PHIL'S PARTY
Mr. Amzi Montgomery thought it only proper to learn all that was
possible of the affairs of his customers. This was the part of wisdom in
a cautious banker; and he was distressed when checks that were not
self-explanatory passed through the receiving-teller's window. A small
bank is a good place in which to sharpen one's detective sense. Every
check tells a story and is in some degree a clue.
No account on his bank's ledgers was more often scrutinized than that of
Nancy Bartlett, and when she deposited a draft for $2115.15, the
incident was not one to be passed lightly. No such sum had ever before
been placed to Nan's credit. He knew that she received five- and ten-
and even fifty-dollar drafts from Eastern periodicals, and he had
touched these with reverent hands: but two thousand dollars in a lump
from one of the best-known publishers in the country staggered Amzi. To
add to his mystification, half the amount plus one cent, to-wit,
$1057.58, was immediately transferred to Thomas Kirkwood's account, and
this left Amzi away up in the air. Just what right Tom Kirkwood had to
participate in Nan's earnings Amzi did not know, nor did he see
immediately any way of finding out.
What did happen, though, coincident with this event, and much to his
gratification, was the installation of a girl-of-all-work in Kirkwood's
house. Phil had been dislodged from the kitchen, and Amzi was mightily
relieved by this. A kitchen was no place for his niece, that flower of
the Montgomery flock. His spirits rose when Phil hailed him one morning
as he stood baring his head to the November air on the bank steps, and
told him that her occupation was gone. She made the confession ruefully;
it was unfair for her father to discharge her just as she was getting
the hang of the range and learning to broil a steak without incinerating
it. "Just for that" she would spend a great deal of time in Main Street,
and ruin her constitution at Struby's soda-fountain.
While Amzi was still trying to account for Nan's check, two other
incidents contributed further to his perplexities. On his way home one
evening he saw Nan and Kirkwood walking together. It was only a fair
assumption that the two friends had met by chance and that Kirkwood was
merely accompanying Nan to her door, as he had every right to do. They
were walking slowly and talking earnestly. To avoid passing them, Amzi
turned off at the first cross-street, but stood for a moment staring
after them. Then the next evening he had gone to call at the Bartletts'
and all his intervening speculations were overthrown when he found
Kirkwood there alone with Rose, Nan being, it seemed, in Indianapolis on
a visit. Rose and Kirkwood had evidently been deeply engrossed, too,
when Amzi interrupted their conference with the usual thump of the
drumstick. The piano, he observed, was closed, and it was inexplicable
that Kirkwood should be spending an unmusical evening with Rose. Nor was
Phil with her father. This was another damaging fact. It was a blow to
Amzi to find that such things could happen in his own town, and under
his very eyes.
If it hadn't been for Phil's party, the preparations for which gave him
plenty to do, Amzi's winter would have opened most unhappily; but Phil's
party was an event of importance not only in her life, but in Amzi's as
well. Everybody who had the slightest title to consideration received an
invitation. He was glad his sisters had suggested that the Holtons be
invited. It gave him an excuse for opening the doors wide. He heard much
from his kinsfolk about the prosperity of the Holtons, who were held up
to him in rebuke for his own sluggish business methods. He wanted his
sisters and the rest of the world to know that the First National Bank
of Montgomery aroused in him no jealous pangs.
Phil arrived at Amzi's early and ran upstairs to take off her wraps.
When this was accomplished and her Aunt Fanny's housemaid, lent for the
occasion, had duly admired her, she knocked boldly on her uncle's door.
"Come in, you Phil," he shouted.
Amzi stood before his chiffonier in his shirt sleeves, trying to make a
bow of his white tie. A cigar, gripped firmly in his teeth, was not
proving of much assistance in the operation. As Phil crossed the room,
he jerked off the strip of lawn and threw it into the open drawer.
"See what you've done? See all that litter? All that stuff crumpled up
and wasted just on your account? I told that fellow in Indianapolis to
give me the ready-made kind that buckles behind, but he wouldn't listen;
said they don't keep 'em any more. And look at that! It's a good thing I
got a dozen! Thunder!"
The "Thunder" was due to the fact that in his excess of emotion over the
difficulties with his raiment, his eyes had not until that instant taken
in Phil. His jaw fell as he stared and tears filled his eyes. Above the
soft folds of her white crepe gown the firm clean lines of her shoulders
and throat were revealed and for the first time he fully realized that
the Phil who had gladdened his days by her pranks--Phil the romp and
hoyden--had gone, and that she would never be quite the same again.
There was a distinct shock in the thought. It carried him back to the
day when her mother had danced across the threshold from youth to
womanhood, with all of Phil's charm and grace and her heart of laughter.
Phil fanned herself languidly, feigning to ignore his bewilderment. An
aigrette in her hair emphasized her height. She lifted her arms and,
whistling softly, pirouetted about the room. Her movements were those of
vigorous, healthy youth. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks aglow.
"Thunder!" gasped Amzi, feeling absently of his collar. "Is that you,
Phil?"
"Generally speaking, it _ain't_, Amy. What do you think of the gladness
of these joyful rags anyhow?"
"You look right, Phil. You've grown about six inches since I saw you
last. High heels?"
She thrust out a slipper for his inspection.
"Those clothes are not as bad as some I've seen. I don't mind the
low-in-the-neck effect when there's a neck to show like yours. Most of
'em look like the neck of a picked gander. I guess Fanny did about the
right thing. Fanny's taste is usually pretty fair."
"Oh, the whole syndicate took a hand in it," said Phil with a sigh.
"They nearly wore me out; but they were so busy consulting each other
that they didn't notice that I chose the crepe myself. But I wanted you
to like my things, Amy."
"Of course I like 'em. You certainly look grand."
He rummaged in one of the chiffonier drawers.
"Just wait a minute," he said; "you've got to fix this fool thing for
me." He placed a fresh tie round his white-wing collar and loosely
crossed the ends. "I ain't going to take any chances of spoiling this.
Now, Phil, do your noblest."
"With gloves on? Well, I'm used to doing daddy's over again, so here
goes."
He stood with his chin in air while she tied the bow. Her youth, her
loveliness, her red lips, compressed at the crucial moment when the bow
took form, moved and thrilled him. No one in the world had ever been so
dear to him as Phil! When she rested her hands on his shoulders and
tilted her head to one side to study her handiwork he raised himself on
his toes and lifted his hands, in one of which he had concealed
something.
"Bend your head a little, Phil; I ought to have a ladder for this."
And in a moment he drew down upon her neck a chain with a pendant of
pearls, which he had chosen with the greatest care at the best jeweler's
in Indianapolis.
"Now look at yourself!"
She sprang to the mirror, and while she was exclaiming over it, he
remarked, "I guess it don't make you look much worse, Phil. But it
doesn't make you look much nicer. Thunder! Nothing could!"
"Amy! I'm going to muss you up!" she cried, wheeling round.
"Phil--don't you touch me; don't you dare!"
He backed away and began drawing on his coat, and she abandoned the idea
of mussing him to make sure his tie didn't crawl up over his collar. She
clasped him tight and kissed him on the mouth.
"What a dear old pal you are, Amy," she said, laying her cheek against
his. "Don't you ever think I don't appreciate what you do for me--what
you are to me!"
"I guess that's all right, Phil," he said, and turned round to the
chiffonier and blew his nose furiously. "Where's Tom?"
"I guess daddy's gone downstairs."
"Well, most of your aunts are on the job somewhere and we'd better go
down and start this party. I hear the fiddlers tuning up."
Amzi II had built a big house with a generous hall and large rooms, and
it had been a matter of pride with Amzi III to maintain it as it had
been, refusing to listen to the advice of his sisters that he shut off
part of it. Amzi liked space, and he was not in the least dismayed by
problems of housekeeping. In preparing for Phil's party he had had all
the white woodwork repainted, and the floors of the drawing- and
living-rooms had been polished for dancing.
In Montgomery functions of all sorts begin early. The number of
available public vehicles is limited, and by general consent the
citizens take turns in the use of them. There hadn't been a party at the
Montgomery homestead since the marriage of the last of the Montgomery
girls. It was not surprising that to-night many people thought a little
mournfully of the marriage of the first! The launching of Phil afforded
opportunity for contrasting her with her mother; she was or she was not
like Lois; nearly all the old people had an opinion one way or another.
Among the early arrivals was Mrs. John Newman King. Mrs. King, at
eighty, held her own as the person of chief social importance in town.
The Montgomerys were a good second; but their standing was based merely
upon long residence and wealth; whereas Mrs. King had to her credit not
only these essential elements of provincial distinction, but she had
been the wife of a United States Senator in the great days of the Civil
War. She had known Lincoln and all the host of wartime heroes. Lincoln,
Grant, and Sherman had been her guests right there in Montgomery--at the
big place with the elms and beeches, all looking very much to-day as it
did in the stirring sixties. Mrs. King wore a lace cap and very rustling
silk, and made pretty little curtsies. She talked politics to gentlemen,
and asked women about their babies, and was wholly charming with young
girls.
She paused before Phil, in the semicircle that included Amzi and his
sisters with their husbands, and Tom Kirkwood.
"My dear child, on this proud occasion I want to say that the day you
fell out of the cherry tree in my back yard and broke your arm and came
into the house to get a sand tart as usual before going home, just as
though nothing had happened, I loved you and I have loved you ever
since. And you didn't cry either!"
"I didn't cry, Aunt Jane, because I hadn't sense enough to know I'd been
hurt!"
"You were always a child of spirit! It's spirit that counts in this
life. And for all we know in the next one, too. Don't you let all these
relations of yours spoil you; I've known all the Montgomerys ever since
your great-grandfather came here from Virginia, and you please me more
than all the rest of 'em put together. Do you hear that, Amzi!"
Amzi was prepared to hear just this; he was nigh to bursting with pride,
for Mrs. King was the great lady of the community and her opinion
outweighed that of any dozen other women in that quarter of Indiana.
Montgomery is just a comfortable, folksy, neighborly town, small enough
to make hypocrisy difficult and unnecessary. In a company like this that
marked Phil's entrance upon the great little world, no real
Montgomeryite remembered who had the most money, or the costliest
automobile, or the largest house. The Madison professors, who never had
any hope of earning more than fifteen hundred dollars a year if they
lived forever, received the special consideration to which they were
entitled; and Judge Walters might be hated by most of the lawyers at the
bar for his sharp admonitions from the bench, but they all respected him
for his sound attainments and unquestioned probity. Among others who
were presented to Phil (as though they hadn't known her all her life!)
were a general and a colonel and other officers of the line, including
Captain Joshua Wilson, poet and county recorder, and the editors of the
two newspapers, and lawyers and doctors and shopkeepers, and, yes,
clerks who stood behind counters, and insurance agents and the
postmaster, all mingling together, they and their children, in the most
democratic fashion imaginable.
"We're all here," said old General Wilks, who had been a tower of
strength in the Army of the Tennessee, "and we're the best people of the
best state on earth. I claim the privilege of age, Amzi, to kiss the
prettiest girl in Indiana."
Beyond question the arrival of the William Holtons, with their niece and
nephew from Indianapolis, caused a stir. They were among the late
comers, and the curious were waiting to witness their reception, which
proved to be disappointingly undramatic. Their welcome in no wise
differed from that accorded to other guests. Every one said that Charles
Holton was a handsome fellow, and his sister Ethel a very "nice" though
rather an insipid and colorless young woman. It was generally understood
that Amzi's sisters had forced his hand. The conservatives were disposed
to excuse Amzi for permitting the Holtons to be invited; but they
thought the Holtons displayed bad taste in accepting. It was Phil's
party, and no Holton had any business to be connected with anything that
concerned Phil. And Tom Kirkwood's feelings ought to have been
considered, said his old friends.
"You see," Charles Holton remarked to Phil, when he had bowed over her
hand with a good deal of manner, "I really did give up that New York
trip. I would have come back from China to see you in that gown!"
The musicians (five artists from the capital, and not the drummer and
piano-thumper usually considered adequate in Montgomery for fraternity
and class functions) now struck up the first number.
"Please give me a lot of dances," begged Charles, looking at Phil's
card.
"One! Just one!" replied Phil.
"You are bound to be a great tyrant; you should be merciful to your
humblest subject."
"I haven't seen any of the humility yet," she laughed.
Her Uncle Lawrence Hastings had undertaken to manage the dance and he
glided away with her to the strains of the first waltz. Hastings boasted
a velvet collar to his dress-coat, and the town had not yet ceased to
marvel that fortune had sent to its door a gentleman so exquisite, so
finished, so identified with the most fascinating of all the arts.
Hastings had for the social affairs of Montgomery a haughty scorn. It
pained him greatly to be asked to a neighbor's for "supper,"
particularly when it was quite likely that the hostess would herself
cook and serve the food; and the Fortnightly Assembly, a club of married
folk that met to dance in Masonic Hall, was to him the tamest, the
dullest of organizations, and the fact that his brother-in-law Waterman,
who waltzed like a tipsy barrel, enjoyed those harmless entertainments
had done much to embitter Hastings's life. Hastings imagined himself in
love frequently; the Dramatic Club afforded opportunities for the
intense flirtations in which his nature delighted. The parents of
several young women who had taken part in his amateur theatricals had
been concerned for their daughters' safety. And now Phil interested
him--this new Phil in city clothes. The antics of Phil, the tomboy of
Main Street, had frequently aroused his indignation; Phil, a debutante
in an evening gown that he pronounced a creation of the gods, was worthy
of serious attention. She was, he averred, Hermione, Rosalind, Portia,
Beatrice, combined in one perfect flower of womanhood.
"You are adorable, Phil," he sighed, when the music ceased, leaving them
at the end of the living-room. "A star danced and you were born."
"That is very sweet, Lawr_i_nce," said Phil; "but here comes my next
partner. You mustn't stand in the way of the young men."
The very lightest laughing emphasis on "young" made a stab of this. He
posed in a window and watched her, with his gloomiest Hamlet-like air,
until his wife, noting this familiar symptom, interrupted his
meditations and commissioned him to convoy a lady with an ear-trumpet to
the dining-room.
The party was going merrily; there was no doubt of its complete success.
Some of the older folk remarked upon the fact that Phil had danced with
Charles Holton; and he danced well. There was a grace in the Holtons,
and Charles was endowed with the family friendliness. He made a point of
speaking to every one and of dancing with the wall-flowers. It was noted
presently that he saw Mrs. King to her carriage, and was otherwise
regardful of the old folks.
Phil had wondered whether Fred Holton would come. She had hoped he would
when she asked him at her uncle's farm, and the formal invitation had
been dispatched to R.F.D. 7 as promised.
It was ten o'clock when Fred appeared. Phil saw him over her partner's
shoulder talking to Amzi in the hall door, and as she swept by him in
the dance she caught his eye. Fred had come late out of sheer timidity,
but he had arrived at a moment when the gayety was at its height.
His diffidence had been marked even in his college days, and he was
unused to gatherings of this kind. The proximity of so many gay,
laughing people was a real distress to him. And if the other members of
his family were able to overlook Jack Holton's great sin, Fred was
acutely conscious of it now that Phil had dawned on his horizon. He had
no sooner entered the house than he regretted his temerity in coming;
and he had come merely to see Phil--that was the whole of it. Nor did
the thought of this now contribute to his comfort. His glimpses of her
as she danced up and down the room with three partners in turn--one of
them his brother--set his pulses throbbing. Phil in her simple white
gown--this glowing, joyous woman was no longer of his world. For the
first time in his life his heart was shot through with jealousy. He had
always felt Charles's superiority, but with a younger brother's loyal
admiration he had not resented it. He resented it now. Fred had
resurrected a cutaway coat for this adventure, and he was acutely aware
that there were more dress-coats in evidence than he had imagined were
available in Montgomery. Amzi, who had greeted him kindly, introduced
him to a visiting girl whose name he did not catch, and he was doing his
best to present an appearance of ease in talking to her. It had been a
long time since he had danced, and he did not know the new steps. The
girl asked him why he did not invite her to dance, and this added to his
discomfiture. There is no greater unhappiness than that of the
non-dancing young man at a dancing-party. He is drawn to such functions
by a kind of fascination; he does not understand why other young men
with no better brains than his are able to encircle the waists of the
most beautiful girls and guide them through difficult evolutions. He
vows that he will immediately submit himself to instruction and lift
himself from the pits of torment.
The visiting girl was carried off, evidently to her relief and delight,
by a strange young man and Fred was left stranded in an alcove. He had
never felt so lonesome in his life. Phil vanished and now that he no
longer enjoyed even his earlier swift glimpses of her, his dejection
increased. He was meditating an escape when, as his eyes sought her, she
stood suddenly breathless beside him. A divinity had no right thus to
appear unheralded before mortal eyes. Fred blushed furiously and put out
his hand awkwardly. Phil's latest partner begged for another dance;
there was to be an extra, he pleaded; but she dismissed him with a wave
of her fan. There had been high-school dances where Phil had learned to
steel her heart against the importunate.
"Why didn't you come and speak to me?" demanded Phil when they were
alone.
"I was just waiting for a chance. I didn't want to bother you."
"Well, you'll have to do better than this! You're the only person in the
house who hasn't spoken to me! But it was nice of you to come: it must
be a trouble to come to town at night when you live so far." She sat
down in the window-seat and bade him do likewise. "You did see Uncle
Amy, didn't you? I saw you talking to him; but you ought to have come
earlier while there was a receiving-line ready for you. Now you'll have
to look around for everybody; you have to speak to my three aunts and
all my uncles and my father."
"I'll be glad to," declared Fred; and then realizing the absurdity of
his fervor in consenting to speak to the aunts and uncles he laughed.
"You're scared," said Phil. "And if you won't tell anybody I'm a little
bit scared myself, just because everybody tells me how grown-up I am."
The music struck up and a young cavalier--a college senior, who had
worshiped Phil since his freshman year--came to say that it was his
dance. She told him that she was tired and would have to be excused. He
wished to debate the question, but she closed the incident promptly and
effectively.
"I'm busy talking to Mr. Holton; and I can see you any time, Walter."
Walter departed crestfallen; she treated him as though he were still a
freshman. He was wearing his first dress-coat and the tallest collar he
could buy, and it was humiliating to be called Walter and sent away by a
girl who preferred to talk to a rustic-looking person in a cutaway coat
and a turnover collar with a four-in-hand tie.
Phil carried Fred off for a tour of the rooms, pausing to introduce him
to her father and to the three aunts, to whom she said how kind it was
of Fred to come; that he was the only person she had personally asked to
the party. And it was just like Phil, for years the loyal protector of
all the discards among the cats and dogs in town, to choose a clodhopper
for special attention. Kirkwood, who had forgotten Fred's existence,
greeted him in his pleasant but rather absent way.
The torrid Wabash Valley summers of many years had not greatly modified
the chill in Kirkwood's New England blood, and the isolation in which he
had lived so long had deepened his reserve. The scholarly stamp had not
been effaced by his abandonment of the academic life, and many of his
fellow-townsmen still addressed him as Professor Kirkwood. His joy
to-night lay in Phil's happiness; his heart warmed to the terms of
praise in which every one spoke of her. It touched his humor that his
daughter was in some degree a public character. Her escapades in
childhood and youth had endeared her to the community. In her battles
with the aunts public sympathy had been pretty generally with Phil.
"Otherwise Phyllis--?" Many a smile had been occasioned by that
question. Tom Kirkwood knew all this and was happy and grateful. He had
not attended a large gathering of his fellow-townfolk since his wife
left him, so that his daughter's coming-out was an event of double
significance for him.
The aunts were somewhat critical of the arrangements for refreshing the
guests. Amzi, refusing to heed their suggestions that the catering be
entrusted to an Indianapolis firm, had arranged everything himself. The
cakes were according to the best recipes known at 98 Buckeye Lane, and
Rose and Nan were there, assisting, by Amzi's special command. During
the evening he consulted first one and then the other; and when his
sisters asked icily for instructions, he told them to look handsome and
keep cheerful. This was unbrotherly, of course, but Amzi was supremely
happy.
The older people had been served in the dining-room and many of them had
already gone or were now taking leave, and the waiters were distributing
little tables for the young people.
"Let me see, you were to have refreshments with me, Miss Kirkwood; I
have a table in the drawing-room alcove all ready," said Charles Holton
to Phil as she still stood talking to Fred in the hall. Fred had been
wondering just what his own responsibilities were in the matter. Charles
had greeted him affably; but Fred's diffidence deepened in his brother's
presence: Charles was a master of the social arts, whereas Fred had only
instinctive good-breeding to guide him. Fred was about to move away, but
Phil detained him.
"Isn't it curious that you two brothers should have the same idea," said
Phil artlessly. "It's really remarkable! But I think"--and she turned
gravely to Fred--"I think, as long as you came too late for a dance with
me, I shall eat my piece of pie with you--and I think right up there on
the stairs would be an excellent place to sit!"
Fred, radiant at the great kindness of this, went off to bring the salad
for which she declared she was perishing. Charles looked at her with an
amused smile on his face.
"You're a brick! It's mighty fine of you to be so nice to Fred. Dear old
Fred!"
Phil frowned.
"Why do you speak of your brother in that way?"
"How did I speak of him?"
"Oh, as if he were somebody to be sorry for!"
"Oh, you misunderstood me! I was merely pleased that you were being nice
to him. Fred would never have thought of asking you to sit on the stairs
with him--I knew that; it was just like you to save him from
embarrassment."
"Oh!"
He was piqued by the connotations suggested by Phil's "Oh!" Phil was not
only stunningly pretty, but she had wits. It was his way to impress
girls he met, and there was no time for dallying now; Fred would return
in a moment and take Phil away from him. He intended to see a great deal
of her hereafter, and he believed that in the opening skirmishes of a
flirtation a bold shot counts double. Phil waved her hand in the
direction of the table where the Bartletts, her father, and Amzi were
seating themselves, and when she looked round at Holton, she found his
eyes bent upon her with a fair imitation of wistfulness and longing
which in previous encounters of this sort he had found effective.
"I don't believe you realize how beautiful you are. I've been over the
world a good deal and there's no one anywhere who touches you. There are
lots of nice and pretty girls, of course, but you are different; you are
a beautiful woman! To see you like this is to know for the first time
what beauty is. And I know--I appreciate the beautiful soul there is in
you--that shines out of your eyes!" His voice was low, and a little
tremulous. "I want the chance to fight for you! From that first moment I
saw you in your father's office I have thought of nothing but you.
That's why I came--why I gave up business of real importance to come.
And I shall come again and again, until you tell me I may come no
longer."
His voice seemed to break with the stress of deep feeling. Phil
listened, first in surprise that yielded perhaps to fear, and then her
head bent and she looked down at her fan which she slowly opened and
shut. She did not lift her eyes until she was sure he had finished.
"By the way," she remarked, with studied carelessness, as she continued
to play with her fan, "I wish I could quote things offhand like that. It
must be fine to have such a memory! Let me see, what is that from--'The
Prisoner of Zenda' or 'How Lulu Came to Logansport'? Oh!" (with sudden
animation as Fred came bearing two plates) "there's my young life-saver
now!" Then to Charles again: "Well, I shall certainly look up that
quotation. It was ever so nice of you to remind me of it!"
Holton struck his gloved hands together smartly in his irritation and
turned away. Phil was undoubtedly different; but she was not through
yet. She called him back, one foot on the stair, and said in a
confidential tone, "That nice little Orbison girl,--the blonde one, I
mean, who's visiting here from Elwood,--I wish you'd take good care of
her; I'm afraid she isn't having a wildly exciting time."
"This is what I call being real comfortable and cozy," she remarked to
Fred as they disposed themselves on one of the lower steps.
Below and near at hand were most of the members of her family. She saw
from the countenances of the three aunts that they were displeased with
her, but the consciousness of this did not spoil life for her. She
humanly enjoyed their discomfiture, knowing that it was based upon the
dinginess of Fred's clothes and prospects. Their new broad tolerance of
the Holtons did not cover the tragic implications of Fred's raiment.
They meant to protect Phil in every way, and yet there was ground for
despair when she chose the most undesirable young man in the county to
sit with in the intimacy of the refreshment hour at her own coming-out.
Mrs. Fosdick leaned back from her table to ask Amzi in an angry whisper
what he meant by allowing Phil to invite Fred Holton to her party.
"What's that? Allow her! I didn't allow her! Nobody allows Phil!
Thunder!" And then, after he had picked up his fallen napkin, he turned
to add: "There's nothing the matter with Fred that I know of!"
The comparative quiet that now reigned was much more to Fred's liking
than the gayety of the dance. Phil treated their companionship as a
matter of course and his timidity and restraint vanished. Nothing in his
experience had ever been so agreeable and stimulating as this. That
Phil, of all humankind, should have made this possible was to him
inexplicable. It could not be that when this was over, he should be
hurled back to Stop 7.
Phil, who had disposed of Charles's confession of adoration to her own
satisfaction, now seemed bent upon winning some praise from the halting
tongue of Charles's brother. To make conversation she directed attention
to her new trinket, holding out the chain for Fred to admire the pearls.
In doing this he saw the pulse throbbing in her slim throat, and this in
itself was disturbing. Her nearness there on the stairway affected him
even more than on the orchard slope where he had experienced similar
agitations. When she laughed he noticed an irregularity in one of her
white teeth; and there was a tiny mole on her neck, just below her left
ear. He did not know why he saw these things, or why seeing them
increased his awe. It seemed wonderful that she could so easily slip her
hands out of her gloves without drawing the long gauntlets from her
arms. Farther and farther receded the Phil of the kitchen apron with
whom he had bargained for the sale of the saddest apples that had ever
been brought to Montgomery by a self-respecting farmer! When her father
came to the stair-rail to ask if she felt a draft from the upper
windows, Fred was shaken with fear; the thought that the airs of heaven
might visit affliction upon this brown-haired and brown-eyed marvel was
at once a grief to him. He felt the world rock at the bare thought of
any harm ever coming to her.
"As if," said Phil, when her father had been reassured, "the likes of me
could take cold. What do you do all day on a farm in winter weather?"
"Let me see; I chopped wood, this morning; and I'd bought some corn of
Perry--that is, of your uncle--and went over with the wagon to get it;
and this afternoon I brought the wood I had chopped to the woodshed; and
then I went out to look at my wheatfield, and almost bought a cow of
another neighbor--but didn't quite make a bargain. And then I began to
get ready to come to your party."
"You must have worked awfully hard to get ready," said Phil, "for you
were late getting here."
"Well, I loafed around outside for an hour or so before I came in," and
he smiled ruefully. "I'm not used to parties."
"You seem to get on pretty well," said Phil reassuringly.
One of the waiters had brought them ice-cream and cake, and after she
had tasted the cake Phil caught Rose Bartlett's eye and expressed
ecstasy and gratitude by a lifting of the head, a closing of the eyes, a
swift folding of the hands.
"How are you going to amuse yourself out there by yourself all winter?"
she remarked to Fred; "I shouldn't think there would be much to do!"
"Oh, there won't be any trouble about that! I've got plenty to do and
then I want to do some studying, too. I'm going up to the University in
January to hear lectures--farming and stock-raising and things like
that. Perry has put me up to it. And then in between times I want to get
acquainted with the neighbors; they're all mighty nice people and kind
and friendly. That sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?"
"Well, it sounds wholesome if not wildly exciting. I've lost my job.
They took my kitchen away from me just as I was getting started; and I
haven't anything much to do--except being sociable."
"Of course, you've come out now, and you'll be going to receptions and
dances all the time."
"I can't exactly cry O joy, O joy at the thought of it. There must have
been gypsies in my family somewhere. You'll think I'm crazy, but I'd
like to go out right now and run a mile. But there will be skating
afterwhile; and snowstorms to go walking in. I like walking in
snowstorms,--the blustering kind where you can't see and go plunking
into fences."
Fred agreed to this; he readily visualized Phil tramping 'cross-country
in snowstorms. "It's an awful thing," Phil resumed, "to have to be
respectable. Aunt Kate wants to go South this winter and take me with
her. But that would mean being shut up in a hotel. If daddy didn't have
to work, I'd make him take me to California where we could get a wagon
and just keep camping. Camping out is the most fun there is in _this_
world. There's a nice wooziness in waking up at night and hearing an
owl right over your head; and there are the weather changes, when you go
to sleep with the stars shining and wake up and hear the rain slapping
the tent. And when you've gone for a long tramp and come back tired and
wet and hungry, and sit and talk about things awhile and then tumble
into bed and get up in the morning to do it all over again--! Does that
sound perfectly wild? If it does, then I'm crazy, for that's the kind of
thing I like--not to talk about it at parties in my best clothes, but to
go out and do it and keep on doing it forever and ever."
She put the last crumb of the Bartlett cake into her mouth meditatively.
"I like the outdoors, too," said Fred, for whom this statement of her
likings momentarily humanized his goddess and brought her within the
range of his understanding. "The earth is a good old earth. There are no
jars in the way she does her business. There's something that makes me
feel sort o' funny inside when I go out now and see that little
wheat-patch of mine, and know that the snow is going to cover it, and
that with any kind of good luck it's going to live right through the
cold and come to harvest next summer. And it gives me a queer feeling,
and always did, the way it all goes on--and has always gone on since the
beginning of the world. When I was a little boy here in Montgomery and
went to Center Church Sunday-School, the most interesting things in the
Bible were about those Old Testament people, raising cattle and tending
flocks and farming just like the people right here at home. I suppose
it's a feeling like that I always had that makes me want to be a farmer
and live close to the ground--that and wanting to earn a living," he
concluded, smiling. He was astonished at his own speech, which had
expressed ideas that had never crystallized in his mind before.
"That," said Phil, "is what poetry is--feeling like that."
"I suppose it is," Fred assented.
The waiters were relieving the guests of their burdens, and carrying
out the tables, and there was a stir through the house as the musicians
took their places. Phil rose and nodded to a young gentleman who sought
her for the next dance.
"I've got to go," said Fred. "I'll just about catch my last car. It's
been fine to be here. And I've enjoyed talking to you. It was mighty
kind of you to sit up here with me. I shall always remember it."
Phil was drawing on her gloves, looking down upon the hall through which
the guests from the other rooms were now passing.
At this moment the outer hall door opened cautiously and a man stepped
inside, closed it noisily, and placed his back against it with an air of
defiance. He stood blinking in the strong light, moving his head from
side to side as though in the effort to summon speech. The waiter who
had been stationed at the door was helping to clear away the tables, but
he hurried forward and began directing this latest guest where to leave
his wraps. The stranger shook his head protestingly. It was quite
evident that he was intoxicated. He wore a long overcoat spattered with
mud, and there was a dent in the derby hat he removed with elaborate
care and then swung at arm's length. The doorways filled. Something not
down in the programme was occurring. A sudden hush fell upon the house;
whispered inquiries as to the identity of the stranger, who stood
drunkenly turning his gaze from left to right, passed guardedly from lip
to lip. Amzi, Kirkwood, and the Bartletts remained near where they had
risen from their table, sharing the general consternation. Amzi was the
first to recover; he took a step toward the door, but paused as the man
began to speak slowly and drunkenly. He seemed annoyed by his inability
to control his tongue and his voice rose raspingly.
"'M looking for my bruf--my bruf--my brother. Tole me 'tis h-h--'tis
house he was 't Amzi's to party. Holtons and Mungummer--Montgomerys all
good fr'ens now. Bes' ole fam'lies in town. 'Pologize for coming s'
late; no time change my clothes; disgraceful--puf-puf-perfectly
disgraceful, that's whasmasser. Want t' see Will. Anybody here seen
Will? Don' tell me Will's gone home s' early; mos' unfashion'ble; mos'
disgracefully unfashion'ble!"
Jack Holton had come back, and this was the manner of his coming. To
most of those who saw him that night tipsily planted against the door of
the old Montgomery house, he was an entire stranger, so long had been
his exile; but to Amzi, to Tom Kirkwood, to Rose and Nan Bartlett there
came at the instant of identification a thronging weight of memories.
Some one had called William Holton--he was discussing local business
prospects with Paul Fosdick--and the crowd about the drawing-room door
made way for him. His nephew Charles was at his elbow.
"Bring my coat and hat to the back door, Charlie, and see that your Aunt
Nellie gets home," he said; and people spoke admiringly afterward of the
composure with which he met the situation.
Amzi was advancing toward the uninvited guest and William turned to him.
"This is unpardonable, Mr. Montgomery, but I want you to know that I
couldn't have foreseen it. I am very sorry. Good-night!"
Preceded by Amzi, William led his brother, not without difficulty,
through the hall to the dining-room and into the kitchen, where Charles
joined him in a moment by way of the back stairs.
"It's Uncle Jack, is it?" Charles asked, looking at the tall figure with
a curiosity that was unfeigned.
"M' dear boy, I s'pose 's possible I'm your lon--lon--long los' uncle;
but I haven't zonner--haven't zonner your acquaintance. Want to see
Will. Got prodigal on zands, Will has. Seems t'ave come back mos'
'no--mos' 'nopportune 'casion. All right, ole man: jus' give me y' arm
and I get 'long mos' com-for-ble, mos' comfort-_a_-ble," he ended with a
leer of triumph at having achieved the vowel.
Charles helped him down the steps to the walk and then returned to the
house. In his unfamiliarity with its arrangements, he opened by mistake
the door that led to a little den where Amzi liked to read and smoke.
There quite alone stood Tom Kirkwood, his hands in his pockets, staring
into the coal-fire of the grate. Charles muttered an apology and hastily
closed the door.
Through the house rang the strains of a waltz, and the dance went on.