Читать книгу Leave it to Doris - Ethel Hueston - Страница 5

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"General, did you ask father if we may go to the Country Club da—party?" asked Rosalie, in her most irresistibly wheedlesome tone.

Doris looked very sober. "No, I didn't," she admitted slowly. "I am afraid we—shouldn't, Rosalie. We haven't anything to wear, in the first place. It is a regular party, you know."

"That is why I want to go. I am so tired of stupid little class affairs, and Endeavor socials. I want a regular, honest-to-goodness party. Please, Doris. Lots of our members belong to the Country Club. It is very respectable."

"But they are not preachers, and we are. And we haven't any regular party clothes."

"Use your eyes, my belovedest, and no one will notice your clothes. At least, the men won't," said Rosalie shrewdly.

"Rosalie, that positively is not nice. You mustn't do it."

"All right, General, just as you say. But your graduating dress is very sweet and becoming, and I can wear my pink crêpe. It is a little worn under the arms, but my eyes—Anyhow, as you say, the men won't pay any attention to our clothes."

"I did not say any such thing. How could we go, Rosalie? It is three miles out, and they go in cars—we haven't one, and we can't have a taxi, and we couldn't go alone anyhow."

"I never thought of that." Rosalie puzzled over it a moment. "I have it! Mr. and Mrs. Andrieson will go, of course. And they have their grand big car, and they like us very much, indeed."

"They aren't members—"

"Oh, well, there are a few quite nice people that don't belong to us. And they are terribly proper, you know, and go everywhere."

"But we can't ask to go with them."

"Why, certainly not. We won't have to." Rosalie got up slowly. "I think I feel like taking a stroll. I am restless to-day. I shall just saunter down Lawn Street, and maybe Mrs. Andrieson will be on her front porch. She always stops me, if she is in sight."

"You must not ask her—"

"Oh, Doris, I never thought of such a thing. But she is sure to invite us to go with her when she knows we were asked. And so if father comes in while I am gone, you'd better have it out with him. There's a sweet little General."

So nicely did Rosalie manage her meeting with Mrs. Andrieson that in less than an hour she was home with everything planned to her perfect satisfaction. Mrs. Andrieson was positively yearning to take them to the Country Club—it would be such fun to play chaperon to two pretty young girls. To Father Artman, one party was just like another—in his innocent eyes there was no difference between an Endeavor Social and a Country Club da—er, party—except that he had never been to the latter in person. And so it was entirely settled that they were to go, long before the General herself was at all convinced as to the propriety of it.

And when she found Rosalie before the long mirror in her room, with the soft bands of lace at the throat of the pink dress tucked carefully underneath and out of sight, permitting a quite generous exposure of soft white throat and shoulder, Doris knew for sure that it was a great mistake.

"Rosalie Problematic Artman," she said sternly. "We shall not go a step if that is your plan."

Rosalie looked tenderly at the pink shoulder. "Doesn't it look nice, Doris?" Reluctantly she restored the bands to their proper place. "I look like a silly little grammar-school kid. But that is what we get for being preachers. Never mind. I certainly have good shoulders if ever—if ever—"

"If ever what?"

"If ever I do get a chance at the outside of the ministry," she said blithely. "But, of course, father would faint at the bare idea, though it is not really low even with the bands turned under—nothing at all like the dresses other women wear."

Even Doris had to laugh at the childish fair face and the childish soft voice of little Rosalie as she descanted on the matter of "other women."

And Rosalie smiled good-naturedly. "Shall I teach you some of the new steps, Doris? Of course, you won't dance, but it will be more fun looking on if you know how it is done."

Doris waved the pretty temptress away, but she laughed.

On the night of the "regular party" she stood by with motherly solicitude while Rosalie piled her golden curls high on her head and drew little shining rings down low before her ears.

"I suppose even we preachers can fix our hair in style," she said in the ripply unruffled voice. For regardless of the clash of circumstances with her personal opinions and wants, Rosalie seldom showed real annoyance. But she fingered the bands at the throat of her dress and glanced at Doris with speculating, shining eyes.

The General, with her soft curls drooping tenderly about her face, with her wide frank eyes, wearing a white dress cut on simple lines, seemed a nice and bashful child beside her younger sister, who stoutly decreed that eyes are a talent, given one for cultivation.

When the Andriesons sounded their horn at the gate of the manse the girls ran down-stairs together, hand in hand.

"How do we look, father?" asked Doris, standing before him, straight and slim.

"Like a fresh white morning-glory," he said, kissing her.

"And how do I look?" dimpled Rosalie, drooping her warm eyes behind long lashes, and smiling seductively.

"Like an enchanted poppy tossing in the wind. Don't try to practise your blandishments on me, you little siren. Run along to your social, and be good girls, and don't you flirt, Miss Rosalie, or you'll have to go to an extra prayer-meeting next week."

Catching a hand of each, with Zee and Treasure shouting in the rear, he ran down the steps with them and out the stone walk to the motor, whirring impatiently. Then the car rolled away, and the girls sauntered back to the house, their arms around their father.

"Rosalie is going to have the time of her life, dadsy," said Zee wisely. "You mark my words. She wasn't practising those eyes on you for nothing."

"Oh, Zee, give me a rest," he cried, laughing. "Rosalie has naughty eyes, I know, but there is a lot of regular sense behind those curly lashes."

"Rosalie isn't going to let folks know it, though, unless she has to," said Zee, and the subject was closed.

But Doris soon realized that charming Mrs. Andrieson was no efficient chaperon for a butterfly like Rosalie. For as she led the girls into the dressing-room at the club house, she said lightly:

"Now toss the manse to the winds, my dears, and frolic like the regular buds you ought to be."

"I am going to," chirped Rosalie. "I am going to frivol just as hard as ever I can."

She asserted her independence without delay. "I can not go down there among all those evening gowns looking like this," she said. "Here, Mrs. Andrieson, can't we tuck these shoulder bands back a little?"

"To be sure we can," agreed the chaperon, and laughing excitedly, she folded back the soft lace from Rosalie's pretty shoulders.

"What a lovely throat you have, Rosalie. Can't we tuck it under a little more? That shoulder is too beautiful to waste."

"That is plenty, thanks," cried Rosalie, laughing nervously. "If it is too terribly awful, I won't do it, Doris," she said, looking directly at her sister.

Doris returned the gaze with honest searching eyes. "It isn't too terribly bad, Rosalie. And it does look lovely—and lots of our girls wear them much lower even at the socials—but father—"

"Oh, father would never know the difference. An inch or so of skin is nothing to us preachers, you know."

It was a lovely evening, in spite of Rosalie's naughtiness. Doris was fascinated as she watched the lightly moving figures swaying so rhythmically when the music said sway, and though she so many times had to say, "I am sorry, thank you, I do not dance," she was never left alone, and the hours were delightfully frittered with one and another of the men—not Christian Endeavor men, who had to talk of church things when they talked with members of the manse—but regular men, who went places, and did things, and had their names in the paper—regular men who talked of things that interested them. And of course that would interest Doris, who all her life had been in training for interest in others' lives.

Rosalie, after two or three painful refusals, clenched her slim white hands and ran to Doris.

"General," she whispered hurriedly, "you may shoot me at sunrise if you like, but I tell you right now that I am going to dance, dance, dance the very toes off my slippers. Yes, sir; I am. And it will be worth a good big punishment. To stand here like a mummy and say, 'I can't'—it is more than flesh and blood can stand—my flesh and blood, anyhow."

Doris was nothing if not honest, and she had to admit that Rosalie did seem almost predestined for that one-two-three-skippity-skip-skip business! But the members—Oh, of course, the members were doing it themselves, and Doris could see a deacon drinking something that—Well, Doris knew they never served it at the Endeavor socials—but things were so different with us preachers, so very different. And it would hurt father, that was the worst of it, and he was such a good dear old thing—But Doris had to sympathize with Rosalie a little. Was it possible that Providence might have erred a tiny bit in putting such loveliness and such naughtiness and such adorable sweetness into the gentle environs of a manse?

So intent was Doris upon the graceful figure of her winsome Problem that she did not see the man who had stopped at her side and was looking down with quizzical laughing eyes into her anxious face.

"My, such a lot of trouble," he said at last, and Doris looked up astonished.

"Oh, I beg your pardon—"

"No occasion in the world. I was laughing at you, so I must do the apologizing. But I feel justified in laughing at you. This isn't any place to worry. This is a party. Is your sweetheart dancing too often and too tenderly with your lovely friend?"

"I haven't any sweetheart," she said, laughing gaily at the notion. "It is my sister I am watching. She is such a nice, naughty little thing."

She pointed Rosalie out to him, not without pride, and flushed with pleasure when he commented warmly on her grace and beauty.

"And how beautifully she dances."

"Yes, she does, the little sinner. And a grand time we'll have in the morning, fixing things up with father."

"Doesn't he allow you to dance?"

"He allows us to do anything," said Doris with loyal dignity. "But we do not do it. We are preachers."

"What, all of you?"

"Oh, no, just father, but the rest of us back him up, you know."

"Well, since the naughty sister has involved the family in disgrace, why don't you support her, and have a good time yourself?"

"I am having a perfectly wonderful time, thank you, but I haven't Rosalie's feet and eyes. I do not know how to dance, and I do not care to learn. Rosalie gets those things by instinct, but I have none. She is the butterfly of the manse, and one is plenty." Then looking into his face gravely, she said, "I am different. Rosalie is always running into excitement and adventure. I never did in my life. I went clear through college, and was never even thrilled. Rosalie has thrills a dozen times a day. Of course, I was busy. We had Miss Carlton, but I did most of the work, and there was the church, and I studied harder than Rosalie does—I had to. She gets her lessons by instinct, too, I guess."

"Then very plainly now is your time for play. If excitement does not come to you, go after it. Look for your thrills. If you do, you will find them. If you do not stumble into romance, as your sister does, go and find it for yourself."

She laughed brightly at that. "I do not know where to look. And if I ran into it, very likely I should pass it by unrecognized. Rosalie says men are the best thrillers, but they do not thrill me. She says I am too sensible—sense and mystery go in opposite directions and never look back." She was studying him curiously. "I beg your pardon, but I do not recall your name. It is very stupid of me—"

"Not at all. You met so many when you first came in. It is quite natural that you should forget a few."

Doris thought it was not natural to forget those kind quizzical eyes, and that kind teasing voice, but she did not say so. Instead she waited. No information was forthcoming.

She laughed at him, wonderingly. "But I still do not know your name."

"No? Then here is a bit of mystery for you. Who am I? Whence do I come? Why am I here? I am a stranger, but you will see me again."

"You must be one of the new school-teachers or a professor in the college," she ventured, quite tingling with the bit of novelty new to her.

"Yes? Well, I am going to run away now and leave you to your chaperoning. But you must not forget me, little morning-glory."

"Why, my father called me that just before I left the house."

"There you see, I am a wizard. I can read your inmost thoughts. I—"

"I hope not," said Doris quickly.

"Come and have an ice with me before I go." He led her through a quiet hallway to a corner of the wide porch, and brought ices for her, and cake. And all the time he kept up that boyish teasing chatter, and always she watched him with curiosity and interest.

"You are too sensible to be inquisitive. You should say, Here is a brand from the burning, I must sow a good seed in his heart. And you should not even ask who, nor what, nor whither."

"I know it, but I do. If you were just ordinary, I should not care. But I can't imagine! You haven't been here a long time, that is certain. Or I should have seen you before. And if I had, I should remember. You are not a college student, for you are too old—and too clever."

"The last is an open insult, and the first is only dimly veiled. Now walk with me to the gate, Miss Morning-Glory." And at the gate he said, in a curious, half-sad voice, quite different from the gay bantering tone that had excited her curiosity, "You are a nice little thing," and went away.

Doris looked after him in astonishment. "Well, can you beat that?" she ejaculated. "Here I go through high school, and through college, and now when I am a grown-up old woman, and the head of a house, and the General of a mob—I get myself all mixed up in a funny business like this. Who in the world can he be? And where in the world did he come from? But he said I should see him again. I wonder what that bad little Rosalie is at now?"

And though she went immediately back to her sister, she did not forget the kind gray eyes and the kind gay voice.

"Did you have a nice time, Doris?" asked Mrs. Andrieson as they were driving swiftly homeward.

"Wonderful," said Doris in a voice of ecstatic content.

Mrs. Andrieson looked at her curiously. "I am afraid I neglected you. I had such a hard time keeping the boys from quarreling over Rosalie, and I knew you would not get into mischief."

Now that it was all over, and the excitement and the thrill were gone, Rosalie was quivering down to the very tips of her slippers. She had disgraced the manse, she had messed things up for father—and he was such a darling—Oh, Doris should not have let her! People would think it was father's fault—she had not thought of that before, now she could think of nothing else. "He is a good man," people would say, "but he can not control his children." And he did work so hard, and was so patient—and so many times his eyes looked tired, and once in a while, but not often, he would admit that his head ached a bit.

Doris was sympathetic as always, sympathetic in that unvoiced silence that understands everything, and hurts not a single particle. She knew by instinct that Rosalie was sick at heart. So they talked of other things, and after they got into bed she said tenderly:

"You were lovely, Rosalie, and I was so proud of you. And though you were very gay and lively, you were sweet, and had a sort of Presbyterian dignity about you that made you different."

Rosalie kissed her quickly, but did not speak.

When the family met again at the breakfast table Zee was overwhelming in her interest.

"How was the party? Did Rosalie flirt? Did all the men fall down at her feet stone dead?"

"No, little goose, they didn't. Men don't any more. And Rosalie did not flirt—exactly—and the party was glorious."

Doris did not glance at Rosalie, intent on the oatmeal before her.

"Were you the most beautiful ones there? Was anybody dazzled? Did the women wear low-necked dresses? Alice Graves says they don't wear any sleeves at all. Did they dance? Were there any members there? What did you have to eat?"

"Oh, you little chatter-box! How can I answer so many questions? Rosalie was dazzling—did you ever dream that I could dazzle anything? Yes, the ladies did. Yes, they danced. Yes, there were a lot of members. They had ices, and cakes, and coffee, and things to drink and—"

"And father," said Rosalie suddenly, "I pinned down the lace in the neck of my dress so it would show my shoulders."

He turned to Doris for confirmation.

"Just a little, father," she said loyally. "It did not show much, and Rosalie looked beautiful. I did not object to it."

"And I danced."

This was nothing short of a bomb bursting upon them. Even Zee was silenced. Doris felt all the pain of motherhood over an erring first-born. Slowly their father rallied.

"Did you do it—well? I hope you didn't stumble, or walk on ladies' dresses, or anything."

"She did it beautifully," said Doris meekly.

"Father, I ask you frankly, as man to man, is it wrong to dance?"

"We have been taught, Rosalie," he began slowly, but she interrupted him.

"That isn't fair. You tell me what you think. Why should we leave it to other men that we don't know? How can they decide? Do they know more about it than we do? It doesn't condemn it in the Bible. That would be decisive. But why do these other men take the privilege of deciding things for the rest of us?"

"They were wise men, and good. We let great statesmen make our laws, and we obey. We let great teachers tell us what and how to study that we may become educated, and we obey them. We let great doctors tell us how to safeguard our health, and we obey them. We let the leaders in all other professions tell us what to do, where to go, what to eat, what to wear—and we obey. We might trust the fathers of the church a little, don't you think?"

"But it is such a simple thing. And so natural. Just moving to music, that is all. Soldiers love to march to the drum, children prance to the music of the band. It is human nature."

"My dear, if you want to move to music, let Zee here go up and down town beating a drum for you, and you march your little head off."

Rosalie joined the laughter. "I like the other kind better. Then you truly think it is—dangerous, or wrong, or unwise, or something?"

"I have never danced myself, dear."

"Stand up here, and let me show you. Now, you go this way. One, two, three; one, two, three; skippity, skip, skip; one, two, three—and that is all there is to it."

"Simple, isn't it?"

"Perfectly simple. Now is that wrong?"

"Well, Rosalie, I tell you frankly, as man to man, if I were young and had a soft shoulder like yours against my arm, and a pretty face like yours very close to my lips—I should probably be tempted to kiss it."

"Oh, father," cried Rosalie, joining the burst of laughter. "You would not do it, surely."

"Not in public, no. And I may add, if I had a pretty hand like yours in mine, I should probably squeeze it, and if I had my arm around your waist like this—I'd probably squeeze that, too."

Merry laughter greeted the admission. Then in the silence that followed he said slowly. "There are many things I could do, Rosalie, that would do me no harm, and others no harm. But would I get pleasure enough out of the doing to make it worth my while? Suppose even one person should say, 'He is a vain and worldly man, I do not wish to go to him in my trouble.' If one person should say that of me, I would consider I had paid too big a price for the little amusement. It may be one of the things we give in return for the badge of the ministry, my dear—I, for one, am willing to give it. It is the one big talent of our profession—the talent of giving up."

Rosalie looked at him steadily.

"And I believe that any one who is not willing to exercise that talent does not fit into a manse."

Rosalie swallowed hard. "I—I do fit, father—I want to. I—I could never be happy any place in the world—outside the manse." Then she added brightly, "So I must never dance any more?"

"Ask the General," he hedged quickly. "She is the head of the family."

"Well, General, speak up, how about it?"

"What a naughty Problem you are," said the General tenderly. "Well, then, if it is up to me, I say this: Father has put it to you squarely. And I know this, Rosalie, that when anything is put squarely on your own shoulders, you straighten up and carry it without flinching. You are old enough to solve your own troubles. This is yours—find the answer for yourself."

"Oh, you bad General," cried Rosalie, laughing. "Now I can not blame it on any one but myself, and I did so want to sympathize with myself, and say, 'I can dance wonderfully, but they won't let me.' Oh, well, I should worry. And, General, by the way, I may as well confess that I was jealous of you last night. You were so different, and so remote—every one had to go to you, away from the whirl, back into your corner where you stood serene. I kept thinking what a nice manse type you are, always distinct, always different, and sweeter than anything. So I had already decided—I just wanted to find out what you would say."

Then Rosalie was gone in a flash, chasing Zee out into the garden for a merry frolic.