Just before Lent, and about three months after the death of Vandover's
father, Henrietta Vance gave a reception and dance at her house. The
affair was one of a series that the girls of the Cotillon had been
giving to the men of the same club. Vandover had gone to all but the
last, which had occurred while he was at Coronado. He was sure of
meeting Geary, young Haight, Turner Ravis, and all the people of his set
at these functions, and had always managed to have a very jolly time. He
had been very quiet since his father's death and had hardly gone out at
all; in fact, since Ida Wade's death and his trip down the coast he had
seen none of his acquaintances except the boys. But he determined now
that he would go to this dance and in so doing return once more to the
world that he knew. By this time he had become pretty well accustomed to
his father's death and saw no reason why he should not have a good time.
At first he thought he would ask Turner to go with him, but in the end
made up his mind to go alone, instead; one always had a better time when
one went alone. Young Haight would have liked to have asked Turner, but
did not because he supposed, of course, that Vandover would take her. In
the end Turner had Delphine act as her escort.
Vandover arrived at Henrietta Vance's house at about half-past eight. A
couple of workmen were stretching the last guy ropes of the awning that
reached over the sidewalk; every window of the house was lighted. The
front door was opened for the guest before he could ring, and he passed
up the stairs, catching a glimpse of the parlours through the portières
of the doors. As yet they were empty of guests, the floors were covered
with canvas, and the walls decorated with fern leaves. In a window
recess one of the caterer's men was setting out two punch bowls and a
multitude of glass cups; three or four musicians were gathered about the
piano, tuning up, and one heard the subdued note of a cornet; the air
was heavy with the smell of pinks and of La France roses.
At the turn of the stairs the Vances' second girl in a white lawn cap
directed him to the gentlemen's dressing-room, which was the room of
Henrietta Vance's older brother. About a dozen men were here before him,
some rolling up their overcoats into balls and stowing them with their
canes in the corners of the room; others laughing and smoking together,
and still others who were either brushing their hair before the mirrors
or sitting on the bed in their stocking feet, breathing upon their
patent leathers, warming them before putting them on. There were one or
two who knew no one and who stood about unhappily, twisting the tissue
paper from the buttons of their new gloves, and looking stupidly at the
pictures on the walls of the room. Occasionally one of the gentlemen
would step to the door and look out into the hall to see if the ladies
whom they were escorting were yet come out of their dressing-room, ready
to go down.
On the centre table stood three boxes of cigars and a great many
packages of cigarettes, while extra hairbrushes, whiskbrooms, and papers
of pins had been placed about the bureau.
As Vandover came in, he nodded pleasantly to such of the men as he knew,
and, after hiding his hat and coat under the bed, shook himself into his
clothes again and rearranged his dress tie.
The house was filling up rapidly; one heard the deadened roll of wheels
in the street outside, the banging of carriage doors, and an incessant
rustle of stiff skirts ascending the stairs. From the ladies'
dressing-room came an increasing soprano chatter, while downstairs the
orchestra around the piano in the back parlour began to snarl and whine
louder and louder. About the halls and stairs one caught brief glimpses
of white and blue opera cloaks edged with swan's-down alternating with
the gleam of a starched shirt bosom and the glint of a highly polished
silk hat. Odours of sachet and violets came and went elusively or
mingled with those of the roses and pinks. An air of gayety and
excitement began to spread throughout the house.
"Hello, old man!" "Hello, Van!" Charlie Geary, young Haight, and Ellis
came in together. "Hello, boys!" answered Vandover, hairbrush in hand,
turning about from the mirror, where he had been trying to make his hair
lie very flat and smooth.
"Look here," said Geary, showing him a dance-card already full, "I've
got every dance promised. I looked out for that at the last one of these
affairs; made all my arrangements and engagements then. Ah, you bet, I
don't get left on any dance. That's the way you want to rustle. Ah," he
went on, "had a bully sleep last night. I knew I was going to be out
late to-night, so I went to bed at nine; didn't wake up till seven. Had
a fine cutlet for breakfast."
It was precisely at this moment that Geary got his first advancement in
life. Mr. Beale, Jr., head clerk in the great firm of Beale & Story,
came up to him as he was drawing off his overcoat:
"How is Fischer?" asked Geary.
Beale, Jr., pulled him over into a corner, talking in a low voice. "He's
even worse than yesterday," he answered. "I think we shall have to give
him a vacation, and that's what I want to speak to you about. If you
can, Geary, I should like to have you take his place for a while, at
least until we get through with this contract case. I don't know about
Fischer. He's sick so often, I'm afraid we may have to let him go
altogether."
Suddenly the orchestra downstairs broke out into a clash of harmony and
then swung off with the beat and cadence of a waltz. The dance was
beginning; a great bustle and hurrying commenced about the
dressing-rooms and at the head of the stairs; everybody went down. In
the front parlour by the mantel Henrietta Vance and Turner stood on
either side of Mrs. Vance, receiving, shaking hands, and laughing and
talking with the different guests who came up singly, in couples, or in
noisy groups.
No one was dancing yet. The orchestra stopped with a flourish of the
cornet, and at once a great crowding and pushing began amidst a vast hum
of talk. The cards were being filled up, a swarm of men gathered about
each of the more popular girls, passing her card from hand to hand while
she smiled upon them all helplessly and good-naturedly. The dance-cards
had run short and some of the men were obliged to use their visiting
cards; with these in one hand and the stump of a pencil in the other,
they ran about from group to group, pushing, elbowing, and calling over
one another's heads like brokers in a stock exchange.
Geary, however, walked about calmly, smiling contentedly, very
good-humoured. From time to time he stopped such a one of the hurrying,
excited men as he knew and showed him his card made out weeks before,
saying, "Ah, how's that? _I_ am all fixed; made all my engagements at
the last one of these affairs, even up to six extras. That's the way you
want to rustle."
Young Haight was very popular; everywhere the girls nodded and smiled at
him, many even saving a place on their cards for him before he had
asked.
Ellis took advantage of the confusion to disappear. He went up into the
deserted dressing-room, chose a cigar, unbuttoned his vest and sat down
in one chair, putting his feet upon another. The hum of the dance came
to him in a prolonged and soothing murmur and he enjoyed it in some
strange way of his own, listening and smoking, stretched out at ease in
the deserted dressing-room.
Vandover went up to Turner Ravis smiling and holding out his hand. She
seemed to be curiously embarrassed when she saw him, and did not smile
back at him. He asked to see her card, but she drew her hand quickly
from his, telling him that she was going home early and was not dancing
at all, that in fact she had to "receive" instead of dance. It was
evident to Vandover that he had done something to displease her, and he
quickly concluded that it was because he had not asked her to go with
him that evening.
He turned from her to Henrietta Vance as though nothing unusual had
happened, resolving to see her later in the evening and in the meanwhile
invent some suitable excuse. Henrietta Vance did not even see his hand;
she was a very jolly girl, ordinarily, and laughed all the time. Now she
looked him squarely in the face without so much as a smile, at once
angry and surprised; never had anything seemed so hateful and
disagreeable. Vandover put his hand back into his pocket, trying to
carry it all off with a laugh, saying in order to make her laugh with
him as he used to do, "Hello! how do you do this evening? It's a
pleasant morning this afternoon." "How do you do?" she answered
nervously, refusing to laugh. Then she turned from him abruptly to talk
to young Haight's little cousin Hetty.
Mrs. Vance was neither embarrassed nor nervous as the girls had been.
She stared calmly at Vandover and said with a peculiar smile, "I am
surprised to see you here, Mr. Vandover."
An hour later the dance was in full swing. Almost every number was a
waltz or a two-step, the music being the topical songs and popular airs
of the day set to dance music.
About half-past ten o'clock, between two dances, the cornet sounded a
trumpet call; the conversation ceased in a moment, and Henrietta Vance's
brother, standing by the piano, called out, "The next dance will be the
_first extra_," adding immediately, "a _waltz_." The dance recommenced;
in the pauses of the music one heard the rhythmic movement of the feet
shuffling regularly in one-two-three time.
Some of the couples waltzed fast, whirling about the rooms, bearing
around corners with a swirl and swing of silk skirts, the girls' faces
flushed and perspiring, their eyes half-closed, their bare, white
throats warm, moist, and alternately swelling and contracting with their
quick breathing. On certain of these girls the dancing produced a
peculiar effect. The continued motion, the whirl of the lights, the heat
of the room, the heavy perfume of the flowers, the cadence of the music,
even the physical fatigue, reacted in some strange way upon their
oversensitive feminine nerves, the monotony of repeated sensation
producing some sort of mildly hypnotic effect, a morbid hysterical
pleasure the more exquisite because mixed with pain. These were the
girls whom one heard declaring that they could dance all night, the
girls who could dance until they dropped.
Other of the couples danced with the greatest languor and gravity, their
arms held out rigid and at right angles with their bodies.
About the doors and hallways stood the unhappy gentlemen who knew no
one, watching the others dance, feigning to be amused. Some of them,
however, had ascended to the dressing-room and began to strike up an
acquaintance with each other and with Ellis, smoking incessantly,
discussing business, politics, and even religion.
In the ladies' dressing-room two of the maids were holding a long
conversation in low tones, their heads together; evidently it was
concerning something dreadful. They continually exclaimed "Oh!" and
"Ah!" suddenly sitting back from each other, shaking their heads, and
biting their nether lips. On the top floor in the hall the servants in
their best clothes leaned over the balustrade, nudging each other,
talking in hoarse whispers or pointing with thick fingers swollen with
dish-water. All up and down the stairs were the couples who were sitting
out the dance, some of them even upon the circular sofa in the hall over
the first landing.
The music stopped, leaving a babel of talk in the air, the couples fell
apart for an instant, but a great clapping of hands broke out and the
tired musicians heroically recommenced.
As soon as the short _encore_ was done there was a rush for the lemonade
and punch bowls. The guests thronged around them joking each other.
"Hello! are you here _again_?" "Oh, this is dreadful!" "This makes _six_
times I've seen you here."
A smell of coffee rose into the air from the basement. It was about
half-past eleven; the next dance was the supper dance and the gentlemen
hurried about anxiously searching the stairs, the parlours, and the
conservatory for the girls who had promised them this dance weeks
before. The musicians were playing a march, and the couples crowded down
the narrow stairs in single file, the ladies drawing off their gloves.
The tired musicians stretched themselves, rubbed their eyes, and began
to talk aloud in the deserted parlours.
Supper was served in the huge billiard-room in the basement and was
eaten in a storm of gayety. The same parties and "sets" tried to get
together at the same table; Henrietta Vance's party was particularly
noisy: at her table there was an incessant clamour of screams and shouts
of laughter. One ate oysters _à la poulette_, terrapin-salads, and
croquettes; the wines were Sauternes and champagnes. With the nuts and
dessert the caps came on, and in a few minutes were cracking and
snapping all over the room.
Six of the unfortunates who knew no one, but who had managed through a
common affliction to become acquainted with each other, gathered at a
separate table. Ellis was one of their number; he levied a twenty-five
assessment, and tipped the waiter a dollar and a half. This one
accordingly brought them extra bottles of champagne in which they found
consolation for all the _ennui_ of the evening.
After supper the dancing began again. The little stiffness and
constraint of the earlier part of the evening was gone; by this time
nearly everybody, except the unfortunates, knew everybody else. The good
dinner and the champagne had put them all into an excellent humour, and
they all commenced to be very jolly. They began a Virginia Reel still
wearing the magician's caps and Phrygian bonnets of tissue paper.
Young Haight was with Turner Ravis as much as possible during the
evening, very happy and excited. Something had happened; it was
impossible for him to say precisely what, for on the face of things
Turner was the same as ever. Nothing in her speech or actions was
different, but there was in her manner, in the very air that surrounded
her, something elusive and subtle that set him all in a tremor. There
was a change in his favour; he felt that she liked to have him with her
and that she was trying to have him feel as much in some mysterious way
of her own. He could see, however, that she was hardly conscious of
doing this and that the change was more apparent to his eyes than it was
to hers.
"Must you really go home now?" he said, as Turner began to talk of
leaving, soon after supper. They had been sitting out the dance under a
palm at the angle of the stairs.
"Yes," answered Turner; "Howard has the measles and I promised to be
home early. Delphine was to come for me and she ought to be here now."
"Delphine?" exclaimed young Haight. "Didn't you come with Van?"
"No," answered Turner quietly. Only by her manner, and by something in
the way she said the word, Haight knew at once that she had broken
definitely with Vandover. The talk he had had with her at her house came
back to him on the instant. He hesitated a moment and then asked:
"There is something wrong? Has Van done anything--never mind, I don't
mean that; it's no business of mine, I suppose. But I know you care for
him. I'm sorry if--"
But he was not sorry. Try as he would, his heart was leaping in him for
joy. With Vandover out of the way, he knew that all would be different;
Turner herself had said so.
"Oh, everything is wrong," said Turner, with tears in her eyes. "I have
been so disappointed in Van; oh, terribly disappointed."
"I know; yes, I think I know what you mean," answered young Haight in a
low voice.
"Oh, please don't let's talk about it at all," cried Turner. But young
Haight could not stop now.
"Is Van really out of the question, then?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she exclaimed, not seeing what he was coming to. "Oh, yes;
how could I--how _could_ I care for him after--after what has happened?"
Very much embarrassed, young Haight went on: "I know it's unfair to take
advantage of you now, but do you remember what you said once? That if
Vandover were out of the question, that _'perhaps'_ you might--that it
would be--that there might be a chance for me?"