"But there must be some mistake, some accident, that has delayed yours,
for all the other girls received theirs yesterday," exclaimed Myra
Donaldson in surprise, when Dorothea mentioned the fact to her on
Tuesday of that following week, that she had not received her
invitation. "Yes, there must be some accident," reiterated Myra; "it no
doubt slipped out in some way, and you'll get it to-morrow." But
"to-morrow" came and went and Dorothea failed to receive the invitation.
"Of course there must be some mistake," Anna Fleming also declared, when
_she_ was told of the fact; and then one and another echoed the same
declaration as they heard of the circumstance. Of course there was some
mistake! By Thursday, certainly, everybody thought the "mistake" would
be discovered and rectified; but Thursday too came and went, and Friday
passed by without the desired result. On Saturday morning Dorothea said
to Hope,--
"I--I wish you would do something for me, Hope."
"Yes, certainly I will if I can," returned Hope.
"Well, it's just this: I heard that you were going out to drive with
Kate Van der Berg this afternoon, and I wondered if you could--if you
_would_ call and see Bessie Armitage,--see how she is, you know--and
then--and then you might ask her--you might tell her about the
invitation,--that I hadn't received it. Of course _I_ don't want to
speak to her about it, but somebody else might, and she would want to be
told--she'd feel horribly--_I_ should, I'm sure, in her place if I
_wasn't_ told--if the mistake _wasn't_ rectified; and so I thought if
_you_ would just speak of it--"
"Yes, indeed I will. I'm glad you asked me. I wonder I hadn't thought of
it myself, but I'll go round directly the first thing this afternoon,"
responded Hope, cordially.
* * * * *
"Some mistake?" repeated Bessie Armitage, in a queer, hesitating,
questioning way, as Hope sat before her, waiting for the explanation
that she had expected would at once make everything right for Dorothea.
"Yes, for she hasn't received her invitation at all, you understand,"
answered Hope, thinking that Bessie had _not_ understood.
"Yes?" began Bessie, and then stopped, her eyes cast down and the color
coming into her cheeks, while Hope and Kate glanced at each other in
embarrassed silence. What _did_ it mean? What _could_ be the matter?
They were wildly conjecturing all sorts of strange impossible things,
and Hope was just determining to break the dreadful silence with these
very questions, when Bessie looked up and said:
"I'll tell you--I _must_ tell you; there wasn't any mistake--I knew that
Dorothea had no invitation."
"Oh!" breathed Hope, faintly; and "Oh!" echoed Kate, in the same tone.
"No, it was meant that she shouldn't have one; but I had written one,
and I was going to send it if--if my mother hadn't stopped it."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, my mother. I had already sent out quite a number of invitations,
and had just got another lot ready, when my mother came in and saw
Dorothea's name on one of the notes. The moment she saw it, she forbade
me to send it. Mother was at the New Year's party,--perhaps you
remember,--just at the last of it, when Dorothea was going on so, and
she took a great dislike to Dorothea then. Dorothea _was_ noisy, you
know. Mother thought she was very loud and underbred. But that--that
wasn't all. A little while ago some acquaintances of ours from
Philadelphia--the Cargills--were staying at the Waldorf. The next day
after they arrived, they went to a matinee at the Madison Square
Theatre, and saw there my brother Raymond, and with him a young girl. Of
course they thought the girl was some member of our family; and when he
went to speak to them, they asked him if that was another sister he had
with him, and he told them no; that it was only an acquaintance,--a girl
who was in a boarding-school in the city. Mrs. Cargill thought this was
very odd; and as Raymond was so young, she spoke about it to mamma.
Mamma was astonished, and she went straight to Raymond and asked him
what it all meant, and who the girl was; and Raymond had to tell the
whole story then,--that it was Dorothea Dering, from Miss Marr's school;
that he had invited her to go to the matinee with him, and that she had
accepted the invitation; and then that he had met her at the
skating-pond in Central Park, and had gone from there with her to the
theatre, unsuspected by any of the teachers. The minute mamma heard the
name, 'Dorothea Dering,' she recalled the New Year's party and
Dorothea's behavior there; and so, and so, don't you see, when she saw
Dorothea's name on the envelope, the other day, she thought of all these
things, and--and forbade my sending the note. I tried my best to get her
to let me send it; I told her what Anna Fleming had said to me,--that
Dorothea came from one of the first families of Massachusetts; that her
father was the Hon. James Dering, and all her people were in the very
best society. But the more I tried to talk Dorothea up in this way, the
more decided mamma grew; until, at last, she said that there had been
too much of this falling back upon one's family nowadays; that bad, loud
manners and rude behavior were not to be overlooked and excused on that
account, and that she didn't propose to overlook Dorothea's by having
her invited to her house. And when I said I thought that Raymond was as
much to blame, in _asking_ her to go to the matinee, as Dorothea was in
going, mamma said that that didn't help her case at all; that Raymond's
invitation was only the result of her own loud, free ways; that he would
never have thought of inviting her like that, if she had been a
different kind of girl. Oh,"--with a quick look at Hope and
Kate,--"mamma didn't altogether exonerate Raymond; she didn't think he
was altogether right, by any means; but then she does think--and so do
I, girls--that boys and young men are apt to treat a girl a good deal as
the girl treats them; and--and--Dorothea _was_ too forward with Raymond.
I saw it myself from the first; and she led him on,--she encouraged him
to treat her as he wouldn't have treated either of you two. She thought
he admired just those free, foolish ways of hers; but he didn't,--he was
only amused by them. Oh, I know Raymond; and I know if he had seen _me_
going on with any one as Dorothea did, he would have scolded me well. It
wouldn't have amused him to have seen his sister going on so, to have
seen _me_ amusing any one like that. But, Hope, Kate, all the same, I
felt dreadfully at leaving Dorothea out,--dreadfully, for there I'd sent
off almost all the school invitations; there was no getting them back.
If I could have got them back, I would; and--yes, truly, I wouldn't have
sent any invitations to any one at Miss Marr's, if I had known I had got
to cut Dorothea. No; I wouldn't have sent one, and then I could have
explained it to the rest of you privately, or I could have said I
couldn't make so large a party this year. Yes, I would certainly have
done this if it hadn't been too late,--if mamma had only seen and
stopped Dorothea's invitation before the other school notes had been
sent. Yes, I would have done just that; and not because I'm at all fond
of Dorothea, but because I hate to hurt anybody's feelings, and to--to
make such a time. I should have gone back to school this week if it
hadn't been for this happening; but I'm not going now until after the
party, and I may not go until next term if my father will take me away
with him to Florida, where he is going next month; and I hope, oh, I
hope he will!" And here suddenly, to Hope and Kate's astonishment, this
quiet, self-contained Bessie Armitage covered her face with her hands
and burst into tears.
"Oh, Bessie! Bessie!" broke forth Hope and Kate, with a warm outrushing
of sympathy, and a desire to say something comforting,--"oh, Bessie,
Bessie!" and then suddenly they both stopped, for what could they say
further without saying something that would seem like a protest against
Mrs. Armitage's decision,--that, in fact, _would_ be a protest, for both
girls were protesting in their hearts at that moment, were saying
something like this to themselves,--
"What harm could it have done to let _this_ invitation go,--just this
one? They needn't ever have invited her again." And at that very moment,
as they were thus thinking, they heard the rings of a portiere slip
aside, and there was Mrs. Armitage herself, entering from the next room
with a kind look of concern on her face, and in another moment, after
her friendly greeting, she was saying,--
"Bessie has told you my decision about the invitation to Miss Dering,
and I dare say you think I am very stiff and hard, not to let the
invitation go,--that it can't make much difference for this once; but,
my dears, it is _this once_, this one party, where my little
ten-year-old Amy and her little cousins will be in amongst the older
ones, that _will_ make all the difference, for I don't want these little
girls to see such an exhibition of loud manners, and those--I hate to
say it--vulgar _flirting_ ways such as I saw New Year's evening. If it
were any other party, a party where there were older girls only, I might
have let the invitation go; but I have seen the ill effects of very
young girls like my Amy and her cousins being brought into contact even
for a short time with a handsome showy girl who does and says the kind
of things that Miss Dering does, especially when that girl is accepted
as a guest by their own friends; and so, if only for this one reason
apart from any other, don't you see, my dears, that I _couldn't_ let
this invitation go?"
"Yes, I do see, I do see!" cried Kate, impulsively; "but--Mrs. Armitage,
do you think she--Dorothea will understand--will know that it is her own
fault?"
"I--I think she will, I think she must," answered Mrs. Armitage. There
were tears in her eyes as she said this; and as she bent down and kissed
them good-by, both Hope and Kate felt the depth and sincerity of her
purpose, and respected her for it.
"She's right, she's right of course!" burst forth Kate, as the two girls
were driving away together; "but, oh, I do wish she hadn't been quite so
right, quite so high-minded just now; for _what_ an uncomfortable time
is ahead of us! Oh, Hope, I pity you; what shall you--what _can_ you
tell Dorothea?"
"I don't see that I can tell her anything but the truth."
"Not the whole truth?"
"What else could I tell her?"
"My! I wouldn't be in your shoes for something! She'll be so furious,
she'll fall upon you,--you or anybody who is nearest,--and chew you into
mince-meat! Oh, Hope, don't tell her! Tell her--tell her--oh, I have
it--tell her that you spoke to Bessie about the invitation, and that
there was none sent because Bessie is offended with her for some
reason,--that you can't tell her what it is, but that she must go to
Bessie herself for the reason. There! there you are all fixed up, and
with the great high-minded muss shoved off on to the Armitage shoulders,
where it ought to be. Houp la! I'd dance a jig if I were out of the
carriage!"
"But I--I sha'n't shove it off like that, Katy dear. I shall tell
Dorothea everything,--it is the only way. I shall tell her as gently as
I can, but I shall tell her. If I turn it off in the way you suggest, it
will make more trouble. She'll go to Bessie the minute she gets back and
say something disagreeable to her, or she'll treat her in an angry
disagreeable manner, and just as like as not say something,--something
purposely impertinent to irritate Bessie,--for she won't stop at
anything then."
"But do you think it will be any better--do you think she'll be any less
angry if you tell her that it is Mrs. Armitage who is at the bottom of
the business?"
"Yes, I do; I think it will be a great deal better. She'll be
angry,--she may be furious, as you say; but I shall tell her just how
Bessie felt about _not_ sending the note,--how she cried over it, and
how Mrs. Armitage felt; and Dorothea has too much sense not to see
herself, after the first burst of temper, that the whole thing has been
made too serious a matter for her to quarrel about it in a little petty
way. And then--then I think, after she gets over the anger, that she is
going to be helped by the whole experience, going to see what she has
never seen before,--that she is all in the wrong in her way of doing and
saying the things that she does, and that she will be left out of
everything if she doesn't do differently; and nothing--no, nothing but
something like this--would ever show her how she has been hurting
herself."
"Well, you _may_ be right, Hope; but _I_ believe this spoilt baby will
scream and kick and bang her head in some sort of tantrum way, and then
she'll pack up her clothes and rush off to Boston, shaking the wicked
dirty dust of New York from her feet, and calling us all a lot of primmy
old maids, or something worse."
Hope laughed a little, but she was more than a little anxious and
troubled; for, spite of her brave stand, she did have a very decided
dread of applying that heroic treatment of the whole truth to Dorothea;
and her dread by no means diminished as she went down the long corridor
and saw at the end of it Dorothea's room-door standing open, and within
the room Dorothea herself, humming a gay waltz as she shook out the
folds of the yellow gown; and "Oh," groaned Hope, "she's getting it
ready for the party; she thinks everything is all right, and she's so
sure she's going. Oh, dear!"
And then it was, when Hope's heart was quaking with fear and pity, that
Dorothea glanced up from the yellow gown and cried out joyfully,--
"Oh, there you are! Come in, come in, and tell me all about it,--how the
mistake was made; and where is it,--the invitation?--you brought it with
you, didn't you?"
"No--I--she--"
"Thought it wasn't necessary,--that you could tell me? Was the note
lost?" went on Dorothea, in her headlong way of anticipating everything
as usual, and only brought up at last by Hope's faint, distressed cry
of--
"Oh, Dorothea, there wasn't any invitation!"
"Wasn't any? What--what do you mean?" exclaimed Dorothea, dropping her
yellow gown to the floor, and staring with great dilating eyes at Hope.
"I mean that Bessie--that Bessie didn't--that--that it was stopped--that
her--"
"Her brother stopped it? Raymond Armitage? He was so mean as
that--because I resented the way he treated me there at the theatre?
He--he has told her some lie, then, and I will tell _her_--"
"Oh, Dorothea, Dorothea, wait, wait--listen to me! It is not--it was not
her brother, not Raymond Armitage, who stopped it; it was--it was--their
mother--it was Mrs. Armitage."
"Mrs. Armitage! and Raymond went to her--he got her to stop it? Oh,
how--"
"No, no, he did not go to her. Oh, Dorothea," going forward and taking
Dorothea's hand, "won't you wait, won't you listen to me?"
The soft touch of Hope's hand, the soft tone, so full of pity it sounded
like love, seemed to surprise Dorothea out of her gathering wrath for a
moment, and her own fingers closing over Hope's with a sudden clinging
movement, she answered hastily,--
"Yes, yes, I'll listen, I'll listen; go on, go on!"
And Hope, holding the girl's hand with that soft, firm touch, went on to
tell her the story that was so difficult for her to tell,--that "whole
truth" that she had decided that Dorothea must now know once for all. As
gently as possible, the talk with Bessie, the interview with Mrs.
Armitage was given; nothing, not even the reference to the New Year's
party episode and its prejudicial effect, being withheld; and yet
through it all Dorothea made no interruption, made no sign to show her
feeling, beyond now and then a convulsive clutch at the hand that was
holding hers, and a gradual fading away of the hot red color that had
suffused her face at the start. As Hope felt this clutch of her fingers
now and then, as she saw toward the end of her story the increasing
pallor of her companion's face, she could not help a thrill of
apprehension, for these signs seemed to her the signs of a storm that
would presently break forth; and as she came to the end, the very end of
what she had to say, she had a feeling of trying to steady herself, to
hold herself in readiness to argue or assert or soothe, whichever method
might seem best suited to stem or stay the outbreak she expected. But
what--what did this mean--this dead silence that followed, when she had
ceased speaking? Was this the calm before the dreaded storm? And Hope,
who had lowered her eyes toward the end of her story, instinctively
looked up,--looked up to see great tears rolling down the colorless
cheeks before her, and over all the face a pale passion of emotion that
did not seem to be the passion of anger. Could it be the passion of pain
only? Could it be that there was to be no storm of angry protest and
defiance even at the very first? No, there was to be no storm of that
kind. Dorothea had again surprised her!