SPANISH CASTLES.
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
Steubenblaetter, 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 second _entree_, 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
Steubenblaetter 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
Steubenblaetter 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 nullus_ should be your motto," he replied.
"Could I have a better?"
"You might say _l'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 toady _cachet_ of 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
dainty _Louis Seize_ sofa, "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 sara sara_, 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 mache 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.