The Fastest Girl in New York - Installment 1
Colonel Cabot's sensational urban adventure tale begins with an introduction to Cleopatra Clayton
The Fastest Girl in New York; or, The Beauty in Man’s Clothes. She rides a fast horse—captivates gay damsels—fascinates fast men—plays billiards like a grand master—fiddles with the grace of Paganini—dances a la Taglioni—sings like an angel—visits all kinds of sporting places—and charms all sorts of people. The most brilliant and fascinating book ever published.
Chapter I. Cleopatra.
“Billiards, eh?”
“Yes, my dear uncle, you must go up and play with me. I have not played a game in a week, and to-night is a nasty, villainous, night and there will be nobody here, of course; and so I must dragoon you. My hand is out, and will forget its cunning if I do not have a little practice. And your friend—what is his name—you know—that amateur player who so excels at the game—Billy—Billy something, I do not remember.”
“McArdle!”
“Yes, that’s it—Billy McArdle. You said you invited him, and that he had promised to come here some evening, and if I do not get a little practice, I fear he will too easily get away with me.”
“Get away with you; oh, dear, Cleo, I wish you would give up slang, It’s bad enough in a man, but for a woman—”
“Oh, pshaw! pshaw! my dear uncle, you are too prudish. There is nothing in it—yes, there is, though. A great deal of the slang of the period is most expressive—more expressive, if less elegant, than the refined phrases of the beau monde; that’s what you call them—the upper crust, the top-sawyers.”
“There it goes again. The upper-crust; the top-sawers.”
“Bless me, my dear uncle, is that slang? Well, well, it’s no use talking—I like slang. Like it when I choose to use it, you know. The best of them use it—the most refined I have heard get off slang phrases, only they are more careful than I am in company. Why, only a few days ago, I heard Miss Poindexter, that pink of perfection and paragon of prudes, say, ‘I wouldn’t have it—’”
“Wouldn’t have what?”
“Oh, she referred to something her devoted lover, Gil Fitzroy, told her—she meant she didn’t taken it in—didn’t believe it, you know. And Kate Harding, who thinks herself the very acme of refinement—what do you suppose I heard her say the other day? referring to the marriage of Ned Sampson: ‘He’s put his foot in it.’ Now, that is not very elegant, my dear uncle, but it is most expressive, and I can’t see what there is vulgar about it. Charlie has put his foot in it, in my opinion, though it is none of my funeral. He has made a mistake—his goose is cooked!”
“His goose is cooked; oh, dear, Cleo, you will be the death of me! Why can’t you—”
“My dear uncle, I wouldn’t be thy murderer for the world! I will be ever so proper now, if you will only go up stairs and give me a turn at billiards. I feel just like knocking the balls about to-night. Come; aunt’s asleep, the nurse is there, and you won’t be needed.”
“Anything you say, Cleo—anything in the world I would do to please you, my splendid niece; but I do wish you would try and be a little more circumspect in your actions and conversation, before folks. You are too splendid a woman, Cleo, to give yourself away—”
“Tut, tut!—what have you to say to that, Uncle Will; that’s first-class slang!”
“It is slang—I know it; but I will do what you wouldn’t—beg your pardon ten thousand times for using it. That confounded, rattle-headed partner of mine uses it, and a score of expressions on a par with it, fifty times a day. I suppose I caught it from him, and inadvertently used it. Excuse me, Cleo; I’ll be more careful in the future, you may depend.”
“Oh, I’ll excuse you, uncle. I don’t see any harm in the expression, any way. I suppose you meant by giving myself away, that I—I—”
“Make people talk, Cleo; you know how they will talk.”
“Oh, let them talk, uncle mine; I care not. When their tongues get tired, let them give them a rest, and then go at it again. If people didn’t talk they wouldn’t say anything, you know. I really believe, my dear uncle, I am keeping some people from dying of ennui; and, certainly, it is pleasant to know that one is prolonging the lives of fellow-mortals, even though the undertakers suffer. The great trouble with you, uncle mine, is, you now only greatly respect but you greatly fear Mrs. Grundy, while I don’t care a fig for the venerable old lady, and all the prudes in her train may roll their eyes in holy horror, and their teeth may all be on edge—what care I; nothing, nothing at all! For all old Mother Grundy, my dear uncle, and all the young Grundys, I shall do as I please, as I have for years. Let them gossip and talk, shrug their shoulders, roll their eyes, and purse their lips, it is nothing to me, nothing! My contempt for the old woman and the entire brood of Grundys is sovereign—supreme! If they derive any pleasure from discussing me and my affairs—and I suppose the dear creatures do—I, the one discussed, and most nearly concerned, am willing they should enjoy themselves. Remember, this life is short, and enjoyment here, that is certain, is worth much more to them than enjoyment in the future, on the principal that ‘a bird and the hand is worth two in the bush’—they may have to employ themselves in a different way in the next life.
“If I have afforded them food for occasional gossip, I promise them they shall have a good square meal. Yet, my dear uncle, I don’t wish to have them go hungry if I can furnish provender; and I think I can cater to their peculiar appetite, if any one can.”
“I think you can, Cleo.”
“Yes! if I have frightened old Mother Grundy and her numerous female progeny from their propriety, I will yet shock them; if I have scandalized the old woman and her daughters, I will yet horrify them; if I have set their tongues a-wagging at intervals because of my doings—because I drive my span alone when I see fit; because I mount and ride alone; smoke cigarettes (they ought to take my dead mother to task for this); drink champagne; play billiards with this or that gentleman for gloves or handkerchiefs; shoot the rifle and pistol; put on the gloves for a bout with Tom Dick or Harry; because of numerous other things I have done and shall do, not recognized as en regle for woman, in the book of etiquette—I promise them they shall have little rest for those active members—their tongues—hereafter; very little rest, uncle mine. Not a fig for the whole brood, from the old cackling hen to her youngest chicken, cares Cleo Clayton!”
The speaker rose as she spoke, and shook herself before a mirror reaching from floor to ceiling, adjusting the splendid attire that adorned her person, in the manner peculiar to the sex, raising the front of her dress sufficiently to disclose the tiny, handsome feet encased in elegant boots, and just enough to reveal the swelling outlines of the limbs above the ankles, the sight of which would have ravished the soul of an anchorite!
A magnificent woman! magnificent in her peerless beauty! magnificent in her faultless form! magnificent in her queenly bearing! Cleopatra Clayton, the magnificent! Dar as Italia’s darkest daughters, was she. As dark and Juno-like as she from whom her queenly name—Egypt’s splendid queen! Black as the blackest canopy that ever a midnight storm spread athwart the heavens, was the wealth of raven hair that crowned her queenly head, and soft and silky as the finest floss. Black as the sloe her large full eyes, and lustrous with a light as sparkling and bright as that which gleams and flashes in “a gem of purest ray serene.” Finely moulded her nose, delicately chiseled her lips, and as red as the deepest hue the coral wears. Small and beautiful her mouth, its portals—those ruby-hued lips—parting to reveal two rows of glistening pears within, all the whiter for the red lips, and those all the redder for the white teeth. Oval her face her dark beauty warm and bright in tone from the rich blood that coursed beneath the skin which, however, mantled her cheeks with no decided redness. Well rounded her form, moulded to perfection, with a bust, splendidly developed that was superb beauty itself; and the swelling contour of its front, as it gently rose and fell, would have chained in raptured gaze, the cold, passionless eyes of the most obdurate recluse, while the sculptor would have mourned that there were no such moulds for him, and the sybarite lost his senses in admiration.
Small her hands and beautifully formed, tapering her jeweled fingers, and long, oval and rosy her well-kept nails. Warm and bright as the rightest glow of a summer sunset, was her smile, and soft, clear and melodious her laughter, as the notes swelling forth from a silver flute. Not a fraction of an inch too short was she, but perfection in the matter of stature as she was in contour.
A paragon of beauty, peerless in her magnificence, was the brilliant brunette, Cleopatra Clayton! And all the men went mad for her, and all the women were consumed by envy!
Proud and lofty, haughty and imperious as a Czarina, was she at times, then a gay, vivacious, rattling rollicking creature, spurning conventionalism and treading etiquette under her feet. Knowing her beauty, she knew her great power in consequence, and this she wielded at times in a merciless way; at least, so thought some of the opposite sex who had felt it. Passionate she was, for hot blood ran in her veins, but such her strength, that she could easily control her feelings and temper as her favorite steed, when mounted on its back, with rein and whip in hand. When roused by anything that excited her anger, and she saw fit to give play to her feelings, she could be fitly likened during the momentary spell, to a raging lioness. Her rage, when she allowed it sway, burst forth like an angry flash of frowning cloud, and passed as quickly as a summer thunder squall, leaving no trace of passion on her face of wondrous beauty.
Independent and high-spirited, wayward and impulsive, impetuous, and if you will, reckless at times, in some of her actions, she did, as you will surmise, reader, cause great uneasiness to Mrs. Grundy and her daughters. Not only did she not care for the old lady and her progeny, but she positively enjoyed throwing them into a state of perturbation; but, though often and often overstepping the balance of decorum and propriety, careless of, and indifferent to wagging tongues, she never overstepped those bounds that would have lost to her the bright sheen of virtue’s escutcheon, unsullied in her case, and high above the reach of foul whisper’s fœtid breath, which could not tarnish. She called herself an “innovator!” she was—all of that, reader, a startling “innovator.”
A lion’s heart beat in that woman’s breast; a courage lived there that would have led a regiment through
“Flame and smoke and sabre stroke,”
mid
“Leaden rain and iron hail,”
over the bloody field of carnage to the very gates of “fiercest battle’s flaring hell”—into the jaws of death. Yes, Cleopatra Clayton, the magnificent beauty, could have led a forlorn hope.
If a lioness in her rage, she was a lamb in her mild mood; if her heart was lion-like, so it was tender as a child’s; if it would dare what mortal ever dared, it would also melt like wax at a tail of woe; if it delighted to harry Mrs. Grundy, it opened to the needy and suffering, and did not wait to be appealed to, but sought these out. If it had its way and sway in all things, the way and sway, were not always for self; if her beauty and the power she yielded caused bleeding hearts among admirers of the opposite sex, and gangrened the breasts of her own sex with envy, so did her beauty and her power to do (her purse), make smooth the bed of torture of many a fellow-mortal; if she cast on her left hand and passed unnoticed the elite, the very proper people, she gathered on her right the poor and lowly; and if the one condemned her, the other blessed her—from the one she turned her face, to the other she turned her heart.
Such was the magnificent beauty, Cleopatra Clayton.
A young woman of twenty-three summers, she was, with a will of her own and with wealth of her own; and having the will with the wealth, she had her way in all things; acknowledging no allegiance, brooking no restraint, suffering no interference, let that way be what it would.
She was the sole offspring resulting from the union of a New York merchant prince and a Cuban lady of the haut ton, and of great wealth in her own right.
All the beauty, grace, and charms of her mother descended to her, and not a little of the ability and force of character of her father. From the one came her quick temper, her imperious mien, her vivaciousness and her kindness of heart; for the other, her courage, her indomitable spirit, her inflexible will and her moral strength. Where her peculiar fancies, ways and tastes came from, it would be hard to tell, as her father and mother were eminently very proper people. Probably these were born to herself, her parents not being responsible. There was no disputing her peculiarities—they were most decided—wherever from or however they came to her.
An heiress she was in her own right—a million-heiress, that sum coming to her from her mother, who died some five years before our story opens—and yet no “fortune hunter” had ever aspired to the assailing of the citadel of beauty and power. The first was too dazzling—hope was blinded and could not find a foothold; while before her sharp, shooting glances, or under fire from her battery of raillery, they who sought fortune at the gates of her citadel would have gone to earth, or slunk away repulsed and demoralized.
Her father, very wealthy, resided in Europe after the death of her mother, but before he went very kindly selected a husband for his daughter—selected a husband for Cleopatra Clayton! Well, we can only say he did not know his daughter. The husband select was a wealthy widower of fifty, without children; a “fine man,” as the world said (Clayton pere’s most intimate friend), and would have made a good husband, no doubt; but, as Cleopatra said, “‘Not for Joe!’ ‘I don’t see it,’ father mine.” Said her father, “Marry this man or be disinherited!” Said Ellen, in return by mail, “Father dear, do as you please with your wealth, and if ever so circumstanced as to require an accommodation, do not fail to make application to your loving Cleo.”
If his note was short, sharp and decisive, hers, though something longer, was no less sharp—it must have cut terribly—and fully as decisive, emanating from whom it did. With a million in hand, she could afford to disregard the wishes of her paternal parent, in the matter of matrimony, at least. But without a dollar, Cleopatra Clayton was not the woman to be dragooned into a marriage by her father, even. He might propose from interest taken in her welfare; she would dispose according to her own inclinations.
Coerce Cleopatra Clayton! As well attempt to coerce the tempest-driven tides, or the north wind when let loose by Æolus!
The peerless beauty resided with her uncle and aunt, the latter an invalid, in a splendid house of her own, in Twenty—— street.
Her uncle, on her father’s side, was a wealthy merchant of high standing, about fifty years of age, who thought the world of his erratic niece, but who, though her peculiar proceedings pained him greatly, never unpleasantly referred to, or severely condemned them, either from his great love for her, or from a knowledge that he might as well inveigh against the winds.
At times he would greatly remonstrate, or attempt with ridicule to show that her actions were most unreasonably absurd, entirely beneath her, if not dangerous to her good name, but— well, that was all the good it did. Cleo would listen and laugh, or, with her winsome smile and charming manner silence his batteries in a moment; sometimes she would, as the mood took her, combat him; avow her utter contempt for the opinion of people in general, and Mrs. Grundy in particular, and declare she would harass the old lady to death, if only out of spite, by doing things against her own will which, but for the old lady’s tongue, she would not dream of. Knowing her as he did, this would generally, always, in fact, sooner or later, cause her relative to change front, and introduce another subject. In the combative mood, she was on the evening we introduce the reader to her splendid presence.
“No, dear uncle mine,” said the superb beauty, as she stood in front of the mirror, “I won’t defer to any of them. Let the whole brood cackle and cackle and cackle, if they like the music, I assure you, it does not annoy me! Come; let us to the field of the cloth of green. Aloft, we can amuse ourselves, alow we shall get stupid.”
As she spoke, the young woman raised her hands, snapped her thumbs and middle fingers, and pirouetted on her left foot, spinning round two or three times; the motion raised her dress sufficiently to reveal the finest moulded calf, in a snow-white casing, that ever the eye of mortal man fell on—a limb of the most exquisite beauty—such as no sculptor ever dreamed of in the idea, and this was reality, flesh and blood and bone and sinew. As she spun round, she improvised several lines of a song, tune and words, relating to Mother Grundy:
“Old Mother Grundy,
I will have my way,
Old Mother Grundy,
You may have your say,
Yes, you may gabble,
Talk, gabble, chatter,
I’ll do as I please,
That’s what’s the matter.”
Her uncle rose with a half smile on his lips and approached her. She held out her beautiful hands, a fortune flashed in the brilliant gems upon her fingers, and suggested a Virginia reel.
“Nonsense, Cleo,” said he, with a hearty laugh, as he took the jeweled fingers of his loved, if erratic, niece. “I know, my beautiful girl,” he said, as he gazed into the wondrous depths of her liquid eyes of blackest hue, now flashing with a laughing light, “I am well aware that Mrs. Grundy stands very low in your estimation—”
“And all the young Grundys, uncle mine,” said the young woman laughing, and swinging the hands of her relative to the right and left, as she broke in.
“I know; but now my beautiful Cleo, what is the use of provoking people—”
“Mrs. Grundy! Mrs. Grundy!” exclaimed she, again breaking in. “Call her by name, don’t say ‘people,’ uncle.”
“Well, Mrs. Grundy then. Now, my darling Cleo, I have every confidence in you, in your noble woman’s heart, in your purity, in your strength of character, in your ability to keep on the side of virtue, for you are strong—”
“Don’t call me a ‘strong-minded female,’ uncle, for Heaven’s sake!” again broke in the niece, in a tone of affected horror.
“Not in the sense you imply, Cleo; but you have a strong mind—you are strong, and you can resist and stand, where others would yield and fall; but, my dear girl, don’t you think it would be better not to provoke unfavorable criticisms? You may defy—well, Mrs. Grundy—but why irritate her, purposely, to harsh speech, dark hints, and malevolent innuendoes? You—”
“Oh it’s such fun, uncle, mine, such fun! I declare I enjoy it—enjoy myself in knowing that the old lady enjoys herself. Mother Grundy could hardly do without me, Uncle Will, and, upon my soul. I could not do without her. She has not had enough yet to satisfy her, and I mean to give her a feast—a feast! I will so startle her yet, so harrow up her soul, as to cause her eyes to start like spheres from their sockets, from holy horror! I will put new life into her sluggish tongue—I declare that organ of hers is altogether too lax—and set her jaws moving as they never moved before! Oh, she shall have a merry time of it, in the days and the weeks to come, and I will hold her under no obligations for the amusement I afford her. Now ain’t that clever, uncle?”
“Gracious goodness! what do you propose to do next, Cleo? You certainly can’t intend to go beyond—”
“Oh, yes, my dear uncle, broke in the beauteous niece; “the line beyond which I would not go, is yet afar. Why, I have done nothing as yet, positively nothing! I have really treated old Mother Grundy shabbily, I have indeed. But let the old woman and her countless female progeny keep their eyes open, and then they will see what they will see! I really hope they will be vigilant and not get sleepy. Let them be vigilant and they will be happy, my uncle dear.”
“For mercy’s sake, Cleo, what do you intend to startle folks with next?”
“I’ll tell you, Uncle Will—don’t you never say a word about it to anybody, will you?”
The queenly beauty smiled archly, and winked most comically with her right eye as she spoke.
“You absurd creature, you, to ask me not to say anything about that which you are seemingly desirous everybody should know! you may depend, however, that I shall say nothing about it, before or after your mad caprice, and to assure you that I won’t before, don’t inform me respecting your intentions—your mad pranks.”
“Ah, but I will, though, uncle, dear—it is too good to keep!”
As she spoke, the beauteous niece removed her right hand from her uncle’s, and laid the tips of her taping fingers, which sparkled with gems worth a king’s ransom almost, on his shoulder. Leaning forward she whispered in his ear, as if fearful lest the walls should hear: “I am going to be a man, uncle Will! going to be a man!”
Withdrawing her superb head, with its wealth of raven hair, she threw it far back, and with lips pursed to a small circle, eyes staring wide, as if she was horrified at her own words, and with countenance most serious, she stood.
“Be a man? be a man?” exclaimed her uncle, astonished and puzzled. “What do you mean? what do you mean, you madcap, you?”
The head of the beautiful woman came forward, her eyes resumed their natural expression, her countenance lost it seriousness, her lips relaxed their contraction, and a ringing, silvery laugh escaped them, filling the large and splendid apartment with melodious sound.
“Yes, my uncle, dear,” she said, gayly, her dark and lustrous eyes sparkling at the thought, and in anticipation of fun ahead; “I am going to be a man! going to be a man!” This she sung, and then, and interrogatively, exclaimed: “Won’t it be jolly, though? won’t it be jolly to be a man? Why, it will be red-hot, Uncle Will, and old Mother Grundy must look out and not burn her tongue. Won’t the old woman enjoy this red-hot dish, when she gets a little used to it, though? Oh, dear, I wish I could set the delectable dainty before her to-morrow, and hear her smack her lips, as she rolls the rich morsel under her tongue. But, alas! I cannot. She must wait a few days, poor thing, until I can serve her.”
Chapter II. Shadows Cast Before.
Mr. William Clayton, merchant, rather a fine-looking, medium-sized man, with a thoughtful, serious cast of countenance generally, looked at the magnificent young woman before him—his erratic, but much-loved niece—with an expression on his face that betokened a puzzled mind, and one in which unutterable wonder, and not a trifling disgust mingled. She looked at him, too, for a moment, with a roguish light dancing in her liquid eyes, an arch smile playing on her ruby lips, and then from the latter, came a ringing, musical laugh, the sweet slivery tones rising, floating off, and dying out in the far end of the deep apartment—the elegantly furnished and regally appointed drawing-room, where Cleopatra Clayton, Queen of Beauty, reigned supreme, acknowledging allegiance to none, and obeying only her own whims and will.
“My dear, dear Cleo, what do you mean?” at length broke out her uncle. “You are going to be a man! going to be a man! I don’t understand you. Pray do explain—how can you be a man, I should like to know?”
“Oh, that’s easy enough, my dear uncle. I can transform myself into a man at short notice, and no great expense. I wish I was a man, a real man, you know, and what woman does not? Of course, you know I can’t be a real man, uncle, mine, that is, I can’t have all that appertains to the ‘lords of creation.’ I can’t have whiskers—all men do not have whiskers, though—but I can have a moustache, Uncle Will.” As she spoke, the laughing beauty again bent forward, and again whispered in her uncle’s ear: “I have got one—a perfect beauty. It is black as the night, and the ends curl most gracefully. It fits to a charm, and is very becoming, Uncle Will. You never saw my mustache, did you?” Straightening back, she said: “Well, let me see; what else has a man that I can’t have? A great big foot—ha! ha! but look at his legs: thin, crooked and shapeless, and then look at mine? Oh, I don’t mean for you to look at them now, uncle dear; but wait till I get on the—you know—the ‘unmentionables’—the—the—p-a-n-t-s! Eh, won’t old Mother Grundy and her brood have a field day, then! They’ll be in the seventh heaven of horrific bliss. How they will pant when I get on the pants. Well, if man can beat on feet, I can lay over him on legs, every time. He has a great course voice, and most unmelodious laugh, which I can’t have. He has a stride, a swagger, and a boisterousness that I can imitate to a dot. He has—well, what else has he that I can’t have? What can he do that I can’t do? Can he tool a span of horses better? Can he stick to a horse closer? ride faster, and take more flying leaps? How many men can mount, even, my black stallion, Thunderbolt? Not one in a thousand. How many can shoot truer? Ira Paine, maybe, with a shot gun, and Judge Brackett, very likely, with a pistol; though I can snuff a candle several times out of five. Can they all beat me at billiards? not all. How many, except professionals, can compete with me on the flying trapeze? How many would dare what I dare and do, on that? When it comes to yachting, I can take my ‘trick at the wheel’ with many of the gentleman yachters. ‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea,’ and I’m at home. Jim Bennett has no greater love for the briny than I, while I would run a yacht where and when many of his brother yachtsmen would take water—that’s rather paradoxical, uncle, but you know what I mean. It is slang, but it expresses a great deal. The N. Y. Y. C. fellows are not generally fond of the blue water when the wind pipes freshly, and the sea runs high—inshore sailing suits them better.
“Men can chew and smoke more tobacco, and drink more rum than I can, but I don’t know that it is requisite a man should do these things. Man can strike from the shoulder—ah, so can I if occasion requires. You didn’t see me lay-out Frank Foster the other night, with the gloves. He went to the earth, uncle, flat on his back with a bloody nose. First blood for me, ha, ha, ha! Just feel of that muscle, Uncle Will—more than you have.”
As the laughing beauty spoke, she raised her right arm, bent her elbow, and feeling the hard and rounded lump of muscle with her left hand, turned it towards the other, saying:
“Feel of it, uncle. It is hard as a brick, and tough as steel.”
Her uncle didn’t feel of his niece’s muscle, but with a deprecatory remark, turned partially away. This, however, had no effect upon the strange, erratic, being, who went on as before:
“Yes, uncle, I’m going to be a man! oh, I wish I was a regular built man! Wouldn’t I make Rome howl for a season. Whew! but I would make things hum, and Jim Fisk would have to hide his diminished head! I would pale the ineffectual fires of the fastest bloods in town! They don’t know how to live, any of them. But ah! what would Mrs. Grundy do if I was a man? What would she do without me, a woman? The old lady does not take that interest in the other sex that she does in ours. She can even find excuses for a rake, but only condemnation for a woman who oversteps the chalk-mark of prudery. Bless her dear old soul, I wouldn’t be a real man for the world, on her account. She would die, positively, of inanition, if I, as a woman, did not afford her her regular daily hash. But what a joke it will be, uncle mine, if some of her daughters fall in love with me in my masquerade. Oh, but I shall be a lady-killer! The mincing maids of the metropolis will be smashed with that handsome, dark, debonair, dashing and elegantly appareled young man. And then I’ll make love to them, propose—offer my hand and heart, my fortune and things, and be accepted; and be referred to pa and ma! Oh, won’t it be jolly? Jolly! jolly! jolly! when I am a gay young man! I wonder what name I’ll take? My mother’s, before marriage, Montijo.”
“Cleo! Cleo! my darling, splendid niece, is this only idle talk, or do you mean—”
“Oh, I mean to be a man, uncle mine; that is, you know, as far as I can be—as far clothes will make me a man,” said the beauty, breaking in upon her uncle, who had exclaimed in a perplexed and somewhat troubled tone:
“You really mean to masquerade in gentleman’s clothing?”
“Most certainly, my dear uncle. I have seen something of life, for a young thing like me, from the standpoint of my own sex; and I wish to see more from the standpoint of your sex. In short, I wish to see the sights as man sees them, and I intend to—that settles it, uncle dear.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Cleo,” said her uncle, with a sigh of regret, though having something of resignation in it. “I suppose if you are determined upon this madness, it is settled beyond all I or any one else can do to the contrary in the matter of dissuasion; but for Heaven’s sake, my dear, my beautiful niece, do not go too far. If you cannot or will not be prudent—”
“Be as prudent as I can, eh?” broke in the beauty, with a laugh. “Oh, yes, uncle dear, I’ll be prudent—prudent for a fast boy. They call me the fastest girl in New York, now. I only want to see life—fun—from the masculine standpoint. As a man I am not going to be reckless—the imprudence will fall upon me as a woman, and for that I care not—and go to the bad. I’m not going to squander my means at the gaming-table. I’m not going to forge checks or ‘raise’ stock-certificates. I’m not going to steal all the funds of a bank. I’m not going to Garveyize ‘vouchers.’ I’m not going to get up ‘corners’ on ‘the street,’ or Cornell immense tracts of land. I’m not going to do murder most foul. I’m not going to ruin any confiding, trusting women, even if I do make love to them; on the contrary, I shall make them extremely happy—those of the Grundy family, at all events. There are a hundred things that imprudent men do, among which is going to Congress. But, uncle mine, I’m going to have some fun, you bet! I am going to see the elephant from the key of his trunk to the end of hist ail; and the beast can only be seen by a man, or one who purports to be a man. And now, my dear uncle—but let us sit down. As long as I have let you into this thing, I might as well say it out. You can aid me in this somewhat, or you need not if you do not wish to.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my beautiful Cleo, don’t ask me to aid you in this madness—don’t; I would do anything for you in reason—anything in the world, my beloved niece—could not refuse you—but pray don’t ask me to second you in this!”
“All right, my dear uncle, I can work the thing myself. I know your tailors—Bell & Co.—do you know I’ve had on some of your clothes; your coats are not bad fits, but your pants are a little too tight, Uncle Will. Your legs—”
“Sh—! sh—! Cleo, how you talk. You had ought to be ashamed—”
“Ashamed? of what, pray? your legs, my dear uncle? Not a bit of it; but mine are the biggest, and I couldn’t wear your pants with comfort. But perhaps you don’t like to hear me say ‘legs.’ All I can say is, God made our legs as he made our heads, and ‘legs,’ in our language, is the name for those very useful members. There is another term that might be employed, if we knew it always referred to the legs, and that is ‘limbs,’ but the prude who uses it, would apply it to the legs of a table or piano! A leg is a limb, I know, but a limb is not necessarily a leg. There is no vulgarity in the word ‘leg,’ my dear uncle, but there is in the substituted term of affectation. When Miss Prude says, ‘My limb pains me,’ she is more nice than wise, for it suggests the idea that her extreme daintiness of speech is put on, and that she thinks leg when she says ‘limb.’ I should certainly ask her if it was her walking limb, or her knife and fork limb. No, uncle, don’t take exception to ‘legs’—except to ‘blacklegs.’ But let legs slide.
“I know your hatter, bootmaker, shirtmaker and—well, anything in the furnishing line I can readily get. I am going to send for these people, uncle, and be measured for the articles in their respective lines—coats, pants, shirts, and so forth.”
“Mercy me, Cleo, don’t—don’t!” exclaimed her uncle, with a look of anguish on his face.
“Most certainly, my dear uncle—the best plan decidedly. You see, they won’t give me away—your phrase—for your custom and mine will make it for their interest to keep mum; and know, my dear uncle, that, for a time, Mrs. Grundy will have to remain in most unhappy ignorance—ignorance can’t be bliss with her—of the new part I am about to take upon me, much as I regret to keep from her table the delectable food upon which she freely feeds, fattens and thrives. If I should send to strangers, they would think it too good a thing to keep, and would give me away—your people won’t. As for me, I think I can act the part without giving myself away to any. I tell you, I am a first-rate-looking young fellow in masculine habiliments, and with my mustache on, you wouldn’t know me, uncle. I shall pass for a wealthy young Cuban, and as I can talk Spanish, everything will be lovely and the goose hang high.”
“If they don’t make you walk Spanish, I shall be more than thankful, Cleo.”
“Who, pray, uncle mine?”
“Well, the officers—if you are not arrested.”
“Well, but if I am a success as a young man, as I think I shall be, there will be no arrest; if I am not, why—well, I take the chances anyhow. I hope my debut will be successful, as I do not wish Mrs. Grundy to go off before she is cocked and primed—charged way up to the muzzle with matter concerning me. If I can work the route for three months, and then expose myself as being the gay young Cuban who startled old Fogyism from its propriety, and distanced the bloods on their own stamping grounds, then I shall be extremely happy, because Mrs. Grundy will be extremely happy. Bu Jove! won’t she be happy, though?—she and all her brood! That will be a great day for the old woman, a great day indeed, uncle mine, and as I live only for her, I hope I shall live to see it!”
Saying this, the magnificent young woman sprang to her feet, a ringing ripple of silvery laughter escaping her lips, and whirled gracefully down the apartment singing an improvisation, relating, as before, to Mrs. Grundy, to a castanet-like accompaniment—snapping of her jeweled fingers. Nearly to the end of the deep room she went, and then glided back, gracefully whirling, waltzing and gayly warbling to the spot where her uncle was seated, seating herself a moment after.
“If I should be arrested, uncle, what would follow?” she asked in a tone implying no great fear of the consequences.
“Exposure and fine, Cleo.”
“The fine I care nothing about, the other—well, I want to do the exposure business myself. And exposure by others would greatly gratify Mrs. Grundy, who would be astounded at my audacity, but I wish to confound the old woman and all her daughters, by acknowledging the corn when the masquerade is over, after a successful ‘run,’ you know. However, my dear uncle, sink or swim, survive or perish, I shall run the hazard of the die; I’m bound to see some fun from the masculine standpoint, if it takes a—if it takes a limb, Uncle Will; then, after a year or two of penance in petticoats, I’ll marry, if any one will have me, in face of old Mother Grundy.”
“I sincerely wish that event would transpire now, Cleo, instead of the madness, you meditate—are determined upon,” said the uncle, in a tone that indicated his feeling in the premises. “There are plenty of eligible men, my dear niece, who would marry you at any time; for your great beauty would, in their eyes, cover a multitude of sins greater than masquerading in masculine attire, and greater than you would be guilty of. I am only afraid that you will refuse all offers, and not that you won’t receive any—you will be the one difficult to please, Cleo.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I should be a little particular, even after the dreadful masquerade, and under fire of Mrs. Grundy’s guns, loaded to their muzzles, but never so particular, I might get sold in my choice. You know the old saw: ‘Through the woods and through the woods, and a crooked stick at last.’ There’s one thing though, the ‘crooked stick’ would not remain with me long. I suppose I have some admirers if not lovers, uncle dear—”
“Your admire are myriad, Cleo, and your lovers are legion,” said her uncle, breaking in, “and you might marry well to-morrow, if you chose.”
“I won’t know, uncle, about my having so many lovers. There are some who importune me, I know, declaring themselves ready for the Hymenial sacrifice, and willing to lay their hands and hearts and purses and all that sort of things at my feet, but I won’t have it—the sacrifice. When the importunities reach the point of annoyance, I shall send them to the right-about face, as I have others before now. This masquerade may have an effect in that direction, however; they may voluntarily retire their forces and abandoned the seige without further demonstration. I wonder if Mr. Fisher (this is the gentleman selected by her father as her husband), would marry me, uncle, after the masquerade? He still hopes, but had ought to have known long ago, that he hoped against hope. I have never told him so, as he never importuned me to annoyance, and as his visits were a matter of indifference to me, when they cease to be so, he won’t come anymore! I guess this masquerade, when it is known, will frighten him off, however, and he won’t have to be told that his room is better than his company.”
“I don’t believe it will, Cleo, he knows your heart and your strength, and that, though you may fall from grace in the eyes of—”
“Madam and the Misses Grundy, uncle!” exclaimed the beauty, laughingly breaking in.
“Have it so, my dear niece; he knows you won’t fall from virtue’s high pediment, that you will be true to yourself and your noble woman’s heart.”
“Well, if the not unkind, but somewhat austere old gent—the man can survive the shock, and continue to advance in face of the fiercest fire from Grundy’s guns, planted in a circle, and firing out in all directions, he deserves a better fate than the marrying of me would entail; and as I can be the arbiter of fate in this case, he shall have it. But come, uncle mine, let us aloft, and push the ivories about; we are getting stupid here.”
As she spoke, the beauty rose to her feet, and at that moment the door-bell rung.
“Perhaps that is he,” she said. “He generally makes his visits on stormy nights, which is considerate on his part, and politic as well.”
“H. Le Grand Prince.” This name of royal significance appeared on a card lying on a small golden salver, which was borne on a trim-built and natty servitor of African descent, but with more or less Caucasian blood mingling with the Ethiopian substrata of vital fluid.
“Oh, I am at home—always at home to the grand prince, Hannibal. Thank your stars, my dear uncle, for now I will let you off. Harry and I will have a bout at billiards or at boxing, at shooting or trapezing.”
“I don’t wish to say I am glad, my dear Cleo, as it would sound harsh,” said the uncle of the beautiful woman, rising to his feet; “but, really, I had important papers to look over this evening, but should have deferred to your pleasure, my dear niece.”
“Oh, dear, uncle mine, never make such sacrifice on my account. I don’t ask it—I won’t have it; so don’t think of it again. I should have asked you if you were to be occupied before importuning you—Ah, Mon Prince,” exclaimed the peerless beauty, in a lively tone, breaking in upon herself, as a tall, brown-bearded, handsome man of thirty entered.
“I salute you, peerless queen of beauty,” said the gentleman, in a tone of mock gravity, bowing low and gracefully as he spoke; turning immediately after to Mr. Clayton, and shaking his hand.
“And now put it in there, Prince Hal, for forty days and forty nights,” said the beauty, holding out her hand, which was taken by the gentleman, and gently squeezed.
“So you dared to brave the storm to pay court—”
“To the peerless queen of beauty and goodness,” said the gentleman, in courtly tone.
“Ha! ha! ‘goodness’ is good, my boy. I, that wicked, that awfully wicked creature!—for further particulars inquire of Mrs. Grundy. She knows all about it, Hal. But I am glad to see you, my boy—always glad, but particularly so at this time, as I came unwittingly near inconveniencing my dear uncle, by dragooning him to the billiard-table; and I had rather beat you, for two reasons: first, because he is indifferent to the game, and wouldn’t beat me if he could; second, you are not indifferent, and would beat me if you could, not having a particle of gallantry about you when it comes to billiards—with me, at least.”
“I won’t deny the soft impeachment, Queen Cleopatra. If I exceled you at the game, or equaled you, there is no knowing how much gallantry I might be guilty of; as it is, I unhesitatingly declare that you need expect none from me—I would beat you if I could, and not a twinge of remorse—a single compunction of conscience, would trouble me afterwards.”
“I know you would if you could, you remorseless man; but you can’t, and that’s what’s the matter. However, Hal, you play a very fair game. A tolerable scrub player, you are, and by close application and constant practice, you will become a very respectable player—in time.”
“Thanks, your majesty, for thus kindly patronizing me. ‘Praise from Sir Hubert is praise indeed.’ With this to encourage me to efforts great, I am confident I shall improve, and may yet become a foeman more worthy of your steel. In the meantime, Mr. McArdle may drop in, and if you contest the palm of superiority with him, on the field of the cloth of green, you are vanquished—one laurel chaplet will be gone, at least.”
“And that will be your revenge, Hal. It will be sweet, won’t it? But perhaps Mr. McArdle will be gallantry itself, and scorn to bring his superior skill into action against one of the weaker vessels.”
“Not if I happen to be present, and I will make it a point to be, by special invitation to him to call with me some evening. If he inclines to gallantry—weakens before your beauty—shows you the least mercy, I shall have mistaken myself.”
“All right, Hal. Bring him along, by all means; and I’ll wager a box of gloves that I am the winner—best two out of three.”
“I accept the wager, of course—would under any circumstances—and as I am actually in need of gloves, I will bring Mac here to-morrow evening, if it is your pleasure?”
“Oh, certainly, Hal. The sooner the passage-at-arms occurs, the sooner my stock of gloves will be augmented. I really wish, my dear fellow, that my gloves would fit your hands.”
“Pray don’t waste your good wishes on me, Cleo. I can get along until the day after to-morrow.”
“Cherish the fond delusion, Hal; hug it to your soul until to-morrow evening—if Mr. McArdle comes—and then see that you settle promptly the next day.”
At this juncture Mr. Clayton, begging to be excused, was about to retire from the drawing-room, when his niece said to him:
“Uncle, tell Hal what’s up with me. I dare not, you know.”
Her uncle gave her one sidelong glance, remarking:
“It won’t spoil, I guess, by your keeping it from him, Cleo. You dare not?—nonsense!” With this, and bidding his niece and her friend good-evening, he left the apartment.
“Sit, Hal. Take a seat, you have been standing a good while;” said the young beauty to the handsome man before her.
“Oh, I thought you wanted me to go up stairs with you immediately, Cleo,” remarked the other, taking a chair.
“Plenty of time—it isn’t nine o’clock yet, my boy, and an hour with the cue is all I want—with you, you know. I might be willing to devote more than that time with Mr. McArdle—‘Mac,’ you call him, don’t you?—well, I shall call him Mac—if he is the graceful, skillful player you would have me believe.”
“I am rather of the opinion, Cleo, that fifteen minutes with him will suffice you. He will give you all you want in that time, for I assure you he is even more than what you have very flatteringly predict I may become in time—‘a very respectable player.’ But what’s up now, Cleo, with you?”
“Oh, Hal, you shouldn’t ask me. You know what a shame-faced thing I am. And the idea of my telling you; I fear to tell you, Hal—dare not.” The beauty burst into a breezy laugh as she spoke, and then suddenly assumed the most demure look imaginable.
“Yes, I know you have a very strong weakness in the direction of fear in any form, Cleo. I have wondered, before now, why your hair hadn’t turned white in a single night from excessive fright, you are so very susceptible to fear.”
“Do you know, Hal, I have wondered too! My hair must have been indelibly died by nature, or it would have succumbed to the gray fiend long ere this. Only to think of a poor, weak, trembling, shrinking unsophisticated sister like myself, breasting the billows of this bustling, browbeating, busybody world, and not a white hair in her head at the age of twenty-three! It is marvelous, I declare!” In a tone of the utmost seriousness, her face holding itss demure expression, the dark beauty uttered these words, her eyes fixed up upon the carpet at her feet, as if looking for a solution of the great mystery.
It was too much for her companion. He burst into a hearty laugh, exclaiming, “Oh, Cleo, you beat the world. ‘Timid, shrinking sister;’ oh, you are all that, Cleo, and everybody knows it. But come, now,—no more of that face! Rally! Let Cleopatra be herself again, and not sink into somber contemplation—I’m afraid it will grow upon you, Cleo, I am, really.”
The look demure was gone; the eyes were raised, and ringing, ripping, silvery laugh, flooded the apartment with its melody, which, ceasing, the beauty said: “I’ll try Hal, to be myself again—I’ll try, for your sake.”
In fifteen minutes more, Harry Prince knew the move his companion had determined to make on the checkerboard of life, at which he expressed no surprise, and made no remonstrance—he knew her too well to be affected by the one, or to attempt the other. He promised secrecy, and agreed to be her side partner throughout the masquerade, be it longer or shorter.
“And now to billiards, Hal,” she said, after the matter of the side-partnership was settled. “How many shall I give you?”
The door bell rang at this moment. Hannibal appeared with a card.
“‘William McArdle.’ at home, said the young woman; and then turning into her companion, said: “You will send those gloves to-morrow, Hal, before twelve o’clock. Not that I need them, but that I desire to inculcate promptitude in the settlement of wagers.”
“Don’t omit to give me an order on Stewart for a box of gentleman’s gloves, before I go, Cleo,” said the other, as if he had not heard the words of his companion.
**Note: Minor, period-typical spelling inconsistencies (neice and niece) have been standardized for ease of reading.