CHARITY
In these democratic days a very democratic theory has exploded. Not so
very long ago we believed, or made semblance of belief, that it is
useless to put a high price upon a ticket with the object of securing
that selectness for which the high-born crave. "If they want to come,"
Lady Champignon (wife of Alderman Champignon) would say, "they do not
mind paying the extra half-guinea."
But Lady Champignon was wrong. It is not that the self-made man cannot
or will not pay two guineas for a ball-ticket. It is merely that, in his
commercial way, he thinks that he will not have his money's worth, and
therefore prefers keeping his two guineas to spend on something more
tangible--say food. The nouveau riche never quite purges his mind of the
instinct commercial, and it therefore goes against the grain to pay
heavily for a form of entertainment which his soul had not the
opportunity of learning to love in its youth. The aristocrat, on the
other hand, has usually been brought up to the cultivation of enjoyment,
and he therefore spends with perfect equanimity more on his pleasure
than the bourgeois mind can countenance.
The ball to which Paul and Etta were going was managed by some titled
ladies who knew their business well. The price of the tickets was
fabulous. The lady patronesses of the great Charity Ball were tactful
and unabashed. They drew the necessary line (never more necessary than
it is to-day) with a firm hand.
The success of the ball was therefore a foregone conclusion. In French
fiction there is invariably a murmur of applause when the heroine enters
a room full of people, which fact serves, at all events, to show the
breeding and social status of persons with whom French novelists are in
the habit of associating. There was therefore no applause when Paul and
Etta made their appearance, but that lady had, nevertheless, the
satisfaction of perceiving glances, not only of admiration, but of
interest and even of disapproval, among her own sex. Her dress she knew
to be perfect, and when she perceived the craning pale face of the
inevitable lady-journalist, peering between the balusters of a gallery,
she thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately beneath that
gallery, and slowly turned round like a beautifully garnished joint
before the fire of cheap publicity.
To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a number of the
friends of his youth--tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with a
tendency toward length and spareness--who greeted him almost
affectionately. Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters,
which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull--a form of faint praise
which failed to damn. There were a number of ladies to whom it was
necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had
missed their mark. From the gallery the washed-out female journalists
poked out their eager faces--for they were women still, and liked to
look upon a man when he was strong.
And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at
the door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two
literal facts literally. The one fact was that they were forbidden to
admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were
not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two
great motives of man--Love or Money.
Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order on
his breast. He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have
been, but were not, of the committee. Finally, however, he mentioned the
historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian
emperor successfully for England.
"Yes, me lord, her ladyship's here," answered the man.
Steinmetz wrote on a card, "In memory of '56, let me in," and sent in
the missive.
A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him with
outstretched hand.
"What mischief are you about?" she enquired, "you stormy petrel! This is
no place for your deep-laid machinations. We are here to enjoy ourselves
and found a hospital. Come in, however. I am delighted to see you. You
used to be a famous dancer--well, some little time ago."
"Yes, my dear countess, let us say some little time ago. Ach, those were
days! those were days! You do not mind the liberty I have taken?"
"I am glad you took it. But your card gave me a little tug at the heart.
It brought back so much. And still plain Karl Steinmetz--after all. We
used to think much of you in the old days. Who would have thought that
all the honors would have slipped past you?"
Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a heart-whole laugh.
"Ah, what matter? Who cares, so long as my old friends remember me? Who
would have thought, my dear madam, that the map of Europe would have
been painted the colors it is to-day? It was a kaleidoscope--the clatter
of many stools, and I fell down between them all. Still plain Karl
Steinmetz--still very much at your service. Shall I send my check for
five guineas to you?"
"Yes, do; I am secretary. Always businesslike; a wonderful man you are
still."
"And you, my dear countess, a wonderful lady. Always gay, always
courageous. I have heard and sympathized. I have heard of many blows and
wounds that you have received in the battle we began--well, some little
time ago."
"Ah, don't mention them! They hurt none the less because we cover them
with a smile, eh? I dare say you know. You have been in the thick of the
fight yourself. But you did not come here to chat with me, though your
manner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you."
"I came to see Prince Pavlo," answered Steinmetz. "I must thank you for
enabling me to do so. I may not see you again this evening. My best
thanks, my very dear lady."
He bowed, and with his half-humorous, half-melancholy smile, left her.
The first face he recognized was a pretty one. Miss Maggie Delafield was
just turning away from a partner who was taking his congé, when she
looked across the room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once,
barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, friendly bow was
rather a surprise to him. She came toward him, holding out her hand with
an open friendliness which this young lady was in the habit of bestowing
upon men and women impartially--upon persons of either sex who happened
to meet with her approval. She did not know what made her incline to
like this man, neither did she seek to know. In a quiet, British way
Miss Delafield was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were a
matter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine of charity,
it is a question whether an instinctive dislike should be quashed by an
exaggerated sense of neighborly duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there was
an end to it.
"I was afraid you did not recognize me," she said.
"My life has not so many pleasures that I can afford to forget one of
them," replied Steinmetz, in his somewhat old-fashioned courtesy. "But
an old--buffer, shall I say?--hardly expects to be taken much notice of
by young ladies at a ball."
"It is not ten minutes since Paul assured me that you were the best
dancer that Vienna ever produced," said the girl, looking at him with
bright, honest eyes.
Karl Steinmetz looked down at her, for he was a tall man when Paul
Alexis was not near. His quiet gray eyes were almost affectionate. There
was a sudden sympathy between these two, and sudden sympathies are the
best.
"Will you give an old man a trial?" he asked. "They will laugh at you."
She handed him her programme.
"Let them laugh!" she said.
He took the next dance, which happened to be vacant on her card. Almost
immediately the music began, and they glided off together. Maggie began
with the feeling that she was dancing with her own father, but this wore
off before they had made much progress through the crowd, and gave way
to the sensation that she had for partner the best dancer she had ever
met, gray-haired, stout, and middle-aged.
"I wanted to speak to you," she said.
"Ah!" Steinmetz answered. He was steering with infinite skill. In that
room full of dancers no one touched Maggie's elbow or the swing of her
dress, and she, who knew what such things meant, smiled as she noted it.
"I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno," she said. "Shall I go?"
"By whom?"
"By Paul."
"Then go," said Steinmetz, making one of the few mistakes of his life.
"You think so--you want me to go?"
"Ach! you must not put it like that. How well you dance--colossal! But
it does not affect me--your going, fraülein."
"Since you will be there?"
"Does that make a difference, my dear young lady?"
"Of course it does."
"I wonder why."
"So do I," answered Maggie frankly. "I wonder why. I have been wondering
why, ever since Paul asked me. If you had not been going I should have
said 'No' at once."
Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly.
"What do I represent?" he asked.
"Safety," she replied at once.
She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing.
"And Paul?" he said, after a little while.
"Strength," replied Maggie promptly.
He looked down at her--a momentary glance of wonder. He was like a
woman, inasmuch as he judged a person by a flicker of the eyelids--a
glance, a silence--in preference to judging by the spoken word.
"Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope that you will brave
the perils of Osterno? Ah--the music is stopping."
"If I may assure my mother that there are no perils."
Something took place beneath the gray mustache--a smile or a pursing up
of the lips in doubt.
"Ah, I cannot go so far as that. You may assure Lady Delafield that I
will protect you as I would my own daughter. If--well, if the good God
in heaven had not had other uses for me I should have had a daughter of
your age. Ach! the music has stopped. The music always does stop, Miss
Delafield; that is the worst of it. Thank you for dancing with an old
buffer."
He took her back to her chaperon, bowed in his old-world way to both
ladies, and left them.
"If I can help it, my very dear young friend," he said to himself as he
crossed the room, looking for Paul, "you will not go to Osterno."
He found Paul talking to two men.
"You here!" said Paul, in surprise.
"Yes," answered Steinmetz, shaking hands. "I gave Lady Fontain five
guineas to let me in, and now I want a couple of chairs and a quiet
corner, if the money includes such."
"Come up into the gallery," replied Paul.
A certain listlessness which had been his a moment before vanished when
Paul recognized his friend. He led the way up the narrow stairs. In the
gallery they found a few people--couples seeking, like themselves, a
rare solitude.
"What news?" asked Paul, sitting down.
"Bad!" replied Steinmetz. "We have had the misfortune to make a
dangerous enemy--Claude de Chauxville."
"Claude de Chauxville," repeated Paul.
"Yes. He wanted to marry your wife--for her money."
Paul leaned forward and dragged at his great fair mustache. He was not a
subtle man, analyzing his own thoughts. Had he been, he might have
wondered why he was not more jealous in respect to Etta.
"Or," went on Steinmetz, "it may have been--the other thing. It is a
singular thing that many men incapable of a lifelong love, can conceive
a lifelong hatred based on that love. Claude de Chauxville has hated me
all his life; for very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included in
his antipathy because you married madame."
"I dare say," replied Paul carelessly. "But I am not afraid of Claude de
Chauxville, or any other man."
"I am," said Steinmetz. "He is up to some mischief. I was calling on the
Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He
was constrained at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which
was a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not been
there for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived a
minute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the
very first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had
wheedled an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, my friend,
why?"
Paul reflected, with a frown.
"We do not want him out there," he said.
"No; and if he goes there you must remain in England this winter."
Paul looked up sharply.
"I do not want to do that. It is all arranged," he said. "Etta was very
much against going at first, but I persuaded her to do so. It would be a
mistake not to go now."
Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, "I advise you not to go."
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
"I am sorry," he said. "It is too late now. Besides, I have invited Miss
Delafield, and she has practically accepted."
"Does that matter?" asked Steinmetz quietly.
"Yes. I do not want her to think that I am a changeable sort of person."
Steinmetz rose, and standing with his two hands on the marble rail he
looked down into the room below. The music of a waltz was just
beginning, and some of the more enthusiastic spirits had already begun
dancing, moving in and out among the uniforms and gay dresses.
"Well," he said resignedly; "it is as you will. There is a certain
pleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so d--d clever!"