THE PARTY
The most of the guests had arrived by this time, and the dressing-room
was full when Louie entered it. Nearly all were strangers from out of
town, and few paid any attention to her. Those who did glance at her saw
a very pretty girl, whose bright face and eyes made them wonder who she
was.
In the midst of silks and satins and laces and diamonds and city-made
toilets, Louie felt herself quite out of place, and was beginning to
wish she had not come or could see some one she knew, when among the men
in the room opposite she caught sight of Fred near the door, and felt
sure he was waiting for her. Not till then had she realized how awkward
it would be to go down to the drawingroom alone, and she felt a thrill
of gratitude that she was not to be subjected to this ordeal. This
gratitude was augmented with something like pride when she heard one of
the city girls say in a low voice:
“There’s Mr. Lansing talking to Rob. I wonder if he can be waiting for
any one.”
Instantly a dozen heads were turned in the direction where Fred stood,
his fine face in profile, with a look upon it which most people called
pride, but which really arose from his indifference to what was passing
around him, and a half feeling of boredom that he was obliged to be a
part of it.
“Oh, is that Mr. Lansing?” “Isn’t he handsome?” “Isn’t he
proud-looking?” “I hope I shall be introduced.” “They say he has two or
three millions, and is the greatest catch in Washington, but does not
care a straw for ladies.”
These and similar remarks Louie heard, and then, being human, she
accelerated her movements a little, gave another look at her hair,
fastened her own gloves, as she saw there was no prospect of immediate
help from the two maids in attendance, and walked into the hall, where
the gentlemen, who were now filling it, stood back as she came,
wondering who was to claim this dainty bit of white muslin, brilliant
color, and beautiful eyes, which flashed on them for an instant and were
then cast down.
They did not have long to wait, for at sight of her all Fred’s
indifference vanished, and, stepping forward, he said:
“Oh, here you are. I was waiting for you. Shall we go down?”
He offered her his arm, and the two descended the stairs, while the men
looked curiously at each other, and some of the ladies from the
dressing-room came and leaned over the stair railing for a better sight
of the young girl who had suddenly acquired a new interest for them, and
must be somebody, possibly a visitor, they thought. At all events Mr.
Lansing seemed to know her well.
In the large drawingroom the receiving party were standing, Judge and
Mrs. White, Mrs. Lansing, Blanche Percy, and Herbert, the latter of whom
was very impatient for Louie to arrive. His impatience was in a measure
shared by Miss Percy, who had evinced a great interest in the young girl
and a desire to meet her.
“I am so glad she is coming,” she said. “I hoped she might be early so I
could talk with her before the rooms are filled.”
“She ought to be here. Fred went for her more than an hour ago. It can’t
be she has changed her mind and is not coming after all,” Herbert
replied, going into the hall once or twice and looking from the door for
a sight of his father’s carriage. “There she is at last,” he said, going
forward to meet her as she came in, and running his eye rapidly over her
from her head to her feet, with a feeling that she was on exhibition,
and he wanted her to pass muster with the city girls present in so large
numbers. She was not dressed like them, he knew, and he at first felt a
little pang of disappointment at the plainness of her attire, but
Blanche Percy’s exclamation, “What a lovely face!” reassured him, and he
felt very proud as he presented her to his mother, saying, “Mother, this
is Louie—Miss Grey—the girl who saved our bank.”
Mrs. White had seen Louie many times, and had once had her to tea when
she invited the choir and teachers in the Sunday school, as a matter of
duty. She knew Herbert’s partiality for her, and had felt annoyed by it;
but she was very gracious now, and kept Louie’s hand in hers, while she
expressed her gratitude, and then passed her on to the judge, who was
rather more demonstrative, although there was in his manner an air of
superiority and patronage which Louie felt and resented. She did not
like the judge, and she held her head high while she said she was glad
if she had been of service, and had only done what she should wish a
friend to do for her father if he were in a similar strait.
“Not a strait,” the judge said, a little testily. “That means a tight
place; and I believe in my soul we should have pulled through somehow
without any help; but I thank you just the same.”
With the trouble over and in the past, he was not as grateful as he had
been at first, and it annoyed him that he had been beholden to Tom Grey
of all other men. But he could not help himself. He had been helped, and
the girl instrumental in helping him was there, and being made much of
by Fred and Mrs. Lansing and Blanche Percy, the last of whom could
hardly wait to tell her what she thought of her heroism. There was
something about Louie which fascinated Miss Percy—a feeling that she had
known her always, or that there was a tie between them of some kind,
which would have drawn her to the girl if there had been no bank episode
in the morning. She could not, however, keep her long to herself, for
the people from upstairs were coming down and filling the space around
the receiving party.
Fred had now taken his place at a point where he could easily receive or
stand aloof, as he chose. He preferred the latter, for meeting strangers
was not to his taste. He had had a surfeit of it in Washington, and
would far rather be a spectator and watch the different guests as they
came. Then his mind was considerably distracted with thoughts of a white
muslin gown, with baby waist and red ribbons, and a pair of brown eyes
which had looked at him just as no other eyes had ever looked, with no
shade of coquetry in them, or sign of elation because of notice from
him. He saw the muslin gown and red ribbons at last in the distance near
the piazza, and when the dancing commenced he saw one or two young men
making their way toward it and knew they were asking Louie for the
dance.
Herbert saw it, too, and leaving Blanche Percy, he went to the dancing
room and waited while Louie was whirled around by a Merivale boy, who
knew no more of time than a cow, Herbert said to Fred, who was standing
beside him, watching the pair.
“Is knowledge of time necessary to a good dancer?” Fred asked.
“Certainly,” Herbert replied. “Otherwise you bob around like a cork in
hot water and make yourself ridiculous, besides jerking your partner
awfully. Look at Jim Carter, will you, holding Louie’s arm up like a
pump-handle and hopping like a toad. Louie is splendid, give her half a
chance, but what can she do with such a clown? Look at his knees bent
nearly double!”
Herbert was pretty severe in his criticisms on Jim Carter’s waltzing,
while Fred laughed and said, “I am afraid I shall bob like a cork and
hop like a toad with my knees bent, for I have no idea of time.”
Herbert, who knew his cousin’s habits pretty well, rejoined in some
surprise:
“Are you going to dance? I thought you detested it.”
“Of course I am going to, and I have already engaged Miss Grey for the
lancers and the two-step. I am waiting for her now,” was Fred’s answer;
and, as just then Louie was led to a seat near him, he pushed past
Herbert to her side and said, “Shall we try it next time, and what is
it? Oh, I see—a two-step. I am not very good at that, and shall depend
on you to keep me going.”
Louie looked at him a moment with a troubled expression on her face, and
when he continued “You remember you promised me,” she said. “Yes, I
know; but, Mr. Lansing, I have been thinking about it, and it seems to
me I made you ask me by my foolish remark that I hoped somebody would.
You couldn’t very well help it after that, you know, and I release you
from all obligations to me. I have danced once, and am promised to Will
Travers and one or two more, and shall do very well if I stand the rest
of the evening. There are so many city girls here for you.”
“Bother the city girls,” Fred thought; but, he said, “I have no
intention to be released, although you may wish I had before we get
through with it, for I have no more idea of time than a cow, as Herb
said of your late partner.”
“That’s so; he didn’t have much time in him, and he jerked me around
terribly. I hope he won’t ask me again. He will, though; he always does,
when we are where they dance. I guess I can manage you if you really
like to try,” Louie answered with a laugh. “It is very simple when you
once get into it.”
With a long breath, and a hope that he should not fall down, or step on
some one’s dress, Fred was soon struggling with the two-step, of which
he knew very little; but Louie kept him going, and infused so much of
her own enjoyment of the dance into him that he began to like it
himself, provided always that Louie could be his partner.
Emboldened by his success, he tried a spirited waltz with her, in which
she neither made of him a pillow nor a bolster; and he did not quite
believe he bobbed like a cork, although he saw Herbert’s eyes fixed
disapprovingly upon him whenever he passed near him, and felt sure he
was not acquitting himself very creditably. Louie told him he did
splendidly, and promised one or two more dances beside the lancers.
“Now, go and ask some of the other young ladies. They are all waiting
for you, I know,” she said.
But Fred shook his head. He was tired with the exertion he had made. He
was beginning to sweat. He had had enough dancing unless Louie were his
partner, and handing her over to his successor he went out for a breath
of cool air, but came back very soon and watched the white muslin dress
and red ribbons as they floated up and down the broad piazza, while
Louie’s face told how she was enjoying it all.
“She is airy and graceful as a bird, and by far the best dancer here, if
I am any judge,” he thought, and was glad that she had no lack of
partners.
Every young man who did not know her asked to be presented, and invited
her to dance, until she had a surfeit of it and began to feel tired, and
was glad when Herbert came to her with a request from Miss Percy that
she would sing something for those who did not dance.
“I have told Blanche about your voice, and she is anxious to hear it,”
he said.
Louie was nearly as ready to sing as to dance, and her voice had that
bird-like quality which too much training sometimes spoils by taking
away its naturalness. All her life she had been in the habit of
imitating the birds, succeeding so well that it was sometimes difficult
to tell whether it were herself trilling the roundelay or the robin,
sitting on a high branch of a tree, with his head bent in a listening
attitude as if trying to decide whether the sounds he heard were human
or came from some new-comer in the field. She had had several months of
instruction in vocal music, but her best teachers had been the birds,
and especially her canary, whose notes she imitated so closely that he
often stopped in his song for an instant, and then, as if reassured,
began again with her, the two voices blending together without a discord
on her part, so accurately did she follow him. One song, whose music she
had changed to suit her voice, she called her bird-song, as it gave
scope to her especial talent, and ended with a medley of sounds—the
twitter of the sparrow, the robin’s whistle, the oriole’s notes, and the
tones of her canary when in its happiest mood.
“Give us the bird-song, by all means,” Herbert said, when she asked what
she should sing, and in a moment Louie was standing in the music-room,
facing as large an audience as she had left in the dancing-hall.
They were mostly elderly people from the city, who, tired of watching
the dancers, were glad of any new diversion, although a few yawned
behind their fans when told that the girl in white muslin, who stood by
the piano, was to sing for them.
The Worcester people, who were accustomed to hear the finest singers,
and looked upon their city as the head centre for all that was best in
music, wondered what this little country girl could do in that line to
interest them. It would probably be some simple ditty, sung either in a
nasal or loud, harsh strain, with contortions of the body; but they were
well bred, and must listen and affect to be pleased.
Some were still talking in low tones when Louie struck a few notes upon
the piano and began, quietly, without contortions of body or face, and
without any apparent effort, except that the cords of her throat
expanded and stood out full and round, when, in the chorus, her voice
rose higher and clearer and was more and more like a bird’s, or many
birds’, making some of the audience look around to see if a stray robin
or canary had not alighted near them and was joining in the song. The
music-room was so far from the dancing-room that one did not interfere
with the other, but not so far that the clear, ringing notes were not
heard by the dancers above the sounds of violin and horn; and, before
she was through, half of those not dancing were crowding around the
music-room to catch a sight of the singer.
“It’s the girl who saved the bank. She must be a marvel,” they said, as
they saw her bowing in acknowledgment of the storm of applause which
greeted her when the song was finished.
Among them was Fred Lansing, whose hands were nearly blistered, so loud
and long-continued were his encores as he made his way to the front
until he stood very near to her. He had been persuaded to waltz with a
girl from Boston, who tried to make him a pillow, but he drew back from
her and was so awkward every way besides getting his feet entangled in
her dress that she was quite as glad as he when it was over. He knew
Louie was singing and was impatient to get to her.
“Sing it again. I never heard anything like it,” he said as he at last
reached her side.
“Yes, sing it again,” Miss Percy said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
Louie sang it again, better than at first, it seemed to those who heard
her, and this time she had for her audience the whole party, for the
dancing had ceased, and musicians and all were listening to her. There
were cheers and clapping of hands and bravoes heard on all sides when
she was through, with a call for more. But Louie had done enough. Her
brain was reeling with the vociferous applause, and a pallor was setting
about her mouth, which Miss Percy was quick to see.
“Come with me. You need some fresh air after this,” she said, and taking
Louie’s hand she led her out upon the veranda, where she made her sit
down, while she stood over her and asked, “Where did you learn all
this?”
“From the birds,” Louie answered. “I am always imitating them. I cannot
help it. I began when I was a child, first with the crows and bobolinks
and then with the robins. I liked them best, and I’ve kept on till I
guess I can sing like them all. Did I do well?”
She looked up at Miss Percy, who stooped and kissed her as she replied:
“Do well? I should think you did. Why, every musician and dancer stopped
to listen to you. Do you know, you have a fortune in your voice—hundreds
of dollars a night, perhaps.”
“Oh!” Louie gasped; “I couldn’t do it; it tires me so, and makes my
heart beat so fast when the people cheer—not the singing, but the
cheering. If I were all alone, I could sing on and on forever, but I
could never sing on the stage.”
“Who is talking of the stage for Louie? You, Fred?”
It was Herbert who spoke, and who had come out upon the veranda,
preceded by Fred Lansing.
“I am talking of Miss Grey’s voice,” Miss Percy said. “I told her there
is a fortune in it.”
“But not for the stage. Louie on the stage, with footlights and green
rooms and powder and paint, and all sorts of people! I should not like
it. Ugh!” and Herbert gave a whistle indicative of his opinion of all
sorts of people with powder and paint and footlights. “Would you like to
see her there?” he continued, turning to Fred, who answered:
“I can scarcely imagine it, although I believe she might be a second
Patti.”
“But she won’t—she shan’t! I could never respect a girl who sang on the
stage,” Herbert rejoined, with so much spirit that Louie burst into a
merry laugh and said:
“What are you so excited about? I am not on the stage and never shall
be. I am here on the veranda, and awfully hot and thirsty. I wish you
would bring me some water.”
Both Herbert and Fred started for the water, but Herbert was first, and
Fred returned to Louie and told her what a wonderful voice she had, and
that it ought to be cultivated to the utmost, while Miss Percy said she
could undoubtedly make a great success as a public singer, if
circumstances required.
“Oh, don’t,” Louie answered, closing her eyes wearily. “I have a
presentiment that I may have to sing, and sometimes feel as if I were
living in the future instead of thousands of years ago, as some say we
did, and that I am before the footlights—real footlights—and there are
seas of faces looking at me and thunders of applause, and I hate it all,
but must do it for something, or some one. I wonder who it is?”
She seemed to be talking to herself rather than to Miss Percy and Fred,
both of whom looked curiously at her, while Fred suggested:
“Doing it for fame, perhaps.”
Louie shook her head. “Never for that. Only duty, or love for some one,
could make me do in reality what I have so often done in fancy.”
Herbert had brought her the water by this time, and she drank it
eagerly.
“Now I am all right,” she said, “but think I’d better go home. What time
is it?”
Against this there was a quiet protest from Fred, and a louder one from
Herbert, who resolved to be ahead of his cousin, and said:
“Fred brought you here, but I am to see you home, and must wait till the
people from Springfield and Worcester leave, at twelve o’clock. That is
not late, and I want you for the next dance.”
He looked a little defiantly at Fred, and there was an air of ownership
in his manner as he took her on his arm and went back to the piazza,
where the awnings were now rolled up to admit the cool night air, and
showed nearly as many spectators gathered outside as there were dancers
within.
It was a brilliant scene, with the lanterns and moonlight, and flowers
and music, and gayly dressed people, and Louie was the star around which
everything revolved. There was no lack of partners for her, and except
when she was singing, she danced every set but one, which she sat
through with Herbert, who kept close to her as if she were his
particular property.
Fred had relinquished the field, and only came near her once when she
was sitting with Herbert. There was a sudden lighting up of Louie’s eyes
at sight of him, for she had missed him, and, without knowing why, was
glad to have him near her, although he said nothing except to ask if she
were too tired to give them another song.
“Yes, she is,” Herbert answered for her. “We are to have one dance more
before the thing breaks up, and then I am to take her home. The walk
will do us both good.”
“Walk!” Fred repeated, in some surprise. “Walk, and she so tired?”
Herbert’s countenance fell, but brightened again when Louie rejoined:
“Oh, I’d rather walk; but it is not necessary for you to go with me. The
Adams live next to us. I can go with them.”
“I’d laugh,” was Herbert’s answer, while Fred turned away without a
word, and Louie did not see him again until the party was over and the
carriages taking the city guests to the station were rolling down the
avenue, and the other people were saying good-night.
As the son of the house, Herbert felt obliged to wait until the last
guest was gone, so that it was after twelve o’clock when Louie was
making her adieus, with Herbert at her side, ready to accompany her
home.
“I thought you came in my carriage. Why don’t it take you home?” the
judge asked, not quite pleased that his son should be the escort, on a
half-mile walk, to this girl, who, if she had been instrumental in
saving his bank, was still the daughter of Tom Grey, and far beneath him
in the social scale.
“She prefers to walk, and so do I,” Herbert replied, taking Louie’s arm
and leading her to the door, where they found Fred Lansing.
Offering his hand to Louie, he said: “I hope you will feel no bad
effects from all the excitement and dissipation. If I may, I will call
in the afternoon to inquire how you are. Good-by, and pleasant dreams. I
rather envy you the walk. It is what one needs after hours of heat and
exertion.”
“Why don’t you come, too?” sprang to Louie’s lips, but she repressed it
as something unmaidenly; but her eyes had in them a wistful look as she
raised them to Fred, who did not quite understand the expression, or
know why he stood outside, watching the little figure in the white dress
and cloak until it disappeared among the trees in the avenue.