AN ENTERTAINMENT
MRS. PAXTON had laughed at what she chose to call the "funny" antics of
Floretta and Jack, but in truth, she had been very angry.
She swept from the piazza, Floretta, firmly grasped, walking beside her.
Jack Tiverton's mother took him to her room, where she could talk to
him, without fear of interruption.
Floretta sat on a low divan, sullen and obstinate.
For twenty minutes she had listened, while her mother had told what a
disrespectful thing she had done.
"I don't see how it was not respectful," grumbled Floretta, "we were
just having a little fun."
"And it was fun at my expense," said Mrs. Paxton. "I was annoyed, just
when I was making plans for a _fine_ entertainment, to have you and that
boy parade out on to the piazza with those old corn-cobs, singing, or
rather _howling_, like young savages!"
This, and much more Floretta was forced to listen to, but during the
remainder of the scolding, she did not speak, or reply in any way.
She was still very sullen when her mother left the room, and no one saw
her until she appeared in the dining-room at dinner.
She tasted one dish after another, but managed to eat but little dinner.
She wished her mother to think that the scolding had made her ill.
It proved to be wasted effort. Mrs. Paxton had been so interested in
what Mrs. Dayne was saying that she had not noticed that Floretta let
the various courses go untasted.
She had hoped to worry her mother, but had only punished herself!
She was very hungry when they left the table, and also very angry.
"I might just as well have eaten my dinner," she muttered, "she never
noticed that I didn't."
When the hour arrived that had been set for the concert, every guest was
present, and all were talking and laughing gaily, and very glad that an
evening's amusement had been provided.
Outside, the rain was descending in torrents, while a cold wind whistled
around the corners, as if demanding admittance.
Indoors the heavy red hangings were drawn over the lace draperies, great
logs blazed in the fireplaces, while over all softly shaded lights gave
an air of cozy comfort that made one feel sheltered and safe from the
storm.
A group of ladies sat chatting together, and one, a recent arrival, was
saying that she had understood that children were not permitted as
guests at the Cleverton.
"There are only a few children here," Mrs. Vinton said, "and some of
them are charming."
"While others are _not_?" questioned the stranger, with an odd smile.
"I'd rather not say just that," Mrs. Vinton said, "but I will say that
Mrs. Dainty's little daughter, and Dorothy's little friend, Nancy, and
Flossie Barnet, are three of the sweetest children I have ever met. My
stay here is brighter and far pleasanter because they are also here."
"Dorothy Dainty is an unusually fine singer for a child," another lady
said, "and she is to sing for us to-night. I believe Nancy Ferris is to
do something, but I do not know what. Does any one know if Nancy sings?"
"I've not the least idea what her talent is," said a pleasant-voiced
matron, "but she is such a bright, interesting child that I feel sure
that whatever she is able to do at all, she will do exceedingly well."
"Aunt Vera is to play a solo for the first number," said little Flossie
Barnet, to a lady who sat near her.
"That is delightful," said the lady, "and what are you to do?"
"Oh, I'll listen, and listen," said Flossie, "and then, I'll clap to
show how much I liked what the people did."
"And your friend Dorothy is to sing," said the lady, "do you know what
Nancy does?"
"Oh, yes, I do!" cried Flossie, "and she does it so lovely, you'll
wonder how she could! I'm not to tell _what_ she'll do, none of us are
to tell. You'll _see_ when she does it!"
"Dear little girl, you seem quite as happy as if you were to be a
soloist," said the lady.
"Why, yes," said Flossie, "for when the other little girls do pretty
things, I see them, but I couldn't see myself do anything!"
"Oh, you sweet, funny little girl," the pleasant-faced lady said, as she
drew Flossie closer, "I never knew so dear a child."
"Dorothy and Nancy are dear," said Flossie, "and oh, you haven't seen
Molly Merton! She's another one of my little friends, and she's _always_
lovely to play with. We're always together when I'm at home at
Merrivale."
Before the lady could express regret that she did not know Molly, the
orchestra began the opening chords of an overture.
The musicians gave an afternoon and evening concert daily, throughout
the season, but to-night their numbers were to be interspersed with
solos given by the guests.
The orchestra was generously applauded, and then a slender figure in a
gown of soft, pink satin seated itself at the piano, and with light
touch and brilliant execution, played a rondo that delighted all.
In response to repeated applause, she played the "Caprice Hongroise,"
which aroused wild enthusiasm.
She smiled, and bowed gracefully in acknowledgment, then turning toward
her husband, who now stood beside her, took from his hand the duplicate
of the song that he was to sing. She always played his accompaniments.
How full of music was his rare voice, how like the tones of a silver
trumpet when he sang "A Song of the Sea," how tender his tones when for
a second number, he sang an "Italian Love Song!"
"Didn't he sing _fine_, just _fine_?" Flossie asked, eagerly.
"Indeed he did," the lady replied, "I never heard a more excellent
voice."
"Well, he's my own Uncle Harry!" said Flossie, a world of love and pride
in her voice.
A young girl played a serenade on the guitar, and a member of the
orchestra played a waltz for violin, and both were encored.
Those who were to perform were in a small room awaiting their turn. They
were laughing and chatting while they waited, and all, save a little
girl, who kept apart from the others, seemed bright and happy. Her eyes
were dull, and her red lips pouting. It was Floretta Paxton, and she was
watching Nancy Ferris, noticing every detail of her costume, and looking
as unpleasant as possible.
Nancy wore a frock of white gauze, thickly strewn with tiny gold
spangles. Her girdle was white satin, her slippers were white, and she
wore a cluster of pink rosebuds in her hair.
"What's she going to do?" Floretta asked in a fretful voice, but Mrs.
Paxton, who stood beside her, could not tell her that. She knew no more
of Nancy's talent than Floretta did.
Floretta had been angry in the afternoon; she had foolishly refused
dinner, and was very hungry; she was made more angry because hers was
not the first number on the program, and now, here was Nancy Ferris
wearing a beautiful frock that far outshone her own!
She was wearing a simple pink muslin, and had felt that she was finely
dressed, until Nancy appeared.
The satin girdle, the white slippers, and the spangles were more than
she could forgive.
"What's she going to _do?_" she asked again, more fretfully than before.
"I _don't know_," Mrs. Paxton said.
"Well, I won't do a thing 'til I do know!" said Floretta.
Silly little girl! Always a jealous child, she now thought that Nancy
_might_ be another impersonator or imitator, and she was nearly wild.
The orchestra was now playing a dreamy waltz. Nancy's foot tapped the
measure. Her eyes were brighter.
"What _is_ she going to do?" whispered Floretta.
The tall man, who had been announcing the numbers, now swung aside the
portière, and Nancy slipped from her chair, ran out upon the stage, and
then,--oh, the fairy motion of her arms, the lightness with which, on
the tips of her toes, she flew across the stage!
With her finger-tips she lifted the hem of her skirt, and courtesied
low, then away in a dreamy whirl she sped, turning to look over her
shoulder, and laugh at the faces that showed greatest surprise.
On swept the strains of sweetest music, and little Nancy, carried away
with love of the music, danced more charmingly than ever before.
Aunt Charlotte and Mrs. Dainty watched her flying figure, and often as
they had seen her, they knew that she was excelling herself.
"Nancy, Nancy, dear child!" murmured Aunt Charlotte.
Now, with her feet crossed, and still on the tips of her toes she
whirled like a top, did the graceful rocking step, swayed like a flower
in the wind, whirled about again, courtesied once more, and laughing
like a merry, dark-eyed sprite, ran back into the little waiting-room.
Oh, what thunders of applause greeted her, yet she sat quietly chatting
with a lady who stood near her!
Again and again they seemed to be begging that the little dancer might
return.
"I'll bow to them," said Nancy, and she ran out to do so.
"Once more, once more!" cried an eager voice, and then more clapping,
and even a few shrill whistles from some very young men begged her to
respond.
She extended her arms for a second, then whirling rapidly, she repeated
the last half of the dance, courtesied again, and when she ran back to
the little room, Dorothy embraced her tenderly.
"Oh, Nancy darling!" she cried, "you never danced finer. Do you know how
pleased every one is?"
"I danced to please and surprise them," said Nancy. "I _do_ love to see
people look happy. They couldn't remember how hard it was raining while
I was whirling and dancing for them."
Floretta, now more unhappy than before, turned so that she might not see
Nancy, nor note the shimmer of her spangles.
Mrs. Paxton, who had been talking with a friend, now turned toward
Floretta.
"Come!" she said, "now run out, and do your very best, Floretta."
"I'm not going out!" said Floretta.
"What an idea!" cried Mrs. Paxton. "Of course you'll run out, and show
every one how cute you are. Why, I planned this entertainment just to
give you a chance to show off!"
"And made me the last one on the whole list!" snarled Floretta.
"Come, come!" cried her mother, "every one couldn't be first. I thought
I'd have the others perform first, and then _you_ could show who was the
smartest! Come! They're just wild to see what you can do, and they're
waiting."
"They'll _have_ to wait!" hissed Floretta, like a cross little cat.
It was no use to urge, plead, or insist. Floretta was stubborn, and when
once she had determined what she would, or would not do, nothing could
move her.
Prayers and threats were equally useless.
Dorothy sang very sweetly, and was cordially received.
Uncle Harry and his wife sang a charming duet that delighted all, the
orchestra played a military caprice, and then the remainder of the
evening was spent in a little, informal dance.
All was light, laughter, and music, and there were two kinds of music
that gladdened their hearts,--the sweet music of the violins, and the
still sweeter melody of happy voices!
Silly little Floretta had ruined the evening for no one save her own
jealous little self.
Because she could not be the first on the program, she would not appear
at all, although, at heart, she longed to show her really clever
mimicry. Later, after having sulked during the early part of the
evening, she refused to join the dancers, and ran away to her room,
angry, very angry with every one save the one person who was really at
fault,--herself.
Her efforts at imitating would surely have amused, and would, doubtless,
have been well received. She was rather a graceful dancer, in any of
the ordinary ballroom dances, and she thus might have joined the other
children when the concert was over. She had needlessly spent a most
unhappy evening.
Now, in her room, she heard the strains of the orchestra, and for the
first time realized how foolish she had been.
"I _had_ a chance, and I lost it," she sobbed, but her tears were not
tears of grieving. They were angry tears, and the droll part of it was
that while she alone was at fault, she was angry with every one but
herself.
For a few moments she lay, her face hidden in her pillow. Then, she
turned over into a more comfortable position, and softly she whispered,
"I'll do enough to-morrow to make up!"
She did not say _what_ she intended to do, but the idea evidently
pleased her, for she laughed through her tears.
She sprang from her bed, found a box of bonbons that her mother had won
as a prize in an afternoon whist party the day before, and crept back
into bed. When she had eaten nearly all of the candy, she sat up and in
the softly shaded light, looked at the box with its few remaining bits
of candy. She was wondering where she could hide it.
"Ma will surely notice the empty box, or anyway, I've made it _almost_
empty," she said. "She might not miss it if I hid it!"
She had never been taught to be honest, so whenever she did a naughty
thing, her first thought was to hide, or cover up the act. She never
felt regret.
No one ever heard her gently say, "I'm sorry."
Softly she crept from her bed, and made her way across the floor to the
dressing-case.
She put the box upon the floor, and pushed it well under it, and wholly
out of sight.
"There!" she whispered. "That's all right. I would have finished the
candy, but I didn't want the whole of it. I ate the best of it. The
others weren't very nice."
Down in the long parlor the guests were no longer dancing.
They were resting, and listening to a lovely barcarolle played softly by
the orchestra.
Flossie, clinging to Uncle Harry's hand, drew him toward the window.
"Look!" she said, as she parted the curtains. "It isn't raining now, and
the moon is coming out. It will be pleasant to-morrow! And it has been
lovely in here to-night."
"Dear little Flossie, dear little niece, it was your cheery, loving
nature that led us to give your name to our baby. She has two fine
names, she is Beatrice Florence. The first is Vera's mother's name, the
second, dear, is yours."