. For Mr. Bennet had looked
in the mirror often, and being a person of discernment, had liked what
he had seen there; and he had a deep and abiding sense of the fitness
of things. Had the gods been less kind to Arethusa in the matter of
looks, undoubtedly her adoration of Mr. Bennet must have remained of a
distance. But even a more carping critic than her escort could have
found no fault with her this evening; from the crown of her ruddy head
to the soles of her satin slippered feet, she was joy to the eye.
The theater lobby was full when they arrived, of a good-natured crowd
that laughed and chatted and greeted its acquaintances gayly as it
moved slowly toward the inside entrance; where the women whose bare
necks gleamed white in their settings of silks and velvets and furs,
with their dress-suited men folks, were separated, like the sheep from
the goats, for the downstairs of the theater, from the more plainly
attired who climbed balconyward. Mr. Bennet and his lady belonged
unmistakably with the sheep.
It would be a good house, judging from this number waiting to get
inside. It was the first night of a much heralded show, "with the
original New York company," its advance notices had said; and it had
called forth what the morning newspapers of Lewisburg delighted to call
a "representative audience."
Arethusa recognized, among the many, one or two faces she had seen to
know at the dinner-dance, and so she could nod and smile a greeting or
so, as she and Mr. Bennet pushed forward, with the rest of that crowd.
But the people around her pressed against her so closely, that all
unknown to Mr. Bennet, she timidly grasped the skirt of his overcoat
and gripped it tightly for an anchor should they be forced apart. It
was a fearful thought. What on earth _would_ she do, if she lost
him in that swarm of folks?
But once in the more open space inside, she breathed more easily, and
could lose her hold, for separation was no longer to be really feared.
She looked about her then, as Mr. Bennet divested himself of that
anchoring overcoat, and they waited for an usher, and, Arethusa-like,
was deeply impressed with all that her eyes rested upon; the glittering
crystal chandeliers that gleamed like hundreds of diamonds high above
her, the distorted pair of cupids, unnaturally fat, who swayed from
garlands of stiff flowers over the proscenium arch, the badly
anatomized ladies on the ceiling, riding impossible blue clouds; the
gorgeousness of many gilded columns, and even the bright red plush of
the seats. Arethusa's tastes were ever slightly rococo.
They were barely seated when the curtain rose, to a fanfare of sound
more deafening than musical, and she gave a long drawn out and
delighted, "O ... _Oh_!" for a really pleasing riot of color was before
her.
The advertising of this musical show had not so very far falsified its
attractions. There was plenty of action in the piece, much trotting on
and off the stage; a great many songs with an exceedingly active chorus
doing its best, and the dancing was unusually good. It had a big
company of principals, well costumed; and such music as was offered was
almost music.
But Mr. Bennet gave up all pretense of watching the performance after a
little while and devoted his attention entirely to Arethusa, for he had
never seen anyone before who so personified enjoyment. Her eyes, great,
deep pools of darkness, were glued immovably to the scene before her. A
soft flush came and went in her cheeks. She clutched the programme that
had been given her at the door tightly in one hand. She had made no
move to open it. She had no time to waste on programmes. Once, at a
very exciting moment, when the villain was eavesdropping within a
hand's distance of the handsome Earl of the piece, she grabbed Mr.
Bennet's arm and squeezed it painfully, almost totally unaware whose
arm it was.
Then the curtain went down with a grand flourish to a long roll from
the snare drum. It went up again, an encore to much applause, then
down; then up and down swiftly several times. Arethusa clapped a great
split right through the middle of her brand new gloves. The curtain
descended once more, and this time.... It stayed. The lights in the
theater flashed on.
It had seemed all too short a period of pleasure. Arethusa sighed as
she rose and reached behind her for her Green Cloak.
"I wish," she said, regretfully, "I wish it had lasted longer!"
"Lasted longer!" exclaimed Mr. Bennet, "Why!..."
"Isn't it over?" she almost shrieked.
"Over! Good gracious, child! That was only the first act! I believe
there are two more, before it's over."
"Two more! Oh! Goody!" Arethusa plumped herself down again with such
solid decision to stay where she was, that had her seat not been
strongly made, she might have gone clear through it. "But I saw men
going out! And I thought of course that was all! It did seem awfully
short, though!"
That there should be two whole more acts; such richness of prospect!
The curtain rose for the second act, and Arethusa's smile began to
widen in glad anticipation. Then it faded, and her expression changed
to that of one rather bewildered. She looked all about her, but no one
else seemed at all affected as she was herself. Everybody in the
audience was gazing intently, and with pleasure, at the stage.
"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Bennet.
Arethusa nodded towards the frolicking chorus girls who were just
immediately back of the foot-lights, all with arms out-stretched to
their responsive audience, singing vociferously of unintelligible
words.
"It's.... It's the girls."
"Yes...."
"They.... They have on pa ... pajamas." She stumbled a little over the
word.
"Yes...." encouraged Mr. Bennet once more.
"They must have been resting," replied Arethusa.
"Resting?"
"Pa ... pajamas are bedclothes," she explained, blushing just a bit.
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Bennet kindly, "but I don't just see...." He
glanced back at the stage.
"I reckon they put them on to rest between the acts," continued
Arethusa, "because they must have been tired, after dancing so hard,
and the curtain must have gone up so quick they didn't have time to
change. They must be awfully embarrassed to come out before us like
that. I think it's mean to laugh at them. I wouldn't laugh for anything
myself."
The picture conjured up by this speech of Arethusa's, of the chorus
girls changing wildly to pajamas and reclining after the arduous labors
of the first act, tickled Mr. Bennet more than anything that had
happened on the stage, even the best efforts of the expensive comedian.
And the effect upon him of the idea was the very same effect that the
idea of moths and butterflies as a Topic of Conversation for Parties
had had upon Mr. Watts, when Arethusa had presented it to him at the
dinner-dance.
Mr. Bennet laughed.
His laughter was much more refined and less boisterous than that of Mr.
William Watts, but Arethusa realized, nevertheless, that he was
laughing at her. He was not laughing at the chorus girls who had been
caught unawares by a rising curtain, in garments in which they had not
intended that they should be seen; but he was laughing at her,
Arethusa. Whatever it was she had said this time that was wrong, she
had made herself ridiculous enough for the Wonderful Mr. Bennet to
laugh at her!
Her throat filled suddenly with a perfectly solid lump. Something back
of her eyes began to smart unbearably, and they filled also, filled
quickly with tears that so blinded her that she could not see even her
own shimmering lap. Her hands trembled unmanageably, until the
programme dropped from their uncertain grasp, and she fumbled about to
find that handkerchief which was so badly needed. She dabbed at her
eyes with it, and winked back those tears as best she could, biting her
lips fiercely to keep from sobbing outright. But there were so many
tears and they came so fast that they brimmed clear over, and some
fell, great shining drops, on the yellow chiffon of her dress. Her tiny
handkerchief was all unavailing to quench this flow, and in a very
short while it was only a small lump of wet. Her head drooped lower and
lower.
It was absolute and overwhelming humiliation.
Mr. Bennet heard a queer little sound at his side, a little sound that
she was quite unable to control, and he turned to see this weeping
Arethusa.
"Why, my dear little girl!" he exclaimed, bending over. "What on
earth!"
She managed to swallow a small portion of the lump that filled her
throat. "You.... You laughed at me!" she said brokenly. "You laughed
at me!"
So he had. But Mr. Bennet was very sure that this was not the time to
acknowledge it.
He was genuinely distressed to see her cry, but his interest was more
acute that something be done to stop it before too much attention was
accorded them. Mr. Bennet disliked very much to be made at all
conspicuous.
He slid one arm gently along the back of her seat. Arethusa was
conscious of this movement through her unhappiness, and she could not
help being thrilled at the thought of that Wonderful Arm being where it
was. Mr. Bennet, however, knew very well just how far it might go. Miss
Eliza herself thought no more of the proprieties than did Mr. Bennet.
Then he leaned protectingly close. Arethusa thrilled some more.
"Did you imagine for a moment that I was laughing at you!" And his rich
drawling voice was so convincing that she believed him immediately.
"Indeed, I was not! There was something very funny just then that you
missed. _Why_, I wouldn't laugh at _you_ for all the world!"
Arethusa smiled through her tears at him like a veritable bit of April.
"I didn't like to think you would. But.... But.... It seemed just
exactly like you were!"
"You misjudged me dreadfully!"
And this time he sounded so reproachful that she was just as ashamed of
herself for so misjudging him, as she had been humiliated the moment
before because she had thought herself the object of his mirth.
"I ... I'm sorry," she faltered. Would Mr. Bennet ever be able to
forgive such a misinterpretation of his charming laugh?
But Mr. Bennet was a truly magnanimous soul, and it seemed that he
would.
So an atmosphere of enjoyment once more restored, Arethusa turned her
attention back to the chorus ladies, who had in the meantime clothed
themselves in garments belonging less to the hours of rest and more to
those of activity, and responded to their antics to amuse as she had
before that most unfortunate episode.
She sighed a gusty sigh of real forlornness when the curtain had
descended in such a way that it could not possibly be construed by even
inexperienced theatergoers to mean anything but that it was all over.
"It doesn't last near long enough, not near!" she said, regretfully, as
she was being helped into the Green Cloak.
Mr. Bennet produced his watch. "I don't know just how long you expected
it to last," he replied, "but right this moment it happens to be ten
minutes past eleven; which means that we have been here almost three
hours!"
Arethusa regarded him open-eyed and open-mouthed.
"_Honest!_"
"Honest."
"Why, it hasn't seemed like any time at all!"
"Well, it seems to me that if you enjoyed it so much, we'll have to
come again some time very soon. Shall we?"
Arethusa accepted this invitation with undoubted pleasure.
"I'll be a little more careful, though, in my selection of our next
play, so there will be nothing in it you could misunderstand that might
possibly spoil a few moments for us. I don't want any spoiled moments
with you," tenderly.
Arethusa blushed deeply and her head drooped.
_She_ had spoiled it, all by herself; those moments of unhappiness
had been all her own fault, because she was such a goose. This play had
been as near perfection as a play could be, thought she, who knew so
little of plays. At the next one, she herself would see that nothing of
the kind occurred. She had learned her lesson, and there would be no
more misinterpretation of Mr. Bennet's charming little ways.
Mr. Bennet was just a bit conscience-stricken in the morning by the way
he had turned that episode, when reviewing it at his office. She was a
dear child. The Worthington interest was a solid one. There were
dollars galore that stood to that name in various financial
institutions, and when one is a dealer in the commodities known as
stocks and bonds, one must not let the smallest chance slip by to
cement a friendship outside which might prove to extend itself into the
business world. There was no telling how quickly bread cast upon the
waters might return. At least, it could do no sort of harm. She was a
dear child!
Which explains why Arethusa received a long green box, brought to her
by George as she ate her luncheon. It was a box of American Beauties
with stems a yard long, roses that were far too beautiful as roses to
be real, and that seemed to Arethusa to have gathered all the perfume
of heaven within their deep, red centers. She sniffed and smelled them
in ecstasy; and stroked the glossy green leaves that spread out from
their stems, so marvelous as leaves. She could hardly part with them
that they might be put in the tallest vase on the library table, which
would display their beauty to the greatest advantage.
Inside the box was a tiny note....
"Would Miss Worthington do Mr. Bennet the honor of reserving the
date of the January Cotillion for him?"
"But that's so awfully far off," objected Arethusa, as she read this
communication aloud to her interested parents. "It's only the first of
November right now!"
It was entirely too lovely of Mr. Bennet to send her roses; it heaped
coals of fire with effective vengeance. She was almost ashamed to
accept them. But she did wish that he had made that engagement for
something a trifle closer at hand.
"You little goose!" exclaimed Ross. "Why, that is _the_ event of the
whole Lewisburg season! And not one debutante in ten out of a winter
ever gets to go! As superlative as I'll have to admit Mr. Bennet's
taste in flowers, I believe most girls would care far more about that
invitation than they would about the roses!"
"Really!" Arethusa brightened up considerably.
"I'd let a man laugh at me every day from now till Christmas if he'd
ask me to go to the January Cotillion with him," continued Ross, "that
is, if I was a young lady with any hope of being a social success."
"But he wasn't laughing at me," protested his daughter. She had
narrated the affair in detail. "I told you that, Father. He said very
positively he wasn't laughing at me!"
"Well," replied Ross, "it makes no difference what caused his mirth, it
seems to me that I'd assuredly welcome it, with such effect!"