CAN SHE GO TO MRS. KING’S RECEPTION?
“I’ll ask Uncle Carroll. Uncle Carroll, sha’n’t Aunt Fay take me?
Please say yes.”
“No use to ask him, Grace; you’re too young.”
“_Please_, Uncle Carroll, don’t mind what Aunt Fay says. Just _you_ say
I’m to go.”
“Where?” he dropped his paper.
“Out to Mrs. King’s reception to-morrow afternoon.”
“Nonsense! You’re too young.”
“Child, I told you so,” said Aunt Fay quietly, slipping the cosey on
the tea-pot again.
“Too young!” Grace pulled savagely at the girlish hair on her brow, and
twisted her long braid hanging down her back, up high on her head.
“I’ll do up my hair, and pull down my face--so,” lengthening her round
cheeks--“anything, to just get the chance of going,” she cried. “O
Uncle Carroll! and I’m sixteen. You’re positively cruel.”
“You’re nothing but a school-girl,” said Aunt Fay; “the idea of going
to a reception.”
“Why, those receptions of Mrs. King’s are packed; you don’t seem to
understand, Grace; and you’d take the standing-room of some one else,”
added Uncle Carroll.
“I’d take my own standing-room,” declared Grace positively, “and I
wouldn’t tread on other people’s toes;” seeing a chance for her, since
the two guardians of her peace had begun to argue the point. “Just
think, I’ve never seen the King house nor Miss Phronsie.”
“Well, she’s a raving, tearing beauty,” said Uncle Carroll, “and worth
going miles to see, I tell you.”
“And I want to see Mrs. King again,” cried Grace, pursuing her
advantage. “I got a peek at her once, when she came to call at the
Drysdales. Bella and I heard she was in the drawing-room, and we crept
in behind the cabinet. She was just lovely; and the color kept coming
and going in her cheeks, and her brown eyes were laughing, and I’ll do
anything to see her again.”
“She’s the rage, that’s a fact,” assented Uncle Carroll. “Well, Mrs.
Atherton, why don’t you take the child for once; I would.”
“Carroll Atherton!” exclaimed his wife in dismay, “how could I ever
look her father and mother in the face, and they’ve trusted her to us,
while she went to school, to do the right thing by her. The idea of a
sixteen-year-old girl, and a school-girl, going to a reception!”
“The child won’t have a chance to get there any other way,” observed
Mr. Atherton. “One little social break won’t matter.”
“The worst place to make a social break is at Mrs. King’s,” said Mrs.
Atherton. “No, Grace, you can_not_ go.” She set her lips tightly
together. “Any other thing you might ask, I’d try to indulge you in;
but I won’t make a _faux pas_ at Mrs. Jasper King’s.”
“I don’t want anything else,” cried Grace in a passion. Just then a
young girl ran over the steps, and plunged without ceremony into the
pretty breakfast-room.
“Oh, joy--joy--joy!” she cried, beating her hands together, “mamma’s
going to take me to Mrs. King’s reception to-morrow afternoon.”
[Illustration: “The idea of a school-girl going to a reception,” said
aunt Fay.]
“Bella Drysdale!” shrieked Grace, deserting her chair to throw her
arms around her friend. “There, Uncle Carroll, now you see what Mrs.
Drysdale’s going to do for Bella,” she flung over her shoulder, not
deigning to notice her aunt.
“It’s too bad,” began Mr. Atherton.
“I shall see that lovely Mrs. King again,” cried Bella in a rapture.
“Brother Tom’s going to get a look at Miss Phronsie; and we’ve got a
cousin from Chicago, and he’s going for the express purpose of seeing
her. Oh! everybody will be there, Grace. Mamma says you _must_ go.”
“You’re older than Grace,” began Mrs. Atherton to gain a little time
before the storm should begin again around her head.
“Only one month,” said Bella; “what’s that?”
“Sixteen days!” cried Grace, “only sixteen days! Just think of that
paltry atom of time to keep one away from that glorious reception.
Uncle, wouldn’t you be ashamed to have every one know that Aunt
Fay kept me away for just sixteen days? I should positively die of
mortification.”
“Well, you cannot go anyway,” suddenly and decidedly declared Mrs.
Atherton. Mrs. Drysdale or no Mrs. Drysdale, whom she followed when it
suited her to do so, she was determined to keep to that decision. “It
is of no use to argue and to tease--you can_not_ go.”
Bella dragged Grace off to her room, and shut the door on their woes.
“I shall go! I shall go!” declared Grace in a white heat, raging up and
down the room.
“Oh, mercy! Mrs. King won’t have you, if you go on that way. She’s
awfully nice and particular. Stop it, Grace.” Bella shook her arm.
“I’m going--I’m going--I’m going, so there!” declared Grace
determinedly. “That’s settled. Now, how shall I do it? Help me to
think, Bella.” She stopped suddenly.
“What’s the use of thinking,” cried that young lady, throwing herself
on the broad window-seat in among its cushions, and stretching
restfully, “as long as you can’t go?”
“As long as I can go, you mean,” corrected Grace, an ugly little gleam
in her blue eyes.
“Well, you’re a regular Western fury,” declared Bella, regarding her.
“Gracious, I wouldn’t have taken you from the ‘wild and woolly plains’
as your aunt has for a year!”
“Don’t speak to me of Aunt,” commanded Grace, frowning heavily. “What
has she done? Kept me out of this, the thing I wanted most of all.
And besides, the ‘wild and woolly West’--why, I haven’t been educated
there, as you know. It’s New England, if any place, that’s to blame for
me. Oh, oh, I’ve an idea!”
Bella sat up straight, the transition was so great, to stare, as Grace
ran softly to the door, opened it, and looked and listened; then locked
it again, and tiptoed back.
“The very thing!” She seized Bella’s hands, and dragged her off the
window-seat. “I’m going to be your Western friend; you put that idea
into my head--don’t you see? dressed up. O Bella, you stupid, you owl,
I’m going as your visitor; and I’ll hire my bonnet and gown, and change
my hair, so Aunt won’t catch me. And--and--what joy!”
When the luckless Bella, nearly danced out of breath, was released, she
made a faint protest. But she was fairly talked off her feet again;
and by that time the fun of the thing had entered into her soul and
clutched her. So she said “yes,” and began to plan as smartly as Grace
herself.
“But mother never will take you in all this world,” she said, sobering
down.
“Did you for an instant suppose I was going to let your mother know who
I am?” cried Grace, bursting into a laugh. “Oh, what a sweet owl you
are, Bella Drysdale! Of course I’m going to fool her too.”
“Well, she won’t let me take a stranger,” said Bella sharply, tired of
being called an owl twice. “I guess I’m as smart as you, Grace Tupper.
I should know better than to get up such a silly plan.”
“I’m to be Miss Strange from Omaha, Nebraska,” said Grace solemnly;
“a pupil of Miss Willoughby’s boarding- and day-school. All this is
true--my name is Grace Strange Tupper. And because I don’t happen to
board, instead of going to her day-school at Miss Willoughby’s, isn’t
my fault. I would if I could. Now, Owlie, do you see?”
“If you call me an owl again I won’t do a single thing about it,” cried
Bella stubbornly; “that’s flat.”
“So she was a dear,” cried Grace, soothing her, and launching at the
same time into an animated discussion as to ways and means; which
milliner to hire the bonnet from, and which was the most becoming way
to do up her hair, and how to darken her eyebrows, till Bella looked
at her watch aghast. “And I’ve a horrible French letter to write for
to-morrow, or Mademoiselle will kill me, and mamma won’t let me go to
the reception.”
“Oh, misery! Hurry, do; run every step of the way home,” begged Grace,
nearly pushing her out of the room as she ran off.
And the next afternoon Grace shut herself up again in her room; and
while the French maid was evolving the usual fine creation out of her
aunt for the reception, Grace was also doing wonders,--to steal softly
down the stairs, and out and away to Bella’s.
“I thought I’d save you the trouble of calling for me,” she said, in a
sweet little drawl as far unlike her usual tones as possible, as she
entered the long Drysdale drawing-room. “Oh, beg pardon, I thought
Bella was here!”
“Er--no; allow me to do the honors.” A tall young man with shoulders
built for ball-team work, came slowly into the centre of the room.
“Bella will be down soon. Take a seat, Miss”--
“Strange,” murmured Grace faintly, and wondering if her front frizzes
had slipped, and if the pencilling under her eyes looked natural.
“I--I--it isn’t any matter. I suppose I’m too early.”
She sank into an easy-chair in the darkest shadow of the room, and
covered her feet primly with her hired gown, regardless of the wasted
elegance of her new little boots. These had been her one extravagance;
but now she was too far gone to care whether or no they were seen.
“Oh, Bella’s the same as she was ten years ago when I last visited
here,” observed the young man, carelessly leaning his elbow on the
mantelpiece, and staring at her. “She was always a tardy little thing,
I remember; kept us waiting everlastingly when we were going outing.”
So this was Bella’s cousin from Chicago. Well, he was perfectly horrid
to talk that way of her dearest friend; and besides, what sharp black
eyes he had, piercing through and through her. She put her hand up
involuntarily to feel of her frizzes, shivered, and drew in her boots
farther than ever under her chair.
“I don’t think it is very nice to speak so of your relatives when you
are visiting them,” she observed to her own astonishment. Then she
would have bitten out her tongue sooner than have spoken.
“Er--oh, beg pardon, did you speak?” exclaimed the young man, starting
out of a revery.
Joy! he hadn’t heard her. “No--that is--it isn’t any matter,” said
Grace hastily. “I was going to say I think Bella is perfectly splendid.
We all do at school.”
“You attend Miss Willoughby’s boarding-school, I believe,” said the
black-eyed young man, bending on her a sharper gaze than ever. “It’s a
delightful school I’m told. Isn’t that a fact?”
Grace was saved from replying by his next remark, which he presented
without any pause to speak of. “I’ve two cousins, Jenny and Francina
Day, there. I’m going over to call on them this evening after dinner.”
Oh, horrors! Why hadn’t Bella told her of this before she had taken
upon herself such a scrape! Well, there was no help for it now; there
was no other way, if she would see Mrs. King, and be part and parcel
of Mrs. King’s great reception. She tried to recover herself enough
to smile; but she felt, as she afterward told Bella, as if her face
wobbled all over.
“I’m glad to meet somebody who will give me a sort of a welcome there.
Fact is, I don’t know my cousins by sight. Never saw but one of them,
and she was a kid of three years old. Are they nice girls?”
“Perfectly splendid,” said Grace recklessly, glad to think she had made
up a long, outstanding fight between Jenny and herself just the day
before, and stifling the qualms of conscience when she reflected on
Francina’s heavy dulness. “Oh, I’m so glad they’re your cousins,” she
said, smiling radiantly.
The sharp-eyed young man showed two rows of even white teeth as he also
smiled expansively.
“Miss Willoughby is extremely gracious to allow you to go to a swell
reception,” he said slowly. “If I’d supposed it would be of any use,
I’d have begged my cousins off. I presume it’s too late for me to run
around now and get them.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” cried Grace, starting forward, and beating one
little boot in terror on the carpet. “Miss Willoughby doesn’t
like short notice about anything; and--and--it’s an awful long way
there--and--here comes Bella.” To her great relief in came that young
lady, resplendent in a new blue hat quite perky, with a grown-up air
that was matched by Bella’s manners as she drew on a white kid glove.
Grace deserted her shady corner, and flew at her. “O Bella, do hurry,”
as she threw her arm around her; “it’s dreadfully late; do be quick; we
ought to go.”
“There’s oceans of time,” said Bella with a drawl, and smoothing out
the little finger in a painstaking way. “Mamma isn’t half ready yet--at
least she hasn’t her bonnet on. Oh! do you know my cousin Charley
Swan?” indicating with a nod the sharp-eyed young man.
“We’ve entertained each other for a good half-hour or so,” observed
Charley, not particular as to exact statements. “Say, Bella, if Aunt
Isabel isn’t ready, I believe I’ll run around to Miss Willoughby’s, and
get her to let Jenny and Francina off to go with us. Stupid in me not
to think of it till I saw Miss Strange come in.”
“Er--ow!” Grace gave a sharp nip to Bella’s plump arm. “Stop him,” she
whispered tragically. Bella pulled out a hair-pin from some mysterious
quarter under her hat, and set it in again, before she condescended to
answer. “No, you must not, Charley,” she said, pursing up her small
mouth, and then falling to on her glove again. “Button it, will you?”
presenting it to him. “You see, mamma will be very angry; for she’s
just as likely to settle her bonnet right the first attempt. I’ve known
her to. And although Tom’s no doubt wrestling in the agonies of tying
his necktie, yet it’s just like him to hop down without the least
warning before you could possibly get back. Then think of me!” She
spread her white gloves dramatically out, as if words were unequal to
the occasion.
Just then Tom whistled his way in. “Whew, you ready in your togs,
Charley! Well, it takes you Western fellows to be spry. Where’s the
mother?” turning to Bella.
“Here’s Miss Strange, Tom,” said his sister, clutching Grace’s arm;
“haven’t you any manners? Angela, this is my brother Tom.”
Grace started at the word Angela, and forgot to bow, as Tom doubled up
like a jack-knife and made her his best obeisance. Then it was too
late when she remembered; and she stood there blushing under the hired
bonnet, till Charley remarked in a way that did not help matters any,
“Oh, so I am an older acquaintance of Miss Strange than you, Tom.”
“How did you ever tell such an awful story as to say my name was
Angela,” cried Grace in a whisper as they hurried off to the carriage,
Mrs. Drysdale at last appearing.
“I didn’t say so; stop pinching me; I’m black and blue already,”
retorted Bella. “I’ve a right to call you what I’ve a mind to. And I’m
going to call you Angela the rest of this blessed afternoon. So mind
you act as if you’d heard the name before. If you don’t, I’ll tell
everybody who you are.”
This had the effect of throwing Grace into such a panic that she
answered Mrs. Drysdale’s kind attempts at conversation with her at
random, and the twenty miles to Badgertown were made in a whirl of
emotions possessing her, till by the time the train paused at the
little station, she had a confused notion of either telling her whole
story and throwing herself on the mercy of the chaperone, or of
picking up her long skirts, and fleeing over the country meadows toward
home.
Instead, she was saying, “Thank you; yes, I’d rather walk,” to Cousin
Charley. Bella and Tom said the same thing. Mrs. Drysdale was helped
into one of the carriages that always ran back and forth on Mrs. King’s
reception days--a bevy of ladies and gentlemen filling the others; and
off they all set, to meet in the dressing-rooms at “The Oaks.”