Chapter I: The Birth-Night Ball

“The festal board is crowned with flowers,
The red wine floweth free,
And gayly speed the midnight hours
On wings of revelry.
Here youth and love enraptured hang
On beauty’s sparkling glance,
While sweetest strains that ever rang
Keep time unto the dance.”--MRS. MILLER.

“Look at my dress, Madame Orne! Isn’t it sweet?”

The slender figure, standing alone at the open window in quiet contemplation of the beauty of the moonlit Virginia landscape, turned with a pensive smile and looked at the vision of youth and beauty that stood courtesying gayly before her--a dazzling mist of white tulle and silk, pearls, and pink rosebuds that framed the beauty of a young girl, a slender maiden, dark and lovely, with lips like crimson flowers, and proud, dark eyes that flashed with happy radiance.

Before the quiet governess could speak the girl continued joyously:

“The boys are here at last! The train was late, of course--always is when it ought to be on time!--so they will have to make their toilets in a fearful hurry! Brother is looking just splendid, dear old fellow!”

“Viva, I wish you wouldn’t say ‘dear old fellow.’ It sounds coarse from a young girl’s lips. And it isn’t correct to apply the adjective fearful to trifles, as you did just now. What would your newly fledged graduates think of such slang?”

“Think?” a smile rippling over the piquant scarlet lips. “Only that I learned it from them! When Max Verne spent a month with us last summer, they talked nothing else. Of course, being their intimate companion, I was duly initiated into their choice vocabulary of expressions, and heard about ‘fearful bores,’ ‘fearful weather,’ and ‘good old fellows,’ and ‘dear old fellows’ and such trifles, every hour in the day. So may it please you to pronounce my pardon, madam?”

She bent with saucy grace, and Madame Orne lifted her delicate white hand and lightly caressed the little dark, curly head as she answered fondly:

“I will blame the boys, not my little Vivian, this time; but remember, love, you are eighteen to-day--quite a grown-up young lady--and you must hereafter set examples for the boys to imitate, not follow their rude lead.”

“Examples for them!” A puzzled look crossed Vivian Leigh’s bright face. “How the boys would laugh to hear you! They are older and wiser than I am. My brother is five-and-twenty, Earle Essex is the same, and Max Verne is three-and-twenty--all grave and reverend seigniors, you see.”

“They are not too old to learn of you, my child, many things that might profit heedless youth.”

“What things, my grave mentor? Tell me, please?” laughed the joyous girl.

“Not now--you are too gay--to-morrow.”

“‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow,’” quoted a musical masculine voice, and Vivian’s brother, entering in faultless evening dress, bowed to the governess.

“Madam, I am most happy to meet you again, and would be charmed to learn the import of that promise of which I only caught the fag-end--‘to-morrow.’”

“Old Curiosity Shop!” laughed Vivian, in an audible aside.

“It was only the threat of a private lecture to my pupil,” Madame Orne answered, a little wearily, and half-turned to the window again, as though dismissing the conversation.

“Come, Vivian, isn’t it time to go down?” asked Charlton, taking her hand.

“Yes, indeed, for I want you to see the tables before our guests come. The caterer has really outdone himself. And such flowers, such confections, such wines, champagnes, verzenay, veuve cliquot, port, sherry--a perfect bouquet of colors!”

He was leading her to the door as she spoke, but she turned suddenly and floated back to the window where the tall, slight, graceful figure still kept its pensive pose.

“Madam,” she murmured, touching a fold of the soft, sweeping black robe, “will you not come down? And won’t you--just this once--lay aside this gloomy mourning?”

“I shall come down and see you dance by and by, dear.” The tone was sad and languid. “I will wear black lace and white flowers to please you.”

“She is so strange,” Charlton said thoughtfully, as they went arm-in-arm down the stairs.

“But I love her dearly!” cried his sister, then forgot Madame Orne all at once and beamed radiantly, for at the bottom of the stairway two gentlemen were waiting her ladyship’s descent. She gave each a hand in welcome, and spoke to both at once in joyous greeting, but her face turned unconsciously to one, the younger of the pair, and his eyes met hers in eager pleasure.

“It seems awfully jolly to meet you again, Viva,” observed this latter youth, who bore the blushing honors of his Alma Mater thick upon him.

“Thank you,” she murmured demurely, with dimpling cheeks and an amused wonder as to what her dignified governess would have thought of the young graduate’s “awfully jolly” pleasure.

She did not see the dark frown that clouded Earle Essex’s pale face as Max Verne drew her arm in his and led her into the long drawing-room where the balmy summer breeze came floating in through the lace-draped windows fragrant with the breath of June, and where all was light and splendor. She did not see it, and if she had she would not have dreamed that she called it forth. Who could frown upon her, this fair favorite of fortune, so young, so lovely, so rich and happy! Happy, so happy, for she loved and was loved in return. The heart that was dearest to her on earth was throbbing quick and fast against the beautiful, warm, white arm that rested so confidingly in his. Life to them both was a dream of gladness, the future a distant Paradise.

As they walk up and down the long room she observes with pretty dignity:

“I congratulate you on getting through college with such honors. Brother says you were the valedictorian.”

“Yes, I had that honor,” he answered simply, then asked:

“Are you through with lessons yet, Viva?”

“Through with lessons, but not with lectures.” She glances up to see if he is laughing at her, but only meets a gravely attentive look, so adds: “My education is finished, but papa retains Madame Orne to form my mind and manners.”

“As though either could be improved,” he rejoins gayly, then striking an attitude, quotes, half earnestly, half lightly, but in deep, sweet, musical intonations, Shakespeare’s lines:

“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily;
To throw a perfume on the violet;
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of Heaven to garnish,
Were wasteful and ridiculous excess.”

“Stage-struck,” she comments laughingly.

“Am I?” he asks, looking down at her with a glance that makes her upraised dark eyes fall. “Am I, Viva? I might be, could I play Romeo to your Juliet!”

“I have no fancy for the sighing Juliet,” she answers, with a shrug of her white shoulders; “I shudder at hopeless loves, at poisons, and daggers, and death. I love to be happy.”

A pause.

He is looking down at her with a strangely earnest face, studying her with an intent gravity that makes his handsome young face seem older and more manly.

He has the face of a thinker, this Max Verne--a broad, full, white brow, strongly marked in the perceptive and intellectual organs, and in the regions of courage and self-reliance as well. Sweetness and firmness combined look at you from the beautiful blue gray eyes that go with the clear, fair complexion and silky, slightly curling, light-brown hair. The Grecian nose, the curved red lips, the strong, tall, symmetrical form, so indicative of a well balanced temperament, all show passion and power--intense, passionate power, lying dormant now in his sunny, hopeful youth as the stormy sea lies calm beneath the sunlight of a summer sky.

Looking at Vivian Leigh, the young man sees a sensitive, passionate, impulsive face, the fair low brow marked with ideality, and mirthfulness as well, the full dark eye beaming with truth and tenderness, while the pretty, piquant nose, the delicate contour of the oval face, the thin scarlet line of her lips, the sweet dimpled chin, all are distinct with exquisite susceptibilities, full of purity and nobility, and breathing in every line deep capacity for either joy or sorrow. He sighs unconsciously as her lips part in a dazzling smile.

“Viva, it would take much to make you happy all your life,” he exclaims; then, half to himself: “He would be a brave man who took the precious trust of your happiness into his keeping.”

“Indeed you mistake,” she cries eagerly, though a blush creeps up to the edge of the silken curls on her brow. “Why, Max, it takes very little to content me. Nothing ever saddens me, or clouds my cheerful spirit. I am always happy.”

“So are the birds and the butterflies, Viva, because like you, they are always in the sunshine, and flitting, round the flowers. But the butterflies perish in the wintry blast, the blithest birds ofttimes lift broken wings when storms have passed above them.”

“Broken wings!” A shadow dims the brightness of the lifted face. “I tell you, Max, I would rather die than live like that. There is my governess, for instance, so grave, so cold, so sad in her black dress. A widow! What desolation, what heart-weariness must be her fate!”

“But how gravely we are talking,” he exclaims, growing remorseful at the sight of her thoughtful face. “Forgive me, Viva, I never meant to sadden you. Ah, you shall always be happy, little one, if----”

There is a sudden stir and bustle outside, and Viva loses Max’s last words as her brother hastily summons her to receive her guests by her father’s side--an eminent judge, and a handsome man besides, of whom his children are very proud.

The ball-room is soon filled with dancers, and Vivian is the cynosure of all eyes, the darling of all hearts. Her hand is constantly sought in the dance but every one can see that she favors Max Verne above all her other lovers. Madame Orne, from her seat at the window, sees it all--the love and hope that make the young collegian’s face so radiant, the soft response in the brightness of Vivian’s eyes--sees, too, the jealous pain in Earle Essex’s strange, moody dark eyes. He watches every movement of the graceful form, whirling, gliding, coquetting in the airy measure, and when a happy fate makes him her partner, his heart thrills with ecstacy.

Lovely, joyous Vivian does not dream of the passion of love her beauty and sweetness have awakened in Earle’s ardent breast.

She likes him very much, thinks him dark, picturesque, and rather more dignified than Charlton or Max, but it somehow disconcerts her to meet the full gaze of his gloomy, dark eyes, and to feel the strong, clinging pressure of his hand when he touches hers; and it troubles her somewhat to feel that odd unaccountable fascination in his presence when he comes to her side; an unwilling fascination, like one being charmed by a serpent.

That strange charm, mixed with repugnance, possesses her when Earle Essex leads her from the dances in to supper. She had fully intended to go with Max Verne, but she is powerless against the cool effrontery with which her partner takes possession of her. Biting her lip in silent vexation, she tries not to see the disappointment in her lover’s face as he hurries toward her, then abruptly turns aside at sight of the assured air of her companion.

How slowly the time goes. Vivian is secretly vexed and unhappy over the little _contretemps_, although she smiles so brightly upon all, and exerts herself to do honor to the occasion, taking wine recklessly several times in response to birthday toasts. And then the weight on her spirits seems to lighten, the daring stimulus of the ruby wine burns in her blood and flashes in her eyes. All her animation, with a spice of daring added, returns in a glowing tide.

At that moment Earle Essex bends over her and smiling into her glorious dark eyes, whispers in tones of surprise:

“I think Max Verne, in spite of his queer notions, might honor the occasion by taking at least one sip of wine on your birthday.”

She glances down the long table. Max is there on the right, only a few couples dividing them, and at his plate stands the untouched glass of wine the servant had filled at the first toast. She looks back at Mr. Essex, and says apologetically:

“Max never drinks, you know.”

“Yes, I know that; but one so apparently devoted might peril his weak brains by at least one glass in your honor. Surely he wears his fetters but lightly.”

“You shall see!” cries the girl, with a little triumphant laugh and a dangerous sparkle in her eye. The taunt has roused her as he meant it should.

She has no conception, this innocent young girl, of the evil that lurks in the glass of wine at her elbow. She knows little or nothing about drunkenness, want, and misery. She has been used to seeing liquors on her father’s board, and gentlemen drinking them, all her young life. It always seemed odd and discourteous for Max to decline them, but she never thought much of it until that veiled taunt sent the warm blood tingling indignantly through her veins.

Obeying a sudden, passionate impulse, she turns to a servant, saying imperiously:

“Bring me two glasses of champagne.”

The plotter beside her looks on with a satisfied smile. He has done his work for the present, and is silent, watching the lovely angry girl by his side.

The wine is brought, and Vivian, taking a glass in either hand, turns her gaze upon Max Verne. The intervening couples have thinned out now, and when she speaks his name Max turns and faces her, a smile upon his boyish face--such a smile, with youth’s high heart of hope beaming in it, as never again lights his brave young face into beauty.

Viva is saying in soft, sweet, almost pleading accents, these simple words:

“Max you have forgotten to wish me a happy return of this day. Will you not pledge me now?”

“In water, if you please,” he answers rising, and taking a step toward her, while many curious eyes turn on them. But the smile lingers in spite of the warm flush that creeps up to his temples. He believes that she is only in jest.

“No, in rosy wine,” persists the girl, advancing to meet her lover, and extending the glass toward him. “Take it,” she says, imperiously, “take it, Max.”

One moment, under the witchery of her beauty and his love, he wavers, and at the pretty imperious tones lifts his hand until his fingers almost clasp the glass, then a shudder shakes him from head to foot; he starts backward, and murmurs, huskily:

“I cannot!”

But in that moment’s indecision Vivian’s hand has relaxed its hold upon the glass, and falling between them it crashes on the floor, splashing the pure white folds of her dress with crimson stains like blood drops. She starts to spring aside, makes a misstep, and the thin, white satin dancing slipper comes down on a sharp splinter of the broken crystal. It pierces the thin sole, blood spurts from the wound, and, moaning with pain, Vivian sinks to the floor.

A dozen people spring to her assistance, but Max forestalls them all, and lifts the slight form in his arms.

“Let me pass! She is fainting!”

But life returns at hearing those familiar tones, and with angry violence Vivian writhes herself out of the arms that hold her so tenderly, sobbing with bitter resentment:

“Don’t touch me, coward! It is all your fault! I hate you, hate you!”

Then she falls exhausted in her brother’s arms, and he carries her away to her room. Madame Orne follows, and Earle Essex remains to congratulate himself on the evil he has wrought Max Verne, while Max Verne goes out into the starry night and bares his throbbing brow to the cool breeze while Vivian’s bitter reproaches burn like dagger points in his heart.

* * * * *

Alone with the governess, the wounded foot bandaged, the maid dismissed. Vivian cries pettishly:

“My beautiful ball-dress is quite ruined by the wine stains.”

“Yes, nothing will remove the stains,” answered Madame Orne, then she tossed the ruin from her. “What does that matter?” she cried impatiently. “You have done worse little Viva, than spoil your pretty gown to-night. You have tried to stain a human soul with the sinful love of wine.”

“Sinful! Oh, madame, you use strong terms. I love wine, and my father and brother love wine. As I understand, it is only sinful when one gets drunk.”

“Vivian, if you saw a man standing on the verge of a precipice and knew that one touch would topple him over, would you be willing for this little hand to push him down?”

“My hand! No, never! But why do you talk so, Madame Orne? You have wandered from the subject.”

“Not at all. Let me tell you, child, that when you held out your glass of wine to Max Verne to-night you were trying to push him into a vortex of sin and dissipation that must have proved his ruin. He dare not taste one drop of liquor. If he did he could never control himself. He has a strong inherited love for it.”

“How do you know this?”

“He told me so himself last summer when he visited here. It was only his firmness and brave disregard of ridicule that kept him true to himself last night. Vivian, you were wholly in the wrong.”

“I do not think so,” she answered proudly. “I cannot respect a man who confesses himself too weak to take one sip of wine, while I, a weak girl, can drink several glasses without any bad effects. No, madam, I do not believe in so poor an excuse. It was sheer obstinacy, a desire to be different from others. He has humbled me before all my friends, and I never will forgive him!”

“Vivian!” reproachfully.

“Never! Never!” she repeats in bitter scorn.

“You are angry now, Viva. You will think better of this to-morrow, and honor the true manhood you now decry. Good-night, dear,” and pressing a light kiss on the girl’s white brow, the governess went out, leaving the willful girl to her own thoughts.

They were not pleasant ones. Long after her most intimate girl friends had peeped in with a hundred expressions of pity and regret, made their adieus and gone--long after father and brother have tapped on the door and bidden her good-night--long after the early summer dawn peeps in at her window, Vivian tosses sleeplessly upon her pillow, consumed by pain and anger, unconscious regret, and furious indignation against Earle Essex and Max Verne both. She falls asleep at last, just as the golden sun is rising--rising upon a world heretofore undiscovered by her--the strange new world of sorrow.