Chapter XXII: After-Supper Conversation

In New York, where Russell Waldon was the centre of a choice intellectual circle, he was in the habit of giving bachelor parties such as the authors and artists of Old England have made famous. Out of this circle he had selected some half dozen unquestioning admirers of whom he was the literary autocrat and chief.

On the day that Bertha Canfield took leave of Mary Noel on the wharf, he had left the Stone Tavern, which was becoming dreary from want of excitement, and came down to New Haven, in order to meet young Lane, who had broken restlessly away from Saratoga, resolved to press his suit with Clara Anderson once more if Waldon had any encouragement to give him.

On his way through the town, Waldon had met several of his choice friends loitering in that most beautiful of all summer retreats, and, with his usual offhanded hospitality, invited them to a little supper, which he forthwith ordered at the principal hotel.

Perhaps some cowardly gleams of conscience made a meeting with Lane, at first, in the company of others, desirable to the man who had with such cool effrontery betrayed the most sacred trust that could be imposed on him.

Let this be as it may; a brilliant knot of young men assembled about Waldon’s table that night, and among them was young Lane, impatient for the moment to come when he could ask the questions burning in his heart.

At the choice suppers where Waldon presided, wit was expected to be more sparkling than the champagne, and humor more mellow than the fruits; for, with him, genius counted for nothing if it was not brilliant, and even then secondary to his own, which made him a social marvel wherever he went.

That night when the wit flagged and the wine flowed freely, Waldon spoke of the thought that had agitated him all the day; for he talked freely, among his favorites, of those things that most men hold sacred as prayers.

“Ulster,” he said, addressing a clever young graduate who had just entered the literary world under the glories of a sparkling valedictory, “you have had a pretty fair run of all the boarding-schools lately—tell me if you have seen anything remarkable in that line.”

“Remarkable! That is according to taste, you know, Waldon.”

“A girl—say eighteen or twenty—with bewilderingly fine eyes, and magnificent hair. She has lately graduated at some up-town seminary. I learned that much from the crowd.”

“Surely you cannot mean the girl who set madam’s school on fire with jealousy?”

“I dare say. The person I met would be very likely to do that.”

“A superb figure?”

“Juno never had a finer.”

“Almost a brunette?”

“Too light for that. A pure, rich complexion.”

“Sings like a mocking-bird?”

“Not exactly. Mocking-birds sing in the open air. She did not oblige me so far.”

“It is the same girl, I’ll be sworn. I saw her once, and was half in love at the first sight.”

Walden frowned. His supreme selfishness resented the idea that any other man would presume to speak in this fashion of the woman he had deigned to notice.

Ulster saw the cloud, and redeemed himself.

“It may not be the same person. Our schools are crowded with beautiful girls,” he said.

“Did you learn this girl’s name?”

“It was Bertha—Bertha—”

“Never mind—I know it myself. But you have seen her, and can bear witness that she is worthy of our wine. Gentlemen, fill up to the loveliest woman that draws breath!”

“Another?” laughed one of the young men.

“A woman of exquisite beauty!” murmured Ulster, filling his glass.

“The only woman who ever brought the heart into my mouth with a glance!” said Waldon, watching the sparkles float up into his wine, as if they had been diamonds. “She inspired me, and I have not written such poetry in a year!”

“A poem! a poem! Give us the poem, Waldon!” cried Ulster, setting down his glass. “It must be wonderful, to match her loveliness!”

“And she superb, to match his genius!” said a guest opposite, affecting to speak under his breath.

Waldon took in the flattery, but was almost unconscious that he had heard it. His parasites had learned to deal out their homage so daintily, that he might feel but not seem to accept it.

“The poem! the poem! But first we drink to the unknown lady.”

Waldon drained his glass with the rest, and took out the first draft of his poem. There was a hush in the room. That was, of course, expected. When he began to read, one or two of the guests lifted the half-drained glasses to their lips, and sat them down noiselessly, that nothing might break the full, rich swell of a voice that would have made commonplace ideas grandly harmonious. These young men, even in the heat of their wine, wondered that this exquisite delicacy of thought and richness of expression could belong to a man capable of the cruel acts which they had too frequently witnessed in him.

When Waldon had finished reading, he leaned back in his chair and calmly awaited the homage which was never withheld in that company. The champagne those young men were drinking did not flow more freely than their praises.

“Some fast school-girl, I’ll be sworn,” observed one of these young Bohemians, as he went, arm-in-arm with another guest, from Waldon’s door. “A fellow that writes such poetry has only to imagine a girl beautiful to believe it. There was Byron, you know, and his ‘Maid of Athens,’ a regular fright. None of us fellows will be wise to run crazy about this girl till we have seen her. Wald’s poetry is superb—but that for his facts!”

A loud snap of the young man’s fingers, and a stumbling step on the sidewalk ended this lucid opinion.

Meantime Waldon and Lane remained at the table, where a glow of fruit and the rich ruby and topaz sparkle of half-drained glasses brightened even the disarray of a feast enjoyed.

Waldon pushed back a claret pitcher that stood in the way of his elbow with a look of impatient disgust, and regardless of the questioning anxiety in his companion’s eyes, broke forth with his usual egotism.

“Lane,” he said, “you must know the young lady I was speaking of. She has a grandfather or something living up at the Mill Bridge; at any rate she is staying there now.”

“Yes, I recognized the description at once, but was not willing to mention her name before all those fellows.”

Any man but Waldon would have blushed at this indirect rebuke. He only met it with an angry flash of the eyes.

“The honor or dishonor done to the name of a lady depends on the lips that utter it,” he said, haughtily.

Lane grew impatient.

“Let all that pass,” he said; “I wished to speak of other matters.”

“Not yet, Lane; I am serious about this Bertha Canfield—a pretty name, Bertha—quite serious. Don’t give me one of your knowing looks; I am indeed.”

“For how long?” questioned Lane.

“How can any man answer a question like that? Forever! I tell you, Lane, I am in dead earnest. Tell me all that you know about her.”

“Oh, the young lady has no romantic history that I am aware of. She is well connected. The mother is a Mrs. Canfield—a widow—who lives mostly in New York. She is not much in society, I fancy; but there is a look of refinement about her that compels respect.”

“Lane,” said Walden, eagerly, “I must know this young lady. Will you help me? I want a favorable introduction—such as your sister might obtain for me, I dare say. Manage it, and I will do anything on earth for you.”

“My sister knows everybody; she can manage it, I dare say,” answered Lane; “I know the young lady myself, however, but have some compassion on her.”

“Compassion! Can that word belong to a woman whom Waldon admires?”

“But I was thinking that she might love you.”

“Might! By Heavens, she shall!”

“Some day you will come across a woman who will demand a great deal more than you have yet been willing to give.”

“I hope so! If this is the woman, so much the better. I have been all my life searching for her.”

“But I thought all ideas of marriage hateful to you.”

“Marriage! Lane, I am of a generous nature, and capable of great sacrifices.”

A smile that displeased Waldon crept over the young man’s face. He admired, at times almost worshipped, this gifted man; but only real goodness can insure permanent respect, and germs of underlying contempt would now and then shoot up through his delusions, and mar them, like rank weeds in a flower-garden. One of these swift monitors disturbed his features.

Waldon saw it and frowned.

“Why do you smile? I see a woman so unlike—so above anything feminine that I have ever met before, that the very memory of her smile is like a drink of old wine to me. I long to know her better. Will you help me?”

“I could have done once, for she was a school-friend of Clara Anderson’s.”

A hot flush crimsoned Waldon’s face; for an instant he lost all self-possession.

Lane looked at him keenly.

“You can tell me, Waldon, whether this is an advantage or not? No doubt you have done a friend’s part by me with her, but I have hardly the courage to ask with what success.”

Waldon hesitated. In his mind the image of Clara Anderson, in all her spirited beauty, rose vividly before him. He had given the girl up, but felt a jealous dislike of any renewal of her friendship with Lane. Even more, a dread that the young man might discover the almost intangible treachery of his own conduct.

This he resolved to guard against, and used the hesitation he could not conquer to that effect.

“If I have appeared to avoid the subject, Lane,” he said, with apparent frankness, “it is because I have really nothing definite to say. I visited the young lady frequently, and exerted myself as delicately as possible to discover her real sentiments. She is a splendid creature, no doubt of that, but proud as Lucifer.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Lane. “It is on that pride I found my hope. Under it all must lie some tenderness, some glimmers of love. She is capable of so much feeling, such noble sacrifices. To be really and fully beloved by that girl might be the glory of any man, even yourself, Waldon.”

A strange expression shot over Waldon’s face. He was a man of swift mental calculation, and adroitly seized upon these impassioned words.

“You are right, Lane. She is a creature that few men could resist. I went to see her often, for her nature is a study; sought, for your sake, to win an insight into the feelings that must exist under all that frosty pride, but I found the task too dangerous, and gave it up.”

“You! Waldon. Oh, I might have known that your friendship in this would prove dangerous. You have acted nobly by me; I shall never forget it.”

Waldon took the hand that his friend reached out; his face beamed with sympathy; and such was the peculiar construction of his character that he was half-convinced of his own magnanimity.

“I could not do less, my dear fellow; so you must not give it too much importance. You see I escaped the fascinations of one woman only to be ensnared by another.”

“You are thinking of Miss Canfield; she is lovely—”

“As a dream!” Waldon broke in.

Waldon reflected a moment after this outburst of admiration.

Yes, he could develop the thought that had just flashed into his mind. The pride of that girl would forever shield his secret even from her best friend. Besides, had he not confessed almost as much as she could tell, and turned it to his own advantage?

“Miss Canfield knows how much you admire her friend, I suppose,” he said.

“I have never kept it a secret; of course she does.”

“Then why not make her your confidante?”

“Why not, indeed!” said Lane, with great animation. “She is one of the kindest-hearted creatures in the world.”

“Women understand the delicate diplomacy of such affairs so much better than the wisest man,” said Waldon.

“I will see her. We will go back to your old quarters by the morning train. There is no reason against riding up to Mill Bridge at once.”

Waldon’s eyes sparkled. He took Lane’s hand in his with a cordial grasp.

“Nothing can be better,” he said. “Now that you are yourself again, I can see great encouragement in your plan.”

Lane colored with shame.

“Did you think me beyond hope?” he said. “I was reckless, revengeful, glad to wound my father; but only tortured myself with a two-edged sword. In mortifying my father I struck down my love. It was a form of madness, nothing worse than that.”

Once more Waldon reached forth his hand.

“Ah, this looks promising, Lane. Stand firm in that, and all things are sure to turn out well.”

Here both men arose, their hands still clasped.

“In the early train?” said Waldon.

“Yes, I shall be ready. Good-night!”

Waldon sat down and fell into thought after his friend left, slowly sipping a glass of wine, as if that aided the drift of his meditation. He had been from the first anxious to keep his friendship for the Lane family intact. The young man was one of his most devoted admirers; would possess great wealth, and, as one of his social satellites, might be of great importance to him in his future course of life.

The sister, Mrs. Forbes, held a commanding position in the best society of New York, and her countenance was of great value in that respect.

All these advantages had been put in great peril by his rash intimacy with Miss Anderson; but one bold dash of policy had given him a stronger hold upon the Lane family than ever. Still a rankling distaste was left; his vanity revolted at the idea that Lane should aspire, even unconsciously, to fill the place he had abandoned in Clara Anderson’s heart.

“Fool!” he said, draining the last drop of wine from his glass, as he prepared to go. “Fool! as if all the women under Heaven could drive my image from her heart.”