II
But it was three days before Freda had capitulated. Her first reaction had been an angry shame at her mother’s inclusion of her in her own invitation. She had simply flatly refused to go. A little later it was possible to regard the business with some humor, and the shame had lost its sting. She had never known those people anyhow—never would know them—it didn’t matter what they thought. When she saw that the matter was not ended and sensed the depth of determination in her mother’s mind that her daughter should go with her to the Brownley’s she tried to be more definite even than before in her refusal. Her mother did not seem to hear her. She insisted on keeping the subject open, never admitting for a minute that it was or could be closed. She dwelt endlessly on the advantages of the visit—on the fact that the chance for Freda had come at last.
“Chance!” stormed Freda, “why it isn’t a chance to do anything except sponge on a few rich people whom I’ve never seen before in my life. You don’t really suppose, mother, that I’d go down there and let those Brownley girls make my life miserable. You don’t seem to realize, mother, that those two Brownleys are a very gay lot. They must be about my age—the older one anyway. Why, I wouldn’t think of it. What on earth would I do? What on earth would I wear? What would I say? What on earth would I be there anyhow? I’m no politician. I’m not helping Mrs. Brownley strengthen her fences or anything. If you ask me, mother, I wouldn’t think of going if I were you. Don’t you know she’s just making a play to the gallery by having you? Probably bragging about her great sense of democracy! Why, mother!”
“You don’t seem to realize,”—Mrs. Thorstad always began that way by assuming that you had missed her point, a point which was and always would be in accord with Right Living and Democracy and the Family and the Home, “that these social distinctions are of no value in my estimation. In this great country—”
Freda led her mother away from the brink of oratory.
“Look here,” she said, “if they aren’t a lot more important than we are—if you don’t think they are—what is this wonderful chance you are talking about?”
Just at what point Freda gave in, just at what point she felt that the possibilities of her trip outweighed its impossibilities she did not know. It was certain that the young Brownleys gave way to no noisier public mockery of the proposed visit than did Freda. She was even a little shrill. She told everybody how she “hated it,” how she was going along to the homes of the idle rich to chaperon her mother, that she was “breaking into high society,” that she was gathering material for a book on “how the other half lives,” that she would probably be mistaken for a housemaid and asked to dust the bed-rooms, that mother was trying to “marry her off,” that she “didn’t have an idea what to wear.” She talked to almost every one she met, somewhat unnecessarily, somewhat defiantly, as if determined to let any one know about her reasons for going, as if defending herself against any accusations concerning her motive in making such a visit, perhaps making sure that no later discomfiture on her own part could be made more severe by any suspicion of pleasurable anticipation.
She planned her clothes for St. Pierre with mocking but intense deliberation. A dark blue tricotine dress—she bought that at the ladies’ specialty shop and taking it home ripped off all the trimming substituting the flattest and darkest of braid. That was safe, she knew. She might not be startling but she would be inoffensive, she told her mother. There was a dress made by Miss Peterson, who sewed by the day, from a remnant of bronze georgette, and half shamefacedly Freda came home one night with a piece of flame colored satin and made it herself into a gown which hung from the shoulders very straightly and was caught at the waist with silver cord (from the drapery department). And there was an evening dress at which Freda scoffed but she and Miss Peterson spent some fascinated hours over it, making pale green taffetas and tulle fit her lovely shoulders.
“Though what I’m getting these clothes for is a mystery to me,” grumbled Freda. “They probably won’t even ask me to go out. Probably suggest that I eat with the servants.”
Yet she tried on the evening dress in the privacy of her room parading before her bureau mirror, which could not be induced to show both halves of her at once. And as she looked in the glass there came back the reflection of a girl a little flushed, excited, eager, as if in spite of all her mockery there was a dream that she would conquer unknown people and things—a hope that wonders were about to happen.
Never was there a trace of that before her mother. Having agreed to go, Freda was, on the whole, complaisant, but on principle unenthusiastic.
Her father gave her two hundred dollars the night before she went away. Mrs. Thorstad was at a neighbor’s house and the gift was made in her absence without comment on that fact. Freda, whose idea of a sizable check for her spending money was five dollars and of an exceptionally large one, ten, gasped.
“But what do I need this for?”
“You’ll find ways, my dear. It’s—for some of the little things which these other young ladies may have and you may lack. To put you at ease.”
“Yes, but it’s too much, father dear. For three or four weeks. You can’t possibly afford it.”
“Oh, yes, my dear. Only try to be happy, won’t you? Remember that it’s always worth while to learn and that there are very few people in the world who aren’t friendly by nature.”
That thought carried Freda through the next twenty-four hours, beginning with worry when she got on the train as to whether they were expecting her after all, through a flurry of excitement at the sense of “city” in St. Pierre, the luxury of the limousine which had been sent to meet them, through the embarrassment of hearing her mother begin to orate in a mild fashion on the beauty of Mrs. Brownley’s home and the “real home spirit” which she felt in it. Freda felt sure that such conversation was not only out of place but bad taste anyway. She was divided between a desire to carry the visit off properly, showing the Brownleys that she was not gauche and stupid, and an impulse to stalk through the days coldly, showing her disdain for mere material things and the impossibility of impressing her. Yet the deep softness of the hall rugs, the broad noiseless stair carpets, the glimpses through doorways into long quiet rooms seemingly full of softly upholstered furniture, lamps with wonderfully colored shades, pictures which had deep rich colors like the colors in the rugs, made her eyes shine, her color heighten.
Mrs. Brownley met them at the house and took them to their rooms herself. Mrs. Thorstad had a big pleasant room in a wing of the house given up to guest chambers and Freda’s was a small one connected with it.
“My daughters are looking forward so much to meeting you,” Mrs. Brownley said easily to Freda. “They are out just now, but when you come down for dinner they will be home. We usually dine at seven, Mrs. Thorstad. It isn’t at all necessary to dress.”
“She is nice, isn’t she?” said Freda, as the door closed after their hostess, “maybe it won’t be so bad. Anyway, all experience is good. Glad I remember that much Nietzsche. It often helps.”
Mrs. Thorstad put her trim little hat on the closet shelf and began to unpack her suit-case. Freda explored the bath.
“It’s like a movie,” she came back to say, “I feel just like the second reel when the heroine is seduced by luxury into giving herself—”
“Freda!”
“Truly I do. She always takes a look into the closet at rows of clothes and closes the door virtuously, gazes rapturously at the chaise longue all lumpy with pillows and stiffens herself. But she never can resist the look into the bath room—monogramed towels, scented soap, bath salts. I know just exactly how the poor girls feel. Certain kinds of baths are for cleanliness—others make a lady out of a sow’s ear—you know.”
“Why are you wearing that dress?” asked her mother, rousing from her nap fifteen minutes later. “I was going down in my waist and skirt.”
“Mother—you can’t. That wasn’t what she meant by not dressing. She meant not evening dress. You’ll have to put on your blue silk.”
“I wanted to save that for afternoon affairs.”
“You won’t wear it out to-night. Come, mother, I’ll hook you up.”
They were down at five minutes before seven. Barbara was not visible but Allie and her mother and father waited for them in the drawing-room. Crossing the threshold of that room seemed to take all Freda’s courage. If her mother had not been so absorbed in thinking of the way she meant to interest Mr. Brownley in her career, she would have heard the quick little catch of breath in Freda’s throat as she came through the velvet curtains behind her. She did see the quickened interest on Allie’s face and Mrs. Brownley’s measured glance of approval at Freda. Freda had been right. The Brownleys were dressed for dinner, quite elaborately it seemed to her. She made no note of the discrimination in evening clothes, that Mrs. Brownley’s velvet dress was high at the neck and Mr. Brownley’s tie black instead of white. Allie came forward with her rough and tumble welcome, shaking hands casually with Mrs. Thorstad and frankly admiring Freda. Allie herself had dressed in a hurry and was noticeable chiefly for the high spots of rouge on each cheek.
“Sorry I wasn’t home when you came. I had to go to a luncheon and then to the theater. Couldn’t get out of it. It was a party for a friend of mine who is to be married and I’m in the bridal party, you see. She’s an awfully nice girl—marrying the most awful lemon you ever saw.”
Freda knew all about that marriage. It had been heralded even in Mohawk. Gratia Allen and Peter Ward. But she gave no sign of knowing about it.
“Isn’t it funny,” she answered, getting Allie’s note with amazing accuracy, “how often that happens? The nicest girls get the queerest men.”
“Not enough decent men to go around any more.”
So it was all right until Barbara came in. A little party gathered in the meantime—the Gage Flandons, and Margaret Duffield with Walter Carpenter. Margaret was beginning to be asked as a dinner companion for Walter fairly often now. And as a concession to the young people Mrs. Brownley had asked three young men, Ted Smillie and the Bates boys, who traveled in pairs, Allie always said. They were all there when Barbara came in. Obviously she had some one, either the unknown guest or her friend Ted, in mind when she dressed, for she was perfectly done. Smoothly marcelled hair, black lace dress carrying out the latest vagaries in fashion, black slippers with jeweled buckles. As she gave her hand to Freda with the smile which held a faint hint of condescension, Freda bent her knuckles to hide the nail she had torn yesterday closing the trunk. She felt over dressed, obvious, a splash of ugly color. Ted had been talking to her but by a simple assumption that Freda could have nothing of interest to say, Barbara took up the thread of talk with him, speaking of incidents, people that were unknown to Freda. The Bates boys were talking to Allie. Freda stood alone for a moment—an interminable awkward moment, in which no one seemed to notice her. Then Gage Flandon crossed to her side and she gave him a smile which made him her friend at once, a smile of utter gratitude without a trace of pose.
“How nice of you,” she said, simply, “to come to talk to me. I feel so strange.”
“My wife says you’ve never met any of us before. No wonder.”
“It isn’t just that. I’m a little afraid I’m here without much reason. Mother brought me but I’m not a political woman and I’m not”—with a rueful little glance at Barbara—“a society girl at all. I’m afraid I’ll be in everybody’s way.”
She said it without any coquetry and it came out clearly so—as the plain little worry it was. Gage, who had found himself a little touched by the obvious situation of the girl felt further attracted by her frankness. She seemed an unspoiled, handsome person. That was what Helen had told him, but he had grown so used to sophistication and measured innocence that he had not expected anything from the daughter of this little political speaker. He had come to size up Mrs. Thorstad, for her name had been presented as a possibility in a discussion with some of his own friends as they went over the matter of recognizing women in the political field. As Mrs. Thorstad gave her hand to him he had seen what he came to see. She had brains. She had the politician’s smile. She could be used—and doubtless managed as far as was necessary. But the daughter was different. He liked that dress she was wearing. It showed her slimness, suppleness, but it didn’t make her indecent like that lace thing on Bob Brownley.
“I often feel like that,” he answered her, “I’m not much of a society person either and I can’t keep up with these wonderful women we’re seeing everywhere. Women with a lot of brains frighten me.”
Idle talk, with his real, little prejudice back it, which Freda by accident uncovered immediately. She was talking against time so he would not leave her unguarded, and it was chance that she pleased him so much.
“Women have a lot of brains now,” she said, “in politics and—society too, I suppose. But I wonder if we weren’t more attractive when we weren’t quite so brilliant. I don’t mean when we had huge families and did the washing and made the butter. I mean when we were more romantic and not quite so—”
She stumbled a little. She was conscious of being historically at sea, vague in her definition of romance. But she had said that several times before and it came easily to her tongue. She stopped, feeling awkward and then amazed at Mr. Flandon’s enthusiasm.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed, “that’s what I miss. Women have stopped being romantic. They’ve done worse. They’ve penetrated our souls and dug out the romance and analyzed it among themselves.”
But she could not answer. Some one announced dinner and Freda moved with the rest to get her first enchanted sight of the Brownley dining table with its wedge wood vases full of roses and narcissus, its shining perfection of detail.
She was near her hostess’ end of the table, Mr. Flandon at her left and one of the Bates boys at her right. Mrs. Brownley had wanted to talk to Gage and had decided, as she placed the cards, that Freda would take as little of his attention as any one present. She started in after the consommé to find out what Gage thought about the Republican committee. It was most unsatisfactory for he seemed to be absorbed in telling something to Miss Thorstad and gave answers to his hostess as if his mind were on something else. As for Gage, he was talking more animatedly than he had talked to any woman in years, thought his wife, watching him.
“What heresy is my husband pouring into your ears, Miss Thorstad?” she asked, leaning forward.
Freda blushed a little as the attention turned to her.
“He is telling me the arguments I’ve been wanting to hear—against being a perfectly modern woman.”
“Proselytizing!” said Margaret. “Wait a bit, Miss Thorstad. Let me get the other ear after dinner.”
“Freda likes to tease,” explained her mother to their host.
Barbara looked a little disdainful, making some remark sotto voce to Ted. But he was not listening. Freda had, in the rise of her spirits, given him a smile across the table, the kind of come-there smile she gave David Grant of Mohawk when she wanted to skate with him or dance with him—a smile of perfectly frank allure. He returned it with interest.
Helen did not follow up her remark. It had been scattered in the comments. Gage caught her eye and she gave him a look which said, “I told you there was something in that girl.” Gage immediately wanted to leave the table and tell Helen all about it. But Mrs. Brownley wanted to know something again. He turned to her.
It was fairly easy for Freda after all, in spite of Barbara, whose measuring eyes made her nervous whenever they were turned on her. She had a difficult time concealing the broken finger-nail and she was not at all sure whether to lift the finger bowl off the fruit plate with the lace doily or to leave the doily. Otherwise there were no great difficulties. There was a bad moment after dinner when it became clear to her that there was some altercation among the young people which concerned her. She could not guess what it was, but she saw Allie and Barbara in heated conclave. Then, with a little toss of her head, Allie came to her.
“We thought that you and I and Fred and Tony would go down to the Majestic. We had six tickets but Bob seems to think she and Ted have another date.”
And then Ted ruined things. He turned from where he and Tony Bates were smoking by the mantelpiece and strolled over to Freda.
“We’re going to the Majestic—and I’m going to sit next to you,” he announced.