"I must first find my affinity," he replied evasively.

"Have you not met her yet?" said Marion, looking up with an air of astonishment.

Duncan's eyes quickly caught her glance. "I think I have," he replied in a way that was at once bold, insinuating, and tender. Marion turned her head away quickly and a tinge of color came into her cheeks. It was resentment, but somehow a sense of pleasure tingled amid the anger. "You are an enigma," she said, ashamed at having colored. "I thought you were a cynical speculator, but now you seem a fanciful dreamer."

"You must guess again," he replied. "I am neither a cynic nor a visionist."

"What are you?" she asked abruptly.

"I am a disciple of love," he replied.

"Then I was right in calling you a dreamer, for love itself is a fantasm inspired by hope or memory."

"You are a Philistine," he said softly. "Some day you may feel, and that is to believe."

"_Che sara sara_, but I have my doubts," she replied. Duncan's glance was contradictory, but he did not reply. After a moment of silence he rose to leave. "Is the truce to be granted?" he said. "Do we dance together?"

"Yes, if you wish it so," replied Marion.

"Then to-morrow we meet at the ball. Remember hostilities have ceased.

Good-night." Marion extended her hand and Duncan held it for a moment.

"Don't let the hate grow too strong," he said pleadingly.

"It couldn't," she replied; then she quickly withdrew her hand and turned away.

When Duncan reached the street he stopped to light a cigar. As he threw the match away and returned his match-safe to his pocket, he carelessly soliloquized: "When a moth sees a fire, it flutters around it to see what it is like, and it hasn't sense enough to keep from getting burned.

A woman is much the same: excite her curiosity by the flame called love, and it is ten to one she gets singed before she finds out what it is. I have been talking a lot of trash, but it's all in the trade. Talk sense to a woman and treat her decently, and she thinks you are a m.u.f.f; talk enigmatical bosh, and knock her about, and she loves you. They are all alike. No, by Jove! they are not; Helen Osgood outcla.s.ses them all, and she has 'hands for any sort'. Oh, well, as the Frenchman says: 'if you haven't got what you love, love what you have.' The Sanderson is a good looker, and you must have sport, Duncan, old man." Then shoving his stick under his arm, and plunging his hands into his coat pockets, he started off at a swinging pace in search of a cab.

Marion had remained seated where she and Duncan had been together. She had listened to hear the door close behind him, and then, her face resting in both hands, she sat thinking. Her imagination rapidly created a visionary structure of dazzling possibilities, but the dismal silence which follows in the steps of revelry came, and with it unrest. Quickly her Spanish castle crumbled and faded to a lonely ruin. "It is always so," she thought; "it is always so. Like children at a pantomime, who picture to their minds brilliant jewels in the fairy queen's tiara, and learn in after life that they were tawdry counterfeits, we imagine ideal gems of possibility only to find the reality of life papier mache and paint. Is love also a tinsel that tarnishes at the touch? So far mine has been so. But might it not be different? Yes, but the thought is wicked." Marion looked hurriedly about her as though fearful that someone might have seen the thought which crept into her mind. "He believes in love," she continued. "He says the right one exists. I wonder if it is true."

Florence came into the room to say good-night. Marion usually enjoyed repeating her day's experiences, and discussing her impressions with her friend, and Florence knew that at such times she was expected to approve of every sentiment, or be called unsympathetic, but when Florence kissed her good-night Marion made no suggestion about talking over experiences, and as neither woman felt inclined for an exchange of confidences, Florence hurried away to her room. Marion's eyes followed her as she left. "She acts strangely," she thought; "I wonder if her friendship could change? Perhaps, for we are so different. No one understands me,"

she sighed after a moment. "If I only had someone I could trust and love." A man stood in the doorway behind her. He heard the sigh, and he remained for a moment silently thinking of the time when she had promised to be his wife. Then he had drawn a hopeful picture of the future, a picture full of brightness and sunshine, with a loving wife for the central figure and happy, romping children playing about her.

That dream had flashed like a brilliant light which blazes for a moment and dies as suddenly away, leaving black, charred ashes to mark its place.

"Marion," he said gently.

She looked up startled. "Is it only you?" she said, with just a tone of disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, it is only I," he answered. "Shall I ring to have the lights turned out?"

"O, I suppose so," she sighed.

A servant came to secure the house for the night. When he appeared, Marion slowly followed her husband upstairs, and as they pa.s.sed Florence's room, she saw a light burning. Usually Marion would have gone in to talk, but this time she went on to her own apartment.

Long after Marion had pa.s.sed that light continued to burn. With her dress loosened and her soft brown hair falling over her white shoulders Florence sat before the fire thinking. Between her hands was a picture.

It was Harold's, and as she gazed at the face she seemed to hear the words: "Florence, I love you; if you were not my dearest friend, you might love me too." "Why did he say it; why did he say it," she murmured. Then moments from her childhood came softly back to her mind, and she saw Harold, her old-time playmate, grow to manhood. "Playmate, friend," she thought. "Why not more? Why not?" she repeated.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PATRICIANS.

Perhaps the only city of considerable proportions in which the rigorous proprieties of a New England village exist side by side with the gorgeous trappings of metropolitanism is Chicago. Its growth has been so marvelous that in a single generation the simple garb of provincialism has been exchanged for the more imposing mantle of a great city. Streets and boulevards have spread forth like the countless antennae of some mighty monster; gigantic structures have arisen almost as at the touch of magic, and ten thousand lanky chimneys have begun to belch forth black and sooty smoke, all within the memory even of the middle-aged inhabitant. Fifty years ago Chicago was a frontier town; twenty years ago a fearful scourge laid her in ruins; to-day she stands among the first ten of the world's great cities. Countless forces have in a score of years heaped up a mighty metropolis, and, perhaps, it is not surprising to find almost buried beneath this gigantic pile the simple and pure society of the early days.

During all these rapid changes the older families have altered little.

They have built more pretentious homes, they drive more modern equipages, they eat more elaborate dinners, but even these innovations have been reluctantly received, and the hearts of the old residents have remained untouched by _fin de siecle_ looseness and cynicism. In no older city are the social lines more strictly drawn, and year after year the same faces appear at the select gatherings, unconscious of the rapid change about them. Of millionaires there are many, but the foundations of their fortunes were laid in the early days of pioneering, and if occasionally a Croesus of recent growth creeps partly in, the shoulders turned toward him are cold, and his golden key never quite unlocks the inner doors. Chicago has perhaps suffered unduly at the hands of cursory and captious critics, but its society should not be judged by a hastily written paragraph or the clanking chains of the parvenu's carriage. Whatever be its faults, and they are doubtless many, it is thoroughly American, and slow to accept the lax scepticism and hollow manners of the older world. It is still too young to be the home of art and letters, and still too sensible to breed idlers. Happy city, if its society could continue as it is, unaffected, progressive, and moral; but the naturalness of Chicago cannot endure forever; already Puritan simplicity has fought the first skirmish with bare-necked folly and been worsted. French dresses and English drags have come to stay; insincerity and disbelief will follow.

The best society is hard to define,--especially in America,--but by some indescribable process people are shaken up, and so sifted into cliques and circles that they become mysteriously cla.s.sified and labeled without the scrutinizing care of a satin-coated Lord Chamberlain. When the inhabitants of Chicago were pa.s.sed through the social sieve, the finest particles formed a little heap labeled "The Patricians." This was the set that gave the most exclusive subscription dances, and, though there were other organizations which might feel strong enough to compete with this select a.s.sembly, it was noticed that the name of no Patrician was ever found upon another list, and no outsider ever declined to become a Patrician subscriber. There is a cla.s.sic story which says that when, after their victory at Salamis, the generals of the various Greek states voted the prizes for distinguished merit, each a.s.signed the first place of excellence to himself, but they all concurred in giving their second votes to Themistocles. Were the Chicagoans called upon to vote for the most exclusive organization of their city, each would probably cast his first vote for the one of which he is a member, but the second votes would all be given to the "Patricians." It was an ancient organization, dating from before the fire, and its membership list had been sacredly guarded ever since. Simple and informal at first, it had gradually a.s.sumed pretentious proportions, until it had pa.s.sed from a North Side hall, cold suppers, lemonade and nine o'clock, to the Hotel Mazarin, terrapin, _brut_ champagne, and eleven o'clock. In the early days there had been three fiddlers and a man to call off, but now there was an orchestra, a Hungarian band and a cotillon: "_O tempora, O mores!_"

"_Imitatores, servum pecus._"

Marion Sanderson was a patroness of the "Patricians," and to her efforts the innovations were, in a great measure, due. They had been coldly received at first, and when the changes culminated in champagne, some of the stricter members withdrew their names and refused permission to their daughters to attend, but the foundations of the Patricians had been too firmly laid to be shattered even by such defection.

Three evenings after the events of the last chapter the inviting French ball-room of the Hotel Mazarin was lighted for the first "Patricians'"

dance of the season. The florist had arranged his last cl.u.s.ter, and the floor had received its last polishing; the dainty canary draperies were coquettishly caught up with garlands of flowers, while here and there slender palms cast their graceful shadows upon the shining floor, and white and gold woodwork peeped from behind smilax and roses. A row of waiting chairs around the room seemed to add to the stillness, which was broken only by the hollow, echoing steps of two managers who were taking a final glance at the preparations. Soon a jabbering of German, and the squeak of violins behind the gallery palms, announced the arrival of the orchestra, while down-stairs by the supper rooms the tw.a.n.g of a Hungarian cymballo proclaimed the presence of the Tzigan band.

Chattering Frenchmen were scurrying about the tables putting on the finishing touches, and the usually suave and smirking _maitre d'hotel_ was scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch gla.s.ses. "_Depeche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir a l'instant_" he cried; but though an hour had pa.s.sed since the time for which the guests were invited, the ball-room remained deserted.

Down-stairs a solitary woman sat quaking in the ladies' dressing-room, and her husband braved the patronizing glances of the servants in the hall. They were from a Western town, and both were wondering what nine o'clock on the invitation meant. For nearly another hour they sat there, and then the rustling of a satin dress announced the arrival of a patroness who had promised to come early to receive. Soon a few men straggled in, another patroness arrived, and finally a little knot of women who had collected in the dressing-room mustered sufficient courage to enter the great, empty ball-room. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, a couple started to dance, and a few others followed their example. The fashionable hour had arrived; men, maidens and matrons crowded in, the room became quickly filled with a talking, laughing mult.i.tude; brilliant colors and bright smiles dispelled the gloom, and a giddy whirling ma.s.s of tulle and cheviot announced that the ball had opened.

Marion Sanderson was among the late arrivals. She had been unusually long at her toilette, but the time had been profitably spent, for when she entered the room her perfectly fitting gown of yellow satin and old lace produced an envious murmur among the women. Marion looked well at any time, but she was especially attractive in evening dress, for the lights and excitement seemed to produce an extra glow of beauty which few failed to notice. When she came, it was at the close of a dance, and a knot of men quickly formed around her, but Duncan was not of the number. She had expected to find him looking for her, and when she saw him near her, talking to her enemy, Mrs. McSeeney, she felt an unpleasant tinge of jealousy. After the excitement her entrance created had subsided, he came slowly toward her.

"I believe I have to thank you, Mr. Grahame," she said, giving him her hand, "for these beautiful yellow roses."

"On the contrary, it is I who must thank you for carrying them," he replied. "Besides, they are typical of jealousy."

"Jealousy," repeated Marion in a wondering tone. "Were you ever jealous?"

"A lover is always jealous," Duncan replied. Then he added gently: "I am a lover."

"Then all the world must love you," she said laughingly.

"I wish it did, for you are in the world," he answered.

A glance of reproof was her only reply, for Walter Sedger came to claim a dance, and she had just time to promise the next but one to Duncan before she was whirled away into the gliding throng. Duncan's eyes followed her for a moment; she saw his glance and a slight tinge of color came into her cheek. In a moment she was lost amid the dancers.

Mechanically she danced a waltz and a polka, scarcely noticing her partner's remarks, for in her heart she felt a strange apprehension that she could not understand. There was a fascination in Duncan's personality she dared not attempt to explain.

When the first strains of Duncan's dance began, he came to her immediately, and, without speaking, quietly took her hand and placed his arm gently about her waist; then, catching the time of the music, they glided away into a dreamy waltz. It was their first dance together, and as he guided her gracefully and easily through the whirling maze of waltzers, Marion felt that she had never really danced before. Silently they waltzed awhile, enjoying the delicious excitement of the movement, then he said softly: "I have never understood the power of the dance before, but to-night our steps, gliding together to this glorious music, seem to me like the love of two natures, who feel and act in perfect unison."

Marion looked up silently until her eyes met his glance; she grew icy cold, but she could feel the quick throb of each pulse beat. Duncan pressed her gently nearer, but she drew back and tossed her head forcibly away. She laughed a hollow little laugh at the fear in her heart, for here at least she was mistress of herself. Rhythmically their steps moved on to the enchanting music. Marion closed her eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts in her heart. In the darkness she seemed to be carried softly on through s.p.a.ce, like some spirit borne away in the arms of dreamy happiness. Duncan drew her closer to his side; she felt a delicious sense of joy, such as she had never known before, and, almost dizzy, she glided on over the shining floor, her heart beating with wild, delightful pleasure. The music stopped. For a moment they danced on, but the dream had faded; she was back in the noisy, humming world of people.

Marion had arrived so late that people were already flocking toward the supper table. She had long before promised to take supper with Walter Sedger, who was to lead the cotillon; but when he appeared, she suggested that as Duncan was alone he had better join them. So the three wandered down-stairs and entered the supper-room. The weird Hungarian _Czardas_ was being played by the Tzigans in the hallway, and it seemed to Marion that it did not harmonize with the clattering plates and the laughter. She had once heard that fantastic melody in Buda, and then it created strange sensations of unrest and aroused the wildest feelings of her nature. In her present state of mind she felt thankful for the noisy rattle of the supper-room.

The tables were placed in a large, oblong room, and were arranged for parties of four or six, but Marion, being a patroness, was conducted to a large, round table at the farther end, reserved for the managers and their friends. She hoped that the presence of other people would spare her the necessity of talking much, but at first she was obliged to manufacture conversation, in order to keep her two companions amused.

Duncan made no attempt to conceal the fact that the presence of Sedger was distasteful to him, and he amused himself by delivering occasional satirical remarks upon the latter's conversation which did not tend to improve the relations between the two men. Accidentally, however, both Duncan and Sedger were drawn into the general talk of the table, and Marion was left to herself. She felt lonesome, in spite of the gaiety around her, and realized that there is no loneliness so deep as that which comes amid merriment one cannot join. She looked about at the pretty faces and the brilliant colors made brighter by the lights; she saw the sparkling eyes and glittering diamonds, she heard merry laughter mingling with the rattling dishes and scurrying feet, but all seemed hollow and far away. She knew that she had just been brought under the influence of an unknown power, and she was faintly endeavoring to collect her senses and understand herself. Almost unwarned she had felt impetuous love flash forth in her heart, and now, in a dazed sort of way, she was trying to bring her mind to act. She was impressionable and reckless, but not so reckless as quite to forget her position. One thought grew strongest in her mind; it was fear. She was brought back to her surroundings by a remark addressed to her by Mrs. McSeeney: "You look quite pale, my dear, are you ill?"

"Not in the least," replied Marion, smiling faintly, "but this room seems close. Don't you think so?"