established Elizabeth’s place in society as one of the beauties of the
season. She received vast attention from those London exquisites who
claim to fix a woman’s place in beauty’s calendar. She was noticed,
admired, and conversed with by royalty itself, and the Prince having
thus set his mark of approval on her, Elizabeth’s title as a London
beauty was settled beyond cavil. She enjoyed it thoroughly, of course;
but the image of Pelham did not leave her mind. She would turn her
head in the midst of the splendor and magnificence of the ball, wishing
to herself, “Could I but see him now!”
The ball lasted late, and it was not over until night had flown and the
rosy dawn had come. Elizabeth was one of the few women sufficiently
natural to look well after a night of dancing, and she looked as fresh
as the dawn itself when she stepped into her carriage. Not so Darrell,
who appeared so wearied that Elizabeth reproached herself at not having
left earlier.
“I didn’t wish to bring you away,” he said with his usual kindness of
tone. “Nine years in the Punjaub entitles you to some indulgences, and
besides I was proud of you. I like to see you happy and admired.”
Elizabeth laid her head on his shoulder in the seclusion of the
brougham, and Darrell, after a pause, said in a low voice: “This is
the anniversary of the boy’s death. I wouldn’t speak of it before,
Elizabeth, but I hadn’t forgotten it.”
“And I,” said Elizabeth, her heart suddenly turning to the dead child,
sleeping under the cypress trees in the military cemetery at Embira,
“had not forgotten it, but I hoped that you had, dearest.”
They talked together for a little while of their lost darling, as the
parents of dead children do, and then Darrell suddenly grew quiet.
Elizabeth thought he was asleep, and would not move for fear she might
disturb him. When she reached their own door, she raised her head from
his shoulder. Darrell was dead.
* * * * *
Of all that happened in the succeeding weeks, Elizabeth had afterward
but a confused recollection. She was stunned by the blow and deeply
grieved. Although she had long ceased to return Darrell’s affection
in kind, yet she had a deep love for him. It was so deep, so sincere,
so unselfish, that his death could not fail to be a heavy grief to
her,—the heaviest but one that she could know: that other was Pelham’s.
Her sorrow was not joined with remorse. She had honestly and earnestly
devoted her life to Darrell, and felt sure that she had made him happy;
but nevertheless it was a deep and sincere sorrow.
Her first thought had been naturally and inevitably for Pelham. She
was so ignorant of business, so absolutely untrained in affairs, and
so much a stranger in England, that she scarcely knew where to turn.
Darrell had plenty of relatives, but Elizabeth had never known them,
except during her few short months in England, and none of them
were particularly near Darrell either in blood or friendship. His
grandfather was long since dead, and the cousin who inherited the title
was in West Africa. From the beginning Elizabeth seemed overwhelmed
with difficulties, with annoying details which she was called upon
to decide without having the slightest experience in them. She knew
nothing of the value of money, having had but little until she came
into what seemed to both Darrell and herself an enormous fortune. She
knew not what she had spent nor what she was spending. Thus, as in
everything else, could she have only turned to Pelham and asked him
what to do, everything would have gone right. But Pelham was in West
Africa; it would possibly take anywhere from four to five months to
communicate with him, nor was it possible for him to return for at
least a year from the time he had started.
It was Pelham, however, who inherited everything that came from Lady
Pelham. The sole provision for Elizabeth was about one hundred pounds
a year, which was Darrell’s own small inheritance. But the fact that
Pelham was the sole heir relieved Elizabeth’s mind when it was brought
home to her that she would be obliged to account for everything Darrell
and she had received,—every chair and table in Lady Pelham’s house,
and every jewel, however trifling. Elizabeth, who was as high–minded
as she was inexperienced, desired to hand over everything to Pelham
direct, but she knew him, or thought she knew him, too well to suppose
it possible that he should make her position the least painful or
embarrassing to her. In the first weeks of her widowhood, when she had
wished to remain alone in her London house, entirely secluded from the
world and its affairs, she was forced to see solicitors, attorneys,
business men, and persons of all sorts. Some of these presented unpaid
bills for large amounts, and foremost among the intruders was one
Andrew McBean, a Scotch attorney who was Pelham’s agent.
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.