Re-Creations (24 page)

“Why, that’s very nice,” said Cornelia, suddenly realizing that she had forgotten to worry about Louise’s getting the next course on the table safely; and here it was, hot and inviting, and she sitting back and talking like a guest. What a dear little capable sister she was, and how quietly Harry was keeping the machinery in the kitchen going!

Everybody seemed to be having a nice time, even Clytie Dodd was listening to something her father was telling, something about a young man where he worked who had risked his life to save a friend in danger. Clytie was subdued, that was certain. Something, perhaps the formality of the meal or the impressiveness of the guests, had quieted her voice and suppressed her bold manner. She was not talking much herself, and she was not feeling quite so self-sufficient as when she came. It was most plain that she was quite out of her element in such an atmosphere, but she was a girl who was quick to observe and adjust herself to her environment. This might not be her native atmosphere, but she knew enough to keep quiet and keep her eyes open. Cornelia noticed that she was being left very much to herself so far as the two young men were concerned, and perhaps this had something to do with the subduing influence. Clytie was not a girl who cared for the background very long. She was one who forced herself into the limelight. Was it possible that just a little formality and a few strangers had changed her so completely? Perhaps she was not so bad, after all, as the children had led her to suppose. Just a poor little ignorant child who was trying her untaught hand at vamping. There might even be a way to help her, though Cornelia felt opposed to trying it when Carey was about. She could not yet consider Carey in the light of a companion of his girl without mortification. In all that little circle around the table, her common little painted face shone up as being out of place, unrefined, uncultured, utterly untaught.

More and more as the courses came on the table, Clytie grew silent and impressed, and as the meal drew to its close, Cornelia gained confidence. The dainty salad had been eaten greedily; the delectable ice in its pale-green dreamy beauty had come on in due time and brought an exclamation of wonder from the whole company, who demanded to know what it was and tasted it as one might sample a dish of ambrosia, and praised and tasted again.

There was much laughter and fun over the blowing out of the candles by Carey and the cutting of the angel cake, which also brought a round of applause. Cornelia poured the amber coffee into the little pink cups that looked like seashells, and finally the meal was concluded and the company arose to go into the living room.

Then Clytie came into her own again. It seemed that rising from the formalities of the table had given her back her confidence once more. Seizing hold of Carey’s arm as he stood near her, she exclaimed:

“Come on, Kay, let’s go have a dance and shake some of this down. I’m full clear up to my eyes. Haven’t you got a victrola? Turn it on, do. I’m dying for a dance!”

Chapter 20

B
y this time they were in the living room and in full view of the whole company. Cornelia was standing in the doorway with Maxwell just behind.

It seemed that Clytie had chosen the moment when her remark would be best heard by everyone, and a horrible silence followed it, as if some deadly explosive had suddenly been flung down in their midst. Maxwell heard a sudden little breathless exclamation from Cornelia. He flung a swift glance around the company. Grace Kendall stood quietly apart. Brand Barlock looked amused with a sharp appraisement of the effect of Clytie’s words on everyone present. Carey, caught by the unexpected momentum of the girl’s action, was whirled about in spite of himself and recovered his balance angrily, flinging her off.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said in a low, muttering tone. Then, trying to recover his politeness in the face of everybody, he added haughtily, “No, we haven’t got a victrola, I’m thankful to say!” And he cast a swift, furtive glance at the minister’s daughter. What must she think of him for having a girl like that be so bold with him? His face was crimson, and for the first time since he had known Clytie Dodd, he put the question to himself whether she was exactly the kind of girl he wanted for an intimate friend.

The silence in the room was intense. There seemed to be a kind of spell over the onlookers that no one was able to break. Clytie looked defiantly around at them and felt she had the floor.

“Oh, well, be a dummy if you want. You ain’t the only pebble on the beach. Come on, Brand. Let’s do the shimmy. You can whistle if no one knows how to play.” It was plain that she was angry and did not care what she said or did. Carey had turned white and miserable; Cornelia looked ready to drop. Young Maxwell noticed the worn hands of the father clinch and his face grow gray and drawn. Mr. Copley gave the impression that he would like above all things to take Clytie in thumb and finger and, holding her at arm’s length, eject her from the room as one would get rid of some vulgar little animal that was making an unpleasant scene.

The young man gave one more swift look at the annoyed face of the girl beside him and then stepped forward, noticing as he did so that even Brand was a bit annoyed at the turn affairs had taken. Even he saw that Clytie’s suggestion was out of place.

“Miss Dodd,” said Maxwell in a clear, commanding voice, with a pleasant smile that at once held Clytie Dodd’s attention. She turned to him eagerly, all too evidently expecting he was going to offer to dance with her; and the rest of the little audience stood in breathless waiting. “I’m sure you won’t mind if we interrupt you. Miss Copley was just going to play for some singing. You’ll join us, of course. I’m sure you have a good voice, and we want everybody. Let’s all gather around the piano.”

He turned with a swift appeal to Cornelia to bear him out. He had taken a chance, of course. What if Miss Copley did not play? But here was the piano, and there was music scattered about. Somebody must play.

A little breathless gasp went from one to another in visible relief as Cornelia came forward quickly, summoning a wan smile to her lips, trying to steady her fingers to select something from the mass of music on the piano that would meet the present need. Her music did not include many popular favorites—a few that Carey had brought home, that was all. But this if ever was the time to bring it forth. Ah! Here was “Tim Rooney’s at the Fightin’.” It would do as well as anything, and she placed it on the piano and forced her fingers into the opening chords, not daring to look around the room, wondering what Clytie Dodd was doing now and how she was taking her interruption.

But Maxwell was not idle. She felt his protective presence behind her. He was summoning everyone into the chorus, even the father, and he asked Clytie Dodd whether she didn’t sing alto, a challenge that won a giggling acknowledgment from her.

“I thought so,” he said. “I can almost always tell when people sing alto. Then come over on this side of the piano with me. I sing bass, and Mr. Copley, are you bass, too? I thought so. Now, you two fellows,”—turning to Brand and Carey, who were standing abashed in the background, uncomfortable and half ready to bolt but much impressed by the tactics of the stranger—“it’s up to you to sing tenor. You’ve got to, whether you can or not, you know, because we can’t do it, and it’s obvious that we have to have four parts. Miss Kendall sings soprano, doesn’t she? And Miss Copley. Now, we’re off! Give us those chords again, please.”

He started off himself with a splendid voice, and even a lame singer found it easy to follow. They all had good voices, and while no one felt exactly like singing after a big dinner, they nevertheless stumbled along bravely and before the second verse was reached were making quite a gallant chorus.

Before they had sung three songs they were quite in the spirit of the thing, and Harry and Louise, emerging from a last delicious dish of sherbet, joined in heartily, lending their young voices vigorously. Clytie proved to have a tolerable voice. It was a bit louder than was necessary, with a nasal twang now and then, but it blended well with the other voices and was not too obvious. Even Mr. Copley seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant happening of a few moments before and was singing as lustily as when he was a young man.

Only Cornelia felt the tense strain of it all. They could not sing always. Sometime it would have to stop, and what would happen then? The wonderful stranger could not always be expected to step in and pilot the little ship of the evening safely past all rocks. He had done wonders, and she would never cease to be grateful to him, but, oh, if he would go home at once as soon as they stopped singing and not be there to witness further vulgarities! Grace Kendall, too. But then Grace understood somewhat. Grace was a minister’s daughter. What, oh,
what
could they do next to suppress that awful girl?

Cornelia’s head throbbed, and her face grew white and anxious. She cast an occasional glace at Carey, who was singing away vigorously out of the same book with Grace Kendall, and wished she might weave a spell and waft all the rest of the guests away, leaving her brother to the influence of this sweet, natural girl. How could she manage to avert another embarrassing situation? But it seemed as if the brain that had brought out so many lovely changes in a dismal old house, that had planned so carefully every detail of this evening and looked far ahead to results in the lives of her dear ones, had utterly refused to act any longer. Her nerve was shaken, and she could scarcely keep the tears back. Oh, if there were someone to help her! Then her heart took up its newly acquired habit and cried out to God, “Oh God, send me help. What shall I do next?”

As if young Maxwell read her thoughts, he turned at the close of the song and, addressing them all casually, said, “I guess we’re about sung out for a while, aren’t we? I’m hoarse as a foghorn. Miss Dodd, why don’t you teach me how to play this game? I’ve been looking at it for quite a while, and it fascinates me. I believe I could beat you at it. Suppose we try.”

Clytie giggled, quite flattered. It was a feather in her cap to have this handsome stranger paying her marked attention. His car was even finer than Brand Barlock’s. Not so sporty, perhaps, but much sweller. And the man was older, besides. It was something wonderful to have made a hit with him. She preened herself, still giggling, and sat down at the table, eyeing with indulgent curiosity the little board with its colored squares and bright carved men.

“I d’no’z I know m’self,” she granted, glinting her beringed fingers among the bits of colored wood. “Whaddaya do, anyhow?”

Cornelia, with a flush of gratitude in her face, gave a brief clue to the object of the game, and they were soon deep in the attempt to get their men each into the other’s territory first.

Clytie was clever and soon got the idea of the game. She might have grown annoyed with it if she had been playing with some people, but Maxwell could be interesting when he chose to exert himself; and he was choosing just now, studying the caliber of the girl before him and leading her in spite of herself to take a real interest in what she was doing. To tell the truth, Clytie was interested in a man of almost any kind, especially if he was good-looking, but this particular man was a specimen different from any that had ever come into her path in a friendly way before. She had met such men as this only in a business way when she was ordered curtly to write a business letter over again or told she could not hold her position in an office unless she stopped chewing gum and talking so much to the other secretaries. Never had a man of this sort stepped down from his height to be really nice to her, and she was not only astonished, but pleased at it. There was nothing of the personal about his manner, just a nice, pleasant, friendly way of taking it for granted that she liked being talked to and was as good as anybody; and it gave her a new feeling of self-respect that she would never forget, even if she never met the man again.

Cornelia, watching furtively and thankfully from her corner where she was showing Brand Barlock a book of college photographs and explaining some of the college jokes inscribed beneath them, marveled at his patience and skill. She had not known him long, only two hours, but he was so obviously of another world from this girl and yet was making her feel so entirely comfortable and happy, that she felt humiliated and ashamed that she had not been able to do the same for the girl. She had invited her with a real feeling that she might be able to help her somehow—at least, that was what she thought she had for one of her objects—but now she began to suspect that perhaps she had in reality desired to humiliate the girl and put her into such a position that Carey would not want to go with her any longer. The girl had shown that she was unhappy and out of her element, and Cornelia had not helped her to find any possible basis for understanding with those about her. It was all wrong, and she ought to have gone further into things and planned to uplift that girl, even if she didn’t want to lift her up to the social plane of her own brother. There might be senses in which Carey wasn’t so very much higher than the girl, too. He needed uplifting a lot. Of course, that girl wouldn’t help lift him nor he her as things were, but Cornelia had had no right whatever to humble her for the sake of saving her brother.

Maxwell was tactful. He managed to draw Louise and Brand Barlock into the game after awhile, and when they had grown tired of that, he led them into the dining room, where Carey and Grace had just finished a game of Ping-Pong on the dining room table and insisted that they four-play a set. Brand soon gave up his racket to Harry and drifted into the other room, but it was half past ten when the others came back into the living room, where Grace Kendall was singing some Scotch songs, and sat down to listen.

Cornelia looked at Clytie Dodd in surprise. All the boldness and impudence had melted out of her face, with much of the makeup and powder that had been transferred to her handkerchief during the heated excitement of the game. Her hair had lost its tortured look, and her face was just that of an ordinary happy little girl who had been having a good, healthy time. She felt almost on an equality with the people around her because this nice man had been nice to her. She rather hated that yellow-haired girl in blue who had absorbed the attention of her own two special satellites, but what were they but kids beside this man of the world? She stole a look at his fine, strong face and had perhaps a fleeting vision of what it might be to have a man friend such as he was—and who shall say but a fleeting revelation, too, of what a girl must be to have such a friend? She saw him look across the room to where his young hostess sat, and smile, a smile with a kind of mysterious light like signal lights at sea. She looked curiously to where Carey’s sister sat and saw with a startled new insight how young and really lovely this girl was, and she sat silent, a little wondering, in rare thoughtfulness.