In the midst of these efforts the voice of Mr. Judd came around the corner calling out that the wagon was here. The boy jumped to his feet as if he had received a shock. Drawing the sleeve of his jacket across his tear-stained face, he summoned an expression of severity and indifference that under other circumstances would have forced a smile from his newly acquired friend. The soldier was himself again; the warrior was on parade. As they walked together around the house to the dining-room, he beside her with a resolute step and chin in the air, she wondered what manner of training could have taught him at the age of seven to suppress all boyish emotions, and put on at will the dignity of a Roman Senator.
The General and the Prince were awaiting them. With many compliments they thanked the host and hostess for their hospitality, and regretted the necessity that took them away in such unfortunate haste; it was a flying trip and their absence must not be lengthened by an hour, as these were troublous times in their part of India. As they moved toward the wagon Mrs. Judd held her husband back, believing there might be a parting at which strangers would not be welcome. But the parting, like all else, was dignified and ceremonious. She could not see the boy’s face, for he stood with his back toward her, but as far as she could judge he also was calm and self-possessed. She noticed, however, that the General had to swallow, with a sudden gulp, a large portion of what appeared to be a carefully constructed sentence.
They drove in silence down the long avenue beneath the maples, and the driver, perhaps to put them at their ease, said something about getting along faster in this light wagon than with the stage, but both his passengers seemed in a silent mood and made no answer. As they turned into the main road the General, who was on the side nearest the house, looked back. At the farther end of the avenue stood the boy in the same position, still watching them. The old soldier brought his hand to his hat and down again in a military salute that was evidently familiar to the little person at the farther end of the driveway, for it was promptly acknowledged, and although a farewell to the last ties between himself and his country, was returned with head erect, as from one veteran to another.
II
TWENTY years have passed.
The corner mansion of the Van Koovers is ablaze with light. Long rows of carriages surmounted by sleepy coachmen extend along Madison Avenue and into the neighboring street. The temporary awning from the front door to the curbstone serves only to shield the coming and departing guest from the gaze of heaven, for the moon and stars are shining brightly, as if they also would like to enter. But when the front door opens, which is frequent, it emits a blast of music, taunting and defiant, reminding the outside universe of its plebeian origin.
Inside there is a scene of festivity and splendor, of dazzling gayety, of youth and mirth and decorous joy. The opulence of the Van Koovers is of sanctifying solidity, and when they give a ball they do it in a style to be remembered. The house itself, with its sumptuous furniture, its magnificent ceilings and stately dimensions is sufficiently impressive in every-day attire, but to-night it reminds you of the Arabian Tales. The family portraits, the gracious dignity of the host and hostess, the bearing of the servants, all speak of pedigree and hereditary honors.
Roses and violets, in lavish profusion, fill every corner, are festooned around doors and windows, even along the walls and up the stairs, their perfume mingling with the music. And the music, dreamy yet voluminous, sways hither and thither a sea of maidens with snowy necks and shimmering jewels, floating gracefully about in the arms of anxious youths. These youths, although unspeakably happy, wear upon their faces, as is usual upon such occasions, an expression of corroding care.
As a waltz came to an end, a tall, light-haired girl with crimson roses in her dress, dropped into a seat. She fanned herself rapidly as if to drive away a most becoming color that had taken possession of her cheeks. Her breath came quickly, the string of pearls upon her neck rising and falling as if sharing in the general joy. With her long throat, her well-poised head, and a certain dignity of unconscious pride she might be described as old-fashioned from her resemblance to a favorite type in the portraits of a century ago. Perhaps her prettiest feature was the low, wide forehead about which the hair seemed to advance and recede in exceptionally graceful lines. Her charm to those who know her but superficially was in her voice and manner, in the frankness of her eyes, and, above all perhaps, in that all-conquering charm, a total absence of self-consciousness. But whatever the reason, no girl in the room received more attention.
Her partner, a sculptor with a bald head and a reputation, took the chair beside her. As her eyes wandered carelessly about the room she inquired, in an indifferent tone: “Who is that swarthy youth talking with Julia Bancroft?”