"I see you mean to prevent my favorite method of character study. I fear you will succeed, as the enticing preventive you suggest cannot possibly fail to be effectual. I willingly submit to your cure and will come to you at the appointed hour."
The fall of the act drop was followed by a confused fluttering of dresses and hum of voices; people stretched and rose, talked, or wandered toward the foyer, while hundreds of glasses were leveled at the boxes, and every one of mark or notoriety was scrutinized by hundreds of eyes and criticised by hundreds of tongues. Society was there paraded in two rows of little pens, labeled and ticketed at so many millions per head, to be gazed upon by the curious and envious of that great throng. Society was the operatic side-show, and society paid dearly for the privilege of being seen.
"Do you like to be gazed at by a crowd, Mr. Grahame?" said Florence, after a momentary silence.
"Yes, I think I do," he replied. "It makes one feel so superior to be up above, looking down on the 'madding crowd'."
"Do you think so? I always feel like a caged animal at a menagerie, where each one who pays the admission fee can gratify the curiosity he has about me, and poke me with his umbrella if he does not like my looks."
"How absurd; but I understand you are democratic in your feelings and object to class distinctions."
"Not in the least; on the contrary I believe in them. Nature herself has decreed that no two creatures can be equal. What I object to are inflated distinctions which rest on no foundation, and collapse completely when pricked by sound opinion."
"Miss Moreland believes in an aristocracy of merit," interposed Harold Wainwright.
"Yes," replied Florence, "but where is it to be found?"
"Not in a republic," retorted Duncan. "A democracy is a breeding ground of plutocrats."
"Perhaps, when its Government discourages every intellectual pursuit," replied Wainwright. He felt strongly the ungratefulness of republics, as his father had been a Federal judge on a miserly salary, with no pension after years of faithful service.
"I quite agree with you, Harold," replied Florence, "and I only wish I were a man."
"Why?" interposed Mrs. Sanderson, who had just finished interchanging polite platitudes with Walter Sedger.
"So that I might express my views about the evils of our political system."
"And be called by that expressive word which is not in the dictionary, 'a crank'," said Duncan ironically. "That is the reward of a reformer."
"John Bright and Wendell Phillips were both 'cranks' in their day," was the reply, "but I would not object to their reputation. By the way, here comes a 'crank' whom I almost love," she added, as a stout, kindly faced, elderly man, whose features wore the sweet expression of earnest and well guided intelligence, approached the box.
"Who is he?" asked Duncan, following her eyes.
"Dr. Maccanfrae, physician and philanthropist, missionary and moralist, and the dearest man in the world, besides," she replied. "He does more good in a day than twenty Poor Boards do in a week, and has more genuine Christian charity in his soul than a score of average parsons, although he is an evolutionist and a pantheist combined."
"A most flattering description," said Duncan. "I hope he deserves such adulation."
"He certainly merits it all," added Wainwright.
Dr. Maccanfrae entered the box and Walter Sedger improved the opportunity to slip away and visit some friends. The Doctor spoke to Mrs. Sanderson, then moved toward the corner occupied by Florence Moreland, while Duncan dropped quietly into the seat left vacant by Mr. Sedger.
"What can bring so industrious a man as Dr. Maccanfrae to the opera?" said Florence as the Doctor took the seat beside her.
"The opera itself, Miss Florence. I am devoted to music and never lose an opportunity of hearing it well rendered. Isn't Tamagno doing grandly to-night?"
Her reply was interrupted by the appearance of a tall, plainly dressed woman, who, pencil and paper in hand, entered the box door. Her face was refined, though careworn, and bore the mark of better days. She hesitated for a moment, as though realizing fully her intrusive calling, then advanced toward Duncan. "May I ask you, sir, to give the names of your party for theMorning Stentor?" she finally said.
"What does she mean?" said Duncan, turning to Mrs. Sanderson for an explanation.
"It is one of the peculiarities of Chicago life," she replied. "It is for to-morrow's society column."
"And do you give them the information?" he asked.
"O, yes, it is better to have it right, as they publish it anyway, right or wrong," she replied, and then she told the reporter the names.
"Might I trouble you to describe your dress?" was the next question asked. "I am sorry to be so intrusive, but it is the city editor's orders, and we have to do the best we can."
"You are a woman, and understand such matters, so I think you had better do that yourself," Mrs. Sanderson replied.
The reporter thanked her and withdrew. When she had gone Duncan said wonderingly: "We have society reporters in New York, but they never go quite so far as to ask one to describe oneself. Who reads such particulars anyway?"
"Ask Dr. Maccanfrae, he is wiser than I," she replied.
"Dr. Maccanfrae, who should you say read the society columns of the newspapers?" he asked.
"People who expect to find their names in print, and people who think their names ought to be in print, to say nothing of those who read society columns, as they do society scandals, in order to get a reflection of the tinsel and tarnish of an unknown world."
"That must include a great portion of newspaper readers," replied Duncan.
"Precisely; that is why society scandals and fashions occupy so large a portion of our papers," the Doctor replied. "But there comes the conductor, so I must get back to my place."
"Won't you remain here, Doctor?" said Mrs. Sanderson.
"No, I thank you. I only came in to pay my respects, and, as I have a musical friend with me, I must get back to him."
The Doctor hurried away and the little man away down in front lifted his baton. Ninety musicians watched the beat of the first bar, and, as the baton fell, sixty bows moved in unison, and trumpets, horns, trombones, and reeds, added their strains, while the act drop slowly rose disclosing the great stage, gorgeously set as Otello's audience-chamber.
"I must tell you an amusing tale about 'Otello,'" whispered Mrs. Sanderson to Duncan Grahame. "I was in Rome when the opera was brought out there, and went with the American minister and his wife. Revere was their name and they came from Tallahassee. He had been a congressman, but she had never been away from home until she went as the wife of our representative in Austria, so you can imagine her ignorance of the world. She watched the opera quietly until she noticed that the black Otello bore some relation to the white Desdemona. That made her hem and fidget, but when Otello embraced his wife, she put up her fan in disgust, and said indignantly to me: 'How outrageous! I assure you such conduct would not be tolerated in Tallahassee.'"
Grahame laughed, and then they listened to the grand music of Verdi for a while, but it was not the opera which inspired their interest, for the subtle spell of similarity seemed to arouse the sympathy of kindred taste. Bright phrases and pleasing words flashed between them, and quickly another act passed. Again the people rose and talked, again visitors came to the box and uttered conventional insipidities. Finally Roswell Sanderson himself returned. He had passed the evening in the manager's office with some friends, but his wife did not even express a curiosity to know it. The curtain rose on the last act. "Come," said Wainwright to Duncan, "we must go back to our seats. Good-night, Mrs. Sanderson." "Good-night, Mr. Grahame." "A demain," said Duncan, and he was off. Another act of the opera was rendered, then the great house was slowly emptied, and hundreds of carriages bore their occupants away. The lights went out, the weary artists hurried home, the Auditorium was left cold, silent and deserted.
Marion Sanderson's surroundings kept her in a continual state of irritation. Her fancy created an ideal life with harmonious environments and sympathetic friends, but the reality was what she termed "an utterly commonplace existence." From early childhood her parents and acquaintances had jarred upon her, so that her fanciful mind had carried on incessant warfare with her prosaic surroundings. Her father and mother were respectable representatives of practical Calvinism, who, endeavoring to make their child a pillar of the Church, had persistently combated her natural tendencies. For days at a time, during her younger years, the poor child would obediently follow the routine of prayer prescribed for her until worn out by the drastic Scotch tenets; then rebellious tears would flow, and she would permit some natural sentiments to escape from her impulsive heart. Such outbursts most frequently occurred on Sunday, and they invariably called from her mother's lips the time-tried reproof: "I think, Marion, you forget the day. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy." Resentful and disgusted the child would expostulate, only to be frigidly denounced as one possessed of an evil spirit; then she would rush to her room and remain for hours sobbing and yearning for sympathy. "Fox's Book of Martyrs," "The Church at Home and Abroad," and "Baxter's Saints' Rest" were her literary diet, but she managed to devour, surreptitiously, romance after romance, and her greatest pleasure was to live over, in fancy, the lives of those she had read about. Thus for fifteen years the restless child tugged unsuccessfully at the parental tethers till relief came from an unexpected quarter.
Marion's mother, despairing of her child's spiritual welfare, decided curiously enough, to send her abroad to the care of her sister-in-law, the wife of the United States minister to France. This aunt, being a woman of broad sympathies and experience, questioned the girl about her education, and, finding that it had been confined to the three R's and the Westminster catechism, decided to send her to school. So Marion was forthwith ensconced in a selectpensionpatronized by the Faubourg St. Germain nobility. Here a new life was opened to Marion, and, freed from her childhood's restraints, she eagerly sought companionship with these girls of a different world. She learned a new language and new sentiments, and though novels were forbidden in the school, the pages of Balzac, Mérimée, Sand and Gautier, surreptitiously read, fed her fancy with new impressions and created new aspirations. Florence Moreland was the only other American in the school, and to her Marion was attracted by the very oppositeness of her nature. The frank practicality and keen perception of Florence fascinated her, and although the two girls disagreed on most subjects, a warm affection always kept their hearts united.
Marion left thepensionat the age of seventeen. By that curious process of expatriation which few but Americans can successfully undergo, her childhood's sentiments had been removed, and European ideas had been engrafted in their place. Her aunt, who during Marion'spensiondays had vibrated between Paris and the Riviera, now took her for a few months of travel. Florence was invited to accompany them, and after making the conventional summer-garden tour of the Continent, they went to Nice for the winter. There the two girls studied Italian and mixed in the quasi Anglo-European society of the place—certainly not the best for a girl first to enter.
The transfer of Marion's uncle to the English mission brought them to London, and they were just enjoying the excitement of a first season when Marion's parents ordered her home. A child when she left Chicago, she was now a woman. Her home, which had been uncongenial before, was now intolerable. Her life became a continual struggle against the prejudices of her parents. She longed to pull down the sombre drawing-room curtains and pitch the stiff-backed, haircloth chairs out of the window; but her father, though a millionaire, would brook no change. Still she struggled on, demanding an alteration in the dinner hour, wine at table and the discarding of the family carry-all. "Do you want me to open the house to Satan?" her mother asked in horrified tones. "I want you to be civilized beings and not anchorites," she replied. Her mother's friends were practically limited to the communicants of the Knox Presbyterian Church, but such a society only served to exasperate her more. To her the men were stupid slaves of business and the women narrow-minded prudes. There was a progressive set whose companionship she desired, but in her mother's mind they were the Devil's chosen, and were consequently forbidden the house. In desperation Marion sought relief and it came in the shape of a husband. Roswell Sanderson was vice-president of her father's bank, rich, prominent, and,—what was more to her,—liberal-minded. He asked her to be his wife, and, without analyzing her feelings further than the sense of gratefulness which she felt, she accepted him. After a brief engagement they were married and her new life began.
Marion's husband was a country boy who had been sent to an Eastern college; and possessing American energy and perception in a marked degree, he rapidly won a place in the first rank of Chicago business men. He was a man of broad ideas and sympathies, but lacked the delicate veneer of manners which distinguishes the cosmopolite from the provincial. In Marion's eyes this fault soon became greatly magnified. His flat pronunciation and Western inflection, his cordial, unstudied manner and hearty laughter so mortified her that in the presence of those who were capable of recognizing his shortcomings, her manner became apologetic. His open-hearted frankness, which made him a friend of high and low, so rasped her ideas of convention that all sense of sympathy was destroyed, and her married life was no more congenial than that at home had been. Roswell never criticised her actions, so she was enabled to seek relief in society. She saw the gradual enlargement and improvement of Chicago but she was able to pick flaws in the struggles of society to break the shackles of provincialism, and she longed to hasten themetropolizingprocess. Unlike Florence Moreland she could not admire the vigor and freshness of Western life, but permitted herself to suffer from intense mortification at the faults which others would have passed unnoticed. Marriage and society having failed to supply the happiness she desired, she turned to books. Her selections of reading, however, were destined to intensify her restlessness, for in the pages of Daudet, Bourget and de Maupassant she found the anomalies of human weakness painted in brilliant and exculpatory colors. The clever portraitures of these subtle analysts created a spirit which caused her to explain her eccentricities of feeling by comparison with the emotions described in their yellow-covered records. She became a disciple of the modern philosophy of introspection, which, unlike that of the stoic and anchorite, is not intended to humble desire, but to create a morbid craving for the unattainable. Recognizing that the absorbing passion of her life was yet to come, she scrupulously analyzed each impulse she felt and resolved it into infinitesimal atoms of feeling, which again were subjectively compared with the minutest details of her analytical romances. The consequence was that her emotions were kept in a state of continual irritation, and ordinary pleasures becoming less and less gratifying, a desire for new excitements and experiences was created. It was in such a state of mind that Florence Moreland had found her, and, since the latter's arrival in Chicago she had striven unsuccessfully to dispel the spirit of depression which had taken possession of her friend.
On the afternoon of the day following the performance of "Otello," Florence, cold and rosy from tobogganing, burst into the drawing room. She expected to find Marion in one of her moods, and she was astonished to find her dressed to go out and carelessly strumming on the piano. Marion looked up, and, seeing Florence, burst into laughter at her tousled locks and red cheeks. "You had better stand over the register and get thawed out," Marion remarked cheerfully; then, thumping the piano again, she continued: "How was the slide?"
"Capital! and hundreds of people there," was Florence's reply. Then, wondering at Marion's sudden change of spirits, she added, "Are you going to the McSeeney's tea?"
"Yes; I intend to take Mr. Grahame."
"I suppose I shall have to get there the best way I can."
"You can take the brougham. What do you think of him?"
"Who, the brougham?"
"No; Mr. Grahame, you silly."
"O, he is like many New Yorkers, one-third clothes and two-thirds conceit. I asked him if he thought he should like Chicago, and, knowing I was from the East, he confidently replied: 'It is not New York, you know, but I suppose one can get used to anything in time.'"
"I don't care, I like him," Marion replied.
"Hush, here he comes," said Florence hurriedly.
A servant announced Mr. Grahame, and as Duncan entered, Marion said in a somewhat surprised tone, "Are you always so prompt?"
"No; it is quite a mistake, I assure you," he replied. "I will not be so vulgarly exact next time."
"It is a provincialism quite permissible in the West," said Marion.
"Indeed! But I have not yet said good afternoon," replied Duncan; "have you recovered from the dissipation of last evening?"
"Quite."
"And you, Miss Moreland?"
"Look at her cheeks, Mr. Grahame," interjected Marion.
"I see it is needless to ask about your health, Miss Moreland, but I trust I may say I admire your snow costume."
"You must have a fondness for brilliant colors," said Florence.
"Decidedly; shades and tints were made for funerals and frowns," he replied.
"I don't like to interrupt," interposed Marion hurriedly, "but I fear it is time for Mr. Grahame and me to be going."
"Are you not to accompany us, Miss Moreland?" said Duncan.
"Not in this costume, certainly," laughed Florence.
"Then I shall sayau revoir."
"Where am I to be taken?" said Duncan, as he and Marion descended the steps of the house.
"To meet my most bitter enemy, Mrs. McSeeney," she replied.
"I admire your courage," he said.
"O, there is no danger of bodily harm, as we are quite on speaking terms; a sort of armed neutrality, you know."
"Am I to be used as an offensive or a defensive weapon?" Duncan asked.
"Neither; I shall use you as a flag of truce; but whatever happens don't you dare to say she is good looking or brilliant."
"I promise," he answered, "but please tell me who she is and what she is."
"You ought to know her; she is a New Yorker,—at least she was three years ago—her husband is the president of an elevated railway company and made her come here to live. She hates Chicago, and takes her revenge by saying disagreeable things about it. For some reason she has singled me out as the particular object of her antipathy and you can imagine there is no love lost between us. But here we are at her door, so I can't tell you any more."
They had reached an awning-covered doorway where numerous carriages were arriving and depositing their occupants. They ascended the steps and were ushered into a crowded room where a well dressed throng were jostling about and trying to keep off one another's toes. Near the door Mrs. McSeeney was undergoing the laborious experience of greeting her friends, while about the room Mrs. Nobody could be heard cackling loudly and Mrs. Somebody peeping meekly, while Mr. Smart was smirking and Mr. Plain was awkwardly striving to interest ugly Miss Cr[oe]sus. It was a prattling, garrulous society. The world over it is the same, differentiated by race and place, perhaps, but still society.
Duncan was taken about and introduced to scores of people whose names he did not even hear. A smile here and a word there was all he had time for, but he managed to meet all "the people one should know," and, being a new man, caused a flutter of expectation among the women. "Who is he?" "What is he?" "Where is he from?" were the questions asked by all, but they scarcely received a satisfactory answer before Marion hurried Duncan into an adjoining room where numerous pretty girls were dispensing that universal anodyne of modern life, tea. What should we moderns do without tea? It is the prop of society, and without this precious Chinese plant we might still be cupping the sack, and beating our wives between the draughts. In fact a noted moralist has said that "tea has checked our boisterous revels, raised women to a new position, refined manners, and softened the character of men." Perhaps! but let a man with a full cup of tea, and the spoon balanced on the edge of the saucer, try to rise from a low chair and shake hands; then ask him what he thinks about the effect of tea on a man's character.
After responding scores of times to the question, "How do you like Chicago?" with the reply, "I don't know," and after answering quite as frequently and in the same manner the question, "How long do you expect to remain here?" Duncan was finally rescued by Marion Sanderson and taken away.
"You don't often have strangers here, do you?" Duncan gasped when they were outside. "I seem as much of a curiosity as a white man on the Congo."
"Not quite so bad as that," Marion laughed, "though I must confess a new man is an attraction here, especially at a tea, where there are at least two women to every one of the other sex."
"I suppose the natives are frightened away."
"No, you wretch, they are all in business."
"Lucky beggars."
Marion gave him a side glance intended to be annihilating, and silently walked the few remaining steps. When they reached her door she stopped and said, somewhat coldly: "Won't you come in, Mr. Grahame?"
"I certainly will, as I cannot leave with the mercury of your manners so low."
"You surely do not fancy that you can make it rise."
"I do," he said confidently.
Marion looked at him scornfully, but it was an assumed scorn; as to herself she admitted a fondness for assurance like Duncan's. Florence Moreland would have called it presumption, but Marion felt that it indicated a strong nature worthy of careful analysis. Her manner was often the naïveté of inexperience. She fancied that she knew the world, but her knowledge was theoretically culled from her yellow-covered romances. She frequently allowed men a freedom of speech which might be misunderstood at times, and excused herself by the thought that such carelessness became a woman of the world. She courted admiration because she felt it to be her due, and in her search for experiences of the world she often displayed an artlessness which was singularly liable to be misinterpreted by the men with whom she came in contact.
Just inside the door on the right of the hall was a wee room decorated inLouis Quinzestyle, and into this they went. Delicate and cozy, with a polished floor, a leopard's skin rug, soft tinted walls, white and gold woodwork, a tiny open fire, a brocade screen, a chair or two and a tête-a-tête seat,—it was, in fact, a delightful expression of Marion's taste.
"Charming," said Duncan as he sat down opposite Marion on the tête-a-tête and looked about him.
"I am glad something pleases you," she replied as she threw aside her jacket. "Your assurance amazes me," she continued. "Last night you told me you had been about collecting bits of gossip about me in order to understand my character, and now you coolly inform me that you are capable of influencing my feelings. I ought to detest you."
Duncan silently looked with his large, grey eyes into her face for a moment and then said, "I wish you would."
"Why?" she questioned wonderingly.
"Because we might end by being friends."
"A repellent manner of attracting, certainly," she replied.
"Exactly! kindred natures always repel one another with a force equal to their subsequent attraction."
"That sounds like a proposition in physics."
"In metaphysics, perhaps," he answered. "It means that if we first quarrel we shall eventually become sympathetic friends."
"Polemical enemies, I should say," Marion replied sharply.
"Why?"
"Because I am not willing to admit I am of so changeable a nature," she replied.
"A mediocre nature will never change; an uncommon one invariably does," he said confidently.
"Another slur."
"A compliment, I should say, as your opinion of me will change."
"On what do you base your presumption?" she said with assumed indignation.
He was silent. She glanced about the room. It was nearly dark and the fire was flickering on the hearth. Unconsciously she looked up as though seeking an answer to her question. Again two grey eyes looked softly through the twilight into her own. "Because I feel certain of it," he said quietly and emphatically, as though in answer to her questioning glance.
"Then you shall acknowledge yourself mistaken," she slowly replied. "I'll give you a fair chance. Will you dine with us on Friday?"
"A day of ill luck, but I accept," he replied as he rose to go. "Shall it be a truce in the interim?" he added, offering his hand.
"If you like," she replied.
"Good-by," he said, taking her hand. "It shall be a fair game and I will play to win."
"But you will lose," she answered.
Her eyes followed him as he left the room. "An interesting nature to study," she thought, "but I wish he would not look at me in that way."
Mrs. Sanderson had arranged designedly the dinner to which she had invited Duncan. He had been much in her thoughts in the interim, and, being anxious to see what method he would adopt to overcome her assumed enmity, she looked forward to their next meeting with curiosity. She was a strong impressionist, and when she had first heard him described by her New York friend, Sibyl Wright, she had mentally resolved that he was a person she would one day meet and like. She had also formed a picture of him in her mind, and, curiously enough, the likeness had been exact. She now felt that her impression had been a presentiment, and this thought appealed to her peculiarly constituted nature. She wanted to know Duncan better and analyze his character, so she arranged her table to further this desire, placing him at her right, and, as Florence Moreland did not like him, she was given the next seat; next to Florence she put Harold Wainwright, feeling sure that they would both be oblivious to their neighbors, while about the table she maliciously scattered a trio of drawing-room musicians. There was Herr von Steubenblätter, a musical professor, Mdlle. de Longchamps, an amateur soprano, and Mr. John Smith, who, after studying singing in Italy and passing five years without an engagement, had now assumed the more euphonious name of Signor Frivogini. Besides these there were several inoffensive people who never said much, but who would consider it their duty to applaud the musicians and keep them employed after dinner, so that Marion and Duncan might talk unobserved.
Unfortunately Duncan's manner was not at all what she had expected. He talked to her about the most conventional and trivial subjects in a most conventional and trivial way, until about the secondentrée, when he entered into a literary argument with Florence which lasted during the entire dinner. Both Marion and Wainwright considered themselves very much abused, and Marion in particular thought that somehow her elaborate plans had failed and that Duncan was purposely neglecting her. She endeavored to listen to a discourse on the relative merits of canvas-back and red-head, delivered by an experienced diner on her left, but she felt much relieved when she was able to make the signal for the ladies to file out. When the men had finished their cigars and found their way to the drawing-room she boldly conducted Herr von Steubenblätter to the piano, trusting, from her experience of the opera, that Duncan would disregard the music and talk to her. Marion had provided a formidable array of drawing-room musicians, but they failed to serve the purpose for which they were invited. They played and sang in continuous succession, but Duncan, instead of taking a seat beside her and making the music a cloak for conversation, went to the other side of the room and sat down near pretty, smirking Miss Ender. There he chatted assiduously and made her giggle so loudly that Herr von Steubenblätter sent withering glances through his gold bowed spectacles which made the poor girl blush and stop simpering for two entire minutes.
Marion was furious with everything, but with Duncan most of all. She tried to conceal her anger and listen to the insipid chatter of an under-graduate, but her replies were generalities, delivered without reference to the sophomore's platitudes, and her thoughts were entirely across the room. "What did Duncan mean by such negligence? Why did he challenge her to a verbal combat and then refuse an engagement? Why had he appeared to be interested in her on one day and then utterly indifferent the next?" It was in forming and revolving such questions in her mind that she passed the evening, and, meanwhile, the harmless college boy struggled and sputtered on.
At one end of the Sanderson drawing-room was a settee placed behind a few palms; although it was in the room, it was sufficiently hidden to remove people sitting there from the observation of others. When music had been suggested Florence Moreland and Harold Wainwright had wandered toward this seat. The two had been childhood friends and in later years the intimacy had continued. Harold had been left an orphan without fortune, and Florence had always taken a deep interest in his success.
After leaving college Harold had come to the western metropolis and, by hard and creditable work had built up a flourishing law-practice. He was only twenty-seven and possessed in a marked degree the best qualities of young American manhood. He was one of those young men so numerous in Western cities, whose earnest and energetic characters, untouched by Old World follies and vices, make them the heirs of the pioneer of the past. Florence had admired Harold as a sister might admire a strong, splendid brother. She trusted and looked up to him, and she often confided her thoughts to him. He was a sympathetic friend, but that was all; she, at least, was not a lover.
"Do you know, Harold," Florence said, as they took their seats on the settee, "that we have not had one of our old talks since you were home last summer. There has been a succession of bothersome people to interfere ever since I arrived. Tell me, are you working as hard as ever?"
"Yes," he replied. "I am still toiling away, but to what end I don't know."
"That doesn't sound like you, Harold."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you are not the man to mind the bumps in life's road. You can see beyond them."
Harold was silent; he seemed thoughtful; a little sigh escaped him. "Can I, Florence?" he finally said. "You know me better than I know myself. What can I see?"
"A successful career."
"Is that all?"
"No; friends."
"Of what use are they?"
"Dr. Johnson called friendship 'the cordial drop that makes the nauseous draught of life go down'."
"He was wrong."
"Why, Harold! you forget that I am your friend."
"No, Florence, I don't; I wish I could."
"How strangely you act to-night," she replied in puzzled tones. "I don't understand you."
"That cordial drop of friendship is a poison, sweet, subtle, and deadly," he answered mournfully.
Florence drew back, startled. "Harold, you forget the past," she said anxiously.
"I wish I could," he replied sadly. "I wish you were not my friend."
"Why?" she asked, frightened, and almost afraid to hear the reply.
"Because I love you, Florence," he slowly and earnestly replied. "If you were not my dearest friend you might love me, too."
She looked wonderingly into his face, almost expecting to read there that his words were in jest. She was so startled that the full meaning of what he said did not, at first, appear to her, but slowly she realized that this friendship that had lasted so long and had been so sweet must end. She covered her face with her hands as though hoping to hide this thought from her mind. "Why did you say it? Why did you say it?" she moaned. "It was so sweet before."
"It was in my heart, dearest; it has been there a very long time. I have tried to keep it friendship, but I couldn't." Harold slowly rose and stood beside her. "Forgive me," he continued. "I couldn't help it, Florence; I couldn't."
She took his hand; it was cold. "Forgive you," she said, "I have nothing to forgive."
His hand tightened about hers. "I love you, Florence," he said. "Will you be my wife?"
She raised her eyes and looked full into his face. "Would you marry your best friend?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Calmly he returned her glance. "No," he replied. "Not unless she brought me the same love I gave."
"Then I cannot promise to be your wife," she said hesitatingly, as though the words were painful.
He released her hand slowly. "May I hope that some day it will be different?"
"Let us both hope so," she replied. They remained silent and motionless, each feeling that an epoch of life had come; each wondering what futurity concealed. Perhaps a minute passed, though it seemed much longer, then Florence spoke. "We had better not remain here, Harold, the world sometimes misunderstands even friends."
He walked silently beside her, back to where the others were. Duncan saw them approaching and took the opportunity to leave Miss Ender. Harold felt that he could not endure the laughter and merriment about him; so he left Florence with Duncan and wandered off to the dark, silent library across the hall. Florence, too, wanted to be alone; but she could see no way to evade Duncan, and so she was left to talk to a man for whom she had an instinctive distaste.
"I see you are independent in society as well as in politics, Miss Moreland," Duncan said, as soon as Harold had left them.
"In what way?" she replied inquiringly.
"Instead of remaining here to be bored by bad music, you were independent enough to desert."
"Perhaps the bad music drove me away. Real independence cannot be driven."
"Even in that you are original; society is not driven, it meekly follows its leaders."
"You seem decided to have me a caprice of nature," she replied.
"I think you are."
"Is that impudence or irony?"
"Neither. I am an evolutionist and you aid my theories. I believe one of the proofs of Darwinism lies in the imitative sense possessed by the individuals composing American society. When some strange animal from across the water comes among us, we try to copy every grimace and action, until someone else arrives with new affectations and mannerisms, when we begin all over again. We, as a race, are not sufficiently developed to possess originality; we are still a species of the genus ape. Now you, Miss Moreland, are the only member of American society I have yet discovered who is independent enough to possess original and patriotic ideas. You are an American of position and yet not an ape, so you must be a connecting link between us and the more highly developed societies of Europe."
"I think that your conclusions are somewhat erroneous," she replied. "I admit that the society that you describe is typical of the descent of man, but not in a Darwinian sense. It marks a descension from the higher plane reached by the vigorous pioneers who planted and reared our social tree. The leaves toward the East, which have breathed the fetid air of Europe, have shriveled and decayed, but toward the West they are still kept green and vigorous by the pure, native breezes. Some people seem to admire the varied brilliancy of the fading foliage, but I enjoy the vivid native color."
"Aut Americanus aut nullusshould be your motto," he replied.
"Could I have a better?"
"You might sayl'Americaine c'est moi. No one of your sex and surroundings would dispute the pretension."
"You compliment me, but not my sex. Millions of my country-women would compete for that distinction."
"My observations have been confined to society in its restricted sense; I am not, I acknowledge, the mouth-piece of the rabble."
"Since you admit your ability to act as society's mouth-piece, how do you define society?"
"Society is a limited liability company engaged in the production of snobs. Formerly its shares were non-transferable, but financial straits necessitated the placing of the common stock upon the open market; the preferred stock, however, is still held by the heirs of the original incorporators. The Anglo-Saxon company has its head office in London, with agencies in the various cities of the United Kingdom, America, and the Colonies; Albert Edward Guelph, Esq., is chairman of the executive committee, and the most refined products of the corporation are sealed and labeled by his own hand. There are two distinct stages in the process of manufacture, called respectively toadying and snubbing, which must be successfully undergone before the perfected article is obtained. For instance, raw material is gathered at an American agency and after passing through the first toady stages it is put through the more intricate process of snubbing; then at a certain stage of maturity it is sent to the London office to be again subjected to a more refined toady process. Unfortunately the American material, being supplied by purchasers of the common stock, can never reach a more refined stage, so, after receiving the toadycachetof the chairman, it goes back to America again where it is put upon the market as a superior imported article."
"Then I am to infer, Mr. Grahame," Florence replied sarcastically, "that an American is doomed always to remain a toady, and can never hope to attain the distinction of being a full-fledged snob. I do not think your prospectus is sufficiently attractive to induce me to purchase stock, at least, not until the native industry is sufficiently thriving to manufacture the higher grades at home and exclude the foreign brands from our market." Then she left him abruptly and walked toward a group of girls who were discussing the coming "Patricians'" ball.
When a man of Duncan's nature receives a rebuff, he is amused or angered, but not humiliated. Duncan regarded Florence's patriotism as a mere pose, and her dislike of him he considered amusing; so when she thus coolly left him, he merely laughed and turned away without being in the slightest degree offended. As for Florence, she felt in no mood for conversation, and had taken the first opportunity to rid herself of a person whom she considered actually displeasing. Duncan, feeling it was expedient to smooth the feathers he had purposely rumpled, approached Marion, and, assuming a penitent air, he sat down beside her and said with mock humility: "Am I not to be permitted to address you at all; does your hatred extend that far?"
"You haven't tried," said Marion, her resentment increasing.
"How could I?" replied Duncan. "You seemed so engrossed by that young collegian's charms, that you could scarcely expect me, whom you avow to be an enemy, to increase your wrath by interrupting."
"I think you were mistaken," answered Marion. "You said you intended to make me your friend even against my will. There was no avowed enmity on my part; I merely considered your method of procedure somewhat eccentric."
"Indeed! In what way, may I ask?"
"It was you who challenged. Do you expect a victory without an engagement?"
"Those were the tactics the Russians used against Napoleon."
"Coldness was their chief weapon," Marion replied, "and you certainly are well armed with it."
"You forget the fire at Russia's heart."
"Was it not the fire of hate?" she asked.
"No," he said. "The fire of the heart is love, and hate is but its ashes." His voice had softened as he spoke, and Marion felt that his eyes were scanning her thoughts; she turned her head away, but her eyes were drawn slowly back until they for a moment met his glance. The knowledge that anyone could so influence her frightened her; but it was a fascinating fear which tempted investigation. She was about to reply when she became conscious of the presence of others; they were departing guests, who announced a breaking up of the party, and Marion was obliged to exchange conventional civilities with her friends until the room was slowly emptied. Harold had hurried away alone, without even a word with Florence. The poor fellow had not the heart to speak to her again that night, and he felt that she would understand the reason for his rudeness. Duncan was thus left to his own resources, and, seeing that Roswell Sanderson and Florence had gone into the library, and that all the guests had departed, he made the conventional move to leave.
"Don't hurry," said Marion, "it is only eleven o'clock, and you see I am left quite alone."
"I will remain," replied Duncan, as he took a seat beside her on a daintyLouis Seizesofa, "because I have a favor to ask."
"A favor of an enemy," said Marion, with an air of astonishment.
"Yes," he answered. "Like the Spartans I cannot fight when the omens are unpropitious, so I wish to beg the favor of a truce and to ask that during it the hostiles may dance the Patricians' cotillon together."
"A dance of hostiles would be a war dance, would it not?"
"War is a cruel word," he replied. "To me the dance is symbolic of the highest sentiment."
"That is religion, is it not?" she asked, laughingly.
"No; a higher sentiment than religion is love."
"Of that there are many kinds."
"There is but one kind," he answered. "Other feelings may receive that name, but they are base alloys of the pure sentiment."
"And what is this perfect love of which you seem to know so much?"
"It is the irresistible union of two similar natures."
"Why irresistible?" Marion asked.
"Because all organism is a union of limitless atoms, which are brought together out of chaos by the attraction of similarity."
"That is a novel theory, but what has it to do with love?" she questioned.
"Love is the idealization of that theory. Man and woman are the most perfect blending of the atoms, and love is the transcendent union of their two natures."
"And is there no creator?" Marion asked.
"None but love. Love is the symbolism of the creative power; love is God."
Marion laughed; his theory was too absurd to be taken seriously, but somehow it pleased her. "Have you felt this irresistible love power?" she asked.
"I must first find my affinity," he replied evasively.
"Have you not met her yet?" said Marion, looking up with an air of astonishment.
Duncan's eyes quickly caught her glance. "I think I have," he replied in a way that was at once bold, insinuating, and tender. Marion turned her head away quickly and a tinge of color came into her cheeks. It was resentment, but somehow a sense of pleasure tingled amid the anger. "You are an enigma," she said, ashamed at having colored. "I thought you were a cynical speculator, but now you seem a fanciful dreamer."
"You must guess again," he replied. "I am neither a cynic nor a visionist."
"What are you?" she asked abruptly.
"I am a disciple of love," he replied.
"Then I was right in calling you a dreamer, for love itself is a fantasm inspired by hope or memory."
"You are a Philistine," he said softly. "Some day you may feel, and that is to believe."
"Che sarà sarà, but I have my doubts," she replied. Duncan's glance was contradictory, but he did not reply. After a moment of silence he rose to leave. "Is the truce to be granted?" he said. "Do we dance together?"
"Yes, if you wish it so," replied Marion.
"Then to-morrow we meet at the ball. Remember hostilities have ceased. Good-night." Marion extended her hand and Duncan held it for a moment. "Don't let the hate grow too strong," he said pleadingly.
"It couldn't," she replied; then she quickly withdrew her hand and turned away.
When Duncan reached the street he stopped to light a cigar. As he threw the match away and returned his match-safe to his pocket, he carelessly soliloquized: "When a moth sees a fire, it flutters around it to see what it is like, and it hasn't sense enough to keep from getting burned. A woman is much the same: excite her curiosity by the flame called love, and it is ten to one she gets singed before she finds out what it is. I have been talking a lot of trash, but it's all in the trade. Talk sense to a woman and treat her decently, and she thinks you are a muff; talk enigmatical bosh, and knock her about, and she loves you. They are all alike. No, by Jove! they are not; Helen Osgood outclasses them all, and she has 'hands for any sort'. Oh, well, as the Frenchman says: 'if you haven't got what you love, love what you have.' The Sanderson is a good looker, and you must have sport, Duncan, old man." Then shoving his stick under his arm, and plunging his hands into his coat pockets, he started off at a swinging pace in search of a cab.
Marion had remained seated where she and Duncan had been together. She had listened to hear the door close behind him, and then, her face resting in both hands, she sat thinking. Her imagination rapidly created a visionary structure of dazzling possibilities, but the dismal silence which follows in the steps of revelry came, and with it unrest. Quickly her Spanish castle crumbled and faded to a lonely ruin. "It is always so," she thought; "it is always so. Like children at a pantomime, who picture to their minds brilliant jewels in the fairy queen's tiara, and learn in after life that they were tawdry counterfeits, we imagine ideal gems of possibility only to find the reality of life papier maché and paint. Is love also a tinsel that tarnishes at the touch? So far mine has been so. But might it not be different? Yes, but the thought is wicked." Marion looked hurriedly about her as though fearful that someone might have seen the thought which crept into her mind. "He believes in love," she continued. "He says the right one exists. I wonder if it is true."
Florence came into the room to say good-night. Marion usually enjoyed repeating her day's experiences, and discussing her impressions with her friend, and Florence knew that at such times she was expected to approve of every sentiment, or be called unsympathetic, but when Florence kissed her good-night Marion made no suggestion about talking over experiences, and as neither woman felt inclined for an exchange of confidences, Florence hurried away to her room. Marion's eyes followed her as she left. "She acts strangely," she thought; "I wonder if her friendship could change? Perhaps, for we are so different. No one understands me," she sighed after a moment. "If I only had someone I could trust and love." A man stood in the doorway behind her. He heard the sigh, and he remained for a moment silently thinking of the time when she had promised to be his wife. Then he had drawn a hopeful picture of the future, a picture full of brightness and sunshine, with a loving wife for the central figure and happy, romping children playing about her. That dream had flashed like a brilliant light which blazes for a moment and dies as suddenly away, leaving black, charred ashes to mark its place.
"Marion," he said gently.
She looked up startled. "Is it only you?" she said, with just a tone of disappointment in her voice.
"Yes, it is only I," he answered. "Shall I ring to have the lights turned out?"
"O, I suppose so," she sighed.
A servant came to secure the house for the night. When he appeared, Marion slowly followed her husband upstairs, and as they passed Florence's room, she saw a light burning. Usually Marion would have gone in to talk, but this time she went on to her own apartment.
Long after Marion had passed that light continued to burn. With her dress loosened and her soft brown hair falling over her white shoulders Florence sat before the fire thinking. Between her hands was a picture. It was Harold's, and as she gazed at the face she seemed to hear the words: "Florence, I love you; if you were not my dearest friend, you might love me too." "Why did he say it; why did he say it," she murmured. Then moments from her childhood came softly back to her mind, and she saw Harold, her old-time playmate, grow to manhood. "Playmate, friend," she thought. "Why not more? Why not?" she repeated.
Perhaps the only city of considerable proportions in which the rigorous proprieties of a New England village exist side by side with the gorgeous trappings of metropolitanism is Chicago. Its growth has been so marvelous that in a single generation the simple garb of provincialism has been exchanged for the more imposing mantle of a great city. Streets and boulevards have spread forth like the countless antennæ of some mighty monster; gigantic structures have arisen almost as at the touch of magic, and ten thousand lanky chimneys have begun to belch forth black and sooty smoke, all within the memory even of the middle-aged inhabitant. Fifty years ago Chicago was a frontier town; twenty years ago a fearful scourge laid her in ruins; to-day she stands among the first ten of the world's great cities. Countless forces have in a score of years heaped up a mighty metropolis, and, perhaps, it is not surprising to find almost buried beneath this gigantic pile the simple and pure society of the early days.
During all these rapid changes the older families have altered little. They have built more pretentious homes, they drive more modern equipages, they eat more elaborate dinners, but even these innovations have been reluctantly received, and the hearts of the old residents have remained untouched byfin de siéclelooseness and cynicism. In no older city are the social lines more strictly drawn, and year after year the same faces appear at the select gatherings, unconscious of the rapid change about them. Of millionaires there are many, but the foundations of their fortunes were laid in the early days of pioneering, and if occasionally a Crœsus of recent growth creeps partly in, the shoulders turned toward him are cold, and his golden key never quite unlocks the inner doors. Chicago has perhaps suffered unduly at the hands of cursory and captious critics, but its society should not be judged by a hastily written paragraph or the clanking chains of the parvenu's carriage. Whatever be its faults, and they are doubtless many, it is thoroughly American, and slow to accept the lax scepticism and hollow manners of the older world. It is still too young to be the home of art and letters, and still too sensible to breed idlers. Happy city, if its society could continue as it is, unaffected, progressive, and moral; but the naturalness of Chicago cannot endure forever; already Puritan simplicity has fought the first skirmish with bare-necked folly and been worsted. French dresses and English drags have come to stay; insincerity and disbelief will follow.
The best society is hard to define,—especially in America,—but by some indescribable process people are shaken up, and so sifted into cliques and circles that they become mysteriously classified and labeled without the scrutinizing care of a satin-coated Lord Chamberlain. When the inhabitants of Chicago were passed through the social sieve, the finest particles formed a little heap labeled "The Patricians." This was the set that gave the most exclusive subscription dances, and, though there were other organizations which might feel strong enough to compete with this select assembly, it was noticed that the name of no Patrician was ever found upon another list, and no outsider ever declined to become a Patrician subscriber. There is a classic story which says that when, after their victory at Salamis, the generals of the various Greek states voted the prizes for distinguished merit, each assigned the first place of excellence to himself, but they all concurred in giving their second votes to Themistocles. Were the Chicagoans called upon to vote for the most exclusive organization of their city, each would probably cast his first vote for the one of which he is a member, but the second votes would all be given to the "Patricians." It was an ancient organization, dating from before the fire, and its membership list had been sacredly guarded ever since. Simple and informal at first, it had gradually assumed pretentious proportions, until it had passed from a North Side hall, cold suppers, lemonade and nine o'clock, to the Hotel Mazarin, terrapin,brutchampagne, and eleven o'clock. In the early days there had been three fiddlers and a man to call off, but now there was an orchestra, a Hungarian band and a cotillon: "O tempora, O mores!" "Imitatores, servum pecus."
Marion Sanderson was a patroness of the "Patricians," and to her efforts the innovations were, in a great measure, due. They had been coldly received at first, and when the changes culminated in champagne, some of the stricter members withdrew their names and refused permission to their daughters to attend, but the foundations of the Patricians had been too firmly laid to be shattered even by such defection.
Three evenings after the events of the last chapter the inviting French ball-room of the Hotel Mazarin was lighted for the first "Patricians'" dance of the season. The florist had arranged his last cluster, and the floor had received its last polishing; the dainty canary draperies were coquettishly caught up with garlands of flowers, while here and there slender palms cast their graceful shadows upon the shining floor, and white and gold woodwork peeped from behind smilax and roses. A row of waiting chairs around the room seemed to add to the stillness, which was broken only by the hollow, echoing steps of two managers who were taking a final glance at the preparations. Soon a jabbering of German, and the squeak of violins behind the gallery palms, announced the arrival of the orchestra, while down-stairs by the supper rooms the twang of a Hungarian cymballo proclaimed the presence of the Tzigan band. Chattering Frenchmen were scurrying about the tables putting on the finishing touches, and the usually suave and smirkingmaître d'hôtelwas scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch glasses. "Dépêche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir à l'instant" he cried; but though an hour had passed since the time for which the guests were invited, the ball-room remained deserted.
Down-stairs a solitary woman sat quaking in the ladies' dressing-room, and her husband braved the patronizing glances of the servants in the hall. They were from a Western town, and both were wondering what nine o'clock on the invitation meant. For nearly another hour they sat there, and then the rustling of a satin dress announced the arrival of a patroness who had promised to come early to receive. Soon a few men straggled in, another patroness arrived, and finally a little knot of women who had collected in the dressing-room mustered sufficient courage to enter the great, empty ball-room. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, a couple started to dance, and a few others followed their example. The fashionable hour had arrived; men, maidens and matrons crowded in, the room became quickly filled with a talking, laughing multitude; brilliant colors and bright smiles dispelled the gloom, and a giddy whirling mass of tulle and cheviot announced that the ball had opened.
Marion Sanderson was among the late arrivals. She had been unusually long at her toilette, but the time had been profitably spent, for when she entered the room her perfectly fitting gown of yellow satin and old lace produced an envious murmur among the women. Marion looked well at any time, but she was especially attractive in evening dress, for the lights and excitement seemed to produce an extra glow of beauty which few failed to notice. When she came, it was at the close of a dance, and a knot of men quickly formed around her, but Duncan was not of the number. She had expected to find him looking for her, and when she saw him near her, talking to her enemy, Mrs. McSeeney, she felt an unpleasant tinge of jealousy. After the excitement her entrance created had subsided, he came slowly toward her.
"I believe I have to thank you, Mr. Grahame," she said, giving him her hand, "for these beautiful yellow roses."
"On the contrary, it is I who must thank you for carrying them," he replied. "Besides, they are typical of jealousy."
"Jealousy," repeated Marion in a wondering tone. "Were you ever jealous?"
"A lover is always jealous," Duncan replied. Then he added gently: "I am a lover."
"Then all the world must love you," she said laughingly.
"I wish it did, for you are in the world," he answered.
A glance of reproof was her only reply, for Walter Sedger came to claim a dance, and she had just time to promise the next but one to Duncan before she was whirled away into the gliding throng. Duncan's eyes followed her for a moment; she saw his glance and a slight tinge of color came into her cheek. In a moment she was lost amid the dancers. Mechanically she danced a waltz and a polka, scarcely noticing her partner's remarks, for in her heart she felt a strange apprehension that she could not understand. There was a fascination in Duncan's personality she dared not attempt to explain.
When the first strains of Duncan's dance began, he came to her immediately, and, without speaking, quietly took her hand and placed his arm gently about her waist; then, catching the time of the music, they glided away into a dreamy waltz. It was their first dance together, and as he guided her gracefully and easily through the whirling maze of waltzers, Marion felt that she had never really danced before. Silently they waltzed awhile, enjoying the delicious excitement of the movement, then he said softly: "I have never understood the power of the dance before, but to-night our steps, gliding together to this glorious music, seem to me like the love of two natures, who feel and act in perfect unison."
Marion looked up silently until her eyes met his glance; she grew icy cold, but she could feel the quick throb of each pulse beat. Duncan pressed her gently nearer, but she drew back and tossed her head forcibly away. She laughed a hollow little laugh at the fear in her heart, for here at least she was mistress of herself. Rhythmically their steps moved on to the enchanting music. Marion closed her eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts in her heart. In the darkness she seemed to be carried softly on through space, like some spirit borne away in the arms of dreamy happiness. Duncan drew her closer to his side; she felt a delicious sense of joy, such as she had never known before, and, almost dizzy, she glided on over the shining floor, her heart beating with wild, delightful pleasure. The music stopped. For a moment they danced on, but the dream had faded; she was back in the noisy, humming world of people.
Marion had arrived so late that people were already flocking toward the supper table. She had long before promised to take supper with Walter Sedger, who was to lead the cotillon; but when he appeared, she suggested that as Duncan was alone he had better join them. So the three wandered down-stairs and entered the supper-room. The weird HungarianCzardaswas being played by the Tzigans in the hallway, and it seemed to Marion that it did not harmonize with the clattering plates and the laughter. She had once heard that fantastic melody in Buda, and then it created strange sensations of unrest and aroused the wildest feelings of her nature. In her present state of mind she felt thankful for the noisy rattle of the supper-room.
The tables were placed in a large, oblong room, and were arranged for parties of four or six, but Marion, being a patroness, was conducted to a large, round table at the farther end, reserved for the managers and their friends. She hoped that the presence of other people would spare her the necessity of talking much, but at first she was obliged to manufacture conversation, in order to keep her two companions amused. Duncan made no attempt to conceal the fact that the presence of Sedger was distasteful to him, and he amused himself by delivering occasional satirical remarks upon the latter's conversation which did not tend to improve the relations between the two men. Accidentally, however, both Duncan and Sedger were drawn into the general talk of the table, and Marion was left to herself. She felt lonesome, in spite of the gaiety around her, and realized that there is no loneliness so deep as that which comes amid merriment one cannot join. She looked about at the pretty faces and the brilliant colors made brighter by the lights; she saw the sparkling eyes and glittering diamonds, she heard merry laughter mingling with the rattling dishes and scurrying feet, but all seemed hollow and far away. She knew that she had just been brought under the influence of an unknown power, and she was faintly endeavoring to collect her senses and understand herself. Almost unwarned she had felt impetuous love flash forth in her heart, and now, in a dazed sort of way, she was trying to bring her mind to act. She was impressionable and reckless, but not so reckless as quite to forget her position. One thought grew strongest in her mind; it was fear. She was brought back to her surroundings by a remark addressed to her by Mrs. McSeeney: "You look quite pale, my dear, are you ill?"
"Not in the least," replied Marion, smiling faintly, "but this room seems close. Don't you think so?"
"I had not noticed it," was the answer spoken equivocally.
The supper was somehow worried through. As they were leaving the table Walter Sedger said: "I have saved the seats of head couple for you, Mrs. Sanderson; if you will come with me, I will show them to you. I lead alone, but I hope you will permit me to take you out for an occasional extra turn."
"I shall be delighted," Marion replied. Sedger gave her his arm, and Duncan, glowering more than ever, was obliged to wander on behind.
The musicians' gallery did not project into the ball-room, but was supported by columns in the hall outside. Just under it an attractive nook had been arranged, with palms and foliage plants, a rug and a divan. The lights were kept low and the palms were so thickly placed as almost to conceal the people who might chance to sit there. At each side of this recess was a door leading into the ball-room, and as Marion and her two companions were passing through the one at the right, they met Florence Moreland and Roswell Sanderson coming out.
"I am looking for my fan, Mr. Grahame," said Florence, stopping. "Don't you want to help me search for it?"
"Of course I do, and I'll wager I find it," said Duncan, walking directly toward the nook just described.
"You need not express your disapproval of me so pointedly," called Florence, protestingly. "I assure you it is not in here," she continued, following him until they were both concealed by the palms.
"A thousand pardons for my blunder," replied Duncan. "I thought I saw you coming out of here after one of the dances with Dr. Maccanfrae."
"I see I must confess my guilt," answered Florence, smiling; "but I relied on the protection of his grey hairs."
"I gather you don't approve of this corner," replied Duncan. "At least," he continued, looking around, "you were not so indiscreet as to leave your fan here."
"I suppose the place has its uses," she answered laughingly, "at least the managers think so, if one is to judge by the care bestowed on its arrangement."
"If I were bold," Duncan said, as they passed out, "I would say that it is like a fire escape, only to be used on pressing occasions."
Florence frowned at this atrocious punning, and he added, meekly: "May I have permission to admire your gown?"
"I am surprised that you like it," she replied. "This is its second season."
"I think it is charming," he continued. "But might I inquire if it is ardent affection for each other which prompts you and Mrs. Sanderson to select the same color to-night?"
"It was not a case of affection, but quite an accident," Florence replied. "In fact, when Marion saw me coming down-stairs arrayed so like herself, she wanted to make me change my gown, but it was so late that I refused."
They reached the ball-room door, and there they met Roswell Sanderson with the lost fan, which he had found in the supper-room. Duncan left Florence with Marion's husband and went in search of his partner. He found Marion already in her place for the cotillon and took his seat beside her. A double row of chairs had been arranged around the room, and poor Walter Sedger was flying about trying to make people take their places, so that he might commence his first figure. The one occasion when all intelligence seems to desert the average mortal,—especially if he be a man,—is when he is called upon to dance in a cotillon, and already the leader's difficulties had commenced. When Sedger had succeeded in seating a group in one place, he would turn around and find that people whom he had fairly implored to take their places were wandering across the room, or that others, who were seated in the back row, were having angry controversies with people who had placed their chairs in front of them. All expected Sedger to find them seats, and all insisted upon being in the front row; as there were some eighty couples to dance, and only forty could sit in front, this, to an intelligent mind, would seem an impossible proposition; but not a single one of those one hundred and sixty people seemed to understand it. Finally poor Sedger conceived the brilliant idea of starting the music, and the people who were squabbling over places, fearing they might be left out altogether, scrambled recklessly after seats, and thus the floor was cleared. Sedger was now master of the situation, and soon he was leading a troup of sprawling men through a maze of pretty gowns, in the performance of the intricate evolutions of a cotillon figure.
Duncan, instead of favoring someone, had persuaded Marion to dance the figure through with him. The band played a fantastic polka, and, catching the exciting inspiration of the Hungarian strains, they glided fleetly over the slippery floor. It was no longer the dreamy waltz, but the wild abandon of rapid motion, and as they danced Marion seemed carried away by the exhilarating movement. On, on, they danced, until the music stopped; then Duncan led her quickly out of the ball-room to the nook under the musicians' gallery, where, breathless from the exercise, she sank down on the divan. Duncan, seating himself beside her, rested his arm upon one of the cushions, and leaned forward so that he could see her face. Her cheeks glowed from the exercise, and there, in the soft light, her large black eyes glistening with excitement, she seemed to Duncan the most glorious creature he had ever seen. Delighted he gazed until Marion raised her eyes and met his eager glance.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.
"To say good-by."
"What do you mean?" she said, with a frightened tone in her voice.
"I mean that I leave to-morrow. I have been called back to the East."
"Are you glad?" she asked sadly.
"Yes, I am glad," he replied softly; "glad to have known you, glad to feel that you exist."
Wild thoughts flashed impetuously through her mind. "Why?" she asked.
He leaned forward till his face was near hers, and she could see his grey eyes, now black in the dim light, almost next her own. He took her hand and held it; then he whispered passionately: "Because I love you."
"For the sake of both of us, don't say that," she said hoarsely, drawing back her hand.
"For the sake of both of us I will," he replied. "What is there to prevent our loving?"
"My husband," she said, and the words brought back fear to her heart.
"I thought you were a woman of the world," he replied scornfully. "Do you mean to tell me that you are afraid?"
"Yes," said Marion resolutely.
"Then you must drown your fear in love," he answered, drawing his arm about her shoulders.
"You must leave me," she pleaded, trying to release herself.
"Not until you say you love me," was his answer.
"That I do not hate you ought to tell you that; O, I can't say any more. Leave me, I entreat you."
"I will not leave you, my Marion," he replied impetuously. "I must have your love." And he leaned forward and kissed her. A dress rustled behind the palms. Duncan heard it and quickly released Marion, who darted away and ran toward the ball-room; and Duncan, glancing anxiously through the foliage, saw a crimson gown hurrying through the other door. "Confound my luck!" he muttered. "I thought I knew something about this sort of thing, but I was a fool to take such chances."