CHAPTER IXTHE PARTY
The most of the guests had arrived by this time, and the dressing-room was full when Louie entered it. Nearly all were strangers from out of town, and few paid any attention to her. Those who did glance at her saw a very pretty girl, whose bright face and eyes made them wonder who she was.
In the midst of silks and satins and laces and diamonds and city-made toilets, Louie felt herself quite out of place, and was beginning to wish she had not come or could see some one she knew, when among the men in the room opposite she caught sight of Fred near the door, and felt sure he was waiting for her. Not till then had she realized how awkward it would be to go down to the drawingroom alone, and she felt a thrill of gratitude that she was not to be subjected to this ordeal. This gratitude was augmented with something like pride when she heard one of the city girls say in a low voice:
“There’s Mr. Lansing talking to Rob. I wonder if he can be waiting for any one.”
Instantly a dozen heads were turned in the directionwhere Fred stood, his fine face in profile, with a look upon it which most people called pride, but which really arose from his indifference to what was passing around him, and a half feeling of boredom that he was obliged to be a part of it.
“Oh, is that Mr. Lansing?” “Isn’t he handsome?” “Isn’t he proud-looking?” “I hope I shall be introduced.” “They say he has two or three millions, and is the greatest catch in Washington, but does not care a straw for ladies.”
These and similar remarks Louie heard, and then, being human, she accelerated her movements a little, gave another look at her hair, fastened her own gloves, as she saw there was no prospect of immediate help from the two maids in attendance, and walked into the hall, where the gentlemen, who were now filling it, stood back as she came, wondering who was to claim this dainty bit of white muslin, brilliant color, and beautiful eyes, which flashed on them for an instant and were then cast down.
They did not have long to wait, for at sight of her all Fred’s indifference vanished, and, stepping forward, he said:
“Oh, here you are. I was waiting for you. Shall we go down?”
He offered her his arm, and the two descended the stairs, while the men looked curiously at each other, and some of the ladies from the dressing-roomcame and leaned over the stair railing for a better sight of the young girl who had suddenly acquired a new interest for them, and must be somebody, possibly a visitor, they thought. At all events Mr. Lansing seemed to know her well.
In the large drawingroom the receiving party were standing, Judge and Mrs. White, Mrs. Lansing, Blanche Percy, and Herbert, the latter of whom was very impatient for Louie to arrive. His impatience was in a measure shared by Miss Percy, who had evinced a great interest in the young girl and a desire to meet her.
“I am so glad she is coming,” she said. “I hoped she might be early so I could talk with her before the rooms are filled.”
“She ought to be here. Fred went for her more than an hour ago. It can’t be she has changed her mind and is not coming after all,” Herbert replied, going into the hall once or twice and looking from the door for a sight of his father’s carriage. “There she is at last,” he said, going forward to meet her as she came in, and running his eye rapidly over her from her head to her feet, with a feeling that she was on exhibition, and he wanted her to pass muster with the city girls present in so large numbers. She was not dressed like them, he knew, and he at first felt a little pang of disappointment at the plainness of her attire, but Blanche Percy’s exclamation, “What a lovely face!” reassured him, andhe felt very proud as he presented her to his mother, saying, “Mother, this is Louie—Miss Grey—the girl who saved our bank.”
Mrs. White had seen Louie many times, and had once had her to tea when she invited the choir and teachers in the Sunday school, as a matter of duty. She knew Herbert’s partiality for her, and had felt annoyed by it; but she was very gracious now, and kept Louie’s hand in hers, while she expressed her gratitude, and then passed her on to the judge, who was rather more demonstrative, although there was in his manner an air of superiority and patronage which Louie felt and resented. She did not like the judge, and she held her head high while she said she was glad if she had been of service, and had only done what she should wish a friend to do for her father if he were in a similar strait.
“Not a strait,” the judge said, a little testily. “That means a tight place; and I believe in my soul we should have pulled through somehow without any help; but I thank you just the same.”
With the trouble over and in the past, he was not as grateful as he had been at first, and it annoyed him that he had been beholden to Tom Grey of all other men. But he could not help himself. He had been helped, and the girl instrumental in helping him was there, and being made much of by Fred and Mrs. Lansing and Blanche Percy, the last of whom could hardly wait to tell her what shethought of her heroism. There was something about Louie which fascinated Miss Percy—a feeling that she had known her always, or that there was a tie between them of some kind, which would have drawn her to the girl if there had been no bank episode in the morning. She could not, however, keep her long to herself, for the people from upstairs were coming down and filling the space around the receiving party.
Fred had now taken his place at a point where he could easily receive or stand aloof, as he chose. He preferred the latter, for meeting strangers was not to his taste. He had had a surfeit of it in Washington, and would far rather be a spectator and watch the different guests as they came. Then his mind was considerably distracted with thoughts of a white muslin gown, with baby waist and red ribbons, and a pair of brown eyes which had looked at him just as no other eyes had ever looked, with no shade of coquetry in them, or sign of elation because of notice from him. He saw the muslin gown and red ribbons at last in the distance near the piazza, and when the dancing commenced he saw one or two young men making their way toward it and knew they were asking Louie for the dance.
Herbert saw it, too, and leaving Blanche Percy, he went to the dancing room and waited while Louie was whirled around by a Merivale boy, whoknew no more of time than a cow, Herbert said to Fred, who was standing beside him, watching the pair.
“Is knowledge of time necessary to a good dancer?” Fred asked.
“Certainly,” Herbert replied. “Otherwise you bob around like a cork in hot water and make yourself ridiculous, besides jerking your partner awfully. Look at Jim Carter, will you, holding Louie’s arm up like a pump-handle and hopping like a toad. Louie is splendid, give her half a chance, but what can she do with such a clown? Look at his knees bent nearly double!”
Herbert was pretty severe in his criticisms on Jim Carter’s waltzing, while Fred laughed and said, “I am afraid I shall bob like a cork and hop like a toad with my knees bent, for I have no idea of time.”
Herbert, who knew his cousin’s habits pretty well, rejoined in some surprise:
“Are you going to dance? I thought you detested it.”
“Of course I am going to, and I have already engaged Miss Grey for the lancers and the two-step. I am waiting for her now,” was Fred’s answer; and, as just then Louie was led to a seat near him, he pushed past Herbert to her side and said, “Shall we try it next time, and what is it? Oh, I see—a two-step. I am not very good at that, and shall depend on you to keep me going.”
Louie looked at him a moment with a troubled expression on her face, and when he continued “You remember you promised me,” she said. “Yes, I know; but, Mr. Lansing, I have been thinking about it, and it seems to me I made you ask me by my foolish remark that I hoped somebody would. You couldn’t very well help it after that, you know, and I release you from all obligations to me. I have danced once, and am promised to Will Travers and one or two more, and shall do very well if I stand the rest of the evening. There are so many city girls here for you.”
“Bother the city girls,” Fred thought; but, he said, “I have no intention to be released, although you may wish I had before we get through with it, for I have no more idea of time than a cow, as Herb said of your late partner.”
“That’s so; he didn’t have much time in him, and he jerked me around terribly. I hope he won’t ask me again. He will, though; he always does, when we are where they dance. I guess I can manage you if you really like to try,” Louie answered with a laugh. “It is very simple when you once get into it.”
With a long breath, and a hope that he should not fall down, or step on some one’s dress, Fred was soon struggling with the two-step, of which he knew very little; but Louie kept him going, and infused so much of her own enjoyment of the danceinto him that he began to like it himself, provided always that Louie could be his partner.
Emboldened by his success, he tried a spirited waltz with her, in which she neither made of him a pillow nor a bolster; and he did not quite believe he bobbed like a cork, although he saw Herbert’s eyes fixed disapprovingly upon him whenever he passed near him, and felt sure he was not acquitting himself very creditably. Louie told him he did splendidly, and promised one or two more dances beside the lancers.
“Now, go and ask some of the other young ladies. They are all waiting for you, I know,” she said.
But Fred shook his head. He was tired with the exertion he had made. He was beginning to sweat. He had had enough dancing unless Louie were his partner, and handing her over to his successor he went out for a breath of cool air, but came back very soon and watched the white muslin dress and red ribbons as they floated up and down the broad piazza, while Louie’s face told how she was enjoying it all.
“She is airy and graceful as a bird, and by far the best dancer here, if I am any judge,” he thought, and was glad that she had no lack of partners.
Every young man who did not know her asked to be presented, and invited her to dance, until shehad a surfeit of it and began to feel tired, and was glad when Herbert came to her with a request from Miss Percy that she would sing something for those who did not dance.
“I have told Blanche about your voice, and she is anxious to hear it,” he said.
Louie was nearly as ready to sing as to dance, and her voice had that bird-like quality which too much training sometimes spoils by taking away its naturalness. All her life she had been in the habit of imitating the birds, succeeding so well that it was sometimes difficult to tell whether it were herself trilling the roundelay or the robin, sitting on a high branch of a tree, with his head bent in a listening attitude as if trying to decide whether the sounds he heard were human or came from some new-comer in the field. She had had several months of instruction in vocal music, but her best teachers had been the birds, and especially her canary, whose notes she imitated so closely that he often stopped in his song for an instant, and then, as if reassured, began again with her, the two voices blending together without a discord on her part, so accurately did she follow him. One song, whose music she had changed to suit her voice, she called her bird-song, as it gave scope to her especial talent, and ended with a medley of sounds—the twitter of the sparrow, the robin’s whistle, the oriole’s notes, and the tones of her canary when in its happiest mood.
“Give us the bird-song, by all means,” Herbert said, when she asked what she should sing, and in a moment Louie was standing in the music-room, facing as large an audience as she had left in the dancing-hall.
They were mostly elderly people from the city, who, tired of watching the dancers, were glad of any new diversion, although a few yawned behind their fans when told that the girl in white muslin, who stood by the piano, was to sing for them.
The Worcester people, who were accustomed to hear the finest singers, and looked upon their city as the head centre for all that was best in music, wondered what this little country girl could do in that line to interest them. It would probably be some simple ditty, sung either in a nasal or loud, harsh strain, with contortions of the body; but they were well bred, and must listen and affect to be pleased.
Some were still talking in low tones when Louie struck a few notes upon the piano and began, quietly, without contortions of body or face, and without any apparent effort, except that the cords of her throat expanded and stood out full and round, when, in the chorus, her voice rose higher and clearer and was more and more like a bird’s, or many birds’, making some of the audience look around to see if a stray robin or canary had not alighted near them and was joining in the song. The music-room was so far from the dancing-roomthat one did not interfere with the other, but not so far that the clear, ringing notes were not heard by the dancers above the sounds of violin and horn; and, before she was through, half of those not dancing were crowding around the music-room to catch a sight of the singer.
“It’s the girl who saved the bank. She must be a marvel,” they said, as they saw her bowing in acknowledgment of the storm of applause which greeted her when the song was finished.
Among them was Fred Lansing, whose hands were nearly blistered, so loud and long-continued were his encores as he made his way to the front until he stood very near to her. He had been persuaded to waltz with a girl from Boston, who tried to make him a pillow, but he drew back from her and was so awkward every way besides getting his feet entangled in her dress that she was quite as glad as he when it was over. He knew Louie was singing and was impatient to get to her.
“Sing it again. I never heard anything like it,” he said as he at last reached her side.
“Yes, sing it again,” Miss Percy said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
Louie sang it again, better than at first, it seemed to those who heard her, and this time she had for her audience the whole party, for the dancing had ceased, and musicians and all were listening to her. There were cheers and clapping of hands and bravoesheard on all sides when she was through, with a call for more. But Louie had done enough. Her brain was reeling with the vociferous applause, and a pallor was setting about her mouth, which Miss Percy was quick to see.
“Come with me. You need some fresh air after this,” she said, and taking Louie’s hand she led her out upon the veranda, where she made her sit down, while she stood over her and asked, “Where did you learn all this?”
“From the birds,” Louie answered. “I am always imitating them. I cannot help it. I began when I was a child, first with the crows and bobolinks and then with the robins. I liked them best, and I’ve kept on till I guess I can sing like them all. Did I do well?”
She looked up at Miss Percy, who stooped and kissed her as she replied:
“Do well? I should think you did. Why, every musician and dancer stopped to listen to you. Do you know, you have a fortune in your voice—hundreds of dollars a night, perhaps.”
“Oh!” Louie gasped; “I couldn’t do it; it tires me so, and makes my heart beat so fast when the people cheer—not the singing, but the cheering. If I were all alone, I could sing on and on forever, but I could never sing on the stage.”
“Who is talking of the stage for Louie? You, Fred?”
It was Herbert who spoke, and who had come out upon the veranda, preceded by Fred Lansing.
“I am talking of Miss Grey’s voice,” Miss Percy said. “I told her there is a fortune in it.”
“But not for the stage. Louie on the stage, with footlights and green rooms and powder and paint, and all sorts of people! I should not like it. Ugh!” and Herbert gave a whistle indicative of his opinion of all sorts of people with powder and paint and footlights. “Would you like to see her there?” he continued, turning to Fred, who answered:
“I can scarcely imagine it, although I believe she might be a second Patti.”
“But she won’t—she shan’t! I could never respect a girl who sang on the stage,” Herbert rejoined, with so much spirit that Louie burst into a merry laugh and said:
“What are you so excited about? I am not on the stage and never shall be. I am here on the veranda, and awfully hot and thirsty. I wish you would bring me some water.”
Both Herbert and Fred started for the water, but Herbert was first, and Fred returned to Louie and told her what a wonderful voice she had, and that it ought to be cultivated to the utmost, while Miss Percy said she could undoubtedly make a great success as a public singer, if circumstances required.
“Oh, don’t,” Louie answered, closing her eyeswearily. “I have a presentiment that I may have to sing, and sometimes feel as if I were living in the future instead of thousands of years ago, as some say we did, and that I am before the footlights—real footlights—and there are seas of faces looking at me and thunders of applause, and I hate it all, but must do it for something, or some one. I wonder who it is?”
She seemed to be talking to herself rather than to Miss Percy and Fred, both of whom looked curiously at her, while Fred suggested:
“Doing it for fame, perhaps.”
Louie shook her head. “Never for that. Only duty, or love for some one, could make me do in reality what I have so often done in fancy.”
Herbert had brought her the water by this time, and she drank it eagerly.
“Now I am all right,” she said, “but think I’d better go home. What time is it?”
Against this there was a quiet protest from Fred, and a louder one from Herbert, who resolved to be ahead of his cousin, and said:
“Fred brought you here, but I am to see you home, and must wait till the people from Springfield and Worcester leave, at twelve o’clock. That is not late, and I want you for the next dance.”
He looked a little defiantly at Fred, and there was an air of ownership in his manner as he took her on his arm and went back to the piazza, wherethe awnings were now rolled up to admit the cool night air, and showed nearly as many spectators gathered outside as there were dancers within.
It was a brilliant scene, with the lanterns and moonlight, and flowers and music, and gayly dressed people, and Louie was the star around which everything revolved. There was no lack of partners for her, and except when she was singing, she danced every set but one, which she sat through with Herbert, who kept close to her as if she were his particular property.
Fred had relinquished the field, and only came near her once when she was sitting with Herbert. There was a sudden lighting up of Louie’s eyes at sight of him, for she had missed him, and, without knowing why, was glad to have him near her, although he said nothing except to ask if she were too tired to give them another song.
“Yes, she is,” Herbert answered for her. “We are to have one dance more before the thing breaks up, and then I am to take her home. The walk will do us both good.”
“Walk!” Fred repeated, in some surprise. “Walk, and she so tired?”
Herbert’s countenance fell, but brightened again when Louie rejoined:
“Oh, I’d rather walk; but it is not necessary for you to go with me. The Adams live next to us. I can go with them.”
“I’d laugh,” was Herbert’s answer, while Fred turned away without a word, and Louie did not see him again until the party was over and the carriages taking the city guests to the station were rolling down the avenue, and the other people were saying good-night.
As the son of the house, Herbert felt obliged to wait until the last guest was gone, so that it was after twelve o’clock when Louie was making her adieus, with Herbert at her side, ready to accompany her home.
“I thought you came in my carriage. Why don’t it take you home?” the judge asked, not quite pleased that his son should be the escort, on a half-mile walk, to this girl, who, if she had been instrumental in saving his bank, was still the daughter of Tom Grey, and far beneath him in the social scale.
“She prefers to walk, and so do I,” Herbert replied, taking Louie’s arm and leading her to the door, where they found Fred Lansing.
Offering his hand to Louie, he said: “I hope you will feel no bad effects from all the excitement and dissipation. If I may, I will call in the afternoon to inquire how you are. Good-by, and pleasant dreams. I rather envy you the walk. It is what one needs after hours of heat and exertion.”
“Why don’t you come, too?” sprang to Louie’s lips, but she repressed it as something unmaidenly;but her eyes had in them a wistful look as she raised them to Fred, who did not quite understand the expression, or know why he stood outside, watching the little figure in the white dress and cloak until it disappeared among the trees in the avenue.