IN WHICH SOCIETY RECEIVES US
It was a bright December evening when we returned to Richmond, and drove
through the frosty air to our new home. The house was large and modern,
with a hideous brown stone front, and at the top of the brown stone
steps several girl friends of Sally's were waiting to receive us. Beyond
them, in the brilliantly lighted hall, I saw masses of palms and roses
under the oak staircase.
"Oh, you bad Sally, not even to ask us to your wedding. And you know how
we adore one!" cried a handsome, dark girl in a riding habit, named
Bonny Page. "How do you do, Mr. Starr? We're to call you 'Ben' now
because you've married our cousin."
I made some brief response, and while I spoke, I felt again the old
sense of embarrassment, of strangeness in my surroundings, that always
came upon me in a gathering of women--especially of girls. With Sally I
never forgot that I was a strong man,--with Bonny Page I remembered only
that I was a plain one. As she stood there, with her arm about Sally,
and her black eyes dancing with fun, she looked the incarnate spirit of
mischief,--and beside the spirit of mischief I felt decidedly heavy. She
was a tall, splendid girl, with a beautiful figure,--the belle of
Richmond and the best horsewoman of the state. I had seen her take a
jump that had brought my heart to my throat, and come down on the other
side with a laugh. A little dazzling, a little cold, fine, quick,
generous to her friends, and merciless to her lovers, I had wondered
often what subtle sympathy had knit Sally and herself so closely
together.
"You'd always promised that I should be your bridesmaid," she remarked
reproachfully; "she's hurt us dreadfully, hasn't she, Bessy? And it's
very forgiving of us to warm her house and have her dinner ready for
her."
Bessy, the little heroine of the azalea wreath and my first party,
murmured shyly that she hoped the furniture was placed right and that
the dinner would be good.
"Oh, you darlings, it's too sweet of you!" said Sally, entering the
drawing-room, amid palms and roses, with an arm about the neck of each.
"You know, don't you," she went on, "that poor Aunt Mitty's not coming
kept me from having even you? How is she, Bonny? O Bonny, she won't
speak to me."
Immediately she was clasped in Bonny's arms, where she shed a few tears
on Bonny's handsome shoulder.
"She'll grow used to it," said little Bessy; "but, Sally, how did you
have the courage?"
"Ask Bonny how she had the courage to take that five-foot jump."
"I took it with my teeth set and my eyes shut," said Bonny.
"Well, that's how I took Ben, with my teeth set and my eyes shut tight."
"And I came down with a laugh," added Bonny.
"So did I--I came down with a laugh. Oh, you dears, how lovely the house
looks! Here are all the bridal roses that I missed and you've
remembered."
"There're blue roses in your room," said Bonny; "I mean on the chintz
and on the paper."
"How can I help being happy, when I have blue roses, Bonny? Aren't blue
roses an emblem of the impossible achieved?"
Bonny's dancing black eyes were on me, and I read in them plainly the
thought, "Yes, I'm going to be nice to you because Sally has married
you, and Sally's my cousin--even if I can't understand how she came to
do it."
No, she couldn't understand, and she never would, this I read also. The
man that she saw and the man that Sally knew were two different persons,
drawing life from two different sources of sympathy. To her I was still,
and would always be, the "magnificent animal,"--a creature of good
muscle and sinew, with an honest eye, doubtless, and clean hands, but
lacking in the finer qualities of person and manner that must appeal to
her taste. Where Sally beheld power, and admired, Bonny Page saw only
roughness, and wondered.
Presently, they led her away, and I heard their merry voices floating
down from the bedrooms above. The pink light of the candles on the
dinner table in the room beyond, the vague, sweet scent of the roses,
and the warmth of the wood fire burning on the andirons, seemed to grow
faint and distant, for I was very tired with the fatigue of a man whose
muscles are cramped from want of exercise. I felt all at once that I had
stepped from the open world into a place that was too small for me. I
was a rich man at last, I was the husband, too, of the princess of the
enchanted garden, and yet in the midst of the perfume and the soft
lights and the laughter floating down from above, I saw myself, by some
freak of memory, as I had crouched homeless in the straw under a
deserted stall in the Old Market. Would the thought of the boy I had
been haunt forever the man I had become? Did my past add a keener
happiness to my present, or hang always like a threatening shadow above
it? There was a part in my life which these girls could not understand,
which even Sally, whom I loved, could never share with me. How could
they or she comprehend hunger, who had never gone without for a moment?
Or sympathise with the lust of battle when they had never encountered an
obstacle? Already I heard the call of the streets, and my blood
responded to it in the midst of the scented atmosphere. These things
were for Sally, but for me was the joy of the struggle, the passion to
achieve that I might return, with my spoils and pile them higher and
higher before her feet. The grasping was what I loved, not the
possession; the instant of triumph, not the fruits of the conquest. Love
throbbed in my heart, but my mind, as if freeing itself from a
restraint, followed the Great South Midland and Atlantic, covering that
night under the stars nearly twenty thousand miles of road. The
elemental man in me chafed under the social curb, and I longed at that
instant to bear the woman I had won out into the rough joys of the
world. My muscles would soon grow flabby in this scented warmth. The
fighter would war with the dreamer, and I would regret the short, fierce
battle with my competitors in the business of life.
A slight sound made me turn, and I saw Bonny Page standing alone in the
doorway, and looking straight at me with her dancing eyes.
"I don't know you yet, Ben," she said in the direct, gallant manner of a
perfect horsewoman, "but I'm going to like you."
"Please try," I answered, "and I'll do my best not to make it hard."
"I don't think it will be hard, but even if it were, I'd do it for
Sally's sake. Sally is my darling."
"And mine. So we're alike in one thing at least."
"I'm perfectly furious with Aunt Mitty. I mean to tell her so the next
time I've taken a high jump."
"Poor Miss Mitty. How can she help herself? She was born that way."
"Well, it was a very bad way to be born--to want to break Sally's heart.
Do you know, I think it was delightful--the way you did it. If I'm ever
married, I want to run away, too,--only I'll run away on horseback,
because that will be far more exciting."
She ran on merrily, partly I knew to take my measure while she watched
me, partly to ease the embarrassment which her exquisite social instinct
had at once discerned. She was charming, friendly, almost affectionate,
yet I was conscious all the time that, in spite of herself, she was a
little critical, a trifle aloof. Her perfect grooming, the very fineness
of her self-possession, her high-bred gallantry of manner, and even the
shining gloss on her black, beribboned hair, and her high boots,
produced in me a sense of remoteness, which I found it impossible
altogether to overcome.
In a little while there was a flutter on the staircase, and the other
girls trooped down, with Sally in their midst. She had changed her
travelling dress for a gown of white, cut low at the neck, and about her
throat she wore a necklace of pearls I had given her at her wedding.
There was a bright flush in her face, and she looked to me as she had
done that day, in her red shoes, in Saint John's churchyard.
When I came downstairs from my dressing-room, I found that the girls had
gone, and she was standing by the dinner table, with her face bent down
over the vase of pink roses in the centre.
"So we are in our own home, darling, at last," I said, and a few minutes
later, as I looked across the pink candle shades and the roses, and saw
her sitting opposite to me, I told myself that at last both the fighter
in me and the dreamer had found the fulfilment of their desire.
After dinner, when I had had my smoke in the library, we caught hands
and wandered like two children over the new house--into the pink and
white guest room, and then into Sally's bedroom, where the blue roses
sprawled over the chintz-covered furniture and the silk curtains. A
glass door gave on a tiny balcony, and throwing a shawl about her head
and her bare shoulders, she went with me out into the frosty December
night, where a cold bright moon was riding high above the church
steeples. With my arm about her, and her head on my breast, we stood in
silence gazing over the city, while the sense of her nearness, of her
throbbing spirit and body, filled my heart with an exquisite peace.
"You and I are the world, Ben."
"You are my world, anyway."
"It is such a happy world to-night. There is nothing but love in it--no
pain, no sorrow, no disappointment. Why doesn't everybody love, I
wonder?"
"Everybody hasn't you."
"I'm so sorry for poor Aunt Mitty,--she never loved,--and for poor Aunt
Matoaca, because she didn't love my lover. Oh, you are so strong, Ben;
that, I think, is why I first loved you! I see you always in the
background of my thoughts pushing that wheel up the hill."
"That won you. And to think if I'd known you were there, Sally, I
couldn't have done it."
"That, too, is why I love you, so there's another reason! It
isn't only your strength, Ben, it is, I believe, still more your
self-forgetfulness. Then you forgot yourself because you thought of the
poor horse; and again, do you remember the day of Aunt Matoaca's death,
when you gave her your arm and took her little flag in your hand? You
would have marched all the way to the Capitol just like that, and I
don't believe you would ever have known that it looked ridiculous or
that people were laughing at you."
"To tell the truth, Sally, I should never have cared."
She clung closer, her perfumed hair on my breast.
"And yet they wondered why I loved you," she murmured; "they wondered
why!"
"Can you guess why I loved you?" I asked. "Was it for your red shoes? Or
for that tiny scar like a dimple I've always adored?"
"I never told you what made that," she said, after a moment. "I was a
very little baby when my father got angry with mamma one day--he had
been drinking--and he upset the cradle in which I was asleep."
She lifted her face, and I kissed the scar under the white shawl.
The next day when I came home to luncheon, she told me that she had been
to her old home to see Miss Mitty.
"I couldn't stand the thought of her loneliness, so I went into the
drawing-room at the hour I knew she would be tending her sweet alyssum
and Dicky, the canary. She was there, looking very thin and old, and,
Ben, she treated me like a stranger. She wouldn't kiss me, and she
didn't ask me a single question--only spoke of the weather and her
flower boxes, as if I had called for the first time."
"I know, I know," I said, taking her into my arms.
"And everybody else is so kind. People have been sending me flowers all
day. Did you ever see such a profusion? They are all calling, too,--the
Fitzhughs, the Harrisons, the Tuckers, the Mayos, Jennie Randolph came,
and old Mrs. Tucker, who never goes anywhere since her daughter died,
and Charlotte Peyton, and all the Corbins in a bunch." Then her tone
changed. "Ben," she said, "I want to see that little sister of yours.
Will you take me there this afternoon?"
Something in her request, or in the way she uttered it, touched me to
the heart.
"I'd like you to see Jessy--she's pretty enough to look at--but I didn't
mean you to marry my family, you know."
"I know you didn't, dear, but I've married everything of yours all the
same. If you can spare a few minutes after luncheon, we'll drive down
and speak to her."
I could spare the few minutes, and when the carriage was ready, she came
down in her hat and furs, and we went at a merry pace down Franklin
Street to the boarding-house in which Jessy was living. As we drove up
to the pavement, the door of the house opened and my little sister came
out, dressed for walking and looking unusually pretty.
"Why, Ben, she's a beauty!" said Sally, in a whisper, as the girl
approached us. To me Jessy's face had always appeared too cold and
vacant for beauty, in spite of her perfect features and the brilliant
fairness of her complexion. Even now I missed the glow of feeling or of
animation in her glance, as she crossed the pavement with her slow,
precise walk, and put her hand into Sally's.
"How do you do? It is very kind of you to come," she said in a measured,
correct voice.
"Of course I came, Jessy. I am your new sister, and you must come and
stay with me when I am out of mourning."
"Thank you," responded Jessy gravely, "I should like to."
The cold had touched her cheek until it looked like tinted marble, and
under her big black hat her blond hair rolled in natural waves from her
forehead.
"Are you happy here, Jessy?" I asked.
"They are very kind to me. There's an old gentleman boarding here now
from the West. He is going to give us a theatre party to-night. They say
he has millions." For the first time the glow of enthusiasm shone in her
limpid blue eyes.
"A good use to make of his millions," I laughed. "Do you hear often from
President, Jessy?"
The glow faded from her eyes and they grew cold again. "He writes such
bad letters," she answered, "I can hardly read them."
"Never forget," I answered sternly, "that he denied himself an education
in order that you might become what you are."
While I spoke the door of the house opened again, and the old gentleman
she had alluded to came gingerly down the steps. He had a small, wizened
face, and he wore a fur-lined overcoat, in which it was evident that he
still suffered from the cold.
"This is my brother and my sister, Mr. Cottrel," said Jessy, as he came
slowly toward us.
He bowed with a pompous manner, and stood twirling the chain of his
eye-glasses. "Yes, yes, I have heard of your brother. His name is well
known already," he answered. "I congratulate, sir," he added, "not the
'man who got rich quickly,' as I've heard you called, but the fortunate
brother of a beautiful sister."
"What a perfectly horrid old man," remarked Sally, some minutes later,
as we drove back again. "I think, Ben, we'll have to take the little
sister. She's a beauty."
"If she wasn't so everlastingly cold and quiet."
"It suits her style--that little precise way she has. There's a look
about her like one of Perugino's saints."
Then the carriage stopped at the office, and I returned, with a high
heart, to the game.