The night of Mrs. Yorba's long-heralded ball had arrived at last. For
weeks Society had been keenly expectant, for its greatest heiress and
its three most beautiful girls were to come forth from the seclusion in
which they were supposed to have been cultivating their minds, into the
great world of balls, musicales, and teas, where their success would be
in inverse ratio to their erudition.
Rose and Caro had arrived the winter before, and were no longer "buds;"
but Magdaléna, Helena, Tiny, and Ila were hardly known by sight outside
the Menlo Park set. Magdaléna had never hung over the banisters at her
mother's parties. The others had been abroad so long that the most
exaggerated stories of their charms prevailed.
The old beaux knotted their white ties with trembling fingers and
thought of the city's wild young days when Nina Randolph, Guadalupe
Hathaway, Mrs. Hunt Maclean, two of the "Three Macs," and the sinuous
wife of Don Pedro Earle had set their pulses humming. They were lonely
old bachelors, many of them, living at the Union or the Pacific Club,
and they sighed as the memories rose. That was a day when every other
woman in society was a great beauty, and as full of fascination as a fig
of seeds. To-day beautiful women in San Francisco's aristocracy were
rare. In Kearney Street, on a Saturday afternoon, one could hardly walk
for the pretty painted shop-girls; and in that second stratum which was
led by the wife of a Bonanza king who had been pronounced quite
impossible by Mrs. Yorba and other dames of the ancient aristocracy,
there were many stunningly handsome girls. They could be met at the
fashionable summer resorts; they were effulgent on first nights; they
were familiar in Kearney Street on other afternoons than Saturday, and
their little world was gay in its way; but Society, that exclusive body
which owned its inchoation and later its vitality and coherence to that
brilliant and elegant little band of women who came, capable and
experienced, to the fevered ragged city of the early Fifties, still
struggled in the Eighties to preserve its traditions, and did not admit
the existence of these people; feminine curiosity was not even roused to
the point of discussion. One day Mrs. Washington met one of the old
beaux, Ben Sansome by name, on the summit of California Street hill,
which commands one of the finest views of a city swarming over an
hundred hills.
Mrs. Washington waved her hand at the large region known as South San
Francisco.
"I suppose," she said thoughtfully, "that there are a lot of people in
San Francisco whose names we have never heard."
"I suppose so!" he exclaimed.
"I wonder what they are like? How many people are there in San
Francisco, anyhow?"
"About three hundred thousand."
"Really? really?" and Mrs. Washington shrugged her pretty shoulders and
dismissed the subject from her mind.
Would these new beauties compare with that galaxy of long ago? was the
thought that danced between Ben Sansome's faded eyes and his mirror.
Three to burst forth in a night! That was unwonted measure. Of late
years one in three seasons had inspired fervent gratitude. Nelly
Washington had been unchallenged for ten years; Caro Folsom was
second-rate beside her; and Rose Geary, the favourite of last winter,
although piquant and pretty, had not a pretension to beauty. Like the
other old beaux, he went only to the balls and dinners of the
old-timers, never to the dances and musicales of the youngsters, but he
kept a sharp look-out, nevertheless. To-night assumed the proportions of
an event in his life.
Several of the young men had met two of these beauties during the
summer, but Helena was still to be experienced. The young hands did not
tremble, but their eyes were very bright as they wondered if they were
"in for it," if they would "get it in the neck," if she were really "a
little tin goddess on wheels." Even Rollins, who was madly enamoured of
Tiny, and Fort, who had carefully calculated his chances with Rose, were
big with curiosity. The former, who had known Helena from childhood, had
been refused admittance to the Belmont mansion: Helena had a very
distinct intention of making a sensation upon her first appearance in
San Francisco; and as all were fish that came to her net, even Rollins
must be dazzled with the rest.
Magdaléna's engagement was a closely guarded secret, and more than one
hardy youth had made up his mind to storm straight through her intellect
to her millions; but even these thought only of Helena as they dressed
for the ball.
Meanwhile the girls were thinking more of their toilettes than of the
men who would admire them. All were to wear white, but each gown had
been made at a different Paris house, that there should be no monotony
of touch and cut, and each was of different shade and material:
Magdaléna's of ivory gauze, Tiny's of pearl-white silk, Ila's of
cream-white embroidered _mousseline de soie_, Helena's of pure white
tulle.
What little of Magdaléna's neck the gown exposed, she concealed with a
broad band of cherry-coloured velvet, and a deep necklace of Turkish
coins, a gift from Ila. She revolved before the mirror several times in
succession after the maid had left the room. She was laced so tightly
that she could scarcely breathe, but she rejoiced in her likeness to a
French fashion-plate, and vowed never to wear a home-made gown again. In
her hair was a string of pearls that Trennahan had given her; and the
dagger. Would it work the spell?
She gave a final shake to her skirts and went downstairs.
There was no lack of gas to-night; the lower part of the house was one
merciless glare. No flowers graced the square ugly rooms, no decorations
of any sort; but the parlours were canvased, the best band in town was
tuning up, and the supper would be irreproachable. The dark-brown paper
of the hall looked very old and dingy, the carpet was threadbare in
places, the big teak-wood tables were in everybody's way and looked as
if they were meant for the dead to rest on; but when gay gowns were
billowing one would not notice these things.
Mrs. Yorba was in the green reception-room at the end of the hall. She
wore black velvet and a few diamonds, and looked impressively null. Tiny
and Ila arrived almost immediately. They looked, the one an angel with a
sense of humour, the other Circean with an eye to the conventions, both
as smart as Paris could make them. It was nearly ten o'clock, and there
was a rush just after.
Magdaléna waited a half-hour for Helena, then opened the ball in a brief
waltz with Alan Rush instead of the quadrille in which the four
débutantes were to dance. She sent a message to Helena, and Mrs.
Cartright scribbled back that the poor dear child had altered the
trimming on her bodice at the last moment, and would not be ready for an
hour yet. Caro took her place in the quadrille, as she also wore white.
The ball promised to be a success. There were more young people than was
usual at Mrs. Yorba's parties, and more men than girls. They danced and
chatted with untiring energy, and between the dances they flirted on the
stairs and in every possible nook and corner. Magdaléna frolicked
little, having her guests to look after; but whenever she rested for a
moment there was an obsequious backbone before her. Tiny and Ila were
besieged for dances, and divided each.
The older women sat against the wall, a dado of fat and diamonds, and
indulged in much caustic criticism.
The old beaux stood in a group and exchanged opinions on the relative
pretensions of the old and the new.
"Take it all in all, not to compare," said Ben Sansome. "Miss Montgomery
is excessively pretty, but no figure and no style. Miss Brannan looks
like a Parisian cocotte. Miss Folsom has eyes, but nothing else--and
when you think of 'Lupie Hathaway's eyes! And not one has the beginnings
of the polished charm of manner, the fire of glance, the _je ne sais
quoi_ of Mrs. Hunt Maclean. Just look at her in her silver brocade, her
white hair _à la marquise_. She's handsomer than the whole lot of
them--"
At that moment Helena entered the room.
The white tulle gown, made with a half-dozen skirts, floated about her
so lightly that she seemed rising from, suspended above it. Even beside
her father she looked tall; and her neck and arms, the rise of her
girlish bust, were more dazzlingly white than the diaphanous substance
about her. Her haughty little head was set well back on a full firm
throat, not too long. Her cheeks were touched with pink; her lips were
full of it. Her long lashes and low straight brows were many shades
darker than the unruly mane of glittering coppery hair. And she carried
herself with a swing, with an imperious pride, with a nonchalant command
of immediate and unmeasured admiration which sent every maiden's heart
down with a drop and every man's pulses jumping.
"I give in!" gasped Ben Sansome. "We never had anything like
that--never! Gad! the girl's got everything. It's almost unfair."
Alan Rush turned white, but he did not lose his presence of mind. He
asked Don Roberto to present him at once, and secured the next dance. It
was a waltz; and as the admirably mated couple floated down the room,
many others paused to watch them. Helena's limpid eyes, raised to the
eager ones above her, did all the execution of which they were capable.
During the next entre-dance she was mobbed. Twenty men pressed about
her, introduced by Don Roberto and Rollins, until she finally commanded
them to "go away and give her air," then walked off with Eugene Fort,
finishing his first epigram and mocking at his second. He had only a
fourth of the next dance; but as Helena had refused to permit her
admirers to write their names on her card, and as she was at no pains to
remember which fourth was whose, giving her scraps to the first comer,
Rush and Fort, who had had the forethought not to pre-engage themselves,
and were constantly in her wake, secured more than their share. But the
other men had time and energy to fight for their own: Helena was
constantly stopped in the middle of the room with a firm demand that she
should keep her word. Between the dances the men crowded about her,
eager for a glance, and at supper the small table before her looked like
an offering at a Chinese funeral.
"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Washington, "I always said that no girl could be
a belle in this town nowadays, that the men didn't have gumption enough;
but I reckon it's because the rest of us haven't come up to the mark.
This looks like the stories they tell of old times."
"It makes me think of old times," said Mr. Sansome. "Makes me feel young
again; or older than ever. I can't decide which."
Tiny took her eclipse with unruffled philosophy, and divided her smiles
between two or three faithful suppliants. Ila had a very high colour,
and her primal fascination was less reserved than usual. Rose admired
Helena too extravagantly for jealousy, and what Caro felt no man ever
knew.
Colonel Belmont renewed his acquaintance with many of the women of his
youth, long neglected, although he had loved more than one of them in
his day. They filled his ears with praises of his beautiful daughter.
Helena's beauty was of that rare order which compels the willing
admiration of her own sex: it was not only indisputable, but it warmed
and irradiated. When Colonel Belmont was not talking, he stood against
the wall and followed her with adoring eyes. If she had been a
failure--admitting the possibility--his disappointment would have been
far keener than hers.
"You've cause to be proud, as proud as Lucifer," said Mr. Polk to him.
"But you ain't looking well, Jack. What's the matter?"
"I'm well enough. I shall live long enough to give her to someone who's
good enough for her, and that's all I care about--although I'm in no
hurry for that, either. But I'm _not_ feeling right smart, Hi; I don't
just know what's the matter."
"We're both getting old. I feel like a worked-out old cart-horse. But
you've got ten years the best of me, and I'll tell you what's the matter
with you: you can't switch off drink at your age after being two thirds
full for twenty-five years. We all need whiskey as we grow older, and
the more we've had, the more we need. I'd advise you to take it up again
in moderation."
"Not if it's the death of me! It's nothing or everything with me. The
first cocktail, and I'd be off on a jamboree. Then she'd know, and I'd
blow out my brains with the shame of it. She thinks I'm the finest
fellow in the world now, and so she shall if I suffer the tortures of
the damned."
"Well, I guess you're right. The young fellows talk about dying for the
girls, but I guess we're the ones that would do that for our own if it
came to the scratch."
"It's too bad you have none," said Colonel Belmont, with the sympathy of
his own full measure. And then, although Mr. Polk's iron features did
not move, he looked away hastily.
"I guess I didn't deserve any," Mr. Polk answered harshly. "I don't know
that you did, for that matter, but I certainly didn't. Look at Don
cavorting round with those girls," he added viciously. "It's positively
sickening."
"Not a bit of it. He's making up for what he's missed. And a little of
it would do you good, old fellow. You've never had half enough fun, and
you ought to take a little before it's too late. You haven't a pound of
flesh on you, and are as spry as any of them. Go and make yourself
agreeable to the girls. Even a smile from them goes a long way, I assure
you."
Mr. Polk shook his head. "I couldn't think of a thing to say to them. I
didn't learn when I was young."