CHAPTER I.
I was given to psychological studies in those days; was fond of attributing vagaries of disposition and eccentricities of temper to inherited perversions, insurmountable in themselves, and consequently the misfortunes—not faults—of their possessors. At that time I firmly believed in the mysterious attraction of soul to soul; in the mutual recognition of kindred spirits, and their sympathy with each other from behind the barriers of flesh and blood. I do not say I have quite abandoned the opinion now; but there is a reservation.
I had dipped a little into German mysticism; had sifted, as I thought, all creeds to the bottom—all save one. For Catholicity and its "superstitions" I had always entertained too profound a contempt to seek to acquire a further knowledge of its doctrines than any intelligent American can learn from the well-read (?) theologians who form its antipodes, and who launch forth anathemas against Rome on high-days and holidays when other subjects weary or grow flat. I flattered myself that my acquaintance with this particular form of idolatry was quite thorough for all practical purposes; the contamination extended no further; and yet I believe my case would represent that of nine tenths of the thinking, intelligent Protestants of this peculiarly-favored and grace-illumined country.
It was—for me—the first party of the season. January had almost danced itself away, and the fashionables were beginning to anticipate Lent; but until to-night I had persistently refused all invitations from friends and acquaintances. Of the former I had very few; I had grown tired of the world, of pleasure-seeking, of myself. What wonder, when, in the great city of New York, with its hundreds of thousands of throbbing hearts, there was not one to whom in solemn truth I could hold out the right hand of friendship; not one upon whose sympathies I could anchor, should the tide of fortune turn and leave me, a rich man to-day, the sport of her cruel waves to-morrow?
I prided myself on being cynical, turning out of the way of all stepping-stones that might have led to a happier existence; there was little faith in human nature in my heart, no religion in my soul.
Dissatisfied with my own aimless life, I sought no mirror in the lives of others; self-sufficient and cold, I avoided kindness and sympathetic associations. I was just at that point when satiety and disgust render the world and its attributes almost unendurable.
On the evening before mentioned, I had been introduced to young ladies by the dozen; had mentally criticised, weighed, and found wanting each one upon whom I had inflicted the bane of my company through a dance. Tired and ill-humored, I was about going forward to take leave of the hostess, when a few words spoken just behind me made me pause and look around, curious to know who the "sweet singer" might be.
It was a woman's voice, clear and sweet, and the words were, "No, thank you; I never dance the round dances."
But a surging crowd of feverish waltzers drifted by me at the moment, as the delirious strains of Strauss's Zamora floated up from the balcony, and the face I would have scanned was lost amid the throng.
As I moved off a little from the dancers, and watched cheeks flush and bright eyes grow brighter at the call of voluptuous music, I could not but wonder at the inconsistency of fate and fortune that had brought into this ultra-fashionable gathering a lady, certainly young, and probably beautiful, who "did not dance the round dances."
I passed into the adjoining room. Several of the waltzers, tired and heated, had left the crowded salon before me; here and there a stray wall-flower tried to look unconscious and happy in the midst of desolation; but my eye psychological wandered in vain up and down, seeking a face that would seem to indicate the owner of the voice heard a few moments before. At length a very young girl issued from a group that had been standing near an open window, and, as I marked the expression of her faultless mouth and soft blue eyes, I said to myself, "That is the one." But at the moment a gay young West-Pointer stepped forward to meet her, and in another instant my Madonna was whirling through the giddy maze.
"Pshaw!" I ejaculated half aloud, disappointed to find my intuitiveness at fault, and turned as I did so to encounter an old friend, not seen for some time, who entered from the conservatory in company with a lady.
Surprise and pleasure caused us momentarily to forget politeness, so that several sentences were interchanged before Armitage recollected himself, and said, "Allow me, Helen. My friend, Mr. Moray, Miss Foster." I muttered something—the young lady bowed; that was all. The couple passed on; and I am bound to confess that I did not notice the color of the lady's eyes or hair, and never once thought of her expression, psychologist as I was.
I recognized no kinship of feeling or sympathy as we stood within the circle of each other's magnetism; and yet my "destiny" had come to me, and the soul within me, that was to have risen and grown conscious at the approach, stood mute and made no sign.
After that, Fred Armitage called at my rooms several times, and succeeded in winning me away from my exclusiveness, in so much that I promised to be at his disposal for New Year's day, on condition that his visits of congratulation would be few and well chosen. He laughed at my conceit, as he was pleased to call it. "I don't fancy every body any more than you do, Ed," he said; "but one must make allowances and be sociable with the world. There's a difference between friends and acquaintances. One need not have the former if one doesn't wish; but the latter are indispensable, unless you give up the amenities of civilization at once." After which remark we sallied forth.
Toward evening, and when I had vowed for the fourth time that each successive call would be my last, Fred paused before a handsome house on Fifth Avenue.
"I am not going in," I said, almost savagely, as he announced his intention of entering.
"Only here," he answered, "and I promise I'll go home with you. I must call. I should have made this one first; but I wanted to save the best morsel for the last. Come; Helen would never forgive me if I neglected her to-day."
"And what claim has the young lady on your time and affections?" I asked, somewhat more quietly than before, "you are not in love, or engaged, or any thing of that kind?"
"Ni l'un ni l'autre; it is my cousin, Helen Foster. I introduced you at Mrs. Parry's."
I had not time to say more; for the door opened at this juncture, and we were ushered into a large and elegantly furnished parlor, where sat two ladies—one old, and very charming in her old age; the other young and beautiful. Not lovely; there was nothing airy or fragile about her; but radiant, with a fresh, bright color in her cheeks that made one think of long walks taken on wintry mornings; with large brown eyes, which, while they did not fall or fear as they looked into yours, yet had a shade of reticence, almost bashfulness, in their untroubled depths; with a wealth of rippling hair, golden brown, crowning the well-poised head and defining the delicate ear; with a hand that felt warm, soft, and friendly, as mine closed over it.
"We have met before, I believe," she said, as Armitage repeated my name; then, turning to the other lady, "Mr. Moray, grandmamma, a friend of Fred's." And the dear little figure in the arm-chair rose and greeted me most kindly.
"Has there been no one here to-day, Helen?" asked Fred; "you look as though you were quite fresh, and not at all fatigued from the exchange of compliments, hand-shaking, etc."
"Oh! yes, there have been some few," she said. "But grandmamma lives entirely at home, and you know I patronize society but seldom; consequently, we have been spared the dear five hundred particular friends, and flatter ourselves we feel quite as comfortable, notwithstanding. Isn't it so, grandmamma?" And she placed her hand affectionately on the old lady's arm. As the tones of her clear, well-modulated voice reached my ear, a vision of lights and flowers and flying feet rose before me, and I almost heard the bewildering waltz-music float through the air. And then, lifting my eyes to the face of the lady before me, I recognized my rara avis of that evening—the girl of the period who did not dance round dances.
To say that I was not interested in her from the first, would be to say an untruth. Her personality affected me pleasantly, and somewhat strangely. There was a freshness and elasticity about her that did not proceed from inexperience or unacquaintance with the world; for dignity and self-possession characterized her every movement, and yet she seemed entirely unconscious of any claim to originality or naturalness; because she was so natural. Our call, that was to have been so short, lengthened itself into an hour. Fred and his cousin made themselves mutually agreeable. I addressed myself to the elder lady, now and then exchanging a few words with the others.
When Fred arose to take leave, I felt no disposition to join him, and very unaccountably and inconsistently reproached him in my own mind for being in a hurry.
For the first time in many months I had felt sociably disposed, and had endeavored to make myself agreeable; and I was reluctant to leave that quiet, home-like parlor and its occupants, both so different from the brilliant, giddy butterflies within the flutter of whose wings I had been vacillating all that day. As we passed out into the still, cold night, I looked up at the quiet stars with a kindly feeling. Fred talked in an unbroken stream until we reached my rooms. Arrived there, we spent the rest of the evening smoking and chatting. I expressed myself pleased with his cousin and her grandmother, whose only grandchild and sole heiress he informed me she was. The clock struck twelve as he rose to go. After I had come back to the fire, I remember the wholly strange, almost sorrowful feeling that possessed me. Gazing into the dying embers, I dreamed a half-waking dream, wherein the ghosts of other New Years dead and gone took form and shape, and with shadowy, reproachful gestures, seemed to beckon me away, back through old scenes and hopes and yearnings—faded—buried—vanished all for ever.