University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
WHICH TELLS ABOUT MRS. DILLINGHAM'S CHRISTMAS AND THE
NEW YEAR'S RECEPTION AT THE PALGRAVE MANSION.

A brilliant Christmas morning shone in at Mrs. Dillingham's
window, where she sat quietly sunning the better side
of her nature. Her parlor was a little paradise, and all things
around her were in tasteful keeping with her beautiful self.
The Christmas chimes were deluging the air with music;
throngs were passing by on their way to and from church, and
exchanging the greetings of the day; wreaths of holly were
in her own windows and in those of her neighbors; and the
influences of the hour—half poetical, half religious—held
the unlovely and the evil within her in benign though temporary
thrall. The good angel was dominant within her,
while the bad angel slept.

Far down the vista of the ages, she was looking into a
stable where a baby lay, warm in its swaddling-clothes, the
mother bending over it. She saw above the stable a single
star, which, palpitating with prophecy, shook its long rays
out into the form of a cross, then drew them in until they
circled into a blazing crown. Far above the star the air was
populous with lambent forms and resonant with shouting
voices, and she heard the words: “Peace on earth, good-will
to men!” The chimes melted into her reverie; the kindly
sun encouraged it; the voices of happy children fed it, and
she was moved to tears.

What could she do now but think over her past life—a life
that had given her no children—a life that had been filled
neither by peace nor good-will? She had married an old

man for his money; had worried him out of his life, and he
had gone and left her childless. She would not charge herself
with the crime of hastening to the grave her father and
mother, but she knew she had not been a comfort to them.
Her willfulness; her love of money and of power; her pride
of person and accomplishments; her desire for admiration;
her violent passions, had made her a torment to others and to
herself. She knew that no one loved her for anything good
that she possessed, and knew that her own heart was barren
of love for others. She felt that a little child who would call
her “mother,” clinging to her hand, or nestling in her
bosom, could redeem her to her better self; and how could
she help thinking of the true men who, with their hearts in
their fresh, manly hands, had prayed for her love in the dawn
of her young beauty, and been spurned from her presence—
men now in the honorable walks of life with their little ones
around them? Her relatives had forsaken her. There was
absolutely no one to whom she could turn for the sympathy
which in that hour she craved.

In these reflections, there was one person of her own blood
recalled to whom she had been a curse, and of whom, for a
single moment, she could not bear to think. She had driven
him from her presence—the one who, through all her childhood,
had been her companion, her admirer, her loyal follower.
He had dared to love and marry one whom she did
not approve, and she had angrily banished him from her
side. If she only had him to love, she felt that she should be
better and happier, but she had no hope that he would ever
return to her.

She felt now, with inexpressible loathing, the unworthiness
of the charms with which she fascinated the base men around
her. The only sympathy she had was from these, and the
only power she possessed was over them, and through them.
The aim of her life was to fascinate them; the art of her life
was to keep them fascinated without the conscious degradation
of herself, and, so, to lead them whithersoever she

would. Her business was the manufacture of slaves—slaves
to her personal charms and her imperious will. Each slave
carried around his own secret, treated her with distant deference
in society, spoke of her with respect, and congratulated
himself on possessing her supreme favor. Not one of them
had her heart, or her confidence. With a true woman's instinct,
she knew that no man who would be untrue to his wife
would be true to her. So she played with them as with puppies
that might gambol around her, and fawn before her, but
might not smutch her robes with their dirty feet, or get the
opportunity to bite her hand.

She had a house, but she had no home. Again and again
the thought came to her that in a million homes that morning
the air was full of music—hearty greetings between parents
and children, sweet prattle from lips unstained, merry laughter
from bosoms without a care. With a heart full of tender regrets
for the mistakes and errors of the past, with unspeakable
contempt for the life she was living, and with vain yearnings
for something better, she rose and determined to join the
throngs that were pressing into the churches. Hastily prepared
for the street, she went out, and soon, her heart responding
to the Christmas music, and her voice to the Christmas
utterances from the altar, she strove to lift her heart in
devotion. She felt the better for it. It was an old habit, and
the spasm was over. Having done a good thing, she turned
her ear away from the suggestions of her good angel, and, in
turning away, encountered the suggestions of worldliness from
the other side, which came back to her with their old music.
She came out of the church as one comes out of a theater,
where for hours he has sat absorbed in the fictitious passion
of a play, to the grateful rush and roar of Broadway, the
flashing of the lights, and the shouting of the voices of the
real world.

Mr. Belcher called that evening, and she was glad to see
him. Arrayed in all her loveliness, sparkling with vivacity
and radiant with health, she sat and wove her toils about him.

She had never seemed lovelier in his eyes, and, as he thought
of the unresponsive and quiet woman he had left behind him,
he felt that his home was not on Fifth Avenue, but in the
house where he then sat. Somehow—he could not tell how
—she had always kept him at a distance. He had not dared
to be familiar with her. Up to a certain point he could carry
his gallantries, but no further. Then the drift of conversation
would change. Then something called her away. He
grew mad with the desire to hold her hand, to touch her, to
unburden his heart of its passion for her, to breathe his hope
of future possession; but always, when the convenient moment
came, he was gently repelled, tenderly hushed, adroitly diverted.
He knew the devil was in her; he believed that she
was fond of him, and thus knowing and believing, he was at
his wit's end to guess why she should be so persistently perverse.
He had drank that day, and was not so easily managed
as usual, and she had a hard task to hold him to his proprieties.
There was only one way to do this, and that was to
assume the pathetic.

Then she told him of her lonely day, her lack of employment,
her wish that she could be of some use in the world,
and, finally, she wondered whether Mrs. Belcher would like
to have her, Mrs. Dillingham, receive with her on New Year's
Day. If that lady would not consider it an intrusion, she
should be happy to shut her own house, and thus be able to
present all the gentlemen of the city worth knowing, not only
to Mrs. Belcher, but to her husband.

To have Mrs. Dillingham in the house for a whole day, and
particularly to make desirable acquaintances so easily, was a
rare privilege. He would speak to Mrs. Belcher about it, and
he was sure there could be but one answer. To be frank
about it, he did not intend there should be but one answer;
but, for form's sake, it would be best to consult her. Mr.
Belcher did not say—what was the truth—that the guilt in his
heart made him more careful to consult Mrs. Belcher in the
matter than he otherwise would have been; but now that his

loyalty to her had ceased, he became more careful to preserve
its semblance. There was a tender quality in Mrs. Dillingham's
voice as she parted with him for the evening, and a
half returned, suddenly relinquished response to the pressure
of his hand, which left the impression that she had checked
an eager impulse. Under the influence of these, the man
went out from her presence, flattered to his heart's core, and
with his admiration of her self-contained and prudent passion
more exalted than ever.

Mr. Belcher went directly home, and into Mrs. Belcher's
room. That good lady was alone, quietly reading. The
children had retired, and she was spending her time after her
custom.

“Well, Sarah, what sort of a Christmas have you had?”

Mrs. Belcher bit her lip, for there was something in her
husband's tone which conveyed the impression that he was
preparing to wheedle her into some scheme upon which he
had set his heart, and which he felt or feared, would not be
agreeable to her. She had noticed a change in him. He was
tenderer toward her than he had been for years, yet her heart
detected the fact that the tenderness was a sham. She could
not ungraciously repel it, yet she felt humiliated in accepting
it. So, as she answered his question with the words: “Oh,
much the same as usual,” she could not look into his face
with a smile upon her own.

“I've just been over to call on Mrs. Dillingham,” said he.

“Ah?”

“Yes; I thought I would drop in and give her the compliments
of the season. She's rather lonely, I fancy.”

“So am I.”

“Well now, Sarah, there's a difference; you know there is.
You have your children, and—”

“And she my husband.”

“Well, she's an agreeable woman, and I must go out sometimes.
My acquaintance with agreeable women in New York
is not very large.”

“Why don't you ask your wife to go with you? I'm fond
of agreeable women too.”

“You are not fond of her, and I'm afraid she suspects it.”

“I should think she would. Women who are glad to
receive alone the calls of married men, always do suspect their
wives of disliking them.”

“Well, it certainly isn't her fault that men go to see her
without their wives. Don't be unfair now, my dear.”

“I don't think I am,” responded Mrs. Belcher. “I notice
that women never like other women who are great favorites
with men; and there must be some good reason for it. Women
like Mrs. Dillingham, who abound in physical fascinations for
men, have no liking for the society of their own sex. I have
never heard a woman speak well of her, and I have never heard
her speak well of any other woman.”

“I have, and, more than that, I have heard her speak well
of you. I think she is shamefully belied. Indeed, I do not
think that either of us has a better friend than she, and I have
a proposition to present to you which proves it. She is willing
to come to us on New Year's Day, and receive with you—
to bring all her acquaintances into your house, and make
them yours and mine.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; and I think we should be most ungrateful and discourteous
to her, as well as impolitic with relation to ourselves
and to our social future, not to accept the proposition.”

“I don't think I care to be under obligations to Mrs. Dillingham
for society, or care for the society she will bring us.
I am not pleased with a proposition of this kind that comes
through my husband. If she were my friend it would be a
different matter, but she is not. If I were to feel myself
moved to invite some lady to come here and receive with me,
it would be well enough; but this proposition is a stroke of
patronage as far as I am concerned, and I don't like it. It
is like Mrs. Dillingham and all of her kind. Whatever may

have been her motives, it was an indelicate thing to do, and
she ought to be ashamed of herself for doing it.”

Mr. Belcher knew in his heart that his wife was right. He
knew that every word she had spoken was the truth. He
knew that he should never call on Mrs. Dillingham with his
wife, save as a matter of policy; but this did not modify his
determination to have his own way.

“You place me in a very awkward position, my dear,”
said he, determined, as long as possible, to maintain an amiable
mood.

“And she has placed me in one which you are helping
to fasten upon me, and not at all helping to relieve me
from.”

“I don't see how I can, my dear. I am compelled to go
back to her with some answer; and, as I am determined to
have my house open, I must say whether you accept or decline
her courtesy; for courtesy it is, and not patronage at
all.”

Mrs. Belcher felt the chain tightening, and knew that she
was to be bound, whether willing or unwilling. The consciousness
of her impotence did not act kindly upon her temper,
and she burst out:

“I do not want her here. I wish she would have done
with her officious helpfulness. Why can't she mind her own
business, and let me alone?”

Mr. Belcher's temper rose to the occasion; for, although he
saw in Mrs. Belcher's petulance and indignation that his victory
was half won, he could not quite submit to the abuse of
his brilliant pet.

“I have some rights in this house myself, my dear, and I
fancy that my wishes are deserving of respect, at least.”

“Very well. If it's your business, why did you come to
me with it? Why didn't you settle it before you left the
precious lady, who is so much worthier your consideration
than your wife? Now go, and tell her that it is your will
that she shall receive with me, and that I tamely submit.”

“I shall tell her nothing of the kind.”

“You can say no less, if you tell her the truth.”

“My dear, you are angry. Let's not talk about it any
more to-night. You will feel differently about it in the
morning.”

Of course, Mrs. Belcher went to bed in tears, cried over it
until she went to sleep, and woke in the morning submissive,
and quietly determined to yield to her husband's wishes. Of
course, Mr. Belcher was not late in informing Mrs. Dillingham
that his wife would be most happy to accept her proposition.
Of course, Mrs. Dillingham lost no time in sending
her card to all the gentlemen she had ever met, with the indorsement,
“Receives on New Year's with Mrs. Col. Belcher,
— Fifth Avenue.” Of course, too, after the task was
accomplished, she called on Mrs. Belcher to express her gratitude
for the courtesy, and to make suggestions about the
entertainment. Was it quite of course that Mrs. Belcher, in
the presence of this facile woman, overflowing with kind feeling,
courteous deference, pleasant sentiment and sparkling
conversation, should feel half ashamed of herself, and wonder
how one so good and bright and sweet could so have moved
her to anger?

The day came at last, and at ten Mrs. Dillingham entered
the grand drawing-room in her queenly appareling. She
applauded Mrs. Belcher's appearance, she kissed the children,
all of whom thought her the loveliest lady they had ever seen,
and in an aside to Mr. Belcher cautioned him against partaking
too bountifully of the wines he had provided for his
guests. “Let us have a nice thing of it,” she said, “and
nothing to be sorry for.”

Mr. Belcher was faithfully in her leading. It would have
been no self-denial for him to abstain entirely for her sake.
He would do anything she wished.

There was one thing noticeable in her treatment of the lads
of the family, and in their loyalty to her. She could win a
boy's heart with a touch of her hand, a smile and a kiss.

They clung to her whenever in her presence. They hung
charmed upon all her words. They were happy to do anything
she desired; and as children see through shams more
quickly than their elders, it could not be doubted that she
had a genuine affection for them. A child addressed the best
side of her nature, and evoked a passion that had never found
rest in satisfaction, while her heartiness and womanly beauty
appealed to the boy nature with charms to which it yielded
unbounded admiration and implicit confidence.

The reception was a wonderful success. Leaving out of
the account the numbers of gentlemen who came to see the
revived glories of the Palgrave mansion, there was a large number
of men who had been summoned by Mrs. Dillingham's
cards—men who undoubtedly ought to have been in better
business or in better company. They were men in good
positions—clergymen, merchants, lawyers, physicians, young
men of good families—men whose wives and mothers and
sisters entertained an uncharitable opinion of that lady; but
for this one courtesy of a year the men would not be called
to account. Mrs. Dillingham knew them all at sight, called
each man promptly by name, and presented them all to her
dear friend Mrs. Belcher, and then to Col. Belcher, who,
dividing his attention between the drawing-room and the
dining-room, played the host with rude heartiness and large
hospitality.

Mrs. Belcher was surprised by the presence of a number of
men whose names were familiar with the public—Members
of Congress, representatives of the city government, clergymen
even, who were generally supposed to be “at home” on
that day. Why had these made their appearance? She
could only come to one conclusion, which was, that they
regarded Mrs. Dillingham as a show. Mrs. Dillingham in a
beautiful house, arranged for self-exhibition, was certainly
more attractive than Mary, Queen of Scots, in wax, in a public
hall; and she could be seen for nothing.

It is doubtful whether Mrs. Belcher's estimate of their sex

was materially raised by their tribute to her companion's
personal attractions, but they furnished her with an interesting
study. She was comforted by certain observations, viz.,
that there were at least twenty men among them who, by their
manner and their little speeches, which only a woman could
interpret, showed that they were entangled in the same meshes
that had been woven around her husband; that they were as
foolish, as fond, as much deceived, and as treacherously entertained
as he.

She certainly was amused. Puffy old fellows with nosegays
in their button-holes grew gallant and young in Mrs. Dillingham's
presence, filled her ears with flatteries, received the
grateful tap of her fan, and were immediately banished to the
dining-room, from which they emerged redder in the face and
puffier than ever. Dapper young men arriving in cabs threw
off their overcoats before alighting, and ran up the steps in
evening dress, went through their automatic greeting and
leave-taking, and ran out again to get through their task of
making almost numberless calls during the day. Steady old
men like Mr. Tunbridge and Mr. Schoonmaker, who had had
the previous privilege of meeting Mr. Belcher, were turned
over to Mrs. Belcher, with whom they sat down and had a
quiet talk. Mrs. Dillingham seemed to know exactly how to
apportion the constantly arriving and departing guests.
Some were entertained by herself, some were given to Mr.
Belcher, some to the hostess, and others were sent directly to
the refreshment tables to be fed.

Mr. Belcher was brought into contact with men of his own
kind, who did not fail to recognize him as a congenial spirit,
and to express the hope of seeing more of him, now that he
had become “one of us.” Each one knew some other one
whom he would take an early opportunity of presenting to
Mr. Belcher. They were all glad he was in New York. It
was the place for him. Everything was open to such a man
as he, in such a city, and they only wondered why he had
been content to remain so long, shut away from his own kind.

These expressions of brotherly interest were very pleasant
to Mr. Belcher. They flattered him and paved the way for a
career. He would soon be hand-in-glove with them all. He
would soon find the ways of their prosperity, and make
himself felt among them.

The long afternoon wore away, and, just as the sun was
setting, Mrs. Belcher was called from the drawing-room by
some family care, leaving Mr. Belcher and Mrs. Dillingham
together.

“Don't be gone long,” said the latter to Mrs. Belcher, as
she left the room.

“Be gone till to-morrow morning,” said Mr. Belcher, in a
whisper at Mrs. Dillingham's ear.

“You're a wretch,” said the lady.

“You're right—a very miserable wretch. here you've
been playing the devil with a hundred men all day, and I've
been looking at you. Is there any article of your apparel that
I can have the privilege of kissing?”

Mrs. Dillingham laughed him in his face. Then she took
a wilted rose-bud from a nosegay at her breast, and gave it to
him.

“My roses are all faded,” she said—“worth nothing to me
—worth nothing to anybody—except you.”

Then she passed to the window; to hide her emotion? to
hide her duplicity? to change the subject? to give Mr. Belcher
a glance at her gracefully retreating figure? to show herself,
framed by the window, into a picture for the delight of
his devouring eyes?

Mr. Belcher followed her. His hand lightly touched her
waist, and she struck it down, as if her own were the velvet
paw of a lynx.

“You startled me so!” she said.

“Are you always to be startled so easily?”

“Here? yes.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yes. Perhaps so.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the perhaps.”

“You are easily pleased and grateful for nothing; and, now,
tell me who lives opposite to you?”

“A lawyer by the name of James Balfour.”

“James Balfour? Why, he's one of my old flames. He
ought to have been here to-day. Perhaps he'll be in this
evening.”

“Not he.”

“Why?”

“He has the honor to be an enemy of mine, and knows
that I would rather choke him than eat my dinner.”

“You men are such savages; but aren't those nice boys on
the steps?”

“I happen to know one of them, and I should like to know
why he is there, and how he came there. Between you and
me, now—strictly between you and me—that boy is the only
person that stands between me and—and—a pile of money.”

“Is it possible? Which one, now?”

“The larger.”

“But, isn't he lovely?”

“He's a Sevenoaks pauper.”

“You astonish me.”

“I tell you the truth, and Balfour has managed, in some
way, to get hold of him, and means to make money out of me
by it. I know men. You can't tell me anything about men;
and my excellent neighbor will have his hands full, whenever
he sees fit to undertake his job.”

“Tell me all about it now,” said Mrs. Dillingham, her eyes
alight with genuine interest.

“Not now, but I'll tell you what I would like to have you
do. You have a way of making boys love you, and men too
—for that matter—and precious little do they get for it.”

“Candid and complimentary,” she sighed.

“Well, I've seen you manage with my boys, and I would

like to have you try it with him. Meet him in the street,
manage to speak to him, get him into your house, make him
love you. You can do it. You are bold enough, ingenious
enough, and subtle enough to do anything of that kind you
will undertake. Some time, if you have him under your influence,
you may be of use to me. Some time, he may be
glad to hide in your house. No harm can come to you in
making his acquaintance.”

“Do you know that you are talking very strangely to me?”

“No. I'm talking business. Is that a strange thing to a
woman?”

Mrs. Dillingham made no reply, but stood and watched the
boys, as they ran up and down the steps in play, with a smile
of sympathy upon her face, and genuine admiration of the
graceful motions and handsome face and figure of the lad of
whom Mr. Belcher had been talking. Her curiosity was
piqued, her love of intrigue was appealed to, and she determined
to do, at the first convenient opportunity, what Mr.
Belcher desired her to do.

Then Mrs. Belcher returned, and the evening, like the
afternoon, was devoted to the reception of guests, and when,
at last, the clock struck eleven, and Mrs. Dillingham stood
bonneted and shawled ready to go home in the carriage that
waited at the door, Mrs. Belcher kissed her, while Mr. Belcher
looked on in triumph.

“Now, Sarah, haven't we had a nice day?” said he.

“Very pleasant, indeed.”

“And haven't I behaved well? Upon my word, I believe
I shall have to stand treat to my own abstinence, before I go
to bed.”

“Yes, you've been wonderfully good,” remarked his wife.

“Men are such angels!” said Mrs. Dillingham.

Then Mr. Belcher put on his hat and overcoat, led Mrs.
Dollingham to her carriage, got in after her, slammed the
door, and drove away.

No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Dillingham

went to talking about the little boy, in the most furious manner.
Poor Mr. Belcher could not divert her, could not induce
her to change the subject, could not get in a word edgewise,
could not put forward a single apology for the kiss he
intended to win, did not win his kiss at all. The little journey
was ended, the carriage door thrown open by her own
hand, and she was out without his help.

“Good-night; don't get out,” and she flew up the steps
and rang the bell.

Mr. Belcher ordered the coachman to drive him home, and
then sank back on his seat, and crowding his lips together,
and compressing his disappointment into his familiar expletive,
he rode back to his house as rigid in every muscle as if
he had been frozen.

“Is there any such thing as a virtuous devil, I wonder,” he
muttered to himself, as he mounted his steps. “I doubt it;
I doubt it.”

The next day was icy. Men went slipping along upon the
side-walks as carefully as if they were trying to follow a guide
through the galleries of Versailles. And in the afternoon a
beautiful woman called a boy to her, and begged him to give
her his shoulder and help her home. The request was so
sweetly made, she expressed her obligations so courteously,
she smiled upon him so beautifully, she praised him so
ingenuously, she shook his hand at parting so heartily,
that he went home all aglow from his heart to his finger's
ends.

Mrs. Dillingham had made Harry Benedict's acquaintance,
which she managed to keep alive by bows in the street and
bows from the window,—managed to keep alive until the lad
worshiped her as a sort of divinity and, to win her smiling
recognition, would go out of his way a dozen blocks on any
errand about the city.

He recognized her—knew her as the beautiful woman he
had seen in the great house across the street before Mr. Belcher
arrived in town. Recognizing her as such, he kept the

secret of his devotion to himself, for fear that it would be
frowned upon by his good friends the Balfours. Mr. Belcher,
however, knew all about it, rejoiced in it, and counted
upon it as a possible means in the accomplishment of his
ends.