THE DANCE ON THE FOURTH
It was the glorious Fourth. The boys had been celebrating since early
morning, when they had aroused the household by setting off a pack of
giant crackers on the front lawn. There had been a picnic lunch in
the woods, an exciting tennis tournament at the Country Club in the
afternoon, and now they were dressing for the principal event of the
day: the big subscription dance at the summer hotel, for which all the
neighborhood had bought tickets.
“It’s the first really grown-up party I’ve ever been to,” remarked
Geraldine, as she stood before the bureau, brushing out her long hair.
“I suppose I shall be the youngest girl there, and the boys won’t even
look at me. Don’t you think, Gretel, I might try putting up my hair? I
could take it right down again if it looked queer.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” advised Gretel. “You are only fourteen, you
know, and I don’t believe your mother would like it. You’ll have plenty
of partners, I’m sure, even if your hair isn’t up. Stephen has promised
to look after you, and as soon as people find out what a good dancer
you are, they’ll all want to dance with you.”
Geraldine sighed, but submitted to her friend’s superior judgment. As
a rule, she was quite indifferent to her personal appearance, but this
was a very particular occasion, and besides, Geraldine had been growing
up rather fast during the past few weeks.
“I wish Jerry were going,” she said, regretfully. “He’d dance with me
if nobody else did, but he hates parties; and Mrs. Chester thinks he’s
too young to have a good time. Your dress is lovely, Gretel, and I
never saw you look prettier.”
Gretel flushed with pleasure. It is pleasant to be admired, even by
a girl a year younger than one’s self. Those weeks of sea air had
certainly done Gretel good. There was a color in her cheeks, and a
light in her eyes, that had not been there during her first few days
at the Chesters’. Since that Sunday afternoon, now more than a week
ago, nothing had occurred to trouble or annoy her. She had not seen
Fritz Lippheim again, and Ada Godfrey, as if to atone for her cousin’s
rudeness, had been unusually kind and tactful. The Chester family all
liked her, and she had found a real friend in Mrs. Cranston. She had
good news from her own family in Washington, and altogether her days
had been very happy ones.
“I’m so glad you like my dress,” she said. “Barbara bought it for me
that last day in New York, and there wasn’t any time for alterations.
If my hair were as long and thick as yours, I’m sure I shouldn’t mind
having people see it. Let me help you on with your dress. I think we
ought to hurry a little; it’s after eight.”
At that moment Molly, already dressed for the evening, appeared in the
doorway.
“How nice you both look!” she exclaimed admiringly. “If you knew how
becoming your long hair was, Geraldine, you would never want to put it
up. Oh, Gretel dear, I’m so sorry you’re going away to-morrow.”
“You’re not any sorrier than I am myself,” said Gretel. “I’ve had a
perfectly lovely visit, and would give anything to stay till Monday,
and go home with the Barlows. But it couldn’t be arranged. Percy
doesn’t know when he may be in New York again after to-morrow, and he
and Barbara don’t want to let me travel alone.”
“I know,” said Molly, “but that doesn’t make it any easier to let
you go. You’ll have a long time to wait in New York, if your brother
doesn’t leave till the night train. Is your house open?”
“Oh, yes, there’s a caretaker in charge, and Percy often spends the
night there when he is in New York. I shall manage very comfortably,
and Percy will take me out to dinner.”
“You might go to see Mother,” Geraldine suggested. “She’d love to see
you and you could tell her all about us. But be sure not to mention
that the rowboat upset the other day, and Jerry and I had to swim
ashore. She’d be sure to think we had both been drowned, and you were
trying to break it to her gently.”
“We have had some pretty jolly times together, haven’t we?” remarked
Molly.
“You ought to have heard some of the nice things Mother and Aunt Dulcie
were saying about you two girls this afternoon. Here comes Kitty;
doesn’t she look grand? I say, Kit, that dress is the most becoming
thing you ever wore. Let’s go down and show ourselves to Mother and
Aunt Dulcie before we put on our wraps.”
Mr. and Mrs. Chester and Mrs. Cranston were awaiting the young people
on the piazza, and ten minutes later they were all in the motor-boat,
crossing to the opposite shore where stood the big hotel--a landmark
for miles around.
“What a lovely night it is,” remarked Mrs. Cranston, as the boat moved
away from the pier. “I feel just like going to a party. I haven’t been
to one in ages.”
“I don’t believe you will ever grow old, Dulcie,” her brother-in-law
said, smiling. “Molly and I have reached the age when dances rather
bore us, except for the pleasure of watching our young people have a
good time.”
“I sometimes feel as if I were younger now than when I was twelve,”
said Mrs. Cranston. “I used to think then that I had the cares of the
world on my shoulders, with three younger sisters to look after. We
didn’t have many parties in those days, did we, Molly? Do you remember
our birthdays, and the queer presents we gave each other?”
“Yes, indeed,” her sister answered, “and how wonderful the first
Christmas seemed after Papa married again, and we went to live with him
and Mama.”
“Oh, do tell us about it,” urged Geraldine. “I love hearing about your
experiences when you were little girls.”
Mrs. Cranston laughed, and began a story, which lasted till they
reached the landing. She was a great favorite with young people, and
her stories, whether written or told, were always fascinating.
“How gay The Griswold looks with all the lights,” said Geraldine,
as they walked up the path to the hotel. “Just look at that line of
automobiles. Everybody must be here.”
“Listen to the music!” cried Kitty. “Doesn’t it sound gay? I want to
begin dancing right off. Do you think it’s wicked to want to dance in
war time, Mrs. Cranston?”
“Not in the least,” Mrs. Cranston assured her, smilingly. “Young people
should enjoy themselves while they can. Ah, here comes Steve. I was
sure he would be looking for us.”
Stephen was looking for them, and so were Jimmy Fairfax and several
other young sailors, whose acquaintance the girls had made since coming
to New London, and in a very few minutes they had all made their way to
the ballroom, and even Geraldine had been provided with a partner.
Gretel was fond of dancing, and moreover, she danced exceedingly well.
Before the evening was half over, she had decided that she was having
the “time of her life.”
“I have hardly seen anything of you,” Stephen complained, coming up to
her, where she stood fanning herself by his mother’s side. “I’ve looked
for you several times, but you were always dancing. Have you a partner
for the next?”
Gretel admitted that she had not.
“Then dance it with me, and let me take you in to supper afterwards.
I say, Mother, just look at Geraldine. She’s danced every dance. The
fellows are all crazy about her; she’s so jolly and unaffected.”
“I’m so glad Geraldine is having a good time,” said Gretel, as she and
Stephen moved away to the music of a lively one-step. “She was afraid
no one would notice her because her hair wasn’t up. It was awfully good
of you to introduce so many boys to her.”
Stephen laughed.
“Geraldine’s all right,” he said. “I’m sure the fellows like her much
better than that affected Ross girl, staying at the Godfreys’. By the
way, your friend Ada is more patriotic than ever to-night. I’ve heard
her lecturing three separate partners on their duty to their country.”
“Poor Ada,” said Gretel, laughing, “she really is tremendously in
earnest. Molly says Ada’s greatest fault is an absence of the sense of
humor.”
At that very moment Ada, at the other end of the ballroom, was
remarking to her partner, Jimmy Fairfax:
“Gretel Schiller seems to be having a good time. I believe she has
danced every dance.”
“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Jimmy inquired innocently.
Ada, who had herself sat out several dances for lack of partners,
pursed her lips solemnly.
“Oh, no reason at all,” she said, “as long as she can enjoy it. I can’t
see how people can care about such frivolous things in these serious
times. I wouldn’t have come to-night if it hadn’t been for those girls
I have staying with me. Mother didn’t think it would be right to
deprive them of the pleasure.”
“Well, I suppose we may as well enjoy ourselves while we can,” young
Fairfax said, apologetically. “There won’t be much enjoyment for us
when we get overseas. Miss Gretel seems to be a great favorite.”
“Oh, Gretel’s all right,” Ada admitted. “Everybody likes her. I was
only wondering how she can take pleasure in anything when she remembers
that her father was a German. If I had only one drop of German blood in
my veins I should bow my head in shame.”
“It is pretty rough on Miss Gretel,” said Jimmy, “especially if
she has German relatives. The Government is getting more severe on
German-Americans every day.”
“Oh, Gretel hasn’t any German relatives; at least none in this
country,” Ada explained. “You see, her mother was an American, and she
lives with her half-brother, Mr. Douaine. He’s doing Government work
in Washington, and Gretel is going there when she leaves here. I have
heard her say she doesn’t even know any Germans except our teacher at
school.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the young man in a tone of so much surprise that
Ada inquired curiously:
“Why do you say ‘Indeed’ in that incredulous way? You don’t know
anything about Gretel’s friends, do you?”
“Nothing whatever, except----”
“Except what?” demanded Ada, sharply.
“Oh, nothing worth mentioning. I happened to see her talking to a man
the other day, that’s all. I thought he looked like a German, but I may
have been mistaken, of course.”
Ada’s eyes grew round, and her cheeks flushed.
“Where did you see her?” she inquired. “You ought to be willing to tell
me all about it now you’ve begun.”
Jimmy Fairfax was beginning to look decidedly uncomfortable.
“It was in New London,” he said, “one afternoon about ten days ago.
They were standing in front of one of the shops, and seemed to be
talking very earnestly together. Miss Gretel didn’t see me, but I was
just going to speak to her when they turned down one of the side
streets. Afterwards I met Mrs. Chester, and she told me she was waiting
for Gretel Schiller, who had left her to do some shopping. When she
joined us a few minutes later, I thought she was looking rather flushed
and excited.”
Ada looked very serious.
“It sounds queer,” she said. “Didn’t Gretel say anything about having
met a friend?”
“Well, no, she didn’t,” Jimmy admitted, reluctantly, “but then I left
them in a moment, and she may have told Mrs. Chester later.”
“Why didn’t you ask her about it the next time you saw her?”
“I didn’t think it was exactly my business. Miss Gretel had a right to
speak to a friend in the street, even if he did happen to be a German.”
“Everything is our business in war time,” said Ada, virtuously. “We
ought to investigate everything that seems in the least suspicious.”
“But there may not have been anything suspicious about this,” Jimmy
objected.
“Not if she had mentioned it afterwards, of course, but I think her not
saying anything to Mrs. Chester about having met a friend was decidedly
queer. I shall ask her to explain the next time we meet.”
“Please don’t do anything of the sort,” urged the young man, reddening.
“She would have every right to consider me an impertinent meddler. I am
sorry I ever mentioned the matter at all.”
Jimmy was looking very much distressed, and Ada--who was not without a
goodly share of coquetry in her nature--began to see an opportunity for
teasing.
“Perhaps I won’t say anything to Gretel,” she conceded, “if you are
very nice to me all the rest of the evening, but if you dance any
more with that silly little Geraldine Barlow, who is really much too
young to be here at all, I won’t promise what I may do. Of course I
know Gretel is really all right, but I am terribly curious about that
German.”
Having finished their dance, Gretel and Stephen made their way to the
crowded supper room. They were very warm, and rather tired, and the
prospect of ices and lemonade was very alluring.
“You’d better wait here, and let me see what I can get,” said Stephen,
pausing in the doorway. “There is such a crowd around the tables, I
think I can manage better alone.”
Gretel agreed, and having found a chair for her, her partner hurried
away and was speedily lost to sight in the crowd. It was rather amusing
to watch the hurrying, chattering throng, and Gretel was enjoying the
novel experience thoroughly, when her attention was suddenly attracted
by the sight of a gentleman in evening clothes, who had just entered
the room. In an instant all her pleasure was gone; her heart gave
a great bound and began beating very fast, for the man was Fritz
Lippheim. He was evidently alone, but appeared quite at home in his
new surroundings, and was moving leisurely towards one of the tables.
He passed so close to Gretel that she could have put out her hand and
touched him, but if he recognized her, he made not the slightest sign,
and Gretel, flushing and trembling, sank back in her seat, wishing with
all her heart that she had never come to the dance.
It was just at that moment that another man paused in passing Fritz to
say in a friendly tone:
“Good-evening, Martin. Glad to see you here to-night.”
“Good-evening,” responded Fritz Lippheim, who did not look at all
surprised or embarrassed by his new name, and then the two passed on,
and Gretel heard no more of their conversation.
“Here I am at last,” said Stephen. “I began to think it was hopeless,
but I managed to secure some ice-cream and a couple of glasses of
lemonade. How warm you look. It is stifling in here. Let’s go out on
the piazza. A lot of people are eating there.”
“Yes, oh, yes, let’s go out,” said Gretel, rising, and speaking in
a tone of such unmistakable relief that her companion regarded her
rather curiously.
“I was sorry to be so long,” he said. “You weren’t frightened or
uncomfortable, were you?”
“Not frightened exactly,” said Gretel, trying to laugh, “but--but it
was a little uncomfortable. There was such a crowd, you know, and I was
all alone.”
Stephen could not help laughing.
“I didn’t know you were so timid,” he said. “I will be careful how I
leave you alone again, even for the purpose of getting ice-cream.”
He spoke jestingly, but Gretel’s face was very grave.
“I am a coward,” she said; “I have been a coward all my life, and I am
afraid I shall always be one.”
[Illustration: IF HE RECOGNIZED HER, HE MADE NOT THE SLIGHTEST
SIGN.--_Page 191._]
But Stephen refused to take her seriously, and made so merry over the
little episode that Gretel found herself laughing, and in a few minutes
had regained her usual self-possession. It was much less crowded on the
piazza, and having secured a table to themselves, they were soon
enjoying ice-cream and lemonade, while the distant dance music fell
softly on their ears, mingling with the sound of the water lapping
against the pier.
“We have had a jolly two weeks all together, haven’t we?” Stephen
remarked, as he set down his empty lemonade glass. “It’s a shame you
can’t stay over till Monday, and go back with the Barlows.”
“I wish I could,” said Gretel, “but I must meet my brother in New York
to-morrow. He goes back to Washington by the night train, and I’m to go
with him. I’ve had a lovely visit, but I’m afraid I’ve been very lazy.
It doesn’t seem as if any one ought to be just having a good time now,
when there is so much work to be done. My sister-in-law writes that she
is busy from morning till night, and I want to help her all I can.”
“Well, I suppose you are right,” Stephen admitted, “but I hate to have
the party break up. I have an idea that I shan’t be here very much
longer myself.”
Gretel gave a little start.
“You mean that your ship is going across?” she asked, with a sudden
catch in her voice.
Stephen nodded.
“I haven’t said anything to my mother about it yet, but I think we
shall have our sailing orders in a week or two. It will be hard on the
mater--I’m her only son, you know, and we’ve always been a lot to each
other--but if it were not for her sake, I should be glad to be off.
There is plenty of work to be done over there, and it’s quite time we
Americans got busy.”
Gretel was silent. Somehow she could not say what she wanted to say
just then, and before she had steadied her voice a waiter was asking if
he could bring them anything. He appeared so suddenly that it seemed to
Gretel as if he must have been standing in the shadow all the time.
“Will you have anything more?” Stephen asked.
Gretel shook her head.
“I couldn’t possibly eat any more,” she said, but as she spoke her
eyes were following the waiter, who was gliding quietly away.
“Then let’s go back to the ballroom and have another dance. What are
you looking at so intently?”
“It’s--it’s that waiter,” faltered Gretel. “I’ve seen him somewhere
before, but I can’t remember where.”
Stephen laughed.
“Nothing very surprising about that,” he said. “You may easily have
seen him at some hotel or restaurant. I didn’t notice anything
remarkable about his appearance.”
Gretel admitted that such might have been the case, but she did not
look altogether satisfied. Somehow the man’s face seemed to haunt her.
She had seen it somewhere, and she did not think it was at a hotel or
restaurant. Then there was Fritz Lippheim. What was Fritz doing there,
and why had that other man addressed him as Martin? She was sure he
had recognized her. If he were merely a guest at the dance, why had he
avoided speaking to her? It was all very strange and disquieting. In
spite of the fact that her visit had been such a pleasant one, Gretel
felt suddenly glad that she was leaving New London in the morning. She
wanted to be in Washington with Percy and Barbara.