Obeying Instructions
THE four girls were wonderfully excited all the next day. They were
restless in school and fidgety at home.
"A body would think," scoffed Aunty Jane, at noon, "that you were going
to your own wedding. Don't worry so. I'll have everything ready for you
to put on the moment you get out of school."
"Oh, thank you," breathed Marjory, fervently. "That'll help a lot; but
I do hope that Bettie's father will remember to do those cards. And,
Aunty Jane, _could_ you lend me a perfectly inkless hankerchief?"
"Jumping January!" growled Wallace Mapes, Jean's older brother. "That
makes nineteen times, Jean, that you've reminded me of those miserable
shoes. I'll black them when I've finished lunch. I'm not going to rush
off in the middle of my oyster soup to black _any_body's best shoes."
"Is it a reception?" asked Roger.
"No," replied Wallace, "just a formal call on Henrietta Bedford."
"She's in my French class," said Roger. "And kippered snakes! You ought
to hear her recite. She talks up and down and all around poor little
Miss McGinnis, whose French was made right here in Lakeville. It's a
daily picnic."
"You won't forget my shoes, will you?" reminded anxious Jean.
"I'd like to know how I _could_," demanded Wallace, feelingly.
Although Mabel had taken a most complete bath the night before, she
spent the noon-hour taking another. She put on her best stockings and
shoes, but looked doubtfully at her Sunday suit.
"If I have to do my language in ink," reflected she, "it'll be all up
with my clothes. I'll just have to change after school."
The girls were out by half-past three. Fortunately, Miss Rossitor
needed no more cows that afternoon, so Bettie was home in good season.
All four dressed speedily. Three of them got into their gloves
unassisted; but Jean, Marjory and Bettie found plump, impatient Mabel
seated on the piano stool with her mother working over one hand, her
perspiring father over the other. Several other gloves that had proved
too small were scattered on the floor.
"You needn't think," said Mabel, greeting her friends with an
expressive grimace, "that _I_ ever picked out these lemon-colored
frights. Somebody sent 'em for Christmas. None of the pretty ones were
big enough--I've tried four pairs."
"Neither are these," returned Mrs. Bennett, "and the color certainly
is outrageous, but it's Hobson's choice. And just remember, Mabel, if
you touch a single door-knob they'll be black before you get there.
And don't put your hands in your pockets. And _please_ don't rub them
along the fences. There! Mine's on as far as it will go."
[Illustration: THE DECIDEDLY DEPRESSED FOUR STARTED DOWN THE STREET.]
"I guess you'd better finish this one," said Dr. Bennett, abandoning
his task. "I rather tackle a case of smallpox than wrestle with another
job like that. She'd look much better in mittens."
"Mittens!" snubbed Mabel. "You can't make formal calls in mittens! Now,
Somebody, please put me into my jacket and hat, if I'm not to touch
anything."
The decidedly depressed four, in their Sunday best, started down the
street. Mabel's gloves, owing to their brilliant color, were certainly
conspicuous, and unconsciously she made them more so by the careful and
rigid manner in which she carried them. It was plain that she had them
very much on her mind. And when her hat tilted forward over one eye she
left it there rather than risk damaging those immaculate lemon-hued
gloves.
"Take my muff," implored Marjory. "That yellow splendor lights up
the whole street."
"No, siree," declined Mabel. "If Mrs. Slater wants gloves she's going
to have 'em. Do you think I'm going to suffer like this and not have
'em _show_?"
So Mabel, a swollen, imprisoned but gorgeous hand dangling at each
side, a big navy-blue hat flopping over one eye, strutted muffless down
the street.
"That's the house," announced Jean, as they turned the corner. "That
big one with the covered driveway."
"Ugh!" shuddered Marjory, "it gives me chills to think of ringing such
a wealthy doorbell. Are the cards safe, Bettie? My! I hope you haven't
lost them."
"In my pocket in an envelope," assured Bettie.
"Can you see any white?" queried Jean, nervously. "I think my top
petticoat has broken loose."
"It seems all right," said Marjory, stooping to test it with little
sharp jerks. "Firm as the Rock of Gibraltar."
"It won't be if you pull like that," objected Jean.
"Somebody open the gate," requested Mabel. "I can't touch things."
"Everybody stand up straight," commanded Marjory. "We must look our
best when we go up the walk."
"I wish I hadn't come," demurred Bettie, hanging back, diffidently.
"Let's wait till it's darker."
"No," asserted Jean. "We'd better get it over."
"Yes," agreed Mabel, "I don't want to wear these gloves a minute longer
than I have to."
"All right," sighed Bettie, despondently, "but you go first, Jean."
They had waited on the imposing doorstep for a long five minutes when
it occurred to Marjory to ask if any one had pushed the bell.
"No," replied Jean, with a surprised air. "I thought _you_ had."
"And I," said Bettie, "supposed that Mabel had."
"How could I," demanded Mabel, hotly, "in these gloves?"
And then, all four began to giggle. Never before had such an
inopportune fit of helpless, hysterical giggling seized the Cottagers.
No one could stop. Tears rolled down Mabel's plump cheeks, and,
fettered by her lemon-colored gloves, she had to let them roll, until
Bettie wiped them away. And that set them all off again. In the midst
of it Marjory's sharp elbow inadvertently struck the push-bell and
Simmons, the imposing, much-dreaded butler, opened the door. Instantly
the giggling ceased. Four exceedingly solemn little girls filed
into the big hall. Bettie groped nervously for her pocket, found it
and endeavored to extract the cards. But the large, stiff envelope
stuck and, for a long, embarrassing moment, Bettie fumbled in vain;
while the butler, his chin "very high and scornful" as Marjory said
afterwards, waited.
At last the cards were out. Diffident Bettie dropped them, envelope and
all, on the extended plate; but Jean deftly seized the envelope and
shook out the cards. Next followed a most unhappy moment. Simmons was
evidently expecting them to do _something_, they hadn't the remotest
idea what.
Then, to their great relief, there was a sudden "swish" of silken
skirts, a flash of scarlet and lively Henrietta, who had slid down the
broad banister, was greeting them warmly.
"Grandmother's out," said she. "Come up to my room and have a real
visit before she gets back. Simmons, just toddle down to the lower
regions for some fruit and anything else you can find; send them up to
my room."
Something very like a smile flitted across Simmons's wooden
countenance. Perhaps it amused him to be ordered to "toddle."
"Do you like my new gown?" queried Henrietta, leading the way upstairs
and flirting her accordion-pleated skirts in graceful fashion. "It's my
dinner dress. I have to dress for dinner every night--such a fuss for
just two of us. Come in here--this is my sitting-room."
"How very odd," said Jean, finding her voice at last.
"Isn't it?" laughed Henrietta, shaking her brown curls. She wore them
tied back with two enormous black bows. "Grandmother's a mixture
of everything, you know--French, English, New York Dutch--and her
furniture shows it. Lots of it came from Europe and Father picked up
things in India and China--such a jolly dad as he is. That's why this
place is such a jumble."
"I like it," declared Jean. "It looks interesting--as if there were
lovely stories in it."
"There are," said Henrietta, drawing aside a heavy, silken curtain,
"and I keep making new ones to fit. This is my bedroom, this next one
is my dressing-room and this is my bath."
"Ugh!" shuddered Mabel, "do you take shower baths?"
"Every morning," laughed Henrietta.
"What a lovely dressing table!" exclaimed Bettie, peering into the oval
mirror and smiling into her own dark eyes. "I never saw such pretty
things, even in a catalogue."
"It's French," said Henrietta, "but all those little jeweled boxes came
from Calcutta--Father just loves to buy little boxes with inlaid tops.
Oh, here's Greta, with things to eat." Henrietta hastily swept her
belongings from a dainty little table and the smiling maid deposited
the heavy tray.
"Tangerines, nuts, figs and sponge cake," chattered Henrietta. "That's
very nice, Greta. Help yourselves to chairs, girls. Here's a tabouret
for you, little Marjory. Catch, Jean," and the merry little hostess
tossed a golden tangerine to Jean. "Oh, wait," she added. "You mustn't
take off your gloves or get them soiled, because Grandmother always
gets in about this time, and you know you must be very formal with
Grandmother. I'll peel them for you. Now draw up closer. You mustn't
spot your gloves, so I'll feed you. First, a bit of sponge cake all
around. Now an almond. Now the orange. Oh, I'm forgetting myself! Now
more sponge cake."
"This is fine," said Bettie. "I'm always hungry after school."
"So am I," said Jean.
"If I'd s'posed," said Mabel, "that formal calls were like this, I'd
have started sooner."
"Are you a different person every time anybody sees you?" asked Bettie,
curiously.
"Why?" queried Henrietta.
"Because," explained Bettie, "you seem so very changeable. You're a
mischief in school, yesterday you seemed almost sad and to-day you're
so polite."
"Oh, _thank_ you," said Henrietta, rising to sweep a deep and very much
exaggerated courtesy. "Nobody _ever_ before said that I was polite."
"Miss Henrietta," said Greta, tapping at the door, "the carriage has
just turned the corner."
"Follow me," said Henrietta, with an instant change of tone, as she
hurriedly brushed the crumbs from her lap and pulled Mabel's jacket
into place. "Follow me and don't make a sound. It's time to be formal."