THE FIRST BALL AT ELLISVILLE
The wife of the section boss sat in conscious dignity, as became a
leader of society. She was gowned in purple, newly starched, and upon
her bosom rose and fell the cross that Jerry gave her long ago. Below
her in order of station came Nora, the head waiter, and the red-headed
waiter girl, and the littlest waiter girl, and the wife of the new
grocery man. These sat silent and unhappy at one part of the long row
of chairs that lined the side of the hall. Opposite to them, equally
silent and equally unhappy, sat a little row of men. Jerry, the
section boss, made no claim to social distinction. He was a simple,
plain, hard-working man, whose main concern was in his work, and whose
great pride was in the social triumphs of his wife. Jerry was short
and broad and sturdy, and his face was very, very red. Near to Jerry
sat the new grocery man, and Curly the cowboy, and Del Hickman, another
cowboy, and several other cowboys, and Sam, the stage-driver. They
were all silent and very miserable. The lights of the big hanging
kerosene lamps flickered and cast great shadows, showing the women all
with heads very high and backs straight and stiff, the men in various
attitudes of jellyfish, with heads hanging and feet screwed under their
chairs in search of moral support.
It was the beginning of the ball. These were the first arrivals. At
the head of the hall, far off, sat three musicians, negroes alleged to
play violins and an accordion, and by that merit raised to a bad
eminence. Gloomy, haughty, superior, these gazed sternly out before
them, ready for the worst. Now and then they leaned over the one
toward another, and ventured some grim, ghastly remark. Once the
leader, an old and gray-haired man, was heard to utter, inadvertently
above his breath, the ominous expression, "Yass, indeed!" All in all,
the situation was bodeful in the extreme. There was no speech other
than that above noted.
After a vast hiatus the door at the main entrance was pulled cautiously
open, a little at a time. Evidently some one was looking in. The
consciousness of this caused two or three men to shuffle their feet a
trifle upon the floor, as though they expected the death march soon to
begin. The littlest waiter girl, unable to stand the nervous strain,
tittered audibly, which caused Nora, the head waiter, to glare at her
through her glasses. At length the door opened, and two figures
entered affrightedly, those of Hank Peterson, a neighbouring rancher,
and his wife. Hank was dressed in the costume of the time, and the
high heels of his boots tapped uncertainly as he made his way over the
wide hollow-sounding floor, his feet wabbling and crossing in his
trepidation. None the less, having forthwith decoyed to the row of men
sitting silent against the wall, he duly reached that harbour and sank
down, wiping his face and passing his hand across his mouth
uncertainly. His wife was a tall, angular woman, whose garb was like
that of most of the other women--cotton print. Yet her hair was combed
to the point of fatality, and at her neck she had a collarette of what
might have been lace, but was not. Conscious of the inspection of all
there assembled, Mrs. Peterson's conduct was different from that of her
spouse. With head held very high and a glance of scorn, as of one
hurling back some uttered word of obloquy, she marched down the hall to
the side occupied by the ladies; nay, even passed the full line as in
daring review, and seated herself at the farther end, with head
upright, as ready for instant sally of offence.
The door opened again and yet again. Two or three engineers, a rodman,
a leveller, and an axeman came in, near behind them more cattlemen.
From among the guests of the hotel several came, and presently the
clerk of the hotel himself. The line of men grew steadily, but the
body upon the opposite side of the room remained constant, immobile,
and unchanged. At these devoted beings there glared many eyes from
across the room. More and more frequent came the scrape of a foot
along the floor, or the brief cough of perturbation. One or two very
daring young men leaned over and made some remark in privacy, behind
the back of the hand, this followed by a nudge and a knowing look,
perhaps even by a snicker, the latter quickly suppressed. Little by
little these bursts of courage had their effect. Whispers became
spasmodic, indeed even frequent.
"Say, Curly," whispered Del Hickman hoarsely to his neighbour, "ef
somethin' don't turn loose right soon I'm due to die right here. I'm
thirstier'n if this here floor was the Staked Plains."
"Same here," said Curly in a muttered undertone. "But I reckon we're
here till the round-up's made. When she do set loose, you watch me
rope that littlest waiter girl. She taken my eye, fer shore."
"That's all right, friend," said Del, apparently relieved. "I didn't
know but you'd drew to the red-headed waiter girl. I sorter 'lowed I'd
drift over in thataway, when she starts up."
Sam, the driver, was sitting rapt, staring mutely across the great gulf
fixed between him and Nora, the head waiter. Nora, by reason of her
authority in position, was entitled to wear a costume of white, whereas
the waiters of lower rank were obliged by house rules to attire
themselves in dark skirts. To Sam's eyes, therefore, Nora, arrayed in
this distinguishing garb, appeared at once the more fair and the more
unapproachable. As she sat, the light glinting upon her glasses, her
chin well upheld, her whole attitude austere and commanding, Sam felt
his courage sink lower and lower, until he became abject and abased.
Fascinated none the less, he gazed, until Curly poked him sharply and
remarked:
"Which 'un you goin' to make a break fer, Sam?"
"I--I d-d-don't know," said Sam, startled and disturbed.
"Reckon you'd like to mingle some with Nory, hey?"
"W-w-w-well--" began Sam defensively.
"But she don't see it that way. Not in a hundred. Why, she'll be
dancin' with Cap Franklin, or Batty, er some folks that's more in her
line, you see. Why in h----l don't you pick out somebody more in yer own
bunch, like?" Curly was meaning to be only judicial, but he was cruel.
Sam collapsed and sat speechless. He had long felt that his ambition
was sheer presumption.
The hours grew older. At the head of the hall the musicians manifested
more signs of their inexorable purpose. A sad, protesting squeal came
from the accordion. The violins moaned, but were held firm. The worst
might be precipitated at any moment.
But again there was a transfer of the general attention toward the
upper end of the hall. The door once more opened, and there appeared a
little group of three persons, on whom there was fixed a regard so
steadfast and so silent that it might well have been seen that they
were strangers to all present. Indeed, there was but one sound audible
in the sudden silence which fell as these three entered the room. Sam,
the driver, scraped one foot unwittingly upon the floor as he half
leaned forward and looked eagerly at them as they advanced.
Of the three, one was a tall and slender man, who carried himself with
that ease which, itself unconscious, causes self-consciousness in those
still some generations back of it. Upon the arm of this gentleman was
a lady, also tall, thin, pale, with wide, dark eyes, which now opened
with surprise that was more than half shock. Lastly, with head up and
eyes also wide, like those of a stag which sees some new thing, there
came a young woman, whose presence was such as had never yet been seen
in the hotel at Ellisville. Tall as the older lady by her side, erect,
supple, noble, evidently startled but not afraid, there was that about
this girl which was new to Ellisville, which caused the eye of every
man to fall upon her and the head of every woman to go up a degree the
higher in scorn and disapprobation. This was a being of another world.
There was some visitation here. Mortal woman, woman of the Plains,
never yet grew like this. Nor had gowns like these--soft, clinging,
defining, draping--ever occurred in history. There was some mistake.
This creature had fallen here by error, while floating in search of
some other world.
Astonished, as they might have been by the spectacle before them of the
two rows of separated sex, all of whom gazed steadfastly in their
direction; greeted by no welcoming hand, ushered to no convenient seat,
these three faced the long, half-lit room in the full sense of what
might have been called an awkward situation. Yet they did not shuffle
or cough, or talk one with another, or smile in anguish, as had others
who thus faced the same ordeal. Perhaps the older lady pressed the
closer to the gentleman's side, while the younger placed her hand upon
his shoulder; yet the three walked slowly, calmly, deliberately down
into what must have been one of the most singular scenes hitherto
witnessed in their lives. The man did not forsake his companions to
join the row of unfortunates. As they reached the head of the social
rank, where sat Mrs. McDermott, the wife of the section boss and
_arbiter elegantiarum_ for all Ellisville, the gentleman bowed and
spoke some few words, though obviously to a total stranger--a very
stiff and suspicious stranger, who was too startled to reply.
The ladies bowed to the wife of the section boss and to the others as
they came in turn. Then the three passed on a few seats apart from and
beyond the other occupants of that side of the house, thus leaving a
break in the ranks which caused Mrs. McDermott a distinct sniff and
made the red-headed girl draw up in pride. The newcomers sat near to
the second lamp from the musicians' stand, and in such fashion that
they were half hid in the deep shadows cast by that erratic luminary.
There was now much tension, and the unhappiness and suspense could have
endured but little longer. Again the accordion protested and the
fiddle wept. The cornet uttered a faint note of woe. Yet once more
there was a pause in this time of joy.
Again the door was pushed open, not timidly, but flung boldly back.
There stood two figures at the head of the hall and in the place of
greatest light. Of these, one was tall and very thin, but upright as a
shaft of pine. Over his shoulder hung a cloak, which he swept aside
over his arm with a careless and free gesture of unconcern. He was
clad in dark garments; thus much might be said. His face, clean shaven
but for the long and pointed mustaches and goatee, was high and bold,
his gaze confident and merry. His waistcoat sat high and close. At
wrist and neck there showed a touch of white, and a bit of white
appeared protruding at the bosom of his coat. His tread was supple and
easy as that of a boy of twenty. "Ned, me boy," he whispered to his
companion as they entered, "I'm feelin' fine the night; and as for
yerself, ye're fit for the court o' St. James at a diplomats' ball."
Franklin, indeed, deserved somewhat of the compliment. He was of that
rare figure of man which looks well whether clad for the gymnasium or
the ball, upon which clothing does not merely hang, but which fills out
and dignifies the apparel that may be worn. In height the ex-captain
was just below the six-foot mark which so often means stature but not
strength, and he carried every inch of his size with proportions which
indicated vigour and activity. He walked now with the long, easy
hip-stride of the man whose sides and back are not weak, but strong and
hardened. His head, well set upon the neck, was carried with the chin
unconsciously correct, easily, not stiffly. His shoulders were broad
enough to hang nicely over the hips, and they kept still the setting-up
of the army drill. Dressed in the full uniform of a captain, he looked
the picture of the young army officer of the United States, though
lacking any of the arrogance which might come from the purely military
life. Simply, easily, much as had the little group that immediately
preceded himself and friend, Franklin passed on up into the hall,
between the batteries which lined the walls.
Any emergency brings forward its own remedy. The times produce the
man, each war bringing forth its own generals, its heroes, its solvers
of great problems. Thus there came now to these persons assembled,
deadlocked, unguided, unhappy, who might else have sat forever rooted
to this spot, the man who was to save them, to lead them forth out of
their wilderness of incertitude.
None had chosen Battersleigh to the leadership. He came as mere guest,
invited as were the others. There had been no election for master of
ceremonies, nor had Battersleigh yet had time to fully realize how
desperate was this strait in which these folk had fallen. It appeared
to him merely that, himself having arrived, there was naught else to
cause delay. At the centre of the room he stopped, near by the head of
the stern column of womanhood which held the position on the right as
one entered the hall. Here Battersleigh paused, making a deep and
sweeping bow, and uttered the first open speech which had been heard
that evening.
"Ladies and gintlemen," he said in tones easily distinguishable at all
parts of the room, "I'm pleased to meet ye all this evenin'. Perhaps
ye all know Battersleigh, and I hope ye'll all meet me friend Captain
Franklin, at me side. We claim the inthroduction of this roof, me good
friends, and we welcome everybody to the first dance at Ellisville.
Ladies, yer very dutiful servant! It's well ye're lookin', Mrs.
McDermott; and Nora, gyurl, sure ye're charmin' the night. Kittie,
darlin', how do ye do? Do ye remember Captain Franklin, all of ye?
Pipe up, ye naygurs--that's right. Now, thin, all hands, choose yer
partners fer the gr-rand march. Mrs. McDermott, darlin', we'll lead
the march, sure, with Jerry's permission--how'll he help himself, I
wonder, if the lady says yis? Thank ye, Mrs. McDermott, and me
arm--so."
The sheepish figures of the musicians now leaned together for a moment.
The violins wailed in sad search for the accord, the assistant
instrument less tentative. All at once the slack shoulders
straightened up firmly, confidently, and then, their feet beating in
unison upon the floor, their faces set, stern and relentless, the three
musicians fell to the work and reeled off the opening bars.
A sigh went up from the assembly. There was a general shuffling of
shoes, a wide rustling of calico. Feet were thrust forward, the body
yet unable to follow them in the wish of the owner. Then, slowly,
sadly, as though going to his doom, Curly arose from out the long line
of the unhappy upon his side of the room. He crossed the intervening
space, his limbs below the knees curiously affected, jerking his feet
into half time with the tune. He bowed so low before the littlest
waiter girl that his neck scarf fell forward from his chest and hung
before him like a shield. "May I hev the honour, Miss Kitty?" he
choked out; and as the littlest waiter girl rose and took his arm with
a vast air of unconcern, Curly drew a long breath.
In his seat Sam writhed, but could not rise. Nora looked straight in
front. It was Hank Peterson, who led her forth, and who, after the
occasion was over, wished he had not done so, for his wife sat till the
last upon the row. Seeing this awful thing happen, seeing the hand of
Nora laid upon another's arm, Sam sat up as one deeply smitten with a
hurt. Then, silently, unobserved in the confusion, he stole away from
the fateful scene and betook himself to his stable, where he fell
violently to currying one of the horses.
"Oh, kick!" he exclaimed, getting speech in these surroundings. "Kick!
I deserve it. Of all the low-down, d----n cowards that ever was borned
I sure am the worst! But the gall of that feller Peterson! An' him a
merried man!"
When Sam left the ballroom there remained no person who was able to
claim acquaintance with the little group who now sat under the shadow
of the swinging lamp at the lower end of the hall, and farthest from
the door. Sam himself might have been more courteous had not his
mental perturbation been so great. As it was, the "grand march" was
over, and Battersleigh was again walking along the lines in company
with his friend Franklin, before either could have been said to have
noticed fully these strangers, whom no one seemed to know, and who sat
quite apart and unengaged. Battersleigh, master of ceremonies by
natural right, and comfortable gentleman at heart, spied out these
three, and needed but a glance to satisfy himself of their identity.
Folk were few in that country, and Sam had often been very explicit in
his descriptions.
"Sir," said Battersleigh, approaching and bowing as he addressed the
stranger, "I shall make bold to introjuce meself--Battersleigh of
Ellisville, sir, at your service. If I am not mistaken, you will be
from below, toward the next town. I bid ye a very good welcome, and we
shall all hope to see ye often, sir. We're none too many here yet, and
a gintleman and his family are always welcome among gintlemen. Allow
me, sir, to presint me friend Captain Franklin, Captain Ned Franklin of
the--th' Illinois in the late unplisantness.--Ned, me boy,
Colonel--ye'll pardon me not knowin' the name?"
"My name is Buford, sir," said the other as he rose. "I am very glad
to see you gentlemen. Colonel Battersleigh, Captain Franklin. I was
so unlucky as to be of the Kentucky troops, sir, in the same
unpleasantness. I want to introduce my wife, gentlemen, and my niece,
Miss Beauchamp."
Franklin really lost a part of what the speaker was saying. He was
gazing at this form half hidden in the shadows, a figure with hands
drooping, with face upturned, and just caught barely by one vagrant ray
of light which left the massed shades piled strongly about the heavy
hair. There came upon him at that moment, as with a flood-tide of
memory, all the vague longing, the restlessness, the incertitude of
life which had harried him before he had come to this far land, whose
swift activity had helped him to forget. Yet even here he had been
unsettled, unhappy. He had missed, he had lacked--he knew not what.
Sometimes there had come vague dreams, recurrent, often of one figure,
which he could not hold in his consciousness long enough to trace to
any definite experience or association--a lady of dreams, against whom
he strove and whom he sought to banish. Whom he had banished! Whom he
had forgotten! Whom he had never known! Who had ever been in his life
a vague, delicious mystery!
The young woman rose, and stood out a pace or two from the shadows.
Her hand rested upon the arm of the elder lady. She turned her face
toward Franklin. He felt her gaze take in the uniform of blue, felt
the stroke of mental dislike for the uniform--a dislike which he knew
existed, but which he could not fathom. He saw the girl turn more
fully toward him, saw upon her face a querying wonder, like that which
he had known in his own dreams! With a strange, half-shivering gesture
the girl advanced half a step and laid her head almost upon the
shoulder of the elder woman, standing thus for one moment, the arms of
the two unconsciously entwined, as is sometimes the way with women.
Franklin approached rudeness as he looked at this attitude of the two,
still puzzling, still seeking to solve this troubling problem of the
past.
There came a shift in the music. The air swept from the merry tune
into the minor from which the negro is never musically free. Then in a
flash Franklin saw it all. He saw the picture. His heart stopped!
This music, it was the wail of trumpets! These steps, ordered,
measured, were those of marching men. These sounds, high, commingling,
they were the voices of a day gone swiftly by. These two, this
one--this picture--it was not here, but upon the field of wheat and
flowers that he saw it now again--that picture of grief so infinitely
sad.
Franklin saw, and as he gazed, eager, half advancing, indecision and
irresolution dropped from him forever. Resolved from out the shadows,
wherein it had never in his most intimate self-searching taken any
actual form, he saw the image of that unformulated dream which had
haunted his sub-consciousness so long, and which was now to haunt him
openly and forever.