Kitabı oku: «Marjorie's Maytime», sayfa 7

CHAPTER XIII
A CHILDREN'S PARTY

The next day the children tried very hard to be good. It was not easy, for Grandma seemed especially punctilious, and reprimanded them for every little thing. She told them of the party in the afternoon, and taught them how to make curtseys to greet the guests.

"I know how to curtsey," said Marjorie. "I always do it at home, when mother has callers. But I don't curtsey to children."

"Yes, you must," said Grandma. "I don't want my grandchildren behaving like a lot of rustics."

This speech greatly offended Marjorie, and it was with difficulty that she refrained from answering that they were not rustics. But she controlled herself, and said that of course she would curtsey to the young guests if Grandma wished her to.

"Now that's a little lady," said Grandma, approvingly, and Marjorie felt glad that she hadn't given way to her irritation.

"What time is the party, Grandma?" asked Kitty.

"From four to six, Kitty; but you children must be dressed, and in the drawing-room at quarter before four."

The day dragged along, as there was nothing especial to do and no way to have any fun. Grandpa Maynard had gone out with their father, and though the children went up in the billiard room they didn't feel just like romping.

"I hate this house!" said King, unable to repress the truth any longer.

"So do I!" said Kitty. "If we stay here much longer, I'll run away."

This surprised the other two, for Kitty was usually mild and gentle, and rarely gave way to such speech as this.

"It's Grandma Maynard that makes the trouble," said King. "She's so pernickety and fussy about us. I'd behave a great deal better if she'd let me alone. And Grandpa wouldn't bother about us if Grandma didn't make him."

"I don't think you ought to talk like that, King," said Marjorie. "Somehow, it doesn't seem right. It isn't respectful, and all that, and it doesn't seem a nice thing to do."

"That's so, Mops; you're just right!" said King, taking the reproof in good part, for he knew it was merited. "It's a whole lot worse to be disrespectful about your grandpeople than to carry on and make a racket, I think."

"Yes, it is," said Marjorie, "and I say the rest of the time we're here, let's try to do just right. Because it's only two or three days anyway. I think we're going on day after to-morrow."

So they all agreed to try afresh to behave correctly, and on the whole succeeded pretty well.

Promptly at quarter of four that afternoon they presented themselves in the drawing-room for Grandma's inspection.

"You look very well," Grandma said, nodding her head approvingly at the girls' frilly white dresses and King's correct clothes. "Now I trust you'll behave as well as you look."

"What do you want us to do, Grandma?" asked Marjorie. "I mean to entertain the boys and girls."

"Oh, nothing of that sort, child; the entertainment will be provided by a professional entertainer. You have only to greet the guests properly, and that is all you need do."

Marjorie did not know quite what a professional entertainer was, but it sounded interesting, and she was quite sure she could manage to greet the guests politely.

Although Marjorie's mother was in the room, she had little to say, for Grandma Maynard was accustomed to dominate everything in her own house. And as her ideas were not entirely in accord with those of her daughter-in-law, the younger Mrs. Maynard thought it wise not to obtrude her own opinions.

Promptly at four o'clock the children began to come. The Maynards stood in a group at one end of the long room, and as each guest arrived, a footman stationed at the doorway announced the name in a loud voice. Then each little guest came and curtsied to the receiving party, and after a few polite remarks, passed on, and was ushered to a seat by another footman.

The seats were small, gilt chairs with red cushions, arranged all round the wall, and there were about forty.

In a short time the guests were all in their places, and then the Maynards were shown to their seats.

Then the professional entertainer arrived. She proved to be a pretty and pleasant young lady, and she wore a light blue satin gown and a pink rose in her hair.

First, she sang a song for them, and then she told a story, and then she recited a poem.

Then she asked the children what they would like to have next. At first no one responded, and then a little girl said, "Won't you sing us another song, please. You sing so delightfully."

Marjorie looked in amazement at the child who talked in such grownup fashion. But the entertaining lady did not seem to think it strange, and she replied, "Yes, I will sing for you with pleasure."

So she sang another song, but though it was pretty music, Marjorie could not understand the words, and she began to think that the programme was rather tiresome.

The lady kept on telling stories and reciting poems, and singing, until Marjorie almost had the fidgets. It seemed so unlike her notion of a children's party, to sit still and listen to a programme all the afternoon, and she grew cramped and tired, and longed for it to be over. But the city children did not seem to feel that way at all. They sat very demurely with their hands clasped, and their slippered feet crossed, and applauded politely at the proper times. Marjorie glanced at King and Kitty, and their answering glances proved that they felt exactly as she did herself. However, all three were determined to do the right thing, and so they sat still, and tried to look as if they were enjoying themselves.

At half-past five the programme came to an end, and the children were invited to go out into the dining-room for the feast.

The dining-room was transformed into a place of beauty. Small tables accommodated six guests each, and at each place was a lovely basket of flowers with a big bow of gauze ribbon on the handle. Each table had a different color, and the flowers in the basket matched the ribbon bow. Marjorie's basket was filled with pink sweet peas, while at another table Kitty had lavender pansies, and King found himself in front of a basket of yellow daisies.

The feast, as might have been expected at Grandma Maynard's, was delicious, but the Maynard children could not enjoy it very much because of their environment. They were not together, and each one being with several strangers, felt it necessary to make polite conversation.

King tried to talk on some interesting subject to the little girl who sat next him.

"Have you a flower garden?" he said.

"Oh, no, indeed; we live in the city, so we can't very well have a flower garden."

"No, of course not," agreed King. "You see, we live in the country, so we have lots of flowers."

"It must be dreadful to live in the country," commented the little girl, with a look of scorn.

"It isn't dreadful at all," returned King; "and just now, in springtime, it's lovely. The flowers are all coming out, and the birds are hopping around, and the grass is getting green. What makes you say it's dreadful?"

"Oh, I don't like the country," said the child, with a shrug of her little shoulders. "The grass is wet, and there aren't any pavements, and everything is so disagreeable."

"You're thinking of a farm; I don't mean that kind of country," and then King remembered that he ought not to argue the question, but agree with the little lady, so he said, "But of course if you don't like the country, why you don't, that's all"

"Yes, that's all," said the little girl, and then the conversation languished, for the children seemed to have no subjects in common.

At her table, Marjorie was having an equally difficult time. There was a good-looking and pleasant-faced boy sitting next to her, so she said, "Do you have a club?"

"Oh, no," returned the boy; "my father belongs to clubs, but I'm too young."

"But I don't mean that kind," explained Marjorie; "I mean a club just for fun. We have a Jinks Club,—we cut up jinks, you know."

"How curious!" said the boy. "What are jinks?"

Marjorie thought the boy rather silly not to know what jinks were, for she thought any one with common sense ought to know that, but she said, "Why, jinks are capers,—mischief,—any kind of cutting up."

"And you have a club for that?" exclaimed the boy, politely surprised.

"Yes, we do," said Marjorie, determined to stand up for her own club. "And we have lovely times. We do cut up jinks, but we try to make them good jinks, and we play all over the house, and out of doors, and everywhere."

"It must be great fun," said the boy, but he said it in such an uninterested tone that Marjorie gave up talking to him, and turned her attention to the neighbor on her other side.

When the supper was over, the young guests all took their leave. Again the Maynards stood in a group to receive the good-byes, and every child expressed thanks for the afternoon's pleasure in a formal phrase, and curtsied, and went away.

When they had all gone, the Maynard children looked at each other, wondering what to do next.

"You may go up to the billiard room and play, if you like," said Grandma, benignly. "You will not want any other supper to-night, I'm sure; so you may play up there until bedtime."

Rosy Posy was carried away by the nurse, but the three other children started for the billiard room. Marjorie, however, turned back to say, "We all thank you, Grandma Maynard, for the party you gave us."

Kitty and King murmured some sort of phrase that meant about the same thing, but as they had not enjoyed the party at all they didn't make their thanks very effusive, and then the three walked decorously upstairs. But once inside the billiard room, with the door shut, they expressed their opinions.

"That was a high old party, wasn't it?" said King.

"The very worst ever!" declared Kitty. "I never got so tired of anything in my life, as I did listening to that entertaining person, or whatever they call her."

"It was an awful poky party," said Marjorie, "but I think we ought to give Grandma credit for meaning to give us pleasure. Of course she's used to children who act like that, and she couldn't even imagine the kind of parties we have at home, where we frolic around and have a good time. So I say don't let's jump on her party, but remember that she did it for us, and she did it the best she knew how."

"You're a good sort, Mopsy," said King, looking at his sister affectionately. "What you say is all right, and it goes. Now let's cut out that party and try to forget it."

There were some quiet games provided for the children, and so they played parcheesi and authors until bedtime, for though the billiard room was hardly within hearing of their grandparents, yet they did not feel like playing romping games.

"I don't think I shall ever holler again," said King. "I'm getting so accustomed to holding my breath for fear I'll make too much noise that I'll probably always do so after this."

"No, you won't," said practical Kitty. "As soon as you get away from Grandma Maynard's house you'll yell like a wild Indian."

"I expect I will," agreed King. "Come on, let's play Indians now."

"Nope," said Marjorie; "we'd get too noisy, and make mischief. I'm going to bed; I'm awfully tired."

"So'm I," said Kitty. "Parties like that are enough to wear anybody out!"

They all went downstairs to their bedrooms, but as Marjorie passed the door of her grandmother's room, she paused and looked in.

"May I come in, Grandma?" she said. "I do love to see you in your beautiful clothes. You look just lovely."

Marjorie's compliment was very sincere, for she greatly admired her grandmother, and in spite of her formality, and even severity, Marjorie had a good deal of affection for her.

The maid was just putting the finishing touches to Mrs. Maynard's costume, and as she stood; robed in mauve satin, with sparkling diamond ornaments, she made a handsome picture. Mrs. Maynard was a beautiful woman, and exceedingly young-looking for her age. There was scarcely a thread of gray in her dark brown hair, and the natural roses still bloomed on her soft cheeks.

Marjorie had not seen her grandmother before in full evening attire, and she walked round, gazing at her admiringly.

"I don't wonder my father is such a handsome man," she said. "He looks ever so much like you."

Grandma Maynard was pleased at this naïve compliment, for she knew Marjorie was straightforward and sincere. She smiled at her little granddaughter, saying, "I'm glad you're pleased with your family's personal appearance, and I think some day you will grow up to be a pretty young lady yourself; but you must try to remember that handsome is as handsome does."

Marjorie's adaptable nature quickly took color from her surroundings and influences, and gazing at her refined and dignified grandmother, she said earnestly, "When I grow up, Grandma, I hope I'll look just like you, and I hope I'll behave just like you. I am rather a naughty little girl; but you see I was born just chock-full of mischief, and I can't seem to get over it."

"You are full of mischief, Marjorie, but I think you will outgrow it. Why, if you lived with me, I believe you'd turn my hair white in a single night."

"That would be a pity, Grandma," and Marjorie smiled at the carefully waved brown locks which crowned her grandma's forehead.

"Now I'm going down to dinner, Marjorie,—we have guests coming. But if you like, you may amuse yourself for a little while looking round this room. In that treasure cabinet are many pretty curios, and I know I can trust you to be careful of my things."

"Thank you, Grandma; I will look about here for a little while, and indeed I will be careful not to harm anything."

So Grandma's satin gown rustled daintily down the stairs, and Marjorie was left alone in her beautifully appointed bedroom.

She opened the treasure cabinet, and spent a pleasant half hour looking over the pretty things it contained. She was a careful child, and touched the things daintily, putting each back in its right place after she examined it.

Then she locked the glass doors of the cabinet, and walked leisurely about the room, looking at the pretty furnishings. The dainty toilet table interested her especialty, and she admired its various appointments, some of which she did not even know the use of. One beautiful carved silver affair she investigated curiously, when she discovered it was a powder box, which shook out scented powder from a perforated top. Marjorie amused herself, shaking some powder on her hand, and flicking it on her rosy cheeks. It was a fascinating little affair, for it worked by an unusual sort of a spring, and Marjorie liked to play with it.

She wandered about the room with the powder-box still in her hand, and as she paused a moment at Grandma's bedside, a brilliant idea came to her.

The bed had been arranged for the night. The maid had laid aside the elaborate lace coverlet and pillow covers, had deftly turned back the bed clothing in correct fashion, and had put Grandma's night pillow in place.

For some reason, as Marjorie looked at the pillow, there flashed across her mind what Grandma had said about her hair turning white in a single night, and acting on a sudden impulse, Marjorie shook powder from the silver box all over Grandma's pillow. Then chuckling to herself, she replaced the powder-box on the dressing table, and went to her own room.

CHAPTER XIV
A MERRY JOKE

The next morning, while Marjorie was dressing, she heard a great commotion in the halls. Peeping out her door she saw maids running hither and thither with anxious, worried faces. She heard her grandmother's voice in troubled accents, and Grandfather seemed to be trying to soothe her.

Naughty Marjorie well knew what it was all about, and chuckled with glee as she finished dressing, and went down to breakfast.

She found the family assembled in the breakfast room, and Grandma Maynard telling the story. "Yes," she said, "I knew perfectly well that to have these children in the house, with their noise and racket, would so get on my nerves that it would turn my hair white, and it has done so!"

Marjorie looked at Grandma Maynard's hair, and though not entirely white, it was evenly gray all over. As she had laid her head on her plentifully-powdered pillow, and perhaps restlessly moved it about, the powder had distributed itself pretty evenly, and the result was a head of gray hair instead of the rich brown tresses of the night before.

Her son and daughter-in-law could not believe that this effect was caused by the disturbance made by their own children; but far less did they suspect the truth of the matter. Whatever opinions the various members of the family held as to the cause of the phenomenon, not one of them suspected Marjorie's hand in the matter.

As for Midget herself, she was convulsed with glee, although she did not show it. Never had she played a joke which had turned out so amazingly well, and the very fact that neither Kitty nor King knew anything about it lessened the danger of detection.

"It seems incredible," Grandma went on, "that this thing should really happen to me, for I've so often feared it might; and then to think it should come because the visit of my own grandchildren was so upsetting to my nerves!"

"Nonsense, Mother," said her son, "it couldn't have been that! It isn't possible that the children, no matter how much they carried on, would have any such effect as that!"

"You may say so, Ed; but look at the effect, and then judge for yourself; what is your explanation of this disaster that has come to me?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, Mother,—but it couldn't be what you suggest. I've heard of such an accident happening to people, but I never believed it before. Now I'm forced to admit it must be true. What do you think, Helen?"

Mrs. Maynard looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she said slowly, "but it must be the symptom of some disease or illness that has suddenly attacked Mother Maynard."

"But I'm perfectly well," declared the older lady; "and a thing like this doesn't happen without some reason; and there's no reason for it, except some great mental disturbance, and I've had nothing of that sort except the visit of these children! Ed, you'll have to take them away."

"I think I shall have to," said Mr. Maynard, gravely. It was a great trial to him that his parents could not look more leniently upon his children. He had rarely brought them to visit their grandparents, because it always made his mother nervous and irritable. But it was too absurd to think that such nervousness and irritation could cause her brown hair to turn almost white, a proceeding which he had always thought was a mere figure of speech anyway.

Breakfast proceeded in an uncomfortable silence. It was useless to try to console Grandma Maynard, or to make her think that the gray hair was becoming to her. Indeed, everything that was said only made her more disconsolate about the fate which had overtaken her, and more annoyed at the children, whom she considered to blame.

At last, sharp-eyed, practical Kitty volunteered the solution. She had sat for some time watching her grandmother, and at last she felt sure that she saw grains of powder fall from the gray hair to the shoulder of Grandma's gown. When she was fully convinced that this was the case, she looked straight at the victim of misfortune and said, "Grandma, I think you are playing a trick on us. I think you have powdered your hair, and you are only pretending it has turned gray."

"What do you mean, Kitty, child?" said her father, in amazement, for it almost seemed as if Kitty were rebuking her grandmother.

"Why, just look, Father! There is powder shaking down on Grandma's shoulder."

"Nonsense!" cried Grandma, angrily. "I'd be likely to do a thing like that, wouldn't I, Miss Kitty? And indeed, if it were powder, and could be brushed out, and leave my hair its natural color, I should be only too grateful!"

This was Marjorie's chance. She loved to make a sensation, and laying down her knife and fork, she said, quietly, "Kitty is right, Grandma; it is nothing but powder, and I put it there myself."

"What!" exclaimed Grandma. "Do you mean to say, Marjorie, that you powdered my hair? How did you do it? Oh, child, if you are telling me the truth, if it is really only powder, I shall be so relieved that I will make you a handsome present!"

This was a new turn of affairs, indeed! Marjorie had had misgivings as to the results of her practical joke, but it had seemed to her merely a harmless jest, and she had hoped that it might be taken lightly. But when Grandma expressed such consternation at her whitened hair, Marjorie had been shaking in her shoes, lest she should be punished, rather than laughed at for her trick. And now to be offered a beautiful present was astonishing, truly! The ways of grownups were surely not to be counted upon!

With lightened spirits, then, and with sparkling eyes, Marjorie completed her confession. "Yes," she went on, "after you said last night that you b'lieved us children could turn your hair white in a single night, I thought I'd make believe we did. So,—and you know, Grandma, you told me I could stay around in your room for a while, and look at your pretty things,—so, when I saw that queer sort of a powder-shaker I couldn't help playing with it. And then when I saw your bed all fixed so nice for the night, I thought it would be fun to powder your pillow. I've heard of people doing it before. I didn't make it up myself. So I shook the powder all over your pillow, and then of course you put your head on it, and of course it made your hair white."

Marjorie's parents looked aghast, for to them it seemed as if she had simply played a practical joke on her grandmother, and one not easily forgiven, but Grandpa Maynard expressed himself in a series of chuckles.

"Chip of the old block," he said. "Chip of the old block! Just what you would have done, Ed, when you were a boy, if you had thought of it! Marjorie, practical jokes run in the family, and you can't help your propensity for them! I don't approve of them, mind you, I don't approve of them, but once in a while when one works out so perfectly, I can't help enjoying it. What do you say, Mother?"

He turned to his wife, and to the surprise of all, she was beaming with joy. It was not so much her enjoyment of the joke as her relief at finding that her hair had not turned gray, and could easily be restored to its beautiful brown.

"I'm quite sure I ought to be annoyed," she said, smiling at Marjorie. "I'm almost certain I ought to be very angry, and I know you ought to be punished. But none of these things are going to happen. I'm so glad that it is only a joke that I forgive the little jokemaker, and as I promised, I will give you a present as an expression of my gratitude."

And so the breakfast ended amid general hilarity, and afterward Grandma took Marjorie up to her own room, and they had a little quiet talk.

"I don't want you to misunderstand me, dear," she said, "for practical jokes are not liked by most people, and they're not a nice amusement for a little girl. But, I'm afraid, Marjorie, that I have been too harsh and stern with you, and so I think we can even things up this way. I will pass over the rudeness and impertinence of your deed, if you will promise me not to make a practice of such jokes throughout your life. Or at least, we will say, on older people. I suppose a good-natured joke on your schoolfellows now and then does no real harm; but I want you to promise me never again to play such a trick on your elders."

"I do promise, Grandma; and I want to tell you that your kindness to me makes me feel more ashamed of my naughty trick than if you had punished me. You see, Grandma, I do these things without thinking,—I mean without thinking hard enough. When the notion flies into my head it seems so funny that I just have to go on and do it! But I am trying to improve, and I don't cut up as many jinks as I used to."

"That's a good girl. Marjorie, I believe you'll make a fine woman, and I wish I could have the training of you. How would you like to come and live with me?"

"That's funny, Grandma," said Midget, laughing, "after all you've said about your not wanting us children in the house."

"I know it; and I can't stand the whole lot of you at once, but I really do believe, Marjorie, that I'll take you and bring you up. I shall speak to your father and mother about it at once."

"Oh, Grandma, don't!" And Marjorie clasped her hands, with a look of horror on her face. "Don't ask me to leave Mother and Father! And King, and Kitty, and the baby! Why, Grandma, I couldn't do it, any more than I could fly!"

"Why not? You don't realize all I could do for you. We live much more handsomely than you do at home, and I would give you everything you wanted."

"But, Grandma, all those things wouldn't make any difference if I had to leave my dear people! Why, do you really s'pose I'd even think of such a thing! Why, I couldn't live without my own father and mother! I love you and Grandpa, and since you've been so kind and forgiving this morning, I love you a lot more than I did; but, my goodness, gracious, sakes, I'd never live with anybody but my own special particular bunch of Maynards!"

"It's a question you can't decide for yourself, child. I shall speak to your parents about it, and they will appreciate better than you do the advantages it would mean for you to follow out my plan. Now I will give you the present I promised you, and I think it will be this very same silver powder-box. You probably do not use powder, but it is a pretty ornament to set on your dressing table, and I want you to let it remind you of your promise not to play practical jokes."

"Oh, thank you, Grandma," said Marjorie, as she took the pretty trinket; "I'm glad to have it, because it is so pretty. And I will remember my promise, and somehow I feel sure I'm going to keep it."

"I think you will, dear, and now you may run away for the present, as I am going to be busy."

Marjorie found King and Kitty in the billiard room, waiting for her.

"Well, you are the limit!" exclaimed King. "How did you ever dare cut up that trick, Mops? You got out of it pretty lucky, but I trembled in my boots at first. I don't see how you dared play a joke on Grandma Maynard of all people!"

"Why didn't you tell us about it?" asked Kitty. "Oh, did she give you that lovely powder-box?"

"Yes," laughed Marjorie, "as a reward for being naughty! And she's going to reward me further. What do you think? She's going to take me to live with her!"

"What!" cried King and Kitty, in the same breath. And then King grasped Marjorie by the arm. "You shan't go!" he cried. "I won't let you!"

"I won't either!" cried Kitty, grasping her other arm. "Why, Mops, we simply couldn't live without you!"

"I know it, you old goosey! And I couldn't live without you! The idea! As if any of us four Maynards could get along without any of each other!"

"I just guess we couldn't!" exclaimed King, and then as far as the children were concerned, the subject was dropped.