Chapter IV With Dancing Steps
Dinner that night was a gay function. A few of the dance guests had been invited to dine and more would come later.
Dorothy appeared in a daring little dancing frock of scarlet chiffon, whose low bodice showed her girlish, dimpled shoulders and rounded, baby-like arms. She was quite in her element, for by virtue of her position she was queen of the occasion, and by virtue of her charms and fascination she was easily belle of the ball.
Leila, in pale green, was beautiful, but her exquisite blonde beauty faded and paled beside Dorothy’s sparkling witchery.
Mrs. Duncan, shining in the reflected light of her daughter, was calmly gracious of manner, and in her white silk clouded with black lace looked charmingly attractive.
But far from being outshone by her younger guests, Miss Wadsworth appeared in the full glory of a rose-colored satin, with much point lace and many jewels.
“Don’t come near me, child,” she cried, as she saw Dorothy’s scarlet frills. “Why didn’t you let me know you were going to wear red? Never mind; keep the length of the room between us for this evening, and hereafter we’ll compare notes before we dress.”
Dorothy laughed, and promised to stay away from Miss Wadsworth, and keep near Mrs. Crane, who in pale corn-color harmonized with Dorothy’s brilliant garb.
But the red frock was not often seen beside the yellow one, for Dorothy was beset on all sides by would-be partners. Her dances were divided, and the intervals between them were carefully portioned out to eager swains, some of whom met the little witch for the first time that evening.
“Isn’t this my dance?” said Arnold, coming up to her as she sat in a window-seat with Emory Gale.
“I hope so,” said Gale, “for perhaps you’ll be able to keep this young person in order. She’s flirting desperately all over the place, and has even tried her beguiling arts on me.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Dorothy, pouting. “I shouldn’t waste them on you—you’re too unappreciative!” Then, turning to Arnold, with an exaggerated gesture of appeal, she said, “Let me fly with you, oh lord of my life! Every one else bores me to extinction, and I live only in hope of being again with you!”
Though these fervid words were uttered in deep, vibrant tones, Dorothy’s glances strayed wickedly toward Gale, and the humorous twinkle in her eyes proved that her speech was merely a joke born of her high spirits and love of foolery.
But Arnold grasped her arm and drew her almost roughly out of the dancing-room, through the great hall, and out on a small veranda, where they found themselves alone in the moonlight.
“Dorothy,” he exclaimed, in angry accents, “what do you mean by guying me like that? Don’t you know I won’t stand it?”
“I know you will,” cooed Dorothy, as with her little finger-tips she daintily patted his bronzed cheek.
The touch of those soft fingers put an end to scolding, as Dorothy knew it would, but though Justin’s arm went round her, and his voice became tender and lover-like, he could not resist a little more plain speaking.
“It’s bad enough now, when we’re only engaged, but if after we’re married you go flirting about with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, there’ll be trouble.”
“There’ll be trouble, any way, after I’m married;” and Dorothy drew down the corners of her dimpled mouth with the expression of one who foresees dire disaster.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, Justin, you’re so severe and hard and dictatorial! I just know you won’t let me do anything after we’re married!”
“Then, why do you marry me?”
“Because I want to. But I do want you to be a little kinder to me, a little more lenient, a little more gentle—”
Naughty Dorothy squeezed out a tear or two, which, as she had fully intended, brought Arnold to his knees, figuratively. He did not actually kneel, but he gathered the little witch in his arms, and said, “Don’t cry, dear. You shall have everything you want, and nothing you don’t want, after we’re married! There, how does that suit your little ladyship?”
“That’s all right then;” and Dorothy smiled through what was left of her two tears. “And now, Justin, you must take me back, for I’ve promised this dance to Mr. Chapin.”
“Chapin? I say, Dorothy, it’s awfully good of you to give him a dance, when you have so many more interesting men at your feet. Dance with him all you like, dear, but don’t dance much with Cam Crosby, will you?”
“Jealous of your own cousin! Fie, fie! I won’t promise. He has asked me for a whole heap of dances.”
“I don’t doubt that, but I give you fair warning: every time I see you with him, I’m coming to take you away. I only wish I could dance myself, and then no other man should have a single turn.”
“You’re an old fogy, Justin! You can’t dance, and you can’t play bridge, and you can’t do much of anything gay and jolly!” Then, as a dark frown settled on her lover’s face, she whispered, close to his ear, “But I love you,” and then turned quickly, to find Ernest Chapin waiting for her.
“Don’t let’s dance; let’s sit it out,” he said, leading her back to the very same little veranda where she had just been with Arnold. It was a dear little nook, with moonlight gleaming through the tracery of vines, which made weird black shadows on its light stone floor.
It was secluded from passers-by, and as Chapin paused and drew Dorothy to him, in the dark of its shadows, he whispered passionately, “Dear, I can’t stand it! I can’t see you with him, and see his air of ownership of you!”
“But I’m going to marry him. Why shouldn’t he show an air of ownership?” Dorothy spoke coldly, but she was trembling, and her large eyes lifted themselves to Chapin’s face with a despairing glance.
He clasped her two little hands tightly in his own.
“You are selling yourself to him!” he exclaimed, in tense, low tones. “You know you love me, and yet you are marrying Arnold because he is rich.”
“It is not so! You have no right to talk to me like that! I adore him; I worship the ground he walks on!”
“You blessed baby!” said Chapin, putting his arm around her. “The very emphasis you put on those ridiculous words proves how false they are. Dorothy, dearest, tell me just once that you do love me, and I will let you go.”
“You must let me go, any way, Ernest. Don’t hold me, please don’t! Justin may come back at any moment.”
“I don’t care. I wish he would! Dorothy, how can you marry that man, almost old enough to be your father? How can you sell yourself for wealth and high position?”
But Dorothy’s senses had returned. “I’m not doing anything of the sort, Mr. Chapin, and I command you to stop talking to me like that. As you know, I never even saw you until after I was engaged to marry Mr. Arnold. If I had met you sooner—” There was a little break in Dorothy’s voice, and Chapin whispered despairingly: “Oh, darling, if you only had!”
“And now,” Dorothy went on, “there is nothing more to be said on this subject, now or ever. It is not honorable in you, Mr. Chapin, nor in me. In a few weeks I shall marry Mr. Arnold, and I hope I may trust you never to say anything of this nature to me again.”
“I hope you may trust me, Dorothy,” said the man brokenly, “but I know I cannot trust myself.”
“At least, we can try,” said Dorothy, in a low voice, and then without another word they returned to the dancing-room.
“Mine!” cried Emory Gale, as he caught sight of Dorothy, and went toward her with open arms.
“What!” exclaimed Arnold, who was hovering near.
“Heavens, old man! don’t kill me! I only meant this is my dance with Miss Duncan.”
“Oh,” said Arnold, who was miserably jealous and couldn’t hide it. He dropped into a chair and watched the girl he loved enfolded in another man’s arms. Not being a dancer, Arnold couldn’t look on such an embrace impersonally. His reason told him that every girl on the dancing floor was necessarily encircled by her partner’s arms, but that didn’t take away his hatred of seeing Dorothy so close to Emory Gale. He would have objected equally to any other man, but Gale was a daredevil, and Arnold knew him better than Dorothy did. Still, he couldn’t forbid her dancing with one of his own house guests, and, incidentally, one of his own lawyers. Gale and Crosby were the successors of the firm that had been his father’s lawyers, and so Justin employed them, although a firm doing business in New York would often have been more convenient.
“Your little friend seems peeved,” said Gale to Dorothy as they dipped and sidestepped.
“Rather!” said Dorothy, carelessly; “he can’t bear to see me dance. He doesn’t dance at all, you know, and he thinks it’s a personal affront to him when I do. Besides, these new dances are a sort of revelation to him. When he was young, he saw the polka redowa and such things, he tells me, and then he went into his shell and never came out till he was engaged to me, and now these ‘aesthetic’ dances shock him all to pieces.”
“But he must be educated up to them,” returned Gale, as he skilfully piloted his light-footed partner among the maze of people.
“Yes,” and Dorothy shook her pretty head decidedly; “for I expect to dance as long as I live.”
“Let’s give him a benefit lesson now, then, and help his education along as rapidly as possible!” Gale smiled into Dorothy’s eyes, and the girl understood. Both of them were excellent dancers and well versed in all the newest and most intricate steps. Both knew how to exaggerate or prune the effects of the more conspicuous dances, and Dorothy gleefully consented to be led around toward the corner where Arnold waited for her return. She was always ready for mischief and she liked Emory Gale, but, too, she honestly wanted her future husband to realize that it was her intention to dance all she chose and as she chose, both before and after her marriage to him.
So, as they neared Arnold, their step became more daring, their pose more relaxed, and though it meant nothing to the dancers, Arnold saw it and went white with fury. Without looking at her fiancé, Dorothy kept her earnest gaze on Gale, partly to watch his intended direction, and as much to tease the man who looked angrily after her.
“He’s madder’n hops,” announced Gale, cheerfully; “shall we go round again?”
Dorothy had lost her head a little in the whirling rhythm, and she only whispered, “Yes,” and went on dipping and swaying to the enticing music.
“Let’s do that last new ‘Humoresque,'” murmured Gale, as they neared Arnold, and as they passed him, both were engrossed in the intricacies of the difficult dance.
Arnold, in his ignorance, mistook their absorption for interest in each other, and ground his teeth in rage as they went by without a look toward him.
The music stopped, and flushed and a little breathless, but indescribably lovely, Dorothy, leaning on Gale’s arm, sauntered to Arnold’s corner.
“There, Justy, how do you like our very latest achievement?” and Dorothy bridled with pretty vanity.
If there was one thing Arnold hated it was to be called “Justy,” and Dorothy knew it. But her spirit of mischief was in the ascendant to-night, and she couldn’t resist adding fuel to the flame she had already roused.
“It’s absolutely disgraceful, Dorothy, and I forbid you ever to give such an exhibition again!”
“Oh, come, now, old chap,” said Gale, “don’t be so old-fogy and back-woodsy and hidebound—”
“And old-maidish,” put in Dorothy, “and dog-in-the-mangerish! Just because you can’t dance, you needn’t revile my skill in that direction.”
“And, by Jove, skill it is!” exclaimed Crosby, who had come up. “I say, Dorothy, I never saw any one put that through as you did! The next is ours, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it isn’t,” laughed Dorothy, “the next is Mr. Gale’s.”
This was too much for Arnold. Taking Dorothy’s arm a little firmly, he led her into the next room, which was the big, cosy living-room.
“Help, help!” called Dorothy, laughing over her shoulder, and Gale and Crosby followed the pair.
Unafraid of Arnold when there were others present, Dorothy flung herself on a big sofa among a heap of cushions.
“Now scold,” she said, looking up at her tortured lover.
Who could scold such a vision of loveliness? Her perfect arms extended along the cushions, her dainty feet crossed, and her roguish, daring face smiling with full assurance of her own power.
Arnold stood in front of her, and tried to steel himself against this witchery.
“I am going to scold you, Dorothy,” he began, but she interrupted, “No, you’re not!” and sprang up and faced him.
There was a tense, breathless moment, as if the two wills measured against each other. Dorothy stood, one hand resting on a library table, her parted lips matching her scarlet frock, her eyes and hair black as night, and her compelling glance holding Arnold’s own. Watching closely, she saw his mouth relax a trifle and she knew she had won.
The reaction left her a little embarrassed, for both Gale and Crosby were watching the scene. In her nervousness, Dorothy fingered the articles on the table, and chanced to touch a Spanish dagger lying there. It was a dangerous looking affair, and though there for the purposes of a paper-cutter, it was rarely used, and even the parlormaid touched it gingerly when dusting. Dorothy’s face broke into smiles, and grasping the thing, she struck an attitude like a miniature and very modern Judith, and cried:
“Stop looking daggers at me, Justin, or I will return your glance thus!”
With a mock-tragic gesture, she pointed the dagger at Arnold’s heart, and then, tossing it back on the table, she smiled and said:
“No, I’ll punish you this way, instead,” and rising on tip-toe she kissed him lightly on the cheek.
Not yet accustomed to this volatility, Arnold looked first bewildered, then pleased, then embarrassed. “Dorothy!” he mumbled, “before people!”
“Oh, these people don’t mind; do you, boys?” and Dorothy smiled carelessly at her audience of two. Then she picked up the dagger again. “I love the feel of these things,” she said, running her little forefinger lightly along the blade. “I think my ancestors were pirates and Spanish dancing girls! A stab in the dark!” and making a lunge toward Gale, she assumed the attitude of a small but very ferocious pirate.
“Dorothy! for heaven’s sake, behave yourself!” cried Arnold; “put that thing down!”
“All right,” and Dorothy laid the dagger in its place; “but I do feel dramatic. Mayn’t I play tableaux, Justin?”
“Play whatever you like, if you don’t touch that fiendish thing! I’ll have it thrown away!”
“No, don’t!” cried Dorothy, “I just love it! Give it to me, won’t you, dear! For a wedding present? But you’ll have to, if you give me ‘all your worldly goods.’ Well, I still feel dramatic. If I can’t play with the dagger, I’ll have to choose more simple themes. Mr. Gale, will you play ‘Living Pictures’ with me?”
“Yes, if you’ll show me how, I’m at your service. What must I do?”
Gale stepped forward and stood in a waiting position.
Dorothy looked at him thoughtfully, her head on one side, like a perplexed connoisseur.
“Why,” she said, laughing, “you look exactly like the man in that foolish old picture of ‘The Huguenot Lovers.’ See, this way.”
Dorothy caught up a light couch cover and draped it over Gale’s shoulder, and then, announcing, in showman-like voice, “The famous painting, ‘The Huguenot Lovers,'” she threw herself into Gale’s arms and assumed a most exaggerated look of despairing affection.
Gale quickly caught the allusion and cleverly took the pose shown in the well-known picture. It was over in a moment, and laughing Dorothy sprang back, saying, “I always thought I had dramatic talent; now I’m sure of it! Why don’t you applaud, Justin?”
“Never mind him,” said Campbell Crosby, “he’s got a grouch to-night. Come, play a ‘Living Picture’ with me, Dorothy; what shall it be? Oh, I know! Do you remember that fearful old thing called ‘Alone at Last!’?”
“Yes!” said Dorothy, laughing, “it is in my great aunt’s parlor. It’s like this.”
Crosby, with clever caricature, reproduced the stilted pose of the hero of the old classic, and Dorothy hung around his neck in a dragging way, with a look of utter infatuation on her lovely face.
Arnold missed the burlesque effect and saw only the embrace. He rose steadily, though he felt as if the earth were rocking beneath him.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he said, in a low, even voice, and walked slowly toward the door.
“Oh, wait, Justy,” cried Dorothy, “I’m going to give ‘The Conscript’s Departure’ next, and I want you to act it with me.”
“Thank you,” said Arnold, not looking at her, “I have no talent for that sort of thing. You have all the mummers you need.”
“But you are acting a picture now!” called Dorothy, as he reached the door; “you’re giving a splendid representation of ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’!”
Arnold strode away, and Gale said, curiously, “Aren’t you afraid to stir him up like that?”
“I’d be afraid not to,” and Dorothy spoke without a smile; “I must get him used to my foolishness, if I expect to have any fun at all after I’m married.”
“But will you be married, if you go much further in this mad career that you’re pursuing tonight?”
“Oh, yes, if I want to. I’ll give Justin a little while to calm down and then I’ll go and ‘make up.’ I’m a great little old make-upper, I am.”
“But he’s pretty mad, just now,” said Crosby, who knew Arnold thoroughly.
“No matter,” and Dorothy tossed her curly head. “He’s been pretty mad lots of times, but I can manage him.”
“I wish you weren’t going to marry him,” blurted out Crosby.
“So do I,—sometimes,” and Dorothy drew a sigh that might have been genuine, or merely for dramatic effect.
“If he ever scolds you I’ll kill him!” Crosby declared, and Dorothy, smiling, returned, “He’ll never scold me. If he does, I’ll kill him, myself! Come on, there’s the music again! Let’s go and dance.”