THE DISTINGUISHED GENTLEMAN FROM NEW YORK
Meantime, the Countess St. Auban, innocent of these plans which had
gone forward regarding her, completed her attendance at the
entertainment which the evening was offering the elite of
Washington, and in due time arrived at the entrance of her hotel.
She found the private entrance to-night occupied by the usual
throng, but hurried from the carriage step across the pavement and
through the open door.
She made no ordinary picture now as she approached the brighter
lights of the interior. Her garb, cut in that fashion which gave
so scant aid to nature's outlines, was widely though not extremely
hooped, the fabric of daintily flowered silk. As she pushed back
the deep, double fronted dolman which served her for a wrap, her
shoulders showed white and beautiful, as also the round column of
her neck, shadowed only by one long drooping curl, and banded by a
gleaming circlet of many colored gems. Her dark hair, though drawn
low upon the temples in acknowledgment of the prevailing mode, was
bound in fashion of her own by a gem-clasped, golden fillet, under
which it broke into a riot of lesser curls which swept over ears
and temples. Here and there a gleaming jewel confined some such
truant lock, so that she glittered, half-barbaric, as she walked,
surmounted by a thousand trembling points of light. Ease,
confidence, carelessness seemed spoken alike by the young woman's
half haughty carriage and her rich costuming. Midway in the
twenties of her years, she was just above slightness, just above
medium height. The roundness of shoulder and arm, thus revealed,
bespoke soundness and wholesomeness beyond callowness, yet with no
hint of years or bulk. Her hair certainly was dark and luxuriant,
her eyes surely were large and dark, without doubt shaded by long
and level brows. The nose was not too highly arched any more than
it was pinched and meager--indeed, a triumph in noses, since not
too strong, nor yet indicating a physique weak and ill nourished.
Vital, self-confident, a trifle foreign, certainly distinguished,
at first there might have seemed a trace of defiance in the
carriage, even in the glance of Josephine St. Auban. But a second
look into the wide dark eyes would have found there rather a trace
of pathos, bordering upon melancholy; and the lines of the mouth,
strongly curved, would in all likelihood have gained that sympathy
demanded by the eyes, betokening a nature warm and noble, not petty
or mean, and certainly not insignificant.
Such was the woman of the hour in Washington, lately frowned on by
the ladies as too beautiful, talked about by the gentlemen as too
cold, discussed by some, adored by others, understood by none,
dreaded by some high in power, plotted against by others yet more
high in place.
She cast a hurried glance now at the clock which, tall and solemn,
stood near by in the hall. It was upon the stroke of midnight
only. Turning half questioningly to her maid, she heard a
footfall. The manager of the hotel himself came to greet her,
carrying a card in his hand, and with a bow, asking her attention.
"Well, then," began the young woman, in perfect English, glancing
at the card. Her dark eyes rose to meet his. "It is impossible,"
she said. "You know my wishes very well."
"But, my dear Countess, have you noted this name?" began the
manager.
"Of course, I know it. All the more reason there should be
mistake."
"But I assure you, my dear Countess--"
A step sounded near by, and the curtains swung back, disclosing the
entrance to one of the adjoining parlors of the hotel. The figure
of a well-built and hale gentleman, past middle age, of dignified
carriage and pleasant features, was revealed. Half hesitating, he
advanced.
"My dear lady," he began, in a deep and melodious voice, "I come to
you doubly handicapped, both as intruder and eavesdropper. I could
not avoid hearing what you have said, and as listeners hear no good
of themselves, I venture to interrupt. I am anxious that your
first impression of me should be a good one, Madam!"
She dropped him a curtsy which was grace itself, her dark eyes
looking straight into his face. Surprise brought a slightly
heightened color to her cheek. Seeing her perturbation, the
unbidden guest hastened to make what amends were possible.
[Illustration: She dropped him a curtsy.]
"You were saying it was a mistake, dear lady. But if so, the
intrusion was on my part. I have wished to meet you quietly, if
such may be your pleasure. I am alone. Opportunity has lacked for
earlier announcement, for I have but reached town this evening."
She looked from one to the other still questioningly. The manager
of the hotel, feeling discretion to be the best card to play,
hurriedly bowed, and hastened away.
The Countess St. Auban hesitated for an instant, but guessed some
errand here worth knowing. Having herself entered the inner room,
with grace she signified that the elderly gentleman should first be
placed; then, seating herself upon a divan somewhat nearer to the
door and hence in shadow, she waited for him to go forward with the
business which had brought him hither.
"Madam," he went on, "my dear Countess, I could but overhear you
refer to my own name. If it has any reputation in your eyes, let
that plead as my excuse for intruding in this manner. Believe me,
nothing would induce me to take such a step except business of
importance."
"It is, then, of business?" Her voice, as he noted once more, was
clear and full, her enunciation without provincial slur, clean and
highbred.
"I hope something not wholly outside your liking."
"Of course I do not understand." She sat still looking at him
full, her hands, clasping her little fan, a trifle raised.
"Then let me hasten to make all plain. I am aware of a part of
your history and of a part of your plans, Madam; I am not unaware
of certain ambitions of your own--I am forced to be so frank in
these conditions. You are interested in the cause of Hungary."
"Place it wider, Sir," she said. "In humanity!"
"Hence you have come to America to carry forward certain of your
plans. Even now you have undertaken the greatest and most daring
work of altruism this country ever knew."
She made no answer but to smile at him, a wide and half lazy smile,
disclosing her white and even teeth. The jewels in her dark hair
glistened as she nodded slightly. Emboldened, he went on:
"And you find all things at a deadlock in Washington to-day.
Humanity is placed away in linen on the shelf in America, to-day.
Dust must not filter through the protection of this mighty
compromise which our two great parties have accomplished! We must
not talk of principles, must not stir sedition, at this time. Whig
and Democrat must tiptoe, both of them, nor wake this sleeping dog
of slavery. Only a few, Madam, only a few, have the hardihood to
assert their beliefs. Only a few venture to cast defiance even to
the dictum of Webster himself. He says to us that conscience
should not be above the law. I say to you, Madam, that conscience
should be the only law."
"Are you for freedom, Sir?" she asked slowly. "Are you for
humanity?"
"Madam, as I hope reward, I am! Those of us who dare say so much
are few in numbers to-day. We are so few, my dear lady, that we
belong together. All of us who have influence--and that I trust
may be said of both of us, who now meet for the first time--we are
so few that I, a stranger to you, though not, I trust, wholly
unrecommended, dare come to you to-night."
"With what purpose, then. Sir?"
"With the immediate purpose of learning at first hand the truth of
the revolutionary system in Europe. I have not been abroad of
late, indeed not for some years. But I know that our diplomacy is
all a-tangle. The reports are at variance, and we get them colored
by partisan politics. This slavery agitation is simply a political
game, at which both parties and all sides are merely playing.
Party desirability, party safety--that is the cry in the South as
much as in the North. Yet all the time I know, as you know, of the
hundreds of thousands of men who are leaving Europe to come to this
country. A wave of moral change is bound to sweep across the
North. Madam, we dwell on the eve of revolution here in America as
well as in Europe. Now do you see why I have come to you to-night?
Have we not much in common?"
"I am glad," she said simply; "I am proud. Me you overrate, but my
wishes and my hopes you do not overrate. Only,--" and she
hesitated, "why to-night; why in this particular way?"
"I arrive at that. My own plans take me soon to Europe. I am
determined to investigate upon the very ground itself this question
of a national repression of the human conscience."
She sat a trifle more erect, a trifle more haughty. He seemed to
read her thoughts.
"Let me hope that you also have planned an early return. We have
much which we might discuss of common interest. There is much of
interest in that country beyond, which we might see. I do not
venture any suggestion for you, but only say that if it were within
your own desires to travel in the company of a man whose former
station at least ought to render your reputation safe, you and your
servants will be welcome in my company. My party will have other
gentlemen and ladies, not of mean station, I hope."
She looked at him, hesitating, studying. It was hardly a fair
contest, this of youth and scant experience against suavity and
shrewdness strengthened by years of public life.
"I am somewhat helpless, Sir," she said, at length. "To converse
with one so able as yourself,--what woman of my ambitions would not
be pleased with that? But I am a woman, and alone in the world. I
am already denounced as careless. There already has been talk.
Moreover, as you see, I am committed now fully to this great work
of freeing and sending from America the negro slaves. Take them
from this country. Replace them with three million men born closer
to freedom and citizenship--"
"Yes. But you are here somewhat mysteriously; you come privately
and secretly. What harm, then, if you return as privately and
secretly as you have come to Washington? Let your agents carry on
your work here. The mission on which I shall be engaged will have
to do with Louis Kossuth."
"Ah!"
"Yes; and you know that noble patriot, I am told. Consider of what
aid you might be to me. You speak his tongue, you know his
history, you could supply me at once with information--Come, 'tis
no idle errand. And, perhaps,--you will forgive me, since we both
know how cruel is such gossip as this that has wronged you--the
tongue of gossip wags the least when the eye of gossip has seen
least. Tins is a most natural and proper--indeed, most convincing
opportunity."
"That is precisely what I pondered, Sir." She nodded gravely.
"And let me add this," he continued: "every day you are here in
Washington the tongue of rumor wags the more. Listen to me! Leave
this place. Let gossip quiet down. It has been cruel with you;
yet the public soon forgets. To remain and appear in public would
freshen gossip anew. Come, it is an adventure! I swear it does
not lack its appeal to me! Ah, would only that I were younger, and
that it were less seemly and sedate! Dear lady, I offer you my
apology for coming as I have, but large plans work rapidly at
times, and there is little time to wait. Now there is but one word
I can say; that you have courage and decision, I know."
He had risen, and unconsciously the young woman also had
risen,--balancing, measuring, watching, warding, in this contest,
all too unequal. Suddenly, with a swift and most charming smile
she approached him a half step and held out her hand.
"You are a great man, Sir. Your country has found you great. I
have always found the greatest men the simplest and most frank.
Therefore I know you will tell me--you will satisfy any doubt I may
feel--If I should ask a question, you would not condemn me as
presuming?"
"Certainly not. Upon the contrary, my dear Countess, I should feel
flattered."
She looked at him for an instant, then came up to the side of the
table beyond which he had taken his seat. Leaning her chin upon
her hand, her elbow upon the table, in a sudden posture of
encounter, she asked him a question whose answer took him swiftly
far back into his own past, into another and forgotten day.
"Did you ever hear of Mr. John Parish, Sir?" she demanded.
The suave countenance before her was at first blank, then curious,
then intent. His mind was striving to summon up, from all its many
images, this one which was required. It was a brain which rarely
forgot, even though years had passed; and had it been able to
forget, so much had been the better for the plans of the gentleman
from Kentucky, and for the success of his proposed European mission.
At last, slowly, a faint flush passed over the face she was
regarding so intently. "Yes, I remember him very well," he
replied. "He has not for very many years, been in this country.
He died abroad, some years since. I presume you mean Mr. Parish of
New York--he is the only one I recall of that name at least. Yes;
I knew such a man."
"That was very long ago?"
"It was when I was much younger, my dear Countess."
"You knew him very well, then?"
"I may say that I did, Madam."
"And you'll tell me; then--tell me, was it true that once, as a
wild rumor had it, a rumor that I have heard--that once you two
played at cards--"
"Was that a crime?" he smiled.
"But with him, at cards with him, Mr. John Parish, a certain game
of cards with him--one day,--a certain winter day years ago, when
you both were younger--when the train was snowbound in the North?
And you played then, for what? What were the stakes then, in that
particular game with Mr. John Parish? Do you chance to recall?"
"Madam, you credit me with frankness. I will not claim even so
much. But since you have heard a rumor that died out long years
ago--which was denied--which even now I might better deny--since,
in fact you know the truth--why should I deny the truth?"
"Then you two played a game, at cards,--for a woman? And Mr.
Parish won? Was it not true?"
A new and different expression passed over the face of the
gentleman before her. Her chin still rested in her hand, her other
arm, long, round, white, lay out upon the table before him. He
could see straight into her wide eyes, see the heave of her throat
now under its shining circlet, see the color of her cheek, feel the
tenseness of all her mind and body as she questioned him about his
long forgotten past.
"Why do you ask me this?" he demanded at last. "What has that to
do with us? That was long ago. It is dead, it is forgotten. Why
rake up the folly of a deed of youth and recklessness, long years
dead and gone? Why, the other man, and the woman herself, are dead
and gone now, both of them. Then, why?"
"I will tell you why. That happened once in my own experience."
"Impossible!"
"Yes, impossible. It should have been impossible among men at this
day of the world. But it happened. I also had the distinguished
honor to be the stake in some such game, and that because--indirectly
because--I had won the enmity, the suspicions at least--well, we will
say, of persons high in authority in this land."
"But, my dear young lady, the conditions can not have been the
same. Assuredly the result was not the same!"
"By whose credit, then? Who thinks of a woman? Who is there whose
hand is not raised against her? Each member of her own sex is her
enemy. Each member of the opposite sex is her foe. One breath,
one suspicion, and she becomes fair game, even under the strictest
code among men; and then, the man who did not dare would be
despised because he would not dare. Her life is one long war
against suspicion. It is one long war against selfishness, a
continued defense against desire, gratification. She is, even
to-day, valued as chattel--under all the laws and conventions built
about her runs the chattel idea. She is a convenience. Is that
all?"
"My dear lady, it is not for me to enter into discussion of
subjects so abstruse, so far removed at least from my proper trend
of thought--our proper trend of thought, if you please. I must
admit that act of folly, yes. But I must also end the matter
there."
"Then why should not I end our matter there, Sir? It seems to me
that if in any usual way of life, going about her business
honestly, paying her obligations of all sort--even that to her
crucifix at night--a woman who is clean wishes to remain clean, to
be herself,--why, I say, if that may not be, among men great or
small, distinguished or unknown, then most fortunate is she who
remains aloof from all chance of that sort of thing. Sir, I should
not like to think that, while I was in my room, for the time
removed from the society of the gentlemen who should be my
protectors, there was going on, let us say, somewhere in the
gentlemen's saloon, a little enterprise at chance in which--"
"But, my dear lady, you are mad to speak in this way! Lightning,
even lightning of folly, does not strike twice in the same place."
"Ah, does it not? But it has!"
"What can you mean? Surely you do not mean actually to say that
you yourself ever have figured in such an incident?"
She made no answer to him, save to look straight into his eyes,
chin in hand still, her long white arm lying out, motionless, her
posture free of nervous strain or unrest. Slowly her lips parted,
showing her fine white teeth in a half smile. Her eyes smiled
also, with wisdom in their look.
The venerable statesman opposed to her all at once felt his
resources going. He knew that his quest was over, that this young
woman was after all able to fend for herself.
"What would you do?" she demanded of him. "If you were a woman and
knew you were merely coveted in general, as a woman, and that you
had been just cheaply played for in a game of cards, in a public
place--what would you do, if you could, to the man who lost--or the
man who won? Would you be delivered over? That woman, was
she--but she could not help herself; she had no place to turn, poor
girl? And she paid all her life, then, for some act earlier, which
left her fair game? Was that it?"
"But you, my dear girl! It is impossible!"
"I was more fortunate, that is all. Would you blame me if I
dreaded the memory of such an incident; if I felt a certain
shrinking from one who ever figured in such an incident? If I
could trust--but then, but then--Are you very sure that Mr. Parish
loved that woman?"
"I am sure of it," answered the old man soberly. "Did he use her
well?"
"All her life. He gave her everything--"
"Oh, that is nothing! Did he give her--after he had learned,
maybe, that she was not what he had thought--did he give her
then--love--belief, trust? Did he--are you very sure that any man
in such case, after such an incident, _could_ have loved, really
loved, the woman whom he held in that way--"
"I not only believe he might, my dear girl, but I know that in this
one case--the only one of my experience"--he smiled--"such was the
truth. There was some untold reason why they two did not, or could
not, marry. I do not go into that.
"Consider, my dear girl," he resumed; "you are young, and I am so
old that it is as though I too were young now and had no
experience--so we may talk. Our life is a contest among men for
money and for love; that is all success can bring us. In older
days men fought for that. To-day we have modified life a little,
and have other ways; but I fancy the game in which that certain
lady figured was only one form of contest--it was a fight, the
spoils to go to the victor."
"Horrible! But you might have been the victor? In that case,
would you have loved her, would you have used her well, all your
life, and hers?"
He drew back now with dignity. "Madam, my position in later years
defends me from necessity of answering you. You are young,
impulsive, but you should not forget the proprieties even now--"
His face was now hotly flushed.
"I ask your pardon! But _would_ you?"
He smiled in spite of himself, something of the old fire of
gallantry still burning in his withered veins. "My dear girl, if
it were yourself, I would! And by the Lord! I'd play again with
Parish, or any other man, if my chance otherwise, merely by cruel
circumstances, had been left hopeless. Some one must win."
"But how could the winner be sure? How could the--how did she--I
would say--"
"Dear girl, let us not be too cold in our philosophy, nor too wise.
I can not say how or why these things go as they do. All I know is
that the right man won in that case, and that he proved it later,
by each act of kindness he gave her, all her life. This, my dear,
is an odd world, when it comes to all that."
"Was he--did he have anybody else in the world who--"
"Oh, only a wife, I believe, that was all!"
"Did she die, soon? Was there ever--"
"How you question! What do you plan for _yourself_? My word! You
are putting me through a strange initiation on our first
acquaintance, my dear Countess! Let us not pursue such matters
further, or I shall begin to think your own interest in these
questions is that of the original Eve!"
"To the victor does not always belong the spoils," she said slowly.
"Not till he has won--earned them--in war, in conquest! Perhaps
conquest of himself."
[Illustration: "To the victor does not always belong the spoils."]
"You speak in enigmas for me, my dear Countess."
She shook her head slowly, from side to side. "That poor girl!
Did she ever feel she had been won in the real game, I wonder? To
whom would belong herself--if she felt that she had something in
her own life to forget, some great thing to be done, in penance
perhaps, in eagerness perhaps, some step to take, up--something to
put her into a higher plane in the scheme of life? To do
something, for some one else--not just to be selfish--suppose that
was in her heart; after that game?"
"Why, you read her story as though you saw it! That was her life,
absolutely. Never lived a woman more respected there, more loved.
She disarmed even the women, old and young--yes, even the single
ones!"
"It is an odd world," she said slowly. "But"--drawing back--"I do
not think I will go back to Europe. It would delight me to meet
again my friend, the patriot Kossuth. But here I have many ideas
which I must work out."
"My dear Countess, you oppress me with a sense of failure! I had
so much hoped that you would lend your aid in this mission of my
own abroad. You would be valuable. You are so much prized in the
opinions of the administration, I am sure, that--"
"What do you mean? Does the administration know of me? _Why_
should it know? What have I done?"
But the old statesman before her was no such fool as to waste time
in a lost cause. This one was lost, he knew, and it booted little
for him to become involved where, even at the best issue, there was
risk enough for him. He reflected that risk must have existed even
had this young lady been a shade more dull of mind, of less
brilliant faculty in leaping to conclusions and resolutions. She
_was_ a firebrand, that was sure. Let others handle such, but not
that task for him!
"Now you ask questions whose answers lie entirely beyond my power,"
he replied easily. "You must remember that I am not of this party,
let alone this administration. My own day in politics has past,
and I must seek seclusion, modestly. I own that the mission to
Europe, to examine in a wholly non-partisan way, the working out
there of this revolutionary idea--the testing on the soil of
monarchies of the principle of democratic government--has a great
appeal to me; and I fancied it would offer appeal also to yourself.
But if--"
"All life is chance, is it not? But in your belief, does the right
man always win?"
He rose, smiling, inscrutable once more, astute and suave
politician again, and passing about the table he bowed over her
hand to kiss it.
"My dear Countess," he said, "my dear girl, all I can say is that
in the very limited experience I can claim in such matters, the
victor usually is the right man. But I find you here, alone,
intent on visionary plans which never can be carried out,
undertaking a labor naturally foreign to a woman's methods of life,
alien to her usual ideas of happiness. So, my dear, my dear, I
fear you yourself have not played out the game--you have not
fulfilled its issue! The stakes are not yet given over! I can not
say as to the right man, but I can say with all my heart that he
who wins such prize is fortunate indeed, and should cherish it for
ever. See, I am not after all devoid of wit or courage, my dear
young girl! Because, I know, though you do not tell me, that there
is some game at which you play, yourself, and that you will not
stop that game to participate in my smaller enterprise of visiting
Kossuth and the lands of Europe! I accept defeat myself, once
more, in a game where a woman is at stake. Again, I lose!"
There was more truth than she knew in his words, for what was in
his mind and in the minds of others there in Washington, regarding
her, were matters not then within her knowledge. But she was
guided once more, as many a woman has been, by her unerring
instinct, her sixth sense of womanhood, her scent for things of
danger. Now, though she stood with face grave, pensive, almost
melancholy, to give him curtsy as he passed, there was not weakness
nor faltering in her mien or speech.
"But he would have to _win_!" she said, as though following out
some train of thought. "He would first need to win in the larger
game. Ah! What woman would be taken, except by the man who really
had won in the real game of life."
"You would demand that, my dear?" smiled the pleasant gentleman who
now was bowing himself toward the door.
"I would demand it!"
By the time he had opportunity to rally his senses, assailed as
they were by the sight of her, by the splendor of her apparel, by
the music of her voice, the fragrance which clung about her, the
charm of her smiles,--by the time, in short, which he required to
turn half about, she was gone. He heard her light step at the
stair.
"My soul!" he exclaimed, wiping his brow with a silken kerchief.
"So much for attempting to sacrifice principle--for expecting to
mix Free Soil and Whig! Damn that Kentuckian!"