THE LAWN SOCIAL
"Never was seen such a motley crowd,--
Never was seen such a merry throng.
Never was laughter so long and loud:
Never so merry the jest and song."
"CHERRY STREET will be ablaze with light and aglow with colour,"
Theodore had mocked some months before. "Number 12 will be filled
with diamond tiaras, and cut glass pianos, and freezers full of ice
cream, to signify that a function is on!" And the spirit of his
prophecy was being fulfilled.
Miss Billy, herself, had tied eighteen campaign torches to the
front pickets. Now, as the twilight closed in, like tiny watchfires
they sent their welcoming gleams up and down Cherry Street to the
faithful. And the faithful, one hundred fifty strong, headed by Mr.
Hennesy, in a wonderful dress coat of the fashion of '69, and brought
up in the rear by Mr. Schultzsky, on two stout oaken crutches, partly
for Miss Billy's sake, and partly for the sake of the clean street,
marched to the Street Improvement Club's first lawn social.
Long vistas of Chinese lanterns in red and blue and yellow swung
gaily over the lawn in double rows. Francis had furnished these. John
Thomas Hennesy had brought two locomotive headlights, and these,
stationed on the side where Miss Billy hoped her "berbarry haidge"
might sometime be, shot their rays across the yard straight into
the faces of the astonished hollyhocks, and beyond, to where Mr.
Hennesy's shirt flapped, wraith-like, on the Hennesy clothes-reel.
The house, thrown wide open, radiated with light and hospitality.
Children, comporting themselves with a dignity befitting the
occasion, were everywhere. And still the people, in twos or threes,
or sometimes shyly alone, with mysterious bundles under their arms
warranted to contain ten cents' worth of household merchandise,
which they should presently mix up and buy again, kept coming
steadily through the front gate.
Miss Billy, radiant in a pink gown, with pink sash ribbons fluttering
at her waist, and her eyes shining like stars, squeezed John Thomas's
arm in a little ecstasy of excitement as he knelt in the grass,
putting the rapidly accumulating packages into clothes baskets.
"It is going to be a success," she predicted joyously. "It seems as
though the people would never stop coming, and when we've sold every
one of these packages at ten cents each, Cherry Street Improvement
Club will have at least fifteen dollars in its treasury. John Thomas,
I'm the happiest girl in the world to-night!"
"And the prettiest,"--said John Thomas admiringly, sitting back in
the grass, and taking in her appearance critically, from the pink bow
on the top of her head to the toe of her black slipper.
"Now, that isn't like you," said Miss Billy reprovingly. "Usually
you don't pay compliments, because you are too truthful; but you
haven't seen Beatrice. She's in shimmery white, with a heavenly thing
thrown over her head. And oh, John Thomas, the dearest, sweetest,
handsomest girl in the world, with the darkest eyes and the waviest
hair, will be here presently. It is Margaret Van Courtland. She's
just home from Germany, and she is coming to the social to-night."
"Well, you suit me all right," said John Thomas, returning to his
packages with a determined air. Then he added sullenly, "I'd be
feelin' all right, too, to-night, if it wasn't for that darn Francis
Lindsay."
Miss Billy gasped in astonishment. "Why, what in the world has
Francis been doing to you?"
"Nothin'," said John Thomas, with a noncommittal air.
"But you said you didn't like him," persisted Miss Billy, in
bewilderment.
"Do you?"
"Why, of course I do! I think he's elegant, and--and gentlemanly, and
handsome, and everything! I don't see what you can have against him."
John Thomas made no reply, but went stubbornly on putting the
packages into the clothes baskets, and Miss Billy sat flat on the
grass to think the matter over.
"Now you are the second one," she went on, "that has an unreasonable
grudge against Francis. There is Beatrice,--she treats him horridly.
To-day when we were getting things ready, if she had to hand him a
nail, she'd draw up her lips and give it to him as if he were a cat.
It's horrid of Bea,--and I've had to take her to task about it more
than once. And do you know, in spite of it all, I believe Francis
likes her immensely."
"He seems to like other girls immensely, too," said John Thomas, from
the depths of the basket.
"Oh, but not like that!" said Miss Billy with conviction. "When
she is out of the room, he watches for her return,--and when she
is in the room, though he talks to me, he looks at _her_. But you
must never--never breathe it, John Thomas. Beatrice would faint at
the very idea, and she'd never forgive me! It must be a dead secret
between you and me."
"Is this straight goods you're giving me?" demanded John Thomas,
rising to his full height and gazing down at Miss Billy, seated on
the grass.
"Why, I've never had any love affairs of my own. I never had anybody
look hard at me, or take snubs cheerfully, or anything of that kind,
you know. But as I said before, it's my conviction it is true."
"Well," said John Thomas, going down on his knees before the baskets
again, "if it _is_ true,--if it is Miss Beatrice he fancies, why,
then, he won't find no rival in me."
"Miss Billy, where are you?" called Beatrice, around the corner of
the house. "Margaret is here, and looking everywhere for you."
Miss Billy hurried away, and in another moment, in the full glare of
a headlight, had her arms around the neck of a tall handsome girl,
who was returning the salutation with interest.
"Billy!" remonstrated the newcomer laughingly. "You have a hug like a
bear! You've spoiled my hair and crushed my attire. And I am in one
of my best dresses, too, I'll give you to understand! I've brought
six of the girls along with me, and we've pledged ourselves to put a
dollar each in the box, and help make the thing go."
"Oh, but it's good to see you again," breathed Miss Billy. "My cup
runneth over! I have a thousand things to say to you. Where shall I
commence first?"
"Defer it till to-morrow," counselled Margaret. "We shall visit all
day. Your time to-night belongs to the lawn fête, not to me,--and
I am here to help you. Introduce me instantly to your Marie Jean
Hennesy, and to your lady of letters with the six children, and I
want to see every flower in the child garden, and Theodore,--oh, but
first of all, let me meet your remarkable Francis Lindsay. Billy,
your letters have taken on a suspicious tone of late!"
They locked arms in schoolgirl fashion, and came upon Marie Jean, who
was presiding over a lemonade table. Miss Billy introduced them, and
the two types of girlhood, one representing fashion in Cherry Street,
the other the gentle blood of Ashurst Place, gazed intently at each
other.
Marie Jean was gotten up in a style known as "regardless." She wore
a sweeping black lace dress covered with spangles, that might have
graced a coronation ceremony. The sleeves terminated at the elbows in
two large puffs of blue satin, and her wrists tinkled with bracelets
and bangles. Her hair was bushed in heavy frizzes over her ears,
and in the untidy waves piled high on the top of her head gleamed a
crescent of Rhine stones.
[Illustration: Marie Jean was gotten up in a style known as
"regardless."]
"My, she's plain!" was Marie Jean's mental ejaculation as she
looked at the girl before her. Margaret's pretty dark hair was
parted evenly in the middle, and plaited into heavy Dutch braids
about her shapely head. Her dress was a yellow embroidered mull,
with simple sash ribbons of the same colour. Had it not been for
two slender rings that flashed upon the finger of one hand, Marie
Jean might not have thought her worthy of passing consideration.
But as the girls talked on in a friendly fashion, she gleaned from
Miss Billy's remarks that Margaret was a student of music and the
modern languages:--that she pursued her studies in Europe:--that she
would return in the Spring:--and Marie Jean could no longer doubt
that she was the "real thing." Moreover, she was pretty,--undeniably
pretty,--with dark eyes, and white even teeth. Marie Jean wondered
if "he" might not fancy this stranger, and for the first time in her
life, she considered her own personal attractions with misgivings.
A rush of lemonade trade separated the girls, and Miss Billy and
Margaret, wending their way on, came upon Francis, lifting over the
back fence a load of belated chairs, borrowed from the church.
"I'll call Moses Levi to do this,--you've worked enough to-day,"
ordered Miss Billy. "Beside, I want to introduce you to my very
dearest friend, Margaret Van Courtland."
As Francis flecked the dust from his clothes and came forward, a ray
of the headlight fell directly upon Margaret's face. "I have had the
pleasure of meeting Miss Van Courtland before," he said, without a
moment's hesitation.
"I beg your pardon," said Margaret uncertainly,--"I cannot
remember----" Then as the light fell upon his tall form, handsome
face, and dark, grave eyes, she gave a little gasp, and floundered
helplessly in a sea of words. "Why,--I had no idea!--of course, we
met in Cologne,--that is, we both fell in the mud!--Miss Billy, this
is the _Count_!"
* * * * *
On a lawn seat, in the flare of the campaign torches, Mr. Hennesy,
a glass of lemonade in hand, held forth to a bevy of Miss Van
Courtland's fashionable friends on the superiority of masculine
intellect as compared to that of woman.
"Sure an' phwat if a man cut off th' top av his coat, an' sewed it
onto th' lig av his pants, to thrail in th' mud afther 'im? Sure an'
wudn't ye be afther thinkin' he was crazy? Answer me thot, now?"
"Why, of course we would," answered the girls in a breath. "But then,
Mr. Hennesy, we don't----"
"Wait now," said Mr. Hennesy, holding up one finger triumphantly.
"Be aisy a bit. There's one p'int scored fer th' masculoine moind!
Now thin,--phwat if I sh'ud be afther comin' here to-noight wid a
feather shtuck up in me hair, or a gould buttherfly hoverin' over me
forehead, th' same as ye have? Wudn't ye be afther thinkin' me brain
no heavier than me head-dress? Answer me thot, now."
"It certainly would look funny," admitted the girls laughingly.
"There's two p'ints scored fer th' masculoine moind!" counted off Mr.
Hennesy. "An' now,--if besides havin' a feather or a buttherfly in me
head, I'd be daubin' me face wid red paint----"
"Oh, but we don't do that!" protested the girls in chorus.
"Some ladies does," said Mr. Hennesy sententiously. "Thot's three
p'ints in favour of the masculoine moind!"
* * * * *
On the sofa, in the corner of the parlour, Beatrice had found Mr.
Schultzsky, looking very pale and tired.
"I haf been looking for my nephew," said the old man. "I think we
should go home."
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay is surrounded by admiring young ladies," answered
Beatrice. "It would be a pity to spoil his good time. Beside, you
must wait and have a mystery package. They are selling at ten cents
each, and every one is warranted."
She brought from the kitchen a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and
settled the tray cozily on the old man's knees. "They don't seem to
need me in the garden, so I shall stay with you," she said. "May I
sing for you?"
She seated herself at the piano, and hesitated a moment, wondering
what style of song the old man might like. "Something old-fashioned,
anyhow," she decided, and began in a sweet contralto voice "The
Pilgrim."
"I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night:
To that country where I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light.
There is no sorrow,--nor any sighing,
Nor any tears there,--nor any dying:
I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night."
There was the sound of a crutch on the floor, and Beatrice was amazed
to find Mr. Schultzsky standing at her side, wiping his eyes on his
red cotton handkerchief.
"My wife wass young like you," he said brokenly, "and she sang the
same song. It wass a long time ago. She lifed only three months."
"I am sorry, Mr. Schultzsky," was all Beatrice found to say. She
thought of the picture of the beautiful lady, hung crooked and high
on the wall, opposite the old harness. "Perhaps grief and loneliness
have made him what he is," she thought pityingly. "Miss Billy is
right. There is a tender side to everybody, if we can only find it."
Outside on a platform improvised from an over-turned tub Policeman
Canary was selling off the packages with neatness and despatch. Mr.
Hennesy disported a pair of ladies' side combs in his hair. Mrs.
Hennesy had a mouse-trap. Margaret Van Courtland became the happy
possessor of a pound of dried codfish, Francis had a pair of red
mittens, three sizes too small. Miss Billy drew a fire shovel, John
Thomas got a mouth organ, and Mrs. Canary revelled in a dream book.
Theodore was going round with an ornamental and very sticky candy
heart that one of the children had contributed, begging every one to
accept it,--and finally traded it to Marie Jean Hennesy for a bottle
of catsup.
"We'll open ours together," said Beatrice, coming back to Mr.
Schultzsky in the parlour.
Inside the wrappings in Mr. Schultzsky's hand lay a dainty thing,
tied in tissue paper and blue ribbon. "Oh, it's what Margaret Van
Courtland brought," exclaimed Beatrice. It was a lady's handkerchief,
sheer and fine, edged about with a delicate lace. It lay in the old
man's palm, yielding up a faint perfume and he gazed at it without
speaking.
"And I," said Beatrice brightly, "have a package of smoking tobacco!
Now that will be handy next Spring to pack away my furs."
The children grew sleepy, and the torches burned out, before the
guests departed. Every one was in holiday humour. Every one voted it
a success, and begged Miss Billy to set an early date for another.
Miss Billy, tired but elated, counted the money in the tin box.
"Twenty-five dollars!" she announced jubilantly. "With that amount
the Improvement Club shall work wonders. There is a five-dollar bill
here. I wonder if anybody could have contributed that amount?"
"Mr. Schultzsky put that in,--that is, he gave it to me to put in for
him," answered Beatrice quietly.
"Now what do you suppose can have come over the spirit of the old
fellow's dream?" said Theodore. "Maybe he's enamoured of you, Bea."
"No, I think not," said Beatrice soberly. "I believe it was the
stirring of a tender memory. He talked to me to-night of a girl wife,
who died."
"Well, it has been a night of nights, and I am not surprised at
anything," said Miss Billy. "To think that Francis should prove to be
the Count, and Margaret and her set should go wild over him! Did you
know, Beatrice, that he is a Princeton graduate;--and has had a year
at Heidelberg, beside?"
Beatrice yawned. "Is there any more to do to-night?" she said. "I'm
very sleepy."