The Metropolis Part 4

"We had some delays," he answered. "Once we thought we were arrested."

"Arrested!" she exclaimed; and others took up the word, crying, "Oh, Ollie! tell us about it!"

Oliver told the tale, and meantime his brother had a chance to look about him. All of the party were young--he judged that he was the oldest person there. They were not of the flashily dressed sort, but no one would have had to look twice to know that there was money in the crowd. They had had their first round of drinks, and started in to enjoy themselves. They were all intimates, calling each other by their first names. Montague noticed that these names always ended in "ie,"--there was Robbie and Freddie and Auggie and Clarrie and Bertie and Chappie; if their names could not be made to end properly, they had nicknames instead.

"Ollie" told how they had distanced the policeman; and Clarrie Mason (one of the younger sons of the once mighty railroad king) told of a similar feat which his car had performed. And then the young lady who sat beside him told how a fat Irish woman had skipped out of their way as they rounded a corner, and stood and cursed them from the vantage-point of the sidewalk.

The waiter came with the liquor, and Montague thanked his neighbour, Miss Price. Anabel Price was her name, and they called her "Billy"; she was a tall and splendidly formed creature, and he learned in due time that she was a famous athlete. She must have divined that he would feel a little lost in this crowd of intimates, and set to work to make him feel at home--an attempt in which she was not altogether successful.

They were bound for a shooting-lodge, and so she asked him if he were fond of shooting. He replied that he was; in answer to a further question he said that he had hunted chiefly deer and wild turkey. "Ah, then you are a real hunter!" said Miss Price. "I'm afraid you'll scorn our way."

"What do you do?" he inquired.

"Wait and you'll see," replied she; and added, casually, "When you get to be pally with us, you'll conclude we don't furnish."

Montague's jaw dropped just a little. He recovered himself, however, and said that he presumed so, or that he trusted not; afterward, when he had made inquiries and found out what he should have said, he had completely forgotten what he HAD said.--Down in a hotel in Natchez there was an old head-waiter, to whom Montague had once appealed to seat him next to a friend. At the next meal, learning that the request had been granted, he said to the old man, "I'm afraid you have shown me partiality"; to which the reply came, "I always tries to show it as much as I kin." Montague always thought of this whenever he recalled his first encounter with "Billy" Price.

The young lady on the other side of him now remarked that Robbie was ordering another "topsy-turvy lunch." He inquired what sort of a lunch that was; she told him that Robbie called it a "digestion exercise."

That was the only remark that Miss de Millo addressed to him during the meal (Miss Gladys de Mille, the banker's daughter, known as "Baby" to her intimates). She was a stout and round-faced girl, who devoted herself strictly to the business of lunching; and Montague noticed at the end that she was breathing rather hard, and that her big round eyes seemed bigger than ever.

Conversation was general about the table, but it was not easy conversation to follow. It consisted mostly of what is known as "joshing," and involved acquaintance with intimate details of personalities and past events. Also, there was a great deal of slang used, which kept a stranger's wits on the jump. However, Montague concluded that all his deficiencies were made up for by his brother, whose sallies were the cause of the loudest laughter. Just now he seemed to the other more like the Oliver he had known of old--for Montague had already noted a change in him. At home there had never been any end to his gaiety and fun, and it was hard to get him to take anything seriously; but now he kept all his jokes for company, and when he was alone he was in deadly earnest. Apparently he was working hard over his pleasures.

Montague could understand how this was possible. Some one, for instance, had worked hard over the ordering of the lunch--to secure the maximum of explosive effect. It began with ice-cream, moulded in fancy shapes and then buried in white of egg and baked brown. Then there was a turtle soup, thick and green and greasy; and then--horror of horrors--a great steaming plum-pudding. It was served in a strange phenomenon of a platter, with six long, silver legs; and the waiter set it in front of Robbie Walling and lifted the cover with a sweeping gesture--and then removed it and served it himself. Montague had about made up his mind that this was the end, and begun to fill up on bread-and-b.u.t.ter, when there appeared cold asparagus, served in individual silver holders resembling andirons. Then--appet.i.te now being sufficiently whetted--there came quail, in piping hot little ca.s.seroles--; and then half a grape-fruit set in a block of ice and filled with wine; and then little squab ducklings, bursting fat, and an artichoke; and then a _cafe parfait_; and then--as if to crown the audacity--huge thick slices of roast beef! Montague had given up long ago--he could keep no track of the deluge of food which poured forth.

And between all the courses there were wines of precious brands, tumbled helter-skelter,--sherry and port, champagne and claret and liqueur. Montague watched poor "Baby" de Mille out of the corner of his eye, and pitied her; for it was evident that she could not resist the impulse to eat whatever was put before her, and she was visibly suffering. He wondered whether he might not manage to divert her by conversation, but he lacked the courage to make the attempt.

The meal was over at four o'clock. By that time most of the other parties were far on their way to New York, and the inn was deserted.

They possessed themselves of their belongings, and one by one their cars whirled away toward "Black Forest."

Montague had been told that it was a "shooting-lodge." He had a vision of some kind of a rustic shack, and wondered dimly how so many people would be stowed away. When they turned off the main road, and his brother remarked, "Here we are," he was surprised to see a rather large building of granite, with an archway spanning the road. He was still more surprised when they whizzed through and went on.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"To 'Black Forest,'" said Oliver.

"And what was that we pa.s.sed?"

"That was the gate-keeper's lodge," was Oliver's reply.

CHAPTER IV

They ran for about three miles upon a broad macadamized avenue, laid straight as an arrow's flight through the forest; and then the sound of the sea came to them, and before them was a mighty granite pile, looming grim in the twilight, with a draw-bridge and moat, and four great castellated towers. "Black Forest" was built in imitation of a famous old fortress in Provence--only the fortress had forty small rooms, and its modern prototype had seventy large ones, and now every window was blazing with lights. A man does not let himself be caught twice in such a blunder; and having visited a "shooting-lodge" which had cost three-quarters of a million dollars and was set in a preserve of ten thousand acres, he was prepared for Adirondack "camps" which had cost half a million and Newport "cottages" which had cost a million or two.

Liveried servants took the car, and others opened the door and took their coats. The first thing they saw was a huge, fireplace, a fireplace a dozen feet across, made of great boulders, and with whole sections of a pine tree blazing in it. Underfoot was polished hardwood, with skins of bear and buffalo. The firelight flickered upon shields and battle-axes and broad-swords, hung upon the oaken pillars; while between them were tapestries, picturing the Song of Roland and the battle of Roncesvalles. One followed the pillars of the great hall to the vaulted roof, whose gla.s.s was glowing blood-red in the western light. A broad stairway ascended to the second floor, which opened upon galleries about the hall.

Montague went to the fire, and stood rubbing his hands before the grateful blaze. "Scotch or Irish, sir?" inquired a lackey, hovering at his side. He had scarcely given his order when the door opened and a second motor load of the party appeared, shivering and rushing for the fire. In a couple of minutes they were all a.s.sembled--and roaring with laughter over "Baby" de Mille's account of how her car had run over a dachshund. "Oh, do you know," she cried, "he simply POPPED!"

Half a dozen attendants hovered about, and soon the tables in the hall were covered with trays containing decanters and siphons. By this means everybody in the party was soon warmed up, and then in groups they scattered to amuse themselves.

There was a great hall for indoor tennis, and there were half a dozen squash-courts. Montague knew neither of these games, but he was interested in watching the water-polo in the swimming-tank, and in studying the appointments of this part of the building. The tank, with the walls and floor about it, were all of marble; there was a bronze gallery running about it, from which one might gaze into the green depths of the water. There were luxurious dressing-rooms for men and women, with hot and cold needle-baths, steam-rooms with rubbers in attendance and weighing and lifting machines, electric machines for producing "violet rays," and electric air-blasts for the drying of the women's hair.

He watched several games, in which men and women took part; and later on, when the tennis and other players appeared, he joined them in a plunge. Afterward, he entered one of the electric elevators and was escorted to his room, where he found his bag unpacked, and his evening attire laid out upon the bed.

It was about nine when the party went into the dining-room, which opened upon a granite terrace and loggia facing the sea. The room was finished in some rare black wood, the name of which he did not know; soft radiance suffused it, and the table was lighted by electric candles set in silver sconces, and veiled by silk shades. It gleamed with its load of crystal and silver, set off by scattered groups of orchids and ferns. The repast of the afternoon had been simply a lunch, it seemed--and now they had an elaborate dinner, prepared by Robbie Walling's famous ten-thousand-dollar chef. In contrast with the uproar of the inn was the cloistral stillness of this dining-room, where the impa.s.sive footmen seemed to move on padded slippers, and the courses appeared and vanished as if by magic. Montague did his best to accustom himself to the gowns of the women, which were cut lower than any he had ever seen in his life; but he hesitated every time he turned to speak to the young lady beside him, because he could look so deep down into her bosom, and it was difficult for him to realize that she did not mind it.

The conversation was the same as before, except that it was a little more general, and louder in tone; for the guests had become more intimate, and as Robbie Walling's wines of priceless vintage poured forth, they became a little "high." The young lady who sat on Montague's right was a Miss Vincent, a granddaughter of one of the sugar-kings; she was dark-skinned and slender, and had appeared at a recent lawn fete in the costume of an Indian maiden. The company amused itself by selecting an Indian name for her; all sorts of absurd ones were suggested, depending upon various intimate details of the young lady's personality and habits. Robbie caused a laugh by suggesting "Little Dewdrop"--it appeared that she had once been discovered writing a poem about a dewdrop; some one else suggested "Little Raindrop," and then Ollie brought down the house by exclaiming, "Little Raindrop in the Mud-puddle!" A perfect gale of laughter swept over the company, and it must have been a minute before they could recover their composure; in order to appreciate the humour of the sally it was necessary to know that Miss Vincent had "come a cropper" at the last meet of the Long Island Hunt Club, and been extricated from a slough several feet deep.

This was explained to Montague by the young lady on his left--the one whose half-dressed condition caused his embarra.s.sment. She was only about twenty, with a wealth of golden hair and the bright, innocent face of a child; he had not yet learned her name, for every one called her "Cherub." Not long after this she made a remark across the table to Baby de Mille, a strange jumble of syllables, which sounded like English, yet was not. Miss de Mille replied, and several joined in, until there was quite a conversation going on. "Cherub" explained to him that "Baby" had invented a secret language, made by transposing letters; and that Ollie and Bertie were crazy to guess the key to it, and could not.

The dinner lasted until late. The wine-gla.s.ses continued to be emptied, and to be magically filled again. The laughter was louder, and now and then there were s.n.a.t.c.hes of singing; women lolled about in their chairs-one beautiful boy sat gazing dreamily across the table at Montague, now and then closing his eyes, and opening them more and more reluctantly. The attendants moved about, impa.s.sive and silent as ever; no one else seemed to be cognizant of their existence, but Montague could not help noticing them, and wondering what they thought of it all.

When at last the party broke up, it was because the bridge-players wished to get settled for the evening. The others gathered in front of the fireplace, and smoked and chatted. At home, when one planned a day's hunting, he went to bed early and rose before dawn; but here, it seemed, there was game a-plenty, and the hunters had nothing to consider save their own comfort.

The cards were played in the vaulted "gun-room." Montague strolled through it, and his eye ran down the wall, lined with gla.s.s cases and filled with every sort of firearm known to the hunter. He recalled, with a twinge of self-abas.e.m.e.nt, that he had suggested bringing his shotgun along!

He joined a group in one corner, and lounged in the shadows, and studied "Billy" Price, whose conversation had so mystified him.

"Billy," whose father was a banker, proved to be a devotee of horses; she was a veritable Amazon, the one pa.s.sion of whose life was glory.

Seeing her sitting in this group, smoking cigarettes, and drinking highb.a.l.l.s, and listening impa.s.sively to risque stories, one might easily draw base conclusions about Billy Price. But as a matter of fact she was made of marble; and the men, instead of falling in love with her, made her their confidante, and told her their troubles, and sought her sympathy and advice.

Some of this was explained to Montague by a young lady, who, as the evening wore on, came in and placed herself beside him. "My name is Betty Wyman," she said, "and you and I will have to be friends, because Ollie's my side partner."

Montague had to meet her advances; so had not much time to speculate as to what the term "side partner" might be supposed to convey. Betty was a radiant little creature, dressed in a robe of deep crimson, made of some soft and filmy and complicated material; there was a crimson rose in her hair, and a living glow of crimson in her cheeks. She was bright and quick, like a b.u.t.terfly, full of strange whims and impulses; mischievous lights gleamed in her eyes and mischievous smiles played about her adorable little cherry lips. Some strange perfume haunted the filmy dress, and completed the bewilderment of the intended victim.

"I have a letter of introduction to a Mr. Wyman in New York," said Montague. "Perhaps he is a relative of yours."

"Is he a railroad president?" asked she; and when he answered in the affirmative, "Is he a railroad king?" she whispered, in a mocking, awe-stricken voice, "Is he rich--oh, rich as Solomon--and is he a terrible man, who eats people alive all the time?"

"Yes," said Montague--"that must be the one."

"Well," said Betty, "he has done me the honour to be my granddaddy; but don't you take any letter of introduction to him."

"Why not?" asked he, perplexed.

"Because he'll eat YOU," said the girl. "He hates Ollie."

"Dear me," said the other; and the girl asked, "Do you mean that the boy hasn't said a word about me?"

"No," said Montague--"I suppose he left it for you to do."

"Well," said Betty, "it's like a fairy story. Do you ever read fairy stories? In this story there was a princess--oh, the most beautiful princess! Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Montague. "She wore a red rose in her hair."

"And then," said the girl, "there was a young courtier--very handsome and gay; and they fell in love with each other. But the terrible old king--he wanted his daughter to wait a while, until he got through conquering his enemies, so that he might have time to pick out some prince or other, or maybe some ogre who was wasting his lands--do you follow me?"

"Perfectly," said he. "And then did the beautiful princess pine away?"