THE CHURCH SOCIABLE.
The young ladies had enjoyed the party thoroughly, but the church
sociable was another thing, and the blame of it was charged entirely to
Edith, who was really not in fault.
Mr. Marks, the rector, was very zealous in his work, and one morning,
while calling upon Edith, he broached the subject of the sociable. They
were needing so much money, he said, and there was no house in the
parish which would accommodate so many people or attract so great a
crowd as the house at Schuyler Hill, and he wished Mrs. Schuyler would
consent to have the sociable for once.
Edith knew nothing at all of church sociables, or in what disfavor they
were held in the house, and answered: “Certainly; I am quite willing if
my husband is. You can ask him.” Julia, who was just entering the room,
overheard the proposition, and went at once with the news to her aunt
and Alice.
“The idea of a Mite Society here,” she said, “with everybody coming, and
Mrs. Vandeusenhisen the first to ring the bell, and Mrs. Thockmorton’s
hired girl the second. It is preposterous. But father will never allow
it, I am sure. Mr. Marks is to ask him, you know?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, my dear, or count upon what your father may or
may not do,” Miss Rossiter said, with all the scorn her thin lips could
express. “New wives make new laws, and your father is a mere tool in
that woman’s hands. Once he had a will of his own, now he has none, save
that of her, whose low-born tastes will lead her to consort with such
people as a Mite Society will bring.”
Miss Rossiter was very bitter, and something of her poison was
communicated to her niece, who was very distant toward Edith at lunch,
and on the plea of headache declined to drive with her as she had
intended doing. So Emma went instead, leaving her sister and aunt to
talk Edith up and wonder if Colonel Schuyler would consent. Julia was
sure he would not, and yet she felt glad when she saw him riding up the
avenue, inasmuch as she would have an opportunity of speaking to him
first. But the rector had seen the colonel in town, and told him of his
call upon Edith, and her willingness to have the society, provided her
husband did not object.
“Yes, certainly,—a society,—a sociable,—I—I—I am not quite certain I
understand just what that is. I do not think I ever went to one,” the
colonel said, spitting two or three times and looking a little
disturbed.
Mr. Marks explained as well as he could, and expatiated largely upon the
good which resulted from these promiscuous assemblies, where all met
upon a level, as Christian people should.
“It gives the poor and neglected a chance to get acquainted,” he said,
“and thus promotes good feelings and religious growth generally.”
“Yes, certainly,” the colonel said, abstractedly, as he beat the tip of
his boot with his riding-whip. “I don’t think there’s ever been a thing
like it at Schuyler Hill, but have it by all means, if Mrs. Schuyler
signified the least desire for it.”
The colonel’s chestnut mare was pawing the turf, impatient to be off,
and bowing stiffly to the rector, Col. Schuyler mounted her and galloped
toward home, where he was met by Julia and Miss Rossiter, who plunged at
once into the obnoxious society, which they trusted he would veto. Miss
Rossiter was the principal speaker, and she said that Mrs. Schuyler
could not understand or appreciate her position as his wife, if she
wished such a mixture of people to come there, trampling on their velvet
carpets and spilling cream on their handsome furniture.
“And, Howard, you may just as well be master of your own house first as
last, unless you wish an entire new element introduced into your social
relations.”
The colonel himself had been a little disturbed about the society, not
knowing exactly whether it were _au fait_, but something in Miss
Rossiter’s manner angered him, as it implied reproach to Edith, and he
roused at once in her defence and said he had seen Mr. Marks, who alone
was responsible if there was anything wrong in the affair; that he had
given his consent and should not withdraw it, but should expect his
daughters to do whatever was necessary to make the gathering a success.
That settled it, and Miss Rossiter took one of her headaches and retired
to her room and did not appear at dinner, where with a stern glance at
Julia, whose face was cloudy and dark, the colonel said to his wife:
“Ah, my dear, I met Mr. Marks, who persuaded me into having the Sewing
Society, or something of that kind, with sponge-cake and cream, at our
house next week, provided you do not object.”
“Not at all; I told him I did not,” Edith replied, and the colonel
continued:
“Then, my daughter,” turning to Julia, “see that Mrs. Tiffe has
everything in readiness.”
Julia bowed, while Godfrey dropped his fork and almost hurrahed in his
surprise. _He_ knew what a Church Sociable with sponge-cake and cream
meant; he had attended more than one in Hampstead, and danced with every
girl there, and every forlorn, neglected woman who wanted a partner, but
he had never dreamed of bringing the mixed assemblage across that
aristocratic threshold, and lo it was coming without his aid, and he was
delighted, and he invited every man, woman and child in town, and came
to me with a beaming face and told me the good news, and asked if I
would play the piano for them, and said he would get two or three
musicians to accompany me and have a “smashing time.”
“It will be enough sight nicer than the party was,” he said to his
sisters, when, on Sunday after the notice had been given out, they were
discussing it and expressing their contempt for the whole thing. “Folks
will enjoy themselves at a sociable; they always do, and they don’t get
drunk either, as that puppy Tom Barton did, nor stay all night; they go
home at a Christian hour. I know; I’ve been to them and it is great fun,
I tell you. I mean to dance with Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, too, if she is
here. You ought to see Widow Barringer and Nat. Allen. They take all the
steps, and do not mince along as some girls I know of _They_ dance, I
tell you.”
“Oh, Godfrey, how can you talk and act so low,” Julia said; but before
Godfrey could reply Edith joined the group, which in consequence was
soon after broken up.
The Sociable was much talked of in Hampstead, and everybody went, from
Rosamond Barton and her brother Tom, down to Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, who
entered through the kitchen; leading the twins, Godfrey Schuyler and
Schuyler Godfrey. “They were so anxious to come to the doin’s and get
some cream,” she said, “that she concluded to bring ’em, seein’ it was
free and she had as good right there as the next one.”
With the most intense disgust, bristling in her cap ribbons and every
fold of her stiff silk dress, Mrs. Tiffe bowed and said:
“You better sit here, until the ladies are ready to receive you. Miss
Creighton and Miss Schuyler are not yet dressed.”
Mrs. Vandeusenhisen took this advice very meekly and sat with a boy each
side of her, looking curiously around the kitchen, until the door bell
rang and she heard the voice of Mr. Marks, the Rector. Then her dignity
rose, and the kitchen could content her no longer. Her minister had
come, and where he was she had a right to be, and seizing her twins she
started for the parlor, where with the fun fairly leaping from his eyes
and shining all over his face, Godfrey received her and presented her to
Edith. But the splendors of the drawing-room were too much for Mrs.
Vandeusenhisen, and after a low courtesy and a whisper to the twins “to
make their manners to the lady,” the poor woman sank abashed into a
corner, where she found a silken couch on which she ensconced herself
with her twins, and bidding them keep still if they did not want to be
skinned alive, she prepared to enjoy herself by watching the arrivals.
The bell rang constantly now, and with each ring Julia, who was still in
her room, stole to the bannister and looking over to see who had come,
ran back to report to Alice and Miss Rossiter. This last lady had a
headache, and her nerves would not allow her to mingle in the
promiscuous crowd assembling below, the Goths and Vandals who had never
set foot in that house before.
“What would Emily say?” she groaned, as Julia reported one after
another, the Widow Barringer, and Nat. Allen, and Mrs. Peter Clafflin
with Mrs. Vandeusenhisen and the twins.
Poor Miss Rossiter leaned back despairingly on her pillows, and wondered
“who would come next.” It was Tom and Rosamond Barton, and the latter
came straight to Miss Rossiter’s room, and said “it was such fun, and
she meant to coax mamma to have it, and she wished Miss Rossiter could
go down and enjoy it!”
Julia, Alice and Rosamond descended the stairs together and were met at
the foot by Godfrey, who said:
“Now, girls, cheek by jowl with Tom, Dick, and Harry, and Peterkin
Vandeusenhisen. Look, Alice! there he is casting sheep’s eyes at you,
and gotten up stunningly, too.”
And truly Peterkin was stunning in his yellow vest and flame-colored
cravat, which was tied in a most wonderful bow, and he stood blushing
and smiling and watching Alice Creighton, and wondering if she would let
him dance with her. The house was full by this time, and a more
promiscuous crowd was rarely ever seen in a gentleman’s parlors, or a
better behaved, considering everything.
“Really, my dear, it is very remarkable how well they conduct
themselves,” the colonel said to Edith, as he stood at her side and
looked at the people who neither laughed nor talked noisily, nor jostled
each other, but spoke together in low, subdued tones as they moved about
and quietly inspected the handsome rooms and furniture.
Dancing commenced at eight in the large breakfast-room, which had been
cleared for the occasion. Tom Barton, who when himself was very
gentlemanly and agreeable, was the first upon the floor with Emma as his
partner, while Robert Macpherson followed next with Julia, and Godfrey
with Rosamond.
“Come, boys, fill up, fill up,” Godfrey cried, to the row of bashful
youths, looking longingly at the row of expectant girls. “We want some
one to fill our set. Here, Peterkin, get your girl and join us.”
“I dassent for fear she won’t,” Peter said, blushing to the roots of his
hair.
Godfrey knew who _she_ was, and answered the timid swain:
“Nonsense! You are too faint-hearted. Yes, she will; try her, and hurry
up!”
Thus encouraged, Peter made his way to Alice, and making the bow he had
practised at intervals for a week in anticipation of this very event,
said, with a face as red as his necktie:
“Miss Creighton, will you please to be—so good—as to—dance this time
with me? Mr. Godfrey said how you would.”
With a look of ineffable scorn, Alice replied:
“Thank you, sir. I do not dance to-night.”
Her eyes and voice expressed her contempt, and Peter felt it, and
utterly crestfallen and abashed, went back to Godfrey and said:
“I tole you she wouldn’t, and she won’t.”
“Oh, bother; but never mind, there’s,—but no.”
And Godfrey stopped short in what he was going to say.
Gertie had paid her respects to Edith, and then, attracted by the music,
made her way to the breakfast-room and stood within the door.
Godfrey’s first thought when he saw her was to give her to Peterkin for
a partner, but some undefined feeling forced the impulse back. He could
see proud Alice Creighton dance with Peter and think it rare fun, but
not this beautiful child, who might thus be classed with the lout. Her
partners must be the best in the room, Robert Macpherson, and himself,
and young Ransom, the judge’s son, who fortunately came that way just
then looking for a lady.
“Here, Will. We want you here. Let me introduce you to the prettiest
girl in the room,” Godfrey said; and the next moment Gertie stood upon
the floor opposite Robert and Julia Schuyler.
How pretty and graceful she was, and how well she went through with the
dance, never making the slightest mistake, but seeming to carry her tall
partner along by the airy ease of her motions.
“I say, Schuyler, who is that princess in disguise I have just danced
with?” young Ransom said to Godfrey, after he had led Gertie to a seat.
“She is a princess in disguise, I do believe. Isn’t she pretty though?”
Godfrey replied; and then he told what he knew of Gertie Westbrooke, and
added, laughingly: “But hands off, if you please. She is only thirteen,
and I will not have her harmed.”
“Better talk to Tom Barton, then. See, he is asking her to dance,” was
Will Ransom’s reply, and glancing where Gertie sat, Godfrey saw Tom
bending before the child, who, remembering the insult on the night of
the party, coolly declined the honor intended her without offering an
excuse. But Tom understood her, and after standing an awkward moment and
regarding her intently, he said:
“Miss Gertie, you are right to refuse me unless I apologize for my
rudeness the other night. I was drunk, to speak plain, and did not know
what I was doing. I beg your pardon, and by and by if I ask you to dance
I hope you will not refuse.”
Tom could be very agreeable and polite, and in spite of his fault he was
a favorite with many, and when he spoke so frankly to Gertie she felt
that she forgave him, and promised to join him in the next dance if he
liked. Gertie did not lack for partners that night, and what was best of
all, they were from the “_crême de la crême_” of the town. Will Ransom
twice, Robert Macpherson twice, Tom Barton once, and at last Godfrey
himself, who had only danced the first set in order to get the thing
going, he said. It was the Lancers, Gertie’s favorite, and Godfrey led
her to a conspicuous place, and all through the dance felt a thrill of
pride in the graceful creature, who seemed to float rather than walk
through the different changes.
A little apart Edith stood, watching the child, wondering at her skill.
With a sign to Godfrey she made him understand that he was to bring
Gertie to her when the dance was ended.
“Who taught you to dance?” she asked, as she looked down upon the
sparkling face.
“I had a teacher in London two quarters,” was Gertie’s reply, and then
as her hand was claimed again she glided away, leaving Edith to watch
and wonder and try to recall, if possible, the face or the expression of
which Gertie reminded her.
It was very gay at Schuyler Hill that night, for as the evening advanced
the stiffness which had at first characterized the strangers wore away,
and those who did not dance joined in the games which were played in an
adjoining room, and Miss Rossiter, in her lone chamber, corked her ears
with cotton to shut out the noise, which was far more harsh and
discordant because it came from what she termed the “_canaille_.”
Financially, too, the Sociable was a great success, for after the
colonel had added his donation in the shape of a “twenty,” it was found
that they had raised seventy dollars, and that the melodeon was sure.
Had it not been, the colonel would have paid the balance rather than
open his doors again, for the affair was not to his taste, and he was
glad when the last guest had said good-night and his house was cleared
of them all. He did not like church sociables, and his daughters did not
like them, and Mrs. Tiffe did not like them, though there was one
comfort, that worthy matron said—“They ate up all the dry cake left from
the party,” and she congratulated herself upon having two fresh loaves
of sponge left as she locked up her store-room and silver, and retired
for the night.
Gertie was too much excited to sleep, and long after her return home she
sat and talked of the Sociable and what she had seen, and when at last
she laid her head upon her pillow it was with the conviction that she
never could be as happy again as she had been that night at Schuyler
Hill, dancing the Lancers with Godfrey.