Down the street from the direction of the schoolhouse proceeded a merry
group of girls, stopping at their various respective houses on the way
to leave books, lunch boxes, and tidy up hair and hands and face.
Laughing and chattering they came on with a sudden hush of awe as they
approached the Silver gate, so long an unopened portal to young people.
Mary Truman and Roberta Moffat went first by reason of Mary’s having
been the instigator of the function. Mary’s heavy braid of bright long
hair had needed little tidying. It ended in a massive wave of gold below
the crisp dark blue ribbon, and frilled in little golden tendrils about
her face. Mary wore no hat to rumple the smoothness of the ripples from
the delicate line of parting on her crown. She scorned hats, except for
Sunday.
Her neat blue and white checked gingham was just low enough to show the
white of her throat, above the sheer collar that matched the rolled back
cuffs and pockets banded with the gingham. The whole school thought that
Mary Truman was always well dressed. Those little gingham bindings on
the organdy pockets for instance marked the line between the banker’s
daughter and other girls whose mothers had not the time to bother with
such details.
Roberta Moffat was short and fat, attired in pink chambray whose hem had
visibly been “let down” and whose yoke had faded to a nice dependable
flesh tint, but her round pleasant face was always wreathed with smiles.
She had a glitter of white even teeth and a pair of nice black eyes
above the little pug nose that was covered with freckles. Always copying
Mary as far as her limited means allowed, she wore no hat, gathered her
scant locks into an attenuated pigtail, and acquired a habit of tossing
back the straight locks that would keep falling over her eyes where the
hair wasn’t quite long enough from a defunct bang to catch into the
confining pink ribbon that started the pigtail. The ribbon was washed
and dyed, and showed signs of droop, but had been retied and stuck out
bravely for the occasion.
“I guess she’ll be glad when she sees somebody coming to call on her
soon, don’t you, Mary?” whispered Roberta with a soft giggle.
“I should think she ought to,” said Mary seriously, “I certainly am glad
you are all with me, girls. Just think how I’d feel now if I was alone!”
and she squeezed Roberta’s plump elbow lovingly.
Emily Bragg was tall and her sleek brown hair had been bobbed, not for
purposes of style however. The top was longer than the rest and fastened
at the side with a celluloid slide that gave her the look of an
old-fashioned china doll with painted hair all made up hard. She wore a
straight little one-piece frock of brown denim with characters worked
around the edges in red worsted. On her head was a boy’s brown wool cap,
one of her brother Tom’s, and the big shell rimmed goggles that
sheltered her merry eyes gave her the look of a good natured boy. She
climbed trees and fences, could whistle as well as any of her brothers,
and everybody liked her, but she wasn’t a beauty. She was just behind
Mary and Roberta, walking arm in arm with little Carol Hamilton, a
slight little fairy with pink cheeks and short golden curls who always
dressed in pale blue and was adored because she was so pretty.
Della McBride was much taller than the rest, wore her long brown braids
in a coronet around her head and had big dark blue eyes with long
lashes. The seriousness of her face was somewhat accentuated by a
retreating chin. She was wearing a middy blouse and a dark blue skirt,
and her companion Vera Morse, a quiet girl with pale eyes and her hair
“done up” and brought in sleek loops over her ears, wore a white shirt
waist left over from last year, and a brown wool skirt. She carried a
brown straw sailor in her hand, and talked in a low sweet voice.
They were a wholesome group as they fluttered up to the steps and
sounded the old brass knocker, their subdued chatter like the chirps of
a bunch of sparrows on the garden wall.
Anne Truesdale let them into the house and seated them in the drawing
room dubiously. Such a circumstance had not happened since the days of
Miss Lavinia, six whole callers at once in the old house! Then with deep
reluctance, only goaded thereto by an indubitable conscience, she
mounted the stairs and tapped at Athalie’s door.
“Oh, come in,” drawled that young woman affably, “I’ll let you fasten
this frock. I can’t seem to reach around there any more. I was just
about to ring for you. It fastens up the back under that drapery.”
Anne paused in dismay and surveyed the young woman, but made no move to
investigate the hooks in question.
“There are some young persons down in the drawing room come to call on
you,” she announced severely as if it were a reward far too good for the
girl before her, but must be handed over for honesty’s sake.
Athalie swung around and faced her.
“Come to see _me_? What are they? Men?”
“Of course not!” reproved Anne. “They’re little girls.”
“_Little girls!_” scoffed Athalie taking up a powder puff and giving a
touch to her nose, “well, you can tell them to go to thunder! I’m busy.
I hate little girls.”
Anne gasped and tried to begin again, with fearful vision of what it
would be if this strange freak of a girl refused to go down.
“Indeed, Miss Athalie, they’re quite grown up little girls. They’re some
of them older than yourself, and they’re the daughters of the best
people in this town. Your father’ll be quite angry if you don’t see
them.”
Athalie surveyed her coldly. She remembered that she was trying to
please her father as far as it was compatible with her own plans.
“Very well,” she said coolly, “I’ll be down after a while and look them
over, but I never had much time for girls, unless they have some pep,
and I don’t fancy they have in this little old town. Are you going to
fasten those hooks for me or not?”
“Oh, Miss Athalie,” said Anne disapprovingly, “you’ll never be going to
wear that frock downstairs at this time of the day! The whole village
would be scandalized, and your father would be disgraced. The young
ladies would not understand it I am sure. It’s not at all the custom to
dress in that style of an afternoon.”
Athalie was attired in a startling costume of scarlet satin and tulle,
set off by long clattering strings of enormous jet beads, and pendant
hoops of jet with long fringes dangling from her ears. Her hair stood
out in a perfect thistledown fluff, scarlet stockings of sheerest silk,
and tiny high heeled red leather slippers with intricate straps adorned
her plump feet. Her face and arms and neck, of which there was much in
evidence, were powdered to a degree of whiteness that reminded Anne
Truesdale of a Bible phrase about whited sepulchres. Indeed she was a
startling vision as she stood there imperiously waiting for Anne to
fasten her scant shoulder drapery and looked years older than she was.
Many items of her toilet which happened to be picked up from Lilla’s
cast off finery doubtless assisted in this impression. But when Anne
finished her protest, and made no move to assist her ladyship, a storm
arose on the whited face, and the red kid slippers stamped in rage.
“Thank you,” she said grandly, “I’m not in the habit of accepting advice
from the servants about what I shall wear. You can go! I’ll get along
without your assistance. I see I shall have to ask my father for a
French maid. Go! I said! _Go!_”
Anne went.
When she reached the door she paused.
“You’ll be down at once, Miss Athalie, please—! It’s not considered
good breeding to keep young ladies waiting.”
“Shut that door!” stormed Athalie. “I’ll be down when I like and not
before.”
Then in quite a leisurely manner she dabbed more powder on her nose,
struggled with the refractory hooks until she conquered them, tilted a
bit of a hat of scarlet straw and ribbon atop her fluff of hair, brought
it well down over her eyes, jerked it aslant until the dangling cluster
of overgrown cherries wherewith it was adorned hung well over one cheek.
She surveyed herself in the glass complacently, posed imperiously, then
took up a pair of long black gloves, an evening coat of black satin with
a collar of white fur, and slowly descended the stairs.
Down in the drawing room the waiting girls were having a grand time.
They had been little children when last they remembered coming to that
dim shrouded room to call on dear Miss Lavinia whom each one of them had
loved. They went quietly about looking at the portraits and whispering
at first, giving bits of memoirs that were family traditions in their
homes. Gradually they settled down to await their hostess’ coming.
“We ought to have told Mrs. Truesdale not to have her dress up,” said
Mary, “we should have said we’re just from school.”
“Oh, well, what’s the difference. She’ll come pretty soon,” said
Roberta, “I like to sit in this big room and wait. Won’t it be a grand
place to have the Christian Endeavor social? My! I hope she asks us. We
could toast marshmallows at that fire, and there’s room for a long line
of chairs for Going-to-Jerusalem. The boys always like that so they can
rough-house.”
“Maybe Mr. Greeves might not like rough-housing,” suggested Della. “He’s
a very great writer my father says.”
“Oh we’ll get father to invite him over that night so he won’t hear it,”
said Mary happily. “Father can always fix people so they don’t mind
things.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t think its very polite of her keeping us waiting
so long. There won’t be any time to take her walking nor show her the
schoolhouse before supper if she doesn’t hurry.”
“Maybe she was taking a bath,” suggested practical Emily Bragg. “You
know you couldn’t come down all soap.”
The girls giggled.
“Shh!” said Mary, “I think she’s coming.”
“I wonder what grade she’ll be in,” whispered Carol.
“Sshhh!” said Roberta, “there she is! Oooohhh!”
Athalie flashed on their vision between the portières, and stood, one
hand holding back the heavy curtain, her evening cloak still on her arm,
and looked them over half contemptuously. They arose en masse, in
silent, breathless wonder. They had never seen anything like it before
not even in the movies. Silver Sands was rather careful what films came
to town. Mrs. Truman headed a committee of patrons who assisted the
managers in making their selections.
At last Athalie broke the stillness which was growing fairly electric:
“I’m Miss Greeves!” she announced, “did you want to see me?”
The girls might have been said to huddle in a group, feeling suddenly
that in numbers was strength. Mary as leader and instigator of the
expedition gave a frightened glance behind her, and stepped bravely up
as her father would have done if he had been there.
“We’ve come to call,” she said pleasantly, watching the twinkling
earrings with curious fascination, “mother thought you might be
lonesome—”
“Very kind, I’m sure,” responded Athalie insolently, “I was just going
out, but it’s early. I can spare a few minutes.”
She flung her cloak and gloves on a chair and sat down, her scarlet
tulle draperies flaming about her. She sat with the pose of a society
lady, her body flung rather than seated upon the chair. The girls were
deeply impressed, all but Emily Bragg who wanted to laugh.
“We don’t have to stay,” said Emily, “girls, let’s go over to Mary’s and
make fudge if she’s busy.”
“We just came in because we thought you might be lonely,” repeated Mary
again, deeply embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m never lonely,” flipped Athalie, “besides I have hosts of
friends who’ll soon be here to see me from N’York. I’m going to have a
house party next week, sixteen in all, eight girls and eight men!”
“Men?” echoed Roberta wonderingly.
“Yes, eight men. Of course it’s awfully hard to get them this time of
year when it’s so near time for exams, but they’ll be here for the week
ends.”
“Oh, you mean examinations,” said Della seriously.
“We thought perhaps you’d like to join our Christian Endeavor society,”
braved Mary. “It’s awfully interesting.”
“I don’t imagine so. What is it? A dancing club?” queried Athalie
indifferently.
“Oh, no!” said Mary, two red spots appearing on her pretty cheeks. She
felt she wasn’t getting on very well somehow, “it’s just our young
people’s society. We have lots of good times. Picnics and socials, and
we play games, and then we have our meeting Sundays—”
“What kind of games? Bridge? Five Hundred? or do you go in for
athletics? I don’t suppose you play golf?”
“Bridge? Oh, no, not bridge!” said Vera.
“Nor five hundred,” said Della, “just games.”
“My father plays golf,” said Carol. “I’ve tried it but I don’t care much
for it. It’s too slow. I like tennis better. We have tennis courts at
the school.”
“Are you going to start school right away? We’ve been wondering what
grade you’d be in.”
“I? School? Oh, I’m done with school! Dad tried to talk school to me
when I first arrived, but I let him understand he couldn’t make anything
on that line. I’m certainly sick of school. Of course we had piles of
fun at the last one, pajama parties every night, and screams of times.
The boys from the prep weren’t far away, and they were always onto us
when any of us got a box, so they’d come over under our windows and we’d
throw down cake, and they’d tie boxes of candy and cigarettes on the
strings we let down, and notes, oh, say! Those boys were the limit!
There was always something new. But what bored me was the teachers! They
didn’t seem to remember that they had ever been young, and they kept at
us continually, nagged us about our lessons, and exams, it made me hot!
They were getting paid for us being there! I don’t see what more they
wanted.”
Silence, prolonged and heavy ensued. The girls looked at one another awe
stricken for the father whose daughter had so little daughterly respect.
They all had fathers whom they loved, fathers who were trusted, tried
companions. It didn’t quite go down. Athalie realized she had struck a
wrong note. She liked to shock people but when it came to being looked
down upon, she didn’t quite like it. Neither did she understand the look
of awe and disapproval on their young faces. Emily Bragg began to giggle
as if somehow she were some sort of show. The others darted quieting
glances of rebuke. Athalie felt she must break this silent disapproval.
She hated them for not admiring her. She got up with a swagger and
whipped out her cigarette case.
“Oh, excuse me girls, do you smoke? Have a cigarette.” She passed the
gold trinket to Mary.
Mary seemed to turn pale. She got up and took a step toward the
curtained doorway.
“I think we must be going,” she said coldly.
“Oh, don’t you smoke? Not _any_ of you? How tiresome! Then I’ll order
tea. Truesdale!” she lifted her voice, “tea for the ladies!”
Anne appeared instantaneously, as though she had not been far away, her
face white with emotion.
The girls eyed one another uncertainly. They wanted to get away. They
did not any of them drink tea. It was not allowed in most of their homes
at their age unless they were ill. They didn’t like it.
But the tea wagon appeared as if by magic, and behold Anne had provided
lemonade as well as tea! And there were heaping plates of angel cake and
chocolate cake. No one ever caught the servants in that house napping.
They were always on the job and always anticipating every possible
contingency. Molly was even then in the pantry concocting another cake
to take the place of those for dessert that evening along with the
strawberries.
Athalie had lighted a cigarette and taken a few puffs at it delicately
as the tea wagon was brought in. Now she poured herself a cup of tea and
drank it with several pieces of cake while Anne was serving the girls.
Mary with her plate in her hand looked up to find Athalie’s eyes upon
her with amused contempt. Her heart cried out to get away and weep on
her mother’s shoulder. She never had felt so utterly outraged in the
whole of her happy protected life. It seemed as if the very foundations
of her clean beautiful world had been torn away and flung to the four
winds. “I hate her! _I hate her!_” her heart kept saying over to
herself.
“I thought you were going to ask her over to your house tonight to make
fudge,” suggested Roberta in a loud whisper, and Mary, lifting her eyes
perceived that Athalie had overheard.
“We were going to make fudge tonight at our house,” said Mary thus
prodded. “I live next door. Would you like to come? We’ll have a lot of
fun.”
“Any men coming?” asked Athalie speculatively.
“Men?” queried Mary half puzzled, “my father—”
“She means the boys,” said Emily Bragg, “my goodness!” and giggled.
“Our high school boys will be there,” said Mary truthfully, hoping
Athalie couldn’t read it in her eyes how much she did not want her.
“Boys?” said Athalie, “awfully young I suppose? Well, I’m sorry but I
can’t make it tonight. I expect to spend the evening at the roof garden
in the city, maybe a cabaret or two afterwards. I sha’n’t be home till
quite late. Sorry—some other time perhaps. Now, I’ll have to ask you to
excuse me. It’s getting late. So glad you called. Good-bye.”
She gathered up cloak and gloves and marched grandly out of the room,
down the hall and out the front door just as Anne Truesdale appeared
with another plate of cookies to supplement the rapidly disappearing
cake. She had intended to leave word with Anne Truesdale that she had
gone to bed with a sick headache and did not wish to be disturbed for
dinner, and then to descend to the street by way of the pergola, but the
temptation to sail grandly out before these girls was too great and she
followed her impulse. There would be a way out of it all after she had
had her fun, and the momentary vision of Anne, startled, her mouth
dropped open as she watched her leave, did not worry her at all as she
adjusted her long cloak and sailed jauntily down the street.
Over at Vandemeeter’s every eye was watching, as they had been since the
school girls entered. It made a pleasant little stir in the monotony of
the day to feel that festivity going on. It recalled days when they
themselves arrayed in best silks, new hats and fresh gloves had accepted
Miss Lavinia’s sweetly, friendly invitations and felt above the common
lot for a few brief hours. Ever since Arden’s wife had run in in the
morning to tell them that the girls had planned to go they had gone
about their work with a pleasant anticipation. They felt in a way
concerned, and thought highly of the Trumans for having suggested the
call, for was not this a public recognition? And if departed spirits
were permitted a glimpse now and then of their old homes, would not Miss
Lavinia be pleased that the town had honored her beloved boy’s family?
They felt the Trumans had done the proper thing and were glad they
belonged to a town that knew what to do in a trying situation. Glad,
too, that the question of accepting Patterson Greeves or not into good
and regular standing in the town had been settled so satisfactorily by
the Trumans. No one ever questioned what the Trumans did.
But when the scarlet lady with her flapping coat of black and white
suddenly emerged from the old front door and sallied down the front walk
with such an air, they gazed in amazement with bated breath, and no one
dared whisper till she was out of sight. Then all with one consent drew
back from their several windows and looked at one another as if facing
some awful thought.
“_Who_ was she?”
It was mother, her rugged face almost white with a kind of social
fright, who broke the silence and voiced the wonder of them all.
Pristina whirled back to the window and in a hard little voice answered:
“It was _her_! The fat one! The one _they went to call on_!”
“Oh, my _soul_!” said mother, stooping to pick up a pin and unable to
find it in her excitement. “Oh, my soul and body! Why that’s an insult.”
Maria licked her lips with the tip of her tongue with the motion a man
uses to whet a scythe.
“Now I wonder what’ll happen!” she said, a hard glitter in her eyes, as
if she rather enjoyed the prospect. Maria was one of those who having
failed in gaining many of the joys of this life was not content to see
others receiving them. Not that she was unkindly when it came right down
to actions—only in a little cattish way with her tongue, and the
expression of her face.
They were watching the Silver house so hard that they failed to notice
the minister’s car until it drew up in front of the gate. Mother
strained her eyes anxiously.
“Well, anyhow, I’m glad it wasn’t that one. She seems to be real sweet.”
“Now, mother, you always jump to such hasty conclusions,” said Maria.
“I’m sure I don’t see how you can tell whether she’s sweet or not at
this distance.”
Said Pristina thoughtfully:
“She’s sitting in the front seat with the minister!”
“Yes,” said Maria caustically, “seems to me it’s a little soon to begin
that.”
“Maybe he began it,” said Harriet sympathetically.
“Not he!” said Maria. “He wouldn’t have to! It beats me what the girls
nowadays have done with their modesty!”
“Well, where did modesty bring us?” laughed Cordelia.
“Cordelia Vandemeeter! I’m surprised!” rebuked Maria.
Then Silver and her father and the minister got out and went up to the
house and the front door closed again. And what had become of the high
school girls at tea?