Page:Everywoman's World, Volume 7, Number 7.djvu/31

THE
INFANT TENDERNESS

(Continued from page 7.)

cake, ma'am, and the dozen doughnuts you ordered for the kitchen since she came home," I heard the maid saying. This was a vile slander, I had only eaten seven.

It seemed, for a while after I went to the table, as though there might be going to be some unpleasantness. That there was not was due solely to the fact that I remembered what Miss de Villbiss bad said about keeping your soul calm amid annoyances. And after dinner I had my reward. We all went into the library and Elizabeth grabbed up the mail. After handing Mother and Dad and Kit their letters and taking nearly all the rest herself, Elizabeth threw one miserable envelope back on the table remarking, casually:

"There's a letter for you, Barbie. Looks like an invitation."

 

WITH a dignity that I hoped would rebuke Elizabeth for her rudeness to me, I said sweetly, "Thank you, Elizabeth dear," and picked up the letter. It was an invitation, and the kind of invitation I had never received before, being actually engraved on a big, square card. It said that Miss Field was giving a the dansant for Eugenia Wiggers, Al's sister, at the Columns, and I was invited. I do not usually associate with Eugenia. I cannot afford to because she is so much younger, being only fifteen. But this was different. Doubtless Al would be there and all of our crowd. I could scarcely believe my senses. It seemed impossible that anything so wonderful as a the dansant at the Columns was happening to me. And then I realized that it was the work of the Infant Tenderness. I had not expected any answer to my meditations so soon, but there it was—the beginning of my social career. It was Mother who brought me back from my thoughts.

"Haven't you some lessons to-night, Barbie?" she asked, pleasantly—too pleasantly. I knew immediately that for some reason Mother wanted to get me out of the room. I immediately decided not to go if I could possibly help it.

"Not to-night," I said. 1 intended, on going to bed, to sink myself in the Infant Tenderness and ask that I know my lessons without studying them.

When Mother found she had no excuse for sending me off up-stairs she handed the letter she had been reading to Dad, making signs for him to look at it and let her know by a silent motion of the head what he thought about it. But for once Dad failed her, and fortunate for me that he did.

"What does Barbie say about this?" he inquired, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

"I haven't been told about it yet," I returned coldly and distinctly. Mother was displeased and looked at Dad, meaningly. "If it is anything that concerns me I must insist on being told," I added.

"I suppose you will have to know now," Mother admitted, ungraciously.

"What does make that child so disagreeable?" Kit put in with feeling, although it was not I who was being disagreeable.

But Dad simply began reading the letter. It was from my Aunt Barbara Vane—the one I'm named after. Aunt Barbara was coming to spend the winter with us. She had been born and brought up in our city, but she had spent most of her life in foreign parts of the world. Now she wanted a winter at home with her family because in the spring she was going to be married and go to China with her husband, who was a civil engineer and building a railroad or a canal or something. She hoped Mr. Vincent could arrange to come on for a week while she was here so we could see him, for there was no telling when they would come back, And then came the interesting part. She had always intended doing something for me when I came out, because I was her namesake, she said. Of course she realized that I was too young to come out this winter, but under the circumstances, wouldn't Mother let her give me a series of little parties such as were suitable for juniors, starting, perhaps, with something a little more elaborate—a dinner dance, say. It could be understood that it was not a coming-out party.

"Why, the idea!" Kit gasped. Fortunate for me that Kit isn't my mother!

"I don't know,” Mother meditated, "whether it is wise or not."

Father turned to me. "What do you say, Kiddie?"

 

I HAD sunk down in a chair and was unconsciously sitting with my hands clasped in the attitude of meditation recommended by Miss de Villbiss. I felt almost stunned. The way the Infant Tenderness was working things made me fairly tremble with awe.

"Barbie, what's the matter?: I heard Father say from a great distance. "The child is fairly pale."

"Oh!" I managed at last. "Oh! A the dansant at the Columns and now this! In one evening! It is too much!"

Dad looked at Mother with a air.

"A the dansant at the Columns?" Mother questioned. "What do you mean?"

I handed her the invitation I had just received. "Miss Field!" Mother exclaimed. "Miss Field of Grandin Road! Kit and Elizabeth, a the dansant for Eugenia Wiggers! Why didn't you show this to me before, Barbie? It puts a new complexion on the matter. If Miss Field gives a party for Eugenia I don't see why your Aunt Barbara— The dinner dance, anyway. We can decide about the others later."

When my Aunt Barbara came she brought with her another proof of what the Infant Tenderness could do. It was a sealskin coat for me. When I looked at that coat I felt as though I were about to burst into pieces, I had never dreamed in my wildest moments that I should ever really possess anything like it. It had natural lynx collar and cuffs, and it lined with rose-coloured brocade. I just gave one look and folded the lovely thing in my arms while the tears ran unheeded down my cheeks. It was almost the holiest moment in my life.

"There, there!" said Aunt Barbara, and even Mother seemed moved, for she did not tell me it was too old or even remind me that I should be a happy, grateful girl.

"You must wear it for the first time to Miss Field's tea," was all she remarked,

I nodded dumbly. My mind was busy figuring out what kind of a dress would be wonderful enough to go with it. Mother expected me to wear my white tulle over green, which was considered by the family a very daring dress for me, and I did not undeceive her. But I knew differently. The Infant Tenderness would never allow a thing like that. But just what I should wear I only found out two days before the party. Aunt Barbara and I had gone down-town to order the invitations for my dinner and to buy place-cards and inquire about flowers and food and other luscious things. Aunt Barbara stopped for a minute at Glidden's to ask about a suit for herself, and there we saw it—my party frock, I mean.

Of course it was pink. It was covered with a frosty overdress of gauze embroidered in silver lilies. But I can't describe it for whenever I think of that frock which is now no more—

"Oh, Aunt Barbara!"

Aunt Barbara looked up. "What is it, dear?"

“Oh! That pink dress!"

Aunt Barbara went over to where it was standing on a form. "It is a sweet thing," she agreed. "Elizabeth would look like a wild rose in it."

I gave a start and a great shudder. Elizabeth! Elizabeth has fair hair, and every one knows that pink is a brunette's colour. I could just see my dark head poised above it daintily, but—Elizabeth!

 

AUNT Barhara glanced at me. "It's too old for you, Barbie, dear; we'll find something prettier. You wouldn't like that dress." She used the mollifying tone of voice people sometimes do use to me and that always makes me perfectly furious.

"I may never be able to have it, Aunt Barbara," I corrected firmly and with great dignity, "but that does not mean that I do not know what I want. I am sixteen and a women of the world, and I know that if it were my last earthly words I should say I want that dress."

Aunt Barbara seemed amused. I despise people when they are amused at me. It is the lowest form of wit. So I paid no more attention to Aunt Barbara. While she turned back to her suit I fairly hurled myself into the depths of the Gracious Silence. I felt as though this were the test. If It denied me that dress O should have no more use for the Infant Tenderness. I resolved to have faith that I should have that dress somehow before the party. So when Aunt Barbara finished and suggested that we go to the misses' department and see if there wasn't something I liked, I said "No, I had a lovely dress for the party, one I'd never worn and I was crazy about it."

And, sure enough, just as I came home from school the next afternoon Glidden's wagon was stopping in front of our house and the boy was running in with a suit-box. I signed for it without his having to ring, for It was marked "Miss Barbara Vane." I knew at once what it was. Fortunately everybody had gone out somewhere, and I carried the box to my room unmolested. I was glad that not even Delphine saw me. I have often had the experience of having to act as though I had done something wrong when I am really innocent. I was in that position now. So I hung the pink frock under my white tulle in the back of my closet, and thought of how, on the next day, I should burst into society.

All this time I have not mentioned the third request I had made of the Infant Tenderness—being engaged. This is not because nothing had happened, but because it is a painful subject. However, I intend to tell all, so that my posterities will be warned by my misfortunes and not be too trusting in a world where there is no justice.

When two weeks had gone by and I still saw no indications that I was engaged. I began to wonder what was the matter. It finally came over me that I was not acting as though I were engaged—I wasn't showing my faith. So the first thing I did was to tell Fidenia Jacocks—in confidence. Fidenia is like most women. If you just tell her something she is likely to forget it, but if you impress on her that not under any circumstances must any one else know, it is naturally the first thing she thinks of when she sees anybody. Within the short of one day it was known all over the school that I was engaged, and I was an object of profound veneration and awe.

Now I leave it to (Continued on next page.)

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PAGE 29

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