It was to be Isabella's first real dinner-party, a large affair for Torso.
It had already absorbed her energies for a fortnight. The occasion was the
arrival of a party of Atlantic and Pacific officials and directors, who
were to inspect the Torso and Northern, with a view to its purchase and
absorption. The Torso and Northern was only a little scab line of railroad,
penetrating the soft-coal country for a couple of hundred miles, bankrupt
and demoralized. When Lane saw President Beals at Christmas, he pointed out
to him what might be made of this scrap-heap road, if it were rehabilitated
and extended into new coal fields. Beals had shown no interest in the Torso
and Northern at that time, and Lane forgot the matter until he noticed that
there was a market for Torso and Northern equipment bonds, which before had
been unsalable at twenty. Seeing them rise point by point for a month, he
had bought all he could pay for; he knew the weather signs in the railroad
world. When the inspection party was announced, his sagacity was proved.
Isabelle was excited by the prospect of her dinner for the distinguished
visitors. Who should she have of Torso's best to meet them? The Frasers and
the Griscoms, of course. John insisted on inviting the Frekes, and Isabelle
wanted the Darnells and the Adamses, though her husband demurred at
recognizing the bond. But Tom Darnell was so interesting, his wife urged,
and she was presentable. And the Falkners? There was no special reason for
having them, but Isabelle thought it might be a good thing for Rob to meet
some influential people, and Bessie would surely amuse the men. Isabelle's
executive energy was thoroughly aroused. The flowers and the wines were
ordered from St. Louis, the terrapin from Philadelphia, the fish and the
candies from New York. Should they have champagne? Lane thought not,
because "it's not quite our style." But Isabelle overbore his objections:--
"The Adamses always have it, and the Senator will expect it and all the New
York crowd."
Her husband acquiesced, feeling that in these things his wife knew the
world better than he,--though he would have preferred to offer his superior
officers a simpler meal.
The inspection party returned from their trip over the Torso and Northern
in the best of spirits. Lane felt sure that the purchase had been decided
upon by this inner coterie of the A. and P., of which the mouthpiece,
Senator Thomas, had emitted prophetic phrases,--"valuable possibilities
undeveloped," "would tap new fields,--good feeder," etc., etc. Lane thought
pleasantly of the twenty equipment bonds in his safe, which would be
redeemed by the Atlantic and Pacific at par and accrued interest, and he
resolved to secure another block, if they were to be had, before the sale
was officially confirmed by the directors. Altogether it had been an
agreeable jaunt. He had met several influential directors and had been
generally consulted as the man who knew the exact local conditions. And he
was aware that he had made a favorable impression as a practical railroad
man....
When his guests came down to the drawing-room, he was proud of what his
wife had done. The house was ablaze with candles--Bessie had persuaded
Isabelle to dispense with the electric light--and bunches of heavy,
thick-stemmed roses filled the vases. A large silver tray of decanters and
cocktails was placed in the hall beside the blazing fire. The Senator had
already possessed himself of a cocktail, and was making his little speeches
to Isabelle, who in a Paris gown that gave due emphasis to her pretty
shoulders and thin figure, was listening to him gayly.
"Did you think we lived in a log-cabin, Senator?" she protested to his
compliments. "We eat with knives and forks, silver ones too, and sometimes
we even have champagne in Torso!"...
Lane, coming up with the first Vice-president, Vernon Short, and a Mr.
Stanton, one of the New York directors ("a great swell," and "not just
money," "has brains, you know," as the Senator whispered), was proud of his
competent wife. She was vivaciously awake, and seemed to have forgotten her
girlish repugnance to the amorous Senator. As she stood by the drawing-room
door receiving her guests, he felt how much superior to all the Torso
"leaders" she was,--yes, she deserved a larger frame! And to-night he felt
confident that he should be able before long to place her in it.... The
Senator, having discharged his cargo of compliments, was saying:--
"Saw your friend Miss Pallanton that was--Mrs. Woodyard--at the Stantons's
the other night, looking like a blond Cleopatra. She's married a bright
fellow, and she'll be the making of him. He'll have to hop around to please
her,--I expect that's what husbands are for, isn't it, Lane?"
And here Isabelle passed him over to Bessie, who had come without Falkner,
he having made some silly excuse at the last moment,--"just cross," as
Bessie confided to Isabelle. She was looking very fresh in a gown that she
and Isabelle's seamstress had contrived, and she smiled up into the
Senator's face with her blandest child-manner. The Senator, who liked all
women, even those who asked his views on public questions, was especially
fond of what he called the "unsophisticated" variety, with whom his title
carried weight.
When they reached the dining room, Lane's elation rose to a higher pitch.
The table, strewn with sweet jasmine and glossy leaves, was adorned with
all the handsome gold and silver service and glass that Isabelle had
received at her marriage. It was too barbarically laden to be really
beautiful; but it was in the best prevailing taste of the time, and to
Lane, who never regarded such matters attentively, "was as good as the
best." Looking down the long table after they were seated, he smiled with
satisfaction and expanded, a subtle suavity born of being host to
distinguished folk unlocking his ordinarily reticent tongue, causing him
even to joke with Mrs. Adams, whom he did not like.
The food was excellent, and the maids, some borrowed, some specially
imported from St. Louis, made no mistakes, at least gross ones. The feast
moved as smoothly as need be. Isabelle, glancing over the table as the game
came on, had her moment of elation, too. This was a real dinner-party, as
elaborate and sumptuous as any that her friends in St. Louis might give.
The Farrington Beals, she remembered, had men servants,--most New York
families kept them, but that could hardly be expected in Torso. The dinner
was excellent, as the hungry visitors testified, and they seemed to find
the women agreeable and the whole affair unexpectedly cosmopolitan, which
was pleasing after spending a long week in a car, examining terminals and
coal properties. Indeed, it was very much the same dinner that was being
served at about that hour in thousands of well-to-do houses throughout the
country all the way from New York to San Francisco,--the same dishes, the
same wines, the same service, almost the same talk. Nothing in American
life is so completely standardized as what is known as a "dinner" in good,
that is well-to-do, society. Isabelle Lane, with all her executive ability,
her real cleverness, aspired to do "the proper thing," just as it was done
in the houses of the moderately rich everywhere.
The model of hospitality is set by the hotel manager and his chef, and all
that the clever hostess aspires to do is to offer the nearest copy of this
to her guests. Neither the Lanes nor any of their guests, however, felt
this lack of distinction, this sameness, in the entertainment provided for
them. They had the comfortable feeling of being in a cheerful house, well
warmed and well lighted, of eating all this superfluous food, which they
were accustomed to eat, of saying the things they always said on such
occasions....
Isabelle had distributed her Torsonians skilfully: Bessie was adorable and
kept three men hanging on her stories. Mrs. Adams, on the other side of
Stanton, was furtively eying Darnell, who was talking rather loudly, trying
to capture the Senator's attention from Bessie. Across the table Mrs.
Darnell, still the striking dark-haired schoolgirl, was watching her
husband, with a pitiful something in her frightened eyes that made Isabelle
shrink.... It was Darnell who finally brought the conversation to a full
stop.
"No, Senator," he said in his emphatic voice, "it is not scum like the
assassin of the President that this country should fear!"
"We're paying now for our liberal policy in giving homes to the anarchistic
refuse of Europe," the Senator insisted. "Congress must pass legislation
that will protect us from another Czolgocz."
Darnell threw up his head, his lips curving disdainfully. He had emptied
his champagne glass frequently, and there was a reckless light in his dark
eyes. Isabelle trembled for his next remark:--
"You are wrong, sir, if you will allow me to say so. The legislation that
we need is not against poor, feeble-minded rats like that murderer. We have
prisons and asylums enough for them. What the country needs is legislation
against its honored thieves, the real anarchists among us. We don't get 'em
from Europe, Senator; we breed 'em right here,--in Wall street."
If some one had discharged assafoetida over the table, there could not have
been a more unpleasant sensation.
"You don't mean quite that, Darnell," Lane began; but the Kentuckian
brushed him to one side.
"Just that; and some day you will see what Americans will do with their
anarchists. I tell you this land is full of discontent,--men hating
dishonesty, privilege, corruption, injustice! men ready to fight their
oppressors for freedom!"
The men about the table were all good Republicans, devout believers in the
gospel of prosperity, all sharers in it. They smiled contemptuously at
Darnell's passion.
"Our martyred President was a great and good man," the Senator observed
irrelevantly in his public tone.
"He was the greatest breeder of corruption that has ever held that office,"
retorted the Kentuckian. "With his connivance, a Mark Hanna has forged the
worst industrial tyranny the world has ever seen,--the corrupt grip of
corporations on the lives of the people."
"Pretty strong for a corporation lawyer!" Lane remarked, and the men
laughed cynically.
"I am no longer a corporation hireling," Darnell said in a loud voice.
Isabelle noticed that Mrs. Adams's eyes glowed, as she gazed at the man.
"I sent in my resignation last week."
"Getting ready for the public platform?" some one suggested. "You won't
find much enthusiasm for those sentiments; wages are too high!"
There was a moment of unpleasant silence. The Kentuckian raised his head as
if to retort, then collected himself, and remarked meekly:--
"Pardon me, Mrs. Lane, this is not the occasion for such a discussion. I
was carried away by my feelings. Sometimes the real thought will burst
out."
The apology scarcely bettered matters, and Isabelle's response was flat.
"I am sure it is always interesting to hear both sides."
"But I can't see that to a good citizen there can be two sides to the
lamentable massacre of our President," the Senator said severely. "I had
the privilege of knowing our late President intimately, and I may say that
I never knew a better man,--he was another Lincoln!"
"I don't see where Mr. Darnell can find this general discontent," the
Vice-president of the A. and P. put in suavely. "The country has never been
so prosperous as during the McKinley-Hanna regime,--wages at the high
level, exports increasing, crops abundant. What any honest and industrious
man has to complain of, I can't see. Why, we are looking for men all the
time, and we can't get them, at any price!"
"'Ye shall not live by bread alone,'" Darnell muttered. It was a curious
remark for a dinner-party, Isabelle thought. Mrs. Adams's lips curled as if
she understood it. But now that the fiery lawyer had taken to quoting the
Bible no one paid any further attention to him, and the party sank back
into little duologues appropriate to the occasion. Later Bessie confessed
to Isabelle that she had been positively frightened lest the Kentuckian
would do "something awful,"--he had been drinking, she thought. But Darnell
remained silent for the brief time before the ladies left the room, merely
once raising his eyes apologetically to Isabelle with his wine-glass at his
lips, murmuring so that she alone could hear him,--"I drink to the gods of
Prosperity!" She smiled back her forgiveness. He had behaved very badly,
almost wrecked her successful dinner; but somehow she could not dislike
him. She did not understand what he was saying or why he should say it when
people were having a good time; but she felt it was part of his interesting
and uncertain nature....
Presently the coffee and cigars came and the women went across the hall,
while the men talked desultorily until the sound of Bessie's voice singing
a French song to Isabella's accompaniment attracted them. After the next
song the visitors went, their car being due to leave on the Eastern
express. They said many pleasant things to Isabelle, and the Senator,
holding her hand in his broad, soft palm, whispered:--
"We can't let so much charm stay buried in Torso!"
So when the last home guest had departed and Lane sat down before the fire
for another cigar, Isabelle drew her chair close to his, her heart beating
with pleasant emotions.
"Well?" she said expectantly.
"Splendid--everything! They liked it, I am sure. I felt proud of you,
Belle!"
"It was all good but the fish,--yes, I thought our party was very nice!"
Then she told him what the Senator had said, and this time Lane did not
repel the idea of their moving to wider fields. He had made a good
impression on "the New York crowd," and he thought again complacently of
the Torso and Northern equipment bonds.
"Something may turn up before long, perhaps."
New York! It made her heart leap. She felt that she was now doing the
wife's part admirably, furthering John's interests by being a competent
hostess, and she liked to further his interests by giving pleasant dinners,
in an attractive gown, and receiving the admiration of clever men. It had
not been the way that her mother had helped on the Colonel; but it was
another way, the modern way, and a very agreeable way.
"Darnell is an awful fool," Lane commented. "If he can't hold on to himself
any better than he did to-night, he won't get far."
"Did you know that he had resigned?"
"No,--it's just as well he has. I don't think the A. and P. would have much
use for him. He's headed the wrong way;" and he added with hardly a pause,
"I think we had better cut the Darnells out, Isabelle. They are not our
sort."
Isabelle, thinking that this was the man's prejudice, made no reply.
"It was too bad Rob Falkner wouldn't come. It would have been a good thing
for him to meet influential people."
Already she spoke with an air of commanding the right sort that her husband
had referred to.
"He doesn't make a good impression on people," Lane remarked. "Perhaps he
will make good with his work."
As a man who had made his own way he felt the great importance of being
able to "get on" with people, to interest them, and keep them aware of
one's presence. But he was broad enough to recognize other roads to
success.
"So you were quite satisfied, John?" his wife asked as she kissed him
good-night.
"Perfectly--it was the right thing--every way--all but Darnell's rot; and
that didn't do much harm."
So the two went to their rest perfectly satisfied with themselves and their
world. Lane's last conscious thought was a jumble of equipment bonds, and
the idea of his wife at the head of a long dinner table in some very grand
house--in New York.