Quenrede Comes Out
The Saxon family celebrated Christmas at the bungalow with mixed
feelings. As Ingred said, it was like the curate's egg--parts of it were
very nice. It was the first Christmas they had spent all together for
many years, and if they could only have forgotten Rotherwood, and their
altered circumstances, they would have enjoyed it immensely. Mrs. Saxon,
the unfailing sunshine-radiator of the household, tried to ignore the
tone of discontent in her husband's voice, the grumpy attitude of
Egbert, Quenrede's fit of the blues, and Athelstane's rather martyred
pose. She insisted on bundling everybody out for a blow on the moors.
"If we'd been living in Grovebury," she remarked, "we should probably
have taken a jaunt to Wynch-on-the-Wold as a special treat. Let us think
ourselves lucky in being on the spot and only having to turn out of our
own door to be at once in such lovely scenery. It's like having a
country holiday at Christmas instead of midsummer--a thing I always
hankered after and never got before!"
Certainly winter on the wold held a charm of its own. The great waste of
brown moor stretching under the gray sky showed rich patches where
yellow grass and rushes edged dark boggy pools, the low-growing stems of
sallows and alders were delicate with shades of orange and mauve; here
and there a sprig of furze lingered in flower, and black flights of
starlings and fieldfares, driven from colder climates in quest of food,
swept in long lines across the horizon. The weather was open for the
time of year, the wind strong but not too keen, and had it not been for
the lowness of the sun in the sky the day might have been autumn instead
of December. It was glorious to walk to the top of Wetherstone Heights
and see, miles away, the spire of Monkswell Church and the gleam of the
distant river, then to hurry back in the gloaming with the rising mists
creeping up like advancing specters, and to find the lamps lighted and
tea ready in the cheery bungalow. Nobody wanted to quarrel with Yule
cake and muffins, and even Mr. Saxon temporarily forgot his worries and
relapsed into quite amusing reminiscences of certain adventures in
France.
If only our spirits would keep up to the point to which, with much
effort, we screw them, all would be well: unfortunately they often have
a tiresome knack of descending with a run. When tea was finished and
cleared away Mr. Saxon found the presence of his family a hindrance to
reading, and at a hint from their mother the younger members of the
party took themselves off into the little drawing-room. Here, round a
black fire, which, despite Hereward's poking, refused to burn brightly,
the grumble-cloud that had been lowering all day burst at last.
"If we'd only got the Rotherwood billiard table there'd be something to
do!" groused Egbert gloomily.
"There isn't a corner in this poky hole where a fellow can fiddle with
photography," chimed in Athelstane, "even if there was time to do it.
When I get back from Birkshaw it's nothing but grind, grind, grind at
medical books all the evening."
"Rather have your job than mine, though," said Egbert. "You haven't to
sit under the Pater's eye all day long, and have him down on you like a
cartload of bricks if you make the slightest slip. I'm the worst off of
the whole lot of us!"
"What about me at that odious Grammar School?" asked Hereward, pressing
his claims to the palm of dissatisfaction.
"Or me at the hostel!" urged Ingred, not to be outdone.
"I don't think you, any of you, realize how slow it is just to stop at
home!" sighed Quenrede. "There were sixteen dozen things I'd made up my
mind to do, and I can't do one of them. It's going to be a hateful New
Year for all of us--just a New Year of going without and scraping and
saving and economizing--ugh! What a life!"
"Life's mostly what we make it," said Mother, who had quietly joined the
circle. "After all, what we think we want doesn't always give the
greatest happiness. Suppose each of us tries to let this be the best
year we've ever had? Very little in the way of material wealth may come
to us, but the other kind of wealth is far better worth working for. I
think this hard time gives us the chance to show what we're made of.
During the fighting, the lads at the front went steadily through severe
privations, and the women at home worked in the same brave, cheery
fashion. Now the strain of the war is over, are we going to let all this
splendid spirit drop? Suppose we fight our own battles as we fought our
country's? Let me feel I've still got a family of soldiers to be proud
of."
"You're the Colonel, then, of the new corps," said Egbert, with an
affectionate bear-hug to the slight figure that was already making the
black fire break into a blaze. "You've pluck enough for the whole clan,
little Mother o' mine! You shall sound your slogan and lead the attack
on Fate till we get back to Rotherwood! There!"
"I'm aiming at higher things than Rotherwood, darling boy!" said his
mother gravely.
"_I_ know!" whispered Quenrede, squeezing the dear hand that reached out
and clasped her own. "I won't be a selfish beast any more. I won't
indeed. Economizing shall be my New Year's cross!"
"If we're going to count up crosses," proclaimed Athelstane humorously,
"the orphan's fine voice while I'm studying is mine!"
"But _she_ probably counts it her choicest blessing!" exclaimed Ingred.
And then the whole family broke out laughing, and Mother's little
lecture ended in fun. It made its impression upon individual members all
the same.
The six miles which separated the Saxons from Grovebury seemed to have
set up an effectual barrier between them and the old world in which they
had moved before. Many people who had been friendly in the Rotherwood
days did not trouble to come so far as Wynch-on-the-Wold to pay calls,
and the numerous invitations which had formerly been extended to the
young folks decreased this Christmas to very few.
First and foremost amongst these scanty festivities came Mrs. Desmond's
dance. It was a grown-up affair, and she had sent printed invitations to
Egbert, Athelstane and Quenrede. The latter, who only knew the Desmonds
slightly and was always overwhelmed in their presence, developed a
sudden and acute fit of shyness and implored to be allowed to refuse.
"If it had been the Browns' or Lawrences' I'd have loved it," she urged,
"but you know, Mumsie, how Mrs. Desmond absolutely withers me up! I
never can say six words when she's there. I'd run five miles to avoid
meeting her: you know I would! She's so starchy."
"You see very little of your hostess at a dance. Don't be silly,
Queenie!" insisted Mrs. Saxon. "I say you're to go, so there's an end of
it."
"I'll go for an evening's martyrdom, then, not for enjoyment!" wailed
her daughter dolefully.
A first grown-up dance is often a terrible ordeal to a girl of eighteen,
and Quenrede, though she had put on a few airs to impress the
schoolgirls at the Rainbow League sale, was at bottom woefully bashful.
She was still in the stage when her newly-turned-up hair looked as if it
were unaccustomed to be coiled round her head; she had a painful habit
of blushing, and had not yet acquired that general _savoir faire_ which
comes to us with the passing of our teens. To be plunged for a whole
evening into the society of a succession of strangers seemed to her
anything but an exhilarating prospect.
"If I could just dance with our own boys!" she sighed.
"I'd pity you if you did!" declared Ingred, pausing in an effort to make
Athelstane's steps more worthy of a ball-room. "Why, half the fun will
be your different partners. I only wish I'd your chance and was 'coming
out' too!"
"I'm sure you're welcome to go instead of me," proclaimed Quenrede
petulantly.
All the same she watched the preparations for the event with
considerable girlish interest. Mother, whose ambitions at first had run
to a dress from town, regretfully decided that the family finances could
only supply a home-made costume, and set to work with fashion book and
sewing-machine to act amateur dressmaker, a thrilling experience to
unaccustomed fingers, for paper patterns are sometimes difficult to
understand, seams do not fit together as they ought, and the bottom hem
of a skirt is the most awkward thing in the world to make hang perfectly
straight. Quenrede, standing on the table, revolved slowly while Mrs.
Saxon and Ingred stuck in pins and debated whether a quarter of an inch
here and there should be raised or lowered. Ingred showed far more
cleverness in sewing than her sister; her natty fingers could contrive
pretty things already in the shape of collars and blouses.
"You'd make an admirable curate's wife!" Quenrede laughingly assured
her. "_I_ shall have to marry a rich man and get my things from London."
"It will probably be the other way," declared Mother. "Stand still,
Queenie, I can't measure properly if you _will_ dance about!"
Though she was ready with a joke, as a matter of fact Quenrede was
having a severe struggle not to be snappy. For years and years she had
planned her "coming out," and she had decided upon a ball at Rotherwood,
and an absolute creation of a gown that was to be sent for from Paris.
There would have been some éclat then in emerging from the chrysalis
stage of the school-room and becoming a butterfly of society. To make
her first grown-up appearance at Mrs. Desmond's dance and in a home-made
dress seemed not so much a "coming out" as an "oozing out." There are
degrees in butterflies, and she feared her appearance would resemble not
the gorgeous "Red Admiral" or "Painted Lady," but the "Common White
Cabbage." If it had not been for the New Year's resolution, some traces
of her disappointment would have leaked out, but she kept the secret
bravely to herself. The family indeed knew she was not anxious to go,
but set her unwilling attitude down to mere shyness. Her mother never
guessed at the real reason.
There was a tremendous robing on the evening of January the ninth, with
Mother and Ingred for lady's-maids, and "The Orphan" hovering about,
offering to bring pins or hot water on the chance of getting a peep at
the proceedings. Mrs. Saxon stepped back, when all was complete, and
viewed the result somewhat in the spirit of an artist who has finished a
picture. It is an event in a mother's life when her first little girl
grows up and becomes a young lady. To-night Quenrede was to be launched
on the stream of society. Looked at critically, her appearance was very
satisfactory. Though the new dress might not be up to the level of a
fashion-plate, it certainly became her, and set off the pretty fair
face, white neck, and coils of gleaming flaxen hair.
"Your gloves and shoes and stockings are all right, and you've got a
nice handkerchief, and your fan," reviewed Mother, wrapping an evening
cloak round her handiwork. "Good-by, my bird! Enjoy yourself, and don't
be silly and shy."
"I shall keep awake till you come back!" Ingred assured her.
It was something at any rate to be going with Egbert and Athelstane.
Among the stream of strangers there would be at least two home objects
upon which she might occasionally cast anchor. The thought of that
buoyed her up as the taxi whirled them down hill to Grovebury.
The Desmonds were giving the dance as a coming-out for one of their own
daughters, and their house was _en fête_. An awning protected the porch,
red cloth carpeted the steps, a marquee filled the lawn, and a stringed
band from Birkshaw had been engaged to play the latest dance music.
Quenrede passed calmly enough through the ordeals of leaving her cloak
in the dressing-room (where a crowd of girls were prinking, and there
was no room for even a glance in the mirror), and the greeting from her
host and hostess in the drawing-room. It was in the ball-room afterwards
that her agony began. Egbert and Athelstane were whisked away from her
to be introduced to other girls, and utter strangers, whose names she
seldom caught, were brought to her, took her program, recorded their
initials and passed on to book other partners. The few people in the
marquee whom she knew were too far away or too occupied to speak to her,
so she stood alone, and heartily wished herself at home.
It was better when the dancing began, though her partners scared her
horribly. They all made exactly the same remarks about the excellence of
the floor, the taste of the decorations, and the beauty of the music,
and asked her if she had been to the pantomime, and whether she played
golf. Small talk is an art, and though Quenrede had many interests, and
in ordinary circumstances could have discussed them, to-night she felt
tongue-tied, and let the ball of conversation drop with a "yes" or "no"
or "very." Dances with strangers who expected her to talk were bad
enough, but the gaps in her program were worse. No doubt Mrs. Desmond
tried to look after all her guests, but several gentlemen had
disappointed her at the last minute, and there were not quite partners
enough to go round. At a young people's party Quenrede would have
cheerily danced with some other girl in like plight, but at this stiff
grown-up gathering she dared not suggest such an informality, and
remained a wallflower. She caught glimpses occasionally of Egbert and
Athelstane, the former apparently enjoying himself, the latter looking
as solemn as if he were in church.
"I know the poor boy's counting his steps and trying not to tread on
anybody's toes!" thought Quenrede. "Ingred said his partners would have
to pull him around somehow."
Supper was a diversion, for she was taken in by quite a nice red-headed
boy, a little younger than herself, who, after a manful effort to talk
up to her supposed level, thankfully relapsed into details of
football-matches. Being a nephew of the house, he proved an adept in
attracting the most tempting dishes of fruit or trifle to their
particular table, and even basely commandeered other people's crackers
for her benefit. She bade him good-by with regret.
"I say, I wish my card wasn't full! I'd have liked a dance with you!" he
murmured wistfully as they left the supper-room.
If only she had known people better, and the atmosphere had not seemed
so stiff and formal, and she had not been so miserably shy, Quenrede
might have enjoyed herself. As it was she began counting the hours. In
one of the wallflower gaps of her program she took a stroll into the
conservatory. It looked like fairyland with the colored lanterns hanging
among the palms and flowers. Somebody else was apparently enjoying the
pretty effect--somebody who turned round rather guiltily as if he were
caught; then at sight of her smiled in relief.
"I thought you were one of my hostesses come to round me up to do my
duty," he confessed. "I'm a duffer at dancing, so I've taken cover in
here. I see you don't remember me, but we've met before--at Red Ridge
Barrow. My name's Broughten."
"Why, of course! You had a piece of candle and showed us inside the
mound. I ought to have known you again, but--you look so different----"
"In evening dress! So do you; but I recognized you in a minute. Look
here" (in sudden compunction), "am I keeping you from a partner?"
"No more than I am keeping you!" twinkled Quenrede, pointing to the
empty line on her program. "I'm not dancing this, so I came here to--to
enjoy myself."
Her companion laughed in swift comprehension.
"I don't know how other people may find it," he confided, "but hour
after hour of this sort of thing gets on my nerves. A tramp over the
moor is far more my line of amusement. I was wishing I might go home!"
"So was I!"
"But there's still at least another hour and a half."
"With extras, more!" admitted Quenrede.
He held out his hand for her program. "I'm an idiot at dancing, but
would you mind sitting out a few with me?"
"If you won't talk about the floor and the decorations and the band, and
ask me whether I've been to the pantomime, or if I like golf!"
"I promise that those topics shall be utterly and absolutely taboo. I'm
sick of them myself."
Quenrede's shyness, which was only an outer casing, had suddenly
disappeared in the presence of a fellow-victim of social conventions,
and conversation came easily, all the more so after being pent-up all
the evening. Henry Desmond, wandering into the conservatory presently,
remarked to his partner, sotto voce:
"That Saxon girl's chattering sixteen to the dozen now! Couldn't get a
word out of her myself!"
When Quenrede, sometime about five o'clock in the morning, tried to
creep stealthily to bed without disturbing her sister, Ingred, refreshed
by half a night's sleep, sat up wide awake and demanded details.
"Sh! Sh! Mother said we weren't to talk now, and I must tell you
everything afterwards. Oh, I got on better than I expected, though most
of the people were rather starchy. How did my dress look?
Well--_promise_ you won't breathe a word to darling Mother--it was just
passable, and that's all. Some girls had _lovely_ things. I didn't care.
The second part of the evening was far nicer than the first, and I
enjoyed the dances that I sat out the most. The conservatory was all
hung with lanterns. There; I'm dead tired and I want to go to sleep.
Good-night, dear!"
"But you've 'come out!'" said Ingred with satisfaction as she subsided
under her eiderdown.
"Oh yes, I'm most decidedly 'out,'" murmured Quenrede.