WHICH TELLS ABOUT MRS. DILLINGHAM'S CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR'S
RECEPTION AT THE PALGRAVE MANSION.
A brilliant Christmas morning shone in at Mrs. Dillingham's window,
where she sat quietly sunning the better side of her nature. Her parlor
was a little paradise, and all things around her were in tasteful
keeping with her beautiful self. The Christmas chimes were deluging the
air with music; throngs were passing by on their way to and from church,
and exchanging the greetings of the day; wreaths of holly were in her
own windows and in those of her neighbors; and the influences of the
hour--half poetical, half religious--held the unlovely and the evil
within her in benign though temporary thrall. The good angel was
dominant within her, while the bad angel slept.
Far down the vista of the ages, she was looking into a stable where a
baby lay, warm in its swaddling-clothes, the mother bending over it. She
saw above the stable a single star, which, palpitating with prophecy,
shook its long rays out into the form of a cross, then drew them in
until they circled into a blazing crown. Far above the star the air was
populous with lambent forms and resonant with shouting voices, and she
heard the words: "Peace on earth, good-will to men!" The chimes melted
into her reverie; the kindly sun encouraged it; the voices of happy
children fed it, and she was moved to tears.
What could she do now but think over her past life--a life that had
given her no children--a life that had been filled neither by peace nor
good-will? She had married an old man for his money; had worried him
out of his life, and he had gone and left her childless. She would not
charge herself with the crime of hastening to the grave her father and
mother, but she knew she had not been a comfort to them. Her
willfulness; her love of money and of power; her pride of person and
accomplishments; her desire for admiration; her violent passions, had
made her a torment to others and to herself. She knew that no one loved
her for anything good that she possessed, and knew that her own heart
was barren of love for others. She felt that a little child who would
call her "mother," clinging to her hand, or nestling in her bosom, could
redeem her to her better self; and how could she help thinking of the
true men who, with their hearts in their fresh, manly hands, had prayed
for her love in the dawn of her young beauty, and been spurned from her
presence--men now in the honorable walks of life with their little ones
around them? Her relatives had forsaken her. There was absolutely no one
to whom she could turn for the sympathy which in that hour she craved.
In these reflections, there was one person of her own blood recalled to
whom she had been a curse, and of whom, for a single moment, she could
not bear to think. She had driven him from her presence--the one who,
through all her childhood, had been her companion, her admirer, her
loyal follower. He had dared to love and marry one whom she did not
approve, and she had angrily banished him from her side. If she only had
him to love, she felt that she should be better and happier, but she had
no hope that he would ever return to her.
She felt now, with inexpressible loathing, the unworthiness of the
charms with which she fascinated the base men around her. The only
sympathy she had was from these, and the only power she possessed was
over them, and through them. The aim of her life was to fascinate them;
the art of her life was to keep them fascinated without the conscious
degradation of herself, and, so, to lead them whithersoever she would.
Her business was the manufacture of slaves--slaves to her personal
charms and her imperious will. Each slave carried around his own secret,
treated her with distant deference in society, spoke of her with
respect, and congratulated himself on possessing her supreme favor. Not
one of them had her heart, or her confidence. With a true woman's
instinct, she knew that no man who would be untrue to his wife would be
true to her. So she played with them as with puppies that might gambol
around her, and fawn before her, but might not smutch her robes with
their dirty feet, or get the opportunity to bite her hand.
She had a house, but she had no home. Again and again the thought came
to her that in a million homes that morning the air was full of
music--hearty greetings between parents and children, sweet prattle from
lips unstained, merry laughter from bosoms without a care. With a heart
full of tender regrets for the mistakes and errors of the past, with
unspeakable contempt for the life she was living, and with vain
yearnings for something better, she rose and determined to join the
throngs that were pressing into the churches. Hastily prepared for the
street, she went out, and soon, her heart responding to the Christmas
music, and her voice to the Christmas utterances from the altar, she
strove to lift her heart in devotion. She felt the better for it. It was
an old habit, and the spasm was over. Having done a good thing, she
turned her ear away from the suggestions of her good angel, and, in
turning away, encountered the suggestions of worldliness from the other
side, which came back to her with their old music. She came out of the
church as one comes out of a theater, where for hours he has sat
absorbed in the fictitious passion of a play, to the grateful rush and
roar of Broadway, the flashing of the lights, and the shouting of the
voices of the real world.
Mr. Belcher called that evening, and she was glad to see him. Arrayed in
all her loveliness, sparkling with vivacity and radiant with health, she
sat and wove her toils about him. She had never seemed lovelier in his
eyes, and, as he thought of the unresponsive and quiet woman he had left
behind him, he felt that his home was not on Fifth Avenue, but in the
house where he then sat. Somehow--he could not tell how--she had always
kept him at a distance. He had not dared to be familiar with her. Up to
a certain point he could carry his gallantries, but no further. Then the
drift of conversation would change. Then something called her away. He
grew mad with the desire to hold her hand, to touch her, to unburden his
heart of its passion for her, to breathe his hope of future possession;
but always, when the convenient moment came, he was gently repelled,
tenderly hushed, adroitly diverted. He knew the devil was in her; he
believed that she was fond of him, and thus knowing and believing, he
was at his wit's end to guess why she should be so persistently
perverse. He had drank that day, and was not so easily managed as usual,
and she had a hard task to hold him to his proprieties. There was only
one way to do this, and that was to assume the pathetic.
Then she told him of her lonely day, her lack of employment, her wish
that she could be of some use in the world, and, finally, she wondered
whether Mrs. Belcher would like to have her, Mrs. Dillingham, receive
with her on New Year's Day. If that lady would not consider it an
intrusion, she should be happy to shut her own house, and thus be able
to present all the gentlemen of the city worth knowing, not only to Mrs.
Belcher, but to her husband.
To have Mrs. Dillingham in the house for a whole day, and particularly
to make desirable acquaintances so easily, was a rare privilege. He
would speak to Mrs. Belcher about it, and he was sure there could be but
one answer. To be frank about it, he did not intend there should be but
one answer; but, for form's sake, it would be best to consult her. Mr.
Belcher did not say--what was the truth--that the guilt in his heart
made him more careful to consult Mrs. Belcher in the matter than he
otherwise would have been; but now that his loyalty to her had ceased,
he became more careful to preserve its semblance. There was a tender
quality in Mrs. Dillingham's voice as she parted with him for the
evening, and a half returned, suddenly relinquished response to the
pressure of his hand, which left the impression that she had checked an
eager impulse. Under the influence of these, the man went out from her
presence, flattered to his heart's core, and with his admiration of her
self-contained and prudent passion more exalted than ever.
Mr. Belcher went directly home, and into Mrs. Belcher's room. That good
lady was alone, quietly reading. The children had retired, and she was
spending her time after her custom.
"Well, Sarah, what sort of a Christmas have you had?"
Mrs. Belcher bit her lip, for there was something in her husband's tone
which conveyed the impression that he was preparing to wheedle her into
some scheme upon which he had set his heart, and which he felt or
feared, would not be agreeable to her. She had noticed a change in him.
He was tenderer toward her than he had been for years, yet her heart
detected the fact that the tenderness was a sham. She could not
ungraciously repel it, yet she felt humiliated in accepting it. So, as
she answered his question with the words: "Oh, much the same as usual,"
she could not look into his face with a smile upon her own.
"I've just been over to call on Mrs. Dillingham," said he.
"Ah?"
"Yes; I thought I would drop in and give her the compliments of the
season. She's rather lonely, I fancy."
"So am I."
"Well now, Sarah, there's a difference; you know there is. You have your
children, and--"
"And she my husband."
"Well, she's an agreeable woman, and I must go out sometimes. My
acquaintance with agreeable women in New York is not very large."
"Why don't you ask your wife to go with you? I'm fond of agreeable
women too."
"You are not fond of her, and I'm afraid she suspects it."
"I should think she would. Women who are glad to receive alone the calls
of married men, always do suspect their wives of disliking them."
"Well, it certainly isn't her fault that men go to see her without their
wives. Don't be unfair now, my dear."
"I don't think I am," responded Mrs. Belcher. "I notice that women never
like other women who are great favorites with men; and there must be
some good reason for it. Women like Mrs. Dillingham, who abound in
physical fascinations for men, have no liking for the society of their
own sex. I have never heard a woman speak well of her, and I have never
heard her speak well of any other woman."
"I have, and, more than that, I have heard her speak well of you. I
think she is shamefully belied. Indeed, I do not think that either of us
has a better friend than she, and I have a proposition to present to you
which proves it. She is willing to come to us on New Year's Day, and
receive with you--to bring all her acquaintances into your house, and
make them yours and mine."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes; and I think we should be most ungrateful and discourteous to her,
as well as impolitic with relation to ourselves and to our social
future, not to accept the proposition."
"I don't think I care to be under obligations to Mrs. Dillingham for
society, or care for the society she will bring us. I am not pleased
with a proposition of this kind that comes through my husband. If she
were my friend it would be a different matter, but she is not. If I were
to feel myself moved to invite some lady to come here and receive with
me, it would be well enough; but this proposition is a stroke of
patronage as far as I am concerned, and I don't like it. It is like Mrs.
Dillingham and all of her kind. Whatever may have been her motives, it
was an indelicate thing to do, and she ought to be ashamed of herself
for doing it"
Mr. Belcher knew in his heart that his wife was right. He knew that
every word she had spoken was the truth. He knew that he should never
call on Mrs. Dillingham with his wife, save as a matter of policy; but
this did not modify his determination to have his own way.
"You place me in a very awkward position, my dear," said he, determined,
as long as possible, to maintain an amiable mood.
"And she has placed me in one which you are helping to fasten upon me,
and not at all helping to relieve me from."
"I don't see how I can, my dear. I am compelled to go back to her with
some answer; and, as I am determined to have my house open, I must say
whether you accept or decline her courtesy; for courtesy it is, and not
patronage at all."
Mrs. Belcher felt the chain tightening, and knew that she was to be
bound, whether willing or unwilling. The consciousness of her impotence
did not act kindly upon her temper, and she burst out:
"I do not want her here. I wish she would have done with her officious
helpfulness. Why can't she mind her own business, and let me alone?"
Mr. Belcher's temper rose to the occasion; for, although he saw in Mrs.
Belcher's petulance and indignation that his victory was half won, he
could not quite submit to the abuse of his brilliant pet.
"I have some rights in this house myself, my dear, and I fancy that my
wishes are deserving of respect, at least."
"Very well. If it's your business, why did you come to me with it? Why
didn't you settle it before you left the precious lady, who is so much
worthier your consideration than your wife? Now go, and tell her that it
is your will that she shall receive with me, and that I tamely submit."
"I shall tell her nothing of the kind."
"You can say no less, if you tell her the truth."
"My dear, you are angry. Let's not talk about it any more to-night. You
will feel differently about it in the morning."
Of course, Mrs. Belcher went to bed in tears, cried over it until she
went to sleep, and woke in the morning submissive, and quietly
determined to yield to her husband's wishes. Of course, Mr. Belcher was
not late in informing Mrs. Dillingham that his wife would be most happy
to accept her proposition. Of course, Mrs. Dillingham lost no time in
sending her card to all the gentlemen she had ever met, with the
indorsement, "Receives on New Year's with Mrs. Col. Belcher, ---- Fifth
Avenue." Of course, too, after the task was accomplished, she called on
Mrs. Belcher to express her gratitude for the courtesy, and to make
suggestions about the entertainment. Was it quite of course that Mrs.
Belcher, in the presence of this facile woman, overflowing with kind
feeling, courteous deference, pleasant sentiment and sparkling
conversation, should feel half ashamed of herself, and wonder how one so
good and bright and sweet could so have moved her to anger?
The day came at last, and at ten Mrs. Dillingham entered the grand
drawing-room in her queenly appareling. She applauded Mrs. Belcher's
appearance, she kissed the children, all of whom thought her the
loveliest lady they had ever seen, and in an aside to Mr. Belcher
cautioned him against partaking too bountifully of the wines he had
provided for his guests. "Let us have a nice thing of it," she said,
"and nothing to be sorry for."
Mr. Belcher was faithfully in her leading. It would have been no
self-denial for him to abstain entirely for her sake. He would do
anything she wished.
There was one thing noticeable in her treatment of the lads of the
family, and in their loyalty to her. She could win a boy's heart with a
touch of her hand, a smile and a kiss. They clung to her whenever in
her presence. They hung charmed upon all her words. They were happy to
do anything she desired; and as children see through shams more quickly
than their elders, it could not be doubted that she had a genuine
affection for them. A child addressed the best side of her nature, and
evoked a passion that had never found rest in satisfaction, while her
heartiness and womanly beauty appealed to the boy nature with charms to
which it yielded unbounded admiration and implicit confidence.
The reception was a wonderful success. Leaving out of the account the
numbers of gentlemen who came to see the revived glories of the Palgrave
mansion, there was a large number of men who had been summoned by Mrs.
Dillingham's cards--men who undoubtedly ought to have been in
better business or in better company. They were men in good
positions--clergymen, merchants, lawyers, physicians, young men of good
families--men whose wives and mothers and sisters entertained an
uncharitable opinion of that lady; but for this one courtesy of a year
the men would not be called to account. Mrs. Dillingham knew them all at
sight, called each man promptly by name, and presented them all to her
dear friend Mrs. Belcher, and then to Col. Belcher, who, dividing his
attention between the drawing-room and the dining-room, played the host
with rude heartiness and large hospitality.
Mrs. Belcher was surprised by the presence of a number of men whose
names were familiar with the public--Members of Congress,
representatives of the city government, clergymen even, who were
generally supposed to be "at home" on that day. Why had these made their
appearance? She could only come to one conclusion, which was, that they
regarded Mrs. Dillingham as a show. Mrs. Dillingham in a beautiful
house, arranged for self-exhibition, was certainly more attractive than
Mary, Queen of Scots, in wax, in a public hall; and she could be seen
for nothing.
It is doubtful whether Mrs. Belcher's estimate of their sex was
materially raised by their tribute to her companion's personal
attractions, but they furnished her with an interesting study. She was
comforted by certain observations, viz., that there were at least twenty
men among them who, by their manner and their little speeches, which
only a woman could interpret, showed that they were entangled in the
same meshes that had been woven around her husband; that they were as
foolish, as fond, as much deceived, and as treacherously entertained as
he.
She certainly was amused. Puffy old fellows with nosegays in their
button-holes grew gallant and young in Mrs. Dillingham's presence,
filled her ears with flatteries, received the grateful tap of her fan,
and were immediately banished to the dining-room, from which they
emerged redder in the face and puffier than ever. Dapper young men
arriving in cabs threw off their overcoats before alighting, and ran up
the steps in evening dress, went through their automatic greeting and
leave-taking, and ran out again to get through their task of making
almost numberless calls during the day. Steady old men like Mr.
Tunbridge and Mr. Schoonmaker, who had had the previous privilege of
meeting Mr. Belcher, were turned over to Mrs. Belcher, with whom they
sat down and had a quiet talk. Mrs. Dillingham seemed to know exactly
how to apportion the constantly arriving and departing guests. Some were
entertained by herself, some were given to Mr. Belcher, some to the
hostess, and others were sent directly to the refreshment tables to be
fed.
Mr. Belcher was brought into contact with men of his own kind, who did
not fail to recognize him as a congenial spirit, and to express the hope
of seeing more of him, now that he had become "one of us." Each one knew
some other one whom he would take an early opportunity of presenting to
Mr. Belcher. They were all glad he was in New York. It was the place for
him. Everything was open to such a man as he, in such a city, and they
only wondered why he had been content to remain so long, shut away from
his own kind.
These expressions of brotherly interest were very pleasant to Mr.
Belcher. They flattered him and paved the way for a career. He would
soon be hand-in-glove with them all. He would soon find the ways of
their prosperity, and make himself felt among them.
The long afternoon wore away, and, just as the sun was setting, Mrs.
Belcher was called from the drawing-room by some family care, leaving
Mr. Belcher and Mrs. Dillingham together.
"Don't be gone long," said the latter to Mrs. Belcher, as she left the
room.
"Be gone till to-morrow morning," said Mr. Belcher, in a whisper at Mrs.
Dillingham's ear.
"You're a wretch," said the lady.
"You're right--a very miserable wretch. Here you've been playing the
devil with a hundred men all day, and I've been looking at you. Is there
any article of your apparel that I can have the privilege of kissing?"
Mrs. Dillingham laughed him in his face. Then she took a wilted rose-bud
from a nosegay at her breast, and gave it to him.
"My roses are all faded," she said--"worth nothing to me--worth nothing
to anybody--except you."
Then she passed to the window; to hide her emotion? to hide her
duplicity? to change the subject? to give Mr. Belcher a glance at her
gracefully retreating figure? to show herself, framed by the window,
into a picture for the delight of his devouring eyes?
Mr. Belcher followed her. His hand lightly touched her waist, and she
struck it down, as if her own were the velvet paw of a lynx.
"You startled me so!" she said.
"Are you always to be startled so easily?"
"Here? yes."
"Everywhere?"
"Yes. Perhaps so."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For the perhaps."
"You are easily pleased and grateful for nothing; and, now, tell me who
lives opposite to you?"
"A lawyer by the name of James Balfour."
"James Balfour? Why, he's one of my old flames. He ought to have been
here to-day. Perhaps he'll be in this evening."
"Not he."
"Why?"
"He has the honor to be an enemy of mine, and knows that I would rather
choke him than eat my dinner."
"You men are such savages; but aren't those nice boys on the steps?"
"I happen to know one of them, and I should like to know why he is
there, and how he came there. Between you and me, now--strictly between
you and me--that boy is the only person that stands between me
and--and--a pile of money."
"Is it possible? Which one, now?"
"The larger."
"But, isn't he lovely?"
"He's a Sevenoaks pauper."
"You astonish me."
"I tell you the truth, and Balfour has managed, in some way, to get hold
of him, and means to make money out of me by it. I know men. You can't
tell me anything about men; and my excellent neighbor will have his
hands full, whenever he sees fit to undertake his job."
"Tell me all about it now," said Mrs. Dillingham, her eyes alight with
genuine interest.
"Not now, but I'll tell you what I would like to have you do. You have a
way of making boys love you, and men too--for that matter--and precious
little do they get for it."
"Candid and complimentary," she sighed.
"Well, I've seen you manage with my boys, and I would like to have you
try it with him. Meet him in the street, manage to speak to him, get him
into your house, make him love you. You can do it. You are bold enough,
ingenious enough, and subtle enough to do anything of that kind you will
undertake. Some time, if you have him under your influence, you may be
of use to me. Some time, he may be glad to hide in your house. No harm
can come to you in making his acquaintance."
"Do you know that you are talking very strangely to me?"
"No. I'm talking business. Is that a strange thing to a woman?"
Mrs. Dillingham made no reply, but stood and watched the boys, as they
ran up and down the steps in play, with a smile of sympathy upon her
face, and genuine admiration of the graceful motions and handsome face
and figure of the lad of whom Mr. Belcher had been talking. Her
curiosity was piqued, her love of intrigue was appealed to, and she
determined to do, at the first convenient opportunity, what Mr. Belcher
desired her to do.
Then Mrs. Belcher returned, and the evening, like the afternoon, was
devoted to the reception of guests, and when, at last, the clock struck
eleven, and Mrs. Dillingham stood bonneted and shawled ready to go home
in the carriage that waited at the door, Mrs. Belcher kissed her, while
Mr. Belcher looked on in triumph.
"Now, Sarah, haven't we had a nice day?" said he.
"Very pleasant, indeed."
"And haven't I behaved well? Upon my word, I believe I shall have to
stand treat to my own abstinence, before I go to bed."
"Yes, you've been wonderfully good," remarked his wife.
"Men are such angels!" said Mrs. Dillingham.
Then Mr. Belcher put on his hat and overcoat, led Mrs. Dillingham to her
carriage, got in after her, slammed the door, and drove away.
No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Dillingham went to
talking about the little boy, in the most furious manner. Poor Mr.
Belcher could not divert her, could not induce her to change the
subject, could not get in a word edgewise, could not put forward a
single apology for the kiss he intended to win, did not win his kiss at
all. The little journey was ended, the carriage door thrown open by her
own hand, and she was out without his help.
"Good-night; don't get out," and she flew up the steps and rang the
bell.
Mr. Belcher ordered the coachman to drive him home, and then sank back
on his seat, and crowding his lips together, and compressing his
disappointment into his familiar expletive, he rode back to his house as
rigid in every muscle as if he had been frozen.
"Is there any such thing as a virtuous devil, I wonder," he muttered to
himself, as he mounted his steps. "I doubt it; I doubt it."
The next day was icy. Men went slipping along upon the side-walks as
carefully as if they were trying to follow a guide through the galleries
of Versailles. And in the afternoon a beautiful woman called a boy to
her, and begged him to give her his shoulder and help her home. The
request was so sweetly made, she expressed her obligations so
courteously, she smiled upon him so beautifully, she praised him so
ingenuously, she shook his hand at parting so heartily; that he went
home all aglow from his heart to his finger's ends.
Mrs. Dillingham had made Harry Benedict's acquaintance, which she
managed to keep alive by bows in the street and bows from the
window,--managed to keep alive until the lad worshiped her as a sort of
divinity and, to win her smiling recognition, would go out of his way a
dozen blocks on any errand about the city.
He recognized her--knew her as the beautiful woman he had seen in the
great house across the street before Mr. Belcher arrived in town.
Recognizing her as such, he kept the secret of his devotion to himself,
for fear that it would be frowned upon by his good friends the Balfours.
Mr. Belcher, however, knew all about it, rejoiced in it, and counted
upon it as a possible means in the accomplishment of his ends.