“You’re the Colonel, then, of the new corps,” said Egbert, with an affectionate bear-hug to the slight figure that was already making the black fire break into a blaze. “You’ve pluck enough for the whole clan, little Mother o’ mine! You shall sound your slogan and lead the attack on Fate till we get back to Rotherwood! There!”
“I’m aiming at higher things than Rotherwood, darling boy!” said his mother gravely.
“I know!” whispered Quenrede, squeezing the dear hand that reached out and clasped her own. “I won’t be a selfish beast any more. I won’t indeed. Economizing shall be my New Year’s cross!”
“If we’re going to count up crosses,” proclaimed Athelstane humorously, “the orphan’s fine voice while I’m studying is mine!”
“But she probably counts it her choicest blessing!” exclaimed Ingred.
And then the whole family broke out laughing, and Mother’s little lecture ended in fun. It made its impression upon individual members all the same.
The six miles which separated the Saxons from Grovebury seemed to have set up an effectual barrier between them and the old world in which they had moved before. Many people who had been friendly in the Rotherwood days did not trouble to come so far as Wynch-on-the-Wold to pay calls, and the numerous invitations which had formerly been extended to the young folks decreased this Christmas to very few.
First and foremost amongst these scanty festivities came Mrs. Desmond’s dance. It was a grownup affair, and she had sent printed invitations to Egbert, Athelstane and Quenrede. The latter, who only knew the Desmonds slightly and was always overwhelmed in their presence, developed a sudden and acute fit of shyness and implored to be allowed to refuse.
“If it had been the Browns’ or Lawrences’ I’d have loved it,” she urged, “but you know, Mumsie, how Mrs. Desmond absolutely withers me up! I never can say six words when she’s there. I’d run five miles to avoid meeting her: you know I would! She’s so starchy.”
“You see very little of your hostess at a dance. Don’t be silly, Queenie!” insisted Mrs. Saxon. “I say you’re to go, so there’s an end of it.”
“I’ll go for an evening’s martyrdom, then, not for enjoyment!” wailed her daughter dolefully.
A first grownup dance is often a terrible ordeal to a girl of eighteen, and Quenrede, though she had put on a few airs to impress the schoolgirls at the Rainbow League sale, was at bottom woefully bashful. She was still in the stage when her newly-turned-up hair looked as if it were unaccustomed to be coiled round her head; she had a painful habit of blushing, and had not yet acquired that general savoir faire which comes to us with the passing of our teens. To be plunged for a whole evening into the society of a succession of strangers seemed to her anything but an exhilarating prospect.
“If I could just dance with our own boys!” she sighed.
“I’d pity you if you did!” declared Ingred, pausing in an effort to make Athelstane’s steps more worthy of a ballroom. “Why, half the fun will be your different partners. I only wish I’d your chance and was ‘coming out’ too!”
“I’m sure you’re welcome to go instead of me,” proclaimed Quenrede petulantly.
All the same she watched the preparations for the event with considerable girlish interest. Mother, whose ambitions at first had run to a dress from town, regretfully decided that the family finances could only supply a homemade costume, and set to work with fashion book and sewing-machine to act amateur dressmaker, a thrilling experience to unaccustomed fingers, for paper patterns are sometimes difficult to understand, seams do not fit together as they ought, and the bottom hem of a skirt is the most awkward thing in the world to make hang perfectly straight. Quenrede, standing on the table, revolved slowly while Mrs. Saxon and Ingred stuck in pins and debated whether a quarter of an inch here and there should be raised or lowered. Ingred showed far more cleverness in sewing than her sister; her natty fingers could contrive pretty things already in the shape of collars and blouses.
“You’d make an admirable curate’s wife!” Quenrede laughingly assured her. “I shall have to marry a rich man and get my things from London.”
“It will probably be the other way,” declared Mother. “Stand still, Queenie, I can’t measure properly if you will dance about!”
Though she was ready with a joke, as a matter of fact Quenrede was having a severe struggle not to be snappy. For years and years she had planned her “coming out,” and she had decided upon a ball at Rotherwood, and an absolute creation of a gown that was to be sent for from Paris. There would have been some éclat then in emerging from the chrysalis stage of the schoolroom and becoming a butterfly of society. To make her first grownup appearance at Mrs. Desmond’s dance and in a homemade dress seemed not so much a “coming out” as an “oozing out.” There are degrees in butterflies, and she feared her appearance would resemble not the gorgeous “Red Admiral” or “Painted Lady,” but the “Common White Cabbage.” If it had not been for the New Year’s resolution, some traces of her disappointment would have leaked out, but she kept the secret bravely to herself. The family indeed knew she was not anxious to go, but set her unwilling attitude down to mere shyness. Her mother never guessed at the real reason.
There was a tremendous robing on the evening of January the ninth, with Mother and Ingred for lady’s-maids, and “The Orphan” hovering about, offering to bring pins or hot water on the chance of getting a peep at the proceedings. Mrs. Saxon stepped back, when all was complete, and viewed the result somewhat in the spirit of an artist who has finished a picture. It is an event in a mother’s life when her first little girl grows up and becomes a young lady. Tonight Quenrede was to be launched on the
