"Oh, she'll be there; she'll wait on the table."
"You don't mean to ask Essie Tisdale?" Mrs. Symes's eyes opened.
Symes shook his head.
"That seems awfully mean," insisted Mrs. Symes in feeble protest; "she's
always been so nice to me at dances and things."
"My dear," Symes replied impatiently, "we can't invite all the people
who have been nice to us. Won't you ever understand that society must
draw the line somewhere?"
Mrs. Symes pondered this new thought a long time.
When the invitations were out and the news of the dinner spread it
became the chief topic of conversation. The fact that the dinner was at
seven instead of twelve o'clock, noon, occasioned much hilarity among
the uninvited while the invited guests were more than delighted at the
fashionable hour. A tinge of acerbity was noticeable in the comments of
those who were unaccustomed to the sensation of being excluded, among
them Mrs. Abe Tutts, whose quick recognition of slights led one to
believe she had received a great many of them. Mrs. Tutts, who was
personally distasteful to Mr. Symes, went so far as to inquire
belligerently of Mrs. Symes why she had not been invited.
"I don't know," stammered Mrs. Symes who was still truthful rather than
tactful, "but I'll ask Phidias."
"You find out and lemme know," said Mrs. Tutts menacingly. "They can't
nobody in this town hand _me_ nothin'!"
Since Mrs. Tutts's sensitiveness appeared always to show itself in a
desire to do the offender bodily harm, Andy P. Symes took care not to
commit himself.
Until the very last Essie Tisdale could not believe that she had been
intentionally omitted. She was among the first thought of when any
gathering was planned and in her naive way was as sure of her popularity
as Symes himself, so she had pressed the wrinkles from her simple gown
and cleaned once more the white slippers which were among her dearest
treasures.
As a matter of course Mrs. Terriberry had engaged other help for the
occasion and all the afternoon of the day set Essie Tisdale waited for
the tardy invitation which she told herself was an oversight. She could
not believe that Augusta Kunkel, who was indebted to her for more good
times than she ever had had in her uneventful life, could find it in her
heart to slight her.
But the afternoon waned and no belated invitation came, so when the hour
had arrived for her to go below she hung her cheap little frock upon
its nail and replaced the cherished slippers in their box, hurt and
heavy hearted and still unaware that the day when she had tripped in
them as the acknowledged belle of Crowheart was done and the old regime
of charity and democratic, unpretentious hospitality was gone never to
return.
Her shapely head was erect and her eyes bright with the pain of hurt
pride when she knocked upon Mrs. Terriberry's door. That lady thrust a
floured face through the crack.
"You needn't get anyone to take my place to-night," she said bravely,
"I'm not invited."
"What!"
In the white expanse Mrs. Terriberry's mouth looked like a crack in a
glacier.
Essie Tisdale shook her head.
"Come in." Mrs. Terriberry sank upon the bed which sagged like a hammock
with her weight. "What do you 'spose is the reason?"
"I haven't the least idea in the world." Essie's chin quivered in spite
of her.
"For half a cent I wouldn't budge!" Mrs. Terriberry shook a warlike
coiffure. "Folks like that ought to be learned something."
"Oh, yes, you must go."
"If I do it'll be only to see what they wear and how they act; I don't
expect to enjoy myself a bit after hearin' this. I've lost interest in
it."
With a zest somewhat at variance with her words Mrs. Terriberry began to
manipulate a pair of curling tongs which had been heating in the lamp.
A sizzling sound followed and a cloud of smoke rose in the air.
"There! I've burnt off my scoldin' locks." Mrs. Terriberry viewed the
damage with dismay. "I'm just so upset I don't know what I'm doin'.
Essie, if you don't want to wait on 'em you needn't."
"I won't mind much--after the first. It will be hard at first. Thank
you, though."
"If I ever git me another pair of these 'pinch-ins'," panted Mrs.
Terriberry, "you'll know it. Take holt and lay back on them strings,
will you? They got to come closter than that or that skirt won't meet on
me by an inch--and to think twenty-fours was loose on me onct! Wait a
minute!" A startled look came in Mrs. Terriberry's bulging eyes. "I
thought I felt somethin' give inside of me--don't take much to cave a
rib in sometimes."
"More?"
"Yep; these things have gotta meet if I have to hitch the 'bus team onto
'em."
When she was finally encased in a steel-colored satin bodice her plump
shoulders appeared to start directly beneath her ears, and her hands
were not only purple, but slightly numb.
"How do I look, child?"
"How do you feel?" asked Essie evasively.
"As well as anybody could with their in'ards crowded up under their
chin," replied Mrs. Terriberry grimly. "I hope the house don't ketch
fire while we're eatin', for I sure aims to slide these slippers off
onct we're set down, and there's one thing certain," Mrs. Terriberry
continued savagely, "I'm sufferin' enough to git some good out of it."
As Essie turned away Mrs. Terriberry kissed her cheek kindly.
"Keep a stiff upper lip, Essie, don't let them see."
"I can do that," the girl replied proudly.
Innovations are nearly always attended by difficulties and
embarrassments but even Andy P. Symes had not anticipated that his
effort to establish a local aristocracy would entail so many awkward
moments and painful situations.
If the printed invitations and the unusual hour had filled his guests
with awe, the formalities of the dinner itself had the effect of
temporarily paralyzing their faculties. In lieu of the merry scramble
characteristic of Crowheart's festivities, there was a kind of a Death
March into the dining-room from which Mrs. Terriberry had
unceremoniously "fanned" the regular boarders.
The procession was headed by Andy P. Symes bearing Mrs. Starr, tittering
hysterically, upon his arm. Mrs. Symes's newly acquired _savoir-faire_
deserted her; her hands grew clammy and Sylvanus Starr's desperate
conversational efforts evoked no other response than "Yes, sir--No,
sir." Mrs. Terriberry, red and flustered, found herself engaged in a
wrestling match with little Alva Jackson, which lasted all the way from
the door of the dining-room to the long table at the end. Mr. Jackson in
his panic was determined to take Mrs. Terriberry's arm, whereas she was
equally determined that she would take his, having furtively observed
her host gallantly offering support to Mrs. Starr.
A sure indication of the importance attached to the affair was the
number of new boots and shoes purchased for the occasion. Now,
thick-soled, lustrous, in the frozen silence of the procession, these
boots and shoes clumping across the bare floor called attention to
themselves in voices which seemed to shriek and with the fiendishness
of inanimate objects screamed the louder at their owners' gingerly
steps. A function of the Commune when Madame Guillotine presided must
have been a frothy and frivolous affair compared to the beginning of
this dinner.
Adolph Kunkel, who had attached himself to Dr. Harpe to the extent of
walking within four feet of her side, darted from line and pulled out
the nearest chair at the table. Observing too late that the other guests
were still standing, he sprang to his feet and looked wildly about to
see if he had been noticed. He had. Alva Jackson covered his mouth with
his handkerchief and giggled.
There was a frozen smile upon the faces of the ladies who, sitting bolt
upright, twisted their fingers under the kindly shelter of the
table-cloth. Each trivial observation, humorous or otherwise, was
greeted with a burst of laughter and the person brave enough to venture
a remark seemed immediately appalled by the sound of his own voice.
Adolph Kunkel, to show that he was perfectly at ease, stretched his arms
behind his neighbor's chair and yawned.
In spite of the efforts which brought beads of perspiration out on the
broad forehead of their host, Essie Tisdale appeared with the first
course mid a ghastly silence.
"I hardly ever drink tea," observed Mr. Rhodes, for the purpose, merely,
of making conversation.
"Oh, my Gawd, Tinhorn, that ain't tea, it's bullion!" Mrs. Terriberry's
loud whisper was heard the length of the table as she tore the sugar
bowl from his hand, but the warning came too late, for Mr. Rhodes
already had sweetened his consomme.
The guests displayed their tact by assuming a wooden expression, and
turning their heads away secretly relieved that they had not committed
the _faux pas_ themselves. Only Alva Jackson stared at Mr. Rhodes's
embarrassment in unconcealed delight.
"Let Essie bring you another cup," suggested Mr. Symes.
"Oh, no! not at all; I take sweetenin' in everything," declared Mr.
Rhodes.
There was a distinct relaxation of tension all around when Andy P. Symes
took the initiative in the matter of spoons.
"This here soup makes me think of the time I had mountain fever and et
it stiddy for three weeks." Adolph Kunkel whispered the reminiscence
behind the back of his hand.
"My real favorite is bean soup," admitted Mr. Terriberry, and Mrs.
Terriberry looked mortified at this confession of her husband's vulgar
preferences.
"It's very nourishing," declared Mrs. Starr tremulously.
"And delicious, too, when properly served." Mrs. Percy Parrott curled
her little finger elegantly and toyed with a spoon.
"It's a pretty good article in camp," said Mr. Symes desperately to keep
the ball rolling.
The guests shrieked with mirthless laughter at the suggestion of rough
camp life.
"Gosh! me and Gus was weaned and raised on bean soup--and liverwurst,"
interjected Adolph Kunkel in the lull which followed, and immediately
squirmed under Mrs. Symes's blazing eyes. "Of course," he added lamely,
"we et other things, too--mush and headcheese."
During these trying moments Dr. Harpe settled back in her chair with
folded arms regarding the scene with the impersonal amusement with which
she would have sat through a staged comedy. No sense of obligation
toward her host and hostess impelled her to do her share toward
lessening the strain, and Andy P. Symes felt a growing irritation at the
faint smile of superiority upon her face. She was the one person present
who might have helped him through the uncomfortable affair.
Formality was the keynote of the occasion. Ladies who had been at each
other's back door a few hours previous borrowing starch or sugar now
addressed each other in strained and distant tones while the men were
frankly dumb. It was a relief to everybody when a heaping platter of
fried chicken appeared upon the table followed by mounds of mashed
potatoes and giblet gravy which made the guests' eyes gleam like
bird-dogs gaunt from a run.
Fried chicken is only fried chicken to those who dwell in the country
where chickens scratch in every backyard, but to those who dwell where
they reckon time from the occasion when they last ate an egg, fried
chicken bears the same relation to other food that nightingales' tongues
bore to other dishes at epicurean Roman feasts. As a further evidence of
Symes's prodigality there was champagne in hollow-stemmed glasses
brought from the East.
It was a glorious feast with cold storage chicken expressed from the
Main Line and potatoes freighted up from the Mormon settlement a hundred
miles below.
"It's a durn shame," said Adolph Kunkel as he surreptitiously removed an
olive, "that the plums is spiled, for this is the best supper I ever
flopped my lip over."
Symes suppressed a groan.
Each guest devoted himself to his food with an abandon and singleness of
purpose which left no doubt as to his enjoyment, and the effort of old
Edouard Dubois to scrape the last vestige of potato from his plate
brought out a suggestion from Adolph Kunkel to leave the gilt design on
the bottom. And when tiny after-dinner coffee cups appeared, the guests
felt that a new and valuable experience was being added to their lives.
"Holy smoke--but that's stout!" hinted Mr. Terriberry after looking the
table over for the customary pitcher of tinned milk. But before Mr.
Symes could act upon the hint his brother-in-law's eyes began to water
and bulge. He groped for his napkin while he compressed his lips in an
heroic effort to retain the hot and bitter coffee, but instead he
grabbed the hanging edge of the table-cloth. His pitiful eyes were fixed
upon the coldly disapproving face of Andy P. Symes, but there is a limit
to human endurance and Adolph Kunkel quickly reached it. Simultaneous
with a spurt of coffee Adolph rose and fled, upsetting his chair as he
went, disgraced upon his only appearance in that exclusive set from
which he was henceforth and forever barred.
He coughed significantly under the window to remind Mr. Symes that he
might be induced to return, but the hint passed unheeded, for regret
would not have been among Mr. Symes's emotions if his brother-in-law's
removal had been complete and permanent.
Over the coffee and a superior brand of cigars to which Mr. Symes called
particular attention, the conversation of his guests began to contain
some degree of naturalness and their painful self-consciousness
gradually vanished. When they seemed in a mellow and receptive mood he
began to rehearse his achievements in the East and unfold his plans. As
he talked, their imaginations stimulated by wine, they saw the future of
Crowheart pass before them like a panorama.
The army of laborers who were to be employed upon this enormous ditch
would spend their wages in Crowheart. The huge payroll would be a
benefit to every citizen. The price of horses would jump to war-time
values and every onery cayuse on the range would be hauling a scraper.
Alfalfa and timothy would sell for $18 a ton in the stack and there
would be work for every able-bodied man who applied. The grocery bills
of the commissary would make the grocers rich and Crowheart would boom
_right_. When the water was running swift and deep in the ditch the
land-hungry homeseekers would fight for ground. And it was only a step
from settlement to trolley cars, electric lights, sandstone business
blocks and cement pavements, together with lawns growing real grass!
Under the spell of his magnetic presence and convincing eloquence
nothing seemed more plausible or possible than the fulfilment of these
prophecies. And all this was to be brought about through the efforts of
Andy P. Symes, who intimated that not one million but millions had been
placed at his disposal by eager and trusting capitalists to be used by
him if necessary in making the desert bloom like the rose.
Mr. Rhodes saw himself selling corner lots at twenty thousand each while
space rates rose in the mind of Sylvanus Starr in leaps and bounds. The
Percy Parrots saw themselves lolling in a rubber-tired vehicle while the
vulgar populace on the curb identified them by pointing with their grimy
fingers. Each guest looked forward to the fulfilment of some cherished
dream and Dr. Emma Harpe saw a picture, too, as she gazed at Symes with
speculative, contemplative eyes.
He looked the embodiment of prosperity and success, did Symes, and if he
subtly intimated that the road to prosperity lay through loyalty to him,
that his friendship, support and approval were the steps by which they
could best climb, they were willing to give it without quibbling. They
were content to shine in his reflected glory, and they dispersed at a
late hour feeling that they had been tacitly set apart--a chosen people.
The next issue of the Crowheart _Courier_ referred to the dinner as a
three-course banquet, and published the menu. If the description of the
guests' costumes made Crowheart's eyes pop and none more than the
wearers, the latter did not mention it.
Pleased but bewildered, Mrs. Terriberry read of herself as "queenly in
gray satin and diamonds," being unable to place the diamonds until she
recalled the rhinestone comb in her back hair which sparkled with the
doubtful brilliancy of a row of alum cubes.
Mrs. Percy Parrott had some difficulty in recognizing herself as
"ravishing in shot silk garnished with pearls," since the plaid taffeta
which had come in a barrel from home with the collar tab pinned flat
with a moonstone pin bore little resemblance to the elegance suggested
in the paragraph.
And if the editor chose to refer to the pineapple pattern, No. 60
cotton, collarette which Mrs. Jackson had crocheted between beers in
the good old Dance Hall days as an "exquisite effect in point lace,"
certainly Mrs. Jackson was not the lady to contradict him.
But this was merely the warming up exercise of the editor's vocabulary.
When he really cut loose on Andy P. Symes the graves of dead and buried
adjectives opened to do him honor. In the lurid lexicon of his eloquence
there was no such word as obsolete and no known synonym failed to pay
tribute to this "mental and physical colossus." In his shirt sleeves,
minus his cuffs, with his brain in a lather, one might say, Sylvanus
Starr painted a picture of the coming Utopia, experiencing in so doing
such joys of creation as he had not known since his removal from the
obituary department.
And reading, the citizens of Crowheart rejoiced or envied according to
their individual natures.