The Bell in the Fog and Other Stories

That evening, as he sat with Chapman over the coffee in the stately little dining-room of the victim of cordage, the journalist remarked suddenly: 

“I say, old fellow, you don’t seem to be in it.  Don’t you know anybody here at all?”

Andrew shook his head gloomily.

“Well, you’ll have a stupid time, I’m afraid.  There are only three classes of people that come to Newport—­the swells, the people who want to see the swells, and the correspondents whose unhappy fate it is to report the doings of the swells.  Now, what on earth did you come here for?”

Andrew had not a confiding nature, but he could not repress a dark flush.  The astute little journalist understood it.

“It’s too bad you didn’t bring a letter or two.  One would have made it easy work.  You look as well as any of them, and you’ve got the boodle.  Where did you come from, anyway?”

“New York.”

Chapman puckered his lips about his cigar.  “That’s bad.  It’s harder for a non-commissioned New-Yorker to get into society than for a district-attorney to get into heaven.  Didn’t you make any swagger friends at college?”

“I never went to college.”

“Too bad!  A man should always strain a point to get to college.  If he’s clever he can make friends there that he can ‘work’ for the rest of his life.”

Little by little, with adroit use of the detective faculty of the modern reporter, he extracted from Webb the tale of his years—­even the extent of his fortune.  The young aspirant’s ingenuousness made him gasp more than once; but he had too kindly a nature to state to Webb the hopelessness of his case.  His new friend was manly and generous, and had won from him a sincere liking, tempered with pity.  Better let him find out for himself how things stood; then, when his eyes were open, steer him out of his difficulties.

He rose in a few moments.  “Well,” he said, cheerily, “I wish I were Lancaster.  I might be able to do something for you:  but I’m not in it—­not for a cent.  You may as well take in the passing show, however.  The first Casino hop is on to-night.  Put on your togs and go.”

“Anybody there?” asked Andrew, loftily.

“Oh, rather.  All the cottagers will be there, or a goodly number of them.  And it’s a pretty sight.”

“But how can I get in?”

“By paying the sum of one dollar, old man.”

Andrew’s cigar dropped from his mouth.

“Do you mean to say that they go to a place and dance—­in full dress—­on the floor—­with everybody?  Why, any one can pay a dollar.”

Chapman laughed.  “Oh!—­well—­go and see how it is for yourself.  Meet me in the gallery at ten, and I’ll tell you who’s who. Au revoir.”

* * * * *

At half-past nine Andrew stood before his mirror and regarded himself meditatively.  Without vanity, he could admit that so far as appearance counted he would be an ornament to any ballroom.  His strong young figure carried its evening clothes with the air of a gentleman, not of a waiter.  He had seen fashionable men in Delmonico’s who needed their facial tresses to avoid confusion.  Chapman had that day pointed out to him two scions of distinguished name whose “sideboards” had caused him to mistake them for coachmen.  He stroked his own mustache.  It had never been cut, and was as silken as the hair of the ladies he worshipped.  His head had been cropped by the most fashionable barber in New York.  He wore no jewels.  In a word, he was correct, and he assured himself of the fact with proud humility.  Nevertheless, his heart was heavy behind his irreproachable waistcoat.

From his apartment it was but a few steps to the Casino.  He walked there without injury to his pumps, bought his ticket at the office, half fearing that it would be refused him, and sauntered across the lawn to the inner door of the ballroom.  The horseshoe was brilliantly lighted, and, with its airy architecture, looked as if awaiting a revel of the fairies.  The cottagers, Andrew understood, would alight at an outside door.  They were subscribers, and the office was not for them.

He went up to the gallery to await his friend.  It was less than a fourth occupied by pretty girls—­“natives,” he recognized at once.  Some wore hats, others were in local substitute for full dress—­a muslin or Indian silk turned away at the throat, a flower in the hair.  He took a chair before the railing.  The one beside him was occupied by a handsome dark-eyed girl who had made a brave attempt to be smart.  She wore a red silk frock and a red rose in her rough abundant hair.  Round her white throat she had gracefully arranged some silk lace.  Andrew paid that tribute to her charms of one whose eyes have been too long accustomed to great works of art to take any interest in the chromo.  Nevertheless, he was young and she was young.  They flirted mildly until Chapman came in and introduced them.

“Miss Leslie is an old friend of mine, Webb,” he said in his hearty way.  “I hope you will be friends too.”

Miss Leslie bowed and beamed and flashed her pretty teeth.  Andrew made some vague remark, wondering at the spite of fate, then forgot her utterly.  Chapman had whispered to him that the cottagers were coming.

He leaned eagerly over the rail.  A number of buxom dames, accompanied by slender girls, were filing in.  Some of the old women were in white satin, with many jewels on their platitudinous bosoms.  The slim sisterhood, with their deerlike movements, their curried hair arranged to simulate a walnut on the crown of their little heads, their tiny waists and white necks and arms, riveted Andrew’s gaze as ever.  Some looked like Easter lilies in their pure white gowns, others like delicate orchids.  One beautiful young woman, evidently a matron, wore a gown of black gauze, with a row of sparkling crescents, stars, and clusters, about the low line of the corsage.

“Isn’t she lovely?” whispered Miss Leslie. “She got a French Duke.  But she deserved her luck.  She’s sweet.”

All were very décolletée.

“Reminds one of the days when slaves were put up on sale at the mart, not far from this very spot,” murmured Chapman.

One sprightly matron entered with an imperious air, and was immediately surrounded.

“Who’s she?” inquired Andrew, scornfully.  “Why, her frock and gloves are soiled, and her hair’s dyed.”

“Oh, she’s out of sight, my boy!  Once in a while they do look like that.  She’s going to lead things this summer.  Wish she’d hurry up!” Then he named a number of people to Webb.

The band on the platform facing the triple row of seats at the far end began a waltz.  Most of the men were elderly and well preserved.  They danced with the girls.  The half-dozen youths improved their chances by assiduous attentions to the unwieldy dames.  Andrew thought that his princesses danced very badly.  Many of them were taller than the men, and looked about to go head first over the shoulders whose support they seemed to disdain.  The little ones bounded like rubber balls.  The old women formed groups and gossiped.  A number sat about a plethoric lady, whose diamonds made her look like a crystal chandelier.  Chapman informed Webb that she was a duchess.

“You see that fellow over there!” he exclaimed, suddenly, indicating with the point of his lead-pencil a young man with a vulgar, vacuous face and a clumsy assumption of the grand air; “well, he was nobody a year ago,—­a distant connection of the Webbs; but they never recognized his existence until he came into some money.  Then they took him up, and now he’s out of sight.  It’s too bad you didn’t happen to be that kind of Webb.  You look a long sight more of a gentleman than he does.”

“Are any of the Webbs here?” asked Andrew, choking with bitterness.

“There’s the old girl over there.  Regular old ice-chest.”

“Is—­is—­Schuyler Churchill Webb here?”

“He’s just come in.  He is talking to the duchess—­the French one.”

Andrew gazed with dull hatred at the plain amiable-looking young man, whose air of indefinable elegance seemed to reach forth and smite him in the face.  The gulf, which had been a gradually widening rift, seemed suddenly to yawn.

“Well, I must go,” said Chapman.  “I have to get my stuff off, you know.  Will see you in the morning.”

As he left, Miss Leslie renewed her pleasantries, hoping that Andrew would ask her to go down and dance.  She was terribly afraid of the great folk, poor little soul, but she felt that this strong self-reliant young man would protect her.  Andrew excused himself in a few moments, however, and went down-stairs.  He had bought the right to be in the same room with those people, and he would claim it.

The treble row of seats was evidently reserved for strangers; no cottagers were at that end of the room.  They sat about the other three sides with an air of being on their own ground.  Andrew walked resolutely into the room, and took possession of one of the chairs reserved for his kind.  He had only three or four neighbors; most of the tourists had gone up-stairs, and were darkly surveying the scene.  There were no decorations, but the dowagers were a jewelled dado, the girls an animated bed of blossoms.