CHAPTER XV
Arethusa had not the faintest idea what a "dinner-dance" might be. She knew very well what a dinner was, and she could conceive of the glories of a dance, but as a combination they eluded her. The only picture she could form for herself of such an entertainment was a strange conglomeration of eating and dancing; eating for awhile, and then dancing; and so on, first one and then the other, until time to go home. But whatever the exact nature of it, it would be her Very First Party.
Hitherto, her expeditions into the social world had compassed nothing more shattering to her nervous system than church entertainments and occasional spend-the-days. Miss Eliza was no very great believer in Parties as an influence for good in Arethusa's development.
Arethusa, had she been permitted, would have gone straight to bed and slept soundly and dreamlessly until Friday night, asking only to be waked when it was time that she dress before seeking the scene of festivity. But her preparation for the Event helped to pass the two days that she must wait.
She had once, long ago, found in the garret at the Farm, when poking about there on a rainy day that had kept her housed, a little book with her grandmother's name in faded writing on the fly-leaf.
Its title, almost indistinguishable outside on the worn board covers, but plainly enough visible within, read:
"Advice to Young LadiesofGood FamilyonEntering Societyfor theFirst TimeByA Former Belle"
This little volume she had brought with her to Lewisburg, packed in the box with her green ribbon, the box that had been slipped into the canvas-covered trunk unknown to Miss Eliza. Arethusa had been very sure there would be Parties for her to attend; had not Miss Asenath told her so? Had not a dress for them been provided? And the book would clear up her ignorance of the line of conduct recognized as to be followed at these entertainments.
The first time she had read it, it had seemed to her to cover every contingency that might arise in the most varied and active of social careers. But there was absolutely nothing in it, she was sorry to see, when she fished it out of the trunk and climbed into her window-seat to study it this day before the Party, relating at all directly to dinner-dances; although two whole chapters were devoted to a full discussion of the subject of dinners.
She went through the pages again and again, but not once did the magic word she hunted greet her eyes. Then she went back to a paragraph in one of those chapters headed "Dinners," which had particularly attracted her attention.
"A Young Lady," so it ran, "should be thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the day and able to take part in an intelligent and lively way in conversation regarding the same with her fellow guests, most especially that member of the other sex next whom she may be seated at the festive board. In a manner of the proper reserve and deference to masculine opinion, she should endeavor to introduce topics that would promote animated and interested discussion among those nearest her, thus adding to the enjoyment of the party and assisting the efforts of her hostess to make the occasion prove an auspicious Event, which is one of the very first requirements of the true guest. It is well, also, before attending a dinner-party, where most of the evening's entertainment inevitably consists of conversation over the delicious viands, to be ready with thoughts formed for expression as opinions in regard to the polite arts; to be well-read in the current novels such as are proper for young females of good family to have read: for talk and discussion may often be led adroitly in such directions with pleasure and profit."
"A Young Lady," so it ran, "should be thoroughly conversant with the affairs of the day and able to take part in an intelligent and lively way in conversation regarding the same with her fellow guests, most especially that member of the other sex next whom she may be seated at the festive board. In a manner of the proper reserve and deference to masculine opinion, she should endeavor to introduce topics that would promote animated and interested discussion among those nearest her, thus adding to the enjoyment of the party and assisting the efforts of her hostess to make the occasion prove an auspicious Event, which is one of the very first requirements of the true guest. It is well, also, before attending a dinner-party, where most of the evening's entertainment inevitably consists of conversation over the delicious viands, to be ready with thoughts formed for expression as opinions in regard to the polite arts; to be well-read in the current novels such as are proper for young females of good family to have read: for talk and discussion may often be led adroitly in such directions with pleasure and profit."
Here, Arethusa dropped the little book, bitterly disappointed, to look out of her window for awhile at the automobiles whirling past her down Lenox Avenue. She leaned her head against the window-casing and reviewed what she had read.
After all, there was nothing to help her very much. She knew scarcely anything about the affairs of the day. Miss Eliza had never allowed her to touch the only newspaper that came to the Farm, not considering her old enough. She had not the vaguest idea what the "polite arts" were, and as to the books she had read, she was very uncertain whether they might be called "current novels."
She picked up her book to read further and discovered that...
"Poetry may often be introduced with charm and effect. A few lines of verse, judiciously interspersed with the conversation; pearls of the thought of our great masters of the world of rhyme falling from the ruby lips of the young and fair daughters of Eve, have often caused a masculine heart to beat faster and to be thrown around the lovely borrower of words an atmosphere of gentle and refined erudition that nothing else could so well impart."
"Poetry may often be introduced with charm and effect. A few lines of verse, judiciously interspersed with the conversation; pearls of the thought of our great masters of the world of rhyme falling from the ruby lips of the young and fair daughters of Eve, have often caused a masculine heart to beat faster and to be thrown around the lovely borrower of words an atmosphere of gentle and refined erudition that nothing else could so well impart."
Arethusa brightened up. Here, she felt more at home.
She could certainly learn Poetry! In fact, she had no need to learn it, for she already knew quite a lot. She had readThe Family Poetry Bookthrough from cover to cover, a hundred times at least. It contained a great deal of Scott and Burns, and many long-delightful ballads such as "Lord Ullin's Daughter," and "The Cruel Sister," as well as Irish melodies that charmed with their plaintive atmosphere. England, however, had not been neglected, for the work of the Lake Poets held a prominent place, and there was much of Tennyson, his "May Queen" cycle, and "Sir Galahad." "The Prisoner of Chillon" was Arethusa's favorite of Byron's representation; she knew it from end to end. And she knew all of those specifically named off by heart, for the swinging lines of a ballad form were Arethusa's idea of what real poetry should be. But the compilers of the big brown book, which was sacred to the marble-topped center table in the parlor at the Farm, had not stayed entirely on the other side of the ocean; and so Arethusa could recite many of the verses of our own sweetest singers of that day; as well as many that were scattered throughout the book that were signed "Anonymous"; and many that had been written by dead and gone men and women whose very existence would have been forgotten by a fickle world, had notThe Family Poetry Bookpreserved an imperishable record of their achievements.
"Yes," exulted Arethusa, "I know some Poetry!"
She read on, greatly cheered.
"Conversation," continued the quaint little pamphlet of advice, "is best carried on if some definite topic is introduced. This, however, must he accomplished with ease and grace, lest a feeling of awkwardness be aroused."
"Conversation," continued the quaint little pamphlet of advice, "is best carried on if some definite topic is introduced. This, however, must he accomplished with ease and grace, lest a feeling of awkwardness be aroused."
Arethusa descended to the library and hunted up a dictionary, to look for "topic."
She discovered it to be:
"The subject of any distinct portion of a discourse; a theme or subject as of talk or thought."
"The subject of any distinct portion of a discourse; a theme or subject as of talk or thought."
This was fairly clear. "I might find a Topic," she thought, for she surely could not quote poetry all through the evening. "I might read about something I could talk about."
Her eyes roved restlessly down the same row of the bookcase where she had got the dictionary. It was nearly all Encyclopedia, stretching away in a formidable array of volumes exactly alike, except for the tiny gold lettering across the center of the back. She lifted out one at random, the "L's," and it opened accommodatingly of its own accord, when its heaviness slid out of her grasp, to "Lepidoptera." Which was a strange and almost unpronounceable word; but the pictures which accompanied this text were somewhat explanatory of its meaning, being all of familiar looking butterflies and moths.
Arethusa grew interested. She spread herself comfortably out on the floor, there in the corner, and began to read; and she gleaned as she read several facts that might "with profit" be introduced into a conversation.
For instance; she learned that there were over fifty different families of these Lepidoptera, and that all of these family divisions were divided also, so many times that they have never all been counted or classified; that all common moths and butterflies belonged under this big head, as well as some "cousins," so aristocratic and so wonderful in their colorings that Arethusa exclaimed aloud over their beauty in the large plate on the page just opposite; and that every single, solitary member of every family, whether of high or low degree, came from some sort of caterpillar. She discovered that these Lepidoptera had traits of character which still further differentiated them. They were exceedingly finicky about their food, she read; the meat of one variety seemed to be the deadly poison of another. And some of them could live under the water; some drowned in a drop of rain.
She committed to memory some of the most interesting and peculiar of the names of the families, so as to be ready when the "member of the other sex next whom she was seated at the festive board" should become so interested in her Topic of Conversation as to inquire.
One of these names was "Nymphlidae," which the writer of the article declared was the largest family of all; and included the commonest of the gaily colored butterflies one saw flying about every day. Arethusa took a deep personal interest in this family, because of its name. She was well acquainted with nymphs, and knew exactly where her own pretty name had been found. This was all sure to prove interesting to her fellow diners-out. It was most fascinating to read.
Elinor and Nettie, Elinor's maid, helped Arethusa to dress for the Party.
It was well that she had their assistance, for she could never have got into that Green Frock alone and unaided. There was an intricacy and invisibility of fastening about it that her trembling, excited fingers could never have managed. Nettie, with the air of an artist loving her work, piled Arethusa's hair up high to show the sweep of the line of her neck and head which Elinor, watching critically from the green sofa, decided was particularly good. And Nettie poked and pulled and fussed with Arethusa as one who dressed a beloved doll, and the result was altogether good.
Ross had hied himself to the florist and his daughter was the recipient of her first flowers, an anonymous bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley which caused much excitement, largely compounded of pleasure, when they arrived; and which looked just as if they had grown with the other wee blossoms out of the green of the frock when Elinor pinned them at its waist.
Arethusa found it hard to believe that the reflection she gazed at in her own long mirror was herself, even after seeing that other so glorified Arethusa in the mirrors of the shop the other day; for this was still more Wonderful. It was metamorphosis from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. The new arrangement of her hair imparted an air of quaint dignity that was immensely becoming and that made her appear a trifle older. Its piled masses shown like burnished copper under the bright glare of numerous electric lights; and under the same brilliance her arms and neck seemed more like creamy satin than ever. She noted with deep satisfaction that the tiny bridge of freckles which she considered absolutely spoiled her nose, was almost invisible when viewed by this artificial illumination. She struck one satin slipper from under the edge of her dress and lifted her skirts high to see her feet. They looked Perfectly Wonderful also. She did not know them as her own feet.
Elinor had gone to find Ross to show him the completed debutante, so Arethusa had time alone in which to admire to her heart's content.
She curtsied to the figure in the mirror, a long, sweeping, old-fashioned curtsey that ended with a "cheese," and the billowy gown spread itself out around her shimmeringly like the party frock of some belle of long ago; the "Former Belle" of her little book might have curtsied and looked just so. This charmed her utterly, and she did it again and again.
Then Arethusa suddenly leaned close to the mirrored figure and kissed its face fleetingly.
"Oh, but you are beautiful! Beautiful! I'm so glad you're beautiful!"
And Ross and Elinor, arriving at the door just in time to hear the exclamation, slipped away again lest they should spoil her rapture in this impersonal admiration of her own fair self, by letting her know that they had heard.
Mrs. Chestnut was sending a youth by name of Harrison to escort Arethusa to the Party, a youth who did not want to come. He had fully intended to go alone to the festivities since his own particular inamorata was already provided with company, and thus he would have the best of chances to show this lady a "real time."
But Mrs. Chestnut, being his own blood aunt, felt perfectly privileged to call upon him in emergencies, and so his carefully laid plans were all upset with the "country jane" shoved upon him for the evening.
He was one of the few beaux of Lewisburg who possessed an automobile—entirely his own—in which to carry ladies to Parties. When he appeared with it, he handed the cocoon that was introduced to him as Arethusa into the back seat and climbed, ungraciously, in front all by himself. Conversation on the road to the Party was clearly an impossibility, so Arethusa reviewed her knowledge of the article on "Lepidoptera," and recited under her breath a few selections of the Poetry she had deemed most appropriate for use on this occasion. She was as ready for eventualities as she knew how to be.
Mr. Harrison dumped his cocoon in the dressing-room and departed, in search of a little refreshing man-talk before taking up his arduous duties in connection with Arethusa.
As Elinor had instructed her to wait until he should return for her, Arethusa waited. But they had been so late in their coming that the few girls who had been in the room when she arrived, were soon gone with their liveliness and laughter, and the tardiest guest was left alone. She sat on the extreme edge of a chair quite near the door as she waited, and tapped her feet impatiently.
The Party seemed already to be in full swing; music was playing, and she caught a glimpse of dancers in the large ball room at the other end of the hall. It was maddening to be so near It and not a part of It. She went to the door and peered out. She considered that Mr. Harrison was entirely too long in returning. But he was amusing himself in the hall, and was not in the least hurry to take up the burden of his evening.
One of the men in the little group where he stood, whose eyes were towards that dressing-room door, noticed Arethusa.
"Who's the stranger?" he enquired, "And she's some looker, too, believe me."
The whole group turned as one man to stare in Arethusa's direction. Mr. Harrison was unpleasantly reminded of what was before him.
"I've got a skirt in there," he muttered, "and I might as well go get her, I reckon."
"This one yours? Confide in us, Harry, and introduce us, immediately if not sooner. The idea of your keeping anything like that all to yourself!"
"No." Mr. Harrison was admiring Arethusa's lovely, eager face. "I haven't any idea who she is! Wish I did know! But mine's a hayseed, daughter of a friend of Aunt Nell's up from the country for the very first time in her life! That's what I drew for being in the family! Well, pray for me, fellows, for here goes!"
He made straight for Arethusa.
With each step he took towards her, the greater his admiration grew. Mr. Harrison's affections fluttered from girl to girl like a moth in a room, full of candles, unable to settle down steadily to one particular flame. He did not recognize Arethusa as his lady for the evening. He had been so late in going for her that she had been all muffled and waiting for him when he arrived. And he had not cared to look very closely at the figure in those wrappings. Mr. Harrison asked very little of the damsels he honored with his attention, save that they be pretty. He decided, without the slightest hesitancy, that Arethusa was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
She did not see him coming, or even hear his approach, with all her thought for the gay scene before her, until he asked her if she would mind telling Miss Worthington that Mr. Harrison was waiting for her.
Then she turned and smiled such a welcome of him from her shining eyes, that the weather-vane of Mr. Harrison's volatile affections veered to point straight Arethusa-ward.
"Oh, it's you! I'm so glad! I've been wishing you'd come! I thought maybe you'd forgotten!"
And the weather-vane became firmly fixed.
But Mr. Harrison felt as if some audible apology were surely due this dream of a girl for all those unkind things he had thought (and uttered), earlier in the evening, that her entertainment should have devolved upon himself. He considered himself now the very luckiest of mortals.
Arethusa laughed at his attempt at vindication of his first greeting of her, that ripply soft laugh of hers, and the susceptible Mr. Harrison named it the most musical, and the prettiest, laugh he had ever heard.
"You didn't know me, did you? I don't wonder, because I was so wrapped up when you came for me, and it was Mother's cloak! She thought I might take cold, because I'm not used to going out at night, and my own cloak wasn't near warm enough, she said; and so she...."
Then Arethusa paused, and flushed prettily with embarrassment. One did not confide such intimate personalities to strange gentlemen at Parties, she was quite sure, from that close study of the little book. She must be more careful of her tongue.
But Mr. Harrison cared not a bit what she said, or whether she ever said anything at all. She was a joy for him to behold if she never opened her mouth. He escorted her, with the pride of a personal possession, to Mrs. Chestnut and introduced her. Mrs. Chestnut held her hand kindly for a moment and spoke of Elinor, and expressed a Hope that Arethusa would have a Good Time; then passed her on to Emily, who was almost hidden behind a mass of roses she carried, and so excited at the Whole Affair, she could pay no real attention to Arethusa; but she managed to transfer her to her older sister just next; and the older sister to a cousin or so next to her, and a bosom friend or two thrown in for good measure.
It was a long receiving line and Arethusa was so utterly bewildered long before she had ever reached the end of it, by this way she was shoved, so to speak, from person to person, without ever really finding out who half of them were, for it would seem as if there had been a conspiracy to mumble the names spoken to Arethusa, that she could almost have fled the Party. "The Advice to Young Ladies" had said nothing of such a proceeding as being part of the Routine of Parties, nor had Elinor made any mention of it. Arethusa was totally unprepared. And it was, as an experience, well calculated to dampen even the exuberance of spirits with which Arethusa had fared forth to this new adventure. Everyone about her seemed to know everyone else intimately; she had no part in the gay greetings of old friends. It made her feel herself, as she watched, the only stranger at the Dinner Dance.
So she clung to Mr. Harrison for an old acquaintance, as to a rock in a weary land of unfamiliar surroundings. But such clinging was really unnecessary; for he wanted not to leave her side. Arethusa's little confusion only made her prettier.
"Am I going to sit by you at the dinner-table?" she asked him, when she had summoned sufficient courage to add this bit to the general uproar of pleasant conversation. It would help matters mightily, if she was.
"I don't know," he began slowly, but then he added, very briskly indeed, "but I can go find out and change the cards around if you're not."
"Oh, don't leave me! Don't leave me!" Arethusa fairly shrieked this request, and she grabbed at his coat-tails as he started away. "Please don't go off and leave me!"
Consequently, he was forced to leave her when they finally sought the dining-room, and he was miles away on the other side of the huge apartment at another table. Arethusa found herself next to a perfectly strange youth, a rotund, almost moon-faced individual with eyes that danced good-humoredly behind glasses.
This person addressed himself strictly to business, weeding out from the silver by his plate with such a reassuring air of knowing that he did the right thing, a small article shaped like a tiny pitchfork, that Arethusa followed suit immediately.
But she had a very decided dislike of eating blindly ahead without knowing what it was she ate, and although the objects before her presented a rather familiar appearance, she wanted to be quite positive. Having somewhat recovered her spirits by this time, it was not so hard to ask her neighbor the question. He did not look at all formidable, and one talked to one's partner at dinners, so the "Advice" had said, and it had not specified any condition of previously knowing that partner.
CHAPTER XVI
"Would you mind telling me," inquired Arethusa, as courteously as possible, "what these are?"
But her neighbor paid no attention.
She repeated her request, raising her voice a trifle. "Maybe he's deaf," she thought.
And this time he turned, "I beg your pardon.... But did you speak to me?"
"Yes," she replied, "I asked you to tell me what these were."
He stared at her, surprised into a direct reply, "Why, they're oysters!"
"Oysters!"
Arethusa examined them critically. No wonder they had looked so familiar! "But they're raw!" she exclaimed.
"It's an oyster cocktail! Of course they're raw!"
"But I never saw them this way before! I didn't know people ate raw fish at Parties! I.... This is the Very First Party I ever went to," she explained. It was surely extenuation enough for any ignorance of the customs of such gatherings!
His glance searched her, up and down. He struggled visibly with amusement. It was all he could do not to laugh outright.
"I suppose you're visiting here?" he remarked, after awhile, when speech was once more somewhat of a possibility.
Arethusa thought it was most polite of him to show this interest. She nodded.
"I'm Arethusa Worthington."
"Arethusa Worthington!" The youth was all real interest and animation at once. "Not Mr. Ross Worthington's daughter! Why, I ... I'm proud to call him one of my best friends! I'm just crazy about that man! I met him abroad. And so you're really his daughter! I certainly am glad to meet you! Now, that I think, of it, I believe he did tell me the other day that you were coming!"
Arethusa smiled all over, showing every dimple; she felt at home immediately with any friend of her father's, self-announced though he might be.
"My name's Watts, Miss Worthington," he continued, "William Watts. But most people call me 'Billy.'"
"I don't know you quite well enough yet to call you 'Billy,'" she replied, seriously reproving. "But wasn't it just dear that we happened to sit next to each other?"
Mr. Watts enthusiastically agreed. And acquaintanceship established on this firm foundation, he turned his attention once more to food.
"Don't you like oysters?"
"Yes, but they look so horrid! Ugh!" Arethusa shivered. "Generally, I love 'em, but these are raw! I never ate any raw ones before!"
"Go ahead and try them," he urged in all friendliness. "If you like them at all, you'll like them this way, too, I'll bet."
But she still hung back, "I don't know how."
"It's perfectly easy. Just like this." He speared one and lifted it to show her.
Arethusa watched the operation, fascinated at his skill, but she shook her head with decision when he suggested that she do likewise.
"I couldn't possibly. I believe I'd drop it. That little pitchfork thing doesn't look near big enough to hold such an enormous oyster."
"Oh, you won't drop any," he encouraged; "nobody ever has that I have heard of. Go on and try."
"No," she shook her head again, "no, I don't believe I will. I think I'd much rather practice at home first."
For it looked far too difficult to attempt thus offhand, even though reassured that none had ever been dropped. And should one really miss its way to her mouth and fall off the pitchfork thing to land in her lap? Well, the Dress was far too beautiful and too precious to be risked so foolishly. Those oysters had a most slimy appearance.
There was a little silence while the epicurean Mr. Watts consumed his oysters unaccompanied.
Arethusa wondered if the time was ripe for her to introduce into the Conversation the Subject of Lepidoptera, but if it was, she was quite at a loss how to do so with "ease and grace." Perhaps a little Poetry would be appreciated, but there was nothing as yet with which it could be "interspersed." None of the verses she knew had any remotest application to what had been said so far.
Mr. Watts finished his oysters to the very last one, and then turned her way with a little sigh of satisfaction.
"You certainly did make a mistake this time, Miss Worthington, for those were perfectly bully. This hotel is rather famous for its sea food, you know, especially for oysters."
Now Arethusa was getting somewhat tired of hearing of these bivalves and their extremely succulent taste; she did not want the entire evening to be given over to a discussion of oysters. There were other things. The Subject she had been at such pains to prepare, for instance, would make a much more interesting Conversation. So she plunged right in.
"Do you know anything about Lep—lep-e-e-top-dera?" she asked, with a charming and social smile.
He looked frankly puzzled.
"Moths and butterflies," she added, in explanation to that questioning expression.
"No, I bite. What about 'em?"
"I thought they would be nice for us to talk about. I read about them in the Encyclopedia so I could. The 'Advice to Young Ladies' said at a dinner you must always have something to talk about."
But this "member of the other sex next whom she was seated at the festive board" was not at all affected by her attempt to make the evening pleasant as Arethusa had been led by the little book to believe he would be; for after a momentary stare, he began to laugh.
He went through all the gamut of mirth. He gurgled. He giggled. He shrieked. He roared. And he even pounded on the table.
"Oh, but this is rich!" he gasped. "My word! But this is rich! It's the very richest thing I ever heard!"
His unseemly merriment attracted the attention of nearly everybody around them.
Arethusa was rather startled by his laughter at first, and then she was infuriated; for she realized that it was laughter directed straight at her. Timothy could have told Mr. Watts that it was very unsafe to laugh at Arethusa; that she hated nothing in the world so much as to be laughed at. Her eyes darkened with anger, and the mirthful one was given the full battery of their wrathful blazing.
But he did not even pause. He laughed on and on, uncontrollably.
So she reached over and pinched him with all the power of strong young fingers on the very fleshiest part of his arm.
His laughter stopped abruptly. "Say," he exclaimed, "that hurt like fury!"
"I meant it to hurt!" breathed Arethusa, and she turned as far away from him as was possible, owing to the fact that their chairs were so close together.
She was trembling all over with her rage, and he mistook it for weeping.
"I didn't mean to make you cry, Miss Worthington," he began.
Her angry dark eyes flashed around at him for a moment. "I'm not crying!" she announced with emphasis, and then turned away from him again.
But that one brief glance had shown him how far she was from tears. "Well, I most certainly didn't mean to make you mad," he had only to change the words of his apology. "But ... that was funny!"
"Why?" she demanded, peremptorily, half turning back to face him.
"It just was! You ask your father!" Arethusa's expression remained most unrelenting. "But I really do beg your pardon, in all humbleness, for laughing at you. It was horribly rude of me, I'll have to admit, and I'm certainly sorry that I did it. So do forgive me this time, and let's go on being friends. Please...." he coaxed.
Arethusa softened, just the least bit. "But why was it so funny, what I said? You didn't tell me. Oughtn't I to have said it?"
"It wasn't what you said. There wasn't anything so dead wrong in that. You could talk about such creatures all you wanted, I suppose, and still not commit anything that wasn't right according to Hoyle. It was the way you handed it out that got my goat so completely!" He gurgled reminiscently. "But listen here, Miss Arethusa, you do just what I'm telling you and you let the natural history alone for the rest of this party, no matter what your book said about it. You can the high-brow stuff from now on, and you'll get along better."
She could plainly tell that every word of this was meant as advice between friends. It was impossible to construe Mr. Watts' manner as anything but eagerness to help. And it sounded delightfully like Timothy in their happier moments.
Her face broke into a forgiving smile.
She informed her repentant neighbor of how he had pleasantly reminded her of Timothy; just who Timothy was, and all about him. Mr. Watts was the personification of absorbed interest. Timothy sounded to him as if he might be a "human being," he declared, and quite worth while.
Arethusa and her adjacent "member of the other sex" managed to get along famously for the rest of the dinner, oblivious to the fact that each had another person on the other side, Mr. Watts because he did not like the girl in blue at his left, and Arethusa because she was almost unconscious that there was anybody else at this table beside their two selves. Mr. Watts was quite sufficient for her entertainment.
As the courses proceeded and Arethusa ate and laughed and chattered away, from time to time her glance roved around the huge dining-room, so gorgeously decorated for this occasion, admiring everything she saw, the diners themselves, as well as the decorations. There were some very pretty girls at this Party, as well as some passably handsome men; and Arethusa liked the contrast of the sombre black and white of the men's attiring silhouetted against the gay dresses of the girls near them. And she liked to watch them as they laughed and talked together.
Among the faces which most interested her was one, a man's face, to which she returned again and again to steal a look. Finally, she asked Mr. Watts to tell her who he was.
"The one next to the girl with the feather fan, at that second table by the pillar."
"Oh, that? That's Gridley Bennet."
There was something in the way he said the name that made Arethusa ask if there was anything wrong with Mr. Bennet.
"Nothing I know of. He's just our prize debutante's delight."
"Why.... What?"
"Lady-killer," he amplified. "All the girls are crazy about him."
"I don't wonder!" Arethusa's own admiration was wholly undisguised by now. "He's the handsomest man I ever saw!" she added recklessly.
"He's handsome enough, I reckon, but he knows it almost too well. And he just hates himself!"
"That's a horrid thing to say about anybody; I don't believe it at all! And how on earth could he help knowing he's good-looking if he ever looks in the mirror! There's no harm in knowing you're good-looking if you are!"
The subject of this discussion looked far more as those charming gentlemen pictured in the advertising sections of our various current magazines to show the superiority of certain brands of collars and other necessary articles of manly garb were intended to look than the artists have ever been able to make the pictures. He was superbly tall and broad of shoulder; in every way he fulfilled the most exacting requirements of what a Hero should be. No dream of a Prince Charming could have formed a being half so well-fitted for the role as this living Reality.
He wore his faultless dress clothes as if they had been a veritable part of him, not something donned for the few hours of this evening. And he had gold-tipped eyelashes every bit as long as Arethusa's own (she could tell that they were even so far away as she sat from him), and the most irresistible of smiles. He smiled with commendable frequency. Perhaps he knew that his rows of teeth were as perfect as ordinary human teeth could very well be, and that this superlative smile was in consequence no trifling addition to his other attractions of person. He had a little trick of flinging his head back when he laughed aloud, that showed to still greater advantage all of these wonderful teeth, and his eyelashes, and even called attention to the perfect straightness of his handsome nose.
He laughed for Arethusa's benefit as she watched him, and she smiled in sympathy for such a charming laugh, although she was so far across the room from him she could have no idea why he laughed.
And then she gazed and gazed at him, unashamed; a tiny sigh fluttered through her parted red lips.
"I wish I could meet Him!"
"That's perfectly simple," remarked Mr. Watts. "Introductions haven't gone out yet, as I have heard." His tone was scornful, but it was all lost on Arethusa.
"Could you introduce me?" eagerly.
"I might, if really urged." Then he added, half to himself, "It's a regular slaughter of the innocents whenever Grid Bennet goes to a debutante party. He ought to be barred from 'em by law."
"I think you're jealous of him," said Arethusa reprovingly.
"I haven't a thing to be jealous of him about, and just to prove it, here goes."
And as the Party was all beginning to rise from the tables, Mr. Watts headed straight for Mr. Bennet. He was a trifle disgusted with Arethusa for this display of enthusiasm over Gridley Bennet. His type did not appeal to Mr. Watts very much.
But it certainly did to Arethusa.
A nearer view of Mr. Bennet showed him to her as even handsomer than she had thought at a distance. The Introduction was a Momentous Affair, far more of a Real Event than any introduction in which Arethusa had ever participated. Mr. Bennet's manner of bending over her hand in his acknowledgment of it called loudly for satin knee breeches and lace ruffles, silver buckled shoon and a decorative sword, as the most appropriate accompaniments. It was delightfully suggestive, to the thrilled Arethusa, of the pages of her favorite novels of those days when ladies' hands were kissed in public.
"Grid's squshy manner would get him anywhere he wanted with the skirts, even if he didn't have the looks to back it up," commented Mr. Watts, with inward dryness, of the meeting.
"I've been watching you for some time, Miss Worthington," was Mr. Bennet's flattering opening to the conversation, "and I was planning an introduction to you just as soon as dinner was over."
Now he very probably had not noticed her at all until Billy Watts had him face to face with her, but he could no more help saying such things than he could help his breathing. He was built just that way.
But Arethusa found no reason to doubt the sincerity of these charming words. And his little way of looking at her and of leaning toward her as he talked, were a perfect corollary, seeming to single her out from among all these hundred or more feminine beings in the vast room as the one whose company he most ardently desired. "These other stupid folks do not exist for me at present," proclaimed his manner, "and I am just where I most want to be."
Her heart fluttered painfully. She could only stand there at first, silently flushing and paling by turns, at a loss for the words of a reply that should suitably acknowledge such a marvelous greeting of her insignificant self. Then the music started up in the ball room at the other end of the hall, and she moved away with all the rest of the Party toward the sound, at Mr. Bennet's side, still quite unable to find her generally so-ready tongue.
"Shall we dance?" asked Mr. Bennet courteously, as they walked. His voice was another of his distinct attractions, rather deep and with the slightest possible drawl.
Arethusa paused just under the broad arch of the ball-room doorway, and so Mr. Bennet paused also, to watch the dancers for a moment, all of them bending and turning and twisting to a tune of such impelling rhythm that it would have made a wooden-legged man almost to attempt the impossible, and then to curse his fate; then she lifted troubled eyes to Mr. Bennet.
"But I don't dance what they're dancing."
"Oh, yes, you do, I'm sure," with the intimation in his tone that she was sure to be the very best dancer on the floor. "It's only the one-step."
Arethusa could not help but laugh.
"Well, it certainly doesn't look anything like the one-step thatIknow! You see, Mr. Bennet, I've never been to any Parties. Timothy just taught me some down in our barn." She was beginning to feel a little less awed by his magnificence as a Man, for he was, after all, human, and quite inclined to be kind.
"Then let me give you another lesson, now.... Do, please. You won't really need it as a lesson though, I know."
Still she hesitated. Yet her feet unconsciously kept time to the gay music as she stood, just watching.
"Surely you won't confer a favor on this Timothy person you'd deny to me," and Arethusa was quite convinced there was a wee tinge of reproachful jealousy in Mr. Bennet's attractive voice. "I may not prove to be so good a teacher as he is, but I shall certainly do my best."
Arethusa laughed again; with real merriment this time.
The very idea of Timothy as a better teacher of anything than this Wonderful Mr. Bennet!
The picture of herself in those blue print dresses she wore around the Farm and Timothy in khaki trousers and blue flannel shirt, hopping about on the barn floor (which, though clean-swept and smooth, was hardly meant for dancing) to tunes which were hummed and whistled by each alternately, rose before her; and she compared it in its utter inferiority with this picture of herself in this Heavenly Green Frock and Mr. Bennet in his Perfect Evening Clothes, the shining floor which stretched away from them, and the lilt of the band music which went to her head like wine.
She shook her head. "But suppose I should fall down or something. This floor looks so dreadfully slick and hard to stand up on. I wouldn't mind a bit if I was awkward with Timothy. But...."
"I'm getting rather jealous of Timothy, I'm afraid," said Mr. Bennet. "Miss Worthington, you couldn't be awkward if you tried. And you won't fall down, I can promise to take care of that. Please give me this great pleasure."
So Arethusa allowed herself to be thus charmingly persuaded.
But it must be confessed that their start was a bit awkward.
Arethusa was horribly self-conscious, and not at all sure, despite his reassurance, that she was going to manage this new venture. After a few moments, however, and his low-spoken command to let herself be guided, her natural-born instinct to dance asserted itself, the self-consciousness wore away, and she was one-stepping with the best of any on that floor.
She was more certainly meant for a dancer. She was as light as a feather, for all her height, and like a piece of thistledown she swayed and circled about the room in perfect time to the music. She seemed to feel instinctively the beat of the measures, and her flying feet obeyed Mr. Bennet's guidance, as if he and she had danced together all of their lives. Mr. Bennet himself was a truly wonderful exponent of the art. He danced with a grace and ease that few men ever attain, and he had an arm of sureness at his partner's back that took her safely through that crowded room without a single bump or mishap. Had Arethusa but known it, there was no one at the Party who could so well have conducted her in her first real effort of this kind as Mr. Bennet.
It was over much too soon to please her. She could have gone on for hours, just like that without a pause, and without once tiring.
"Why, you dance beautifully!" exclaimed Mr. Bennet, when the music stopped. "I verily believe," very softly, "that you were fibbing when you said you had danced so little!"
She looked up at him shyly, from under her long lashes, and blushed just a bit. "That was you. I couldn't have danced with anyone else that way. Timothy doesn't dance at all like that!"
Now this was the rankest ingratitude on Arethusa's part. For had it not been for Timothy's surreptitious lessons, so kindly and willingly given, she would never have experienced the intense pleasure of this one-step with Mr. Bennet. But Arethusa was honestly surprised at her own swallow-like ability to keep time to music that was played instead of whistled.
Then Mr. Harrison caught sight of her and rushed across the room to claim her. He had been hunting everywhere for her, he declared.
Then Mr. Watts came in his turn, and inquired saucily, as he "broke in," if she had found Mr. Bennet as charming as he looked. But she laughed at him merrily, for his friendly teasing. She was too happy to be offended at anything.
And she laughed and chatted away with these two oldest acquaintances her most enthusiastic and Arethusa-like self; with every one introduced to her she had just as Wonderful a Time. There were a great many who asked to be introduced to her, for her shining eyes and her very evident enjoyment of everything she did made her an object of interest to nearly everybody who observed her. Arethusa was really one of the belles of the evening; such unreserved happiness as hers is bound to attract. Consequently, the Party fulfilled her most sanguine expectations as to what a Party should be, although she did not know how large was her own personal share in this fulfillment.
She entirely forgot that she had ever prepared a Topic of Conversation for the Occasion; she made no other mention of moths and butterflies; not once did she quote a line of Poetry. Her words poured forth in as mad a rush, as gaily inconsequential, as the words of the most hardened Party-goer who has ever been an assistance to her hostess in adding to the enjoyment of her fellow guests. Without making any conscious effort to do so, Arethusa followed Mr. Watts' kindly advice, and his words as to the result proved delightfully true.
The terpsichorean attempts which she made during the evening without Mr. Bennet's able guidance, might have been managed with a little more gratifying success, had not her eyes been so prone to follow him in his whirling about the room, wherever she could, as he honored other ladies with his attentions. But when she did miss step, or stumbled, her apologies were so pretty, and she was so sincere in her confused regrets, that it could make no difference to any one with his heart in the right place.
Yet Mr. Bennet came back to Arethusa herself quite often to ask for dances—a truly flattering number of times—for it was a kindly fate that had given her that lightness of foot and her undeniable grace. Then too, Mr. Bennet, like Mr. Watts, knew Ross rather well, and he wanted to be nice to Ross's daughter for various reasons. And last, but not least, her ingenuous admiration of his own attractive person amused Mr. Bennet more than he had been amused for a long while.
There was one last wild romp of a dance as an encore from the more good-natured members of the orchestra, while the other musicians packed their instruments, and then the First Real Party was only a thing to be remembered.
Mr. Bennet made a special point of telling Arethusa good-night, and he bent lingeringly over her hand as he did so, in his own inimitable way of making it seem the very hardest parting he had ever had to make.
"I'm coming to see you some time, if I may," he said.
Her heart almost stopped beating at this. Then it raced on again to beat in quick, little jumps. She lifted young, frankly adoring eyes to the handsome man before her, and quite suddenly, without a word of real warning, Arethusa knew....
She hadfallen in love!
But it was not as she had fallen in love with Elinor, and it was not such love as she gave Ross or Miss Asenath or even Timothy; for this was without doubt the Miracle she had read about so many times under the hollow tree in Miss Asenath's Woods. And it had come just as she had always dreamed it would come, with a Hand-clasp and a Glance.
The hand in Mr. Bennet's holding trembled and grew cold before Arethusa could withdraw it. Her misbehaving heart almost interfered with her breathing. But the world around them went on as casually unaware of the Miracle as if neither Arethusa nor Mr. Bennet existed, when it should surely have been hushed into a Startled Silence by What had happened.
All through that night, Arethusa wandered with a tall man of long-lashed hazel eyes of marvelous beauty, through a country which was a Country of Rare Delight, even if only a Country of Dreaming. And as they wandered, he bent his head again and again to whisper, in a deep drawling voice, Words which bore a remarkable resemblance to some of the lyrics of the early nineteenth-century poets, and the pages of conversation in Arethusa's much read romances.
What though the Gentleman of the Dream wore a modern suit of commonplace evening clothes, instead of Ruffles and a Velvet Coat and Satin Small-clothes? It did not prevent, in the Dream, his pressing his Hand to his Heart at moments when it was logical that he should have done so, nor did it rob his Voice of the Proper Passionate Inflection. Nor did it keep the cardiac region of the Arethusa of the Dream from fluttering in an altogether delightful way.