IV

The interval between that night and the day upon which the estate was

settled, Andrew passed in a sort of impatient dream. Never before had

days, weeks, months seemed so long; never had he so dissociated himself

from his little world and melted into that luminous circle of which he

was to become a component part. How he was to obtain his passport into

fashionable society was a question that did not concern him. Its portals

were typified to him by the wide gates of Central Park, through which

all might roll upon whom fortune smiled. One blessed fact possessed his

mind: by the first of July he should be master of his future, liberated

from his desk, free to go to Newport. When his foot actually pressed

that reservation, all the rest would come about quite naturally. At this

time he still preserved his self-respect. He felt quite the equal of the

men he had brushed elbows with at Delmonico's--the pink-faced youths

with their butter-colored tops, the affable elderly men with their

bulbous stomachs and puffy eyes. And he had caught many of their little

fads. He had risen in the night, and opening the door connecting the

kitchen and dining-room, that he might have sufficient scope, he had

practised the remarkable gait of the New York youth of fashion: that

slight forward inclination of the shoulders, that slighter crab-like

angle of the body, that ponderous thoughtful tread: the only difference

from the walk of the "tough" being in the length of the step. One hand

was in a pocket, the other absently manipulated a stick. He had also

witnessed the hand-shake, and of his proficiency in this accomplishment

he felt assured.

On the third day of July, one hour after the law had yielded up its

temporary foundling, he ordered an elaborate outfit from the most

fashionable tailor in New York. This order and others drilled a large

hole in his first quarter's income, but he regarded that as a trifling

detail. His mother and sister were meanwhile selling the homely

necessities of their flat at auction, as the first step to a year

abroad. They wondered at Andrew's desire to go to Newport, but had heard

that it was a pretty place with a good bathing-beach, and much visited

by tourists. They spent the last night together in a hotel; and Mrs.

Webb, in spite of a faint protest from Andrew, ordered beer and crackers

and cheese. They had eaten this little supper for many years, and the

women, who were very tearful, insisted that this last evening together

must be as much like the dear old evenings as possible. It was a sad

meal.

V

It was a profoundly hot August day when Andrew left the steamboat and

actually stood upon Newport soil. More properly, he stood upon a plank

wharf, and was not impressed with the dock. But as the omnibus rolled

through the town his heart began to swell, his rather dull eyes to glow.

The hour was two, and the city asleep under its ivy and flowers. After

New York, it seemed deliciously quiet, and old, and aristocratic. The

pounding of the horses' hoofs, the voices of the people in the omnibus,

were desecrating. He had glimpses of long avenues, dark, green, dim; a

flash of villa top or imposing gateway behind the stately trees. He felt

that he was in paradise.

He was in a mood to admire the hotel, plain and unpretending structure

as it was; it was so old and still and highly respectable. He descended

from the omnibus nervously and went into the office. A clerk handed him

a pen, and he registered his name in a clerkly hand, "A. Armstrong

Webb." He had decided to acknowledge his debt to his uncle and add a

cubit to his stature at the same time. The clerk wheeled the book round,

glanced indifferently at the name, and handed a key to a bell-boy. Webb,

conscious of a faint chill, followed the boy up-stairs. The room to

which he was conducted was an ordinary one overlooking the area. He had

been treated as any commonplace and unknown traveller would be. The

thought increased the chill; then he philosophically concluded that a

nobleman travelling incognito would be treated in the same way, and went

down-stairs to the dining-room. There he was somewhat surprised to find

that dinner was being served instead of luncheon. He had supposed that

dinner in a Newport hotel would be served at eight o'clock.

After dinner he went out to the veranda, sat himself on one of the

chairs by the railing, and smoked an expensive cigar. He was beginning

to feel strangely lonely. There seemed to be very few people in the

hotel, and he experienced his first pang of helplessness, of doubt. He

had supposed that the hotel would be full of great people. As he glanced

down the avenue, those big houses seemed like tombs, buried, themselves,

under a rank growth of foliage. And it was so wondrous quiet!

His cigar cheered him somewhat, and he sauntered back to the office and

entered into conversation with the clerk, a good-humored little

Englishman with cheeks like his own apples. The clerk knew at a glance

that the stranger was neither a "swell" nor a frequenter of Newport;

but he liked his manly appearance, and readily met his advances. To his

dismay, Webb learned that the "swells" no longer went to the hotels; or,

if obliged to do so for a short period, secluded themselves in their

rooms. They lived in cottages. Oh yes! all those fine houses were called

cottages. It was a sort of fad--American modesty, the clerk supposed.

There was not much run of any sort at the hotel until the fifteenth,

when a good many tourists came. Oh yes! there were some people there,

mostly old ones, who had come every season for many years, he believed.

Rather depressing parties, these; they looked so old-fashioned, and

didn't do much to brighten up things.

Webb, with growing dejection, left the hotel and strolled up the avenue.

There his spirits revived. The avenue was so beautiful, so gloomy, so

old! He drew in deep inhalations of its unmistakably aristocratic

atmosphere. He felt its subtle possessing influence. Once more his

imagination awakened. He leaned on a Gothic gateway and gazed upon a

superb Queen Anne cottage with Tudor towers. Incongruities in

architecture mattered nothing to him. He precipitated his astral part

through the massive door and wandered, with ponderous, thoughtful tread,

over the deep carpets of the drawing-rooms and corridors. He drank tea

on the back veranda with languid dames and with men who had never stood

at desks. He threw himself into an arm-chair and listened to a

slim-waisted smooth-haired girl coquetting with the piano. He sat with

the haughty chatelaine and talked of--there his imagination failed him.

He hardly knew what these people talked of, although he had read many

society novels. As far as his memory served him, they talked of nothing

in particular. He wandered down the avenue, dreaming his dream at many

gate-posts. He saw no one, but thereby was the illusion deepened.

Newport for the hour was his.

He returned to the hotel veranda, lit another cigar, and was about to

meditate upon some plan of campaign, when suddenly an odd and delightful

thing happened. It was four-and-thirty of the clock. As if to the

ringing of a bell and the rising of a curtain, Bellevue Avenue became

suddenly alive with carriages. The big gates seemed to yawn

simultaneously and discharge their expensive freight. It was as if these

actors in the Newport drama would lose their weekly salary did they step

on the boards a moment too late. The avenue, with its gay frocks and

parasols, was like a long flower-bed in spring. Webb's cigar went out.

He leaned forward eagerly, straining his eyes.

In some of the superb traps were decrepit old dowagers wagging their

feeble heads, wondering, perhaps, how much longer their millions would

keep them alive. Sometimes their young heirs were with them, patient and

placid. Others were pitifully alone. Several men were on horseback,

riding in the agonized fashion of the day. There were carriages full of

girls with complexions of ivory and claret, air of ineffable daintiness.

Now and then a victoria would roll by in which women lolled, heavily

veiled with crape. Webb wondered if they really could sorrow like common

folks. Mingling with the superb turnouts were barouches unmistakably

hired, occupied by people dressed with a certain cheap smartness. Here

and there a girl, probably of the people, cantered half defiantly down

the line, a sailor-hat on her head, her jacket open over a shirt and

"four-in-hand." Once a yoke of oxen, driven by a bareheaded maid,

straggled into the throng.

The avenue before the hotel became deserted once more. The upper end was

blocked with carriages, all apparently bent in the same direction.

Andrew ran down the steps, half inclined to follow, half fearing they

would never return. A number of open hacks stood before the hotel. A

driver immediately approached Andrew.

"Like a drive, sir?"

"Yes," said Webb. "Go where the others are going."

"Certainly, sir. And, if you be a stranger, I can tell you most of the

names."

Andrew could have tipped him on the spot. He should be able to identify

those people at last! He felt that he had advanced another step!

"We'll drive slow and meet them on their return," said the driver. He

indicated with a gesture of contempt a passing carriage.

"You see them, sir? They be people that comes to the hotels and goes

away and talks about spending the summer in Newport. But any one could

tell that they're just hotel people, and that the hack is hired. They

don't deceive nobody here."

The words gave Andrew a hint for which he was thankful. He understood

that he must not stay at the hotel. Where should he go, however? He must

take a "cottage," he supposed.

They rolled down a thick-leaved avenue and out over the stubby

sand-hills by the sea. Here and there a large mansion crowned the

heights, and Andrew was glad to see the traditional cottage in full

relief. He paid it scant attention, however. The procession of carriages

had already turned, and his faithful guide uttered many a name which

sounded like old sweet music in his ears. Some of the younger faces were

unfamiliar; but they, too, bore names that the newspapers had made

famous.

"Now look with all your eyes," cried the driver, suddenly. "Here's Mrs.

Johnny Belhaven. She's worth more millions than all the rest put

together, and is an A1 whip."

A plump but distinguished-looking woman bore down on them in what

appeared to be a chariot. Andrew had never seen anything so high on

wheels before. Mrs. Belhaven looked down upon her "Order" as from a

throne, and wore a slightly supercilious expression.

"And there's Ward McAllister," continued the driver, excitedly; "him as

is the leader of the Four Hundred, you know."

Andrew almost raised himself from his seat. He stared with bulging eyes

at the tired carelessly dressed elderly man with whom he had been

intimate so many years.

He returned to the hotel. His spirits were normal again. He had taken

his part in a fragment of the daily life of Newport. As he passed

through the office on his way to the elevator, the clerk beckoned to

him.

"As you seem a stranger, sir," he said, apologetically, "I thought I

would introduce you to Mr. Chapman. He's the correspondent of several

New York papers, and could tell you how to amuse yourself."

A short thick-set amiable young man shook Andrew's hand heartily. Mr.

Chapman was not the sort of person Andrew had gone to Newport to meet,

but he was glad of any friendship, temporarily.

The two young men went out to the veranda. Andrew proffered his new

cigar-case. The other accepted gratefully. He was the free-lance

correspondent of several New York weekly papers, and his salary was not

large. He tipped his chair back, put his feet on the railing, and

confided to Webb that he hated Newport.

"I wouldn't have come here this summer if I could have got out of it,"

he said, gloomily. "It's my third year, and the place gets worse every

season. These people are so stuck-up there's no approaching them for

news. Even Lancaster, who has a sort of _entrée_ because he is connected

with a swagger family, admits that it's as much as his life is worth to

get anything out of them. He's the correspondent of the New York _Eye_.

What's worse, they don't do anything. Here it is the third of August,

and not a ball has been given--just little things among themselves that

you can't get at. It's enough to drive a fellow to drink. I've faked

till my poor imagination is worn to a thread; the papers have to have

news. But I've done one big thing this summer,--a corking beat. Did you

notice half-way down the avenue a new house surrounded by a big stone

wall? That's the new Belhaven house. They'd sworn that no reporter

should so much as pass the gates, no paper should ever show an eager

world the interior of that marble mausoleum. The newspapers were wild.

Even Lancaster had no show. I was bound that I'd get into that house, if

I had to go as a burglar. And I did, but not that way. I bribed their

butcher to let me dress up as his boy; took a camera, and photographed

the house and grounds from the seclusion of the meat-wagon. I flirted

with the cook and got her to show me the drawing-rooms. It was early,

and the family wasn't up. I dodged the butler and took snap-shots. The

other newspaper men were ready to brain me. I felt sorry for some of

them, but I had joy over Lancaster. He'd bribed the caterer and florist

to keep their best bits of news for him. A low trick that; not but what

I'd do it myself if I had his salary. He got a scoop last year, and you

couldn't speak to him for a month after. Mrs. Foster,--she's one of the

biggest guns, you know, a regular cannon,--refurnished her house last

summer, and all the New York papers wanted photographs. She went

cranky, and said they shouldn't have them. Wouldn't even listen to

Lancaster's pleadings. But he hadn't jollied the butler for nothing. She

didn't stop here last summer--only came down every two weeks and

rearranged every stick of the furniture. The butler was nearly

distracted. It was as much as his place was worth to have her find any

of the chairs out of place, and the rooms had to be swept. So he hit on

a plan. He bought a camera and photographed the rooms every time Mrs.

Foster came down. One day he met Lancaster on the avenue and confided

his method of keeping up with the old lady. You may be sure Lancaster

was not long getting a set of those photos. It cost the newspaper a pot

of money, for the butler was no fool. But there they were next Sunday.

And Mrs. Foster doesn't know to this day how it was done."

Webb listened with mingled amusement and dismay. He was slowly beginning

to realize the determined segregation, from the common herd, of these

people, to whom he had come so confidently to offer homage. He changed

the subject.

"I don't want to stay here, don't you know," he said, glancing

scornfully over his shoulder at the hotel which in its day had housed

the most distinguished in the land. "What would you advise? Take a

cottage?"

"Take a cottage!" Mr. Chapman fairly gasped. "Are you a millionaire in

disguise? If you were, I don't believe you could get one. The swells

shut up theirs when they don't come, or let them to their friends. The

others are mostly taken year after year by the same people. No; I'll

tell you what you want--a bachelor's apartment. They are not so easy to

get either, but I happen to know of one. It was rented four years ago by

Jack Delancy, but he blew in most of his money, and then tried to

recuperate on cordage. The bottom fell out of that, and now goodness

knows where he is. At all events, his apartment is to let. Suppose we go

now and see it. There's no time to lose."

Andrew assented willingly, profoundly thankful that he had met Mr.

Chapman. The apartment was near the hotel. They found it still vacant,

furnished with a certain bold distinction. The rent was high, but Andrew

stifled the economic promptings of his nature, and manfully signed a

check. That night there was nothing to be seen in Newport, not even a

moon. The city was like a necropolis. Andrew gratefully employed his

leisure hunting for servants. The following day he was comfortably

installed and had invited the fortunate Mr. Chapman to dinner. He found

that gentleman next morning on the beach, taking snap-shots at the

bathers.

"This sort of thing goes," Chapman said, "although these people are just

plain tourists. I label them 'the beautiful Miss Brown,' or 'the famous

Miss Jones,' and the average reader swallows it, to say nothing of the

fact that it makes the paper look well. The swells won't go in with the

common herd, and want the ocean fenced in too, as it were. There are

some of them over there in their carriages, taking a languid interest in

the scene because they've nothing better to do. But they'd no more think

of getting out and sitting on this balcony, as they do at Narragansett,

than they'd ride in a street-car. Want to go up to the Casino and see

the stage go off? That's one of the sights."

Andrew had spent a half-hour the evening before gazing at the graceful

brown building which had long been a part of his dreams. He welcomed the

prospect of seeing a phase of its brilliant life.

They reached the Casino a few minutes before the coach started. A large

round-shouldered man, with face and frame of phlegmatic mould, occupied

the seat and swung his whip with a bored and absent air. Two or three

girls, clad in apotheosized organdie, and close hats, were already on

top of the coach. An elderly beau was assiduously attending upon a young

woman who was about to mount the ladder. She was a plain girl, with an

air of refined health, and simply clad in white.

"She's worth sixteen million dollars in her own right," said Chapman,

with a groan.

On the sidewalk, between the Casino and the coach, were two groups of

girls. One group gazed up at their friends on the coach, wishing them

good-fortune; the other gazed upon the first, eagerly and enviously.

Andrew looked from one to the other. The girls who talked to those on

the coach wore organdie frocks of simple but marvellous construction.

Shading their young pellucid eyes, their bare polished brows, were large

Leghorn hats covered with expensive feathers or flowers. Air, carriage,

complexion, manner, each was a part of the unmistakable uniform of the

New York girl of fashion. But the others? Andrew put the question to

Chapman.

"Oh, they're natives. We call them that to distinguish them from the

cottagers. They get close whenever they get a chance, and copy the

cottagers' clothes and manners. But it doesn't take a magnifying-glass

to see the difference."

Andrew looked with a pity he did not admit was fellow-feeling at the

pretty girls with their bright complexions, their merely stylish

clothes--which reminded him of Polly's--the inferior feathers in their

chip hats. The sharp contrast between the two groups of girls was almost

painful.

"I've got to leave you," said Chapman; "but I'll see you later. Take

care of yourself."

The horn tooted, the whip cracked, the coach started. The men on the

club balcony above the Casino watched it lazily. The street between the

coach and the green wall opposite had been blocked with carriages that

now rolled away.

Webb turned his attention to the group of cottagers. One of the girls

wore a yellow organdie trimmed with black velvet ribbons, a large

Leghorn covered with yellow feathers and black velvet. She was not

pretty, but she had "an air," and that was supremest beauty in Andrew's

eyes. Another was in lilac, another in pink. Each had the same sleek

brown hair, the same ivory complexion. In attendance was a tall clumsily

built but very imposing young man with sleepy blue eyes and a mighty

mustache. The girls paid him marked attention.

They chatted for a few moments, then walked through the entrance of

the Casino, over the lawn, towards the lower balcony of the horseshoe

surrounding it. Andrew followed, fascinated. The young man in

attendance walked after the manner of his kind, and Andrew,

unconsciously imitating him, ascended the steps, seated himself with

an air of elaborate indifference opposite the party in the narrow

semicircle, and composed his face into an expression of blank

abstraction. His trouble was wasted: they did not see him. They had an

air of seeing no one in the world but their kind. One of the girls, to

Andrew's horror, crossed her knees and swung her foot airily. The young

man sank into a slouching position. Another girl joined the group, but

he did not rise when introduced, nor offer to get her a chair. She was

obliged to perform that office, at some difficulty, for herself.

The band began to play. Andrew leaned forward, gazing at the floor,

intent upon hearing these people actually converse. But their talk only

came to him in snatches between the rise and fall of the music. Like

many other New-Yorkers, he had a deaf ear.

"My things disappear so"--(from the yellow girl) ... "I suspect my maid

wears them.... Don't really know what I have.... Don't dare say

anything." This was said with a languid drawl which Andrew thought

delicious.

All laughed.

"Shall you go to Paris this year?"

"I don't know ... till time comes.... Then we keep four servants up all

night packing.... Must have some new gowns.... You know how you have to

talk to Ducet and Paquin yourself."

The young man went to sleep. The girls put their heads together and

whispered. After a time they arose with a little capricious air, which

completed Andrew's subjugation, and strolled away.