PEGGY GIVES A DINNER PARTY
RUTH moped after Nelson's departure. Just how much her depression was
due to missing him, and how much was the result of self-reproach, she
could not have told. Each time she realized his absence she remembered
with a pang the hurt wonder of his face that night in the station. It
did not help matters that Nelson seemed to consider himself entirely to
blame for what had happened, and had written her from the train a most
humble apology for failing to be at her home at eight o'clock as he had
promised. In fact, his assumption that she could not possibly be in the
wrong only made Ruth the more conscious of her pettiness.
It was largely on Ruth's account that Peggy resolved on her dinner
party. For after scolding Ruth soundly, and giving her to understand
that she was very much ashamed of her, Peggy had set herself resolutely
to cheer her despondent friend. On the Friday following Nelson's
departure something went wrong with the heating plant at college, and
the classes were dismissed at ten o'clock. At once Peggy determined to
celebrate.
"Father and mother have gone away for the week end, and Dick's going
home with his chum after school, and I shan't see him till bed-time.
Come to dinner all of you. We'll have an old-fashioned good time."
The recipients of this invitation accepted promptly. They were in the
rather hilarious mood which for some reason characterizes the most
ambitious student when school is dismissed for the day, college seniors
as well as kindergarten tots. "Only you must let us come over and help
you," stipulated Ruth.
"Yes, come on, and then if anything doesn't turn out well, I can
blame some of you. I wonder--do you know, I've half a mind to invite
Hildegarde Carey."
The others approved, especially Priscilla who had a great admiration
for Bob's attractive sister.
"She took us out that evening, you know," Peggy continued. "She's
always been awfully sweet to me and I've never done anything for her.
The only thing--well, I feel a little bit afraid of her."
"I'll testify that she can eat a very simple meal and seem to enjoy
it." And Amy chuckled as she always did when she recalled the first
time Hildegarde had sat at her table.
Peggy laughed understandingly. "I think I'll ask her. I've always
thought it was a sort of snobbishness to be ashamed to give your best
to people who have more than you do. Though I'm not sure that a party
of girls will appeal to her."
Apparently she had misjudged Hildegarde. For the latter's tone, when
she responded to Peggy's invitation given over the phone a few minutes
later, was unmistakably enthusiastic.
"A dinner party and just girls! How cute! I'd adore to come, Peggy,
but would it put you out if I brought my friend Virginia Dunbar? She's
a New York girl who's making me a little visit and she's perfectly
fascinating."
"Why, bring her of course. I shall love to meet her." Peggy's
hospitality rendered her response sufficiently fervent, but as she hung
up the receiver, her face wore a thoughtful expression. The little
dinner party, which had seemed pure fun when her three chums were her
prospective guests, had become a responsibility, as soon as Hildegarde
was added to the number. And with a New York girl coming, it seemed
distinctly formidable.
It had not previously occurred to Peggy that the house was not in
suitable order for the reception of guests, but now as she looked about
the dining-room its shortcomings were painfully evident. She donned a
long apron and a sweeping cap, and set resolutely to work. When the
dining room was swept and garnished, the living room across the hall
suffered comparison, and Peggy gave that equally careful attention.
And as by this time she was on her mettle, she went to work cleaning
the silver. The twelve o'clock whistles surprised her in this exacting
task, and she swallowed a peanut-butter sandwich by way of luncheon,
promising herself to make up for this abstemiousness at dinner, Peggy
was not one of the temperamental cooks who cannot enjoy their own
cooking.
At half past one she hurried forth with her market basket to make the
necessary purchases. She left by the back door and took the key with
her. A little after two she was back again, the loaded basket on her
arm. Peggy set her burden down, rubbed her aching muscles, and felt in
her coat pocket for the key. Then she felt in the other pocket. Then
she continued to search one pocket and then the other, with increasing
evidences of consternation. But it was of no use. The key was gone.
"I must have had it in my hand and laid it down on the counter
somewhere," thought Peggy. "Was ever anything so exasperating." She
left the basket outside the locked door, and hurriedly retraced her
steps. The butcher, whom she had visited first, shook his head in
answer to her question. No, he had not seen a stray door-key. It was
the same at the grocer's, the same at the bakery where she had bought
Parker-house rolls. Peggy walked home over the route she had traversed,
her eyes glued to the side-walk, but she did not find the key.
Ruth was waiting for her by the front steps. "I thought I'd come over
and help you. I hope you haven't finished everything."
"I haven't even started," replied Peggy in a hollow voice, and
explained the situation. Ruth was a girl of resources and at once she
had a bright idea.
"Peggy, our front door key looks a good bit like yours. Perhaps it will
open the door. I'll run over and get it."
"Then, fly," pleaded Peggy, "It's simply awful to be locked out of your
house when you have a million things to do."
Ruth sped on her errand at a pace which satisfied even the impatient
Peggy, and returned with a key which really did look like the latch key
with whose appearance Peggy was most familiar. Hopefully she inserted
it in the appropriate key-hole. Patiently she turned it this way and
that. The latch key was like a great many people, encouraging one's
expectations by almost doing what it was asked to do, but never quite
succeeding. In the end Peggy mournfully relinquished all hope of
entering the house by its aid.
"I can't waste any more time on that key. It won't work, and I've got
to get in."
"How about the windows," suggested Ruth.
"The windows on the first floor are all locked, for I made sure of that
before I started out."
"If we could borrow a ladder--"
"I don't know anybody who owns a ladder. No, there's just one chance as
far as I can see. I've always wondered if I could get in through the
coal shute and now I'm going to see."
"But, Peggy, it's so dirty."
"I know, but it's got to be done."
"You might get stuck," exclaimed Ruth, turning pale. "Wait a little,
Peggy. Perhaps something will happen."
"Unless an air ship comes along and takes me to a second story window,
I can't think of anything that could happen that would be of any help
to me."
The narrow, inclined passage through which the coal was chuted from
the side walk to the cellar bin, looked small enough and black enough
to justify Ruth's forebodings. But Peggy's impatience had reached the
point where anything seemed better than inaction. She lowered herself
into the chute, and when she released her hold of the edge, her descent
was so rapid that Ruth shrieked. But after a moment of suspense she
heard an encouraging rattle of coal, and then steps slowly ascending
the cellar steps. A little later the front door was shaken violently
without opening, however, and Peggy's face presently appeared at one
of the living-room windows. Regardless of the fact that her friend was
attempting to tell her something, Ruth screamed with laughter, for
Peggy's face was so begrimed as to suggest that her habitual occupation
was that of a chimney-sweep. Ruth's laughter was short-lived, however,
for raising her voice, Peggy made herself heard, and with an accent of
authority by no means characteristic.
"Stop laughing, Ruth, and help me. In fooling with your key I've done
something to that wretched lock, and now I can't open the door even
from the inside."
"The front door?"
"I can't open either door," cried Peggy. "I can't open _any_ door. The
only way to get into the house is by the window, and Hildegarde Carey
is coming to dinner and a girl from New York."
"What do you want me to do, Peggy?" Ruth was so carried away by her
friend's excitement that for the moment she was unable to see anything
humorous in the situation.
"Bring me my market basket, first. It's on the back steps. And then
find a locksmith and bring him here. Don't be satisfied with having him
say he'll come. Bring him with you."
Ruth hurried to the back of the house, secured the heavy basket, and
returned with it to the living room window. And then she astonished
Peggy by setting the basket down and beginning to laugh hysterically.
"What on earth--"
"Oh, Peggy, please excuse me. I really didn't mean to laugh, but
honestly you're the funniest sight I've ever seen. You're striped just
like a zebra."
Curiosity led Peggy to consult the mirror over the mantel. But instead
of laughing as Ruth had done, she uttered a tragic groan.
"It's going to take a terrible time to clean that off, if it ever does
come off. Oh, Ruth, hurry! When I think of all that will have to be
done before six o'clock, my head just whirls."
Ruth took a hasty departure and Peggy, having carried the basket to
the kitchen, rushed upstairs to remove all traces of her recent novel
entry. As this necessitated an entire change of clothing and the use
of a prodigious amount of soap and hot water, her toilet consumed more
time than she could well spare. But at length, clean and extremely
pink, and attired in a little frock not too good for getting dinner
and yet good enough to pass muster at the table, she rushed downstairs
and attacked her vegetables. And still no sign of Ruth, bringing the
locksmith.
About five o'clock Priscilla arrived ready to lend a hand. Peggy
answered her ring at the window, instead of at the door, and after a
brief conversation, the tall Priscilla made an unconventional entry.
Amy arriving twenty minutes later was admitted by the same entrance.
The girls made themselves useful and speculated on what was detaining
Ruth.
"I don't mind letting you girls in through the window," groaned Peggy.
"But it's different with Hildegarde. And that New York girl. Oh,
heavens!"
At five o'clock they were all too nervous to know what they were doing.
Peggy set skillets on the stove with nothing in them, and snatched them
off again, just in time to avert disaster. She salted vegetables and
then forgot and salted them all over again. Priscilla was trying to set
the table, and making a poor job of it, as is generally the case when
one is doing one thing and thinking of another. Amy, after going to the
front window on the average of once in every two minutes to see if Ruth
were coming, felt that she could bear inaction no longer.
"Peggy, where's the latch key to your front door?"
"Hanging on a hook over by the umbrellas. But you can't do anything
with it. I've tried."
"What a key has done a key can undo," replied Amy, sententiously; and
possessing herself of the magic piece of steel, she climbed out of the
window and set to work. For fifteen or twenty minutes she continued
to fumble at the lock without results, and she was on the point of
deciding that she might be putting in the time to better advantage,
when something clicked encouragingly. Amy turned the knob, and squealed
with delight; for the door opened.
Before she could proclaim her success, Priscilla had made a discovery.
Lying across a chair in the kitchen was a garment of some indeterminate
shade between blue and black. "What's this?" asked Priscilla, pausing
to examine it.
"It's my old blue coat. But since I came down the coal chute, I don't
know as I can ever wear it again. It isn't worth sending to the
cleaner's, and I'm afraid it's beyond my skill."
"I'll hang it in the laundry," said Priscilla, and lifted the smutty
garment daintily by the tips of her fingers. The coat swung against the
round of the chair with a distinct clink, and Peggy looked up quickly.
"What was that?"
"A button, wasn't it?"
"The buttons are cloth. And that was such a queer sound--like metal."
Priscilla had a brilliant idea. Disregarding the fact that the coal
dust with which the garment was covered came off on her hands, she
began eagerly feeling along the lower edge. And just as Amy heard the
click that meant victory, Priscilla uttered an ecstatic cry.
"The key, Peggy! I've found your key!"
"What? Where? Oh, Priscilla, not really?"
"There must have been a hole in your pocket," declared Priscilla. "The
key slipped down between the outside and the lining. You can feel for
yourself. There's a key all right, and it's not likely it's a different
one."
"Take a knife and rip up the lining at the bottom," ordered Peggy
recklessly. "Yes, of course it's the key. I wonder if I'd rather have
that New York girl come in by the back door or the front window."
That query had hardly left her lips, when Amy rushed in. "I've done it,
Peggy, I've done it."
"You don't mean you've got the door open?"
"Yes, I have. I was just ready to give up and then I tried again and
something clicked and the deed was done."
"And Priscilla's found the back-door key. Now Ruth will come with the
locksmith."
They heard footsteps even as she spoke, and then Ruth's voice
explaining to the locksmith that the only way to get into the house was
by the window. Peggy went to meet them, assuming a very dignified air
that she might not look sheepish.
"We succeeded in opening the doors that were troubling us, but there's
a key broken off in a lock upstairs. Since you're here, you might as
well attend to that. Will you take him upstairs Ruth? It's the door of
the den." And then Peggy beat a retreat to the kitchen, leaving Ruth to
propitiate the locksmith, who had left his shop reluctantly, yielding
to her impassioned representations of the urgency of the case.
Dinner was more than half an hour late, and failed to justify Peggy's
reputation as a cook, for some dishes were over-salted and others
entirely lacking that essential ingredient, while the pudding was so
overdone that it was necessary to remove the top layer, and conceal
deficiencies by a quite superfluous meringue. But since Peggy had
planned her dinner party with the purpose of distracting Ruth's
thoughts, she had every reason to consider it an unqualified success.