II
TWENTY years have passed.
The corner mansion of the Van Koovers is ablaze with light. Long rows of carriages surmounted by sleepy coachmen extend along Madison Avenue and into the neighboring street. The temporary awning from the front door to the curbstone serves only to shield the coming and departing guest from the gaze of heaven, for the moon and stars are shining brightly, as if they also would like to enter. But when the front door opens, which is frequent, it emits a blast of music, taunting and defiant, reminding the outside universe of its plebeian origin.
Inside there is a scene of festivity and splendor, of dazzling gayety, of youth and mirth and decorous joy. The opulence of the Van Koovers is of sanctifying solidity, and when they give a ball they do it in a style to be remembered.The house itself, with its sumptuous furniture, its magnificent ceilings and stately dimensions is sufficiently impressive in every-day attire, but to-night it reminds you of the Arabian Tales. The family portraits, the gracious dignity of the host and hostess, the bearing of the servants, all speak of pedigree and hereditary honors.
Roses and violets, in lavish profusion, fill every corner, are festooned around doors and windows, even along the walls and up the stairs, their perfume mingling with the music. And the music, dreamy yet voluminous, sways hither and thither a sea of maidens with snowy necks and shimmering jewels, floating gracefully about in the arms of anxious youths. These youths, although unspeakably happy, wear upon their faces, as is usual upon such occasions, an expression of corroding care.
As a waltz came to an end, a tall, light-haired girl with crimson roses in her dress,dropped into a seat. She fanned herself rapidly as if to drive away a most becoming color that had taken possession of her cheeks. Her breath came quickly, the string of pearls upon her neck rising and falling as if sharing in the general joy. With her long throat, her well-poised head, and a certain dignity of unconscious pride she might be described as old-fashioned from her resemblance to a favorite type in the portraits of a century ago. Perhaps her prettiest feature was the low, wide forehead about which the hair seemed to advance and recede in exceptionally graceful lines. Her charm to those who know her but superficially was in her voice and manner, in the frankness of her eyes, and, above all perhaps, in that all-conquering charm, a total absence of self-consciousness. But whatever the reason, no girl in the room received more attention.
Her partner, a sculptor with a bald head and a reputation, took the chair beside her.As her eyes wandered carelessly about the room she inquired, in an indifferent tone: “Who is that swarthy youth talking with Julia Bancroft?”
“I don’t know. He looks like a foreigner.” Then he added, with more interest, “But isn’t he a beauty!”
“Yes, his features are good.”
“He is an Oriental of some sort, and doesn’t quite harmonize with a claw-hammer coat. He should wear an emerald-green nightcap with a ruby in the centre, about the size of a hen’s egg, a yellow dressing-gown and white satin trousers, all copiously sprinkled with diamonds.”
She smiled. “Yes, and he might be interesting if he were not quite so handsome; but here he comes!”
The youth in question, as he came down the room and passed them, seemed to be having a jolly time with his companion and he failed to notice the two people who were discussinghim. It was a boyish face notwithstanding the regular features and square jaw, and at the present moment it wore a smile that betrayed the most intense amusement. When he was well out of hearing, the sculptor exclaimed: “He is the most artistic thing I ever saw! The lines of his eyes and nose are superb! And what a chin! I should like to own him!”
“You couldn’t eat him.”
“No, but I could put him on exhibition at five dollars a ticket. Every girl in New York would be there; you among them.”
Miss Cabot appeared to consider. “I am not so sure. He probably is much less interesting than he looks. Handsome males over three years of age are the deadliest bores in life; sculptors of course excepted.”
“It does seem to be a kind of prosperity the human male is unable to support without impairment.” Then addressing a blasé young man lounging wearily by:
“Horace, do you know who that is talking with Miss Bancroft?”
Horace, a round-shouldered blond whose high collar seemed to force his chin, not upward, but outward horizontally, fingered the ends of a frail mustache and asked:
“You mean that pigeon-toed fellow with the dark face?”
Miss Cabot could not help laughing. “There’s a summing up of your beauty,” she exclaimed, turning to the sculptor.
He smiled as he answered: “It is evident you are an admirer. But do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Well, what is it? A Hindu prince, a Persian poet, or a simple corsair of the Adriatic?”
“He is a Connecticut farmer.”
“Never!”
“And his name is Judd—Amos Judd.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Cabot. “What a come down! We hoped he was something more unusual than that.”
“Well, heismore unusual than that. He is a paralyzer of the female heart. I knew him in college. At dances and parties we were generally sure to find him tucked away on the stairs or out on a porch with the prettiest girl of the ball, and he looked so much like an Oriental prince we used to call him the Bellehugger of Spoonmore.”
“Disgusting!”
“But that is a trifling and unimportant detail of his character, Miss Cabot, and conveys a cold impression of Mr. Judd’s experiences. Don Giovanni was a puritanical prig in comparison. Then at college he had the bad taste to murder a classmate.”
Miss Cabot looked up in horror.
“But then he had his virtues. He could drink more without showing it than any fellowin college, and he was the richest man in his class.”
“Oh, come now, Horace,” said the sculptor, “you are evidently a good friend of his, but your desire to do him a good turn may be carrying you beyond the limits of—how shall I say it?”
“You mean that I am lying.”
“Well, that is the rough idea.”
Horace smiled. “No, I am not lying. It is all true,” and he passed wearily on.
It was not many minutes before Molly Cabot was again moving over the floor, this time with the son of the house. Stephen Van Koover was one of those unfortunates whose mental outfit qualified him for something better than the career of clothes and conversation to which he was doomed by the family wealth.
“This recalls old times. Isn’t it three or four years since we have danced together?” he asked. “Or is it three or four hundred?”
“Thank you! I am glad you realize what you have missed.”
“You do dance like an angel, Miss Molly, and it’s a sin to squander such talent on me. I wish you would try it with Judd; my sisters say his dancing is a revelation.”
“Judd, the murderer?”
“Who told you that?”
“Horace Bennett.”
“I might have guessed it. Truth and Horace were never chums. Judd bears the same relation to Horace as sunshine to a damp cellar.”
As the music ceased they strolled to a little divan at the end of the room.
“He did kill a man, a classmate, but he had the sympathies of his entire class. It was partly an accident, anyway.”
“I am glad for his sake, as there seems to be a prejudice against murder.”
“This was a little of both. We were having a supper, about twenty of us, just before class-day.After the supper, when we were all a trifle hilarious, Slade came up behind Judd and poured some wine down his neck. Judd faced about; then Slade made a mock apology, and added an insulting speech. He was a master in that sort of thing, and while doing it he emptied his wineglass into Judd’s face. Now Judd is overweighted with a peculiar kind of Oriental pride, and also with an unfortunate temper; not a bad temper, but a sudden, unreliable, cyclonic affair, that carries the owner with it, generally faster than is necessary, and sometimes a great deal farther. Now Slade knew all this, and as he was an all-around athlete and the heavier man, there was no doubt in our minds that he meant Judd should strike out, and then he would have some fun with him.
“Well, Judd grew as black as a thundercloud, but he kept his temper. His hand shook as he wiped his face with his handkerchiefand quietly turned his back upon him. Then it was that the other man made the crowning error of his life. He was just enough of a bully to misunderstand Judd’s decent behavior, and his contempt was so great for one who could accept such an indignity that he kicked him. Judd wheeled about, seized him by the throat and banged his head against the wall with a force and fury that sobered every fellow in the room. Close beside them was an open window reaching to the floor, with a low iron railing outside. Judd, half lifting him from the floor, sent him flying through this window, and over the balcony.”
“Gracious! Was he dead from the blows on his head?”
“No, but a blow awaited him outside that would have finished an ox. This window was about thirteen feet from the ground, and below it stood a granite hitching post. When Slade came down like a diver from a boat andstruck head foremost against the top of this post something was sure to suffer, and the granite post is there to-day, with no signs of injury.”
“How can you speak of it in such a tone!”
“Well, I am afraid none of us had a deep affection for the victim. And then Judd was so refreshingly honest! He said he was glad Slade was dead; that the world would be better if all such men were out of it, and refused to go to the funeral or to wear the usual class mourning.”
“Which was in disgustingly bad taste!”
“Possibly, but uncommonly honest. And then it is hardly fair to judge him by our standards. He is built of foreign material, and he had received something that it was simply not in his nature to forgive.”
Their voices were drowned in the music that again filled the room. The dance over, they sauntered out into the large hall, where Flemishand Italian tapestries formed an opulent harmony with Van Koover portraits. In the air of this apartment one breathed the ancestral repose that speaks of princely origin. It was not intended, however, that this atmosphere should recall the founder of the house who, but four generations ago, was peddling knick-knacks along the Bowery.
As Miss Cabot was uncomfortably warm and suggested a cooler air he led her to the farther end of the long hall, beyond the stairs, and halted at the entrance of a conservatory.
“Delicious!” and she inhaled a long breath of the fresh, moist air.
“Wait for me just a moment, and I will bring you the glass of water,” and he vanished.
An inviting obscurity pervaded this conservatory, which, like the rest of the Van Koover mansion, was spacious and impressive. At the farther end, the gloom was picturesquely broken by rays of moonlight slanting throughthe lofty windows. The only living occupants seemed to be one or two pairs of invisible lovers, whose voices were faintly audible above the splashing of the little fountain in the centre. This busy fountain formed a discreet accompaniment to the flirtations in the surrounding shrubbery. Stepping to the side of the basin, she stood for a moment looking down into its diminutive depths. The falling water and the distant music formed a soothing melody, and a welcome restfulness stole gently upon her senses as she inhaled, with the fragrance of the tropics, the peace and poetry of a summer night. She stood for a moment yielding to a gentle enchantment; it seemed a different world, apart from the great city in which she lived, a world of flowers, and perfumes, of fountains and perpetual music; of moonlight and of whispering lovers.
At last, as if waking from a dream, the girl raised her head and looked toward the windowsbeyond, where a flood of moonlight illumined deep masses of exotic foliage, repeating them in fantastic shadows on the marble floor. Walking slowly from the fountain, she lingered between the overhanging palms, then stepped into the moonbeams, a radiant figure with her bare neck and arms and glistening jewels in this full white light, against the gloom of the conservatory. The diamonds in the crescent above her forehead flashed as if quivering into life as she stopped and looked up at the planet.
A figure close beside her, that had formed part of the surrounding shadow, started back with a suddenness that caused her, also, to retreat a step and press a hand to her heart. It was more from nervousness than fear, as she was simply startled. She at once recovered herself, ashamed at being taken off her guard, but a glance at the man beside her, whose face was now also in the light, filled her with afresh surprise. It was the Oriental beauty; the murderer, Judd, and the intensity of his expression almost frightened her. His eyes were fixed upon her own in speechless wonder, and as they moved to the crescent in her hair, then back again to her face, they showed both terror and astonishment. Yet it seemed a look of recognition, for he bent eagerly forward, as if to make sure he were not mistaken.
It was all in an instant. Then, with a step backward and an inclination of the head, he stammered:
“I beg your pardon. I—I was startled. Pray forgive me.”
He gave an arm to his companion, a pretty girl in pink who, standing behind him, had missed the details of the little scene, and they walked away among the plants and out of the conservatory.
Later in the evening, as Miss Cabot stood near the door of the ball-room, the girl withwhom she was speaking introduced a friend, and she found herself again in the presence of the Connecticut farmer, the young man of the moonlight. But this time he wore a very different expression from that of the conservatory. There was a pleasant smile on the dark and somewhat boyish face as he apologized for the scene among the plants. “I am sorry if it annoyed you, but I was startled by an unexpected resemblance.”
She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and understood why the sculptor should have been enthusiastic over such a face. It was of an unfamiliar type, and bore a curious resemblance to those she had attributed as a child to the heroes of her imagination. The eyes were long, dark, and seemed capable of any quantity of expression, either good or bad. Miss Cabot was uncertain as to whether they pleased her. At present they looked somewhat anxiously into her own with a touch of misgiving. Nevertheless, she felt that he was telling her only a portion of the truth.
“I beg your pardon, I—I was startled”“I beg your pardon, I—I was startled”
“I beg your pardon, I—I was startled”
“I beg your pardon, I—I was startled”
“If it is my misfortune to startle unsuspecting guests when I come upon them without notice, it is for me to apologize. No,” then continuing hastily, as he began a protestation: “You needn’t explain! Do not trouble yourself to tell me that only the most disturbing types of beauty cause you just that kind of a shock.”
“But why not, if it is the truth? Besides, as you stepped out into the moonlight you were a blinding apparition, all in white, against the darkness behind. I have no doubt the moon herself was a little startled.”
“You certainly were less happy in concealing your agitation than the—other victim.”
Although his manner was deferential and gave indications of a positive but discreetly repressed admiration, she felt ill at ease with him. It was impossible to forget his repulsivetitle, and turning partly away she looked over the room, and answered:
“Since you are completely recovered and my apology is accepted, I suppose there is nothing more to be done.”
As the words were uttered the opening strains of a waltz came floating across the hall, and he begged that she give him a dance in token of absolution. It was easier to grant it than to refuse, and in another moment they were gliding over the floor. As they moved away she experienced a new sensation. This partner, while adapting himself to her own movements, carried her with a gentle force that relieved her of all volition. While, in effect, borne up and along by the music, she was governed by a pressure that was hardly perceptible; yet, at a critical instant, when a reckless dancer came plunging toward them, she felt herself swung lightly from his path, to relapse at once into a tranquil security andfloat peacefully away. This floating with the music was so easy, so very drowsy and relaxing, that her consciousness almost drifted with the rhythm of the waltz. Once, as her eyes were uplifted to the gorgeous frieze, the white-winged Cupids that a moment before were lolling idly against the blue and gold background seemed now to be keeping time with the music, swaying and dancing in their irresponsible nakedness.
Miss Cabot was surprised when the music ceased and at once regretted having danced such a length of time with a stranger of unsavory reputation. As they left the ball-room and entered the ancestral hall she was flushed and out of breath, endeavoring with one hand to replace a lock of hair that had fallen about her neck.
“It’s a shame,” he muttered.
“What? That we danced so long?”
“Oh, no! That it should ever end!”
They looked about for a resting-place, but all were occupied. Girls in pink, in white, in pale blue, in delicate yellow, in every color that was becoming to their individual beauty, or to its absence, were clustered about the great hall, filling every seat. Around them, like bees in a flower-garden, hovered men in black.
“There is our chance,” he said, pointing to the stairs. Upon the first landing, but three steps from the floor, there was a semicircular recess along whose wall ran a cushioned seat. At the entrance, upon a pedestal of Sienna marble, sat a Cupid with a finger upon his lips; a bit of ancient sculpture from a Roman temple. Behind him, within, an inviting gloom suggested repose and silence. As they stepped upon the tiger-skin that nearly covered the landing, Miss Cabot was accosted by a man whose thoughtful face brightened up at the meeting. When he glanced at her companionthere was a similar welcome, and they called each other John and Amos, and appeared to be on intimate terms. After a short conversation he left them and descended into the hall. She was puzzled at the friendship of these two men, and wondered what there could possibly be in common between a promising clergyman of exceptional purity of character and this dissolute, hot-headed Judd. As they seated themselves in the alcove, she said, in a tone of surprise:
“So you and John Harding are friends!”
He smiled. “Yes; and I lament your astonishment.”
She blushed at her stupid betrayal of the thought, while he made no effort to conceal his amusement.
“It may be an unkind thing to say of him, but we have been good friends for several years.”
Laying her fan in her lap, she devoted bothhands to the wandering lock. “Is that what drove him to the church?”
“No. For that I am not responsible, thank Heaven!”
“Why thank Heaven? Is there any harm in being a clergyman?”
“It depends on the man. In this case it certainly seems a waste of good material.”
Now, it happened that Molly Cabot’s religious convictions were deeply rooted, and she felt a thrill of indignation at this slur upon a sacred calling. Of course, it was not surprising that a spoiled youth with a murderous temper should prove an atheist and a scoffer, but she was irritated, and instinctively took the field as the champion of a righteous cause.
“Then you consider it a waste of good material for an honest man to serve the church?”
Her energy surprised him, but he answered, pleasantly: “I do not say that. No one is toogood for any honest work. I only say that a man of John Harding’s originality and courage puts himself in a false position by so doing.”
“I do not see how,” and her eyes were fixed upon his own in open hostility. He still smiled serenely and met her glance with provoking calmness.
“Well, at present he is young and full of enthusiasm, believing everything, and more besides; but he is only twenty-seven now and will do a heap of thinking before he is forty. The pathetic part of it is that he binds himself to a creed, and the man who can think for thirteen years on any subject without modifying his faith ought to be in a museum.”
“Not if it is the true faith.”
“If it is the true faith, there is danger in thinking, as he may think away from it; so why waste a brain like Harding’s?”
In spite of a certain deference and gentleness of tone with which he uttered these positivesentiments there was evident enjoyment in the shock they created. While he was speaking she noticed in the centre of his forehead a faint scar about the size of a thimble end. It seemed an evanescent mark, only visible when he turned his face at certain angles with the light, and suggested the thought that if all young men of such opinions were marked in a similar manner it might serve as a wholesome warning to unbelievers.
She looked down at her fan a moment, then answered, very quietly:
“So all clergymen over forty are either hypocrites or fools. It must be very satisfying to entertain a thorough contempt for so large a profession.”
“Oh, don’t say contempt. Rather an excess of sympathy for the unfortunate.”
At that moment Horace Bennett, in ascending the stairs, stopped for an instant upon the landing and stood facing them. His eyes restedupon herself and Mr. Judd, then she saw him glance at the marble Cupid who, with his finger to his lips, seemed acting as a sentinel for whatever lovers were within. Then he pulled the ends of his miserable little mustache, and with a half-suppressed smile muttered something to his companion, and they passed up the stairs. The hot blood flew to her cheeks as she recalled what he had said earlier in the evening of this man beside her: “We were sure to find him tucked away on the stairs or out on the porch with a girl. So we called him the Bellehugger of Spoonmore.”
Never in her life had she felt so degraded, so cheapened in her own esteem. Hot, cold, with burning cheeks, and tears of mortification in her eyes she rose from her seat, pressing a handkerchief against her lips, and stepped swiftly out upon the landing and down into the hall. Mr. Judd followed and inquired anxiously if she were ill; could he do anything?His solicitude, which was genuine, caused her to realize how extraordinary her behavior must appear to him. The close air in the alcove, she answered coldly, must have affected her. It was only a little dizziness.
To her great relief a young man came hurrying up, and exclaimed:
“I have been looking everywhere for you, Miss Cabot! The cotillion is on!”
A formal nod to Mr. Judd, and she moved away with an unuttered prayer that their paths in future might be far apart. Her wish was granted, at least for that night, for she saw him no more at the Van Koovers’.
When she reached home and entered her own chamber, the moonlight was streaming into the room, and before turning up the lights she had the curiosity to stand near the window with a hand-glass and study her own reflection. Only the usual face was there, and as usual, the nose was too short, the chintoo long, and all the other defects were present; but even in the moonlight they seemed hardly sufficient to frighten a strong young man.