Chapter III: Part 3

This man, with his persistence and insistence, annoyed Elizabeth almost beyond endurance; but the thing which troubled her most was the continual presenting of unpaid bills. She gave up her carriage and sold it with the horses, imagining in her simplicity that she could use this money for the payment of the accounts which rained upon her every day; and she actually did so use this money until informed by McBean that she had sold Pelham’s property and misused the proceeds. This McBean said to her one day in her own drawing–room, or what she supposed was her own drawing–room. Elizabeth’s heart fluttered with terror as McBean warned her that she would be required to account for every penny of this money—in fact of all the money that she was spending.

She had that morning, in despair, taken her diamond and pearl necklace to a jeweller’s agent, who really acted as an amateur pawn–broker, and who had advanced her five hundred pounds on it. Had McBean asked her then about the necklace, she would have fainted on the floor; but he did not. As soon as he had gone, Elizabeth, in her widow’s dress, flew pale and panting to the agent to whom she had intrusted the necklace, and told him what McBean had said to her. The agent, who saw that he had a frightened woman in his power and a valuable piece of property worth four times what he had advanced on it, soothed Elizabeth by telling her that McBean had no right to demand the necklace from her, as it was hers, being partly her husband’s wedding gift to her. Elizabeth returned home, in that hour of darkness, with but one thought uppermost in her mind. Could she but see Pelham, he would not suffer her thus to be persecuted. She knew quite well how he would wish her to act,—to pay off the pressing debts which humiliated her, and to take the small balance of money left and remain in England until he should return. This she determined to do.

She had not heard from him either by cable or by letter since Darrell’s death, but that was nothing. Communication with him would be necessarily slow. It might be weeks or even months before she should hear, but she was certain of what the purport of his letter would be, and of what his wishes already were. So, dismissing her servants and turning the house over to McBean, she went to live in a small lodging–house, there to await Pelham’s return. She put away from her all the thoughts about him as a lover,—thoughts which would occasionally force themselves upon her, but from which she turned steadfastly,—and thought of him only as a brother and friend, the man most anxious to help her in the world, not even excepting her own father. General Brandon had written to her urgent and affectionate letters, telling her that his heart and hand and home were open to her as the best of daughters; and Elizabeth, whose heart yearned unceasingly for her father, found in the thought of once more being held in her father’s arms the heartiest consolation she could have at that moment. But she knew it was useless to tell General Brandon any of her money difficulties. She understood his straitened circumstances, his mortgaged house, and the story of his Egyptian bonds. The only thing to do was to write Pelham frankly and fully every circumstance of her affairs, and to await his reply in England. She did this, and set herself to the task of waiting.

It was now autumn, a dull London autumn, and it seemed to Elizabeth as if she were living in a bad dream. Only the other day she had a devoted husband in Darrell, a friend in Pelham who was all that a friend could be to a woman, a home, servants, carriages, jewels, everything that the heart of woman could ask, with the prospect of having her father as an honored guest; and now she was widowed, alone, and in deep poverty. She had brought her expenses down to the lowest possible penny. Friendless, overwhelmed with debts of which she understood nothing, and in the clutches of a Scotch attorney and a jeweller’s agent, she felt a certainty of relief when Pelham should write and then should come.

Every time the lodging–house bell rang, she thought it was Pelham’s letter, but it did not come. Instead came McBean, first hinting and then threatening legal proceedings, especially in regard to the necklace. This seemed to Elizabeth an undeserved outrage and, reënforced by the counsel of the jeweller’s agent, she said firmly, her dark eyes flashing: “That necklace was my husband’s gift to me, his last gift to me, and part of it was his wedding gift. It is to me the most valuable thing on earth apart from what it cost, and it is mine and I shall not give it up. When Major Pelham returns, I promise you he will see the matter as I do.”

This conversation occurred in Elizabeth’s dingy room at the lodging–house, in an unfashionable part of Bayswater. “I judge Major Pelham will take the same view as I do, the only possible view,” replied McBean, a wizened, fox–eyed man, who loved a five–pound note better than his own soul. “I am following out Major Pelham’s exact directions when I demand of you the return of the necklace.” At these words Elizabeth felt as if a knife had been thrust into her heart. She understood McBean to mean that he had received from Pelham explicit instructions in the matter of the necklace, while as a matter of fact he had heard nothing from Pelham any more than Elizabeth had. McBean had honestly thought that he was acting exactly in Pelham’s interests and as Pelham would have wished him to do, who had in general terms authorized him to collect all debts due Pelham and pay all authorized bills.

McBean noticed Elizabeth’s pallor and shock at his words, and rightly judged that he had hit upon the means of alarming her. He continued to talk as if repeating Pelham’s words. Elizabeth listened with horror. Was there then no such thing as love and faith in the world? Could she have known Pelham for all these years, have felt the assurance of his devotion, and yet after all not known him? No word of McBean’s was lost upon her, dazed as she was; but, feeling that she was unable to bear the scene longer, she got up and walked out of the room like an insulted queen, leaving McBean still talking. Not by one Scotch attorney, nor in one hour, could Elizabeth’s belief in Pelham be shattered; and after the first horror caused by McBean’s words, Elizabeth experienced a revulsion of feeling. She reproached herself for believing that Pelham could, for the sake of a few hundred pounds, so persecute and humiliate her. If she lost faith in Pelham, she would lose faith in humanity, even in her own father. McBean must be lying. What he had said to her was incredible. It stiffened her resolution to remain in England at any cost until she could hear from Pelham, and of eventually hearing she could have no doubt. She wrote him a few lines, simply asking if he had received her letter and recounting the circumstances under which she remained in England after Darrell’s death. This letter she forwarded to the War Office, and then set herself to the task of waiting three months, or perhaps five, until she could get a reply. Meanwhile she continued to receive tender and affectionate letters from her father, imploring her to return to him. Elizabeth replied, saying that she would come to him as soon as the condition of her affairs permitted, and merely adding that there were certain things to be settled up in connection with the estate which required her presence in England.

The dull autumn deepened into a winter of fierce cold, with scarcely a ray of sunshine. Elizabeth suffered from this as only one can suffer who has spent many winters under an Indian sun. Even if her pride had permitted her to call for assistance from their former friends, of whom she had scarcely one among the women, but many among the men, she dared not; she was afraid that McBean’s story had gone far and wide and that every action of hers might be under suspicion. And then came the crowning blow. The time passed when she might have returned the five hundred pounds advanced on the necklace. She could not pay it, having barely enough out of the one hundred pounds left her by Darrell to keep body and soul together. And no word came from Pelham.

The spring advanced, and the trees in the Bayswater district grew green. The time returned when only a year before she had been adored by her husband and loved and revered by the man who was now treating her with insulting neglect,—for to this belief Elizabeth had at last been forced. She spent many nights walking up and down her narrow room wringing her hands at the thought of the last letter she had written Pelham. The first she had no regrets for. It had been sent under the impression that Pelham was not only a sincere man but a gentleman; for certainly, knowing as he did every circumstance of Elizabeth’s life and condition, it was ungentlemanlike of him to seize everything on which the law permitted him to lay his hands and to leave her destitute, alone, and a stranger. She felt that she could no longer doubt McBean’s word, of which nothing could have convinced her short of Pelham’s own conduct. Hope died hard within her, and she lingered in London during the spring and late summer; but as autumn came on she realized there was but one refuge left her, her father’s roof in Washington.

She dared not let her intention of leaving London be known, for fear she might be stopped and a scandal might ensue. She raised money enough to take a second–class passage on a cheap steamer, and on a gloomy day in the last part of September she started upon her homeward journey. She had endured grief, anxiety, and privations, and especially that last overwhelming blow, the admission of Pelham’s faithlessness. It had transformed her delicate and seductive beauty, but strangely enough it had not rendered her less delicately seductive. The pathos of her eyes, the sadness of her smile, the droop of her beautiful mouth, her mourning attire, refined and even elegant, in spite of her poverty, marked her out. She was not less beautiful than in her days of joy, and was far more interesting.

_Chapter Seven_

The return of a woman once married to a home under her father’s roof is always a tragic episode. It implies death or disaster, and means the giving up of the prestige and independence a woman is supposed to attain by marriage. It may be the most sordid or the most dignified of tragedies that brings her back. Nevertheless it is a tragedy, and almost invariably has its sordid aspects, because it is oftenest poverty, to the accompaniment of divorce or death, which leads her, wounded and smarting and hungering, to that last remaining refuge, her father’s house.

To Elizabeth Darrell, on the gloomy October day when she reached Washington from England, it seemed as if all the cruel reasons which ever brought a woman to such a pass existed in her case. She pondered over all the sources of her unhappiness with that curious passion for the analysis of their own misfortunes which is peculiar to women and poets. Her general and specific quarrel against fate had not been absent for a moment from her memory since she first undertook that long journey overseas. As every hour brought her nearer to her old home, the pain and the apprehension of pain increased. One mitigation she had hoped for, the sight of her father’s kind, handsome old face as soon as she reached Washington; his courtly placing of his hand within her own; his valiant pretence that her home–coming was a happy one. But her despatch on leaving the steamer had not arrived in time, and when she reached the station there was no one to meet her.

It was a cool, damp autumn afternoon; a fine rain was falling and a general air of misery brooded over everything. With that dazed intelligence about places which were once well known but are now half forgotten, Elizabeth watched the streets and squares through which her cab rolled. She was forced to observe that Washington had become a fine city in the ten years since she had seen it. But as she was accustomed to the crowded thoroughfares of foreign cities, the quiet streets seemed to her dreary and deserted beyond expression. Was everybody dead in those silent, handsome houses? The cab stopped at last before the tall, plain house, quite far out in the northwest, in which Elizabeth had passed the beautiful though happy–go–lucky days of her girlhood. The finer residences were crowding the poor house in an unseemly manner. Elizabeth remembered it as surrounded by vacant lots, tenanted only by real estate agents’ signs. Now the region was well and handsomely built up. The house, commonplace and shabby, looked still more commonplace and shabby from its fashionable surroundings. It was near the end of the square, where the smaller street debouched into a splendid avenue. On the corner was a fine white stone house, with an entrance on the avenue and a porte–cochère on the side street.

It made Elizabeth Darrell feel more of a forlorn stranger than ever when she saw the new luxury that surrounded her father’s poor old house. She descended from the cab and with a faltering hand rang the bell. Her ring was answered by a negro woman, stout, elderly, and decent, but far removed from the smart English maids and native Indian servants to whom Elizabeth had been long accustomed. However, so strong is early habitude that the sight of this honest black face gave Elizabeth the first sentiment of home she had felt since her widowhood. In that black face was a doglike softness and kindness, and in the voice a compassionate yet deprecatory quality, which is not heard often in any but an African voice.

“You is Mis’ ‘Lisbeth,” she said kindly, holding the door wide. “De Gin’l, he ear’n lookin’ fer you ’twell to–morrer—but come right in heah.”

There were signs of preparation within, but the room designed for Elizabeth—the best bedroom in the house—was not ready. Serena—for so she informed Elizabeth was her name—was full of humble, soft apologies.

“De Gin’l will be mighty worried dat he war’n home when you come; he was countin’ on meckin’ you mighty comfortable.”

To which Elizabeth, her spirit dying within her at the aspect of things, answered: “Is not the front bedroom in the third story furnished? Perhaps I could go there.”

Serena eagerly led the way. It was the room which had been Elizabeth’s ten years ago. She had chosen it because General Brandon was always entertaining some of his relations, and had the old–time idea that hospitality to a guest meant the upsetting of all family arrangements; so Elizabeth had chosen this upper room for her own, secure in not being turned out of it to accommodate some ex–Confederate general, judge, or other person distinguished in “our great Civil War,” as General Brandon always spoke of it. The windows had a good outlook upon the blue Potomac and on the misty line of the Virginia hills far beyond. Otherwise it had not a single recommendation.

Serena, her heart in her beady black eyes, was all sympathy and attention. She brought tea, called Elizabeth “honey,” and talked in her slow and soothing voice of “de Gin’l.” Evidently General Brandon was a hero to his maid–of–all–work.

At last Serena went out, and Elizabeth was alone. She sat down before the little dressing–table and removed her widow’s bonnet and veil. And remembering that when she had last seen herself in that mirror she had been a bride and in the glory of her youth, she could not but study the changes in herself. She had then been beautiful, in a vivid, irregular manner, and ought to have been so still, as she was but little past her thirtieth birthday. But she saw plainly that she was haggard, that she was sallow, that she was painfully thin. She looked at her own reflection with self–pity, thinking, “I should be handsome still if I had but some flesh and color, and if life were not so hard and disappointing.” She sat a long while, leaning her head on her hand, and seeing in the mirror, not her own reflection, but the hapless story of her own life passing before her. Then, recalling herself, like a person waking from a dream, she went to the window and looked out upon the quiet street.

It was already dusk, and the mist of the late autumn afternoon made mysterious shadows, through which the houses loomed large and near. Directly before her towered the great stone house, and just above the porte–cochère was a large, square window, with delicate lace draperies. It was quite dark enough for the wood fire, sparkling in the white–tiled fireplace, to show the interior of the room, which was evidently a boudoir of the most beautiful and luxurious character. Elizabeth was keen of sight, and she could not refrain from looking into so charming a room placed under her eyes. The walls were panelled with flowered silk; the furniture was of gold and spindle–legged; there was a delicious little sofa drawn up to the fire; everything spoke of wealth informed by taste.

In a minute more the mistress of this delightful room entered—a graceful, girlish figure, enveloped in a long, full cloak of a shimmering, silvery satin and wearing a flower–decked white hat. She threw aside her cloak and sat down for a moment on the sofa before the fire. Her air was not that of happy abandon, but rather of thoughtfulness, even of sadness. She was not beautiful, but Elizabeth, with a woman’s ready appraisement of another woman’s charms, saw at a glance that this girl’s appearance was interesting. Her features were delicate, but her face was too pale for beauty; her thin–lipped mouth was large, though redeemed by perfect teeth; but her air, her figure, her walk, were full of grace and elegance. She remained only a few minutes in the room, then passed into the inner room and closed the door after her. And in a moment a maid came in and drew the silk curtains, leaving only a rosy glow from the window instead of a captivating picture.

Elizabeth, distracted for only a little while from her own thoughts, went back to the sad employment of casting up her sorrows and disappointments. She remembered her childhood on the old Virginia plantation with her father’s mother. The war was not many years past then, and over all her life hung that great black shadow of chaos following defeat, the wreck of fortune, the upheaval of society, the helplessness, the despair of millions of people, with their whole social fabric a wreck, all values destroyed, everything disrupted and out of joint. She had realized later on how General Brandon had stinted himself for the little dark–eyed daughter on the Virginia plantation, and his magnanimous investment of his savings in Egyptian bonds, which made Elizabeth smile faintly in the midst of her wretchedness. In those years of separation and of learning from the great, wide–open book of life, Elizabeth had come to understand her father better than during that part of her life passed with him.

The General was a West Point graduate, and had been the best–loved man in his class, in spite of having been also the handsomest and one of the dullest. So when his old classmates in the army had heard of his straits, they all agreed that “something must be done for Dick Brandon.” Although a West Point man, he was not a scientific man; he was too handsome to know much. His old friends did the best they could for him by getting him a clerkship in Washington; and General Brandon, who had commanded a brigade of three thousand fighting men, during four years of unremitting warfare, found himself subject to a chief of division young enough to be his son and as ignorant as men are made.

The old soldier had borne his lot with a fine patience and a sweet calmness that placed him well up in the ranks of unrecorded heroes. He had a superb courage, a charming temper; he remained incurably handsome, and likewise he was and always remained incurably simple in every way. Anybody could hoodwink him, and most people did. When he had come to Washington, bringing with him his daughter Elizabeth, then eighteen, and some remnant of property coming to him, he bought the shabby house. Or, rather, he thought he bought it, for it had a heavy mortgage on it, which General Brandon never had the least expectation of lifting—mortgages being as natural to Virginians as sparks flying upward.

Washington in those days was a simple, merry place, with a delightful and unique society based upon official rank, and a few old resident families, who were in society when Abigail Adams had the clothes dried in the East Room of the White House. Elizabeth remembered that she had been a great belle with gay young army and navy men and sprigs of diplomats and was not unhappy, although she had felt at every turn the prick of poverty. She had been ashamed to complain, however, in the presence of General Brandon’s cheerful submission. He had his compensations, though,—chiefly his evening visits to and from other grizzled officers of both sides, when they sat and talked gravely and tensely of issues as dead as Julius Cæsar, and solemnly discussed what might have been, to an accompaniment of whiskey and cigars. General Brandon’s whiskey and cigars were poor—he smoked a pipe himself, declaring he preferred it. But no army man of any rank ever animadverted on the General’s whiskey or cigars; and, although both were evilly cheap, they drank and smoked cheerfully, with a relish for the man if not for his entertainment.

General Brandon had no knowledge of the words “getting on in society,” or anything like them. He belonged to that sturdy oligarchy in Virginia which, whatever might be its shortcomings, knew nothing of snobs or snobbery, because everybody was just as good as everybody else. But his social career had been such that the newly rich might have asked him his patent for knowing everybody worth knowing. He was asked everywhere in those days, which he took as a matter of course, just as, during his occasional brief sojourns in England during his Egyptian days, he was asked everywhere and took it as a matter of course. Your true Virginian has many faults and some vices, but he is socially the wisest person in the world because he is the simplest. Nobody can patronize him, nobody can snub him. He takes the notice of royalty with the same unconscious ease that he does the rapturous salutation of a negro barber who belonged to him “befo’ de war, sir,”—always polite, considerate, mindful of the small, sweet courtesies of life.

There is but one section of society with which he cannot get on. This is the newly rich smart set, fresh from the forge, the shop, the mine, the liquor saloon—that rapid fungus which has grown up in America during the last forty years, of which it has been said that no parallel exists to its license and irresponsibility, unless one goes back to the later Roman and Byzantine emperors. This class is free with a freedom that is staggering to contemplate; free from any traditions of the past, any responsibility in the present, any accountability to the future; free to marry, to be divorced, to live where it likes, to change its residence every week in the year; free from the care of the few children they have, free from taxes as far as rank perjury goes, and free to command all the science of the world to keep death at bay as long as possible. The advent of this class anywhere changes the aspect of things, and therefore when it moved in columns upon Washington, the people of General Brandon’s class and Elizabeth’s time became “Cave–dwellers,” and the General was asked “nowhere,”—that is, he was still asked, but it was “nowhere.” The General, however, did not know this at the time, or ever afterwards.

Elizabeth sat at the window and, looking out upon the murky evening, continued that sad review of her life.

There is a French school of moralists which says that a man may love two women at once. Elizabeth Darrell had certainly loved two men at once. Pelham was always and forever the man she would have married, but Darrell’s honest love was not thrown away on her. She mourned him as she had mourned for her child, neither one infringing in the least on Pelham’s place in her heart. She had been a wife and a mother, she had suffered a real and lasting passion for a man not her husband, but she had not transgressed a hair’s–breadth; she had experienced both poverty and wealth, she had known and felt more in her thirty years than most women do in a lifetime; and yet it seemed to her as if she had only turned over, without the opportunity to read and study, those glowing pages in the book of a woman’s life—the love of a man, the love of a child, the beauty of the world. Now all was over—even Pelham’s love and tender consideration, which had been hers for so long that she scarcely recognized the face of life without them. Nothing was left for her except her father, the best of men and fathers; but this was not enough for a nature like Elizabeth Darrell’s.

While these thoughts were passing through Elizabeth’s mind, darkness had fallen. Lights were twinkling everywhere. The great house opposite radiated brightness from many windows, and it occurred to Elizabeth, as to every sorrowful and disappointed person, that every one in that luxurious and brilliant home must be happy. Probably the girl of the boudoir, whose attitude had expressed such dejection, was grieving over some trifle like a disappointment in a dance or the failure of some plan of pleasure. Then she heard the street door open and a step which she recognized as her father’s, and she had the first sensation of gladness she had felt for so long that she had almost forgotten what gladness was.

General Brandon, standing under the flaring gas–jet in the narrow hall, saw the black figure flying down the stairs towards him. He stopped, trembling with emotion; he who had without a tremor faced death a hundred times was shaken at the sight of his child in her mourning garments. The next minute her head was on his shoulder and he was patting it, saying, “My child,—my ever dear child,—welcome at all times, more welcome in your sorrow.”

Elizabeth looked up, smiling and weeping. It was the first time since her husband’s death that she had not seemed in everybody’s way. General Brandon gazed at her, at the changes that ten years had made, at the marks of the recent shipwreck of her hopes and joys, at the pallor and thinness that brooding over her misfortunes had brought upon her; and then he said, with a tremulous smile and with tears in his honest eyes, “It is doubly sweet to have you back unchanged.”

He led her into the dingy, well–remembered drawing–room, and they sat hand in hand on the sofa, talking, Elizabeth dwelling upon her husband’s goodness to her, and mentioning none of her woes and perplexities in that first hour of meeting. Then Serena announced dinner, and General Brandon, with the air of escorting a queen regent, placed his daughter at the head of the table. “And never, since the day of your marriage, my love, have I ever sat down to this table without remembering you and wishing that you were seated at this place,” he said.

To Elizabeth it seemed that the place she had in that dull dining room was the only spot she had had any right to, except under sufferance, since that June morning, now nearly a year and a half past, when her husband had died. Not only was General Brandon glad to see her, but Serena seemed equally so. Serena was a distinct acquisition to Elizabeth. When the dinner was fairly begun the General produced a bottle of that doubtful champagne which had been served at Elizabeth’s wedding. “Saved to celebrate your return, my dearest,” he said. Elizabeth could scarcely drink it for the tears that threatened to overflow.

The dining room was just as it had been ten years ago, only duller and dingier; but it was scrupulously neat. General Brandon’s joy at seeing her was not troubled by any apprehensions as to the shortcomings of his household. All during dinner his spirits did not flag, and insensibly Elizabeth’s turbulent heart grew more composed. Her father asked her minute particulars concerning her married life, and when Elizabeth told of Darrell’s unvarying goodness to her, a singular look of relief came into her father’s face. He had always had a dim apprehension that Elizabeth was not rightly mated with Darrell—which was true. He delicately refrained from asking any questions about her means, but Elizabeth told him frankly that the sole provision available for her, after Pelham inherited the property, was about one hundred pounds a year, contingent on her remaining a widow.

“Why, that is opulence!” said General Brandon, with the ideas of opulence of an ex–Confederate officer in a government clerkship. “That will suffice amply for your needs; and whatever I can supply, my dear, is yours, and my house and all in it are at your complete disposal.”

Elizabeth rose and went over to him and kissed him. After all, there was some goodness left in the world. She did not once mention Pelham’s name; but presently her father asked: “And in your trouble, where was Major Pelham, of whom you so often wrote me in years past, as being most kind and brotherly to you? As he was the next heir, he owed you much consideration.”

Elizabeth, by an effort, spoke calmly. “He had just started for West Africa when Jack died. I have heard nothing from him, but I know through his solicitor—a very rude person—that Major Pelham has not been to England.”

“And Major Pelham has not even written you a letter of condolence?”

“No.”

“Most strange. And his solicitor is in communication with him?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth was surprised at the steadiness of her voice in answering these questions, but General Brandon noticed for the first time a tremor in her tones.

“I cannot understand such conduct, and particularly as I retain a most agreeable recollection of Major Pelham,—Captain Pelham he was at the time of your marriage.”

Then, to Elizabeth’s relief, her father left off speaking of Pelham and gave her a minute account of all her Virginia relations and their doings during the last ten years. Elizabeth listened, her head on her hand, the light from the flaring chandelier falling upon her rich hair, one of her beauties left unimpaired. She appeared to be strictly attentive, but in truth she scarcely heard one word of what her father, in his soft, well–bred voice, was saying. Her mind was going over, as it had done many hundreds of times, the strange problem about Pelham. Was it possible that a mere matter of money and an estate had so changed him that he could forget her, after nine years of devotion—silent, it is true, but none the less eloquent? Or was it, after all, mere lip service he had paid her? This she could not quite believe, and so was ever tormented between longing and regret on one hand, and a silent but furious resentment on the other. Pelham at least was a gentleman, and yet he had not observed any sentiment of courtesy or attention to her when he was under every obligation to do so. He must know what sort of man Mr. McBean was, and yet he had left her completely in the solicitor’s power. And the remembrance of McBean brought back the recollection of the money she owed on the necklace of which McBean had tried to rob her. She went over the whole weary story again, that strange, contradictory story of Pelham’s agent, technically and actually—and she was glad to take refuge from her perplexing and contradictory thoughts by paying more heed to what her father was saying. He had got through with a part of his relations, and with a view to interesting Elizabeth in her future home was telling her something of those friends and acquaintances left in Washington.

“You remember Sara Luttrell, my dear?” asked General Brandon, with a smile. “Well, she is the same Sara Luttrell I danced with forty–five years ago at West Point. Nobody knew her age then and nobody knows it now—and time seems to have passed her by. She still lives in her fine old house, gives two dinners a week herself and goes out to dine the remaining five evenings, and nobody dares cross her except her nephew—her husband’s nephew, I should say—Richard Baskerville.”

“I remember Mr. Baskerville perfectly. He was always very kind to me, and so was Mrs. Luttrell.”

“Richard Baskerville, my dear, is a very remarkable man. He has developed a comfortable fortune of his own, and will inherit every stiver of Sara Luttrell’s money. But he works hard at his profession of the law and has made a name for himself. His fortune and position make it possible for him to devote himself to civics, and he is frequently engaged in the investigations of violations of the civil service law and in matters coming before Congress in which there is reason to suspect fraud. Just now he is in the thick of a fight with my neighbor in the fine house across the way, Senator Clavering, who is under fire at the present time before a senatorial committee concerning some alleged gigantic frauds with railway land grants in the Far West. I knew Clavering well before the war, when I was a captain of infantry and he was a sutler,—post–traders they now call themselves, and I understand that at army posts their daughters aspire to be visited by the young officers.”

So the big, beautiful house belonged to this man Clavering. Elizabeth felt an immediate and strange interest on hearing about the people who lived in that charming abode. She wondered why she should wish to hear more of these people whose names she had heard only at that moment, but nevertheless she did. Nothing pleased General Brandon so much as to talk of things which happened before the war, except to talk about those which happened during the war.

“Clavering, however, was not the man to remain a sutler very long. He made money at the business—they all do; Napoleon Bonaparte was the only man who knew how to treat a man supplying soldiers. In the days when I knew Clavering, a sutler was a sutler; nevertheless, Clavering was such a remarkable man that no one who knew him could forget him. I used often to talk with him, and he professed to be under some obligations to me for certain small acts of kindness. After giving up the post–tradership for something better, I heard of him at intervals. I even saw him once here in Washington just before your marriage—sometimes he was up and sometimes he was down. Then he went into mining, prospecting, and land buying on a great scale and developed what I had always observed in him, a remarkable capacity for men and affairs. Five years ago he came to the Senate, built this splendid house you saw on the corner, and set up for a statesman and a gentleman. Ha, ha! I must say, however, that he had some qualifications for both. His family are conspicuous socially. He has three daughters and a deadly pious son, a confirmed ritualist like most of those common people. He goes to St. Bartholomew’s Chapel, where I attend service still, as I did when I had the joy of having you with me, my child.”

The General was a strict churchman, and it was no small recommendation that Clavering had a son who was also a strict churchman.

“And one of Clavering’s daughters—Miss Anne Clavering—is very much admired and respected. Another of his daughters has had the misfortune to be divorced. His wife is little seen in society. She was a plain but most excellent woman when I knew her thirty years ago. This investigation of which Richard Baskerville is one of the leading spirits must be extremely painful to the ladies of Clavering’s family.”

General Brandon prattled on until ten o’clock came, when he always went to his modest club for an hour. He escorted Elizabeth to her door and said good night, giving her a blessing like the patriarchs’ of old.

As soon as she was alone Elizabeth put out the gas and, opening the window, looked out upon the night. It was a damp and chilly night, with a few vagrant stars in the sky and a sickly moon setting. The vast mass of foliage which makes Washington a great park still hung upon the trees, but was yellowing and decaying. There were not many lights in the houses round about, except in the Clavering mansion, for it was not yet the full season in Washington. But while Elizabeth was looking a carriage drove under the Clavering porte–cochère, an alert footman opened the huge street door and spread a carpet down the steps. In a moment the girl Elizabeth had seen in the boudoir came out in an evening costume, with a white silk mantle enveloping her. Elizabeth had a perfectly clear view of her as she passed down the steps under a great swinging lantern. She was not beautiful, but interesting, graceful, and with an air of perfect breeding. After her came one of the handsomest men Elizabeth had ever seen. He was well past middle age, but his figure was noble, his features without line or wrinkle, his complexion ruddy with health, and his close–cropped iron–gray hair abundant. Elizabeth divined that it was Clavering, and what was more, the instant her eyes rested upon him she knew that she had seen him before; that she had seen him at some crisis in her life and seen him so as never to have forgotten him. She drew back from the window when the shock of surprise struck her. She could not recall at what particular crisis her eyes and this man’s had met, except that it was long ago. She had not once during all those intervening years recalled him, but now his face was as instantly recognized by her as had been her own father’s. It was as if, sailing upon the ocean, she had passed a beacon light upon a headland, which she remembered perfectly having seen in a remote past, but of which nothing was known to her except the fact that she had once seen it and the sight of it was at a crucial point in her life. The girl had by no means the beauty of the man, but there was sufficient likeness to indicate that they were father and daughter.

Elizabeth watched them with singular interest as the carriage rolled off. She had never expected to feel an interest in anything again, and that which she felt in these strange people seemed ominous. For Elizabeth, being a woman, was superstitious, and where before had she seen the face and figure of that man?

_Chapter Eight_

Sara Luttrell, as General Brandon called her, was sitting in her fine, old–fashioned drawing–room, enjoying her invariable Saturday evening gossip with her nephew–in–law, Richard Baskerville, preparatory to her customary Saturday evening dinner. This Saturday dinner was as much of an institution with Mrs. Luttrell as her ermine cape and her black–velvet gown, which were annually renewed, or her free–spoken tongue, all of them being Medic and Persian in nature.

Nobody knew how many decades this Saturday evening dinner had been established, just as nobody knew Mrs. Luttrell’s age, except that it was somewhere between sixty and ninety. This dinner, which no more than six persons attended, took place at the unfashionable hour of seven. But seven had been the fashionable hour when Mrs. Luttrell began her Saturday dinners, and although she conceded much to the new fashions introduced by the smart set—more indeed than she ever admitted—and had advanced her formal dinner hour to half–past eight, yet she clung to seven for this Saturday evening institution. No other dinner invitation could lure Mrs. Luttrell from her own table on Saturday evenings, and it was one of the incidents of the warfare which had once raged between her and the then lady of the White House that Mrs. Luttrell should have been asked to dine at the White House on a Saturday evening. Mrs. Luttrell, however, came off triumphant. She could not have her own dinner that night, but in the very nick of time she heard of the death of a seventeenth cousin in Maryland. Mrs. Luttrell immediately asked to be excused from the White House on the ground of the death of a relative, and clapped herself, her coachman, and footman in mourning for a seventeenth cousin she had not seen in thirty years and had always cordially detested.

To be in ignorance of the sacredness of Mrs. Luttrell’s Saturday evenings was a crime of grave magnitude in her eyes, and to respect her rights on Saturday was to take a toboggan slide in her favor. It was the law that Richard Baskerville should dine with her on Saturday, and although that young gentleman maintained a perfect independence towards her in every other respect, in spite of the fact that she had made a will giving him every stiver of her fortune, he was careful to reserve his Saturday evenings for her.

The old lady and the young man sat opposite each other before a glowing wood fire in the great drawing–room. Mrs. Luttrell was a small, high–bred, handsome woman, with snow–white hair, perfect teeth, a charming smile, a reckless tongue, and a fixed determination to have her own way twenty–four hours out of the day and three hundred and sixty–five days in the year, with an additional day thrown in at leap–year. Time had left a few external marks upon her, but in essentials she was the same woman General Brandon had danced with forty–five years before. She was in love with the same man, who even then was in his early grave,—Richard Luttrell, the husband of her youth. He had been dead unnumbered years, and only one person on earth—his nephew, Richard Baskerville—suspected that Mrs. Luttrell cherished her husband’s memory with a smouldering and silent passion,—the only thing she was ever known to be silent about in her life.

Mrs. Luttrell sat bolt upright, after the ancient fashion, in her carved ebony chair, while Richard Baskerville lounged at his ease on the other side of the marble mantel. He was a well–made man of thirty–five, without any particular merit in the way of beauty; but so clear of eye, so clean cut of feature, so expressive of a man’s intelligence and a man’s courage, that people forgot to ask whether he was handsome or not. Mrs. Luttrell always maintained that he was very handsome, but found few to agree with her. Her belief came, however, from his resemblance to the miniature of her husband which she kept in her capacious pocket—for she still insisted on pockets in her gowns, and this miniature never left her by day or night.

Mrs. Luttrell’s drawing–room was the admiration and the despair of people who knew something about drawing–rooms. It might have been taken bodily from the Second French Embassy, of which Mrs. Luttrell had seen a good deal, for she had known the third Napoleon well at some indefinite period in her history. The room was large and square and high–pitched, and wholly innocent of bay–windows, cosey corners, and such architectural fallals. The ceiling was heavily ornamented with plaster in the Italian style, and the cornice was superb. Over the fireplace was a great white marble mantel with a huge mirror above it, and in one corner of the room a grand piano something under a hundred years old looked like a belle in hoopskirts. There was a wealth of old rosewood furniture, pictures, candelabra, girandoles, Dresden ornaments, and other beautiful old things which would have made a collector turn green with envy.

Mrs. Luttrell was vain about her drawing–room, and with reason. She proudly claimed that there was not a single technical antique in it, and frequently declared she could tell the age of any family by a glance at their drawing–room. The newer the family the more antique the furniture, and when a family was absolutely new their house was furnished with antiques, and nothing but antiques, from top to bottom.

Mrs. Luttrell was gossiping hard as she sat before her drawing–room fire, shading her eyes from the leaping blaze with an old–fashioned lace fan and waiting for her guests to arrive. When Mrs. Luttrell gossiped, she was happy. One of the compensations to her for the new dispensations in Washington society was that it gave her plenty to gossip about. Ever since the advent in Washington society of pickles, dry–goods, patent medicines, shoes, whiskey, and all the other brands of honest trade, she had been engaged in a hand–to–hand fight to maintain her prestige as a leading hostess of Washington, against the swarms of newcomers, whose vast fortunes made Mrs. Luttrell’s hitherto ample income seem like genteel poverty. The rest of the “Cave–dwellers,” as the original society of Washington is now called, had never made any fight at all. They regarded the new influx with haughty disdain in the first instance, laughed at their gaucheries, and spoke of them pityingly as, “Poor Mrs. So–and–so,” “Those queer persons from nobody knows where.” The first accurate knowledge, however, that came to them of the “smart set,” as the new people are called, was when the Cave–dwellers were seized by the backs of their necks and were thrown over the ramparts of society, leaving the smart set in possession of the citadel.

Mrs. Luttrell, however, was not so easily disposed of as the rest. She saw that the Chinese policy of ignoring the enemy and representing a total rout as a brilliant victory would never do; so she set about holding her own with intelligence as well as courage. She called upon the new people, invited to her house those she liked, and Baskerville, who was the only living person who dared to contradict her, declared that Mrs. Luttrell never was known to decline an invitation to dine with any form of honest trade, no matter how newly emancipated. Her strongest weapon was, however, the capacity she had always possessed of bringing men about her. She was one of those men’s women whom age cannot wither nor custom stale. Her esprit, her knowledge of how to make men comfortable in mind and body when in her house, her insidious flattery, which usually took the form of delicate raillery, had charmed successive generations of men. Her kingdom had been long established, and she knew how to reign.

In her early widowhood she had been much pestered with offers of marriage, but it had not taken many years to convince her world that she would die Sara Luttrell. Every cause except the right one was given for this, for of all women Mrs. Luttrell was the last one to be suspected of a sentiment so profound as the lifelong mourning for a lost love. But it was perhaps just this touch of passionate regret, this fidelity to an ideal, which constituted half her charm to men. At an age when most are content to sink into grandmotherhood, Mrs. Luttrell was surrounded by men of all ages in a manner to make a débutante envious. Other hostesses might have to rack their brains for dinner men; Mrs. Luttrell was always embarrassed with riches in this respect. An afternoon visit at her house meant finding a dozen desirable men whom hospitable hostesses languished for in vain. Even a tea, that function dreaded of women because it means two women to one man, became in Mrs. Luttrell’s splendid, old–fashioned drawing–room a company in which the masculine element exactly balanced the feminine. She could have made the fortune of a débutante, and hence ambitious mothers sought her favor. Mrs. Luttrell, however, never had made a débutante’s fortune and never intended to, holding that the power to grant a favor is more respected than the favor itself.

Then, too, it was well known that Richard Baskerville, one of the most desirable and agreeable men in Washington, was always to be found at her house, and was certain to inherit her fortune; and he had the ability, the wit, and the grace to be an attraction in himself. The old lady would have liked it well if Baskerville had consented to live in a suite of the big, unused rooms in the house, but this he would not do. He agreed as a compromise, however, to buy a small house back of Mrs. Luttrell’s, and by using an entrance in her large, old–fashioned garden, it was almost as if he were in the same house.

Mrs. Luttrell followed the new customs and fashions so far as she thought judicious, and no farther. She knew the power of old customs and fashions when properly used. She held to her big landau, with her long–tailed black horses and her portly negro coachman and footman, because it gave her opportunities to intimidate the newly rich while apparently apologizing for her antique equipage.

“My carriage and horses and servants haven’t varied much for forty years, and I can’t change now. It’s all very well for you people who are accustomed to sudden changes to have your smart broughams and victorias, and your pink–and–white English coachmen and footmen, but it would look perfectly ridiculous in Sara Luttrell, don’t you see?” This to some aspiring newcomers whose equipage had been in a steady process of evolution from the time that a Dayton wagon was a luxury until now every season saw a complete revolution in their stables. Or, “I know my ermine cape looks as if it was made in Queen Elizabeth’s time, but I can’t afford to throw it away; and, Lord bless you, what does it matter whether one is in the fashion or not?” This to a lady who knew that her whole social existence depended upon her being in fashion.

It was insolent, of course, but Mrs. Luttrell meant to be insolent, and was so successfully, smiling meanwhile her youthful smile, showing her perfect teeth and certain of an answering smile from the men who were always at her elbow. Her whole world then thought she defied and laughed at the smart set; but Richard Baskerville saw, and had the assurance to tell her, that she secretly liked them very much and even sought their countenance by unique means.

“Well,” said Mrs. Luttrell, settling herself and adjusting the immortal ermine cape around her lace–covered shoulders, “I have a surprise in store for you to–night. Who do you think is to dine here?”

“Myself number one, Senator and Mrs. Thorndyke, and Judge Woodford. I believe you are in love with that man, Sara Luttrell.” This calling her by her first name Mrs. Luttrell reckoned a charming piece of impudence on Richard Baskerville’s part, and in saying it his smile was so pleasant, his voice so agreeable, his manner so arch, that he conveyed extreme flattery by it. It made her the same age as himself.

“No, my dear boy, you are mistaken in that particular; but I have a surprise in store for you.”

A pause.

“Why don’t you ask me who it is?”

“Because you’ll tell me in two minutes, if I just let you alone. You never could keep anything to yourself.”

“It is—Anne Clavering.”

Richard Baskerville sat up quickly. Surprise and pleasure shone in his face. “Why, Sara, I didn’t think you could do anything as decent as that.”

“I don’t know why. I’ve always liked the girl. And I believe you are about half in love with her.”

“You are such a suspicious old woman! But considering the share I am taking on the part of the original mortgages in those K.F.R. land grants, which may land Senator Clavering in state’s prison, I feel some delicacy in paying any attention to his daughter.”

“Naturally, I should think. But you were deep in the land–grant lawsuits before you ever met Anne Clavering.”