THE PATRICIANS.
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 antennae 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 by _fin de siecle_ looseness 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 Croesus 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, _brut_ champagne, 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 smirking _maitre d'hotel_
was scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch
glasses. "_Depeche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir a 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 Hungarian
_Czardas_ was 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."
Inside the ball-room Marion found her husband, standing among a group of
men, watching the dancing. "I am going home, Roswell," she said, taking
his arm and drawing him away. "Find Florence, won't you?"
"Yes, dear," he replied. "Are you ill?" he added, thinking it unusual
for his wife to leave so early.
"I feel tired, that is all. Tell Florence she can go home with Mrs.
Smythe if she chooses."
Roswell Sanderson went in search of Florence and soon returned with her.
He had given her Marion's message, but Florence did not care to remain,
so she excused herself to her partner in the cotillon and hurried away
with Roswell. "What is the matter?" she anxiously asked Marion.
"I feel a little faint and I think I will go home," was the answer.
Florence thought Marion seemed agitated rather than faint. She wondered
what had happened, but thinking it unwise to pursue the matter further,
she walked on quietly beside Marion and her husband. On the stairs they
met Duncan; Marion tried to avoid him, but he came toward her and said
calmly: "I have been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Sanderson. Have
you forgotten you have a partner in the cotillon?"
"No;" Marion replied. "But you must excuse me as I feel quite tired; I
am going home."
"I feel cheated," answered Duncan; "the more so as I leave to-morrow and
must say good-by, now." He put out his hand and Marion took it. She
tried not to look at him, but an indefinable attraction compelled her to
raise her eyes. "Good-by," he said, softly pressing her hand.
"Good-by," she answered. Then she quickly drew back her hand and turned
away. As she descended the stairs she felt that he was still looking at
her. She wanted to look back, but she closed her eyes and pressed
closely to her husband's arm till they reached the cloak-room door.
While she and Florence were putting on their wraps, she could hear the
distant strains of music coming from the ball-room; they seemed to her
like the last echo of the love which had flamed so brilliantly for a
moment in her heart, and now must die and become a memory. The music
stopped. "It is all over," she thought; then she hurried away with
Florence and her husband down the great stairway to the street door.
"Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," called a servant on the stairs. "Mrs.
Sanderson's carriage," was echoed from the street. She heard a rumbling
noise of wheels; then the street door opened, and she felt a blast of
cold, refreshing air. "The carriage is here, ma'am," called her footman,
and they passed out into the darkness. At the end of the awning-covered
passage the carriage lamps burned dimly, and she could hear the restless
champing of bits. They reached the carriage and took their places; the
door was closed; the servant mounted the box, the carriage rolled away
crunching the crisp snow under its wheels. Marion sank into a corner and
tried to think. "I did my best," she said to herself again and again. "I
did my best, but it was so hard." Over the snow-muffled stones the
carriage rolled past massive structures, black and silent in the
darkness. Huge, scowling ogres, they seemed to Marion, coldly frowning
their displeasure. On through the darkened streets they went and over
the river bridge; she could see the flickering street lamps faintly
glistening on the ice, and she thought they were feeble hope rays
shining through the darkness. Marion closed her eyes and listened to the
wheels creaking through the snow. How long it was she did not know, but
after a time she felt a sense of stillness. She opened her eyes. They
were home.