It was owing to this fortuitous train journey that one night, some weeks
later, Mr. Archibald Blair found himself moving in what he considered
very high society indeed. In the years when he had peddled papers on the
street corners, or padded around with them on thin and sturdy legs of a
Sabbath dawn, so that the world might have its news with its coffee and
griddle-cakes for breakfast, Archie had amused himself and added to his
mastery of his native tongue by reading an occasional account of a Galt
House Ball.
"Social Event of the Season Magnificent Affair Given Last
Evening To Mark The Debut into Society of" etc., etc.
And here he was himself, part and parcel of a Galt House Ball! It was
quite amazing.
Archibald Blair was no snob; but to him, as to many another of the
world's workers, "Society" represented a world apart, a sort of
fairyland in which creatures of an order far superior to ordinary humans
lived and moved and had their lovely being--feminine creatures, of
course. About the male of the species he had no illusions. They were
merely the same Charlies, Toms, and Georges one knew down town, and with
whom one had played baseball or marbles or shinny, transformed by glad
rags (the language is Archie's) into temporary black-tailed butterflies.
They did not fool him for a moment. When he caught a familiar and
surprised eye belonging to one of them, which he did more than once, he
grinned and winked. In return, the owner of the eye called out, "Why,
hello, Arch!" or, "Glad to see you, Blair!" in very friendly fashion,
for Archibald was a popular youth among his acquaintance.
But they did not introduce him to their girls.
Archie was not chagrined. On the rare occasions when he took Miss Emma
from the cashier's desk, or Miss Grace, the prettiest office
stenographer, to a dance-hall, he was careful himself about whom he
introduced to them. Fellows were often well enough with fellows, when
they wouldn't do for one's lady-friends. Girls had to be choosy. (Again
the language is Archibald's.)
He stood alone on the edge of the whirling throng with a pleased,
unconscious smile on his face, watching for the girl he had come to see,
wondering if it would be all right if he asked her to dance. In the
society he had hitherto frequented--or rather sampled, and found not
altogether satisfactory--a fellow danced only with the girl he had taken
with him, or perhaps, if it had been arranged beforehand, with the
partner of some friend, who in turn danced with his partner. Here things
seemed to be done differently. A line of young men hovered on the edge
of the dancers, and every now and then one would swoop in amongst them
and seize the lady of his choice away from her partner seemingly by main
force, a sort of modern Rape of the Sabines.
"Gee!" said Archibald to himself, watching. "Gee! But that takes a
nerve."
However, life on the whole does take a nerve, as he had long since
discovered.
He had, he supposed, as good a right to try it as the rest. The engraved
card of invitation was in his pocket--nobody had taken it from him at
the door. His broadcloth tails were as long and as neatly fitting as
anybody's--the invitation having arrived at a fortunate time when the
order he had landed in Philadelphia made it possible to buy himself a
hitherto unnecessary dress suit. It is true that he had used up almost a
box of lawn ties before he could get the proper touch to his bow, and
even now the result should have proved indubitably that he was not a
necktie drummer. He made a mental note to ask his friend Jakie
Florsheimer of the Gents' Furnishing at Morehouse's what he could do to
keep the blamed thing from riding up on him. Still, his final view of
himself in the washstand mirror had not been discouraging.
"Some boy," he had murmured to himself, in the absence of a less partial
critic.
So now he tensed the muscles of his jaw, and waited his chance,
nervously.
How wonderful they were, these slim, delicate creatures whirling by,
with their white arms and backs, their tiny feet slippered in silver and
gold, their soft laughter, their eager, luring eyes smiling over the
shoulders of the fortunate youths who embraced them! Archibald grew
quite dizzy with the scene, and stood at gaze as certain dazzled
mariners may have gazed upon the Lorelei, to their undoing.
"This is the life!" he said to himself, decidedly. There was not a pay
dance-hall in town that could touch it.
Other connoisseurs more experienced than Archibald Blair have looked
with delight upon a Galt House Ball--and will look no more, alas! Along
the broad corridor behind the ballroom picked experts were wont to
congregate early in every season to inspect Louisville's latest
contribution to the beauty of the race, comparing points and
conformation, class, speed, and endurance, as knowingly as such things
are later discussed at Churchill Downs. Indeed, Louisville may be said
to be, in some matters, a city of experts. The youth who sells you your
cigar, the newsie who provides you with an evening edition, should
without a moment's hesitation be able to tell you the name of two things
on demand: the Derby winner and the season's beauty.
So Archibald was in a measure prepared for what he saw. Anticipations of
it had kept him awake at night. His trouble was in the midst of so much
loveliness to fix his ravished attention upon the finding of one face.
When he found it at last, however, his eye did not again wander. He was
a young man whose head rarely contained more than one idea at a time--a
fact which perhaps accounted for his growing success in the selling end
of the business.
He let her pass the first time out of sheer pleasure of the sight of her
in motion. Joan was wearing, as she usually wore nowadays, an odd shade
of blue, very much the color of the orchids at her waist. In the hand on
her partner's arm she carried another bouquet, of violets; and the
second time she passed she had exchanged this for a third, of pink
roses. From which it may be gathered that Louisville was at last waking
up to the attractions of our heroine.
Archibald wished suddenly that he had sent her a bouquet himself, but
decided that she might have thought it "fresh."
"Unless I was to send it just 'From a Friend'?" he thought, his eye
brightening.
She had changed partners on each appearance, as well as bouquets; and
the third time she was dancing with a portly gentleman who one-stepped
so majestically, so benignly, that their passage down the room was a
sort of royal progress.
"Why, the gay old guy!" thought Archibald, surprised; and decided that
this was the moment for his grand coup. Girls like that should not have
to dance with parties old enough to know better.
He stepped up to the couple as he had seen others do, and slapped Major
Darcy on the back, remarking with the excessive nonchalance which is the
result of nervousness, "So long, old top! Back to the tall timbers for
you."
The Major turned and stared, really uncertain as to whether it could be
himself who was thus addressed.
"It's Mr. Blair, Dad," explained Joan hurriedly, "who was so nice to me
on the train; don't you remember?"
The Major still stared. But innate hospitality triumphed: and perhaps
there was something disarming, too, in the wide-apart front teeth of Mr.
Blair, which, as Joan had previously observed, gave him an oddly
innocent expression.
"Very well, young top!" he murmured courteously, "I surrender my
daughter to your mercies."
The two danced away, Blair holding his prize as if he did not know quite
what to do with her now that he had got her.
"For goodness' sake, take _hold_ of me!" she instructed after a moment.
"I feel as if I were about to float out of your grasp. I won't break,
you know!"
Archie obediently held her tighter, murmuring, "Pardon _me_!"
He danced surprisingly well, as if he were really listening to the
music, Joan thought. She did not trouble to talk to him, therefore.
"So that was your father," he said after a long and anxious silence.
"Why, he's a peach, hopping around like that at his age!"
"Rather more of a pear, don't you think? As to figure?" suggested Joan;
for the Major's tendency to _embonpoint_ had increased remarkably since
his marriage.
Blair threw back his head and gently roared. He was one of the people
who always made Joan feel herself a wit of the first water.
Yet she was a little sorry he had come to-night. She had sent him the
card to her debut ball by way of repaying an obligation. He had been
very thoughtful on the train about getting her fruit and papers--almost
too thoughtful; and had insisted, somewhat to Joan's embarrassment, on
paying for the two meals they had taken together in the dining-car. She
did not care to remain in debt to a stranger; hence the invitation. But
she had not, somehow, expected him to take advantage of it.
Since he was here, however, she must do what she could for him. She knew
what it was to be a stranger in a gay throng.
"Do you know any girls?" she asked.
"Not to speak to--though I've seen some of the young ladies on the
street, of course. This is the first time I've ever been out in
Society," he explained simply.
"Yes? I'm a debutante too, you know. And how do you like Society, so
far?"
"Fine, fine!" he told her. "Better even than I thought it was. Makes the
movie pictures of it look sort of silly."
"You ought to go to the Horse Show next week if you find this sort of
thing interesting. I hear it is to be something splendiferous!"
"I will," he assured her, earnestly.
"And now I'd better introduce you to some other people." She shook her
head smilingly at a youth who was about to touch him on the shoulder.
After all, one owes something to the duties of hospitality. "Though
really you don't have to _meet_ girls at a thing like this before you
ask them to dance. I don't know the names of half the men I dance with."
"You don't?" he repeated incredulously, wondering what Miss Emma or Miss
Grace would think of that! He decided not to tell them. "I reckon I'd
rather be introduced first though, if you don't mind," he
murmured--"I--I wouldn't know just what to call 'em."
Laughing, she stopped with the music, and on an impulse of sheer
mischief guided him toward the exclusive young person who had once made
her unhappy at the Country Club, one Miss Emily Carmichael. She was not
too exclusive, it appeared, to come to the Darcy ball; which she did not
seem to be thoroughly enjoying, however.
"Ask her to dance--she needs it," murmured Joan _sotto voce_ as they
approached.
"Sure thing," replied Archibald; and as soon as Joan had pronounced the
formula: "Miss Carmichael, Mr. Blair," he said promptly, "Be pleased to
have the pleasure of the next turn, Miss Carmichael."
Joan went off with another partner, chuckling. She felt that scores were
even.
Blair's face fell at this desertion. "Oh, but say," he called after her,
"can't I dance with you any more?"
"Whenever you like! Just come and tap my partner and carry me off as you
did before. But," she added with a parting twinkle, "I don't believe I'd
call him 'old top' again!"
Archibald flushed and understood. "All right," he said meekly. "I'll
just call him 'Say,' instead."
He tapped her partner with some frequency after that, though not often
enough to be annoying; and Joan also noticed amusedly that he danced a
great deal with Miss Carmichael, who seemed quite willing. Exclusiveness
was evidently in abeyance at a ball.
Sometimes when they passed each other she called out pleasantly, "Having
a good time, debutant?" and he answered in the vernacular of the moment,
"Fine and dandy!"
She said, during one of their brief turns together, "You seem to be
getting on beautifully with that girl I introduced you to."
"Who? Miss Carmichael? She's all to the mustard, isn't she! Asked me to
come and eat supper with her to-night."
"She did?" exclaimed Joan, surprised.
"Yes. You see I know her brother--put on gloves with him sometimes at
the Y. M. C. A. And it seems he's told her about me," explained Archie.
"Oh!" Joan looked with new interest at his broad shoulders, his
straight, supple back. She understood suddenly the lift and spring and
untiring ease of his dancing, which was not grace exactly, but something
just as good. He was an athlete. She began to feel quite pleased with
her protege. With a little pruning as to speech and general behavior, he
would make a rather presentable ballroom adjunct. His manner with women
was really nice.
One other besides Joan watched Archie's progress with interest. At the
door of the dressing-room Ellen Neal, in her Sunday costume of
claret-colored serge with collar and cuffs of homemade Battenberg lace,
gazed proudly out upon the scene of her nurseling's triumphs, having
been unable to resist Mrs. Darcy's invitation to assist on so memorable
an occasion. She had removed countless evening wraps and carriage
slippers, assisted deftly, albeit with prim lips, at the powdering of
countless backs and bosoms, and now followed with adoring eyes a certain
slim blue figure that appeared and disappeared among the dancers.
"Land," she thought. "If her mama could only see her now! The swellest
among the swell! And with a dress on her little back that cost that
woman a hundred dollars, if it cost a cent. She's got as many partners
as any of 'em--and why wouldn't she, then, I'd like to know?"
Archibald had promised to look her up during the evening, but boylike
had forgotten the old friend in quest of the new. She forgave him for
it, though she would have liked very much to exchange impressions with
somebody. Her pride was bursting for utterance.
Presently he came and stood quite near her, with only the width of the
corridor between them. His back was turned as he stood looking out over
the ballroom floor.
"Sst" called Ellen. "Psst! Mr. Archie!" She dared not leave her post for
fear people would come for wraps or powder, and find only a colored
woman to wait on them, which would never do. (Ellen continued to regard
the colored race as a cross between the monkey and the magpie, with
leanings toward the magpie.)
"Psst! Hey there!" she called.
But Archie's mind was far away from Ellen Neal, and he did not hear her.
He was anathematizing Jakie Florsheimer of the Gents' Furnishings at the
moment for not having suggested white kid gloves to him. More than once
his clumsy bare hand, struggle against it as he might, had come in
contact with the delicate bare shoulder of one of his partners; and
Archibald felt that if such a catastrophe should occur when he was
dancing with Miss Darcy, the earth might just as well open and engulf
him permanently. She would never forgive him--and indeed why should she?
A man ought to have known by instinct about those reverential gloves.
So he stood frowning out upon the ballroom, heedless of Ellen's hisses;
and in this way the old woman happened to be the unnoted witness of a
rather curious scene.
Mrs. Darcy came tripping down the corridor alone, for the moment, having
been out to inspect preparations for supper. She did not believe in
leaving so important a matter as supper entirely to the hands of paid
assistants, no matter how well paid. She was resplendent in rose brocade
and spangles, her small plump feet encased in cloth-of-gold, a little
fishtail train of cloth-of-gold whisking behind her. Her hair positively
glittered, it was so golden, and her face was overspread with a rosy
bloom that always intrigued her step-daughter because of its unnatural
evenness, as if she had not simply rouged, but dipped her face in a
permanent elixir of youth that outdid youth itself. Joan had never
caught her with her face bare, as it were, even at the most unlikely
hours.
Mrs. Darcy paused at sight of a young man standing by himself, gazing
out with a wistful frown at the gaiety before him; and her hospitable
heart smote her. She tapped his arm with her fan.
"Kind o' lonesome?" she said. "Come on in and dance with me."
He turned with a start. His eyes took her in from top to toe, and
suddenly narrowed. "No, thanks," he said curtly. "What are _you_ doing
here, anyway?"
Effie May drew back. She looked, as Ellen expressed it to herself,
"flabbergasted."
"Why! Who do you think I am?"
He continued to stare at her with those narrowed, steady eyes.
"I don't know, and I don't care. It's easy enough to see _what_ you are!
You'd better go, hadn't you?" suggested Archibald grimly. "This is a
private affair. Invitation only."
By this time the startled lady had recovered her poise. "You're making a
mistake, young man," she replied quietly, "This happens to be _my_
private affair. I am Mrs. Darcy."
It was his turn to be flabbergasted.
"_Her mother?_"
"Miss Darcy's step-mother," said Effie May, with some dignity.
She continued to meet his gaze, which did not lower, though he had gone
quite pale.
"The joke's on me," he muttered at last. "It's I who'd better go, I
guess. Pardon _me_!"
She inclined her head without speaking.
He still continued to look at her, as if puzzled. "My mistake," he said
again. "If your husband wants me at any time, my name is Blair, Mrs.
Darcy--Archibald Blair."
"He won't want you," said Effie May. "Good night."
Ellen Neal, aghast, watched him turn on his heel and leave.
"Land!" she said to herself. "Land sakes! He's gone and done for himself
now, the young idjit!"
When she turned again, she saw Mrs. Darcy refreshing herself with a
glass of "Dick Fizz" at the punch bowl. She seemed to need it.