THE VISCOUNT VINCENT.
A king may make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might
Gude faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that and a' that,
Their dignities and a' that,
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.
--_Robert Burns_.
The next morning Ishmael and Bee, the only hard workers in the family,
were the first to make their appearance in the breakfast room. They had
both been up for hours--Ishmael in the library, answering letters, and
Bee in the nursery, seeing that the young children were properly washed,
dressed, and fed. And now, at the usual hour, they came down, a little
hungry, and impatient for the morning meal. But for some time no one
joined them. All seemed to be sleeping off the night's dissipation. Bee
waited nearly an hour, and then said:
"Ishmael, I will not detain you longer. I know that you wish to go to
the courthouse, to watch the Emerson trial; so I will ring for
breakfast. Industrious people must not be hindered by the tardiness of
lazy ones," she added, with a smile, as she put her hand to the
bell-cord.
Ishmael was about to protest against the breakfast being hurried on his
account, when the matter was settled by the entrance of Judge Merlin,
followed by Mr. Middleton and Claudia. After the morning salutations had
passed, the judge said:
"You may ring for breakfast, Claudia, my dear. We will not wait for your
aunt, since your uncle tells us that she is too tired to rise this
morning."
But as Bee had already rung, the coffee and muffins were soon served,
and the family gathered around the table.
Beside Claudia's plate lay a weekly paper, which, as soon as she had
helped her companions to coffee, she took up and read. It was a lively
gossiping little paper of that day, published every Saturday morning,
under the somewhat sounding title of "The Republican Court Journal," and
it gave, in addition to the news of the world, the doings of the
fashionable circles. This number of the paper contained a long
description of the President's drawing room of the preceding evening.
And as Claudia read it, she smiled and broke in silvery laughter.
Everyone looked up.
"What is it, my dear?" inquired the judge.
"Let us have it, Claudia," said Mr. Middleton.
"Oh, papa! oh, uncle! I really cannot read it out--it is too absurd! Is
there no way, I wonder, of stopping these reporters from giving their
auction-book schedule of one's height, figure, complexion, and all that?
Here, Bee--you read it, my dear," said Claudia, handing it to her
cousin.
Bee took the paper and cast her eyes over the article in question; but
as she did so her cheek crimsoned with blushes, and she laid the paper
down.
"Read it, Bee," said Claudia.
"I cannot," answered Beatrice coldly.
"Why not?"
"It makes my eyes burn even to see it! Oh, Claudia, how dare they take
such liberties with your name?"
"Why, every word of it is praise--high praise."
"It is fulsome, offensive flattery."
"Oh, you jealous little imp!" said Miss Merlin, laughing.
"Yes, Claudia, I am jealous! not of you; but for you--for your delicacy
and dignity," said Beatrice gravely.
"And you think, then, I have been wronged by this public notice?"
inquired the heiress, half wounded and half offended by the words of her
cousin.
"I do," answered Beatrice gravely.
"As if I cared! Queens of society, like other sovereigns, must be so
taxed for their popularity, Miss Middleton!" said Claudia, half
laughingly and half defiantly.
Bee made no reply.
But Mr. Middleton extended his hand, saying:
"Give me the paper. Claudia is a little too independent, and Bee a
little too fastidious, for either to be a fair judge of what is right
and proper in this matter; so we will see for ourselves."
Judge Merlin nodded assent.
Mr. Middleton read the article aloud. It was really a very lively
description of the President's evening reception--interesting to those
who had not been present; more interesting to those who had; and most
interesting of all to those who found themselves favorably noticed. To
the last-mentioned the notice was fame--for a day. The article was two
or three columns in length; but we will quote only a few lines. One
paragraph said:
"Among the distinguished guests present was the young Viscount Vincent,
eldest son and heir of the earl of Hurstmonceux and Banff. He was
presented by the British minister."
Another paragraph alluded to Claudia in these terms:
"The belle of the evening, beyond all competition, was the beautiful
Miss M----n, only daughter and heiress of Judge M----n, of the Supreme
Court. It will be remembered that the blood of Pocahontas runs in this
young beauty's veins, giving luster to her raven black hair, light to
her dusky eyes, fire to her brown cheeks, and majesty and grace to all
her movements. She is truly an Indian princess."
"Well!" said Mr. Middleton, laying down the paper, "I agree with Bee. It
is really too bad to be trotted out in this way, and have all your
points indicated, and then be dubbed with a fancy name besides. Why,
Miss Merlin, they will call you the 'Indian' Princess' to the end of
time, or of your Washington campaign."
Claudia tossed her head.
"What odds?" she asked. "I am rather proud to be of the royal lineage of
Powhatan. They may call me Indian princess, if they like. I will accept
the title."
"Until you get a more legitimate one!" laughed Mr. Middleton.
"Until I get a more legitimate one," assented Claudia.
"But I will see McQuill, the reporter of the 'Journal,' and ask him as a
particular favor to leave my daughter's name out of his next balloon
full of gas!" laughed the judge, as he arose from the table.
The other members of the family followed. And each went about his or her
own particular business. This day being the next following the first
appearance of Miss Merlin in society, was passed quietly in the family.
The next day, being Sunday, they all attended church.
But on Monday a continual stream of visitors arrived, and a great number
of cards were left at Judge Merlin's door.
In the course of a week Claudia returned all these calls, and thus she
was fairly launched into fashionable life.
She received numerous invitations to dinners, evening parties, and
balls; but all these she civilly excused herself from attending; for it
was her whim to give a large party before going to any. To this end, she
forced her Aunt Middleton to issue cards and make preparations on a
grand scale for a very magnificent ball.
"It must eclipse everything else that has been done, or can be done,
this season!" said Claudia.
"Humph!" answered Mrs. Middleton.
"We must have Dureezie's celebrated band for the music, you know!"
"My dear, he charges a thousand dollars a night to leave New York and
play for anyone!"
"Well? what if it were two thousand--ten thousand? I will have him. Tell
Ishmael to write to him at once."
"Very well, my dear. You are spending your own money, remember."
"Who cares? I will be the only one who engages Dureezie's famous music.
And, Aunt Middleton?"
"Well, my dear?"
"Vourienne must decorate the rooms."
"My dear, his charges are enormous."
"So is my fortune, Aunt Middleton," laughed Claudia.
"Very well," sighed the lady.
"And--aunt?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Devizac must supply the supper."
"Claudia, you are mad! Everything that man touches turns to gold--for
his own pocket."
Claudia shrugged her shoulders.
"Aunt, what do I care for all that. I can afford it. As long as he can
hold out to charge, I can hold out to pay. I mean to enjoy my fortune,
and live while I live."
"Ah, my dear, wealth was given for other purposes than the enjoyment of
its possessor!" sighed Mrs. Middleton.
"I know it, aunty. It was given for the advancement of its possessor. I
have another object besides enjoyment in view. I say, aunty!"
"Well, my child?"
"We must be very careful whom we have here."
"Of course, my dear."
"We must have the best people."
"Certainly."
"We must invite the diplomatic corps."
"By all means."
"And--all foreigners of distinction, who may be present in the city."
"Yes, my love."
"We must not forget to invite--"
"Who, my dear?"
"Lord Vincent."
"Humph! Has he called here?"
"He left his card a week ago."
The day succeeding this conversation the cards of invitation to the
Merlin ball were issued.
And in ten days the ball came off.
It was--as Miss Merlin had resolved it should be--the most splendid
affair of the kind that has ever been seen in Washington, before or
since. It cost a small fortune, of course, but it was unsurpassed and
unsurpassable. Even to this day it is remembered as the great ball. As
Claudia had determined, Vourienne superintended the decorations of the
reception, dancing, and supper rooms; Devizac furnished the refreshment,
and Dureezie the music. The élite of the city were present. The guests
began to assemble at ten o'clock, and by eleven the rooms were crowded.
Among the guests was he for whom all this pageantry had been got up--the
Viscount Vincent.
With excellent taste, Claudia had on this occasion avoided display in
her own personal appointments. She wore a snow-white, mist-like tulle
over white glacé silk, that floated cloud-like around her with every
movement of her graceful form. She wore no jewelry, but upon her head a
simple withe of the cypress vine, whose green leaves and crimson buds
contrasted well with her raven black hair. Yet never in all the splendor
of her richest dress and rarest jewels had she looked more beautiful.
The same good taste that governed her unassuming toilet withheld her
from taking any prominent part in the festivities of the evening. She
was courteous to all, solicitous for the comfort of her guests, yet not
too officious. As if only to do honor to the most distinguished stranger
present, she danced with the Viscount Vincent once; and after that
declined all invitations to the floor. Nor did Lord Vincent dance again.
He seemed to prefer to devote himself to his lovely young hostess for
the evening. The viscount was the lion of the party, and his exclusive
attention to the young heiress could not escape observation. Everyone
noticed and commented upon it. Nor was Claudia insensible to the honor
of being the object of this exclusive devotion from his lordship. She
was flattered, and when Claudia was in this state her beauty became
radiant.
Among those who watched the incipient flirtation commencing between the
viscount and the heiress was Beatrice Middleton. She had come late. She
had had all the children to see properly fed and put to bed before she
could begin to dress herself. And one restless little brother had kept
her by his crib singing songs and telling stories until ten o'clock
before he finally dropped off to sleep, and left her at liberty to go to
her room and dress herself for the ball. Her dress was simplicity
itself--a plain white tarletan with white ribbons; but it well became
the angelic purity of her type of beauty. Her golden ringlets and
sapphire eyes were the only jewels she wore, the roses on her cheeks the
only flowers. When she entered the dancing room she saw four quadrilles
in active progress on the floor; and about four hundred spectators
crowded along the walls, some sitting, some standing, some reclining,
and some grouped. She passed on, greeting courteously those with whom
she had a speaking acquaintance, smiling kindly upon others, and
observing all. In this way she reached the group of which Claudia Merlin
and Lord Vincent formed the center. A cursory glance showed her that one
for whom she looked was not among them. With a bow and a smile to the
group she turned away and went up to where Judge Merlin stood for the
moment alone.
"Uncle," she said, in a tone slightly reproachful, "is not Ishmael to be
with us this evening?"
"My dear, I invited him to join us, but he excused himself."
"Of course, naturally he would do so at first, thinking doubtless that
you asked him as a mere matter of form. Uncle, considering his position,
you ought to have pressed him to come. You ought not to have permitted
him to excuse himself, if you really were in earnest with your
invitation. Were you in earnest, sir?"
"Why, of course I was, my dear! Why shouldn't I have been? I should have
been really glad to see the young man here enjoying himself this
evening."
"Have I your authority for saying so much to Ishmael, even now, uncle?"
inquired Bee eagerly.
"Certainly, my love. Go and oust him from his den. Bring him down here,
if you like--and if you can," said the judge cheerily.
Bee left him, glided like a spirit through the crowd, passed from the
room and went upstairs, flight after flight, until she reached the third
floor, and rapped at Ishmael's door.
"Come in," said the rich, deep, sweet voice--always sweet in its tones,
whether addressing man, woman, or child--human being or bumb brute;
"come in."
Bee entered the little chamber, so dark after the lighted rooms below.
In the recess of the dormer window, at a small table lighted by one
candle, sat Ishmael, bending over an open volume. His cheek was pale,
his expression weary. He looked up, and recognizing Bee, arose with a
smile to meet her.
"How dark you are up here, all alone, Ishmael," she said, coming
forward.
Ishmael snuffed his candle, picked the wick, and sat it up on his pile
of books that it might give a better light, and then turned again
smilingly towards Bee, offered her a chair and stood as if waiting her
command.
"What are you doing up here alone, Ishmael?" she inquired, with her hand
upon the back of the chair that she omitted to take.
"I am studying 'Kent's Commentaries,'" answered the young man.
"I wish you would study your own health a little more, Ishmael! Why are
you not down with us?"
"My dear Bee, I am better here."
"Nonsense, Ishmael! You are here too much. You confine yourself too
closely to study. You should remember the plain old proverb--proverbs
are the wisdom of nations, you know--the old proverb which says: 'All
work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' Come!"
"My dear friend, Bee, you must excuse me."
"But I will not."
"Bee--"
"I insist upon your coming, Ishmael."
"Bee, do not. I should be the wrong man in the wrong place."
"Now, why do you say that?"
"Because I have no business in a ballroom, Bee."
"You have as much business there as anyone else."
"What should I do there, Bee?"
"Dance! waltz! polka! At our school balls you were one of the best
dancers we had, I recollect. Now, with your memory and your ear for
music, you would do as well as then."
"But who would dance with me in Washington, dear Bee? I am a total
stranger to everyone out of this family. And I have no right to ask an
introduction to any of the belles," said Ishmael.
"I will dance with you, Ishmael, to begin with, if you will accept me as
a partner. And I do not think you will venture to refuse your little
adopted sister and old playmate. Come, Ishmael."
"Dearest little sister, do you know that I declined Judge Merlin's
invitation?"
"Yes; he told me so, and sent me here to say to you, that he will not
excuse you, that he insists upon your coming. Come, Ishmael!"
"Dear Bee, you constrain me. I will come. Yes, I confess I am glad to be
'constrained.' Sometimes, dear, we require to be compelled to do as we
like; or, in other words, our consciences require just excuses for
yielding certain points to our inclinations. I have been secretly
wishing to be with you all the evening. The distant sound of the music
has been alluring me very persuasively. (That is a magnificent band of
Dureezie's, by the way.) I have been longing to join the festivities.
And I am glad, my little liege lady, that you lay your royal commands on
me to do so."
"That is right, Ishmael. I must say that you yield gracefully. Well, I
will leave you now to prepare your toilet. And--Ishmael?"
"Yes, Bee?"
"Ring for more light! You will never be able to render yourself
irresistible with the aid of a single candle on one side of your glass,"
said Bee, as she made her laughing exit.
Ishmael followed her advice in every particular, and soon made himself
ready to appear in the ball. When just about to leave the room he
thought of his gloves, and doubted whether he had a pair for
drawing-room use. Then suddenly he recollected Bee's Christmas present
that he had laid away as something too sacred for use. He went and took
from the parcel the straw-colored kid gloves she had given him, and drew
them on as he descended the stairs, whispering to himself:
"Even for these I am indebted to her--may Heaven bless her!"