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.”
“Yes, that’s true. She once asked me to call but I never felt I could
do so under the circumstances, though Clavering himself, who is a
pachyderm so far as the ordinary feelings of mankind go, is as chummy
as you please with me whenever we meet. And he actually invited me to
visit his house! Miss Clavering probably knows nothing of the specific
reason that keeps me away, but Clavering does, you may be sure. I have
met Miss Clavering everywhere, and every time I see her I am lost in
wonder as to how she came to be Senator Clavering’s daughter or the
sister of Mrs. Denman and that youngest daughter, Lydia.”
“A couple of painted Jezebels, that are enough to drag any family to
perdition. The old woman, I hear, murders the king’s English and eats
with her knife, but is a good soul. And if it wasn’t for the determined
stand Anne Clavering has taken for her mother, I don’t imagine there is
much doubt that Senator Clavering would have divorced her long ago. But
Anne stands up for her mother and makes them all treat her properly,
and is assisted by the brother,—a poor rag of a man, but perfectly
respectable,—Reginald Clavering. Did you ever notice how common people
run to high–flown names? None of our plain Johns and Georges and Marys
and Susans and Jameses for them—they get their names, I think, out of
Ouida’s novels.”
Richard Baskerville rose and stood in front of the fire. Mrs. Luttrell
could not complain of any want of interest on his part in the subject
under discussion. “Miss Clavering, as I told you, invited me to call on
her, when I first met her. However, I had scruples about going to the
house of a man I was fighting as I am fighting Senator Clavering. So I
never went, and she never repeated the invitation. She is a very proud
woman.”
“Very. And she is the only one of her class I have ever seen who was
really a scientific fighter.”
“How pitiable it is, though, for a girl to have to fight her way
through society.”
“Yes—but Anne Clavering does it, and does it gallantly. Nobody can be
impertinent to her with impunity. Do you know, the first thing that
made me like her was the way that she hit back when I gave her a gentle
correction.”
“I am delighted to hear it, and I hope she whipped you well.”
“Not exactly—but she stood up before me long enough to make me respect
her and ask her to come to one of my little Saturday dinners.”
“Mrs. Thorndyke is always asking her to dinner, and I know of no woman
more discerning than Mrs. Thorndyke.”
“Yes, Constance Thorndyke knows a great deal. But you see her husband
is in the Senate and so she has to have some sorts of people at her
house that I don’t have. However, I know she is really a friend of
Anne Clavering, and it is perfectly plain that although Miss Clavering
is a _nouveau riche_ herself, she hasn’t any overwhelming respect for
her own ‘order,’ as Ouida would say. She is ten times more flattered
to be entertained by people like the Thorndykes and myself than by the
richest pork–packing or dry–goods family in Washington.”
“Certainly she is, as a woman of sense would be.”
“As for that divorcée, Élise Denman, and that younger girl, Lydia, they
are the two greatest scamps, as they are the two handsomest women, in
this town. They are not deficient in their own peculiar sort of sense
and courage, and they have whipped the Brentwood–Baldwins handsomely
about that pew in St. John’s Church. The religion of these brand–new
people is the most diverting thing about them, next to their morals!”
“They also are the sons of God!” replied Baskerville, quoting.
“Don’t believe that for a moment! Most of ’em are sons and daughters
of Satan and nobody else. If ever the Episcopal Church—the Anglican
Church, they call it—comes out squarely against divorce, I don’t know
where it will land the smart set or what they will do for a religion.
They will have to become esoteric Buddhists or something of the sort.
At present a pew in a fashionable church is the very first round on the
social ladder. I have gone to St. John’s all my life, and my father
was one of the original pew–holders; but I declare, if I could find a
well–warmed Episcopal church in southeast Washington or Anacostia even,
I’d go to it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would. I don’t know how the dispute with the Brentwood–Baldwins
came about, but there was a pew near the President’s which both the
Claverings and the Brentwood–Baldwins wanted, and those two pagan
daughters of Senator Clavering got it. You ought to have seen the
Brentwood–Baldwin girl and those other two girls pass each other last
Sunday morning coming out of church; they exchanged looks which were
equivalent to a slap in the face.”
“And you wouldn’t have missed seeing it for worlds.”
“Why, it’s true I like to see a fight.”
“For pure love of fighting I never saw your equal, Sara Luttrell.”
“I come by it honestly. I am of as good fighting stock as you are,
Richard Baskerville. But the Clavering–Brentwood–Baldwin row is not
the only religious war in this town. You know Mrs. James Van Cortlandt
Skinner—I know her husband was originally Jim Skinner before he went to
glory.”
“Now who told you that?”
“Oh, nobody; I just felt it in my bones. Well, Mrs. Skinner has a new
and original fad—that woman is clever! She has seen the automobile
fad, and the fancy–ball fad, and the monkey–dinner fad, and the
dining–on–board–the–Emperor’s–yacht fad, and the exclusive–school
fad, and the exclusive–theatrical–performance fad, and the
marrying–of–a–daughter–to–a–belted–earl–like–a–thief–in–the–night fad.
She has done horse shows and yacht races and dinners to the Ambassador,
and now she has outfooted New York and Newport, and left Chicago at
the post. She has a private chapel, and she’s going to have a private
chaplain!”
“Oh, Lord, you dreamed it!”
“No, I didn’t, Richard, my dear. You see, the Jim Skinners”—Mrs.
Luttrell pronounced it as if it were “jimskinners”—“were originally
honest Methodists; but these people shed their religion along with
their old clothes and plated forks. And now Mrs. Jimskinner has become
Mrs. James Van Cortlandt Skinner and an ardent Episcopalian, and so
has Gladys Jimskinner, and Gwendolyn Jimskinner, and Lionel Jimskinner,
and Harold Jimskinner, and I believe that woman has set her heart on
having what she calls an Anglican archbishop in these United States.”
“If she has, I know it was you who put the microbe in her head.”
It was a chance shot, but it hit the white. “I think I did, Richard,”
meekly replied Mrs. Luttrell. “Mrs. Jimskinner—I mean Mrs. James Van
Cortlandt Skinner—was urging me to join the Order of St. Monica; that’s
an order in which widows pledge themselves not to get married again. I
told her there wasn’t the least reason for me to join, for, although
I’ve never told my age to any living person, I hardly consider myself
on the matrimonial list any longer. And then Mrs. Van Cortlandt Skinner
told me of the various beautiful brand–new orders in the Church, and
said she thought of getting an order founded for one of her boys; the
other would have to marry and perpetuate the family. And I suggested a
contemplative order with a nice name, like the Order of St. Werewolf.”
“Oh, Sara!”
“Yes, I did. I told her St. Werewolf was much respected in the Middle
Ages; one heard a good deal of him; and she swallowed the wolf and
the saint at one gulp. She said she rather liked the notion and might
build a beautiful monastery on her estate on the Hudson, and whichever
one of her boys she decided to indulge in a life of celibacy she would
have made the first superior. And then I said—now, Richard, don’t be
rude—I said how much simpler all these delightful things would be if
we only had an archbishop like the Archbishop of Canterbury; and Mrs.
Van Cortlandt Skinner said that she had often longed for an archbishop
and had always thought that the development of the Church in America
required one; and then I caught Senator Thorndyke’s eye—we were coming
out of church—and I ran away.”
“You wicked old woman! What will you do next!”
“I haven’t done anything. You see, Mrs. Jimskinner belongs to that
class who don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t have anything they
happen to fancy. If they get married and don’t like it, they get a
divorce and a new husband or a new wife as they get a new butler when
they discharge the one they have. If they want a title, they go and buy
one. If they want a crest, they simply take one. They can’t understand
why they shouldn’t do anything or have anything they want. I declare,
Mrs. Jimskinner was talking to me with the simplicity of a child,
and she’s as bent on that private chaplain and that archbishop as if
each was the latest style of automobile. I don’t wonder the London
newspapers guy Americans, remembering what kind of Americans find their
way into London society.”
“That reminds me—I met General Brandon two days ago, and his daughter
Mrs. Darrell.”
“Yes, Elizabeth Darrell has come back, as poor as a church mouse, and
dreadfully changed. I shall call to see her. She will find a very
different Washington from the one she left ten years ago.”
“Miss Clavering,” announced the negro butler.
Anne Clavering, graceful and self–possessed, entered the room. She had
not the sumptuous beauty of her sisters, nor remarkable beauty at all;
yet, as Elizabeth Darrell had seen in that first accidental view of
her, she was more than beautiful—she was interesting. She had no marks
of race, but she had every mark of refinement. Her gown was simple, but
exquisite, and she wore no jewels. Mrs. Luttrell received her amiably
and even affectionately, and her quick eye noted that both Anne and
Baskerville blushed at meeting.
“So you are not above coming out to an unfashionable dinner with an old
fogy,” she said, taking Anne’s hand.
“I believe it is considered one of the greatest privileges of
Washington to dine with you at one of your ‘unfashionable dinners,’”
Anne replied, with her pleasant smile. This made Anne’s fortune with
Mrs. Luttrell.
In a minute or two more Senator and Mrs. Thorndyke were announced,
and they were promptly followed by Judge Woodford, a handsome antique
gentleman, who had for forty years counted on being one day established
as the head of Mrs. Luttrell’s fine house. The Thorndykes were not
a young couple, although they had not been long married. Their
love–affair had covered a long period of separation and estrangement,
and at last when fate had relented and had brought them together in
their maturity, it gave them by way of recompense a depth of peace, of
confidence, of quiet happiness, and a height of thrilling joy at coming
into their own inheritance of love, that made for them a heaven on
earth. Thorndyke was a high–bred, scholarly man of the best type of New
England, who hid under a cool exterior an ardent and devoted nature.
Constance Thorndyke was exteriorly the scintillant, magnetic Southern
woman, but inwardly she was as strong and as sustaining as Thorndyke
himself. Neither of them had a grain of mawkish sentimentality,
and they were always differing playfully when they really differed
seriously; but they never differed in their love and admiration of what
was good.
Baskerville took Anne out to dinner. He had several times had that good
fortune, especially in Mrs. Thorndyke’s house, and so far as dinner
companions went he and Anne were well acquainted. Anne had been deeply
mortified at Baskerville’s ignoring her invitation to call, and the
reason she at once suspected—his knowledge of her father’s character
and his share in furnishing information to the senatorial committee
which was investigating Senator Clavering. She did not for one moment
suspect that Baskerville put compulsion on himself to keep away from
her house. She was conscious of a keen pleasure in his society, and
a part of the gratification she felt at being asked to one of Mrs.
Luttrell’s intimate dinners was that Baskerville should know how Mrs.
Luttrell esteemed her.
[Illustration: “BASKERVILLE TOOK ANNE OUT TO DINNER.”]
The dinner fulfilled all of Anne’s expectations. The Thorndykes were
socially accomplished, and Judge Woodford had been a professional
diner–out since the days when President Buchanan had made him a third
secretary of legation at Paris. Anne Clavering found herself adopted
into the small circle, so different in birth and rearing from her
own, by the freemasonry of good sense and good manners—in which she,
however, was the equal of anybody.
Mrs. Luttrell shone at her own table, and the restraint she put
upon her own tongue revealed her to be, when she chose, a person of
perfect tact. And, indeed, her most courageous speeches were matters
of calculation, and were in themselves a species of tact. When
entertaining guests in her own house, however, she showed only the
amiable side of her nature; and she was always amiable to Richard
Baskerville, the one human being in the world whom she really loved
and feared. Anne was extremely amused at the attitude of Baskerville
to Mrs. Luttrell, shown by such things as calling her by her first
name and hectoring her affectionately,—all of which Mrs. Luttrell took
meekly, only prophesying that if he ever married, he would make an
intolerable husband.
Anne Clavering noted that among these people of old and fixed positions
there was a great deal of chaff, while among the new people there was
always great formality. The manners of the one set were simple, and of
the latter elaborate. She also saw, being of a quick eye, that there
were many differences in little things between the old and the new.
The new had a different and complex fork for every course, but Mrs.
Luttrell had, except some very old–fashioned oyster forks, the same
handsome, plain old forks which had been in use in her family since
silver forks were first adopted. There was no opportunity, if she
had wished, to emulate a brand–new Washington hostess, who mentioned
to a distinguished guest that he was eating his fish with the wrong
fork. And Mrs. Luttrell had the temerity to have on the table her
splendid old decanters, in which was served the very last old port in
Washington, “laid down by papa in ’59.”
When the dinner was over they closed around the drawing–room fire and
talked cosily, as people can seldom talk in the hurrying, rushing
twentieth century; and then Mrs. Thorndyke, at Mrs. Luttrell’s request,
went to the grand piano and sang sweetly some songs as old–fashioned
as the piano. Anne remembered with a blush the professional singers
who were considered essential to the Clavering house after one of the
large, magnificent, and uncomfortable dinners which were a burden and
an anxiety to all of the Clavering family.
When the carriages were announced, everybody was surprised at the
lateness of the hour. Anne went up to Mrs. Luttrell and thanked her
sincerely and prettily for one of the pleasantest evenings she had
ever spent in Washington. Mrs. Luttrell, who declared herself totally
indifferent to blame or praise from one of the new people, was hugely
flattered by this expression from a Clavering.
Baskerville, having antique manners, put Anne in her carriage, and
contrived to express in this small action a part of the admiration
and homage he felt for her. Anne, driving home in the November night,
experienced a strong and sudden revulsion of feeling from the quiet
enjoyment of the evening. Bitterness overwhelmed her. “How much happier
and better off are those people than I and all my kind!” she thought.
“They have no struggles to make, no slights to swallow or avenge, no
social mortifications, nothing to hide, to fear, to be ashamed of,
while I—“ She buried her face in her hands as she leaned back in the
carriage, and wept at the cruel thought that Baskerville would not come
to her house because he did not think her father a decent man.
As she entered her own street she caught sight of Count Rosalka, a
young attaché, helping Élise Denman out of a cab at the corner. Élise
ran along the street and under the porte–cochère as Anne got out of the
carriage and walked up the steps. Élise’s eyes were dancing, her mouth
smiling; she looked like a bacchante.
“Remember,” she said, catching Anne by the arm, “I’ve been out to
dinner, too.”
The door was opened, not by one of the gorgeous footmen, but by Lydia,
handsomer, younger, and wickeder–looking than Élise. “Good for you,
Lyd,” whispered Élise; “I’ll do as well by you sometime.” The footman
then appeared, and grinned openly when Lydia remarked that as she was
passing through the hall she recognized Miss Clavering’s ring and
opened the door.