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People Like That

<h2 id="id00856" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXII</h2> The one day in the year I heartily hate is the first day of January. Yesterday was January first. Its usual effect is to make me feel as the grate in my sitting-room looks when the fire is dead. Knowing the day would get ahead of me if I did not get ahead of it, I decided to give a party. Last night I gave it. All through the busy rush of Christmas with its compelling demands I have been trying not to think; trying to put from me memories that come and go of Mrs. Cotter, of my disappointment in not hearing from her where Etta Blake could be found, and my anxiety about little Nora, now in the care of a woman I know well who lives just out of town. The child will not be here next Christmas. Kitty is paying for all her needs. She asked that I would let her the day before I received Selwyn's note concerning Nora. I promised her first. Mr. Crimm cannot find Etta Blake. She must have gone away. In the past few weeks I have seen little of Selwyn. I have been a bit more than busy with Christmas preparations, and his mortification over Harrie's behavior since the latter's return from El Paso has kept him away even from me. Madeleine Swink I have seen several times, also Tom Cressy, but Mrs. Swink I have been spared, owing to absence from home when she returned my call. I have told Madeleine that she must not meet Tom here again until she breaks her engagement with Harrie and tells her mother she will not marry him. I cannot help her marry Tom unless she is open and square with her mother. She thinks I am hard, but I will agree to nothing else. It isn't easy to be patient with halting, hesitating, helpless people, and Madeleine, having long been dominated, is a rather spiritless person. Still, she is the sort one always feels sorry for. I wish I wasn't mixed up in her affairs, however. They aren't my business and fingers put in other people's pies are likely to get pinched. Then, too, my fingers have many other things to do. Last night's party was a great success. During most of the day I was telephoning messages, sending notes of invitations, and helping Mrs. Mundy with the preparation of certain substantial refreshments which must be abundant; and when at last I stood ready to receive my guests a thrill I had long thought dead became alive again. At other parties I knew what to expect. At this one I didn't. Lucy Hobbs, resplendent in a green silk, lace-trimmed dress, was dashingly handsome with her carefully curled hair and naturally colored cheeks; and her big, black eyes missed no detail of my holly-bedecked and brightly lighted rooms. It was difficult to associate her with the girl in shabby clothes who hurried through the streets in the dark of early mornings, and whose days were spent in a factory, year in and year out; and yet the factory had left its imprint in a shyness that was new to one whose usual role was that of boss, and at first she was ill at ease. "You must help me, Lucy." I spoke hurriedly and in an undertone. "Some of these people think they're at a funeral. Mix them up and introduce them again if they don't talk to each other. Take Mr. Banister over to Gracie Hurd. He's afraid to cross the room to get to her and she hasn't budged since she came in. And get Mr. Schrioski from Mrs. Gibbons. She's telling him about the baby's whooping-cough and enjoying the telling; but he isn't. Go to him first." As I spoke to Lucy, David Guard came in the room. He wore his usual clothes, but his cravat was fixed with apparent firmness and no longer crawled half-way up his collar, and his hair had been carefully brushed. As we shook hands I laughed. "I'm frightened. Did you ever do a thing in a hurry and then wonder what you did it for? Most of these people have such a stupid time at home, so seldom go out at night, that I thought I'd have a party for them, but they seem to think they're at a show waiting for the curtain to go up. What am I going to do?" "Give them time. They can't unlimber all at once. Mrs. Crimm over there thinks it would be improper for her to smile, as she's just lost her brother, but Mr. Crimm is a performance in himself. What's he in uniform for?" "He goes on duty at twelve, and he doesn't want to lose time going home to change. Look at Archer Barbee. I believe he's in love with Loulie Hill." "He is. I hope they are going to be married soon. Why don't you let these people dance?" I had not thought of dancing. My guests were oddly assorted, of varying ages and conditions, and I had gathered them in for an evening away from their usual routine rather than with the view of getting a congenial group together, and the realization of social blundering was upon me. Dancing might do what I could not. To dance in my sitting-room would be difficult. The few things in the room adjoining it could be easily pushed against the wall, however, and quickly Fannie Harris and Mr. Guard began to make it ready. And while they made ready, Mr. Crimm was invited to sing. Mr. Crimm is my good friend. I had never known a policeman before I came to Scarborough Square, but I shall always be glad I know him. He is a remarkable man. He has been Mrs. Crimm's husband for thirty years and has his first drink to take. As I played the opening notes of "Molly, My Darling, There's No One Like You," Mr. Crimm took his place by the piano. Straight and important, shoulders back, and a fat right hand laid over a fat left one, both of which rested just above the belt around his well-developed waist, he surveyed the silent company with blinking, twinkling eyes. Mrs. Crimm, struggling between righteous pride in the possession of so handsome a piece of property as her blue-uniformed and brass-buttoned husband, and the necessity of subduing all emotions save that of respect, due to the recent death of her brother, sat upright in her chair, hands clasped in her lap, and eyes fastened on the floor. Not until the song was over did she lift them. "Molly, My Darling, There's No One Like You" is a piece of music permitting the making of strange sounds, and when Mr. Crimm sings it the sounds are stranger. At the third verse he asked all present to join in the chorus, and the effect was transforming. Bettina, standing in front of him, eyes uplifted as if entranced, and hands clasped tightly behind her back, was ready at the first word to join in, and shrilly her young voice piped an accompaniment to the deep notes of her official friend. With a nod of his head and a time-beating movement of both hands, Mr. Crimm began his work of leadership, and in five minutes every one in the room was around him, save his wife, who kept her seat, her lips tight and her eyes on the floor. As a garment thrown off, the stiffness disappeared, and feet tapped and heads moved to the rhythmic swing of first one song and then another, but finally Mr. Crimm wiped his perspiring face and called for silence. "It's Archie's time now. Step up, Archie, and tell the ladies and gentlemen how 'Mary Rode the Goat, She Did.' Shying is out of fashion. Step lively, Archie. This, ladies and gentlemen—" Mr. Crimm waved one hand and with the other grasped firmly the collar of his young friend's coat and drew him forward, "is Mr. Archer Barbee, who will now entertain you. Begin, Archie. Make your bow and begin." For a moment Archie stood in solemn silence, hands crossed on his breast and thumbs revolving rapidly. His lips made odd movements, although from them came no sound, and vacantly he stared ahead of him, in his eyes no expression, in his manner no hint of what was coming. Short and fat, with face round and red, hair red and curly, and ears of a prodigious size, he made a queer picture; and, ignorant of his power of mimicry and impersonation, I kept my seat on the piano-stool. That is for a while I kept it. When safety lay no longer on it I took refuge on the sofa. First, smiles had followed his beginning words, then shouts of laughter, then shrieks of it; and little gasping screams and bending of bodies and convulsive doubling up; and when finally he stopped we were spent and breathless, and for a while I could not see. When again my eyes were clear, Fannie Harris was standing by me. "If you think you can stand up, the room is ready for dancing." She pointed ahead of her. "Please look at Mrs. Mundy. She'll split her best black silk if she doesn't stop." Mrs. Mundy's cackles were getting shorter and shorter and, wiping her eyes, she joined us and nodded at Mr. Guard. "I haven't laughed as much since the first time I went to the circus, and if there's anything better for the insides than laughing, I've never took it. Seems to me it clears out low-downness and sour spirits better than any tonic you can buy, and for plum wore-outness a good laugh's more resting than sleep. When you're ready to have the hot things brought up, let me know, Miss Dandridge. Martha's down-stairs and everything's ready and just waiting for the word." It was hardly time for refreshments, and at Mr. Guard's announcement that all who cared to dance could go into the next room, a movement was made toward the latter, and then all stopped and waited for Archie Barbee, who, with a low bow, was asking Mrs. Crimm for the favor of a fox-trot. Rigidly Mrs. Crimm stiffened. Indignantly she waved Archie away. "I'm a church member. I never danced in my life, and it's unfeeling of you to be asking of me when my poor brother's only been in his grave eight days." She took out a, black-bordered handkerchief from a bag hanging at her side, and opened it carefully. "It's unfeeling of you, with him only dead one day over a week." Hands in his coat pockets, Archie bowed low. "I ask your pardon, ma'am. I hadn't heard about, your brother—leaving you, and I didn't guess it, seeing you sitting here as handsome as a hollyhock, though now you speak of it, I see your dress is elegant black and extra becoming. I beg you'll be excusing of me. Mrs. Mundy, ma'am, I hope you'll honor me." The room had grown quiet, each waiting for the other to move, and, hearing a step in the hall, I looked toward the door, which was partly open, then went forward, thinking a belated guest might be coming in. The door opened wider and Selwyn stood on its threshold. For a half-minute I stared at him and he at me. In his face was amazement. As I held out my hand he recovered himself and came inside. "I beg your pardon. I'm afraid I'm intruding. I did not know you were having a—" "Party. I am." I was angry with myself for the flush in my face. "You are in time to share in some of it. Mr. Guard"—I turned to the latter, who happened to be near the door—"will you introduce Mr. Thorne to some of my friends while I see Martha? I will be back in a moment." I had changed my mind and decided to have supper before we danced. Selwyn bit his lip and his eyes narrowed, then over his face swept change, and, shaking hands with David Guard, he went forward and spoke to Mrs. Mundy and Bettina; shook hands with Mr. Crimm, and met in turn each of my guests. Why had he come to-night of all nights? I asked myself. He evidently intended to stay and perhaps my party might be ruined. But it was not ruined. With an ability I did not know he possessed Selwyn gave himself to the furtherance of the evening's pleasure, talking to first one and then the other, and later, with the ease of long usage, he waited on Mrs. Gibbons and Mrs. Crimm, serving them punctiliously with all that was included in the evening's refreshments. When there was nothing more that he could do I saw him sitting between Gracie Hurd the little shirtwaist girl, and Marion Spade, a waitress at one of the up-town restaurants, eating his supper as they ate theirs, and they were finding him apparently somewhat more than entertaining. From my corner where I poured tea I watched the pictures made by the different groupings and tried not to think of Selwyn. He was behaving well, but he didn't approve of what I was doing. He rarely approves of what I do. "Do let Mrs. Mundy bring you some hot oysters." I leaned over and spoke to Bettie Flynn, upon whom Mrs. Mundy and I were keeping watch lest she show signs of her old trouble. "And can't I give you a cup of coffee?" I held out my hand for her empty cup. Bettie shook her head regarding the coffee, but handed her plate to Mrs. Mundy. "You certainly can give me some more oysters. I've been an Inmate for nine years and Inmates don't often have a chance at oysters. At the City Home your chief nourishment is thankfulness. You're expected to get fat on thankfulness. I ain't thankful, which is what keeps me thin, maybe." She turned to me. "My dress looks real nice, don't it? Seeing we're such different shapes, it's strange how good your clothes fit me. I hope the rats won't eat this dress. I'm going to keep it to be buried in. Good gracious! I didn't know you was going to have ice-cream and cake. I wouldn't have et all them oysters if I'd known." When supper was over Dick Banister, who is Gracie Hurd's beau, asked me, with awkward bowing, for the first dance, and, beginning with him, I danced with every man in the room who made pretense of knowing how, except Selwyn. He did not ask me. Bravely, however, he did his part. He overlooked no one, and David Guard, watching, blinked his eyes a bit and smiled. Selwyn would make a magnificent martyr. A situation forced upon him is always met head up. Mr. Crimm, who, like his wife, did not dance, though for different reasons, at a quarter to twelve took out his watch and, looking at it, got up with a start. "Come on, old lady, we've got to go." Taking his wife by the arm, he held out his hand to me. "It's been great, Miss Heath. I never had such a good time in my life. Good night, friends." He bowed beamingly, then made a special bow in Selwyn's direction. "I'm glad to know you, sir. I used to know your father. I've heard many a case tried in his court. A juster man never lived. Good night, sir. Good night, Miss Heath." When all good-bys were over and all were gone Selwyn, standing with his back to the fire, looked at me, but for a moment said nothing. As completely as if he had stepped from one body into another he seemed a different person from the man who had been most charming to my guests a few minutes before when he had told them good night as if he were, indeed, their host. Looking at him, I saw his face was haggard and worn and that he was nervously anxious and uneasy. "It is late. I know I shouldn't stay." His voice was as troubled as his eyes. "I'm sorry to keep Mrs. Mundy up, but I must talk to you tonight. Again I must ask you what to do." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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