Pelham, on the contrary, only sat out a single dance with he_Mrs. Darrell

MRS. DARRELL

[Illustration]

[Illustration: “‘I DON’T THINK MRS. DARRELL CAN SEE YOU AGAIN.’”]

MRS. DARRELL

FOXCROFT DAVIS

AUTHOR OF “DESPOTISM AND DEMOCRACY”

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

WILLIAM SHERMAN POTTS_

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1905

_All rights reserved_

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1905.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

PAGE

_Chapter One_ 1

_Chapter Two_ 30

_Chapter Three_ 49

_Chapter Four_ 63

_Chapter Five_ 71

_Chapter Six_ 80

_Chapter Seven_ 95

_Chapter Eight_ 118

_Chapter Nine_ 150

_Chapter Ten_ 175

_Chapter Eleven_ 210

_Chapter Twelve_ 220

_Chapter Thirteen_ 245

_Chapter Fourteen_ 269

_Chapter Fifteen_ 289

_Chapter Sixteen_ 307

_Chapter Seventeen_ 356

_Chapter Eighteen_ 370

ILLUSTRATIONS

“‘I don’t think Mrs. Darrell can see you again’” _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

“‘Oh, papa!’ she said, ‘save my little pearl heart’” 6

“... She caught him by the arm and whispered, ‘And

could you leave me?’” 64

“Baskerville took Anne out to dinner” 138

“The little park was wholly deserted except for themselves” 236

“The next minute she was fast in Baskerville’s arms” 280

MRS. DARRELL

_Chapter One_

Time was, not so long ago, when Washington had some primitive aspects.

This was when the city was merely a political capital and society

was made up of the high government officials, the diplomatic corps,

the army and navy, and senators were very great personages and even

the now despised members of the House of Representatives had a place

on the social chess–board. This was before the influx of recently

acquired wealth and the building of splendid mansions wherein to house

the retired trade. There were few private ball–rooms, and certain

subscription dances were reckoned to be very smart. To these dances

young ladies were not ashamed to wear muslin gowns, nor to go in the

tram, carrying with them a contrivance known as a “party–bag,” which

held their white slippers, fans, and gloves.

The young ladies were just as beautiful then as now, as certainly

Captain Reginald Darrell and Captain Hugh Pelham, officers of the

178th Foot Regiment, then stationed in India, thought one night as

they watched from the street those charming Washington girls thronging

to the big Charity Ball of the season. It was a cold, clear January

night, and the two young officers, cousins and chums, who had wandered

idly from their hotel, watched with profound interest this phase of an

American ball.

The event being a great Charity Ball, tickets were on sale at all the

hotels. Pelham and Darrell had invested in a couple of tickets, and

were now standing outside the building, doubting whether after all they

should go in or not. They had heard and read much of American splendor,

and this had come nearly deterring them from coming to America at all,

considering their small allowance and modest pay in a foot regiment.

Both of them, it was true, were the grandsons of a peer, but a peer

almost as poor as Lazarus. Each had the enormous advantage of good

birth, good breeding, and the urgent necessity of making his own way

in the world. There was, it is true, some shadowy expectation of a

fortune which Darrell might inherit as heir–at–law, and Pelham was next

heir after Darrell. But the chance was so remote that the only present

benefit they had out of it was mess–table joking, and a declaration

on Darrell’s part that his love–affairs were always cruelly interfered

with by Pelham. In fact, Pelham’s interference—that is to say,

influence—with Darrell in every way was complete, Darrell being simple,

brave, polite, handsome, and commonplace, while Pelham was short, dark,

rather homely, of uncommon powers of mind and character. Pelham was

much favored by women, whom he treated with remarkable gentleness and

courtesy, but for whom he had felt a secret indifference.

Darrell, on the contrary, was devoted to the whole sex, their petted

and curled darling. He thought a woman the object of the highest

consequence,—that is to say, next to sport, which he regarded as

something sacred, ranking with Church and State. He always had a dozen

love–affairs on hand, and like the man in the old song, “He loved the

ladies, every one.” In Darrell’s eyes, Pelham’s only fault was that

he considered these love–affairs legitimate subjects of chaffing and

laughing, while Darrell took them all with perfect seriousness.

It was Pelham who, in his desire to see the world, so far as his narrow

purse would permit, had induced Darrell to plunge, so to speak, to the

extent of going to India by way of the United States and spending

three weeks in Washington, relying upon economy for the next five years

when they would be with their regiment in India in the Punjaub.

They were somewhat surprised, however, to find that in the capital of

the richest country in the world there was no great amount of splendor

in those days, but rather a modest standard of living for a capital. In

particular it appeared to them this evening that the splendor of the

ball was conspicuous by its absence. It must be premised, however, that

they had not then seen the supper, which was truly regal. Exteriorly,

they could not but compare the scene with the real magnificence of

such an occasion in London during the season, with the superb coaches

magnificently horsed, the gorgeous–liveried footmen, the army of

servants lining the stairways and the approaches, and the universal

elegance which pervades these balls of the summer nights given under

the sky of London. At the Washington ball, however, they saw only a

moderate number of private carriages, ordinary in every way, a vast

number of shabby old cabs,—known then as “hacks,”—gentlemen arriving on

foot, and even young ladies, their ball–dresses discreetly covered with

large cloaks, tripping along the streets, with their escorts of father

or brother carrying a party–bag. This, remember, was before the Deluge,

that is to say at least fifteen years ago.

The building in which the ball was held was large and plain, both

inside and out, but blazing with lights. The street itself had long

since been deserted by fashion. The negroes, never absent from a

spectacle in Washington, with their white teeth shining in the wintry

moonlight lined the sidewalk. A few white persons loitered under the

gas–lamp, watching the long line of carriages discharging their inmates

at the big, wide–open door, from whence the strains of the Marine Band

floated out into the cold, still night.

The two young Englishmen entered the street and stood watching the

scene with interest, leaning against the tall iron railings of the

old–fashioned quarter. Pelham and Darrell noticed near them, also

leaning against the iron railings, a man of about middle age, with a

sort of leonine beauty and handsomely dressed, though far too showily.

His fur–lined greatcoat brought out the clean–cut outlines of his

clean–shaven face, his iron–gray hair, and straight, narrow brows over

eyes of singular eloquence. Both young officers observed him, for it

was difficult at any time to look once at James Clavering without

looking at him twice.

In the circle of light made by two flashing gas–lamps in the front

entrance, suddenly appeared a young girl leaning on the arm of an

elderly gentleman. At the same instant the eyes of Pelham and Darrell

and Clavering fell upon her, and each thought her the most beautiful

woman that he had ever seen—which was, however, a very great mistake.

Elizabeth Brandon had, it is true, hair of satin blackness and skin of

milky whiteness, and eyes that reminded one of a summer night, so soft,

so dark with occasional flashes of starlike brilliancy, and a figure as

slight and graceful as a lily–stalk. Other women have as much beauty of

feature as Elizabeth Brandon, but she had that which is beauty itself,

the power to charm at a glance. She was not really as handsome as her

father, General Brandon, on whose arm she leaned, and who carried her

party–bag.

[Illustration: “‘OH, PAPA!’ SHE SAID, ‘SAVE MY LITTLE PEARL HEART.’”]

Both Pelham and Darrell saw at a glance that General Brandon was a

military man. And Clavering recognized him as the Captain Brandon he

had known twenty–five years before at a post in Texas, where Clavering

was at the time a sutler. He had heard that, at the breaking out of

the Civil War, Captain Brandon, who was a Southern man, had resigned

and had become a brigadier–general in the Confederate Army. Since the

war, Brandon had disappeared in the great, black gulf that opened where

once stood a government which called itself the Confederate States of

America. But Clavering gave no thought to this, as under the cover of

darkness he surveyed the charming girl who clung to General Brandon’s

arm. The two stood directly in front of Pelham and Darrell, who

bestowed upon Elizabeth those glances of respectful admiration which is

the homage due to beauty.

“My dear,” said General Brandon, in a peculiarly musical voice, to

his daughter, “I think we had better wait here until Mrs. Luttrell’s

carriage arrives. It is in line down the street, but will not be here

for five minutes or more.”

Darrell and Pelham moved a little aside so that the young lady and her

father might be somewhat out of the way of the passing throng. General

Brandon recognized this civility by lifting his hat punctiliously

to each, which courtesy both of them returned. At the same moment,

Elizabeth lifting her hand to her white throat, her sleeve caught in a

slender gold chain around her neck and a sudden movement broke it.

“Oh, papa!” she said, “save my little pearl heart. I would not lose it

for the world.”

General Brandon immediately looked down on the wet sidewalk for the

trinket, a search in which he was joined by both Pelham and Darrell.

Clavering, who was in the shadow, did not move, but his eyes followed

every movement of the group. Elizabeth unconsciously brushed against

him. There was some mud on his boots, and it became transferred to her

white muslin skirts, which she let fall in the anxiety of her loss. The

trinket, it would seem, had fallen at their very feet, but it was not

to be found. Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears, and she mourned for

her little pearl heart as if it had been a lost child.

“It is of no real value,” she said to Pelham, raising her soft, dark

eyes to his, “but I would not have lost it for anything.”

Both Pelham and Darrell were keen–eyed and searched diligently for the

lost trinket, but unavailingly. Pelham, usually the most unimpressed of

men where women and their fallals were concerned, felt that he would

have given a month’s pay to have found the little ornament and thereby

dry the tears that glistened on Elizabeth’s long, black lashes; but

it was soon obvious that there was no finding her lost treasure. Its

disappearance, though mysterious, was instant and complete.

General Brandon said in his slow, suave voice: “My dear child, all our

efforts are vain. I think your little treasure must have been stolen by

an unseen hand at the instant you dropped it; but you, gentlemen,” he

said, turning to Pelham and Darrell, “have been most kind, and I beg to

introduce myself to you. I am General Brandon of Virginia, formerly of

the United States Army and lately of the Confederate Army. Here is my

card, and I shall be most pleased to see you at my house.”

Pelham and Darrell were nearly knocked down by this unexpected

invitation. They did not know that a Virginian never loses the habit of

asking Thomas, Richard, and Henry to call upon him, on the slightest

provocation and often without any provocation at all. But they

recognized in a moment that this handsome and courtly person who went

around recklessly inviting street acquaintances to visit his house,

was a gentleman of purest rays serene, and being of the same caste

themselves, and thereby made free, both of them promptly accepted.

Pelham, who was quick of wit where Darrell was slow, introduced himself

and his friend, each handing his card.

“Ah!” cried General Brandon, “so you are officers of the British Army.

I am more than pleased to meet you. I am, like most persons in my

native state, of unmixed English descent, my family being a younger

branch of the Suffolk–Brandons; and I also am of the profession of

arms. I was in the old army, where I held the rank of major, and

afterward, when I followed my state out of the Union, I had the honor

of being brigadier–general in the army of the Southern Confederacy.

Permit me to introduce you to my daughter.” And this General Brandon

proceeded to do. Elizabeth bowed and smiled and was not at all taken

aback by the suddenness of the acquaintance. Virginians think that

all well–bred persons constitute a sort of national and international

oligarchy, whereof every member is or ought to be known to every other

member.

Pelham and Darrell were perfectly delighted, Darrell at the chance of

meeting so beautiful a girl as Elizabeth, and Pelham charmed with the

courtesy and innocent simplicity of General Brandon, who, while a man

of the world in its best sense, was yet unworldly.

“And may I ask,” said the General, “if you are attending the ball

to–night?”

“Yes,” said Pelham, “we understood it was a Charity Ball, and bought

tickets at the hotel; but as we are entire strangers, we were doubtful

whether after all it would be judicious for us to show our faces in the

ball–room.”

“My dear sir,” replied General Brandon, earnestly, “do not give

yourself the least uneasiness, I beg of you. I myself am not going, and

a friend Mrs. Luttrell will chaperon my daughter; but Mrs. Luttrell

will likewise chaperon you, and I shall have pleasure in introducing

you to any one whom you may desire to meet. My daughter also will do

the same.”

“With pleasure,” said Elizabeth, quickly and sweetly.

“If you will do me the honor to dance with me,” said Darrell to

Elizabeth, thinking to cut Pelham out.

“I can’t compete with Captain Darrell on that ground,” said Pelham,

quickly, with a certain grimness in his smile, “but if Miss Brandon

will only condescend to notice me in the ball–room, I shall feel that I

am well established.”

Elizabeth looked at Pelham closely. He was not at all handsome, but

he was far from insignificant, and he had one of those beautifully

modulated English voices and a look and a smile which were extremely

winning to women, children, and lost dogs. Darrell on the contrary

was as handsome as a dream, with the unmistakable blond, clean,

Anglo–Saxon beauty.

By this time, among the slow procession of carriages, ever moving, a

big, old–fashioned landeau, with a pair of long–tailed horses to it

and a colored coachman and footman, halted directly in front of them.

A lady with very dark eyes and very white hair and a voice sweet, but

with a singular carrying quality which could make itself heard over all

the clatter of the street, called out:—

“My dear General Brandon, I am mortified to death almost. I meant to

bring Elizabeth to the ball with me, but I declare I forgot all about

it until it was too late, and my nephew has been scolding me about it

ever since I left home. Richard, go and fetch Elizabeth now.”

The carriage door opened, and Richard Baskerville got out. He was a

little better looking than Pelham, though not half so good looking as

Darrell; but he belonged in the category of Pelham,—that class of men

who can attract notice and admiration without the aid of good looks. He

advanced and, bowing to General Brandon, offered his arm to Elizabeth,

saying with the air of old acquaintanceship, “My aunt has really

behaved shockingly to you, and I am ashamed of her.”

“Stop, Richard,” said General Brandon, detaining him. “I wish to

present to you two friends of mine.” General Brandon had never laid

eyes on Darrell or Pelham in his life until five minutes before; but

Richard Baskerville, who understood General Brandon thoroughly, would

not have been the least surprised if he had introduced a bootblack who

had obliged him and was therefore a valued friend. “May I introduce you

to Captain Pelham of the 178th Foot, and Captain Darrell of the same

regiment,—British officers? I need say no more.”

Baskerville politely shook hands with both Pelham and Darrell,

who discerned in him one of the most agreeable traits of American

character, cordiality to strangers—a cordiality which prevails in all

American society among the retired tradespeople, the newly rich.

“And,” continued General Brandon, “they are both going to the ball. I

intrust them to Mrs. Luttrell to make acquaintances among the young

ladies, and to you for the same duties among the gentlemen.”

Then Mrs. Luttrell’s penetrating voice was heard calling to General

Brandon, “Come here this minute, General Brandon.” And when he was

about halfway across the muddy street to her carriage, she inquired,

in a tone perfectly audible to both Pelham and Darrell, “Who are those

two nice–looking men standing with Elizabeth?”

“English officers,” replied General Brandon. “I hope you find yourself

very well this evening.”

“Bring them here this instant. I shall take them to the ball with me!”

was Mrs. Luttrell’s reply to this information—Mrs. Luttrell being a

pirate and freebooter of the worst description whenever desirable men

were discerned.

“Just what I was about to ask you, but as usual you anticipate

everything.”

Pelham, Darrell, and Baskerville, who were looking gravely at each

other, exchanged glances, which were equivalent to winks, and

Baskerville said:—

“You might as well give in to my aunt. She is a very determined

woman, but she will do a good part by you with the young ladies. I

need not say I shall be most happy to introduce you to any one of

my acquaintances you may wish to know. Come, Miss Brandon.” He gave

Elizabeth his arm and escorted her, with Pelham and Darrell following,

across the street to where Mrs. Luttrell’s big coach, with the lamps

flowing out in the darkness, had its place in the line of carriages.

Elizabeth had felt from the beginning the strange influence of the

unknown man in the shadow, whose eyes had been fixed upon her from the

moment of their arrival. She had glanced back half a dozen times at his

tall and imposing figure and had been acutely conscious of his keen

observation. She felt it still as she walked away from him.

Elizabeth felt as if in a dream. She was distressed and even

superstitious about the loss of her little ornament. It not only

distressed her, but had given her a presentiment of evil, and she was

vaguely conscious of some malign influence near her and likewise of

the admiration and incipient tenderness which Darrell and Pelham felt

towards her, of her father’s deep and protecting love, of being the

object of solicitude to Mrs. Luttrell and Baskerville. She was at that

moment surrounded by admiration and love and care, but she was haunted

by a sudden sense of evil close to her. She stepped silently into the

carriage, and took her seat by Mrs. Luttrell’s side. General Brandon

then presented the two young British officers as if they were his

long–lost brothers. Mrs. Luttrell received them, not as if they were

her long–lost brothers, but like a perfect woman of the world, born to

command, and who, seeing what she wanted, took her own, wherever she

found it, as Molière says. And now she said to them: “Please get into

the carriage. It holds four very comfortably. I do not care for these

miniature broughams and coupés, meant to hold a woman and a poodle.

I like a good big carriage, the sort our great–grandfathers had when

everybody had fourteen children and generally took seven with them when

they went visiting. My carriage holds four, and I could pack six away

in it if I chose. I can take you in, General Brandon,” she said.

“A thousand thanks, my dear Mrs. Luttrell,” replied General Brandon,

who did not have at that moment the price of a ticket either at home or

in his pocket. “I have no intention of going to the ball since you are

so kind as to chaperon my child. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Baskerville then shut the door. “You needn’t ask me to get in. I shall

walk down. It is only a step anyhow, but I know your propensities for

packing your carriage as full as an omnibus, and I don’t believe in

encouraging you in your vices.”

“The way my nephew talks to me is perfectly shocking,” said Mrs.

Luttrell, resignedly, to her new–found guests; “but he is the best and

dearest fellow in the world.”

Pelham and Darrell were more and more delighted at every turn in

their adventure. Darrell recognized by instinct and Pelham by his

naturally thorough reasoning powers that here they had come across an

American lady—no sham Englishwoman, with the sham English manner, sham

affectation of speech, and with all the defects of an exact imitation.

And each of them felt a strange joy at being so close to Elizabeth

Brandon. She sat back in the carriage, and they could see her white

breast rising and falling as she threw back her large gray cloak; and

the soft beauty of her eyes was visible in the half darkness of the

carriage. Elizabeth, who, like most Southern women, was naturally

talkative, kept singularly quiet. Her gaze was turned towards the

spot where they had just been standing, and she was conscious rather

than actually saw the dark brown eyes of the man who had stood just

behind her and whose presence near her she had felt without seeing

him. But she recovered herself and began to talk with a graceful ease

and familiarity at once charming and flattering to the two young

Englishmen. Mrs. Luttrell, however, held the centre of the stage,

according to her invariable custom, and gave Pelham and Darrell a

pretty fair idea of what they would meet at the Charity Ball.

In a few minutes more the carriage reached the door of the hall, where

Baskerville was awaiting them, and he escorted them up the stairs.

He utilized the time when Mrs. Luttrell and Elizabeth were in the

dressing–room, to introduce the two young officers to several of the

men best worth knowing in Washington.

As for the ladies, Elizabeth, on removing her cloak, was dismayed to

find that her fresh white muslin gown had more than one spot of mud on

it, and it took ten minutes of diligent rubbing, washing, and pressing

to get it out. She realized that she must have got it from the boots of

the man who stood behind her, whose dark and striking face had fixed

her attention at first and in whose neighborhood she had felt strangely

influenced. And then the loss of her little pearl heart—But the Marine

Band was playing loudly a rhythmic waltz, there were partners at the

door waiting for her. She had two desirable men, both strangers, whom

she might consider her property for that evening. She was young and

beautiful, and in a little while all of her unpleasant sensations

passed away. She found herself whirling around the room in Darrell’s

arms. For a wonder, although an Englishman, he knew how to dance, and

Elizabeth was intensely susceptible to rhythm and music. She felt when

she began to waltz with Darrell, as if she would like to waltz forever

with him. He was so strong, so supple, so graceful,—so susceptible,

like herself, to that charm of dance music in which two people dancing

together are conscious of that sensuous counterpart of real love which

makes a man and a woman feel as if they constituted one being with a

single heart and a single soul.

Darrell realized the first moment that he held Elizabeth in his arms

and floated with her to the languorous waltz music, that he had never

really been in love at all before; but, as he frankly confessed to

himself, it was all up with him now. He knew not who or what she was,

but it could make but little difference to him. He loved her and he

knew it. He would have liked not to leave her side once during the

evening, and in fact he was near her most of the time and danced with

her six times.

Pelham, on the contrary, only sat out a single dance with her, as he

was not a dancing man. He too felt a charm about her which he had never

known in any other woman. Sitting out dances with young ladies had

been a species of torment to him, but not so this time. He thought

the charm that Elizabeth exercised over him was that she was the first

of all unmarried English–speaking women that he had known who was

perfectly and entirely at her ease with an unmarried man. She assumed

an attitude openly and yet most delicately flattering towards him. He

had known Englishwomen of fascination who were entirely at ease with

men, but never flattering; and he had known other women who were very

flattering to men, but never at ease with them. Here was a woman who

treated him with the frankness she would have shown towards a younger

brother, with the confidence she would have shown a respected elder

brother, and with the deference she would have shown the greatest

Duke in England. Pelham rightly judged that here he had met the true

American type. A woman with an ancestry of gentle people, dating back

two or three hundred years, and developed in a country where respect

for women is so insisted upon as to be professed by those who neither

believe in it nor practise it,—as such Elizabeth was to him the most

interesting woman he had ever met. He was himself a reading man, and

Elizabeth Brandon at twenty had read only a few books, but these were

the English classics and they had given her the capacity to talk to a

reading man like Pelham. He foresaw that at thirty Elizabeth would have

read a great many books, and with the untrammelled association with men

of all ages and in the free American atmosphere, her mind, naturally

good, would have developed admirably.

As Pelham and Elizabeth sat at the foot of the stairs, a cabinet

officer passed them slowly, as they sat under a bower of great palms,

with the throbbing music far enough away not to interrupt their

talk; and Elizabeth spoke to the cabinet officer. He was an elderly

man from the West, manly and even gentlemanly, though not polished.

Pelham noticed with what ease Elizabeth spoke to this type of man, the

smiling, tactful answers she gave to his pleasant but rather blunt

questions. She introduced Pelham promptly to him, accompanying the

introduction with a request that he would be very nice to Captain

Pelham while he was in Washington; and when the cabinet officer asked

her what she wanted him to do for Captain Pelham, she replied promptly:—

“Send him a card to the club.”

Pelham was aghast at the boldness of this, and tried to imagine the

daughter of a half–pay officer in England asking a cabinet minister to

send a card to White’s and Brooke’s to a chance acquaintance she had

just picked up.

Elizabeth continued placidly: “Of course I could get a card through

papa. He does not belong to the club,—it is too expensive,—but he knows

a great many men in the club. You know he can’t afford anything except

me; and there are plenty of other men who would send Captain Pelham a

card if I asked them, but you happen to be the biggest man I know and

that is why I am asking you.”

At which the cabinet officer, laughing, said, “Will you be kind enough,

Captain Pelham, to give me the name of your hotel?—and I will have a

card sent to you to–morrow morning.”

“And he has a cousin, Captain Darrell,” added Elizabeth, promptly, “and

he must have a card, too.”

“Certainly,” replied the cabinet officer, taking out his note–book and

writing down the two names. “His brothers, cousins, and his uncles

and all his relations, if you like,” and after taking the names down

the cabinet officer walked away, laughing. This was an experience

that Pelham thought his comrades would doubt when he told it at the

mess–table of the 178th Foot.

Pelham spent much more time with Mrs. Luttrell than with Elizabeth,

and the two were mutually charmed. Mrs. Luttrell’s daring and positive

language and her air of command were accompanied with a fascination

of smile and voice which was effective even with her snow–white hair

and crow’s feet around her eyes, still full of light and life. Pelham

noticed that she was always surrounded by men, young and old. She

treated the young men like patriarchs and the patriarchs like boys.

Baskerville, quiet, rather sedate, and seeking the middle–aged rather

than the young, struck Pelham as one of the pleasantest fellows he had

ever met. It looked as if this chance incursion of the Charity Ball

would reveal more of the real American life to Pelham and Darrell than

they might have met in a month of ordinary traveller’s advantages.

Mrs. Luttrell had already engaged them for a couple of dinners and

Baskerville for a club breakfast. Most of the people they met were

agreeable, and they noticed that buoyancy of spirit and gayety of

heart which a great writer on America, and another writer who was the

most patronizing literary snob ever seen in North America, mutually

agreed to be characteristic of American society. The ball itself,

which was described by the society correspondents as of surpassing

brilliancy, hardly reached that mark; but to three persons, Elizabeth

Brandon, Pelham, and Darrell, it was an evening of delight, never to be

forgotten.

Meanwhile, James Clavering still stood outside in the sharp, starlit

night, listening to the bursts of music which came at intervals from

the ball–room and watching the great lighted windows. He saw Elizabeth

Brandon float past in Darrell’s arms, and watched them enviously. His

exterior showed that the price of a ball–ticket was nothing to him,

but he knew that he had no place then in a ball–room. He had taken no

part in searching for the trinket which Elizabeth had dropped, but

presently, moving a little, he saw under his heel the crushed fragments

of pearls. He had unconsciously ground the little heart under his foot.

It gave him a spasm of regret and even of sentiment, and he thought

to himself, with an odd smile flitting across his well–cut features,

“Suppose some day I should give that girl a diamond heart, five times

as big and a thousand times as costly as this. It wouldn’t be so

strange, after all.”

He had stood watching the last stragglers to the ball and searching the

windows for a passing glimpse of the beautiful Elizabeth. Meanwhile,

outside, General Brandon had returned to the sidewalk. He would have

dearly liked to go, himself; but it had been all that he could do to

buy a ticket for Elizabeth,—a ticket and seventeen yards of white

muslin, which she herself had fashioned with her own fingers into a

beautiful gown and had trimmed with her grandmother’s old lace.

As General Brandon was moving off, a hand touched his elbow, and James

Clavering, who had been standing a little in the background, spoke to

him.

“This is General Brandon?” he said.

“Yes,” replied General Brandon, looking into the clear–cut face of the

man before him, who towered a head above him. “And you, I cannot at

this moment call your name.”

“It’s Clavering. Don’t you remember me when I was a sutler at Fort

Worth in Texas, and you were a captain of cavalry at the same post?”

A light dawned upon General Brandon. He grasped the ex–sutler’s hand as

cordially as if he had been an officer of the British Army. “Certainly

I do. You knew me before the war.” All Virginians divide time into

three epochs, before the war, during the war, and after the war. “And

a very excellent sutler you were. I recall that you had a good,

industrious wife and several promising children. You look prosperous.

The world seems to have gone well with you.”

“Pretty well,” replied Clavering, ignoring the mention of his wife and

children. He had a voice of music which added to his other personal

advantages. “I hope the same is the case with you?”

The General smiled placidly. “I resigned from the army when my

state seceded, and went through four years on the battlefields of

Virginia, and I attained the rank of brigadier–general. Then I entered

the service of the Khedive of Egypt and served in Egypt for eight

years, but you know what has fallen out there. So I have returned

to Washington, and through the influence of old army friends I have

secured a clerkship in the War Department.”

“Pretty hard lines, isn’t it?” asked Clavering, looking at General

Brandon’s seedy greatcoat, and knowing what stupendous changes were

involved in the story told so smilingly by the time–worn veteran.

“Scarcely that,” answered General Brandon, with the same gentleness of

tone and smile. “I have a small house here in rather a good part of

the town, and my salary is sufficient for my simple wants and those

of my daughter, who has no extravagant tastes. Thanks to my old army

friends I am here, and they have met me with extraordinary kindness and

good–will and shown me much hospitality. On the whole I think myself

decidedly well off, all things considered.”

Clavering looked at General Brandon with pity and good–natured

contempt. He seemed to Clavering about as guileless and innocent as a

boarding–school miss or a college sophomore; and yet he had commanded

three thousand fighting men, during four fierce years of a bloody

war, and had been relied upon by no less a man than Stonewall Jackson

himself. All this Clavering knew, as he knew most of the contemporary

history of his own country.

“And that charming young lady,” he asked after a moment, “was your

daughter?”

“Yes, my only child and as good as she is beautiful. May I ask if Mrs.

Clavering is alive? I remember her as a most worthy woman.”

“Yes,” answered Clavering, shortly. “Now will you come with me to one

of the up–town hotels and have a smoke and a drink? In the old days

when I was a sutler and you were a captain, I should have known better

than to ask you; but I never expected to remain a sutler always. I

have made money in the West, and I have ambitions of various sorts.

Some day you will hear of me.”

“Nothing,” said General Brandon, impressively, “should be or is, in

this country, out of reach of any man with brains and solid worth.” The

General himself was an aristocrat from the crown of his head to the

sole of his feet, but he never dreamed of it.

“And some education,” added Clavering. He knew his man thoroughly.

“Brains are the first requisite, and solid worth is all very well. But

a man must have some other qualifications. A man must know something

beyond the common school of his youth and the bigger common school of

his manhood, in order to make a lasting impression on his time. Of

course I don’t include geniuses in this category, but men of talent

only. I have not what I call education, but I have the next best thing

to it. I know my own limitations. I have a boy on whom I shall put a

twenty–thousand–dollar education, but I am very much afraid that he is

a twenty–dollar boy.”

General Brandon did not exactly understand this, and Clavering said no

more about his boy. They walked off together, and in a little while

they were seated in the lobby of an up–town hotel and Clavering was

telling the story of his life—or what he chose to tell of it—to General

Brandon. It was not an instinctive outpouring of the truth, but as

a matter of fact Clavering was rehearsing for the rôle he intended

to play in a few years’ time,—that of the rich man who has hewn his

way through a great forest of difficulties and has triumphed in the

end. He was astute enough not to despise men of General Brandon’s

stamp, simple, quiet, brave, having little knowledge of affairs but

perfectly versed in ethics. Clavering in short knew the full value of a

gentleman, although he was not one himself.

They sat late, and when the General reached his own door in a tall old

house far up town, Elizabeth was just descending from Mrs. Luttrell’s

carriage, escorted by Richard Baskerville.

“Oh, papa,” she said, running up the steps, her white muslin skirts

floating behind her, “I have had the most glorious evening.” She was

quite unaware that the hour of fate had struck for her, and that she

had entered the portals of destiny—a new and strange destiny.

_Chapter Two_

Pelham and Darrell had reckoned upon spending three weeks in

Washington, but it became a full month. They were practically adopted

by Mrs. Luttrell, and found her large, handsome, old–fashioned house a

centre of the best society, where they saw all that was worth seeing

in Washington. At their own Embassy they soon became favorites, and it

was after a ball there that a revelation came to Pelham. He had seen

Elizabeth Brandon every day of their stay in Washington, and every day

she had absorbed a little more of his strong, reserved, and silently

controlled nature and had gained an inch or two in his reserved,

tender, but devoted heart. He discovered that Elizabeth had both

goodness and intelligence as well as charm and beauty. She was very

young to him,—that is, in his own thirty years he had seen and known,

realized and suffered, ten times more than Elizabeth during her twenty

years of life. He recognized in her a naturally fine mind and taste

for reading, a delightful and subtle power of accommodating herself

to the mode and manner of any man she wished to please. How attractive

this would make her to the man she loved and married! The thought

almost dazzled Pelham’s strong and sober brain. He saw that she was a

little intoxicated with the new wine of life, her beauty, her grace

and popularity; she was quite unburdened with the cares and anxieties

of richer girls who wore finer gowns and sighed for the partners who

crowded around Elizabeth.

Pelham was not in the least disturbed by the fact that Darrell had

fallen violently in love with Elizabeth and proclaimed it to him a

dozen times a day. It was Darrell’s normal condition to be violently

in love with some pretty girl; but frankly admitting that his pay and

allowance were not enough for one, much less for two, there was small

danger of his actually committing himself, so Pelham thought. Nor

did he observe any difference in Elizabeth’s acceptance of Darrell’s

attentions from those of any other man whom she liked—her manner was

uniformly flattering and complaisant; in truth, he had very little

conception of Elizabeth’s feminine power of concealment.

On the night of the ball at the British Embassy, Pelham, on his return

to his hotel, sat in his own room, smoking and turning over an

important question in his mind, which was “when should he ask Elizabeth

Brandon to marry him.” He had not much to offer her in a worldly point

of view. His own position was good, but no better than hers, and he

discovered that General Brandon, who had been to England once or twice,

had hobnobbed with persons of higher rank even than the peer of the

realm who was grandfather to both Darrell and himself; but Pelham

realized with an admiration as deep as his love that Elizabeth was not

the woman to marry for either money or position. He was reflecting

on what he should say to General Brandon next day, before speaking

to Elizabeth, for he had old–fashioned notions as to the rights of

fathers. He was wondering, in case Elizabeth accepted him, how General

Brandon would take the proposition that she should come out to India

and marry him there after the English fashion, and was in doubt whether

General Brandon would fall on his neck and embrace him or kick him

downstairs.

While he was considering these things, the door opened and Darrell

walked in. He threw himself in a chair close to Pelham and, closing

his eyes, went into a revery. Pelham looked at him goodhumoredly. No

doubt he was dreaming about Elizabeth. He was a handsome fellow, no

denying that, and candor, courage, and honesty were writ large all over

him. Presently he roused himself, and leaning over towards Pelham, and

blushing like a girl, for the first time in his life, he said in a

whisper, “She loves me.”

Pelham received a shock such as he had never known before. He knew

Darrell’s sincerity and real modesty too well to doubt him, and his

mind took in immediately and quietly the calamity to himself which

Darrell’s words implied. He sat still, so still that Darrell shook him.

“Do you hear, old man? It was all settled to–night at the ball, not two

hours ago, behind a big hydrangea in a flower–pot, and you’ve got to

help me out. I am to see the Ambassador to–morrow and ask him to cable

for two weeks’ additional leave, so we can be married before sailing.”

Yes, with Pelham the dream was over, the fairy palace had crumbled. The

heavenly music had dissolved in air. The world had suddenly grown bleak

and cold and commonplace, but pride and common sense still remained.

“It seems to me,” said Pelham, in a quiet voice, after a pause, “that

there isn’t much left for me to do. You and—Miss Brandon have agreed,

and the Ambassador can no doubt get you two weeks more leave—” Pelham

stopped with a choking in his throat which he had never felt before in

all his life.

“But why don’t you congratulate me?” cried Darrell. They had been like

brothers all their lives, and Pelham was to Darrell his other self;

while Darrell was to Pelham a younger brother whose excellence of heart

and delicacy of soul made up for a very meagre understanding.

“I do congratulate you,” said Pelham, grasping Darrell’s hand, the old

habit of love and brotherly kindness overwhelming him. “I think Miss

Brandon the most charming girl I ever knew. Any man is fortunate to get

her. But I don’t think you are half good enough for her, Jack.”

“That is just what I think,” answered Darrell, with perfect sincerity.

“But no man is good enough for her as far as that goes, and I am

not the man to be running away from an angel; but there are lots of

things to be attended to. I must give my whole time to Elizabeth, and

I cannot ask the Ambassador to see about transportation, tickets, and

transferring luggage. You must do that, and pay for it all; and I will

pay you back when we get our respected aunt’s fortune—fifty years or