GOES TO A TEA-PARTY.
The Widow Jones got her stockings the next day. As I left them at the
door she stuck her head out of an upper window and said to me that
"the sewing society met at her house on Thursday afternoon, and the
men-folks was coming to tea and to spend the evening, and I must be
_sure_ an' come, or the girls would be _so_ disappointed," and she
urged and urged until I had to promise her I would attend her
sociable.
Drat all tea-parties! say I. I was never comfortable at one in my
life. If you'd give me my choice between going to a tea-party and
picking potato-bugs off the vines all alone on a hot summer day, I
shouldn't hesitate a moment between the two. I should choose the bugs;
and I can't say I fancy potato-bugs, either.
On Wednesday I nearly killed an old lady, putting up tartar-emetic for
cream-tartar. If she'd eaten another biscuit made with it she'd have
died and I'd have been responsible--and father was really vexed and
said I might be a light-house keeper as quick as I pleased; but by
that time I felt as if I couldn't keep a light-house without Belle
Marigold to help me, and so I promised to be more careful, and kept
on clerking.
The thermometer stood at eighty degrees in the shade when I left the
store at five o'clock Thursday afternoon to go to that infallible
tea-party. I was glad the day was warm, for I wanted to wear my white
linen suit, with a blue cravat and Panama hat. I felt independent even
of Fred Hencoop, as I walked along the street under the shade of the
elms; but, the minute I was inside Widow Jones' gate and walking up to
the door, the thermometer went up to somewhere near 200 degrees. There
were something like a dozen heads at each of the parlor windows, and
all women's heads at that. Six or eight more were peeping out of the
sitting-room, where they were laying the table for tea. Babbletown
always did seem to me to have more than its fair share of female
population. I think I would like to live in one of those mining towns
out in Colorado, where women are as scarce as hairs on the inside of a
man's hand. Somebody coughed as I was going up the walk. Did you ever
have a girl cough at you?--one of those mean, teasing, expressive
little coughs?
I had practiced--at home in my own room--taking off my Panama with a
graceful, sweeping bow, and saying in calm, well-bred tones:
"Good-evening, Mrs. Jones. Good-evening, ladies. I trust you have had
a pleasant as well as profitable afternoon."
I had _practiced_ that in the privacy of my chamber. What I really did
get off was something like this:
"Good Jones, Mrs. Evening. I should say, good-evening, widows--ladies,
I beg your pardon," by which time I was mopping my forehead with my
handkerchief, and could just ask, as I sank into the first chair I
saw, "Is your mother well, Mrs. Jones?" which was highly opportune,
since said mother had been years dead before I was born. As I sat
down, a pang sharper than some of those endured by the Spartans ran
through my right leg. I was instantly aware that I had plumped down on
a needle, as well as a piece of fancy-work, but I had not the courage
to rise and extract the excruciating thing.
I turned pale with pain, but by keeping absolutely still I found that
I could endure it, and so I sat motionless, like a wooden man, with a
frozen smile on my features.
Belle was out in the other room helping set the table, for which
mitigating circumstances I was sufficiently thankful.
Fred Hencoop was on the other side of the room holding a skein of silk
for Sallie Brown. He looked across at me, smiling with a malice which
made me hate him.
Out of that hate was born a stern resolve--I would conquer my
diffidence; I would prove to Fred Hencoop, and any other fellow like
him, that I was as good as he was, and could at least equal him in
the attractions of my sex.
There was a pretty girl sitting quite near me. I had been introduced
to her at the picnic. It seemed to me that she was eyeing me
curiously, but I was mad enough at Fred to show him that I could be as
cool as anybody, after I got used to it. I hemmed, wiped the
perspiration from my face--caused now more by the needle than by the
heat--and remarked, sitting stiff as a ramrod and smiling like an
angel:
"June is my favorite month, Miss Smith--is it yours? When I think of
June I always think of strawberries and cream and ro-oh-oh-ses!"
It was the needle. I had forgotten in the excitement of the subject
and had moved.
"_Is_ anything the matter?" Miss Smith tenderly inquired.
"Nothing in the world, Miss Smith. I had a stitch in my side, but it
is over now."
"Stitches are very painful," she observed, sympathizingly. "I don't
like to trouble you, Mr. Flutter, but I think, I believe, I guess you
are sitting on my work. If you will rise, I will try and finish it
before tea."
No help for it, and I arose, at the same moment dexterously slipping
my hand behind me and withdrawing the thorn in the flesh.
"Oh, dear, where is my needle?" said the young lady, anxiously
scrutinizing the crushed worsted-work.
I gave it to her with a blush. She burst out laughing.
"I don't wonder you had a stitch in your side," she remarked, shyly.
"Hem!" observed Fred very loud, "do you feel sew-sew, John?"
Just then Belle entered the parlor, looking as sweet as a pink, and
wearing the sash I had given her. She bowed to me very coquettishly
and announced tea.
"Too bad!" continued Fred; "you have broken the thread of Mr.
Flutter's discourse with Miss Smith. But I do not wish to inflict
_needle_-less pain, so I will not betray him."
"I hope Mr. Flutter is not in trouble again," said Belle quickly.
"Oh, no. Fred is only trying to say something _sharp_," said I.
"Come with me; I will take care of you, Mr. Flutter," said Belle,
taking my arm and marching me out into the sitting-room, where a long
table was heaped full of inviting eatables. She sat me down by her
side, and I felt comparatively safe. But Fred and Miss Smith were just
opposite and they disconcerted me.
"Mr. Flutter," said the hostess when it came my turn, "will you have
tea or coffee?"
"Yes'm," said I.
"Tea or coffee?"
"If you please," said I.
"_Which_?" whispered Belle.
"Oh, excuse me; coffee, ma'am."
"Cream and sugar, Mr. Flutter?"
"I'm not particular which, Mrs. Jones."
"Do you take _both_?" she persisted, with everybody at the table
looking my way.
"No, ma'am, only coffee," said I, my face the color of the
beet-pickles.
She finally passed me a cup, and, in my embarrassment, I immediately
took a swallow and burnt my mouth.
"Have you lost any friends lately?" asked that wretched Fred, seeing
the tears in my eyes.
I enjoyed that tea-party as geese enjoy _pate de fois gras_. It was a
prolonged torment under the guise of pleasure. I refused everything I
wanted, and took everything I didn't want. I got a back of the cold
chicken; there was nothing of it but bone. I thought I must appear to
be eating it, and it slipped out from under my fork and flew into the
dish of preserved cherries.
We had strawberries. I am very partial to strawberries and cream. I
got a saucer of the berries, and was looking about for the cream when
Miss Smith's mother, at my right hand, said:
"Mr. Flutter, will you have some _whip_ with your strawberries?"
Whip with my berries! I thought she was making fun of me, and
stammered:
"No, I thank you," and so I lost the delicious frothed cream that I
coveted.
The agony of the thing was drawing to a close. I was longing for the
time when I could go home and get some cold potatoes out of mother's
cupboard. I hadn't eaten worth a cent.
Pretty soon we all moved back our chairs and rose. I offered my arm to
Belle, as I supposed. Between the sitting-room and parlor there was a
little dark hall, and when we got in there I summoned up courage,
passed my arm around my fair partner, and gave her a hug.
"You ain't so bashful as you look," said she, and then we stepped into
the parlor, and I found I'd been squeezing Widow Jones' waist.
She gave me a look full of languishing sweetness that scared me nearly
to death. I thought of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. Visions of suits
for breaches of promise arose before my horrified vision. I glanced
wildly around in search of Belle; she was hanging on a young lawyer's
arm, and not looking at me.
"La, now, you needn't color up so," said the widow, coquettishly, "I
know what young men are."
She said it aloud, on purpose for Belle to hear. I felt like killing
her. I might have done it, but one thought restrained me--I should be
hung for murder, and I was too bashful to submit to so public an
ordeal.
I hurried across the room to get rid of her. There was a young fellow
standing there who looked about as out-of-place as I felt. I thought
I would speak to him.
"Come," said I, "let us take a little promenade outside--the women are
too much for me."
He made no answer. I heard giggling and tittering breaking out all
around the room, like rash on a baby with the measles.
"Come on," said I; "like as not they're laughing at us."
"Look-a-here, you shouldn't speak to a fellow till you've been
introduced," said that wicked Fred behind me. "Mr. Flutter, allow me
to make you acquainted with Mr. Flutter. He's anxious to take a little
walk with you."
It was so; I had been talking to myself in a four-foot looking-glass.
I did not feel like staying for the ice-cream and kissing-plays, but
had a sly hunt for my hat, and took leave of the tea-party about the
eighth of a second afterward.