CHAPTER IV. IN THE SOCIAL REALM.
Carriages, formed in double ranks by the police, lined the pavement of several blocks on —— street, and from them alighted, as each carriage made a brief stop at the entrance, men and women of fashion, enveloped in heavy wraps, for the night was cold. Beneath the heavy opera coats, sealskins, etc., ball dresses were visible, and feet encased in fur-lined boots caught the eyes of those who stood watching the guests of the —— ball as they entered the building.
Music filled the vast dance-hall. High up in the galleries musicians were stationed, who toiled away at their instruments, furnishing enlivening strains of waltzes or polkas for the dancers. To the right, adown corridors of arched gold, the reception rooms were filled with metropolitan butterflies.
The scene was an interesting study. Foremost of all could be noticed the voluptuous freedom of manner, though the picturesque grace of the leading lights was never wholly lost. They were dissolute, but not coarse; bold, but not vulgar. They took their pleasure in a delicately wanton way, which was infinitely more dangerous in its influence than would have been gross mirth or broad jesting. Rude licentiousness has its escape-valve in disgust, but the soft sensualism of a cultured aristocrat is a moral poison, the effects of which are so insidious as to be scarcely felt until all the native nobility is almost withered.
It is but justice to them to say, there was nothing repulsive in the mischievous merriment of these revelers; their witticisms were brilliant and pointed, but never indelicate. Some of the dancers, foot-weary, lounged gracefully about, and the attendant slaves were often called upon to refill the wine glasses.
In every social gathering, as in a garden, or in the heavens, there is invariably one particular and acknowledged flower, or star. Here all eyes followed the beautiful, spirited, inspiring girl, who was under the chaperonage of Mrs. Stanhope. This fresh, beaming girl, unspoiled by flattery, remained naive, affectionate and guileless.
During the changing of groups and pairs, this girl heard the sweet, languid voice of Willard Frost. Through the clatter of other men it came like the silver stroke of a bell in a storm at sea. She flushed radiantly as he and Miss Baxter joined her party.
“Ah, my dear Miss Bell, you are looking charming,” he exclaimed, effusively. He took her hand, a little soft pink one, that looked like a shell uncurled.
“Come, honor Miss Baxter and me by taking just one glass of sherry,” and he called a passing waiter.
Cherokee looked at him with startled surprise. “How often, Mr. Frost, will I have a chance to decline your offers like this? I tell you again, I have never taken wine, and I congratulate myself.”
“Are you to be congratulated or condoled with?” There was irony in Miss Baxter’s tone, though her laugh was good natured, as she continued, “I see you are yet a beautiful alien, for a glass of good wine, or an occasional cigarette is never out of place with us. All of these nervous fads are city equipments.”
“Then, if not to smoke and not to drink are country virtues, pray introduce them into city life,” was Cherokee’s answer.
“Ah, no indeed, I would never take the liberty of reversing the order of things, for they just suit me,” and Miss Baxter’s bright eyes twinkled under drooping lashes. As she smiled she raised a glass of wine to her lips, kissed the brim, and gave it to Willard Frost with an indescribably graceful swaying gesture of her whole form.
“Here’s to your pastoral sweetheart, the sorceress, sovereign of the South.”
“‘Here’s to your pastoral sweetheart, the sorceress, sovereign of the South.’” Page 40.
He seized the glass eagerly, drank, and returned it with a profound salutation.
The consummate worldlings were surprised to hear Miss Bell answer:
“Thank you, but how much more appropriate would be, ‘Here’s to a Fool in Spots!’”
Willard replied, with a shake of the head:
“Ah, no, you have too much ‘snap’ to be called a fool in any sense, besides, you only need being disciplined—you’ll be enjoying life by and by. When I first met our friend Milburn he was saying the same thing, but where is he now?——”
Here Miss Baxter laid her pretty jeweled hand warningly upon his arm.
“Come, you would not be guilty of divulging such a delicious secret, would you?”
He treated the matter mostly as a joke, and returned with a tantalizing touch in his speech:
“Robert didn’t mean to do it. We must forgive.”
Cherokee looked puzzled as she caught the exchange of significant smiles. She spoke, as always, in her own soft, syllabled tongue.
“What do you mean, may I ask?”
Willard Frost coughed, and took her fan with affectionate solicitude.
“It may not be just fair to answer your question. I am sorry.”
“Mr. Milburn is a friend of mine, and if anything has happened to him why shouldn’t I know it?” she inquired, somewhat tremulously.
No combination of letters can hope to convey an idea of the music of her rare utterance of her sweetheart’s name.
“But you wouldn’t like him better for the knowing,” he interrupted. “Besides, he will come out all right if he follows my instructions implicitly.”
She stared blankly at him, vainly trying to comprehend what he meant. Then there came an anxious look on her face, such a look as people wear when they wish to ask something of great moment, but dare not begin. At last she summoned up courage.
“Mr. Frost,” she said, in a weak, low voice, “he—Robert—hasn’t done anything wrong?”
“Wrong, what do you call wrong?” was the laconic question, “but I trust the matter is not so serious as it appears.”
“Ah, I am so foolish,” and she smiled gently.
“No, it is well enough to have a friend’s interest at heart, and you won’t cut him off if you hear it—you are not that sort. I know you are clever and thoughtful, and all that, but you possess the forgiving spirit. Now, unlike some men, I judge people gently, don’t come down on other men’s failings. Who are we, any of us, that we should be hard on others?”
“Judge gently,” she replied.
“I hope I always do that.”
“If I only dared tell her now,” said Frost to himself, “but it’s not my affair.”
He saw the feminine droop of her head, and the dainty curve of her beautiful arm.
“She is about to weep,” he muttered.
Miss Baxter, who had been amusing herself with other revelers, turned to interrupt: “Mr. Frost, you haven’t given him dead away?”
This, so recklessly spoken, only added to Cherokee’s discomfort. A flush rose to her cheek. She asked, with partial scorn:
“Do you think he should have aroused my interest without satisfying it?”
“Please forgive him, he didn’t intend to be so rude; besides, he would have told you had I not interrupted. It was thoughtless of you to make mention of it,” she said, reproachfully, to the artist.
The while he seemed oddly enjoying the girl’s strange dry-eyed sorrow.
Just here, Fred Stanhope came up to tell them the evening pleasures were done. Cherokee could have told him that sometime before.
Willard Frost looked remarkably bright and handsome as he walked away with Miss Baxter leaning upon his arm.
“What made you punish that poor girl so? What pleasure was there in giving Mr. Milburn away, especially since you were the entire cause of it?” she went on earnestly, and a trifle dramatically. “A man has no right to give another away—no right—he should——”
“But Frances,” remonstrated Frost, lightly, and apparently unimpressed by her theory, “I was just dying to tell her that Milburn was as drunk as a duchess.”