II.

It was after an absence of nearly five years that Tristrem Varick

returned to the States. He had wearied of foreign lands, and for some

time previous he had thought of New York in such wise that it had grown

in his mind, and in the growing it had assumed a variety of attractive

attributes. He was, therefore, much pleased at the prospect of renewing

his acquaintance with Fifth Avenue, and during the homeward journey he

pictured to himself the advantages which his native city possessed over

any other which he had visited.

He had not, however, been many hours on shore before he found that Fifth

Avenue had shrunk. In some unaccountable way the streets had lost their

charm, the city seemed provincial. He was perplexed at the discovery

that the uniform if depthless civility of older civilizations was rarely

observable; he was chagrined to find that the _minutiæ_ which, abroad,

he had accepted as a matter of course, the thousand trifles which

amount, after all, to nothing particularly indispensable, but which

serve to make mere existence pleasant, were, when not overlooked,

inhibited by statute or custom.

In the course of a week he was surprised into reflecting that, while no

other country was more naturally and bountifully favored than his own,

there was yet no other where the art of living was as vexatiously

misunderstood.

Of these impressions he said nothing. His father asked him no questions,

nor did he manifest a desire for any larger sociological information

than that which he already possessed. His grandfather was too irascible

for anyone to venture with in safety through the shallows of European

refinements, and of other relatives Tristrem could not boast. Few of his

former friends were at once discoverable, and of those that he

encountered some had fallen into the rut and routine of business life,

some had married and sent in their resignations to everything but the

Humdrum, and some passed their days in an effort to catch a train.

For the moment, therefore, there was no one to whom Tristrem could

confide his earliest impressions, and in a month's time the force of

these impressions waned; the difference between New York and Paris lost

much of its accent, and in its place came a growing admiration for the

pluck and power of the nation, an expanding enthusiasm for the stretch

and splendor of the land.

During the month that followed, an incident occurred which riveted his

patriotism forever. First among the friends and acquaintances whom

Tristrem sought on his return was Royal Weldon. Outwardly the handsome,

turbulent boy had developed into an admirable specimen of manhood, he

had become one on whom the feminine eye likes to linger, and in whose

companionship men feel themselves refreshed. His face was beardless and

unmustached, and into it had come that strength which the old prints

give to Karl Martel. In the ample jaw and straight lips was a message

which a physiognomist would interpret as a promise of successful

enterprise, whether of good or evil. It was a face which a Crusader

might have possessed, or a pirate of the Spanish main. In a word, he

looked like a man who might be a hero to his valet.

Yet, despite this adventurous type of countenance, Weldon's mode of life

was seemingly conventional. Shortly after the removal from Harvard, his

father was mangled in a railway accident and left the planet and little

behind him save debts and dislike. Promptly thereupon Royal Weldon set

out to conquer the Stock Exchange. For three years he grit his teeth,

and earned fifteen dollars a week. At the end of that period he had

succeeded in two things. He had captured the confidence of a prominent

financier, and the affection of the financier's daughter. In another

twelvemonth he was partner of the one, husband of the other, and the

taxpayer of a house in Gramercy Park.

Of these vicissitudes Tristrem had been necessarily informed. During the

penury of his friend he had aided him to a not inconsiderable extent;

though afar, he had followed his career with affectionate interest, and

the day before Weldon's wedding he had caused Tiffany to send the bride

a service of silver which was mentioned by the reporters as "elegant"

and "chaste." On returning to New York, Tristrem naturally found the

door of the house in Gramercy Park wide open, and it came about that it

was in that house that his wavering patriotism was riveted.

This event, after the fashion of extraordinary occurrences, happened in

a commonplace manner. One Sunday evening he was bidden there to dine. He

had broken bread in the house many times before, but the bread breaking

had been informal. On this particular occasion, however, other guests

had been invited, and Tristrem was given to understand that he would

meet some agreeable people.

When he entered the drawing-room, he discovered that of the guests of

the evening he was the first to arrive. Even Weldon was not visible; but

Mrs. Weldon was, and, as Tristrem entered, she rose from a

straight-backed chair in which she had been seated, and greeted him with

a smile which she had copied from a chromo.

Mrs. Weldon was exceedingly pretty. She was probably twenty-two or

twenty-three years of age, and her intellect was that of a girl of

twelve. Her manner was arch and noticeably affected. She had an

enervating way of asking unnecessary questions, and of laughing as

though it hurt her. On the subject of dress she was very voluble; in

brief, she was prettiness and insipidity personified--the sort of woman

that ought to be gagged and kept in bed with a doll.

She gave Tristrem a little hand gloved with _Suède_, and asked him had

he been at church that morning. Tristrem found a seat, and replied that

he had not. "But don't you like to go?" she inquired, emphasizing each

word of the question, and ending up with her irritating laugh.

"He does," came a voice from the door and Weldon entered. "He does, but

he can resist the temptation." Then there was more conversation of the

before-dinner kind, and during its progress the door opened again, and a

young girl crossed the room.

She was dressed in a gown of canary, draped with madeira and fluttered

with lace. Her arms and neck were bare, and unjewelled. Her hair was

Cimmerian, the black of basalt that knows no shade more dark, and it was

arranged in such wise that it fell on either side of the forehead,

circling a little space above the ear, and then wound into a coil on the

neck. This arrangement was not modish, but it was becoming--the only

arrangement, in fact, that would have befitted her features, which

resembled those of the Cleopatra unearthed by Lieutenant Gorringe. Her

eyes were not oval, but round, and they were amber as those of leopards,

the yellow of living gold. The corners of her mouth drooped a little,

and the mouth itself was rather large than small. When she laughed one

could see her tongue; it was like an inner cut of water-melon, and

sometimes, when she was silent, the point of it caressed her under lip.

Her skin was of that quality which artificial light makes radiant, and

yet of which the real delicacy is only apparent by day. She just lacked

being tall, and in her face and about her bare arms and neck was the

perfume of health. She moved indolently, with a grace of her own. She

was not yet twenty, a festival of beauty in the festival of life.

At the rustle of her dress Tristrem had arisen. As the girl crossed the

room he bethought him of a garden of lilies; though why, for the life of

him, he could not have explained. He heard his name mentioned, and saw

the girl incline her head, but he made little, if any, acknowledgment;

he stood quite still, looking at her and through her, and over her and

beyond. For some moments he neither moved nor spoke. He was unconscious

even that other guests had come.

He gave his hand absently to a popular novelist, Mr. A. B. Fenwick

Chisholm-Jones by name, more familiarly known as Alphabet, whom Weldon

brought to him, and kept his eyes on the yellow bodice. A fair young

woman in pink had taken a position near to where he stood, and was

complaining to someone that she had been obliged to give up cigarettes.

And when the someone asked whether the abandonment of that pleasure was

due to parental interference, the young woman laughed shortly, and

explained that she was in training for a tennis tournament. Meanwhile

the little group in which Tristrem stood was re-enforced by a new-comer,

who attempted to condole with the novelist on the subject of an

excoriating attack that one of the critics had recently made on his

books, and suggested that he ought to do something about it. But of

condolence or advice Mr. Jones would have none.

"Bah!" he exclaimed, "if the beggar doesn't like what I write let him

try and do better. I don't care what any of them say. My books sell, and

that's the _hauptsache_. Besides, what's the use in arguing with a

newspaper? It's like talking metaphysics to a bull; the first you know,

you get a horn in your navel." And while the novelist was expressing his

disdain of all adverse criticism, and quoting Emerson to the effect that

the average reviewer had the eyes of a bug and the heart of a cat,

Tristrem discovered Mrs. Weldon's arm in his own, and presently found

himself seated next to her at table.

At the extreme end, to the right of the host, was the girl with the

amber eyes. The novelist was at her side. Evidently he had said

something amusing, for they were both laughing; he with the complacency

of one who has said a good thing, and she with the appreciation of one

accustomed to wit. But Tristrem was not permitted to watch her

undisturbed. Mrs. Weldon had a right to his attention, and she exercised

that right with the pertinacity of a fly that has to be killed to be got

rid of. "What do you think of Miss Finch?" she asked, with her stealthy

giggle.

"Her name isn't Finch," Tristrem answered, indignantly.

"Yes it is, too--Flossy Finch, her name is; as if I oughtn't to know!

Why, we were at Mrs. Garret and Mlle. de l'Entresol's school together

for years and years. What makes you say her name isn't Finch? I had you

here on purpose to meet her. Did you ever see such hair? There's only

one girl in New York----"

"It _is_ black," Tristrem assented.

"Black! Why, you must be crazy; it's orange, and that dress of hers----"

Tristrem looked down the table and saw a young lady whom he had not

noticed before. Her hair, as Mrs. Weldon had said, was indeed the color

of orange, though of an orange not over-ripe. "I thought you meant that

girl next to Royal," he said.

"That! Oh! that's Miss Raritan."

Mrs. Weldon's voice had changed. Evidently Miss Raritan did not arouse

in her the same enthusiasm as did Miss Finch. For a moment her lips lost

their chromo smile, but presently it returned again, and she piped away

anew on the subject of the charms of Flossy Finch, and after an

interlude, of which Tristrem heard not one word, she turned and

cross-questioned the man on her left.

The conversation had become very animated. From Royal's end of the table

came intermittent shrieks of laughter. The novelist was evidently in his

finest form. "Do you mean to tell me," Miss Finch asked him across the

table, "do you mean to say that you don't believe in platonic

affection?"

"I never uttered such a heresy in my life," the novelist replied. "Of

course I believe in it; I believe in it thoroughly--between husband and

wife."

At this everyone laughed again, except Tristrem, who had not heard, and

Mrs. Weldon, who had not understood. The latter, however, felt that Miss

Finch was distinguishing herself, and she turned to Tristrem anew.

"I want you to make yourself very agreeable to her," she said. "She is

just the girl for you. Don't you think so? Now promise that you will

talk to her after dinner."

"Talk metaphysics to a bull, and the first thing you know--the first

thing you know--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Weldon, I didn't mean to say

that--I don't know how the stupid phrase got in my head or why I said

it." He hesitated a moment, and seemed to think. "H'm," he went on, "I

am a trifle tired, I fancy."

Mrs. Weldon looked suspiciously at the glasses at his side, but

apparently they had not been so much as tasted; they were full to the

rim. She turned again to the guest at her left. The dinner was almost

done. She asked a few more questions, and then presently, in a general

lull, she gave a glance about her. At that signal the women-folk rose in

a body, the men rising also, to let them pass.

Tristrem had risen mechanically with the others, and when the ultimate

flounce had disappeared he sat down again and busied himself with a cup

of coffee. The other men had drawn their chairs together near him, and

over the liqueurs were discussing topics of masculine interest and

flavor. Tristrem was about to make some effort to join in the

conversation, when from beyond there came the running scale that is the

prelude to the cabaletta, _Non più mesta_, from Cenerentola. Then,

abruptly, a voice rang out as though it vibrated through labyrinths of

gold--a voice that charged the air with resonant accords--a voice

prodigious and dominating, grave and fluid; a voice that descended into

the caverns of sound, soared to the uttermost heights, scattering notes

like showers of stars, evoking visions of flesh and dazzling steel, and

in its precipitate flights and vertiginous descents disclosing

landscapes riotous with flowers, rich with perfume, sentient with

beauty, articulate with love; a voice voluptuous as an organ and

languorous as the consonance of citherns and guitars.

Tristrem, as one led in leash, moved from the table and passed into the

outer room. Miss Raritan was at the piano. Beyond, a group of women sat

hushed and mute; and still the resilient waves of song continued. One by

one the men issued noiselessly from the inner room. And then, soon, the

voice sank and died away like a chorus entering a crypt.

Miss Raritan rose from the piano. As she did so, Weldon, as it becomes a

host, hastened to her. There was a confused hum, a murmur of applause,

and above it rose a discreet and prolonged _brava_ that must have come

from the novelist. Weldon, seemingly, was urging her to sing again. The

women had taken up anew some broken thread of gossip, but the men were

at the piano, insisting too. Presently Miss Raritan resumed her seat,

and the men moved back. Her fingers rippled over the keys like rain. She

stayed them a second, and then, in a voice so low that it seemed hardly

human, and yet so insistent that it would have filled a cathedral and

scaled the dome, she began a ballad that breathed of Provence:

"O Magali, ma bien aimée,

Fuyons tous deux sous la ramée

Au fond du bois silencieux...."

When she had finished, Tristrem started. The earliest notes had sent the

blood pulsing through his veins, thrilling him from finger-tips to the

end of the spine, and then a lethargy enveloped him and he ceased to

hear, and it was not until Miss Raritan stood up again from the piano

that he was conscious that he had not been listening. He had sat near

the entrance to the dining-room, and when the applause began afresh he

passed out into the hall, found his coat and hat, and left the house.

As he walked down Irving Place he fell to wondering who it was that he

had heard complain of being obliged to give up cigarettes, not on

account of parental interference but because of a tournament. Yet, after

all, what matter did it make? Certainly, he told himself, the Weldons

seemed to live very well. Royal must be making money. Mrs.

Weldon--Nanny, as Royal called her--was a nice little thing,

somewhat--h'm, somewhat--well, not quite up to Royal. She looked like

that girl in Munich, the girl that lived over the way, only Mrs. Weldon

was prettier and dressed better, much better. Du hast die schönsten

Augen. Munich wasn't a bad place, but what a hole Innsprück was. There

was that Victoria Cross fellow; whatever became of him? He drank like a

fish; it must have caught him by this time. H'm, he _would_ give me the

address of his shoemaker. I ought to have taken more from that man in

Paris. Odd that the Cenerentola was the last thing I should have heard

there. The buffo was good, so was the contralto. _She_ sings much

better. What a voice! what a voice! Now, which was the more perfect, the

voice or the girl? Let me see, which is the better fulfilled, the odor

of the lily or the lily itself? Tulips I never cared for.... That is it,

then. I wonder, though----

Tristrem had reached the house in Waverley Place. He let himself in with

a latch-key, and went to his room. There he sat a while, companioned

only by his thoughts. Before he fell asleep, his patriotism was riveted.

A land that could produce such a specimen of girlhood outvalued Europe,

Asia, and Africa combined--aye, a thousand times--and topped and

exceeded creation.