The Patricians Entertain
To reward the enduring who read politely through the garish revel of
the preceding chapter, covers for fourteen are now laid with correct
and tasteful quietness at the sophisticated board of that fine old New
York family, the Milbreys. Shaded candles leave all but the glowing
table in a gloom discreetly pleasant. One need not look so high as the
old-fashioned stuccoed ceiling. The family portraits tone agreeably
into the halflight of the walls; the huge old-fashioned walnut
sideboard, soberly ornate with its mirrors, its white marble top and
its wood-carved fruit, towers majestically aloft in proud scorn of the
frivolous Chippendale fad.
Jarvis, the accomplished and incomparable butler, would be subdued and
scholarly looking but for the flagrant scandal of his port-wine nose.
He gives finishing little fillips to the white chrysanthemums massed in
the central epergne on the long silver plateau, and bestows a last
cautious survey upon the cut-glass and silver radiating over the dull
white damask. Finding the table and its appointments faultless, he
assures himself once more that the sherry will come on irreproachably
at a temperature of 60 degrees; that the Burgundy will not fall below
65 nor mount above 70; for Jarvis wots of a palate so acutely sensitive
that it never fails to record a variation of so much as one degree from
the approved standard of temperature.
How restful this quiet and reserve after the colour and line tumult of
the Higbee apartment. There the flush and bloom of newness were
oppressive to the right-minded. All smelt of the shop. Here the dull
tones and decorous lines caress and soothe instead of overwhelming the
imagination with effects too grossly literal. Here is the veritable
spirit of good form.
Throughout the house this contrast might be noted. It is the
brown-stone, high-stoop house, guarded by a cast-iron fence, built in
vast numbers when the world of fashion moved North to Murray Hill and
Fifth Avenue a generation ago. One of these houses was like all the
others inside and out, built of unimaginative "builder's architecture."
The hall, the long parlour, the back parlour or library, the high
stuccoed ceilings--not only were these alike in all the houses, but the
furnishings, too, were apt to be of a sameness in them all, rather
heavy and tasteless, but serving the ends that such things should be
meant to serve, and never flamboyant. Of these relics of a simpler day
not many survive to us, save in the shameful degeneracy of
boarding-houses. But in such as are left, we may confidently expect to
find the traditions of that more dignified time kept unsullied;--to
find, indeed, as we find in the house of Milbrey, a settled air of
gloom that suggests insolvent but stubbornly determined exclusiveness.
Something of this air, too, may be noticed in the surviving tenants of
these austere relics. Yet it would hardly be observed in this house on
this night, for not only do arriving guests bring the aroma of a later
prosperity, but the hearts of our host and hostess beat high with a new
hope. For the fair and sometimes uncertain daughter of the house of
Milbrey, after many ominous mutterings, delays, and frank rebellions,
has declared at last her readiness to be a credit to her training by
conferring her family prestige, distinction of manner and charms of
person upon one equipped for their suitable maintenance.
Already her imaginative father is ravishing in fancy the mouldiest
wine-cellars of Continental Europe. Already the fond mother has
idealised a house in "Millionaire's Row" east of the Park, where there
shall be twenty servants instead of three, and there shall cease that
gnawing worry lest the treacherous north-setting current sweep them
west of the Park into one of those hideously new apartment houses,
where the halls are done in marble that seems to have been sliced from
a huge Roquefort cheese, and where one must vie, perhaps, with a
shop-keeper for the favours of an irreverent and materialistic janitor.
The young woman herself entertains privately a state of mind which she
has no intention of making public. It is enough, she reasons, that her
action should outwardly accord with the best traditions of her class;
and indeed, her family would never dream of demanding more.
Her gown to-night is of orchard green, trimmed with apple-blossoms, a
single pink spray of them caught in her hair. The rounding, satin grace
of her slender arms, sloping to the opal-tipped fingers, the exquisite
line from ear to shoulder strap, the melting ripeness of her chin and
throat, the tender pink and white of her fine skin, the capricious,
inciting tilt of her small head, the dainty lift of her short
nose,--these allurements she has inventoried with a calculating and
satisfied eye. She is glad to believe that there is every reason why it
will soon be over.
And, since the whole loaf is notoriously better than a half, here is
the engaging son of the house, also firmly bent upon the high emprise
of matrimony; handsome, with the chin, it may be, slightly receding;
but an unexcelled leader of cotillions, a surpassing polo-player,
clever, winning, and dressed with an effect that has long made him
remarked in polite circles, which no mere money can achieve. Money,
indeed, if certain ill-natured gossip of tradesmen be true, has been an
inconsiderable factor in the encompassment of this sartorial
distinction. He waits now, eager for a first glimpse of the young woman
whose charms, even by report, have already won the best devotion he has
to give. A grievous error it is to suppose that Cupid's artillery is
limited to bow and arrows.
And now, instead of the rude commercial horde that laughed loudly and
ate uncouthly at the board of the Barbarian, we shall sit at table with
people born to the only manner said to be worth possessing;--if we
except, indeed, the visiting tribe of Bines, who may be relied upon,
however, to behave at least unobtrusively.
As a contrast to the oppressively Western matron from Kansas City, here
is Mistress Fidelia Oldaker on the arm of her attentive son. She would
be very old but for the circumstance that she began early in life to be
a belle, and age cannot stale such women. Brought up with board at her
back, books on her head, to guard her complexion as if it were her fair
name, to be diligent at harp practice and conscientious with the
dancing-master, she is almost the last of a school that nursed but the
single aim of subjugating man. To-night, at seventy-something, she is a
bit of pink bisque fragility, bubbling tirelessly with reminiscence,
her vivacity unimpaired, her energy amazing, and her coquetry
faultless. From which we should learn, and be grateful therefor, that
when a girl is brought up in the way she ought to go she will never be
able to depart from it.
Here also is Cornelia Van Geist, sister of our admirable
hostess--relict of a gentleman who had been first or second cousin to
half the people in society it were really desirable to know, and whose
taste in wines, dinners, and sports had been widely praised at his
death by those who had had the fortune to be numbered among his
friends. Mrs. Van Geist has a kind, shrewd face, and her hair, which
turned prematurely grey while she was yet a wife, gives her a look of
age that her actual years belie.
Here, too, is Rulon Shepler, the money-god, his large, round head
turning upon his immense shoulders without the aid of a
neck--sharp-eyed, grizzled, fifty, short of stature, and with as few
illusions concerning life as the New York financier is apt to retain at
his age.
If we be forced to wait for another guest of note, it is hardly more
than her due; for Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan is truly a personage, and the
best people on more than one continent do not become unduly provoked at
being made to wait for her. Those less than the very best frankly
esteem it a privilege. Yet the great lady is not careless of
engagements, and the wait is never prolonged. Mrs. Milbrey has time to
say to her sister, "Yes, we think it's going; and really, it will do
very well, you know. The girl has had some nonsense in her mind for a
year past--none of us can tell what--but now she seems actually
sensible, and she's promised to accept when the chap proposes." But
there is time for no more gossip.
The belated guest arrives, enveloped in a vast cloak, and accompanied
by her two nephews, whom Percival Bines recognises for the solemn and
taciturn young men he had met in Shepler's party at the mine.
Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan, albeit a decorative personality, is constructed
on the same broad and generously graceful lines as her own victoria.
The great lady has not only two chins, but what any fair-minded
observer would accept as sufficient promise of a good third. Yet hardly
could a slighter person display to advantage the famous Gwilt-Athelstan
jewels. The rope of pierced diamonds with pigeon-blood rubies strung
between them, which she wears wound over her corsage, would assuredly
overweight the frail Fidelia Oldaker; the tiara of emeralds and
diamonds was never meant for a brow less majestic; nor would the
stomacher of lustrous grey pearls and glinting diamonds ever have
clasped becomingly a figure that was _svelte_--or "skinny," as the
great lady herself is frank enough to term all persons even remotely
inclined to be _svelte_.
But let us sit and enliven a proper dinner with talk upon topics of
legitimate interest and genuine propriety.
Here will be no discussion of the vulgar matter of markets, staples,
and prices, such as we perforce endured through the overwined and
too-abundant repast of Higbee. Instead of learning what beef on the
hoof brings per hundred-weight, f.o.b. at Cheyenne, we shall here glean
at once the invaluable fact that while good society in London used to
be limited to those who had been presented at court, the presentations
have now become so numerous that the limitation has lost its
significance. Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan thus discloses, as if it were a
trifle, something we should never learn at the table of Higbee though
we ate his heavy dinners to the day of ultimate chaos. And while we
learned at that distressingly new table that one should keep one's
heifers and sell off one's steer calves, we never should have been
informed there that Dinard had just enjoyed the gayest season of its
history under the patronage of this enterprising American; nor that
Lady de Muzzy had opened a tea-room in Grafton Street, and Cynthia,
Marchioness of Angleberry, a beauty-improvement parlour on the Strand
"because she needs the money."
"Lots of 'em takin' to trade nowadays; it's a smart sayin' there now
that all the peers are marryin' actresses and all the peeresses goin'
into business." Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan nodded little shocks of brilliance
from her tiara and hungrily speared another oyster.
"Only trouble is, it's such rotten hard work collectin' bills from
their intimate friends; they simply _won't_ pay."
Nor at the barbaric Higbee's should we have been vouchsafed, to
treasure for our own, the knowledge that Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan had
merely run over for the cup-fortnight, meaning to return directly to
her daughter, Katharine, Duchess of Blanchmere, in time for the Melton
Mowbray hunting-season; nor that she had been rather taken by the new
way of country life among us, and so tempted to protract her gracious
sojourn.
"Really," she admits, "we're comin' to do the right thing over here; a
few years were all we needed. Hardly a town-house to be opened before
Thanksgivin', I understand; and down at the Hills some of the houses
will stay open all winter. It's coachin', ridin', and golf and
auto-racin' and polo and squash; really the young folks don't go in at
all except to dance and eat; and it's quite right, you know. It's quite
decently English, now. Why, at Morris Park the other day, the crowd on
the lawn looked quite like Ascot, actually."
Nor could we have learned in the hostile camp the current gossip of
Tuxedo, Meadowbrook, Lenox, Morristown, and Ardsley; of the mishap to
Mrs. "Jimmie" Whettin, twice unseated at a recent meet; of the woman's
championship tournament at Chatsworth; or the good points of the new
runner-up at Baltusrol, daily to be seen on the links. Where we might
incur knowledge of Beaumont "gusher" or Pittsburg mill we should never
have discovered that teas and receptions are really falling into
disrepute; that a series of dinner-dances will be organised by the
mothers of debutantes to bring them forward; and that big subscription
balls are in disfavour, since they benefit no one but the caterers who
serve poor suppers and bad champagne.
Mrs. takes only Scotch whiskey and soda.
"But I'm glad," she confides to Horace Milbrey on her left, "that you
haven't got to followin' this fad of havin' one wine at dinner; I know
it's English, but it's downright shoddy."
Her host's eyes swam with gratitude for this appreciation.
"I stick to my peg," she continued; "but I like to see a Chablis with
the oysters and good dry sherry with the soup, and a Moselle with the
fish, and then you're ready to be livened with a bit of champagne for
the roast, and steadied a bit by Burgundy with the game. Phim sticks to
it, too; tells me my peg is downright encouragement to the bacteria.
But I tell him I've no quarrel with _my_ bacteria. 'Live and let live'
is my motto, I tell him,--and if the microbes and I both like Scotch
and soda, why, what harm. I'm forty-two and not so much of a fool that
I ain't a little bit of a physician. I know my stomach, I tell him."
"What about these Western people?" she asked Oldaker at her other side,
after a little.
"Decent, unpretentious folks, somewhat new, but with loads of money."
"I've heard how the breed's stormin' New York in droves; but they tell
me some of us need the money."
"I dined with one last night, a sugar-cured ham magnate from Chicago."
"_Dear_ me! how shockin'!"
"But they're good, whole-souled people."
"And well-_heeled_--and that's what we need, it seems. Some of us been
so busy bein' well-familied that we've forgot to make money."
"It's a good thing, too. Nature has her own building laws about
fortunes. When they get too sky-scrapy she topples them over. These
people with their thrifty habits would have _all_ the money in time if
their sons and daughters didn't marry aristocrats with expensive tastes
who know how to be spenders. Nature keeps things fairly even, one way
or another."
"You're thinkin' about Kitty and the duke."
"No, not then I wasn't, though that's one of the class I mean. I was
thinking especially about these Westerners."
"Well, my grandfather made the best barrels in New York, and I'm
mother-in-law of a chap whose ancestors for three hundred and fifty
years haven't done a stroke of work; but he's the Duke of Blanchmere,
and I hope our friends here will come as near gettin' the worth of
their money as we did. And if that chap"--she glanced at
Percival--"marries a certain young woman, he'll never have a dull
moment. I'd vouch for that. I'm quite sure she's the devil in her."
"And if the yellow-haired girl marries the fellow next her--"
"He might do worse."
"Yes, but might _she_? He's already doing worse, and he'll keep on
doing it, even if he does marry her."
"Nonsense--about that, you know; all rot! What can you expect of these
chaps? So does the duke do worse, but you'll never hear Kitty complain
so long as he lets her alone and she can wear the strawberry leaves. I
fancy I'll have those young ones down to the Hills for Hallowe'en and
the week-end. Might as well help 'em along."
At the other end of the table, the fine old ivory of her cheeks gently
suffused with pink until they looked like slightly crumpled leaves of a
la France rose, Mrs. Oldaker was flirting brazenly with Shepler, and
prattling impartially to him and to one of the twin nephews of old days
in social New York; of a time when the world of fashion occupied a
little space at the Battery and along Broadway; of its migration to the
far north of Great Jones Street, St. Mark's Place, and Second Avenue.
In Waverly Place had been the flowering of her belle-hood, and the day
when her set moved on to Murray Hill was to her still recent and
revolutionary.
Between the solemn Angstead twins, Mrs. Bines had sat in silence until
by some happy chance it transpired that "horse" was the word to unlock
their lips. As Mrs. Bines knew all about horses the twins at once
became voluble, showing her marked attention. The twins were notably
devoid of prejudice if your sympathies happened to run with theirs.
Miss Bines and young Milbrey were already on excellent terms. Percival
and Miss Milbrey, on the other hand, were doing badly. Some disturbing
element seemed to have put them aloof. Miss Milbrey wondered somewhat;
but her mind was easy, for her resolution had been taken.
Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan extended her invitation to the young people, who
accepted joyfully.
"Come down and camp with us, and help Phim keep the batteries of his
autos run out. You know they deteriorate when they're left
half-charged, and it's one of the cares of his life to see to the whole
six of 'em when they come in. He gets in one and the men get in the
others, and he leads a solemn parade around the stables until they've
been run out. Tell me the leisure class isn't a hard-workin' class,
now."
Over coffee and chartreuse in the drawing-room there was more general
talk of money and marriage, and of one for the other.
"And so he married money," concluded Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan of one they
had discussed.
"Happy marriage!" Shepler called out.
"No; money talks! and this time, on my word, now, it made you want to
put on those thick sealskin ear-muffs. Poor chap, and he'd been talkin'
to me about the monotony of married life. 'Monotony, my boy,' I said to
him, 'you don't _know_ lovely woman!' and now he wishes jolly well that
he'd not done it, you know."
Here, too, was earned by Mrs. Bines a reputation for wit that she was
never able quite to destroy. There had been talk of a banquet to a
visiting celebrity the night before, for which the _menu_ was one of
unusual costliness. Mr. Milbrey had dwelt with feeling upon certain of
its eminent excellences, such as loin of young bear, a la Granville,
and the boned quail, stuffed with goose-livers.
"Really," he concluded, "from an artistic standpoint, although large
dinners are apt to be slurred and slighted, it was a creation of
undoubted worth."
"And the orchestra," spoke up Mrs. Bines, who had read of the banquet,
"played 'Hail to the _Chef!_'"
The laughter at this sally was all it should have been, even the host
joining in it. Only two of those present knew that the good woman had
been warned not to call "chef" "chief," as Silas Higbee did. The fact
that neither should "chief" be called "chef" was impressed upon her
later, in a way to make her resolve ever again to eschew both of the
troublesome words.
When the guests had gone Miss Milbrey received the praise of both
parents for her blameless attitude toward young Bines.
"It will be fixed when we come back from Wheatly," said that knowing
young woman, "and now don't worry any more about it."
"And, Fred," said the mother, "do keep straight down there. She's a
commonplace girl, with lots of mannerisms to unlearn, but she's pretty
and sweet and teachable."
"And she'll learn a lot from Fred that she doesn't know now," finished
that young man's sister from the foot of the stairway.
Back at their hotel Psyche Bines was saying:
"Isn't it queer about Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan? We've read so much about
her in the papers. I thought she must be some one awful to meet--I was
that scared--and instead, she's like any one, and real chummy besides;
and, actually, ma, don't you think her dress was dowdy--all except the
diamonds? I suppose that comes from living in England so much. And
hasn't Mrs. Milbrey twice as grand a manner, and the son--he's a
precious--he knows everything and everybody; I shall like him."
Her brother, who had flung himself into a cushioned corner, spoke with
the air of one who had reluctantly consented to be interviewed and who
was anxious to be quoted correctly:
"Mrs. Gwilt-Athelstan is all right. She reminds me of what Uncle Peter
writes about that new herd of short-horns: 'This breed has a mild
disposition, is a good feeder, and produces a fine quality of flesh.'
But I'll tell you one thing, sis," he concluded with sudden emphasis,
"with all this talk about marrying for money I'm beginning to feel as
if you and I were a couple of white rabbits out in the open with all
the game laws off!"