by W. S. Lewis
V
The night following Nancy's return was the night of the Norris party,the party which is to Woodbridge what the Mardi Gras is to New Orleans,the Carnival to Rome, and what the Feast of the Ygquato Bloom was to theancient Aztecs. It is always held on the twenty-first of March, Sundayof course excepted, and it is known as the Vernal. Not to be seen at itis too bad. Not to be invited--unlike the lupercals before mentioned itrequires invitations--is a blight mercifully spared all but the mostpainfully outre. Of these the Coogans, who live in Center and whoseconnubial infelicities are proverbial, are an example. Tradespeoplefrequently bear witness to the marks of a man's fingers on Mrs. Coogan'sfair--and by no means insignificant--arm, and it is common property thatshe drinks paregoric. It is quite clear, of course, that such people cannot expect to be invited.
The Vernal has always been "different." In the old days Mrs. Norris sether face against dancing, not upon any moral grounds, certainly, butbecause of its alleged dullness. Why couldn't people enjoy one anotherwithout flying into a perspiration? she asked; but, unfortunately forher plans for the establishment of an animated conversazione, thesubstitutes she had advocated were felt to be even duller. So, one byone, all her nice games were abandoned and only the charade is left.This however has gained in popularity, if anything, and certainly it hasgained paraphernalia. Mrs. Norris's costume box has overflowed into atrunk, and from the trunk has spread into a closet, and the closet isnow nearly filled. From this treasure the two captains select theircolleagues' wardrobes, a duty discharged in advance of the performanceby way of ensuring enough professionalism to prevent the party'scollapsing at the start. In other words, Mrs. Norris, although lucklessin the matter of "adverbs," memory contests, and backgammon tourneys,has established charades.
It used to be a masquerade party, but because of certain unhappycircumstances which have recently befallen, it was decided this year todo without the masks and "Fancy dress." For the last few years peoplehave been complaining a little of the necessity of getting something neweach year. Mrs. Bates, for example, has exhausted the possibilities ofher husband's summer bath robe. It served excellently at first as aRoman toga, and the next year it did well enough for Mephistopheles. Bycutting away the parts ravaged by moths it passed as a pirate, but shedespairs of any further alteration. Then, too, it would always beremembered that a stranger at the last Vernal had in all seriousnessreproved old Professor Narbo, the Chemist, for not taking off his funnyold mask when he already had done so, a mishap none the less enjoyedbecause the bringing of a similar charge to one's friends has been aninevitable jest among the wags for generations. Professor Narbo had beenoffended, and great is the offendedness of a Full Professor,particularly when he is a Heidelberg Ph.D. and parts his hair all theway down the back. The stranger had been crushed; and, all in all, itwas as mortifying an affair as one could well imagine, and one which initself would have been enough to do away with the masks--along-discussed possibility--had not worse followed. Edgar Stebbins,Assistant Professor of History, was unfortunately a little too warmlydevoted to the memory of the grape, or, more specifically, of the corn.Being mildly mellowed by something more than the memory of it, he foundoccasion to embrace a lady who was dressed in his period, the LateRoman, and to whom he was naturally drawn. The lady promptly screamedand unmasked; and the situation was not at all improved by its beingdiscovered that she was the wife of Professor Robbins of the LatinDepartment, with which gentleman Mr. Stebbins was not on speaking terms.Mrs. Robbins, it seemed, had employed the squeaky voice so familiar atmasquerade parties and had thus rendered her disguise complete. Upon hertestimony it was learned that Mr. Stebbins's voice had been so roughenedby drink that his own mother wouldn't have recognized it. Mr. Stebbinshad withdrawn from the party and, at the end of the academic year, fromthe college as well, and his name is now only an appalling memory.
In the morning Nancy hurried up to the Norrises' as soon as she could.She found Mary and her mother in the drawing-room. Mary was playing thepiano while her mother sat in a distant chair, amiably shreddingcodfish, a pleasure which she would on no account yield to the kitchen.
As soon as the rush of sisterly greeting was passed, all four--for thecod could not be left behind--repaired to the sofa in the library; andafter the gaps in their correspondence had been filled, they came to theparty. Mary was to be one of the charade captains and Tom Reynolds theother. Nancy, who was an inevitable member of the charade, was to be onTom's side.
"Tell me," she asked, "is he really as nice as you people make out?"
"Oh yes," replied Mary, "he's one of us."
"He used to scare me. He never would dance with me any more than he hadto, and I always was afraid he would get that terribly bored look I'veseen him get. I think probably he's conceited."
"Oh dear, to hear you girls talk you'd think that a little honestboredom was the most dreadful thing on earth. Why, your fathers used toget so bored with us that----"
"Now, Gumgum, you know that isn't sensible," broke in Mary severely--aregrettable habit which seems increasingly prevalent among our moderndaughters--"unless you people were ninnies."
"That was in Garfield's administration," replied Mrs. Norris absently,"or possibly a little before, in Hayes's--Rutherford B. Hayes. He didaway with the carpetbaggers and all those dreadful people in the South."Then, more dreamily still, "His middle name was Birchard."
"I know why you think he's conceited," Mary went on, warming up to thenever-ending pleasure of analysis, "but it's because he's reallydiffident. Lots of people I know who people think are snobby are onlyjust diffident."
"What on earth do you mean by saying that Rutherford Hayes wasdiffident? He wasn't a bit. He was a very great philanthropist."
"She's too awful today," exclaimed Mary, "with that smelly old fish andRutherford Garfield. Gracious, I'd like to bury the old thing."
"You horrid, ungrateful child, when I'm doing this for your lunch. We'rejust old Its, we mothers. I'm going to start an Emancipation Club forMothers. The poor old things, they might just as well crawl away intothe bushes like rabbits."
There then followed a tender passage between mother and daughter, whichended in Mary's blowing down her mother's neck. A convulsive scream anda frantic clawing gesture in the direction of her daughter was theimmediate reaction, much to the confusion of the codfish, which was onlyjust saved by Nancy from a premature end upon the hearth.
Following the rescue, the heroine, who had some shopping to do, beganmaking motions of departure. "You must come as soon as you can afterdinner to have Tom explain what you are to do. Gumgum thinks we oughtto have a rehearsal, but Tom has a five o'clock, and I don't think it'snecessary anyway. He's really awfully funny and clever, Nancy, and youmust like him."
"I hate clever people. I have nothing to say to them. I'm a perfect gawkwhen they're around, and I'm afraid I won't be able to stand him."
As she walked on down to Center, however, it occurred to her that hemight come in useful with the children of the parents in herWhitmanville school. He could teach them basketball and of course hecould coach their baseball team. He would also be useful in taking themoff on hikes and--But she hadn't seen him in ever so long, and he mightnot do at all. In fact, it was highly probable that he wouldn't do, forboys are suspicious of clever people, and he almost certainly wouldn'tthink of doing it. Or possibly he might, out of politeness, and thenwhen he got bored with it he would decide to be funny with the boys, andthey would get to hate him and tell their parents, who would come to herwith sullen looks and threatening gestures and----
When Nancy arrived in the evening, she found Tom distributing costumes.He was heavier, she noticed, and his forehead was higher. Some day shemight get a chance to tell him how she saved Henry's hair simply bybrushing it carefully. It was ridiculous to put a lot of smelly greasystuff on it----
She had shaken hands with him and received her costume which was anaigrette and a peacock-feather fan. "The word is 'draper,'" explainedTom, "and you are to be th
e Lady Angela. In the first syllable you havelost your pet Persian and, after explaining your loss to the littlehouse-maid who is dusting around, you call in Merriam the detective. Iam Merriam the detective and I arrive immediately after you are throughcalling me up on the telephone. The little maid goes over to the windowand says, 'Goody, here comes Mr. Merriam the detective in a dray,' andthen you go out to meet me, and that's the first act. Then I come onalone in the second act and investigate the room heavily, looking for aclue, you see. I have a theory that the little maid is the thief, andwhen you come in, as you do when I have said 'Ha, it is a match box,' Iexplain to you that----"
"Oh, dear, I haven't any idea what I'm to do."
"Well, you just go in and wave your fan disconsolately, and I'll do therest. It will be dreadful, of course, but then, no one ever expects themto be otherwise. Now I think the best way is for us to run over it, andthen little things will come to you."