continuous round of entertaining at the White House, unofficial as
well as official. The different embassies vied with one another in the
number and splendor of their festivities; and the smart set entered
into a merry war among themselves as to which should throw open their
doors oftenest, collect the largest number of guests, and make the most
lavish and overpowering display of luxury.
The Claverings did their part, chiefly engineered by Clavering himself,
and abetted by Élise and Lydia. Clavering had good reason to suspect
that the report of the investigating committee would be ready within
the month. It was now the middle of January. Shrove Tuesday came on the
fourteenth of February, St. Valentine’s Day, and this was the evening
selected for the grand ball and musical which were to complete the
season. Other musicals had been given in Washington, but none like
this; other balls, but this was meant to surpass them all. It had
heretofore been enough to get artists from the Metropolitan Opera in
New York; it remained for Clavering to import a couple of singers from
Paris for the one occasion. A Hungarian band, touring America, was held
over a steamer in order to come to Washington and play at the ball. The
shops of Vienna were ransacked for favors for the cotillon; and the
champagne to be served came from a king’s cellars.
All this Anne Clavering regarded with disgust and aversion. She felt
sure that her father was soon to be hurled from public life, and
deservedly so. Her mother’s health was giving her grave alarm. She
was at all times opposed to the excess of luxury and fashion which
delighted the pagan souls of Élise and Lydia, and now it was an
additional mortification to her on Baskerville’s account. He, she felt
convinced, was conscious of the brazen effrontery, the shocking bad
taste, of it all, and considerate as he was in not speaking of it, her
soul was filled with shame to suppose what he thought. She began to
hate the lavish luxury in which she dwelt, and looked forward eagerly
to the time when she could live modestly and quietly in a house not so
grand as to excite the transports of all the society correspondents who
got a sight of its stupendous splendors.
Mrs. Clavering’s illness, though slight, continued, and gave Anne a
very good excuse for withdrawing somewhat from general society. And
it also gave her time for those charming meetings at Mrs. Luttrell’s
house, where she and Richard Baskerville tasted the true joy of living.
Mrs. Luttrell nobly redeemed her promise, and would have sent every day
for Anne to come to tea. As Mrs. Luttrell did not often dine at home
without guests, the best tête–à–tête she could offer the lovers was tea
in the little morning–room by the firelight. But Anne, with natural
modesty, did not always accept Mrs. Luttrell’s urgent invitations. When
she did, however, she and Baskerville always had an enchanted hour to
themselves in the dusk, while Mrs. Luttrell considerately disappeared,
to take the half hour’s beauty sleep which she declared essential,
during some part of every day, for the preservation of her charms.
The lovers also met more than once at the Thorndykes’, at little
dinners _à quatre_. Mrs. Thorndyke would write a note to Anne, asking
her on various pleas to come and dine with Thorndyke and herself; and
as soon as Anne had accepted there would be a frantic call over the
telephone for Thorndyke, in which Mrs. Thorndyke would direct him at
the peril of his life to go immediately in search of Baskerville and
to bring him home to dinner. And Thorndyke, like the obedient American
husband, would do as he was bidden, and produce Baskerville with great
punctuality. How far Constance Thorndyke’s own acute perceptions were
accountable for this, and how far Mrs. Luttrell’s incurable propensity
for taking the world into her confidence, nobody could tell. At all
events, it made four people happy; and if anything could have made
Baskerville and Anne more in love with the ideal of marriage it was to
see the serene happiness, the charming home life, of Senator and Mrs.
Thorndyke.
Baskerville had not ceased to press for an early date for his marriage,
but Mrs. Clavering’s indisposition and the position of Clavering’s
affairs deferred the actual making of the arrangements. It was to be
a very simple wedding, Anne stipulated; and Baskerville, with more
than the average man’s dread of a ceremony full of display, agreed
promptly. Some morning, when Mrs. Clavering was well, Anne and he would
be quietly married, go from the church to the train, and after a few
days return to Baskerville’s house. And Anne promised herself, and got
Baskerville to promise her, the indulgence of a quiet domestic life—a
thing she had not known since the golden shower descended upon James
Clavering.
Clavering had said nothing to Anne in regard to Baskerville’s interview
with him, nor had the father and daughter exchanged one word with each
other, beyond the ordinary civilities of life, since that midnight
conversation in which Mr. Clavering had announced his intention of
getting a divorce. Neither had he said anything to Mrs. Clavering, and
his plans were entirely unknown to his family. By extraordinary good
fortune not the smallest suspicion fell on the pale, handsome, silent
Mrs. Darrell across the way, with her widow’s veil thrown back from her
graceful head.
In those weeks, when Anne Clavering saw as little of the world
as she could, she occasionally took quiet and solitary walks in
which Baskerville would gladly have joined her. But Anne, with the
over–delicacy of one who might be open to the suspicion of not
being delicate enough, would not agree to see him except under the
chaperonage of Mrs. Luttrell. And twice in those solitary walks she
met Elizabeth Darrell, also alone. Both women regarded each other
curiously, meanwhile averting their eyes.
Anne knew quite well who Elizabeth was, and at their second meeting,
which was quite close to Elizabeth’s door, Anne was moved by the true
spirit of courtesy and neighborly kindness to speak to her. She said,
with a pleasant bow and smile: “This, I believe, is Mrs. Darrell, our
neighbor, and I am Miss Clavering. I have the pleasure of knowing your
father, General Brandon.”
Elizabeth received this advance with such apparent haughtiness that
Anne, her face flushing, made some casual remark and went into her own
house. In truth Elizabeth was frightened and surprised beyond measure,
and felt herself so guilty that she knew not where to look or what to
say, and literally fled from the sight of James Clavering’s innocent
daughter as if she had been an accusing conscience.
Meanwhile the preparations for the grand St. Valentine’s musical and
ball went gayly on. Clavering himself showed unwonted interest in it.
He was as insensible of public approval or disapproval as any man well
could be; nevertheless, he hoped that the report of the investigating
committee would not be made public until after the great function on
Shrove Tuesday. It pleased his fancy for the spectacular to think that
the last entertainment he gave in Washington—for he well knew it would
be the last—should be full of gorgeous splendor, so superbly unique
that it would be remembered for a decade.
He told this to Elizabeth Darrell, for although the investigation was
closed Clavering trumped up some specious requests for more of General
Brandon’s information and assistance on certain alleged general points,
and by this means still contrived to see Elizabeth once or twice a
week. He tried to persuade Elizabeth to come to the grand festivity,
and was deeply in earnest in his effort. He counted on its effect upon
her when he should tell her that she could have similar entertainments
whenever she liked, in a much larger and more splendid city than
Washington—London or Paris, for example.
Elizabeth, however, recoiled with something like horror from the idea
of going to Clavering’s house and being hospitably received by his
wife and daughters; for she had reached the point when Clavering’s
bribes—for so his love–making might be considered—were always in her
mind. At one time she would feel so oppressed with her loneliness, her
poverty, her disappointments, that she would be almost eager for the
splendid destiny which Clavering offered her; at another time she would
shrink from it with horror of it and horror of herself. All her social
and religious prejudices were against divorce and were strong enough
to have kept her from marrying Clavering if he had ever really been
married to Mrs. Clavering, but as he had never been married to her no
moral obligation existed. Elizabeth would also have been incapable of
the meanness, the iniquity, of taking Clavering away from another woman
who had a much better right to him than she; only she knew that Mrs.
Clavering would suffer nothing in parting with Clavering. The feeling
that his children might be wounded made no strong appeal to Elizabeth.
However, Clavering’s best argument—his stupendous wealth—was always
in some form before her eyes. Every time she went out of doors, or
even looked out of her window, she saw the evidences of Clavering’s
fortune—his magnificent house, his army of servants, his superb
equipages, his automobiles of every description. She could not get away
from it, and it made her own shabby home seem the shabbier and the
narrower every day she lived in it. Moreover, she was at that dangerous
age when a woman is brought face to face with her destiny; when she is
forced to say good–by to her girlhood and to reckon upon life without
first youth or first love.
And after Hugh Pelham’s behavior, why should she reckon on love at
all? Was there such a thing as love? He had apparently loved her with
the noblest love; it had lasted many years, and finally, in a day, in
an hour, for the merest paltry consideration of money, he had not only
forgotten her, he had persecuted her. If it were not her fate to know
the very ultimate sweetness of love, at least she might have known
its consolation. Now that Pelham was lost to her she began to think
reproachfully, as women will, of what he might have done for her. If
he had been true to her, or even decent to her, she would never have
been in those desperate straits in London; she would never have been
in her present cruel position, for the instant her father knew of her
embarrassments she knew he would sell the roof over his head to pay
back the debt; and she would never have dreamed of marrying Clavering.
All these troubles came from her having believed in love—and perhaps
there was no such thing, after all. But in thinking of marrying
Clavering and exchanging her present miserable existence for that
promised dazzling London life, a shadow would fall across it—Hugh
Pelham’s shadow. How would she face him? How could she conceal from him
that she had sold herself to this man? And how could she visit him with
the scorn lie deserved if she had so easily bartered herself away?
Clavering saw the conflict in Elizabeth’s mind, and it gave him a
species of sardonic amusement at his own expense. Here he was, ready to
sacrifice so much for this woman who had nothing, who could scarcely be
brought to look upon what he offered her, and who had kept him at such
a distance that he had but once touched her hand in private. He felt
himself in many ways at a disadvantage with Elizabeth Darrell. He was,
like all men, brought up in humble surroundings, unused to clever and
highly organized women, and he did not exactly know how to appeal to
such women or how to classify them. One moment Elizabeth would appear
to him cleverer than the cleverest man, the next he saw in her some
feminine foible that made her seem like a precocious child.
Yet all the time Clavering maintained, in his quietly overbearing
way, that the whole affair of the marriage was fixed; but he was not
so certain as he professed. He would talk of their plans: they would
be married and go to London, and Elizabeth might have any sort of an
establishment she liked. She was already well known and well connected
there, and he candidly admitted to himself that it would probably be a
season or two before London society would find out exactly what sort
of a person he was. He warned Elizabeth not to expect any attention
from the American ambassador, and was, in short, perfectly frank with
her.
He saw that the idea of a life of splendor in London had its attraction
for Elizabeth. If she should marry, she would not dare to remain
in Washington, and she had no ties elsewhere in her own country.
Clavering’s manners, in spite of his origin and career, were admirable,
and she would have no occasion to blush for him in society—a point
on which well–bred women are sensitive. She knew, in externals, he
would compare favorably with any of the self–made Americans who buy
their way into English society. For herself, her birth and breeding
lifted her far above the average titled American woman, whose papa or
mamma has bought her a title as they bought her a French doll in her
childhood. And London was so large, and so little was really understood
there of American life and manners, that Elizabeth felt they would be
comparatively safe in London—if—if—
She had taken to reading the newspapers attentively, and had followed
the investigation closely. She made herself some sort of a vague
promise that should Clavering be exonerated she would marry him, but
if he should be proved a scoundrel she would not. But she was already
inwardly convinced that he was guilty. He told her, the first time he
had a chance, of Baskerville’s interview with him—told it with such
humor, such raciness, such enjoyment of Baskerville’s uncomfortable
predicament, that Elizabeth, though little given to merriment, was
obliged to laugh.
“Of course,” he said, “they will be married shortly. Baskerville has a
fine position here—not showy, you know, but the right sort. He has a
comfortable fortune, too. Gad! at his age I would have thought myself
as rich as Rockefeller if I had had as much. Now it wouldn’t keep me in
automobiles. I shall provide for Anne handsomely, and besides she will
get everything I give her mother, which will be in itself a handsome
fortune. Oh, I’m not mean about giving money to my family. Just as soon
as Élise and Lydia get the cash I intend to give them, when I get the
divorce, they will both be sure to marry some foreign sprig. They have
a whole forest of them here and at those foreign watering–places. I
shall give Reginald quite as much as he will know how to use, and that
will still leave me enough to make you one of the richest women in the
world.”
Then he redoubled his urging that Elizabeth should come to the grand
musical; but she refused his proposition with such violence that he
thought it prudent to say no more about it. General Brandon, however,
had accepted with pleasure, and quite looked forward to the event. But
the very day before, he came home from his office with a bad attack of
rheumatism, and was forced to take to his bed.
In the afternoon of the next day, while Elizabeth was sitting by her
father’s bedside reading to him, and occasionally giving furtive
glances at the great masses of palms and magnificent flowering plants
being carried into Clavering’s house, a card was brought up to her. It
was inscribed, “Mr. Angus McBean.” So the solicitor had carried out his
threat at last. Elizabeth’s heart gave a great jump, and then seemed
as if dead within her. But she maintained some outward composure, and
said she would see the gentleman in a few moments; and telling General
Brandon that it was an acquaintance of other days, she left the room.
She went to her own room to recover herself a little before descending
to meet the man through whom Hugh Pelham had persecuted her ever since
her husband’s death.
When she entered the drawing–room, the Scotchman rose and greeted
her politely. Elizabeth answered his greeting coldly, and McBean, who
had seen several Scotch duchesses at a distance, thought he had never
beheld anything quite so haughty as this American woman. She remained
standing, and Mr. McBean, perceiving she was not likely to ask him to
sit, coolly took a chair; and Elizabeth, perforce, sat too.
“I have come in the interests of my client, Major Pelham, to endeavor
to reach a basis of settlement with you, madam, concerning the matter
we have been corresponding about,” blandly remarked Mr. McBean.
“So I supposed,” said Elizabeth, icily.
Mr. McBean continued, still blandly: “I may recall to you that you have
persistently refused to answer my letters or to refer me to a lawyer,
and as the affair involves jewels of considerable value, as well as
large sums of money, I thought myself justified in coming to America to
seek a settlement of the matter. May I inquire if you will now give me
the name of your lawyer? For it would be far more to your interests—I
may say it is necessary to your interests—that this matter be settled
promptly.”
These words were of vague but dreadful import to Elizabeth. She
remained silent. She knew nothing of law or lawyers, and the mere
thought of consulting a lawyer seemed to her to be giving away her
case. There was one,—yes, Richard Baskerville,—the only lawyer she knew
in Washington, if she might still be said to know him. She recalled
the few times she had seen him since her return to Washington. But she
had known him well in the old days. He seemed to have retained his
former kindness to her; she might consult him. All this passed rapidly
through her mind. What she said was in a calm voice: “I think I need
not consult any lawyer on the point of retaining my husband’s gift. The
pendant to the necklace was my husband’s wedding present to me.”
Mr. McBean sighed patiently. He had had many dealings with lady
clients, and all of them were like this, quite haughty and impossible,
until they were frightened; then they would do anything that was asked
of them. The only thing left, then, was to frighten Mrs. Darrell, and
to give her to understand that the rights of property were the most
sacred rights on earth—from the Scotch point of view.
“I think, madam, if you will kindly consent to see your solicitor,
or—I believe you use the generic term in the States—your lawyer, and
will afterward, have him kindly accord me an interview, you will
change your mind upon this matter. The necklace, without counting
the additions made to it by your husband, or the pendant, which I
understand is of no great value, all of which will be restored to you,
is worth at least fifteen hundred pounds. Such a piece of property is
not to be disposed of lightly.”
So, then, being driven into a corner, helpless and alone, Elizabeth
flatteringly consented to consult a lawyer. Mr. McBean left as his
address a second–class hotel, and bowed himself out, promising to
repeat his call as soon as he was permitted.
Had the Scotch solicitor known it, he had done more toward driving
Elizabeth into marrying Clavering than any of Clavering’s offers, vows,
urgings, and inducements. As she stood, pale and frightened, with a
wildly beating heart, her eyes fell involuntarily on the superb house
opposite her.
At that moment Clavering dashed up in a magnificent automobile, and got
out. Elizabeth noticed that he did not walk with his usual graceful
and springy step, and that he leaned against one of the stone pillars
of the doorway, before the ever ready, gorgeously caparisoned flunky
opened the entrance door. In truth, James Clavering had in his breast
pocket a type–written document, which acted like a drag upon his
footsteps and a weight upon his shoulders. It was a stolen copy of the
report of the committee of investigation, for he always had those in
his pay who served him on like occasions.
The next moment, Élise and Lydia drove up in a gem of a victoria.
They were enveloped in the costliest furs, and so were the immaculate
coachman and footman. The pair of perfectly matched bay cobs was worth
a fortune. The harness was gold–mounted, with the Clavering initials
upon it. As the two girls got out of the victoria Elizabeth caught the
gleam of a long chain dotted with diamonds around Élise’s neck. Both
of them seemed to radiate wealth; and there stood she, forlorn and
despairing for the lack of a few hundred pounds!
Nor was this all. Even if the value of the necklace could be raised
by her father’s sacrificing everything he had,—his interest in his
mortgaged house,—what might not be done to her because she could not
produce the necklace itself? Clavering had told her that with money
enough it could easily be traced and recovered; but that would mean
more money still, and she might as well ask for a star as for any more
than the small sum her father could raise. And when she thought that
by saying one word she could step from this unstable, bitter, and
humiliating position into the very acme of luxury and all the ease of
mind which money could give, it seemed to her almost a paradise. It was
well for her that Clavering was not on the spot at that moment.
She went back to her father’s bedside and to reading the book she
had laid down. She uttered the words, but her mind was far off. As
she dwelt upon Mr. McBean’s phrases and thinly disguised threats,
she grew more and more panic–stricken. At last Serena brought up
General Brandon’s dinner, and Elizabeth went down to her own solitary
meal in the dingy dining room. Action was forced upon her; she must
see a lawyer, and Richard Baskerville was her only choice. She must
try to see him that very night. As she knew he would not be at the
Claverings’, she thought her chance of finding him at home was
excellent.
When dinner was over Elizabeth gave Serena a note to take to Richard
Baskerville, asking him to call that evening to see her upon a matter
of pressing importance. She put her request upon the ground of old
acquaintance, coupled with present necessity. Serena returned within a
half–hour, with a note from Baskerville saying he would be pleased to
call to see Mrs. Darrell that evening at half–past nine o’clock.
General Brandon having been made comfortable for the night, Elizabeth
descended to the drawing–room. The gas was lighted, but turned low.
Elizabeth went to the window, whence she could see the Clavering house
blazing with light and an army of liveried servants moving to and fro.
A fraction of the cost of that one entertainment would have made her a
free woman.
Shortly after half–past nine o’clock Baskerville arrived. Like
Elizabeth, he gazed with interest at the Clavering house. It was
undoubtedly the last great entertainment there at which Anne would
preside, and Baskerville had a conviction that it was the last
entertainment the Claverings would ever give in Washington. He had
private information that the committee of investigation had agreed upon
its report, and he believed it would deal severely with Clavering.
He had been surprised to receive Elizabeth’s note, but he recognized
at once that she was in great trouble, and he had come willingly, as a
gentleman should. When he saw Elizabeth, he realized how great was her
trouble. Then, sitting in the dimly lighted drawing–room, Elizabeth,
with many pauses and palpitations and hesitations, began her story.
Baskerville gently assisted her, and the telling of the first part
was not so hard. When it came to the further history of it Elizabeth
faltered, and asked anxiously, “But wasn’t the necklace mine entirely,
after my husband gave it to me?”
Baskerville shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Darrell, and I am
afraid that Major Darrell made a mistake—a perfectly natural and
excusable mistake—in thinking it was his to give you in perpetuity. Of
course I am not so well informed on these points as an English lawyer
would be, but from what you tell me of the other jewels, and the course
of the solicitor concerning them, I cannot but think that he knows what
he is doing, and that you will have to give up the necklace, retaining
of course your pendant, and perhaps the stones your husband bought.”