THE party at Judge La Rue's was at first spoken of by its projectors as a mere little gathering-together of a few friends in an informal way; but the judge and Col. Vance held a council, — they were always holding councils; and as the legislature was on the point of adjourning, and as there were some important matters, nearly affecting Col. Vance's political desires, not quite made secure, it was thought proper to enlarge the bounds and increase the formalities of the social affair to the full extent of Tallahassee precedents. For a day or two the preparations went quietly but vigorously on. Some innovations were indulged: among them a hundred or so of Chinese lanterns were brought from Jacksonville, to be hung in the trees on the grounds. The old house was shaken up and renovated, so to speak, its windows and doors thrown open from roof to basement. Floral decorations were used unsparingly.
Willard, furtively alert, watched the proceedings with a curious eye. Lucie fluttered about like a bird, — a very stately young bird, — leaving wherever she went a trace of her fine sense of the fitness of colors and arrangement. No professional florist was called in. The household relied upon itself for every thing. There was made a united, systematic effort to cast poverty into the darkest corners for the time being, and to bring out something like the old splendor where the lights were strongest. A dozen or so of colored maids and youths were collected for servants, and carefully advised of their duties.
Col. Vance came every day, but, greatly to Willard's comfort, did not pay much attention to Lucie. Political intrigue seemed to be rife among the legislators. A carpet-bagger of great ability, and utterly unscrupulous, was striving to sow the seeds of discontent in the dominant party, with a view to planting himself in the Senate of the United States two years hence. If this scheme should succeed, it would effectually destroy Vance's chance for the governorship. His only hope lay in holding his friends together on the measures about to be acted upon. Judge La Rue, though old, was a power. His whole life had been given to moulding the political and social action of Tallahassee and the State. The real though well-disguised object of the party about to be given was to call together a number of the legislative magnates under the judge's roof, with a view to influencing them in a certain direction. Of course Lucie did not dream of this phase of the affair; and, if her aunt was in the secret, she did not let fall a hint of it.
Willard, by a very natural though rather egotistical mistake, took it for granted that the party was, in a way, meant to do him honor as a guest; and, on this score, the little ingenious turns with which Lucie overcame ugly obstacles in the way of her preparations challenged his deepest admiration. Not that he was so supremely selfish: he associated himself with Lucie as a true man will associate himself with a lovely girl, in a way too tenderly reverent to deserve criticism. He even bore a hand in the final touches of preparation, giving valuable suggestions respecting the hanging of the gay lanterns, and the arrangement of certain improvised seats for the so-called lawn. Late in the afternoon of the last day, when all was done, he called Lucie to come and sit by him on one of these seats.
"You must be tired, with all your running here and there. Come and tell me who is to be here to-night, and how one is expected to behave. It has been months since I was at a party, and I begin to feel rusty." He said this in such an easy, matter-of-fact way, that Lucie was at a loss how to answer him. He crossed his feet, and, leaning slightly backward, gazed up into the dusky foliage overhead, one arm hanging over the back of the seat. He was a graceful fellow; and his trim, neatly-clothed form was always shown to good effect.
"I am not tired," said Lucie, taking the space beside him; "but I confess to some anxiety. I have not told you, but this is to be my first party."
"Oh, your début, your coming out!" said Willard, turning his indescribably genial eyes quickly upon her. "How are you going to dress?"
"You make light of me. I am too old for a débutante. I meant to say that this is the first party we have given since—since the war; or, at least, on so considerable a scale. I feel quite incompetent."
"Oh! you've nothing to do but to meet the guests at the door, and help your aunt smile," he said, in his light, ready way. "I'll lighten your burthen all I can by obtruding myself in every manner possible."
She laughed a little: she never laughed much. The Southerners are not a laughing people. It is this that gives much of the dignity for which they are noted. They are witty, not humorous, with a decided aversion for any thing like hysterical expression of delight or anger. In the North everybody smiles, nearly everybody laughs, upon the slightest provocation. So often these smiles are thin and meaningless, caught in a network of weary wrinkles: the laugh is rarely genuine, except in rustic circles.
The evening shadows began to fall. One of the servant-boys went around lighting the lanterns. Soon the gray old house was transformed. It looked like a palace. The dense foliage, the gnarled boughs, and long moss, caught something from the colored lights which added to their charm. The wind seemed to be wandering about indefinitely, swaying things very gently in all directions.
Willard went up to his room to dress. Presently the guests would be arriving.
Col. Vance and Cauthorne came early, the very first, and together. Since the day with the quails they had been great friends. Willard saw them from his window, and went down. His first thought was: What a handsome fellow Cauthorne is, and what a striking couple he and Miss Lucie La Rue would be!
And now, as if in answer to a preconcerted signal, the guests came pouring in. It was something worth while in Tallahassee to go to a party at the La Rue place. The older ones of the best class of inhabitants remembered the ante-bellum gatherings there, and the younger ones had heard the older ones tell about them. Many persons were startled by being invited. It was a very late-coming recognition. This part had been managed by Col. Vance. The house filled, the grounds filled. It was, to both Willard and Cauthorne, a beautiful and in some regards a novel spectacle. It was, to their minds, typical. It was not only characteristic of the climate and people: it was a striking index and exponent of a stage of social change, of which the artist and the novelist had much need. Some of the older ladies appeared in superb toilets, slightly changed in details from those of twenty years ago. Even the young girls, many of them, were habited in sweetly picturesque dresses of antiquated stuffs, the gowns of their mothers and grandmothers made over in the latest fashion-plate style. The elder Miss La Rue knew all these dresses. She had seen them in the good old times, when Herman Willard senior used to be the life of cotillion-parties much more select than this upon which his son was so complacently but interestedly gazing.
A large number of straight, stately old men were present, bowing low to the ladies, and talking with an ease and elegance scarcely found elsewhere. The young men were mostly tall, almost lean, and sunburned; but they bore themselves in the style of their fathers, with a high head and a courtly formality of look and gesture which brought a frequent smile to Willard's lips and eyes.
The music was good; but the colored violinists and flute-players would now and then fall into a barbaric strain, and shake out their notes in something like jig-time, with much bowing of woolly heads and rapt upturning of shining white eyes.
The night air was cool, but not disagreeable; the windows were all open; fans fluttered as though it were midsummer.
Col. Arthur Vance went among the thronging guests, according to each one some special favor of his wit, making each one feel that the choicest tidbit had been cast to him or her. To the old men in ancient broadcloth dress-coats and white vests, he was particularly and deferentially polite; to the plump, middle-aged ladies he showed great attention; to the young men he was jovially stately in his address; and to the young ladies he was knightly in his admiring gentleness and grace.
Cauthorne, who always seized what the gods gave him, let no opportunity pass to enjoy Lucie's presence and companionship. She was at her loveliest. Her dress elsewhere, and under different circumstances, might have been open to criticism; but it was beautiful, and gave full play to her style of beauty. It was an indescribable old brocaded white satin, trimmed in old lace. It was a family treasure, dating back many years. She had a necklace of pearls, white and black alternating, which was clasped with a curious red-amber seal in front. Her black hair was arranged low upon her forehead, and coiled just above her neck behind, with a scarlet flower or two for contrast. The excitement of the occasion had given an under-glow to her cheeks, showing through the soft Southern skin like mild, smouldering sun-heat through a morning mist. Cauthorne walked with her for a heavenly minute or two under the trees, in the light of the lanterns. She had thrown a small scarlet shawl around her neck and over her head. Her deep, sweet eyes shone upon him with bewildering power. Willard came meeting them with a laughing, shapely blonde upon his arm. He darted a keen glance at Cauthorne. The girl was exquisitely dressed in some clinging blue stuff, and bore herself as one used to society, and honestly confident of herself.
When they had passed, "Who is the young lady?" Cauthorne asked.
"It is Miss Cornell, of Indianapolis, Ind.," said Lucie: "isn't she beautiful!"
"Yes, a handsome girl; but I like your style better." He said this in such a matter-of-fact way, with not even a flattering intonation, that she was not troubled.
"Oh! I suppose that is because so many Northern girls are fair," she replied, in the same tone.
"I don't know. There are dark girls and dark girls, — brunettes and brunettes," he said; "but you are not exactly dark or a brunette."
"I certainly am not a blonde," she said naively.
If Willard had been in Cauthorne's place, he would have wrung in some extremely clever fancy or other. But the fair-haired, stalwart novelist was not a sentimentalist in his talk. He was more a brusque soldier, a business-like war-correspondent, a plain, strong, rather peculiar man. He suddenly changed the subject.
"You find my friend Willard a charming fellow, of course," said he, stopping before a rustic seat, as if tempted to accept its offer of comfort.
"Yes: he knows so much, has been to so many places, is so ready to impart nice gleams of his knowledge. I like him very, very much, indeed."
Cauthorne tried, but he could not read her face. It was placid, and sweet, and warm, and sincere, and bewilderingly lovely; but he could not go below its surface. She was either very wise, or very simple and natural, or both; or neither.
Her duties called her away too soon. She left him standing in the nickering lantern-light, gazing steadfastly at the spot where she had been. A sleepy mocking-bird was twittering its night-song somewhere down in the farther tangles of the grove.
Willard with Miss Cornell found himself quite at ease. She was what all well-educated Western girls are, very interesting and very amusing, ready to express her opinions, good-natured, sweet-voiced, strong in body and mind. She had been a month in Tallahassee, she said, and her round-trip ticket was about expiring. She would go home next week. She liked Tallahassee, found it really delightful, but would prefer Jacksonville or Fernandina, on account of society.
"Do you not like the society here?" said Willard, betrayed by her frankness into asking such a question.
"Oh, yes, indeed! but there is so little of the chic and movement of the other places here. I don't care to dream away every day in the week. I like life that lives, and sings, and laughs. At Jacksonville and Fernandina one meets Northern people at every turn, and all is wakefulness and activity."
"But one misses the genuine old Southern spirit, and — and — flavor, so to speak," suggested Willard.
"Very true; but, after all, one can well afford to miss those things now, don't you think?"
Willard hesitated for a moment before responding, then he said, —
"The men here are not so clever and interesting to you, then, as the women are to me. I find the Southern girl charming beyond expression."
"Yes, Miss Lucie La Rue is," she quickly rejoined; "but all the girls are not Lucie La Rues, by any means."
"But the young men?" he insisted.
"Oh! I am not critical or ill-natured, I hope; but if one could get them to be less stilted and over-polite! They speak to one as if they feared their breath would blow one away. When I was in Boston" —
Just then a tall, dark young fellow with a drooping mustache came to claim her for the dance. He bowed very low, with his hand on his breast, murmured lower, and with the air of a king led her away. Willard was profoundly amused.
Judge La Rue was an alert and diplomatic host. He managed to come near being everywhere at once, but without any suggestion of haste or effort. He held little side conferences with members of the legislature. In talking to them he arched his gray eyebrows, and made graceful gestures with his long, sinewy hands. To certain legislators, who were suspected of backsliding from the good old faith, he was especially attentive, taking wine with them, one at a time, in a niche of the dining-room, and taking hold of each one's arm in a lofty, familiar way.
Young La Rue stood leaning on his crutches, a silent, rather gloomy, and wholly pathetic picture, taking little part in the affair. He had left all his real self upon the field of Chickamauga with his leg, the fingers of his left hand, and four brothers who fell there.
The elder Miss La Rue was quite as ubiquitous as her brother, and even more successful as a manager, for she possessed the gift of smiling very sweetly. She said "my dear," and "dear child" to the young ladies, she talked of the past with the elderly ones. Late in the evening, Vance came to her, and murmured in her ear, —
"Can't you manage Forseythe of Escambia? He's a little cool. That carpet-bagger has been tampering with him. I can't afford to lose him: he's a man of influence."
"I will try," she replied, and passed on. Soon after she might have been seen leaning upon the arm of the gentleman from Escambia, and adroitly, by indirection, appealing to his State pride.
"If you would like to see an exhibition of suppressed emotion," said Miss Cornell, as she stood apart with Cauthorne, "real ultra Southern emotion, just say to one of these old gentlemen that you think the seat of the State government will soon be removed from Tallahassee to Jacksonville or Gainesville. I inadvertently tried it on Judge La Rue just now."
"And with disastrous result?" demanded Cauthorne.
"I fear so: he rubbed his hands together, and looked troubled away back behind his smile and his polite reply."
Later in the evening Cauthorne found himself looking down upon a thin, dark, vivacious girl, a Miss Morey, whose father had just arranged a large contract with the State. She was petite, intelligent, witty, smart. She waltzed like a little whirlwind. She talked without effort. She was dying to go North for a season. She longed for Long Branch and Brighton Beach and White Mountains. Her papa had half promised her she might go next summer. Cauthorne recognized a freshness, a newness, about her, not in consonance with her present surroundings. She had nothing of that lofty sweetness of the other Tallahassee girls. Afterwards he accidentally discovered that before the war her father was a poor miller, and that he owed his present power to some successful trading within the last few years. The family was not aristocratic. Their presence at the judge's mansion upon such an occasion as this was due to political exigencies. Her father was a strong supporter of Col. Vance's measures. He was here to-night, in shiny broadcloth and sleek hair, buttonholing the legislators in behalf of those very measures. Her mother — an uneducated, tall, bony woman, dressed in something trimmed in orange — showed conspicuously among the groups of graceful dames, as she wandered aimlessly from place to place.
Cauthorne exchanged Miss Morey for Lucie La Rue at last; and it came into his mind to recall the funny little mistake she had one day made in bowing to him for an acquaintance.
"Oh, you ought to have forgotten that! I must have appeared very rude," she said, plucking a white flower as they passed near a vase. "You would hate me forever if you knew what I thought when I bowed."
"You make it too strong," he said, smiling down upon her from his great height. "I must insist on being put to the test. You must tell me just what you thought."
"You really demand it?"
"Yes, earnestly."
"I am afraid," she said, tipping the flower against her straight, high-bred nose, and glancing slantwise up into his face.
He stopped, and faced her.
"Now," he said, "I cannot wait. Tell me now."
"I thought you were Mr. Stephens, — that old, old gentleman who stands by papa yonder."
Cauthorne looked, and laughed. Mr. Stephens was not only tall, white-haired, and old: he was also very ugly.
A number of old negroes, men and women, who had been trusted servants of the La Rue household in slavery days, had come to look on, as had been their privilege in that happier time. Auntie Liza, leaning on her staff, was prominent. She kept up a running comment, addressed to her companions, as she gazed.
"Chillen," she said, "'tain't no use a-talkin'. Disher's jis like ole times, on'y not half like 'em. When I was a gal an' we had parties, dey wus parties to kill, dey wus. I wus up-stairs dressin' waiter; and de Lor', chillen, de diamon's an' de gole an de purrels an' de rubies dey dazzled yo' eyes; an' de silks an' de satins and de velbet — bress de good Lor'! Ole Feginny wus moas like hebben! "
Cauthorne made a note of these dark onlookers, ranged in lines and groups on the edge of the night, where the flaring of the lanterns was softened into gloom; and he thought they added the most telling touch to the picture. They looked like accentuation points, or strokes of emphasis, dashed on the margin of the scene. Or they might be compared to the advance-guard of a benighted people halted in hesitating wonder in the twilight on the threshold of civilization and enlightenment.
A blare of brassy music, the tramping of many feet, suddenly reached the ears of the merry-makers at La Rue place. It was soon whispered around that the carpet-bagger had organized a counter meeting, and the negroes, with a band and drums, were parading the streets. Then the shadowy figures on the verge of the lawn faded away. They had gone to join their color.
Willard did one thing which was very wrong: he knew it was wrong all the time. He kept secreted about him a little sketch-block of light brown paper. Furtively he now and then slipped this out; and, screened by a door or a tall pot of flowers or a curtain, he made a pencil caper over its surface. The result was some studies in bold lines, of many of the most striking figures and groups of the evening. The notes of the ladies and their drapery were invaluable. He did not spare Lucie. He made four or five sketches of her, such as he could dash off in thirty seconds or so, strikingly life-like and expressive. The stately dames, and tall, trim old men, the girls in semi-antiquated gowns, all came in for a study. When the guests had gone, and he sat in his room by a window smoking a cigarette before going to bed, he looked over these sketches with great self-complacency.
