THE CLAIBORNES, OF WASHINGTON
—the Englishman who is not an Englishman and therefore doubly
incomprehensible.—_The Naulahka_.
The girl with the white-plumed hat started and flushed slightly, and her
brother glanced over his shoulder toward the restaurant door to see what
had attracted her attention.
“’Tis he, the unknown, Dick.”
“I must say I like his persistence!” exclaimed the young fellow, turning
again to the table. “In America I should call him out and punch his head,
but over here—”
“Over here you have better manners,” replied the girl, laughing. “But why
trouble yourself? He doesn’t even look at us. We are of no importance to
him whatever. We probably speak a different language.”
“But he travels by the same trains; he stops at the same inns; he sits
near us at the theater—he even affects the same pictures in the same
galleries! It’s growing a trifle monotonous; it’s really insufferable. I
think I shall have to try my stick on him.”
“You flatter yourself, Richard,” mocked the girl. “He’s fully your height
and a trifle broader across the shoulders. The lines about his mouth are
almost—yes, I should say, quite as firm as yours, though he is a younger
man. His eyes are nice blue ones, and they are very steady. His hair
is”—she paused to reflect and tilted her head slightly, her eyes
wandering for an instant to the subject of her comment—“light brown, I
should call it. And he is beardless, as all self-respecting men should
be. I’m sure that he is an exemplary person—kind to his sisters and
aunts, very willing to sacrifice himself for others and light the candles
on his nephews’ and nieces’ Christmas trees.”
She rested her cheek against her lightly-clasped hands and sighed deeply
to provoke a continuation of her brother’s growling disdain.
The young gentleman to whom she had referred had seated himself at a
table not far distant, given an order with some particularity, and
settled himself to the reading of a newspaper which he had drawn from the
pocket of his blue serge coat. He was at once absorbed, and the presence
of the Claibornes gave him apparently not the slightest concern.
“He has a sense of humor,” the girl resumed. “I saw him yesterday—”
“You’re always seeing him: you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Don’t interrupt me, please. As I was saying, I saw him laughing over the
_Fliegende Blätter_.”
“But that’s no sign he has a sense of humor. It rather proves that he
hasn’t. I’m disappointed in you, Shirley. To think that my own sister
should be able to tell the color of a wandering blackguard’s eyes!”
He struck a match viciously, and his sister laughed.
“I might add to his portrait. That blue and white scarf is tied
beautifully; and his profile would be splendid in a medallion. I believe
from his nose he may be English, after all,” she added with a dreamy air
assumed to add to her brother’s impatience.
“Which doesn’t help the matter materially, that I can see!” exclaimed the
young man. “With a full beard he’d probably look like a Sicilian bandit.
If I thought he was really pursuing you in this darkly mysterious way I
should certainly give him a piece of my American mind. You might suppose
that a girl would be safe traveling with her brother.”
“It isn’t your fault, Dick,” laughed the girl. “You know our parents dear
were with us when we first began to notice him—that was in Rome. And now
that we are alone he continues to follow our trail just the same. It’s
really diverting; and if you were a good brother you’d find out all about
him, and we might even do stunts together—the three of us, with you as
the watchful chaperon. You forget how I have worked for you, Dick. I
took great chances in forcing an acquaintance with those frosty English
people at Florence just because you were crazy about the scrawny blonde
who wore the frightful hats. I wash my hands of you hereafter. Your taste
in girls is horrible.”
“Your mind has been affected by reading these fake-kingdom romances,
where a ridiculous prince gives up home and mother and his country to
marry the usual beautiful American girl who travels about having silly
adventures. I belong to the Know-nothing Party—America for Americans and
only white men on guard!”
“Yes, Richard! Your sentiments are worthy, but they’d have more weight if
I hadn’t seen you staring your eyes out every time we came within a mile
of a penny princess. I haven’t forgotten your disgraceful conduct in
collecting photographs of that homely daughter of a certain English duke.
We’ll call the incident closed, little brother.”
“Our friend Chauvenet, even,” continued Captain Claiborne, “is less
persistent—less gloomily present on the horizon. We haven’t seen him for
a week or two. But he expects to visit Washington this spring. His
waistcoats are magnificent. The governor shies every time the fellow
unbuttons his coat.”
“Mr. Chauvenet is an accomplished man of the world,” declared Shirley
with an insincere sparkle in her eyes.
“He lives by his wits—and lives well.”
Claiborne dismissed Chauvenet and turned again toward the strange young
man, who was still deep in his newspaper.
“He’s reading the _Neue Freie Presse_,” remarked Dick, “by which token I
argue that he’s some sort of a Dutchman. He’s probably a traveling agent
for a Vienna glass-factory, or a drummer for a cheap wine-house, or the
agent for a Munich brewery. That would account for his travels. We simply
fall in with his commercial itinerary.”
“You seem to imply, brother, that my charms are not in themselves
sufficient. But a commercial traveler hardly commands that fine repose,
that distinction—that air of having been places and seen things and
known people—”
“Tush! I have seen American book agents who had all that—even the air of
having been places! Your instincts ought to serve you better, Shirley.
It’s well that we go on to-morrow. I shall warn mother and the governor
that you need watching.”
Shirley Claiborne’s eyes rested again upon the calm reader of the _Neue
Freie Presse_. The waiter was now placing certain dishes upon the table
without, apparently, interesting the young gentleman in the least. Then
the unknown dropped his newspaper, and buttered a roll reflectively. His
gaze swept the room for the first time, passing over the heads of Miss
Claiborne and her brother unseeingly—with, perhaps, too studied an air
of indifference.
“He has known real sorrow,” persisted Shirley, her elbows on the table,
her fingers interlocked, her chin resting idly upon them. “He’s traveling
in an effort to forget a blighting grief,” the girl continued with mock
sympathy.
“Then let us leave him in peace! We can’t decently linger in the presence
of his sacred sorrow.”
Captain Richard Claiborne and his sister Shirley had stopped at Geneva to
spend a week with a younger brother, who was in school there, and were to
join their father and mother at Liverpool and sail for home at once. The
Claibornes were permanent residents of Washington, where Hilton
Claiborne, a former ambassador to two of the greatest European courts,
was counsel for several of the embassies and a recognized authority in
international law. He had been to Rome to report to the Italian
government the result of his efforts to collect damages from the United
States for the slaughter of Italian laborers in a railroad strike, and
had proceeded thence to England on other professional business.
Dick Claiborne had been ill, and was abroad on leave in an effort to
shake off the lingering effects of typhoid fever contracted in the
Philippines. He was under orders to report for duty at Fort Myer on the
first of April, and it was now late March. He and his sister had spent
the morning at their brother’s school and were enjoying a late _déjeuner_
at the Monte Rosa. There existed between them a pleasant comradeship that
was in no wise affected by divergent tastes and temperaments. Dick had
just attained his captaincy, and was the youngest man of his rank in the
service. He did not know an orchid from a hollyhock, but no man in the
army was a better judge of a cavalry horse, and if a Wagner recital bored
him to death his spirit rose, nevertheless, to the bugle, and he drilled
his troop until he could play with it and snap it about him like a whip.
Shirley Claiborne had been out of college a year, and afforded a pleasant
refutation of the dull theory that advanced education destroys a girl’s
charm, or buoyancy, or whatever it is that is so greatly admired in young
womanhood. She gave forth the impression of vitality and strength. She
was beautifully fair, with a high color that accentuated her
youthfulness. Her brown hair, caught up from her brow in the fashion of
the early years of the century, flashed gold in sunlight.
Much of Shirley’s girlhood had been spent in the Virginia hills, where
Judge Claiborne had long maintained a refuge from the heat of Washington.
From childhood she had read the calendar of spring as it is written upon
the landscape itself. Her fingers found by instinct the first arbutus;
she knew where white violets shone first upon the rough breast of the
hillsides; and particular patches of rhododendron had for her the
intimate interest of private gardens.
Undoubtedly there are deities fully consecrated to the important business
of naming girls, so happily is that task accomplished. Gladys is a child
of the spirit of mischief. Josephine wears a sweet gravity, and Mary,
too, discourses of serious matters. Nora, in some incarnation, has seen
fairies scampering over moor and hill and the remembrance of them teases
her memory. Katherine is not so faithless as her ways might lead you to
believe. Laura without dark eyes would be impossible, and her predestined
Petrarch would never deliver his sonnets. Helen may be seen only against
a background of Trojan wall. Gertrude must be tall and fair and ready
with ballads in the winter twilight. Julia’s reserve and discretion
commend her to you; but she has a heart of laughter. Anne is to be found
in the rose garden with clipping-shears and a basket. Hilda is a capable
person; there is no ignoring her militant character; the battles of Saxon
kings ring still in her blood. Marjorie has scribbled verses in secret,
and Celia is the quietest auditor at the symphony. And you may have
observed that there is no button on Elizabeth’s foil; you do well not to
clash wits with her. Do you say that these ascriptions are not square
with your experience? Then verily there must have been a sad mixing
of infant candidates for the font in your parish. Shirley, in such case,
will mean nothing to you. It is a waste of time to tell you that the name
may become audible without being uttered; you can not be made to
understand that the _r_ and _l_ slip into each other as ripples glide
over pebbles in a brook. And from the name to the girl—may you be
forever denied a glimpse of Shirley Claiborne’s pretty head, her brown
hair and dream-haunted eyes, if you do not first murmur the name with
honest liking.
As the Claibornes lingered at their table a short stout man espied them
from the door and advanced beamingly.
“Ah, my dear Shirley, and Dick! Can it be possible! I only heard by
the merest chance that you were here. But Switzerland is the real
meeting-place of the world.”
The young Americans greeted the new-comer cordially. A waiter placed a
chair for him, and took his hat. Arthur Singleton was an American, though
he had lived abroad so long as to have lost his identity with any
particular city or state of his native land. He had been an attaché of
the American embassy at London for many years. Administrations changed
and ambassadors came and went, but Singleton was never molested. It was
said that he kept his position on the score of his wide acquaintance;
he knew every one, and he was a great peddler of gossip, particularly
about people in high station.
The children of Hilton Claiborne were not to be overlooked. He would
impress himself upon them, as was his way; for he was sincerely social by
instinct, and would go far to do a kindness for people he really liked.
“Ah me! You have arrived opportunely, Miss Claiborne. There’s mystery in
the air—the great Stroebel is here—under this very roof and in a
dreadfully bad humor. He is a dangerous man—a very dangerous man, but
failing fast. Poor Austria! Count Ferdinand von Stroebel can have no
successor—he’s only a sort of holdover from the nineteenth century, and
with him and his Emperor out of the way—what? For my part I see only
dark days ahead;” and he concluded with a little sigh that implied
crumbling thrones and falling dynasties.
“We met him in Vienna,” said Shirley Claiborne, “when father was there
before the Ecuador Claims Commission. He struck me as being a delightful
old grizzly bear.”
“He will have his place in history; he is a statesman of the old blood
and iron school; he is the peer of Bismarck, and some things he has done.
He holds more secrets than any other man in Europe—and you may be quite
sure that they will die with him. He will leave no memoirs to be poked
over by his enemies—no post-mortem confidences from him!”
The reader of the _Neue Freie Presse_, preparing to leave his table, tore
from the newspaper an article that seemed to have attracted him, placed
it in his card-case, and walked toward the door. The eyes of Arthur
Singleton lighted in recognition, and the attaché, muttering an apology
to the Claibornes, addressed the young gentleman cordially.
“Why, Armitage, of all men!” and he rose, still facing the Claibornes,
with an air of embracing the young Americans in his greetings. He never
liked to lose an auditor; and he would, in no circumstances, miss a
chance to display the wide circumference of his acquaintance.
“Shirley—Miss Claiborne—allow me to present Mr. Armitage.” The young
army officer and Armitage then shook hands, and the three men stood for a
moment, detained, it seemed, by the old attaché, who had no engagement
for the next hour or two and resented the idea of being left alone.
“One always meets Armitage!” declared Singleton. “He knows our America as
well as we do—and very well indeed—for an Englishman.”
Armitage bowed gravely.
“You make it necessary again for me to disavow any allegiance to the
powers that rule Great Britain. I’m really a fair sort of American—I
have sometimes told New York people all about—Colorado—Montana—New
Mexico!”
His voice and manner were those of a gentleman. His color, as Shirley
Claiborne now observed, was that of an outdoors man; she was familiar
with it in soldiers and sailors, and knew that it testified to a vigorous
and wholesome life.
“Of course you’re not English!” exclaimed Singleton, annoyed as he
remembered, or thought he did, that Armitage had on some other occasion
made the same protest.
“I’m really getting sensitive about it,” said Armitage, more to the
Claibornes than to Singleton. “But must we all be from somewhere? Is it
so melancholy a plight to be a man without a country?”
The mockery in his tone was belied by the good humor in his face; his
eyes caught Shirley’s passingly, and she smiled at him—it seemed a
natural, a perfectly inevitable thing to do. She liked the kind tolerance
with which he suffered the babble of Arthur Singleton, whom some one had
called an international bore. The young man’s dignity was only an
expression of self-respect; his appreciation of the exact proprieties
resulting from this casual introduction to herself and her brother was
perfect. He was already withdrawing. A waiter had followed him with his
discarded newspaper—and Armitage took it and idly dropped it on a chair.
“Have you heard the news, Armitage? The Austrian sphinx is here—in this
very house!” whispered Singleton impressively.
“Yes; to be sure, Count von Stroebel is here, but he will probably not
remain long. The Alps will soon be safe again. I am glad to have met
you.” He bowed to the Claibornes inclusively, nodded in response to
Singleton’s promise to look him up later, and left them.
When Shirley and her brother reached their common sitting-room Dick
Claiborne laughingly held up the copy of the _Neue Freie Presse_ which
Armitage had cast aside at their table.
“Now we shall know!” he declared, unfolding the newspaper.
“Know what, Dick?”
“At least what our friend without a country is so interested in.”
He opened the paper, from which half a column had been torn, noted the
date, rang the bell, and ordered a copy of the same issue. When it was
brought he opened it, found the place, laughed loudly, and passed the
sheet over to his sister.
“Oh, Shirley, Shirley! This is almost too much!” he cried, watching her
as her eyes swept the article. She turned away to escape his noise, and
after a glance threw down the paper in disgust. The article dealt in
detail with Austro-Hungarian finances, and fairly bristled with figures
and sage conclusions based upon them.
“Isn’t that the worst!” exclaimed Shirley, smiling ruefully.
“He’s certainly a romantic figure ready to your hand. Probably a
bank-clerk who makes European finance his recreation.”
“He isn’t an Englishman, at any rate. He repudiated the idea with scorn.”
“Well, your Mr. Armitage didn’t seem so awfully excited at meeting
Singleton; but he seemed rather satisfied with your appearance, to put it
mildly. I wonder if he had arranged with Singleton to pass by in that
purely incidental way, just for the privilege of making your
acquaintance!”
“Don’t be foolish, Dick. It’s unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. But
if you should see Mr. Singleton again—”
“Yes—not if I see him _first_!” ejaculated Claiborne.
“Well, you might ask him who Mr. Armitage is. It would be amusing—and
satisfying—to know.”
Later in the day the old attaché fell upon Claiborne in the smoking-room
and stopped to discuss a report that a change was impending in the
American State Department. Changes at Washington did not trouble
Singleton, who was sure of his tenure. He said as much; and after some
further talk, Claiborne remarked:
“Your friend Armitage seems a good sort.”
“Oh, yes; a capital talker, and thoroughly well posted in affairs.”
“Yes, he seemed interesting. Do you happen to know where he lives—when
he’s at home?”
“Lord bless you, boy, I don’t know anything about Armitage!” spluttered
Singleton, with the emphasis so thrown as to imply that of course in any
other branch of human knowledge he would be found abundantly qualified to
answer questions.
“But you introduced us to him—my sister and me. I assumed—”
“My dear Claiborne, I’m always introducing people! It’s my business to
introduce people. Armitage is all right. He’s always around everywhere.
I’ve dined with him in Paris, and I’ve rarely seen a man order a better
dinner.”