Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (271 page)

One
night
in
August
they
got
into
the
phaeton
attired
in
their
full-dress
suits
and
drove
out
to
a
dance
at
the
Shevlins'
country
house, situated
just
outside
of
Baltimore.
It
was
a
gorgeous
evening.
A
full moon
drenched
the
road
to
the
lustreless
color
of
platinum,
and
late-blooming
harvest
flowers
breathed
into
the
motionless
air
aromas
that were
like
low,
half-heard
laughter.
The
open
country,
carpeted
for rods
around
with
bright
wheat,
was
translucent
as
in
the
day.
It
was almost
impossible
not
to
be
affected
by
the
sheer
beauty
of
the
sky— almost.

"There's
a
great
future
in
the
dry-goods
business,"
Roger
Button was
saying.
He
was
not
a
spiritual
man—his
esthetic
sense
was
rudimentary.

"Old
fellows
like
me
can't
learn
new
tricks,"
he
observed
profoundly.
"It's
you
youngsters
with
energy
and
vitality
that
have
the great
future
before
you."

Far
up
the
road
the
lights
of
the
Shevlins'
country
house
drifted into
view,
and
presently
there
was
a
sighing
sound
that
crept
persistently
toward
them—it
might
have
been
the
fine
plaint
of
violins or
the
rustle
of
the
silver
wheat
under
the
moon.

They
pulled
up
behind
a
handsome
brougham
whose
passengers were
disembarking
at
the
door.
A
lady
got
out,
then
an
elderly
gentleman,
then
another
young
lady,
beautiful
as
sin.
Benjamin
started;
an almost
chemical
change
seemed
to
dissolve
and
recompose
the
very elements
of
his
body.
A
rigor
passed
over
him,
blood
rose
into
his cheeks,
his
forehead,
and
there
was
a
steady
thumping
in
his
ears.
It was
first
love.

The
girl
was
slender
and
frail,
with
hair
that
was
ashen
under
the moon
and
honey-colored
under
the
sputtering
gas
lamps
of
the
porch. Over
her
shoulders
was
thrown
a
Spanish
mantilla
of
softest
yellow, butterflied
in
black;
her
feet
were
glittering
buttons
at
the
hem
of her
bustled
dress.

Roger
Button
leaned
over
to
his
son.
"That,"
he
said,
"is
young Hildegarde
Moncrief,
the
daughter
of
General
Moncrief."

Benjamin
nodded
coldly.
"Pretty
little
thing,"
he
said
indifferently. But
when
the
negro
boy
had
led
the
buggy
away,
he
added:
"Dad, you
might
introduce
me
to
her."

They
approached
a
group
of
which
Miss
Moncrief
was
the
centre. Reared
in
the
old
tradition,
she
curtsied
low
before
Benjamin.
Yes, he
might
have
a
dance.
He
thanked
her
and
walked
away—staggered away.

The
interval
until
the
time
for
his
turn
should
arrive
dragged
itself out
interminably.
He
stood
close
to
the
wall,
silent,
inscrutable,
watching
with
murderous
eyes
the
young
bloods
of
Baltimore
as
they
eddied around
Hildegarde
Moncrief,
passionate
admiration
in
their
faces. How
obnoxious
they
seemed
to
Benjamin;
how
intolerably
rosy! Their
curling
brown
whiskers
aroused
in
him
a
feeling
equivalent
to indigestion.