Part 12 (1/2)

”You're a cruel girl.”

”I know it, and I am going home to-morrow.”

”Are you daft, Florence?” said Marion, amazed at her friend's abruptness.

”No, I mean it,” replied Florence. ”But it is not because you have treated me badly, my dear. I did not mean to tell you so suddenly, but something happened a short time ago which makes me feel I had better leave. Please don't ask me about it, dear,” she continued, seeing the questioning expression in Marion's eyes. ”I only feel that it will be wiser for me to go away.”

”Why, Florence,” said Marion sympathetically, ”can't you trust me?”

”It is not because I can't trust you, my dear,” she replied. ”You understand me, don't you? I think it would be kinder for me not to remain, and then,” she added hesitatingly, ”I want to be away where I can better think it over.”

”Yes, I understand,” Marion answered. ”You are such a queer girl, though; how could you keep so quiet about it?”

”I didn't feel that I could talk about it. I am queer, I suppose, but you will forgive me if I go away, won't you? I have thought it over for three days and I feel it is best.”

”I will forgive you, of course, my dear; but, O, Florence, do be sure you are doing right. Don't make a mistake.”

”That is why I am going away. I will know better then.”

At this moment a man quietly entered the room. He had delicately cut features and a determined mouth, softened by gentle, brown eyes. His dark hair was slightly tinged with grey upon the temples, and his colorless complexion indicated a man whose life was little spent in the open air, a fact somewhat emphasized by his slightly stooping shoulders and thin, nervous hands. His clothes were plain and neat, but without any of the p.r.o.nounced effects of fas.h.i.+on, and his entire appearance was decidedly that of one who is termed in America ”a business man.”

”Why don't you speak when you enter a room, Roswell?” said Mrs.

Sanderson, looking up suddenly, startled at seeing her husband. ”Did you hear what we were talking about?”

”I am not an eavesdropper, my dear,” he said quietly. ”I merely came to tell you that I am back from the bank. Are you ready to go to the tea?”

”I had no idea it was so late,” said Marion looking at her watch. ”We must hurry, Florence.” The two women went to put on their hats, and when they returned all three entered the carriage waiting at the door and were driven quickly toward the rooms of the ”Renaissance Club” in lower Wabash Avenue.

The inst.i.tution which bore the name of ”Renaissance Club” was a ladies'

literary society devoted to studying the effect of humanism upon the literature of the world. It held meetings in its tastefully arranged rooms on each alternate Thursday afternoon throughout the season, and on these occasions original papers were read and discussed with an amount of erudition which astonished the members unacquainted with the usual works of reference, and rendered the club the admiration and pride of feminine Chicago. It is true that literary ability was by no means the first requisite for admission, and that the members.h.i.+p list might be used with impunity for directing invitations to the smartest dances; but despite these facts, there was a decidedly literary flavor about the meetings of the club, enhanced perhaps by the presence of two or three ladies who had actually experienced the delight of seeing their writings in print. Of course the talking was confined to a confident set, who enjoyed the excitement of a literary discussion; for as no one else desired to undergo the tortures of speaking in public, the vast majority a.s.sumed a dignified expression of wisdom, and remained discreetly silent. The club had discussed Dante and Petrarch, Villani and Ariosto, even Lorenzo de Medici; it had laughed over Cervantes and blushed profusely over Boccaccio and Rabelais, but the meeting to which the Sandersons and Florence Moreland had gone was called for no such intellectual purpose. Once during the season the club gave a tea to which men were invited, and on such occasions the entertainment was confined to the efforts of elocutionists and balladists. Whether the club dared not expose its intellectual attainments to public criticism, or did not care to have its literary efforts judged by the standard of the Board of Trade, was never sufficiently clear; but in spite of the fact that no literature was ever discussed at the annual tea, this meeting was invariably the most fully attended of any during the season.

When the Sanderson party entered there was such a hum of subdued voices, that the efforts of a young woman engaged in singing were scarcely audible above the animated whisperings of the people who thronged the club-rooms. Numerous small tea tables supplied with all manner of dainty tea things were scattered about. Each of these was presided over by a pretty girl, and each was surrounded by a knot of black-coated youths.

Although young men were there in abundance, those of mature years were conspicuously absent; but it is one of the peculiarities of a busy city like Chicago, that while young employes are able to appear at afternoon gatherings, the heads of firms are invariably detained at their offices.

The balladist's song was followed by an uninterrupted flow of feminine voices, punctuated with occasional masculine laughs, coming like intermittent grumblings of thunder during a pattering storm of rain. The American girl who does not talk is a rarity, indeed, but, though climatic influences have parched her vocal cords, her harsh, hearty voice saying something is a pleasurable contrast to the subdued vacuity of the average English maiden of twenty. The animated clatter of an occidental gathering may seem discordant when compared with the solemnity of a London drawing-room; but in this artificial age it should prove refres.h.i.+ng to one who admits a fondness for open-hearted naturalness. There was an intimacy among the people gathered in the ”Renaissance Club” rooms which is rarely met with in the larger cities.

They were nearly all acquainted with one another, and most of them were people who met with such frequency that many restrictions of formality had pa.s.sed away. A person whose life is continuously pa.s.sed amid such surroundings may develop an inclination to magnify his own _entourage_ to the disparagement of the great world he knows so little of; but he will be spared a realization of the atomic nature of a person's position in that world, and he will never know the fitful interest cosmopolitan society takes in any individual.

Marion Sanderson looked upon this society as provincial, and she felt inexpressibly bored at the thought that she must meet absolutely the same people night after night, and know by premonition what each of them would have to say on any given subject. Her senses had once been dazzled by the varied glitter of the metropolitan kaleidoscope. Had she been given time to investigate the tawdry shams, of which it is so largely composed, she might have appreciated better the less brilliant world about her; but with her superficial experience inciting discontent, Marion wandered about, that afternoon, pitying the restricted resources of the people she met, and congratulating herself and her intimates upon the aid they had already rendered toward the development of Chicago society.

Florence Moreland, however, appreciated this society, which, surrounded by all the appurtenances of civilization, was still so natural and sincere. She regretted that she had decided to leave, and she entered so heartily into the spirit of Western life, that she was more than once tempted to alter her decision; but, remembering that her presence seemed to torture Harold, she realized that her own peace of mind would be more easily attained in her New Hamps.h.i.+re home. She wandered about the room, taking leave of her many friends, who were, of course, greatly surprised at the suddenness of her departure, until she was accosted by Mrs.

McSeeney. Her eyes beamed so triumphantly that Florence felt an instinctive dread of an encounter with a woman whom she knew to be Marion's enemy. Mrs. McSeeney spoke with a suavity which Florence felt to be entirely feigned, and she was at a loss to account for this sudden pleasantness of manner.

”I have just heard, my dear,” said Mrs. McSeeney, ”that you are going away, and I can't tell you how deeply we shall all miss you. What induced you to leave so suddenly?”

”I am called home because my father says he must have me there,”

Florence replied, thinking it the easiest excuse to make. ”I am the only child, and he gets extremely lonesome when I am long away.”

”You forget that while he is but one person, there are many others here.

You are inconsiderate of the claims of the majority,” said Mrs.