_MRS. FOLLINGSBEE’S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT._
OUR vulgar idea of a party is a week or fortnight of previous
discomfort and chaotic tergiversation, and the mistress of it all
distracted and worn out with endless cares. Such a party bursts in
on a well-ordered family state as a bomb bursts into a city, leaving
confusion and disorder all around. But it would be a pity if such a
life-long devotion to the arts and graces as Mrs. Follingsbee had
given, backed by Dick Follingsbee’s fabulous fortune, and administered
by the exquisite Charlie Ferrola, should not have brought forth some
appreciable results. One was, that the great Castle of Indolence was
prepared for the _fête_, with no more ripple of disturbance than if
it had been a Nereid’s bower, far down beneath the reach of tempests,
where the golden sand is never ruffled, and the crimson and blue sea
flowers never even dream of commotion.
Charlie Ferrola wore, it is true, a brow somewhat oppressed with care,
and was kept tucked up on a rose-colored satin sofa, and served with
lachrymæ Christi, and Montefiascone, and all other substitutes for the
dews of Hybla, while he draughted designs for the floral arrangements,
which were executed by obsequious attendants in felt slippers; and
the whole process of arrangement proceeded like a dream of the
lotus-eaters’ paradise.
Madame de Tullegig was of course retained primarily for the adornment
of Mrs. Follingsbee’s person. It was understood, however, on this
occasion, that the composition of the costumes was to embrace both hers
and Lillie’s, that they might appear in a contrasted tableau, and bring
out each other’s points. It was a subject worthy a Parisian artiste,
and drew so seriously on Madame de Tullegig’s brain-power, that she
assured Mrs. Follingsbee afterwards that the effort of composition had
sensibly exhausted her.
Before we relate the events of that evening, as they occurred, we must
give some little idea of the position in which the respective parties
now stood.
Harry Endicott, by his mother’s side, was related to Mrs. Van
Astrachan. Mr. Van Astrachan had been, in a certain way, guardian
to him; and his success in making his fortune was in consequence
of capital advanced and friendly patronage thus accorded. In the
family, therefore, he had the _entrée_ of a son, and had enjoyed the
opportunity of seeing Rose with a freedom and frequency that soon
placed them on the footing of old acquaintanceship. Rose was an easy
person to become acquainted with in an ordinary and superficial manner.
She was like those pellucid waters whose great clearness deceives the
eye as to their depth. Her manners had an easy and gracious frankness;
and she spoke right on, with an apparent simplicity and fearlessness
that produced at first the impression that you knew all her heart. A
longer acquaintance, however, developed depths of reserved thought and
feeling far beyond what at first appeared.
Harry, at first, had met her only on those superficial grounds of
banter and _badinage_ where a gay young gentleman and a gay young lady
may reconnoitre, before either side gives the other the smallest peep
of the key of what Dr. Holmes calls the side-door of their hearts.
Harry, to say the truth, was in a bad way when he first knew Rose:
he was restless, reckless, bitter. Turned loose into society with an
ample fortune and nothing to do, he was in danger, according to the
homely couplet of Dr. Watts, of being provided with employment by that
undescribable personage who makes it his business to look after idle
hands.
Rose had attracted him first by her beauty, all the more attractive to
him because in a style entirely different from that which hitherto had
captivated his imagination. Rose was tall, well-knit, and graceful,
and bore herself with a sort of slender but majestic lightness, like
a meadow-lily. Her well-shaped, classical head was set finely on
her graceful neck, and she had a stag-like way of carrying it, that
impressed a stranger sometimes as haughty; but Rose could not help
that, it was a trick of nature. Her hair was of the glossiest black,
her skin fair as marble, her nose a little, nicely-turned aquiline
affair, her eyes of a deep violet blue and shadowed by long dark
lashes, her mouth a little larger than the classical proportion, but
generous in smiles and laughs which revealed perfect teeth of dazzling
whiteness. There, gentlemen and ladies, is Rose Ferguson’s picture:
and, if you add to all this the most attractive impulsiveness and
self-unconsciousness, you will not wonder that Harry Endicott at first
found himself admiring her, and fancied driving out with her in the
park; and that when admiring eyes followed them both, as a handsome
pair, Harry was well pleased.
Rose, too, liked Harry Endicott. A young girl of twenty is not a
severe judge of a handsome, lively young man, who knows far more of
the world than she does; and though Harry’s conversation was a perfect
Catherine-wheel of all sorts of wild talk,—sneering, bitter, and
sceptical, and giving expression to the most heterodox sentiments, with
the evident intention of shocking respectable authorities,—Rose rather
liked him than otherwise; though she now and then took the liberty to
stand upon her dignity, and opened her great blue eyes on him with a
grave, inquiring look of surprise,—a look that seemed to challenge
him to stand and defend himself. From time to time, too, she let fall
little bits of independent opinion, well poised and well turned, that
hit exactly where she meant they should; and Harry began to stand a
little in awe of her.
Harry had never known a woman like Rose; a woman so poised and
self-centred, so cultivated, so capable of deep and just reflections,
and so religious. His experience with women had not been fortunate, as
has been seen in this narrative; and, insensibly to himself, Rose was
beginning to exercise an influence over him. The sphere around her was
cool and bright and wholesome, as different from the hot atmosphere of
passion and sentiment and flirtation to which he had been accustomed,
as a New-England summer morning from a sultry night in the tropics.
Her power over him was in the appeal to a wholly different part of
his nature,—intellect, conscience, and religious sensibility; and
once or twice he found himself speaking to her quietly, seriously,
and rationally, not from the purpose of pleasing her, but because she
had aroused such a strain of thought in his own mind. There was a
certain class of brilliant sayings of his, of a cleverly irreligious
and sceptical nature, at which Rose never laughed: when this sort of
firework was let off in her presence, she opened her eyes upon him,
wide and blue, with a calm surprise intermixed with pity, but said
nothing; and, after trying the experiment several times, he gradually
felt this silent kind of look a restraint upon him.
At the same time, it must not be conjectured that, at present, Harry
Endicott was thinking of falling in love with Rose. In fact, he scoffed
at the idea of love, and professed to disbelieve in its existence.
And, beside all this, he was gratifying an idle vanity, and the wicked
love of revenge, in visiting Lillie; sometimes professing for days
an exclusive devotion to her, in which there was a little too much
reality on both sides to be at all safe or innocent; and then, when
he had wound her up to the point where even her involuntary looks
and words and actions towards him must have compromised her in the
eyes of others, he would suddenly recede for days, and devote himself
exclusively to Rose; driving ostentatiously with her in the park,
where he would meet Lillie face to face, and bow triumphantly to her
in passing. All these proceedings, talked over with Mrs. Follingsbee,
seemed to give promise of the most impassioned French romance possible.
Rose walked through all her part in this little drama, wrapped in a
veil of sacred ignorance. Had she known the whole, the probability
is that she would have refused Harry’s acquaintance; but, like many
another nice girl, she tripped gayly near to pitfalls and chasms of
which she had not the remotest conception.
Lillie’s want of self-control, and imprudent conduct, had laid her open
to reports in certain circles where such reports find easy credence;
but these were circles with which the Van Astrachans never mingled.
The only accidental point of contact was the intimacy of Rose with the
Seymour family; and Rose was the last person to understand an allusion
if she heard it. The reading of Rose had been carefully selected by
her father, and had not embraced any novels of the French romantic
school; neither had she, like some modern young ladies, made her mind a
highway for the tramping of every kind of possible fictitious character
which a novelist might choose to draw, nor taken an interest in the
dissections of morbid anatomy. In fact, she was old-fashioned enough to
like Scott’s novels; and though she was just the kind of girl Thackeray
would have loved, she never could bring her fresh young heart to enjoy
his pictures of world-worn and decaying natures.
The idea of sentimental flirtations and love-making on the part of a
married woman was one so beyond her conception of possibilities that it
would have been very difficult to make her understand or believe it.
On the occasion of the Follingsbee party, therefore, Rose accepted
Harry as an escort in simple good faith. She was by no means so wise
as not to have a deal of curiosity about it, and not a little of dazed
and dazzled sense of enjoyment in prospect of the perfect labyrinth of
fairy-land which the Follingsbee mansion opened before her.
On the eventful evening, Mrs. Follingsbee and Lillie stood together to
receive their guests,—the former in gold color, with magnificent point
lace and diamond tiara; while Lillie in heavenly blue, with wreaths
of misty tulle and pearl ornaments, seemed like a filmy cloud by the
setting sun.
Rose, entering on Harry Endicott’s arm, in the full bravery of a
well-chosen toilet, caused a buzz of admiration which followed them
through the rooms; but Rose was nothing to the illuminated eyes of
Mrs. Follingsbee compared with the portly form of Mrs. Van Astrachan
entering beside her, and spreading over her the wings of motherly
protection. That much-desired matron, serene in her point lace and
diamonds, beamed around her with an innocent kindliness, shedding
respectability wherever she moved, as a certain Russian prince was said
to shed diamonds.
[Illustration: “Rose, entering on Harry Endicott’s arm.”]
“Why, that is Mrs. Van Astrachan!”
“You don’t tell me so! Is it possible?”
“Which?” “Where is she?” “How in the world did she get here?” were
the whispered remarks that followed her wherever she moved; and Mrs.
Follingsbee, looking after her, could hardly suppress an exulting _Te
Deum_. It was done, and couldn’t be undone.
Mrs. Van Astrachan might not appear again at a _salon_ of hers for
a year; but that could not do away the patent fact, witnessed by so
many eyes, that she had been there once. Just as a modern newspaper
or magazine wants only one article of a celebrated author to announce
him as among their stated contributors for all time, and to flavor
every subsequent issue of the journal with expectancy, so Mrs.
Follingsbee exulted in the idea that this one evening would flavor all
her receptions for the winter, whether the good lady’s diamonds ever
appeared there again or not. In her secret heart, she always had the
perception, when striving to climb up on this kind of ladder, that the
time might come when she should be found out; and she well knew the
absolute and uncomprehending horror with which that good lady would
regard the French principles and French practice of which Charlie
Ferrola and Co. were the expositors and exemplars.
This was what Charlie Ferrola meant when he said that the Van
Astrachans were obtuse. They never could be brought to the niceties of
moral perspective which show one exactly where to find the vanishing
point for every duty.
Be that as it may, there, at any rate, she was, safe and sound;
surrounded by people whom she had never met before, and receiving
introductions to the right and left with the utmost graciousness. The
arrangements for the evening had been made at the tea-table of the Van
Astrachans with an innocent and trustful simplicity.
“You know, dear,” said Mrs. Van Astrachan to Rose, “that I never like
to stay long away from papa” (so the worthy lady called her husband);
“and so, if it’s just the same to you, you shall let me have the
carriage come for me early, and then you and Harry shall be left free
to see it out. I know young folks must be young,” she said, with a
comfortable laugh. “There was a time, dear, when my waist was not
bigger than yours, that I used to dance all night with the best of
them; but I’ve got bravely over that now.”
[Illustration: THE VAN ASTRACHANS.]
“Yes, Rose,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, “you mayn’t believe it, but ma
there was the spryest dancer of any of the girls. You are pretty nice
to look at, but you don’t quite come up to what she was in those days.
I tell you, I wish you could have seen her,” said the good man, warming
to his subject. “Why, I’ve seen the time when every fellow on the floor
was after her.”
“Papa,” says Mrs. Van Astrachan, reprovingly, “I wouldn’t say such
things if I were you.”
“Yes, I would,” said Rose. “Do tell us, Mr. Van Astrachan.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Van Astrachan: “you ought to have seen
her in a red dress she used to wear.”
“Oh, come, papa! what nonsense! Rose, I never wore a red dress in my
life; it was a pink silk; but you know men never do know the names for
colors.”
“Well, at any rate,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, hardily, “pink or red, no
matter; but I’ll tell you, she took all before her that evening. There
were Stuyvesants and Van Rennselaers and Livingstons, and all sorts of
grand fellows, in her train; but, somehow, I cut ’em out. There is no
such dancing nowadays as there was when wife and I were young. I’ve
been caught once or twice in one of their parties; and I don’t call
it dancing. I call it draggle-tailing. They don’t take any steps, and
there is no spirit in it.”
“Well,” said Rose, “I know we moderns are very much to be pitied. Papa
always tells me the same story about mamma, and the days when he was
young. But, dear Mrs. Van Astrachan, I hope you won’t stay a moment,
on my account, after you get tired. I suppose if you are just seen with
me there in the beginning of the evening, it will matronize me enough;
and then I have engaged to dance the ‘German’ with Mr. Endicott, and I
believe they keep that up till nobody knows when. But I am determined
to see the whole through.”
“Yes, yes! see it all through,” said Mr. Van Astrachan. “Young people
must be young. It’s all right enough, and you won’t miss my Polly after
you get fairly into it near so much as I shall. I’ll sit up for her
till twelve o’clock, and read my paper.”
Rose was at first, to say the truth, bewildered and surprised by the
perfect labyrinth of fairy-land which Charlie Ferrola’s artistic
imagination had created in the Follingsbee mansion.
Initiated people, who had travelled in Europe, said it put them in
mind of the “Jardin Mabille;” and those who had not were reminded of
some of the wonders of “The Black Crook.” There were apartments turned
into bowers and grottoes, where the gas-light shimmered behind veils
of falling water, and through pendant leaves of all sorts of strange
water-plants of tropical regions. There were all those wonderful
leaf-plants of every weird device of color, which have been conjured
up by tricks of modern gardening, as Rappacini is said to have created
his strange garden in Padua. There were beds of hyacinths and crocuses
and tulips, made to appear like living gems by the jets of gas-light
which came up among them in glass flowers of the same form. Far away
in recesses were sofas of soft green velvet turf, overshadowed by
trailing vines, and illuminated with moonlight-softness by hidden
alabaster lamps. The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, and the
sound of music and dancing from the ballroom came to these recesses
softened by distance.
The Follingsbee mansion occupied a whole square of the city; and
these enchanted bowers were created by temporary enlargements of the
conservatory covering the ground of the garden. With money, and the
Croton Water-works, and all the New-York greenhouses at disposal,
nothing was impossible.
There was in this reception no vulgar rush or crush or jam. The
apartments opened were so extensive, and the attractions in so many
different directions, that there did not appear to be a crowd anywhere.
There was no general table set, with the usual liabilities of rush and
crush; but four or five well-kept rooms, fragrant with flowers and
sparkling with silver and crystal, were ready at any hour to minister
to the guest whatever delicacy or dainty he or she might demand; and
light-footed waiters circulated with noiseless obsequiousness through
all the rooms, proffering dainties on silver trays.
Mrs. Van Astrachan and Rose at first found themselves walking
everywhere, with a fresh and lively interest. It was something quite
out of the line of the good lady’s previous experience, and so
different from any thing she had ever seen before, as to keep her in a
state of placid astonishment. Rose, on the other hand, was delighted
and excited; the more so that she could not help perceiving that she
herself amid all these objects of beauty was followed by the admiring
glances of many eyes.
It is not to be supposed that a girl so handsome as Rose comes to her
twentieth year without having the pretty secret made known to her
in more ways than one, or that thus made known it is any thing but
agreeable; but, on the present occasion, there was a buzz of inquiry
and a crowd of applicants about her; and her dancing-list seemed in
a fair way to be soon filled up for the evening, Harry telling her
laughingly that he would let her off from every thing but the “German;”
but that she might consider her engagement with him as a standing one
whenever troubled with an application which for any reason she did not
wish to accept.
Harry assumed towards Rose that air of brotherly guardianship which a
young man who piques himself on having seen a good deal of the world
likes to take with a pretty girl who knows less of it. Besides, he
rather valued himself on having brought to the reception the most
brilliant girl of the evening.
Our friend Lillie, however, was in her own way as entrancingly
beautiful this evening as the most perfect mortal flesh and blood
could be made; and Harry went back to her when Rose went off with her
partners as a moth flies to a candle, not with any express intention of
burning his wings, but simply because he likes to be dazzled, and likes
the bitter excitement. He felt now that he had power over her,—a bad, a
dangerous power he knew, with what of conscience was left in him; but
he thought, “Let her take her own risk.” And so, many busy gossips saw
the handsome young man, his great dark eyes kindled with an evil light,
whirling in dizzy mazes with this cloud of flossy mist; out of which
looked up to him an impassioned woman’s face, and eyes that said what
those eyes had no right to say.
There are times, in such scenes of bewilderment, when women are as
truly out of their own control by nervous excitement as if they were
intoxicated; and Lillie’s looks and words and actions towards Harry
were as open a declaration of her feelings as if she had spoken them
aloud to every one present.
The scandals about them were confirmed in the eyes of every one that
looked on; for there were plenty of people present in whose view of
things the worst possible interpretation was the most probable one.
Rose was in the way, during the course of the evening, of hearing
remarks of the most disagreeable and startling nature with regard to
the relations of Harry and Lillie to each other. They filled her with a
sort of horror, as if she had come to an unwholesome place; while she
indignantly repelled them from her thoughts, as every uncontaminated
woman will the first suspicion of the purity of a sister woman. In
Rose’s view it was monstrous and impossible. Yet when she stood at
one time in a group to see them waltzing, she started, and felt a
cold shudder, as a certain instinctive conviction of something not
right forced itself on her. She closed her eyes, and wished herself
away; wished that she had not let Mrs. Van Astrachan go home without
her; wished that somebody would speak to Lillie and caution her; felt
an indignant rising of her heart against Harry, and was provoked at
herself that she was engaged to him for the “German.”
She turned away; and, taking the arm of the gentleman with her,
complained of the heat as oppressive, and they sauntered off together
into the bowery region beyond.
“Oh, now! where can I have left my fan?” she said, suddenly stopping.
“Let me go back and get it for you,” said he of the whiskers who
attended her. It was one of the dancing young men of New York, and it
is no particular matter what his name was.
“Thank you,” said Rose: “I believe I left it on the sofa in the yellow
drawing-room.” He was gone in a moment.
Rose wandered on a little way, through the labyrinth of flowers and
shadowy trees and fountains, and sat down on an artificial rock where
she fell into a deep reverie. Rising to go back, she missed her way,
and became quite lost, and went on uneasily, conscious that she had
committed a rudeness in not waiting for her attendant.
At this moment she looked through a distant alcove of shrubbery,
and saw Harry and Lillie standing together,—she with both hands
laid upon his arm, looking up to him and speaking rapidly with an
imploring accent. She saw him, with an angry frown, push Lillie from
him so rudely that she almost fell backward, and sat down with her
handkerchief to her eyes; he came forward hurriedly, and met the eyes
of Rose fixed upon him.
[Illustration: “She saw him, with an angry frown, push Lillie from
him.”]
“Mr. Endicott,” she said, “I have to ask a favor of you. Will you be so
good as to excuse me from the ‘German’ to-night, and order my carriage?”
“Why, Miss Ferguson, what is the matter?” he said: “what has come over
you? I hope I have not had the misfortune to do any thing to displease
you?”
Without replying to this, Rose answered, “I feel very unwell. My head
is aching violently, and I cannot go through the rest of the evening. I
must go home at once.” She spoke it in a decided tone that admitted of
no question.
Without answer, Harry Endicott gave her his arm, accompanied her
through the final leave-takings, went with her to the carriage, put her
in, and sprang in after her.
Rose sank back on her seat, and remained perfectly silent; and Harry,
after a few remarks of his had failed to elicit a reply, rode by her
side equally silent through the streets homeward.
He had Mr. Van Astrachan’s latch-key; and, when the carriage stopped,
he helped Rose to alight, and went up the steps of the house.
“Miss Ferguson,” he said abruptly, “I have something I want to say to
you.”
“Not now, not to-night,” said Rose, hurriedly. “I am too tired; and it
is too late.”
“To-morrow then,” he said: “I shall call when you will have had time to
be rested. Good-night!”