The crowded room was thick with tobacco smoke. A hundred men or so, garbed2 in furs and warm-colored wools, lined the walls and looked on. But the mumble3 of their general conversation destroyed the spectacular feature of the scene and gave to it the geniality4 of common comradeship. For all its bizarre appearance, it was very like the living-room of the home when the members of the household come together after the work of the day. Kerosene5 lamps and tallow candles glimmered6 feebly in the murky7 atmosphere, while large stoves roared their red-hot and white-hot cheer.
On the floor a score of couples pulsed rhythmically8 to the swinging waltz-time music. Starched9 shirts and frock coats were not. The men wore their wolf- and beaver-skin caps, with the gay-tasselled ear-flaps flying free, while on their feet were the moose-skin moccasins and walrus-hide muclucs of the north. Here and there a woman was in moccasins, though the majority danced in frail10 ball-room slippers11 of silk and satin. At one end of the hall a great open doorway12 gave glimpse of another large room where the crowd was even denser13. From this room, in the lulls14 in the music, came the pop of corks15 and the clink of glasses, and as an undertone the steady click and clatter16 of chips and roulette balls.
The small door at the rear opened, and a woman, befurred and muffled17, came in on a wave of frost. The cold rushed in with her to the warmth, taking form in a misty18 cloud which hung close to the floor, hiding the feet of the dancers, and writhing19 and twisting until vanquished20 by the heat.
"A veritable frost queen, my Lucile," Colonel Trethaway addressed her.
She tossed her head and laughed, and, as she removed her capes21 and street-moccasins, chatted with him gayly. But of Corliss, though he stood within a yard of her, she took no notice. Half a dozen dancing men were waiting patiently at a little distance till she should have done with the colonel. The piano and violin played the opening bars of a schottische, and she turned to go; but a sudden impulse made Corliss step up to her. It was wholly unpremeditated; he had not dreamed of doing it.
"I am very sorry," he said.
Her eyes flashed angrily as she turned upon him.
"I mean it," he repeated, holding out his hand. "I am very sorry. I was a brute22 and a coward. Will you forgive me?"
She hesitated, and, with the wisdom bought of experience, searched him for the ulterior motive23. Then, her face softened24, and she took his hand. A warm mist dimmed her eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
But the waiting men had grown impatient, and she was whirled away in the arms of a handsome young fellow, conspicuous25 in a cap of yellow Siberian wolf-skin. Corliss came back to his companion, feeling unaccountably good and marvelling26 at what he had done.
"It's a damned shame." The colonel's eye still followed Lucile, and Vance understood. "Corliss, I've lived my threescore, and lived them well, and do you know, woman is a greater mystery than ever. Look at them, look at them all!" He embraced the whole scene with his eyes. "Butterflies, bits of light and song and laughter, dancing, dancing down the last tail-reach of hell. Not only Lucile, but the rest of them. Look at May, there, with the brow of a Madonna and the tongue of a gutter-devil. And Myrtle—for all the world one of Gainsborough's old English beauties stepped down from the canvas to riot out the century in Dawson's dance-halls. And Laura, there, wouldn't she make a mother? Can't you see the child in the curve of her arm against her breast! They're the best of the boiling, I know,—a new country always gathers the best,—but there's something wrong, Corliss, something wrong. The heats of life have passed with me, and my vision is truer, surer. It seems a new Christ must arise and preach a new salvation—economic or sociologic—in these latter days, it matters not, so long as it is preached. The world has need of it."
The room was wont27 to be swept by sudden tides, and notably28 between the dances, when the revellers ebbed30 through the great doorway to where corks popped and glasses tinkled31. Colonel Trethaway and Corliss followed out on the next ebb29 to the bar, where fifty men and women were lined up. They found themselves next to Lucile and the fellow in the yellow wolf-skin cap. He was undeniably handsome, and his looks were enhanced by a warm overplus of blood in the cheeks and a certain mellow32 fire in the eyes. He was not technically33 drunk, for he had himself in perfect physical control; but his was the soul-exhilaration which comes of the juice of the grape. His voice was raised the least bit and joyous34, and his tongue made quick and witty—just in the unstable35 condition when vices36 and virtues37 are prone38 to extravagant39 expression.
As he raised his glass, the man next to him accidentally jostled his arm. He shook the wine from his sleeve and spoke40 his mind. It was not a nice word, but one customarily calculated to rouse the fighting blood. And the other man's blood roused, for his fist landed under the wolf-skin cap with force sufficient to drive its owner back against Corliss. The insulted man followed up his attack swiftly. The women slipped away, leaving a free field for the men, some of whom were for crowding in, and some for giving room and fair play.
The wolf-skin cap did not put up a fight or try to meet the
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