It was as Aurora Lane had said—this annual gathering of Miss Julia's was the social clearing house of the community. And this typical attendance, representative of the little city at its best, offered that strange contrast of the sexes so notable in any American assemblage. The men were ordinary of look and garb, astonishingly ordinary, if one might use the term; stalwart enough, but slouchy, shapeless, and ill-clad. Not so the women, who seemed as though of another and superior social world. If here and there the face of a man seemed stolid, cloddish, peasant-like, not so any of the half dozen faces of the women next adjoining him. Type, class—call what you like that which is owned by the average American woman, even of middle class—that distinction was as obvious as is usual in all such gatherings. Scattered here and there through this audience, as in any audience of even the humblest sort in America, were a half dozen faces of young women, any of whom must have been called very beautiful, strikingly beautiful—beautiful as Aurora Lane must once have been.
The apparel of the men was nondescript. That of the women, however or wherever secured, made them creatures apart. The men, too, sat uncommunicative, silent; whereas their daughters or spouses turned, chattering, laughing, waving a hand to this or that friend. In short, the women availed themselves fully, as women will, of this opportunity of social intercourse. And always, as head turned to head, there was a look, a whispered word, of woman to woman. Little by little, in the mysterious way of such assemblages, every woman in the house came to know that Aurora Lane and her boy—who had only been hid, and not dead, all these years—were seated on the back seat, next to Old Man Rawlins. Did anyone ever hear the like of that? In reality Spring Valley was out to hear the rest of the news about Aurora Lane and her unfathered boy as soon as possible. Gossip covers all the nuances, the shades, the inner and hidden things of information, especially when information may be classified as scandal. This is the real news. It never needs wings. It needed no wings now.
Naturally, it was incumbent upon Judge Henderson to introduce a minister of the gospel to open the meeting with prayer—we Americans apologize to Providence at all public occasions, even our political conventions. Naturally thereafter Judge Henderson rose once more, took a drink of water, and signaled to the leader of the Spring Valley Silver Cornet Band; whereupon Mr. Jerome Westbrook, wiping all previous trace of German silver from below his mustache, essayed once more the leadership in concord of sweet sounds. This brought Judge Henderson up to his introductory remarks, properly so-called.
He made no ill figure as he stood, immaculately clad as was his custom, his costume still being the long black coat, his white waistcoat, the white tie, which he had worn that afternoon in court. It was charged against him, by certain of his enemies, that Judge Henderson had been known to change his shirt twice in one day, but this was not commonly believed. That he changed it at least once every day had, however, come to be accepted in common credence, although this also was held as his sheer eccentricity.
His face was smooth-shaven, for really he was shaved daily, and not merely on Saturday nights. His wide, easy, good-humored mouth, his large features, his well-defined brows, his full eye, his commanding figure, gave him a presence good enough for almost any stage. He stood easily now, accepting as his right the applause which greeted him, and smiled as he placed on the table beside him the inevitable glass of water at which he had sipped. Some said that in his own office Judge Henderson did not confine himself to water—but any leading citizen must have his enemies.
The worthy Judge made precisely what manner of address must be made on precisely such occasions. To him his audience was made up of fellow citizens, ladies and gentlemen. He accosted them with the deference and yet the confidence of some statesman of old. Indeed, he might have been scarce less a figure than Senator Thomas Hart Benton himself, so profuse—and so inaccurate—were the classical quotations which he saw fit to employ. It had grown his custom to do this with care-free mind. Indeed, there was but one here in this audience tonight who perhaps might have chided him for his Greek—a young man who sat far back in the rear, in a place near the door—a young man who none the less, it must be confessed, paid small attention to the Hendersonian allusions which had to do with literature, with history, the gentle arts, the culture, the progress of our proud republic, and of this particular American community.
So now it came on to the time of Reverend Henry B. Fullerton, who likewise spoke of literature and culture, patriotism and the glories of our republic. The other ministers also in due course, after certain uneasy consultation of the clock upon the opposite wall, spoke much in similar fashion.
After these formidable preliminaries, it was time for Judge Henderson to give the real address of the evening—this latter now delivered with frequent consultations of the large watch which he placed beside him on the table. So presently he came to such portion of his speech as requires the orator to say, "But, my friends, the hour grows late." Whereafter presently, figuratively, he dismissed the audience with his blessing, well satisfied from the applause that his campaign was doing well. He had but casually and incidentally allowed it to be known that his own annual check to the city library was for a thousand dollars—no more than would cover the librarian's salary.
By this time, it was a half-hour past midnight, and none present might say that he had not had full worth of all the moneys expended for this entertainment. It had been a great evening for the candidate. Moreover, most of the old ladies present had enjoyed themselves in social conversation regarding the absorbing news of the day. As for the half dozen young village beauties present, there was not one who did not know precisely where Don Lane sat—not even Sally Lester, who irritated Jerome Westbrook beyond measure when he saw her pretending to look at the clock at the back of the hall to see what time it was. Really, as Jerome Westbrook knew very well, she was only trying to see Don Lane, the newest young man in town—wholly impossible socially, but one who had made sudden history of interest in feminine eyes.
Moody and intent upon his own thoughts, Don Lane himself by no means realized the importance of the occasion so far as he himself and his mother were concerned. He did not know that he was on trial here, that they two were on inspection. His ears were deaf to the impassioned words of all and several of the orators of the evening. Before his eyes appeared only one face. It was that of a young girl with a face clean-cut and high-browed, with sweet and kindly eyes—the girl he was to meet tomorrow, to whom he was to say good-by—Anne Oglesby. "Anne! Anne!" his heart was exclaiming all the time. For now he knew that he in turn must bruise yet another human heart, because of what had been, and in his brain was room now for no other thought, no other scene, no other face. There swept down upon him, if he thought of it at all now and then, only a feeling of the insufficiency, the narrowness, the unworthiness, the tawdriness, of all this which lay about him. And yet it was this to which he must come back—this was his world—this at least was the world in which his mother had made her own battle—had won for a time, and now had lost.