The Von Toodleburgs; Or, The History of a Very Distinguished Family

by F. Colburn Adams

CHAPTER XXIII.

MRS. CHAPMAN GIVES A BALL.

It was a cold, dark night in December. The wind was blowing fresh from the northeast, the tall trees on the Battery were in commotion, and the ships in the harbor, seen through a pale mist, were straining at their anchors. A thin, pale mist hung over the sombre old fort on the Battery, over the trees, over the ships, over everything within the eye's reach. And the mist and the solemn beating sound of the sea-wail, in which the sailor fancies he can read all his sorrows, gave a weird and mysterious appearance to the scene. The Battery was nearly deserted that night, for at the time we write of only two old men could be seen, leaning over the railing on the sea-wall and watching in the direction of a ship at anchor in the stream, and looking as if she was just in from sea.

Mrs. Chapman was to give her ball that night. The lady had for several weeks given all her mind and energy to the preliminaries of this grand affair. Who was to be invited, what sort of new dresses she and Mattie would appear best in, who was to provide the supper, and what the whole would cost, were subjects which so engaged the lady's attention that she could think of nothing else. In vain did Chapman demur to the great expense and the folly of keeping up appearances under such circumstances. In vain did he insinuate the probable necessity of inventing a new religion as a means of bringing his revenues up to his necessities. A necklace of pearls and a diamond ring had been got for Mattie, and now a demand was made for a new and expensive dress. If there was anything in the world Chapman admired and submitted to it was his wife. In his thoughts she was above everything else, and he would surrender to her demands, no matter at what sacrifice. As for Mattie, he never seemed to care much about her, nor indeed to regard her with anything more than ordinary affection.

There was no getting along without the ball, Mrs. Chapman said. West Bowling Green had given two or three balls, and had not condescended to send her an invitation. It was very mortifying to get the cut direct in this way. She must bring West Bowling Green down by showing that she could give a ball of her own. And then it would be such a relief to her pride. And, too, it would be just the thing to show Mattie off to the best advantage. Mr. Gusher would shine brilliantly in a ball room, and so would Mattie, and if the young people could be reconciled in that way, why it would be money well spent.

Mrs. Topman was delighted at the prospect, and so was Gusher. And both had been going about among their friends for a week sounding the trumpet of Mrs. Chapman's ball, as well as telling their friends that the Chapmans were rich and very distinguished people. Bowling Green, then, was in a flutter that night. Chapman's house was brilliantly lighted, and carriages began to arrive and set down their gaily-attired occupants ere St. Paul's clock had struck nine. Then there was such a tripping of delicately turned little feet, such a flashing of underskirts, such a witching of perfumed silks and satins, such a display of white arms and white shoulders, as each bevy of beauties vaulted up the steps and were bowed into the house by the polite Mr. Bowles. Bowles felt himself an important element in the dignity of the family that night. His mistress had got him a new blue coat with large brass buttons, and a white waistcoat that reached nearly to his knees, and gave him the appearance of a huge ball of snow surmounted by an illuminated globe painted black. Bowles had delivered most of the invitations, and firmly believed that his mistress was indebted to him for the success of her ball, inasmuch as he had solicited guests worthy of her favor. Nor was he sure that the ball was not given by his mistress to show him off in his new clothes. Bowles had a bow and a smile for each of the guests. "My missus is right glad to sees you—she is. Be a heap o' dancin' did to-night," he would say, as he bowed the guests into the hall.

At ten o'clock the brilliantly-lighted parlors were filled, and presented the appearance of a garden of flowers variously colored. There were merry, laughing voices, graceful forms, young and happy faces, forming the light and shade of the picture presented to the eye. The ponderous figure of Mrs. Chapman formed a sort of central object. The lady was indeed got up in a gorgeous style of dress, for she wore all the colors of the rainbow, without their blending, had flounces nearly to her waist, giving her the appearance of an half-inflated balloon; and she had made a very flower-basket of her head. In short, the lady had made a bold attempt to improve on all known styles of dress, and at the same time to show her contempt for what other people might call taste in such matters. Thus elaborately arrayed she fancied herself as much a lady of quality as any of your fine old West Bowling Green people.

A number of exquisitely dressed young men had gathered about the lady, and although they paid her all manner of compliments, and said various pretty things in admiration of her charming daughter, it was evident that they regarded her as a rare curiosity, whose mental defects were affording them a subject for amusement. There the lady stood, receiving the congratulations of her friends and introducing her daughter Mattie, who was dressed in a plain blue silk with white trimmings, a wreath of orange blossoms on her head, and her golden hair hanging in simple curls down her shoulders. Indeed, the lady suffered by comparison with her daughter, whose charms were made more fascinating by the simplicity of her dress and the quietness of her manners.

In truth, Mattie had no taste for the show and extravagance her mother was so fond of indulging in. Nor could she see what object her mother had, or what really was to be gained by giving this ball. She felt in her heart that it was a piece of extravagance her father could not afford as an honest man, and she saw prominent among the guests persons she had long mistrusted of being his enemies. Gay as the scene was it had nothing in it to interest her. Her thoughts were engaged in something more real and true. They were wandering just then into a distant ocean in search of the object dearest in her affections, wondering how it fared with him. Then the picture of Hanz and Angeline, in their humble little home, revealed itself to her, and her mind filled with strange fancies as to the part she might have to perform in saving them from the trouble she saw foreshadowed in her father's conversation with Topman and Gusher. She little knew what sorrow had been brought into Hanz's home since she left Nyack; nor did it occur to her that old Father Hanz, as she playfully called him, might even then be within the sound of her voice.