The Colonel's Dream
Page 23
_Twenty-three_
The Opera House was brilliantly lighted on the night of the AssemblyBall. The dancers gathered at an earlier hour than is the rule in thelarge cities. Many of the guests came in from the country, andreturned home after the ball, since the hotel could accommodate only apart of them.
When Ben Dudley, having left his horse at a livery stable, walked upMain Street toward the hall, carriages were arriving and dischargingtheir freight. The ladies were prettily gowned, their faces werebright and animated, and Ben observed that most of the gentlemen woredress suits; but also, much to his relief, that a number, sufficientto make at least a respectable minority, did not. He was rapidlymaking up his mind to enter, when Colonel French's carriage, drawn bya pair of dashing bays and driven by a Negro in livery, dashed up tothe door and discharged Miss Graciella Treadwell, radiantly beautifulin a new low-cut pink gown, with pink flowers in her hair, a thingold chain with a gold locket at the end around her slender throat,white slippers on her feet and long white gloves upon her shapelyhands and wrists.
Ben shrank back into the shadow. He had never been of an enviousdisposition; he had always looked upon envy as a mean vice, unworthyof a gentleman; but for a moment something very like envy pulled athis heartstrings. Graciella worshipped the golden calf. _He_worshipped Graciella. But he had no money; he could not have taken herto the ball in a closed carriage, drawn by blooded horses and drivenby a darky in livery.
Graciella's cavalier wore, with the ease and grace of long habit, anevening suit of some fine black stuff that almost shone in the lightfrom the open door. At the sight of him the waist of Ben's own coatshrunk up to the arm-pits, and he felt a sinking of the heart as theypassed out of his range of vision. He would not appear to advantage bythe side of Colonel French, and he would not care to appear otherwisethan to advantage in Graciella's eyes. He would not like to make morepalpable, by contrast, the difference between Colonel French andhimself; nor could he be haughty, distant, reproachful, or anythingbut painfully self-conscious, in a coat that was not of the propercut, too short in the sleeves, and too tight under the arms.
While he stood thus communing with his own bitter thoughts, anothercarriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses, drew up to thecurb in front of him. The horses were restive, and not inclined tostand still. Some one from the inside of the carriage called to thecoachman through the open window.
"Ransom," said the voice, "stay on the box. Here, you, open thiscarriage door!"
Ben looked around for the person addressed, but saw no one near buthimself.
"You boy there, by the curb, open this door, will you, or hold thehorses, so my coachman can!"
"Are you speaking to me?" demanded Ben angrily.
Just then one of the side-lights of the carriage flashed on Ben'sface.
"Oh, I beg pardon," said the man in the carriage, carelessly, "I tookyou for a nigger."
There could be no more deadly insult, though the mistake was notunnatural. Ben was dark, and the shadow made him darker.
Ben was furious. The stranger had uttered words of apology, but histone had been insolent, and his apology was more offensive than hisoriginal blunder. Had it not been for Ben's reluctance to make adisturbance, he would have struck the offender in the mouth. If he hadhad a pistol, he could have shot him; his great uncle Ralph, forinstance, would not have let him live an hour.
While these thoughts were surging through his heated brain, the youngman, as immaculately clad as Colonel French had been, left thecarriage, from which he helped a lady, and with her upon his arm,entered the hall. In the light that streamed from the doorway, Benrecognised him as Barclay Fetters, who, having finished a checkeredscholastic career, had been at home at Sycamore for several months.Much of this time he had spent in Clarendon, where his father's wealthand influence gave him entrance to good society, in spite of anancestry which mere character would not have offset. He knew youngFetters very well by sight, since the latter had to pass Mink Runwhenever he came to town from Sycamore. Fetters may not have knownhim, since he had been away for much of the time in recent years, buthe ought to have been able to distinguish between a white man--agentleman--and a Negro. It was the insolence of an upstart. Old JoshFetters had been, in his younger days, his uncle's overseer. Anoverseer's grandson treated him, Ben Dudley, like dirt under his feet!Perhaps he had judged him by his clothes. He would like to showBarclay Fetters, if they ever stood face to face, that clothes didnot make the man, nor the gentleman.
Ben decided after this encounter that he would not go on the floor ofthe ballroom; but unable to tear himself away, he waited untileverybody seemed to have gone in; then went up the stairs and gainedaccess, by a back way, to a dark gallery in the rear of the hall,which the ushers had deserted for the ballroom, from which he could,without discovery, look down upon the scene below. His eyes flew toGraciella as the needle to the pole. She was dancing with ColonelFrench.
The music stopped, and a crowd of young fellows surrounded her. Whenthe next dance, which was a waltz, began, she moved out upon the floorin the arms of Barclay Fetters.
Ben swore beneath his breath. He had heard tales of Barclay Fetterswhich, if true, made him unfit to touch a decent woman. He left thehall, walked a short distance down a street and around the corner tothe bar in the rear of the hotel, where he ordered a glass of whiskey.He had never been drunk in his life, and detested the taste of liquor;but he was desperate and had to do something; he would drink till hewas drunk, and forget his troubles. Having never been intoxicated, hehad no idea whatever of the effect liquor would have upon him.
With each succeeding drink, the sense of his wrongs broadened anddeepened. At one stage his intoxication took the form of an intenseself-pity. There was something rotten in the whole scheme of things.Why should he be poor, while others were rich, and while fiftythousand dollars in gold were hidden in or around the house where helived? Why should Colonel French, an old man, who was of no betterblood than himself, be rich enough to rob him of the woman whom heloved? And why, above all, should Barclay Fetters have education andmoney and every kind of opportunity, which he did not appreciate,while he, who would have made good use of them, had nothing? With thissense of wrong, which grew as his brain clouded more and more, therecame, side by side, a vague zeal to right these wrongs. As he grewdrunker still, his thoughts grew less coherent; he lost sight of hisspecial grievance, and merely retained the combative instinct.
He had reached this dangerous stage, and had, fortunately, passed itone step farther along the road to unconsciousness--fortunately,because had he been sober, the result of that which was to followmight have been more serious--when two young men, who had come downfrom the ballroom for some refreshment, entered the barroom and askedfor cocktails. While the barkeeper was compounding the liquor, theyoung men spoke of the ball.
"That little Treadwell girl is a peach," said one. "I could tote abunch of beauty like that around the ballroom all night."
The remark was not exactly respectful, nor yet exactly disrespectful.Ben looked up from his seat. The speaker was Barclay Fetters, and hiscompanion one Tom McRae, another dissolute young man of the town. Bengot up unsteadily and walked over to where they stood.
"I want you to un'erstan'," he said thickly, "that no gen'l'man wouldmensh'n a lady's name in a place like this, or shpeak dissuspeckerly'bout a lady 'n any place; an' I want you to unerstan' fu'thermo' thatyou're no gen'l'man, an' that I'm goin' t' lick you, by G--d!"
"The hell you are!" returned Fetters. A scowl of surprise rose on hishandsome face, and he sprang to an attitude of defence.
Ben suited the action to the word, and struck at Fetters. But Ben wasdrunk and the other two were sober, and in three minutes Ben lay onthe floor with a sore head and a black eye. His nose was bleedingcopiously, and the crimson stream had run down upon his white shirtand vest. Taken all in all, his appearance was most disreputable. Bythis time the liquor he had drunk had its full effect, and completeunconsciousness supervened to save h
im, for a little while, from therealisation of his disgrace.
"Who is the mucker, anyway?" asked Barclay Fetters, readjusting hiscuffs, which had slipped down in the melee.
"He's a chap by the name of Dudley," answered McRae; "lives at MinkRun, between here and Sycamore, you know."
"Oh, yes, I've seen him--the 'po' white' chap that lives with the oldlunatic that's always digging for buried treasure----
_'For my name was Captain Kidd, As I sailed, as I sailed.'_
But let's hurry back, Tom, or we'll lose the next dance."
Fetters and his companion returned to the ball. The barkeeper called aservant of the hotel, with whose aid, Ben was carried upstairs and putto bed, bruised in body and damaged in reputation.