Nancy Of Paradise Cottage Part 2

"Must be a letter or something," Nancy surmised. "You don't suppose--it couldn't be----"

Alma forestalled her conjectures, whatever they might have been, by entering the room with her face s.h.i.+ning and an opened letter in her hand.

"It's an _invitation_, Nancy," she beamed. "Isn't that exciting?

Elise Porterbridge wants us to come to a 'little dance she's giving next Friday night.' And the chauffeur is waiting for an answer."

"Funny she was in such a hurry," remarked Nancy. "I suppose someone fell out, and she's trying to get her list made up. What do you think, Mother?"

"Why, it's delightful. I want you to know Elise better anyway. You know her aunt married the Prince Brognelotti, and she will probably do everything for that girl when she makes her debut." Mrs. Prescott rustled over to the writing-table and despatched a note in her flowing, pointed hand.

"Hush, Mamma, the chauffeur will hear you," cautioned Nancy with a slight frown. It always p.r.i.c.ked her when Alma or her mother said sn.o.bbish little things, and roused her democratic pride--the stiffest pride in the world.

"A dance," carolled Alma, when the door had slammed again behind the emissary of the Porterbridge heiress. "A real, sure enough dance!"

She seized Nancy by the waist and whirled her about; then suddenly she stopped so abruptly that Nancy b.u.mped hard against the table. Alma's face was sober, as the great feminine wail rose to her lips:

"I haven't a thing to wear!"

"You must get something, then," said Mrs. Prescott, positively, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I want you to look lovely, Alma. It's dreadful to think of a girl with your beauty not being able to appear at your best all the time." Mrs. Prescott had a habit of speaking to Alma as if she were a petted debutante of nineteen, instead of just a pretty, care-free youngster of sixteen. She looked at Nancy, who was the treasurer of the family, much as an impecunious queen might look at her first Lord of the Exchequer while asking him for funds to buy a new crown.

"Why can't you wear your blue crepe," was Nancy's unfeeling answer.

"It's very becoming, and you've hardly worn it."

"If you call that an evening dress," Alma cried, on the verge of tears, "you've a vivid imagination--that's all I've got to say. I just won't go if I have to look dowdy and home-made. I wouldn't have any kind of a time--you know that----"

"You could cut out the neck and sleeves, and get a new girdle. I'm going to do that to my yellow, and with a few flowers--there'll be some lovely cosmos in the garden--it'll look very nice. And you're sure to have a good time, no matter what you wear, Alma."

"Oh, she can't go if her clothes aren't just right, Nancy--that's all there is to it," said Mrs. Prescott.

"Clothes," declared Alma, her voice quavering between tears and indignation, "are the most important things in the world. It doesn't matter _how_ pretty a girl is--if her dress is dowdy, no one will notice her."

"And you must remember, Nancy, that she will be compared with girls who will be sure to be wearing the freshest, smartest and daintiest things," added Mrs. Prescott. Nancy began to laugh. They argued with her as if she were some stingy old master of the house instead of a slip of a girl of seventeen. But there was some truth in what Alma had said, and Nancy knew what agonies would torment her if she felt that she fell a whit below any girl at the dance in point of dress. Nancy could sympathize with her there--only it was quite out of the question that _both_ she and Alma should have new dresses. She thought hard a moment. There was not very much left in the family budget to carry them through the remainder of the month--but then she might let the grocer's and butcher's bills run over, or, better still, she might charge at one of the city department stores where the Prescotts still kept an account. It would be too bad if Alma's first dance should be spoiled, even if the couch did go in its shabby plush for another month or so. Five yards of silk would come to about fifteen dollars--new slippers not less than seven, silk stockings, two--that made twenty-four dollars--thirty to give a margin for odds and ends like lining and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. Alma would need a pretty evening dress when she went off to school, and she might as well have it now.

"Well, listen, you poor old darling," she said slowly. "To-day's Sat.u.r.day. If we trot in town on Monday and get the material, we could easily make up a pretty dress for you to wear on Friday night. Let's see----"

"She could have a pale blue taffeta," Mrs. Prescott suggested, who was in her element when the subject turned to the matter of clothes, "made perfectly plain--with a broad girdle--or you could have a girdle and shoulder-knots of silver ribbon--and wear silver slippers with it. It would be dear with a round neck, and tiny little sleeves, and a short, bouffant skirt. You could wear my old rose-colored evening wrap,--it's still in perfect condition."

"That would be _scrumptious_!" shrieked Alma, flinging her arms about them both. "You two are angelic _dumplings_, that's what you are."

"Monday morning, then," said Nancy. "We'd better take an early train."

When her mother and sister had gone to bed, she took out her little account book and began to figure, then all at once she flung the pencil down in disgust at herself.

"Alma's right. I'm turning into a regular old miser. I'm not going to bother--I'm not going to bother. But--but somebody's _got_ to." She frowned, staring at the small old-fas.h.i.+oned picture of her father, which smiled gaily at her from the top of the desk. "You left that little job to me, didn't you?" she said aloud, and the memory of some words her father had once spoken to her laughingly came back to her mind--"You're my eldest son, Nancy--mind you take care of the women."

"Only I'm jolly well sick of being a boy, Daddy," she said, as she jumped into bed. "I'll let the first person who steps forward take the job."

CHAPTER III

A MODERN CINDERELLA

"Let's take a cab to the station. The roads are awfully wet still, and I'll ruin my shoes," suggested Alma. The little family were at breakfast, Nancy and Alma hastily swallowing their coffee so that they could hurry off to the station. After the fit of autumn wind and rain, another summer day had come, with a glistening sunlight which was doing its best to cheer up the drooping flowers in the tiny garden.

"We don't need a cab. What are you talking about?" replied Nancy, glancing out of the window. "It's a wonderful day, and we don't have to make for all the puddles on the way to the station like ducks. By the way, don't let me forget to stop at the bank. I dare say I ought to take some money with me in case we can't get just what we want at Frelinghuysen's. How much do you think we should have, Mother?"

"Seventy-five dollars ought to be enough," said Mrs. Prescott vaguely, after a moment's calculation. Nancy whooped.

"Seventy-five! Good gracious--why, if I spend a cent over forty, we'll have to live on bread and water for the rest of the month!"

"Well, just as you think, dear--you know best, of course," Mrs.

Prescott answered absently. "You two had better be starting. I wish you would get Alma a new hat while you're in town, Nancy. I don't quite like that one she has--it doesn't go with her suit."

Nancy pushed her chair back from the table.

"I'll trot out and see Hannah a moment. We have about thirty-five minutes, Alma."

It took them twenty minutes to walk to the station. Alma was in high spirits, Nancy still thoughtful. But the wind was up and out, tossing the trees, rippling the puddles, which reflected a clear, sparkling sky, and the riotous, care-free mood of the morning was infectious.

As the train sped through the open country, pa.s.sing stretches of yellowing fields, cl.u.s.ters of woodland and busy little villages, Alma chattered joyously:

"Aren't you awfully glad about the party, Nancy? Don't you think we can go to a matinee--it's such a deliciously idle, luxurious sort of thing to do! I'm going to have chicken patties for luncheon, and lots of that scrumptious chocolate icecream that's almost black. Don't you love restaurant food, Nancy? It's such fun to sit and watch the people, and wonder what they are going to do after luncheon, and what they are saying to each other, and where they live. When I'm married I shall certainly live in town, and I'll have a box at the opera, and I'll carry a pair of those eye-gla.s.ses on jewelled sticks--what-do-you-call-'ems--and every morning I'll go down-town in my car and shop, and then I'll meet my husband for luncheon at Sherry's or the Plaza."

"Of course you'll have a country-place on Long Island," suggested Nancy, with good-natured irony, which Alma took quite seriously.

"Oh, yes. With terraces and Italian gardens. I _would_ love to be seen standing in a beautiful garden, with broad marble steps, and rows of poplar trees, and a sun-dial----"

"For whose benefit?"

"Oh, my own."

"We're feeling rich to-day, aren't we?"

"Well, I don't know anything that feels better than to be going to buy a new dress. Shall we get the hat too, Nancy?"

"What do you think?"

Alma hesitated.

"Well, I suppose we'd better wait. It's funny how when you start spending money at all you want to get everything under the sun. Of course, girls like Elise or Jane _do_ get everything they want----"

"Exactly. And when you're with them you feel that you must let go, too. And if you can't afford it----" Nancy shrugged her shoulders, and Alma finished for her:

"It makes you miserable."

"Or else," said Nancy, with a curl of the lip, "or else, if you aren't bothered with any too much pride, you'll do what that Margot Cunningham does. She simply camps on the Porterbridges. Elise is so good-natured that she lets Margot buy everything she likes and charge it to her, and Margot finds life so comfy there that she can't tear herself away. I'd rather work my fingers to the bone than take so much as a pair of gloves given to me out of good-natured charity!" Nancy's eyes sparkled. Alma was silent. There were times when Nancy's fierce, stubborn pride frightened her--sometimes the way her sister's lips folded together, and her small, cleft chin was lifted, made her fancy that there might be a resemblance between Nancy and old Mr. Prescott.

Alma was the b.u.t.terfly, and Nancy the bee; the b.u.t.terfly no doubt wonders why the bee so busily stores away the honey won by thrift and industry, and, in all probability, the bee reads many a lesson to the gay-winged idler who clings to the sunny flower. But to-day the bee relented.