The winter sped away until Christmas, on wings of fleetness that made
the days seem as if they had only been hours since Arethusa had come to
Lewisburg. Life was crowded so full of new experiences and happenings
that she had absolutely no smallest room or time for any moments of
home-sickness for the Farm. And then.... There was Mr. Bennet.
Now Arethusa honestly interested Mr. Bennet.
It was not alone her unabashed and open admiration of himself which
amused while it flattered, just a little, for he was only human; but
she had an unbounding enthusiasm for everything she saw and did which
made it a real delight to be with her anywhere, at dance, or theater or
football game or moving picture. There was nothing blase or jaded of
any of life's offerings about Arethusa. She developed, as the days
passed, into a young lady much sought after by the male of the species;
for this same quality which endeared her to Mr. Bennet brought her many
other suitors. And, argued Arethusa, being very much in love with one
Charming Person does not prevent one from having a very good time with
others of the same sex, when the opportunity is presented.
But the Core of her Heart undoubtedly remained true to her First Love,
the Wonderful Mr. Bennet.
He was still, of all the men she had met, the one whose approach made
her heart heat faster; whose voice, even coming from afar over the
telephone, had the power to make her thrill; and around whom she
builded innocent little castles in the air intended for the Perfect
Bliss of two, in which she always saw herself as the other person, and
which made her blush as she sat all alone and builded them. But even a
more sophisticated maiden than Arethusa might have been led to the
building of air castles by Mr. Bennet's manner, singling her out, as it
undoubtedly seemed to do, from among all those girls of his
acquaintance as the one with whom he most cared to be.
This affair, as it progressed, amused Ross immensely.
He teased his daughter most unmercifully about Mr. Bennet, and she
blushed and bridled over the teasing as any orthodox lovelorn miss
should, and has since the beginning of time, when the name of her
Beloved is taken in vain. There was no real harm in the object upon
which she had so settled her affections, said Ross to Arethusa. She was
only about the twenty-fifth girl, to the certain knowledge of all
Lewisburg, whom he had graciously permitted to be thus "crazy about"
his handsome self; it was a disease positively certain to attack every
debutante in the town in her turn; and so on. But Arethusa's invariable
reply to such very disagreeable remarks was that no one in his right
mind would consider blaming those girls in the least.
But as much as Mr. Bennet sought her company, it was Ross and not Mr.
Bennet, who had the pleasure of escorting her to her first football
game, on Thanksgiving day. And perhaps it was just as well, for on this
Occasion she created more excitement than the game itself by falling
down in between the rows of seats as she bodily assisted the ball of
her chosen side up the field to goal.
The automobile was another never ending source of delight. Clay had
become a sworn ally. He was at her beck and call with cheerful
willingness to do whatsoever she commanded, at any hour of the day or
night; and the weather was never too unseasonable to go out with a
machine if Miss Arethusa wanted it. Hitherto, Clay had been as careful
of those two shining cars in Elinor's garage as if they had been bound
to suffer permanently from mud splashes and rain drops. He taught her
how to run, first the smaller one and then the limousine, as Arethusa
insisted she be allowed to try it. She was so strong and quick that she
soon learned, and she really liked the larger car better, as it was
more powerful. Many an hour was spent out with Clay these first wintry
days, out on frosted country roads that crackled under the heavy tires
as they rushed along.
Arethusa, somehow, never went on one of these expeditions but that she
wished for Timothy. He would have loved it, she was sure; the rushing
through the country on wings of a swiftness almost unbelievable, and
feeling the heart of the big thing throbbing underneath her and
responding to her slightest touch as quickly as if it had been a toy,
instead of a monster that required a whole wide street in which to be
turned.
Ross informed her she was in a fair way to make some headlines for
breakfast tables, which he interpreted as meaning:
"BEAUTIFUL YOUNG DAUGHTER OF WEALTHY PARENTS ELOPES WITH HANDSOME
CHAUFFEUR!"
Then Arethusa must tell her father and Elinor all that she had learned
about Clay in these many rides, and about the girl he hoped to marry
some day, and about the invalid sister whom he supported.
For Elinor, warm-hearted as she was and as kind to everyone about her,
had not even known of their existence until Arethusa told her. But
Arethusa had been more than once to call at the tiny cottage where
Clay's invalid sister lived with the two stronger ones who worked, and
she had carried books and fruit to the sweet-faced girl whose only
glimpse of the big world was what was brought to her in her own room by
those who loved her. Arethusa's friendships never stopped contented
with knowing a person; she had to know all about them. She had met the
fiancee at the cottage many times, and she thoroughly approved of her
for Clay. And both of these girls adored Arethusa.
It was from one of these excursions she was returning when she brought
the automobile to such an abrupt stop, that Clay, who had yielded her
the wheel at her request and was not noticing just then at all, was
almost thrown out of his seat.
"There's Mrs. Cherry," screamed Arethusa. "Oh, Mrs. Cherry! Mrs.
Cherry!"
It was undoubtedly Mrs. Cherry and Helen Louise and Peter; Mrs. Cherry
holding a hand of each child and strolling slowly along gazing into
shop windows gaily decorated and full of Christmas things. Quite a bit
more prosperous-looking trio than of old they were, but Mrs. Cherry,
for all the better clothes, was still just as comfortably untidy as
ever.
"Mrs. Cherry!"
Arethusa waved wildly, fearful lest her friend should enter the store
into whose windows she was at that moment gazing, and miss her
altogether. But Mrs. Cherry turned around at this last wild cry, and
looked uncertainly up and down the crowded street and across, directly
at Arethusa, without recognizing her, or without locating the call.
"Here, Clay," Arethusa began clambering ungracefully over the brakes
and handles around the wheel of the car, and across him before he could
move. "Here, you take it, I must go speak to Mrs. Cherry!"
"Well, if it ain't Miss Worth'ton!" exclaimed Mrs. Cherry when Arethusa
had reached her, after a rather dangerous scramble between trucks and
horses and street cars.
Mrs. Cherry beamed all over in expansive greeting; Peter sidled shyly
behind her generous proportions, as for shelter; and Helen Louise
smiled, timidly, a slightly more toothless smile than hers had been,
even a few weeks past.
Arethusa held out both hands. "Oh, I'm so _glad_ to see you! I've
thought about you often and often and wondered where you were and what
you were doing. And Helen Louise and Peter!"
"You look just as pretty as a peach!" declared Mrs. Cherry, with hearty
warmth, grasping those outstretched hands to pump them vigorously, up
and down. "I never would have knowed you!"
"Come get in the automobile," invited Arethusa, "and then we can talk.
And oh!" seized with a sudden inspiration, "go home to lunch with me,
it's most lunch time now! Please, please, Mrs. Cherry!"
Mrs. Cherry demurred. But Peter pulled at a fold of her skirt, the
word "lunch" had aroused in him a strong, if sudden, sense of lack.
"Ma, I'm hungry!" he said.
"Well, that's nothing very new, you're always that," replied his
parent.
Helen Louise had been focused in round-eyed admiration on the Beautiful
Lady before her, without uttering a word; now she murmured something
indistinguishable above the roar about her. Her mother stopped to catch
it.
"Well, I reckon there ain't no harm in it, if you're right sure it
won't be no trouble to anybody. Helen Louise ain't never been in a auto
before and she says she's tired and wants to ride.... I reckon she
might be.... I'm most wore out myself. We've done a sight of walking
this morning. I've been aiming to bring these children down here ever'
day for a week, and never got clear 'round to it, tel to-day. It was
something sorter like Providence done kept me busy, I reckon, Miss
Worth'ton, I wouldn't have seen you no other day, p'raps. Law, but your
Pa must be a rich man, Miss Worth'ton, to be owning a thing like this
here!"
For under cover of Mrs. Cherry's volubility, Arethusa had piloted the
whole family safely to the automobile.
Mrs. Cherry leaned back on the cushions as one to the manner born.
Helen Louise was frankly overawed by the unaccustomed magnificence of
the limousine, and seemed to shrink before it with visibility. Peter's
eyes grew rounder and rounder with each passing moment. All of
Arethusa's efforts to draw Helen Louise into the conversation failed;
she seemed stricken absolutely tongue-tied. Even a reference to her
father failed to arouse to animation. Peter sat stiffly erect, also
silent, one grubby hand tightly clutching his mother's sleeve as if he
feared the catastrophe of losing her through the swiftness of his
riding.
But Mrs. Cherry well supplied any lack of words from her children.
"I've wondered and wondered myself, about you, Miss Worth'ton, ever so
many times sence that trip we rode on the cars together. Whether you
found your Pa and everything like you was thinking you would and if you
been having a good time like you said you knew you was going to."
"Oh, I've had a Heavenly Time!" Arethusa cried, "Just a Perfectly
Heavenly Time, Mrs. Cherry! And everyone is so Perfectly Lovely to me!"
"That's 'cause you're what you are," remarked Mrs. Cherry, shrewdly.
She was loud in her sincere admiration of the ungainly pile where the
Worthingtons lived; it seemed a superbly beautiful exterior to her
ideas. But when George, who for all the dinginess of his skin had a
classic countenance and a dignity of bearing which the Prime Minister
of England might well have envied him, opened the front door for
Arethusa and her cavalcade, Mrs. Cherry was suddenly stricken as
tongue-tied as Helen Louise.
George himself came nearer to losing his equilibrium than ever he had
in all his years of efficient service, when he saw what his young lady
had in tow; but he concealed his agitation with real credit to his
training.
"Is Mother in, George?"
"She's in the music room, Miss Arethusa."
Then Arethusa remembered Something, all at once. It was Something that
brought panic. She took Mrs. Cherry and her progeny into the library as
rapidly as it was possible for her to move them onward without actually
pushing them.
"I'll go find Mother," she said, hurriedly.
She left them seated, in a row of stiff attitudes of discomfort on the
big davenport, Peter still with a tight hold of his mother, who sat
erect and glassy-eyed beside him. George had been almost too much for
Mrs. Cherry.
Elinor was just coming out of the music room as Arethusa rushed toward
her down the hall.
"Did I hear you talking to any one, dear? You're rather late. I'm
afraid you barely have time to dress."
"Mother," exclaimed Arethusa, and the sound was tragedy whispered, "I
forgot it was your party to-day and I met Mrs. Cherry down-town, and I
brought her home to lunch with me!"
"Mrs. Cherry? Who...?"
"The one who was so nice to me on the train. I told you about her,
don't you remember? But, Mother, I honestly did forget all about your
party! Honest to goodness! What shall I do!"
Elinor laughed.
She was somewhat used to Arethusa's impulsiveness by this time, so this
did not seem such a very surprising thing for her to do.
"And, Mother," Arethusa's hissing whisper grew yet more tragic, "I
brought Helen Louise and Peter home with me too, they were with her
when I met her!"
"Peter and Helen Louise!! Who on earth are they?"
Elinor could not help but think that this last _was_ going a bit far;
for adding three to a carefully arranged luncheon for ten would be
somewhat of a strain.
"Her children!" Arethusa was wildly penitent. Her eyes began filling
with her ever-ready tears. "Oh, Mother, I was just so glad to see her!
I really didn't mean to do anything to mess up your party! I was just
so glad to see her! She was so awfully nice to me that day!"
"Don't cry, Arethusa," said Elinor absently, "don't cry, please! It
isn't worth tears. We'll fix it somehow."
Yet the situation was a bit peculiar, without a doubt. The Cherry
family could not be sent home, though at the same time, Elinor had a
vision of some of those worthy ladies she had invited to her luncheon
should the Cherry children join the Party. Just what had best be
done....
Arethusa had a gleam first.
"Could Mrs. Cherry," she suggested timidly, "could Mrs. Cherry come to
your Party and let me eat with Helen Louise and Peter in the breakfast
room? Would it make very much difference?" And this was the noblest
piece of self-sacrifice on Arethusa's part which any human being has
ever performed, for above all else on earth, save the Wonderful Mr.
Bennet, she loved a Party. "Would it make very much difference if I
didn't come?"
Elinor considered that there were possibilities in this Idea of such
real worth that it almost atoned for the lapse which had made it
necessary of existence. She could tell better, however, after seeing
Mrs. Cherry whether it could be carried out in its entirety or modified
or extended.
So she and Arethusa proceeded to the library.
Peter had somewhat recovered himself during the moments of Arethusa's
absence and was now engaged in climbing first into one big chair and
then another, and bounding out. It was a charming pastime, but one in
which Helen Louise had refused to join. She still sat just as at first,
like a small graven image, with stiff little flaxen plaits sticking out
from each side of her head, and staring straight before her, with
unblinking pale blue eyes, at the log fire. Her small hands were
clasped between her rigid little knees, and her feet, owing to the fact
that she was small and the davenport was large, were far from the floor
and extended at direct right angles from her body. She did not even
move at the entrance of Arethusa with Elinor.
Mrs. Cherry, like her son, was rapidly coming to herself after that
encounter with the magnificent George. She was reclining now, at ease,
and her eyes were roving busily about, and she made little ejaculations
under her breath with each new object she spied.
Elinor was exceedingly gracious when Arethusa introduced her to the
unexpected guest, although she hardly acknowledged the meeting with the
unadulterated cordiality as the other party to it, for Mrs. Cherry had
been born cordial. But no one, least of all Mrs. Cherry herself, would
have gathered from Elinor's manner that plans for a formal luncheon had
been a trifle upset. She explained that she was having a few friends of
her own to lunch and that she believed that it might be pleasanter for
the children to have theirs separately. Grown folks and their
conversation were very tiring to children. Mrs. Cherry agreed with all
of this.
But Elinor also was of the opinion that the Cherry family had best
lunch en masse, with Arethusa, and so adroitly did she manage this part
of the affair that Mrs. Cherry ever afterwards firmly believed it was
she, herself, who had suggested that she join Helen Louise and Peter
and the younger hostess, rather than Elinor's older guests.
The division of luncheon guests which Arethusa headed was safely
garnered in the breakfast room with only a narrow margin of time to
spare before Elinor's division arrived.
Mrs. Cherry was treated there to a collation that so long as she lived
remained distinctive, with a white-capped maid in a black dress and
much befrilled apron to serve it in courses just as the other luncheon
was served. She ate from egg-shell china, and drank from glasses, so
crystal clear and thin, that they long stood to Mrs. Cherry as a
synonym for perfection.
"It's as purty as them glasses of Mis' Worth'ton's," was her final word
of praise.
And Helen Louise and Peter ate and ate and ate, until their hostess
began to be anxious and wondered where they were putting it all.
Then George smuggled in the Victrola, and behind carefully closed doors
Arethusa gave a Concert which endeared her to a music-loving Helen
Louise forever, as the brightest memory of her life. Clay took them
home in the automobile, with a little ride through the Park beforehand,
so that the Cherrys' cup of bliss was almost too full. Arethusa went
with them, but when she had come back, it was much too late to join
that Real Party of Elinor's.
Miss Eliza would not have considered Elinor's method of dealing with
Arethusa any sort of punishment for such a performance as she had been
guilty of this day, but Elinor knew only too well what a real
punishment it was.
It was a most subdued Arethusa who came down to the dinner-table that
evening, although very eager to know all the details of the Affair she
had missed. Even Helen Louise and Peter and their mother, charming as
they were, had not proven any sort of substitutes for the Luncheon with
Elinor's friends to which Arethusa had looked forward so long.
"Did Miss Grant come?" she asked.
She was somewhat of a worshipper at Miss Grant's shrine these days
(Miss Grant was a Real, Live Author whose books Arethusa had read) and
it had been planned that she would sit next to her.
"Yes."
It was a disappointing answer, for Arethusa had vaguely hoped that for
some reason she had stayed away.
"Yes," volunteered Ross, "your Celebrity was here, and in fine form. I
heard her delightful voice as I came in, myself. It has a penetrating
quality that probably arises from being so much in the Public Eye."
Arethusa squirmed, unhappily.
"Did she ask where I was?" hopefully.
"No, dear," very gently from Elinor, "I don't suppose she thought for a
moment that you were to be there. You know I was just letting you come
with all those older women, Arethusa, because I was so anxious for you
to really know some of my friends."
"You certainly got yourself in Dutch, my daughter," said Ross, "for
starting up that rival entertainment. And it's a mighty good thing, I
expect, that the adulated Miss Drusilla Grant did not know you felt
that way about her coming to dine. She would have been deeply offended,
I know. She's not used to slights. I doubt very much if she'd ever let
you pick up her handkerchief after such an affront."
"Ross!" exclaimed Elinor, for he had made Arethusa's punishment almost
too complete.
Her downcast head and the trembling of her hands indicated a struggle
with distress, and he reached across the table and patted her arm
kindly. "Cheer up, child," he said, laughing, "she doesn't know a thing
about it, and nobody's going to be mean enough to tell her. We just
won't let it happen again."
Arethusa looked up, her eyes bright with tears, and the fervency of her
promise that she would think like everything first, hereafter, made
Elinor hope that the Recording Angel gives credit for Real Sincerity of
Intention.
* * * * *
Christmas came in snowy and blustery.
It was an ideal Christmas Day, and just such a one as Arethusa had
never spent before; with a Christmas Tree in the morning, and a table
full of guests in the middle of the day, callers all afternoon long,
and presents galore, in the shape of boxes of candy and flowers and
many other equally useful articles that were showered upon her by
admiring friends.
Mr. Bennet sent another box of American Beauties which Arethusa carried
upstairs to put in her own room, so that she could see them the very
first thing in the morning and the last thing at night, and she meant
to make them last as long as clipped stems and fresh water could make
them. His Gift....
It was a Wonderful, Wonderful Day, one that was never to be forgotten.
There was a dance that night out at the Country Club, and Arethusa had
a new dress for it especially. She had a very guilty feeling sometimes
when she thought of Miss Eliza and the rows of new garments that hung
in the closet of the green and white room. It was a gloriously romping,
Christmasy dance, for the college boys and girls, and Arethusa wished
very much that Timothy could have been in attendance; and this in spite
of the fact that she had Mr. Bennet. But it was such an Occasion as
Timothy would have loved, with formality thrown to the four winds and
everybody just bent on having as much fun as was possible; even the
men's evening clothes seemed to partake of the festival feeling and
appeared to be worn with a rakish air quite unlike their customary
somber wearing. The girls' dresses, of course, all fluttered with the
spirit of the season; and voices were gay, and eyes were bright.
Arethusa had never been conscious of the lack of Timothy at any other
dance, because they had all been, every one, so unlike anything that
she could associate with him. But this dance on Christmas night was so
different, so suitable for Timothy, that she did wish he could have
been there.
Probably it helped her a little in this wish that he had sent her, all
the way from Miss Asenath's Woods, a great box of mistletoe and holly
(she and Timothy had gathered mistletoe and holly there together every
Christmas since she could remember) and she had had a little homesick
moment when she opened it; it brought the Farm, with all its dear
inmates, so plainly before her. Christmas was very quiet there; it
seemed more like a real Holy Day, and less like a Holiday, than it did
in town.
Arethusa had sent Timothy a watch fob for Christmas, one with his
fraternity emblem on it which she knew that he had long ardently
desired; and books which she had thought would surely appeal to his
taste in reading; and handkerchiefs, beautiful big squares of linen,
shakily marked in his initials with her own fair fingers.
The box she had sent to the Farm itself made Miss Eliza close her lips
grimly and think unutterable things about the deadly wickedness of
extravagance. She uttered some things before she had closed her lips,
quite forcibly, but as Arethusa was not present, it could not do much
good. Arethusa did not forget a single creature at the Farm. Beginning
with Miss Asenath, every living thing had a gift. Miss Johnson had a
collar of wonderfully shiny, brassy beauty; old Baldy, the horse, had a
new blanket; and there was even a catnip ball for the grey cat that
slept in front of Mandy's stove. There were so many cats at the Farm
that it was quite impossible to remember them all, but Arethusa
reasoned that they would all enjoy a catnip ball.
Never, in all of the history of the season, did any one ever have such
a Christmas Glow as this of Arethusa's. And it was extended most
lavishly to everyone she met through these days, whether she knew them
or not, old and young, rich or poor, from smiling lips and starry eyes.
"A Real Spirit of Christmas," Ross called her, "red hair and all!"
But after Christmas was over, there was no actual subsiding of
Excitement. For on New Year's Day Elinor was giving Arethusa a Party,
her First Party of her Very Own; and it was to be the most Wonderful
Party that had ever been given.
And Timothy had been invited. His was the very first invitation sent.