# A Newport Aquarelle/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
On Monday evening all the beau monde of Newport assemble and meet together in the hall, or theatre, of the Casino.
It is a pretty building, with wide-roofed piazzas running around it on two sides. There are delicious corners and angles in these piazzas, where confidences may be whispered, and protestations might be made, if anybody had time to make protestations at Newport during the season.
The hall is a large apartment, with a stage at one end. The walls are of a pretty light tint, and the gallery with its rounded arches is of a graceful design. The polished hard wood floor is cleared on Monday evening for dancing.
On the evening in question, the hall was filled with an unusually large company of ​gayly dressed people. Every available seat was occupied, and the crowd of black coats in the doorways was as dense as it is at a Boston Papanti party. The corresponding number of pretty, fresh, unattended young girls on the benches was not, however, to be found.
The hum of the voices was very loud, almost deafening to a silent person when the sound was not drowned by the music. At the right-hand upper corner of the room the talk seemed to be the loudest. Here sat a group of people conversing busily and earnestly. This little knot of eighteen or twenty persons included those whom Gladys had yclept the "Boston gang." The central figure was that of a tall handsome lady, with a loud voice and brusque manner.
"I call it very shabby of Mrs. Fallow-Deer to leave me out of the hunt dinner; but it's a comfort to know that none of the rest of you are goin'," said the handsome brusque lady.
​"It was just like her, but I suppose Gladys Carleton was at the bottom of it. Were the invitations given out in Mrs. Fallow-Deer's name?"
The speaker was the lady with the three-syllabled name whom Larkington had met on board the Dolphin on the occasion of the yachting party.
"No," said the handsome brusque lady; "but everybody knows that she and Gray Grosvenor made out the list. As to Gladys Carleton, I can't say I blame her for not likin' Boston people."
"Why?" asked several voices.
"Because, when she came on there to make a visit last winter, she had a perfectly horrid time. She stayed with some people livin' on Newbury Street, whom she had met in Europe. They were from Philadelphia, and nobody knew them in Boston, though they had lived there five years. I got her an invitation to the assembly, but she would not go because her friends were not asked. They ​were very nice people, but somehow they did not 'get on' in Boston."
"Don't you think that the Hub is a pretty hard place for any stranger to 'get on' in?"
Mr. Curtis Sears was the speaker. He was a young Bostonian, with a cold thoughtful face, who looked as if he had been fed on ice-water during his infancy, instead of the less chilly fluid provided by nature for the human young. His question was answered by the handsome brusque lady.
"Yes, Mr. Sears, I quite agree with you. A stranger who comes to Boston for a few weeks, if he brings proper letters, is sure to receive a great deal of attention. We like a lion immensely. But with people who come to live amongst us, it is a very different matter. Then it is not a question of an acquaintanceship of a few weeks, but a permanent one. That makes such a difference."
"One of my old classmates at college married last year, and brought his wife, who was a New York belle, to Boston. She ​happened to have neither relatives nor friends in our city, and as he was little given to society, he had few personal relations with it. He belonged to one of the best families, but that served the little bride in no wise. People simply let her alone. A few of the best-mannered of the neighbors called upon her, and the husband s relatives asked her to dine once at their several houses, and there it stopped. She now rails against Boston, and lives but in the hope of inducing her husband to remove to New York."
"The truth of the matter is," said the pretty lady with the three-syllabled name, "that we don't want all the nice men to marry out of Boston. We all have cousins and sisters, even if our daughters are too young to think about from a matrimonial standpoint, and it is very aggravating to have these New York women just pick and choose all our best matches, while we are groaning under the overwhelming surplus of our female population."
​This remark was received by the ladies of the "gang" with a noticeable warmth and sympathy.
At this moment a group of people entered the ballroom, attracting the attention of all its occupants.
"These are the people from the hunt dinner," said the handsome lady.
The gentlemen of the party of new arrivals—there were perhaps fifteen of them—were dressed in red evening coats and white breeches. The costumes of the ladies were all pretty, and bore enough resemblance to each other to make the whole company appear to be in uniform. Mrs. Fallow-Deer, leaning on the arm of Mr. Belhomme, headed the train. In her hand she carried a long polo mallet of flowers. Mrs. Craig bore on her arm a saddle of pansies. Gladys Carleton, who entered the room last with Mr. Larkington, had been awarded, as a floral token from the dinner, a hunting-horn of scarlet flowers, which she wore over her ​shoulder, attached by a red ribbon. The entrance of the gay party was a picturesque and striking feature of the evening.
Their arrival seemed to brighten up the company already assembled, the hum of talk grew louder, and the crowd of dancers thicker than it had been earlier in the evening. The band was playing the wavy, intoxicating music of Strauss, and the circling couples danced rhythmically to the measures of the slow waltz.
"Will you dance with me, Miss Carleton?" asked Larkington.
"No, Mr. Larkington; I am not in the mood for dancing to-night. You should ask Mrs. Craig; she is an excellent dancer. I am too blue to care about waltzing."
"How can you say that you are blue when you have been the life of the dinner? You never looked more brilliantly well than to-night. Has anything annoyed you,—have I—"
"You flatter yourself too highly, Mr. ​Larkington. No, nothing has happened, and you have nothing to do with my indigo fit."
"Something has—"
Gladys again interrupted her interlocutor. "No, nothing has! I am simply tired of myself. There is the difficulty. You know something of the ways of people; have you ever before known a person in my position, with plenty to eat and drink, good clothes to wear, kind friends, and perfect health, who was perfectly weary of herself? It is not life that I am bored with, but myself. I am so tired of my own face that I cannot bear to look in the glass; as to my inner self, it is the most tiresome, utterly uninteresting thing to me in the wide world."
"I cannot understand your state of mind, Miss Gladys,—I beg pardon, I forgot,—Miss Carleton. Is it not Newport that you are bored with? Why not try some other place for a change?"
"Why? I cannot leave myself behind, no ​matter how fast I might travel, seeking new scenes, from Mt. Desert to Saratoga."
The Englishman looked mildly bewildered and answered nothing; gazing, meanwhile, straight into the deep eyes which knew no shadow of turning. He was certainly falling in love—perhaps he had already fallen in love—with this original, many-sided creature, as fascinating to him as she was incomprehensible. Larkington had steadily persisted in his attentions to Miss Carleton, and was not ashamed to have it known that he was her devoted admirer. He avoided making the acquaintance of other ladies as much as possible; and when he could not be at her side in society, he would stand alone, watching her every movement. The sort of cowardice which Gladys had found in some of her compatriot lovers, who endeavored to screen their admiration of her from the world, had no place in the actions of the Englishman. He waited for her every morning when she drove out for shopping or ​visiting in her cousin Amelia's pretty cart with the Carleton crest on harness and trappings. He followed on horseback, meeting her at every turn. In the afternoon he was always in attendance, even if there were other men about, and in society she was the only woman under fifty with whom he ever exchanged a remark.
This absolute devotion was rather attractive to Gladys. She was amused by the big, handsome man who was so entirely of the world worldly, in most respects, and yet seemed so perfectly unaccustomed to the ways of women.
He had a fund of interesting experiences to relate, and, being gifted with a powerful imagination and a vivid faculty of description, he was never at a loss for an anecdote of travel or adventure.
His stories of life in Australia were thrilling and full of crisp humor. He knew Russia and the other northern countries of Europe, as well as the more frequented ​southern lands. What he knew he had learned from actual contact with the world and its people, and there was no guide-book knowledge or other cheap information to be got from him. He had lived in Syria with a band of Bedouins, and his descriptions of their adventurous life never failed to interest Gladys. He had learned their strange music, and could sing their wild songs of love and battle wonderfully well. He had no theories about the men and women he had known. They had fallen across his path like people one meets in the glare of mid-day, when no shadow is cast upon the ground by the figures. He saw them clean cut, as they stood against the background of their own surroundings, and no shadowy reflection fell behind them as his explanation of their characters or actions. He saw people distinctly, and remembered them as they were. This quality of impersonal judgment was very fascinating to Gladys, who always enveloped the men and women she had ​known in a sort of misty garment of her own imaginings, which blurred their real outlines.
"If you will not dance, Miss Carleton, will you not come out on the piazza during the waltz, it is so very warm here?"
"By all means; let us go."
The two young people, whose names were already linked together by the busybodies of Newport, left the hot ballroom and passed out into the cool evening air. It is never hot at night in Newport. The sea-breeze sweeps across the island, refreshing those who have suffered the terrible heats of the city summer, and have come to the fresh health-giving climate for rest.
On the wide piazza groups of men were sitting together, talking and smoking, or silently enjoying the beauty of the perfect summer night.
In one of the shadowy corners stood two chairs lately vacated by Mrs. Craig and Count Clawski. Gladys placed herself in one of these, her companion seating himself at her side.
​"Now tell me things," said the girl, imperatively.
"What shall it be about to-night?"
"Oh! anything you like. You might finish telling me about the Bedouin chief who fell in love with the English lady."
"No, that is rather too long a story. May I not tell you something about Newport and what has happened to me since I first met you here in this very Casino?"
"Decidedly not. That would be quite too commonplace and every-day an experience."
Larkington was silent and meditatively stroked his moustache, from which action he seemed to derive a certain comfort.
As they sat quite silent, a light flashed close to the face of Gladys,—a tiny golden spark,—and was quickly lost again in the darkness.
"What a pretty firefly, and how bright!"
"You should take the firefly as your device, Miss Carleton, for it resembles you more than anything else that I have seen."
​"If it is a compliment, thank you kindly. You know I like pretty speeches as well as Mrs. Craig likes bonbons. But exactly why am I like a firefly? I have no wings."
"In the song about Zuleika's eyes which you liked, they are compared to the light of the firefly. When they are turned upon her lover all is bright and beautiful, but when the lids drop before their light, like the wings of the firefly, the world is dark."
"Did you ever know any one called Zuleika?"
"Yes."
"Where did she live?"
"In a little tent near the banks of the river Jordan."
"Was she pretty?"
"Hardly pretty; the term is too English to describe the black-browed Zuleika."
"Who was she?"
"The daughter of the sheik Abdul, with whom I lived some time."
"But how was it possible that you should ​know, or even see, his daughter? Is not that against the law of Mohammedan etiquette?"
"Yes. It happened strangely enough. Zuleika, you must know, spoke English, and was, among her people, a marvel of learning. It happened in this wise. The Bedouin who fell in love with the English lady, a brother of Abdul's, finally left his tribe, gave up his wives, and married Lady Margaret Hopeston, an eccentric woman with a large fortune. They lived in Damascus, this strangely matched couple, and led, it is said, an extremely happy life. One morning Lady Margaret was roused at an early hour by the sound of a cavalcade tramping in her courtyard. On descending to ascertain the reason for the commotion, her eyes were greeted by a strange sight. A whole band of Bedouins, several hundred in number, were crowded into the courtyard and lower story of the house. They were the tribe of her husband, who, having been worsted in battle and ​pursued by a hostile band, had come to take refuge within his gates, in the city of Damascus. For a week the whole band claimed the hospitality of their brother, and made their camp in the house and grounds of Lady Margaret. Her attention was attracted to Abdul, then young and handsome (he has often assured me) as the morning star, tall as the palm-tree, and strong as the whirlwind. Abdul was at that time in great trouble; his favorite wife had died, leaving him the one daughter of his house, Zuleika, then a child of five. Instead of intrusting her to the care of the women, Abdul was always with the little girl, who was as dear to him as the spring of water in the desert. Lady Margaret was struck by the devotion of this young father to his child, and became deeply interested in the pair. When the welcome time came for the departure of her strange guests, Lady Margaret asked of Abdul his daughter, his Zuleika, the breath of his body, the sun of his sky. It was all she asked of ​him, and he, the sheik of the tribe, could refuse no request made by the woman who had sheltered his people. 'I gave my Zuleika to the wife of my brother—to the woman with great learning—without a tear without a sigh.' I remember the way in which Abdul told me this, as if it were but yesterday. We were sitting on the sand outside the tent, a great fire blazing before us. Some of the men of the tribe were dancing one of their wild barbaric war dances on the other side of the fire. The light gleamed on their naked swords, their dark fierce faces, and the white drapery of their burnooses. It was a scene never to be forgotten. Zuleika remained with Lady Margaret and learned many things which were of use to her in after life. First of all, Lady Margaret taught her the English language. Zuleika's new friend showed much common-sense in her education of the girl. She knew that it would be impossible to make an English woman of her, and so, beyond the habits of ​cleanliness, and the arts of sewing and cooking, she made no attempt to anglicize the little maiden. Zuleika was taught to embroider the beautiful patterns you value so much in this country. I have a scarf she worked for me, which I will, show you some time. For seven years the daughter of Abdul remained the constant companion of Lady Margaret, but at the end of that time the restlessness which had ever been upon her grew too great to bear. She was a woman now, according to the reckoning of her people, and the life of restriction had never been pleasant to her. She fled away in the night to the desert, where 'she heard the stars calling her,' and with the help of one of her people found her father. Abdul rejoiced at the return of the daughter he had mourned as one dead, and kept her always near him. Her condition was a pitiable one. Her father had not the heart to force her to marry among his people, for the girl was naturally intelligent, and with the ​education she had received, rebelled at the thought of being linked to a savage. Another time I will tell you how I came to cast my lot with Abdul the Sheik; it is a long history of adventure which you may find interesting. It is enough now to say that for three months I was his guest. At that time I was quite ignorant of Arabic, though I soon learned enough to make myself understood. Zuleika, summoned by her father from the tent of the women, would serve as an interpreter between my host and myself, and during the evenings when we sat together smoking before the tent door, the girl would stand at Abdul's side, and translate to him all the things he so eagerly asked of me. He was peculiarly intelligent, and had learned from his daughter much concerning European customs and character. He was never tired of hearing about England and the manner of warfare practised by the English. In return for what I could tell him, the sheik would recite to me the ​traditions of his tribe, and sing the songs of his nation. Zuleika, as you will imagine, added much to the interest of these conversations, telling me of her strange life with Lady Margaret, and the terrible gulf which it had made between herself and her people. What a long story! and how tired you must be! Have you heard enough about Zuleika?" Larkington asked.
"No, not half enough! But there is Mrs. Fallow-Deer, looking for me. I suppose I must go. You may come to-morrow evening and tell me the rest of your romance of Arabia. Good-night."