GATHERING CLOUDS.
"Are you going to the 'Renaissance Club' tea, Marion, dear?" said
Florence Moreland, coming into the library on the afternoon following
the "Patricians'" ball. Marion was sitting on the low front window seat,
and she held a sash curtain crumpled in her hand. Her eyes were slowly
following the numerous sleighs gliding up and down the Lake Shore Drive.
The sun shone brightly on the glistening snow, the bells jingled
merrily, and the waving plumes of graceful sleighs combined, with the
rosy faces of their fur-clad occupants, to form a cheery winter picture.
But with all this brightness before her Marion looked thoughtful and
disturbed. Perhaps the restless lake beyond, dashing its troubled waves
against the grey sea wall, better expressed the thoughts which caused
the discontented wandering of her eyes. She did not reply to Florence's
question but continued looking out over the roadway, as though unaware
of her friend's presence.
"Marion, dear," called Florence in a louder tone; "didn't you hear me?"
Mrs. Sanderson slowly dropped the sash curtain and looked up. "O, are
you there?" she said vaguely.
"Yes, and I have been here an age trying to make you hear me," Florence
replied. "What are you dreaming about?"
"O, nothing much," Marion sighed; but her voice told her friend that
this was not quite true.
"You are in one of your moods again," said Florence. "You need me to
cheer you up; but first of all tell me if you are going to the tea this
afternoon?"
"O, I fancy so," Marion replied somewhat mournfully. "I wish the
'Renaissance Club' were in Kamtschatka, or some other such place, but
Roswell actually promised to come home in time to take us, so I suppose
we shall have to go. It is not time yet, though."
"I know it," said Florence, "but I think I had better change my gown
now."
"You look well enough as you are," Marion replied, casting her eyes
critically over her friend's attire. "Put on your gold-braided jacket
and you will look as smart as any girl there."
"Very well, then I shall go as I am. I would much rather talk than
bother about dressing." Saying this Florence approached Marion and sat
down beside her on the window seat. Marion did not notice her, but
continued to look thoughtfully out of the window. Florence watched her
for a moment, as though trying to read the thoughts behind her restless
eyes; then she gently took both her friend's hands, and holding them in
her own said inquiringly: "What is troubling you, dear."
"Nothing," Marion sighed.
"Then why do you seem so far away?"
"Because I was thinking."
"Of what?" asked Florence.
"Of how like a human life the waters of that lake are."
"I don't understand," said her friend.
"Why, like a life they roll waywardly on until they pass to mother earth
again, or are borne upward to the clouds. Sometimes they lie peacefully
at rest, or they ripple merrily like children at play, only to be rudely
awakened and lashed to angry fury in an aimless struggle with the winds.
Like a life they are merely the agents of some greater power, helplessly
following their destiny."
"I think you theorize too much, my dear," said Florence. "If you want
happiness, you must take life as it comes."
"Happiness," laughed Marion cynically. "Happiness is like the golden
bowl at the rainbow's base; no matter how desperately you chase after
it, it still glitters in the distant future."
"Possibly," replied Florence, "though I remember reading somewhere that
'the reason there is so little happiness in the world is because so few
people are engaged in producing it.' Perhaps that is why we are
unhappy."
"Do you know the formula for the production of this rarity?" sneered
Marion.
"No, but I suppose it has something to do with the time honored saying,
'be virtuous,' and so forth."
"Yes, I know; the kind of happiness that comes from the knowledge that
one is good," put in Marion. "It is a sort of self-satisfied,
touch-me-not happiness, with a better-than-you-are smirk about it."
"Can't one have a clear conscience without being a Pharisee?" asked
Florence.
"I don't know," sighed Marion. "It is all a question of temptation, I
suppose. Some people seem to be good from birth; they are never tempted,
and have no charity for those who are."
"I don't call such people good," replied Florence; "a St. Anthony
without a temptation would be a sorry picture of virtuous self-control."
Marion did not reply. For a moment she remained quietly thinking, as
though Florence's words had inspired her with an idea; finally she
spoke, in slowly chosen words: "Do you think what the Bible says about a
mental sin being as great as the outward act can be true?"
"I think it depends entirely upon circumstances," replied Florence.
Marion turned her eyes thoughtfully upon the floor, then, restlessly
twisting a cushion tassel between her fingers, she asked earnestly: "Do
you think a woman who is tempted and resists, yet feels the subtle
poison still in her heart, has sinned?"
Florence was silent a moment, as though weighing the question in her
mind. "I would not condemn such a woman," she finally said; "I would
pity her."
"What ought she to do?" asked Marion.
"She has kept her self-respect, and I think on that foundation she
should build the negative happiness called peace of mind."
"What if the sting is too fresh, the poison too strong? What if the cup
is still before her?"
"Then she should dash it resolutely from her, and trust that time will
heal the wound."
Marion smiled faintly. She was thinking of an express train rushing
toward the East and bearing danger farther and farther away. "Perhaps
destiny is kind sometimes," she thought. "Were you ever unhappy,
Florence?" she asked after a moment.
"Why, what an absurd question," her friend replied. "Is there any one
who has not been unhappy at some time?"
"O, of course people have unpleasant moments which they get over,"
Marion answered; "but what I call unhappiness is to feel that one has
made an irreparable mistake in life, and then to be suddenly shown the
unattainable possibility."
"I should think such a person would feel something like a hungry pauper,
gazing into a pastry cook's window. The glimpse of possibility must
intensify his craving."
"You are utterly practical and entirely unsympathetic," said Marion,
somewhat ruffled at Florence's levity. "Sometimes I think you are a most
unsatisfactory person."
"I will not be dismissed as a person," laughed Florence. "You may call
me anything you like, but don't subject me to the degradation of being
styled a person."
"I think you deserve it for turning my seriousness so inconsiderately
into ridicule," said Marion with an injured air.
"It is just the best thing for you," Florence replied. "You worry
unnecessarily."
"You always say that," sighed Marion, "but you don't understand."
"Yes, I do. No one understands you as well as I do."
"Then why don't you sympathize with me more?"
"You don't need sympathy; that only panders to your discontent. What you
need is to be shaken up and made to forget yourself."
"You're a cruel girl."
"I know it, and I am going home to-morrow."
"Are you daft, Florence?" said Marion, amazed at her friend's
abruptness.
"No, I mean it," replied Florence. "But it is not because you have
treated me badly, my dear. I did not mean to tell you so suddenly, but
something happened a short time ago which makes me feel I had better
leave. Please don't ask me about it, dear," she continued, seeing the
questioning expression in Marion's eyes. "I only feel that it will be
wiser for me to go away."
"Why, Florence," said Marion sympathetically, "can't you trust me?"
"It is not because I can't trust you, my dear," she replied. "You
understand me, don't you? I think it would be kinder for me not to
remain, and then," she added hesitatingly, "I want to be away where I
can better think it over."
"Yes, I understand," Marion answered. "You are such a queer girl,
though; how could you keep so quiet about it?"
"I didn't feel that I could talk about it. I am queer, I suppose, but
you will forgive me if I go away, won't you? I have thought it over for
three days and I feel it is best."
"I will forgive you, of course, my dear; but, O, Florence, do be sure
you are doing right. Don't make a mistake."
"That is why I am going away. I will know better then."
At this moment a man quietly entered the room. He had delicately cut
features and a determined mouth, softened by gentle, brown eyes. His
dark hair was slightly tinged with grey upon the temples, and his
colorless complexion indicated a man whose life was little spent in the
open air, a fact somewhat emphasized by his slightly stooping shoulders
and thin, nervous hands. His clothes were plain and neat, but without
any of the pronounced effects of fashion, and his entire appearance was
decidedly that of one who is termed in America "a business man."
"Why don't you speak when you enter a room, Roswell?" said Mrs.
Sanderson, looking up suddenly, startled at seeing her husband. "Did you
hear what we were talking about?"
"I am not an eavesdropper, my dear," he said quietly. "I merely came to
tell you that I am back from the bank. Are you ready to go to the tea?"
"I had no idea it was so late," said Marion looking at her watch. "We
must hurry, Florence." The two women went to put on their hats, and when
they returned all three entered the carriage waiting at the door and
were driven quickly toward the rooms of the "Renaissance Club" in lower
Wabash Avenue.
The institution which bore the name of "Renaissance Club" was a ladies'
literary society devoted to studying the effect of humanism upon the
literature of the world. It held meetings in its tastefully arranged
rooms on each alternate Thursday afternoon throughout the season, and on
these occasions original papers were read and discussed with an amount
of erudition which astonished the members unacquainted with the usual
works of reference, and rendered the club the admiration and pride of
feminine Chicago. It is true that literary ability was by no means the
first requisite for admission, and that the membership list might be
used with impunity for directing invitations to the smartest dances; but
despite these facts, there was a decidedly literary flavor about the
meetings of the club, enhanced perhaps by the presence of two or three
ladies who had actually experienced the delight of seeing their writings
in print. Of course the talking was confined to a confident set, who
enjoyed the excitement of a literary discussion; for as no one else
desired to undergo the tortures of speaking in public, the vast majority
assumed a dignified expression of wisdom, and remained discreetly
silent. The club had discussed Dante and Petrarch, Villani and Ariosto,
even Lorenzo de Medici; it had laughed over Cervantes and blushed
profusely over Boccaccio and Rabelais, but the meeting to which the
Sandersons and Florence Moreland had gone was called for no such
intellectual purpose. Once during the season the club gave a tea to
which men were invited, and on such occasions the entertainment was
confined to the efforts of elocutionists and balladists. Whether the
club dared not expose its intellectual attainments to public criticism,
or did not care to have its literary efforts judged by the standard of
the Board of Trade, was never sufficiently clear; but in spite of the
fact that no literature was ever discussed at the annual tea, this
meeting was invariably the most fully attended of any during the season.
When the Sanderson party entered there was such a hum of subdued voices,
that the efforts of a young woman engaged in singing were scarcely
audible above the animated whisperings of the people who thronged the
club-rooms. Numerous small tea tables supplied with all manner of dainty
tea things were scattered about. Each of these was presided over by a
pretty girl, and each was surrounded by a knot of black-coated youths.
Although young men were there in abundance, those of mature years were
conspicuously absent; but it is one of the peculiarities of a busy city
like Chicago, that while young employes are able to appear at afternoon
gatherings, the heads of firms are invariably detained at their
offices.
The balladist's song was followed by an uninterrupted flow of feminine
voices, punctuated with occasional masculine laughs, coming like
intermittent grumblings of thunder during a pattering storm of rain. The
American girl who does not talk is a rarity, indeed, but, though
climatic influences have parched her vocal cords, her harsh, hearty
voice saying something is a pleasurable contrast to the subdued vacuity
of the average English maiden of twenty. The animated clatter of an
occidental gathering may seem discordant when compared with the
solemnity of a London drawing-room; but in this artificial age it should
prove refreshing to one who admits a fondness for open-hearted
naturalness. There was an intimacy among the people gathered in the
"Renaissance Club" rooms which is rarely met with in the larger cities.
They were nearly all acquainted with one another, and most of them were
people who met with such frequency that many restrictions of formality
had passed away. A person whose life is continuously passed amid such
surroundings may develop an inclination to magnify his own _entourage_
to the disparagement of the great world he knows so little of; but he
will be spared a realization of the atomic nature of a person's position
in that world, and he will never know the fitful interest cosmopolitan
society takes in any individual.
Marion Sanderson looked upon this society as provincial, and she felt
inexpressibly bored at the thought that she must meet absolutely the
same people night after night, and know by premonition what each of them
would have to say on any given subject. Her senses had once been dazzled
by the varied glitter of the metropolitan kaleidoscope. Had she been
given time to investigate the tawdry shams, of which it is so largely
composed, she might have appreciated better the less brilliant world
about her; but with her superficial experience inciting discontent,
Marion wandered about, that afternoon, pitying the restricted resources
of the people she met, and congratulating herself and her intimates upon
the aid they had already rendered toward the development of Chicago
society.
Florence Moreland, however, appreciated this society, which, surrounded
by all the appurtenances of civilization, was still so natural and
sincere. She regretted that she had decided to leave, and she entered so
heartily into the spirit of Western life, that she was more than once
tempted to alter her decision; but, remembering that her presence seemed
to torture Harold, she realized that her own peace of mind would be more
easily attained in her New Hampshire home. She wandered about the room,
taking leave of her many friends, who were, of course, greatly surprised
at the suddenness of her departure, until she was accosted by Mrs.
McSeeney. Her eyes beamed so triumphantly that Florence felt an
instinctive dread of an encounter with a woman whom she knew to be
Marion's enemy. Mrs. McSeeney spoke with a suavity which Florence felt
to be entirely feigned, and she was at a loss to account for this sudden
pleasantness of manner.
"I have just heard, my dear," said Mrs. McSeeney, "that you are going
away, and I can't tell you how deeply we shall all miss you. What
induced you to leave so suddenly?"
"I am called home because my father says he must have me there,"
Florence replied, thinking it the easiest excuse to make. "I am the only
child, and he gets extremely lonesome when I am long away."
"You forget that while he is but one person, there are many others here.
You are inconsiderate of the claims of the majority," said Mrs.
McSeeney. "However, you may carry away the satisfaction that you looked
absolutely heavenly at the ball last night in that charming yellow gown.
How like it is to Marion's, was that intentional?"
"That is the second time I have been asked that question, but I assure
you it was quite an unexpected coincidence."
"A coincidence which created a fortunate contrast," replied Mrs.
McSeeney, with increased suavity. "Fortunate for you, at least."
"What does this extreme agreeableness mean?" Florence wondered, and for
a moment she was lost for a reply. "By the way," continued Mrs.
McSeeney, "what has become of that charming Mr. Grahame whom Marion
brought to my house last week? I don't see him here."
"He went back to New York to-day," answered Florence somewhat coolly,
as she wished to end the conversation.
"What a pity!" said Mrs. McSeeney, speaking in a louder tone. "Mr.
Grahame was such a delightful man, and dear Marion Sanderson must miss
him so."
Instinctively feeling that some one else might have overheard this
remark, Florence looked hurriedly behind her, and was horrified to see
Roswell Sanderson and Harold Wainwright standing there. She saw the
meaning of Mrs. McSeeney's action now; she had laid this trap to injure
Marion in the eyes of her husband, and Roswell's expression of mingled
anger and anxiety told her plainly that he had overheard. Frightened for
Marion's happiness she turned to Mrs. McSeeney and said angrily: "You
have no right to connect Marion's name with Mr. Grahame's in such a
manner."
"Indeed!" Mrs. McSeeney replied with exasperating coolness. "I think
that when a woman of Marion Sanderson's prominence is indiscreet in her
actions, she must expect to cause comment. I happened to see Mr. Grahame
kiss Mrs. Sanderson, under the musicians' gallery, at the ball last
night. I think I am justified in any conclusions I may draw."
Florence heard a low exclamation behind her. For a moment countless
thoughts rushed through her brain in jumbled confusion, then she seemed
to understand it all. Mrs. McSeeney told the truth. No woman would dare
make such an accusation falsely, and this explained Marion's strange
talk of the afternoon. Poor Marion! was there no way to save her? With
the suddenness of inspiration an idea came to her. She remembered seeing
a play in which two women were mistaken for each other by the similarity
of their gowns; she had also been with Duncan under the musicians'
gallery, and she knew it was too dark to distinguish faces accurately
there. She turned quickly toward Roswell Sanderson, and seizing his hand
drew him forward. He was about to speak but she stopped him; then,
facing Mrs. McSeeney, she said defiantly: "You have conceived a clever
plan to ruin Mr. Sanderson's wife. Your motive, I think, is evident to
all who know you, but, fortunately, your statement is untrue. 'Twas I
who was with Mr. Grahame under the musicians' gallery."
Mrs. McSeeney drew back astonished at this sudden statement, but she
quickly recovered from her surprise and said ironically: "Such a
melodramatic sacrifice seems out of place in real life, but I suppose
you are one of those heroic maidens who enjoy tarnishing their own
reputation to clear a friend. I admit that the darkness and the
similarity of your gowns may have rendered the confusion possible, but I
assure you I was not mistaken about the facts. I suppose you are
prepared to admit them also?"
"I am," said Florence deliberately.
"Well, you are ingenuous, I must say," said Mrs. McSeeney, astonished at
Florence's determined manner. "Perhaps you will think better of your
foolishness when you realize the position in which you have placed
yourself before society. In the meantime I trust Mr. Sanderson accepts a
statement which, considering my experience of the world, I believe
extremely improbable."
Roswell clenched his fists to suppress his anger. "Mr. Sanderson," he
said slowly, "believes absolutely in the fidelity of his wife, and he
warns Mrs. McSeeney that she must answer to him for any future slurs
upon her character."
Mrs. McSeeney's eyes flashed as she said coolly: "I am glad Mrs.
Sanderson enjoys so absolutely the confidence of her husband." Then,
shrugging her shoulders slightly, she turned and walked toward the door.
It was growing so late that the distant room in which this scene
occurred was quite empty, and fortunately no one but Harold Wainwright
had overheard the conversation. An anxious witness of the scene, he had
appeared at first dumfounded by Florence's self-accusation; but he now
calmly followed Mrs. McSeeney toward the door. He quickly caught up with
her, and speaking so quietly that she turned about somewhat frightened,
he said: "May I speak with you a moment? I have something of importance
to say."
"Certainly," she replied, and they passed on into the next room.
Florence was left alone with Roswell Sanderson. The first excitement of
the resolution to save Marion had passed, and she now realized the
position in which she had so suddenly placed herself, and her foremost
desire now was to get away somewhere. Above all she dared not speak to
Roswell. She was still holding his hand which she had grasped so
earnestly in the midst of her excitement, and now she tried to release
it. This action Roswell resisted, and, turning until he could see into
her face, he said earnestly: "You are a brave girl, Florence, and I
thank you for it from the bottom of my heart."
Florence lowered her eyes. "Don't talk about it," she said anxiously,
"and please promise not to say one word to Marion of all this. I am
going away, and, if you can keep her from knowing about it, it will make
me so happy."
Roswell was silent a moment. A curious expression of sad determination,
which Florence did not understand, came into his eyes.
"I promise," he finally said, "but you must answer me one question now
that we are alone. Did you speak the truth?"
Florence trembled slightly. She had been expecting this question and
felt that everything depended on her answer. She pressed his hand
firmly, and, looking up into his face, said in tones which bore the
resolute accent of truth: "Roswell, I assure you that Marion has been
true to you."
"I will ask no more," he replied, and she saw that determined expression
come back again to his eyes. They heard the sound of approaching steps,
and he quickly released her hand. Turning round they saw Marion
approaching. "What under heaven are you doing here?" Marion said, as she
entered the room. "Don't you know everyone has gone home, and we shall
be late for dinner?"