A ROUND of solemn afternoon dinings followed the return of the
Berkeleys to Isleham, and were scrupulously returned. But both the
Colonel and Olivia felt that it would not be well to include any of
the county gentry the day Madame Koller and Mr. Ahlberg were to dine
with them. Mr. Cole had already been invited--and Colonel Berkeley
of his own free will, without saying a word to Olivia, asked the two
Pembrokes. Olivia, when she heard of this, was intensely vexed. She
had used both sarcasm and persuasion on Pembroke in Paris to get
him home, and he had laughed at her. Yet she was firmly convinced,
as soon as Madame Koller expressed a determination to come, either
Pembroke had agreed, or else Madame Koller had followed him--in either
case Olivia was not pleased, and received the Colonel’s information
that the Pembrokes would be there sure in ominous silence. Nothing
remained but for her to show what a remarkably good dinner she could
give--and this she felt was clearly within her power. She was naturally
a clever housekeeper, and as the case often was in those days, the
freedom of the negroes had made but little difference in the ménage
at Isleham. Most of the house servants had turned squatters on the
plantation. Petrarch, unpopular among his confrères because of his
superior advantages and accomplishments as well as his assumption
of righteousness, was the major-domo--and then there was Ike, a
gingerbread colored Chesterfield, as dining-room servant.
“Miss ’Livy, you jes’ let me manage dem black niggers,” was Petrarch’s
sensible advice. “Dey doan know nuttin’ ’bout a real swell dinner.
I say yistiddy to Cook M’ria, ‘Why doan yer have some orntrees fur
dinner outen all dat chicken an’ truck you has lef’ over ev’y day?’
an’ Miss ’Livy, ef you will b’lieve me, dat nigger, she chase me outen
de kitchen wid a shovel full o’ live coals. She ain’ got no ’spect
for ’ligion. Arter I got out in de yard, I say, ‘You discontemptuous,
disreligious ole cantamount, doan’ you know better’n to sass de
Lord’s ’n’inted?’” (this being Petrarch’s favorite characterization
of himself). “But M’ria ain’ got de sperrit ’scusin’ ’tis de sperrit
o’ owdaciousness. Ez fur dat Ike, I done tole him ‘I am de Gord o’
respicution,’ an’ he ’low I ain’t no sech a thing. I gwi’n lick dat
yaller nigger fo’ long.”
“You’d better not try it Uncle Petrarch--” (Petrarch was near to sixty,
and was therefore by courtesy, Uncle Petrarch). “Ike won’t stand it,
and _I_ won’t have it either, I can tell you.”
The Berkeleys went against the county custom, and dined in the evening.
Therefore, at seven o’clock precisely, on the evening of the dinner,
French Pembroke and his brother entered the quaint old drawing-room
at Isleham. Olivia had learned the possibilities of ancient mahogany
furniture and family portraits, and the great rambling old house was
picturesque enough. A genuine Virginia wood fire roared up the chimney,
where most of the heat as well as the flame went. Wax candles, in tall
silver candlesticks, were on the mantel, and the piano. Miss Berkeley
herself, in a white wool gown, looked a part of the pleasant home-like
picture, as she greeted her two guests. French Pembroke had called
twice to see them, but neither time had Olivia been at home. This,
then, was their first meeting, except the few minutes at the races.
He was the same easy, pleasantly cynical Pembroke she had known in
Paris. There was another French Pembroke whom she remembered in her
childish days as very good natured, when he was not very tyrannical,
in the visits she used to pay with her dead and gone mother long ago
to Malvern--and this other Pembroke could recite wonderful poetry out
of books, and scare little Miles and herself into delicious spasms of
terror by the weird stories he would tell. But Miles had changed in
every way. He had been in his earlier boyish days the pet and darling
of women, but now he slunk away from the pity in their tender eyes. He
had once had a mannish little strut and a way of looking out of his
bold blue eyes that made a path for him wherever he chose to tread. But
now he shambled in, keeping as far out of sight as possible behind the
elder brother’s stalwart figure.
Colonel Berkeley shook Miles’s one hand cordially. His armless sleeve
was pinned up to his coat front.
“God bless my soul,” the Colonel cried. “Am I getting old? Here’s
little Miles Pembroke almost a man.”
“Almost--papa--you mean quite a man. It is a dreadful reflection to me
that I am older than Miles,” said Olivia, smiling. Then they sat about
the fire, and Olivia, putting her fan down in her lap, looked French
Pembroke full in the face and said, “You know, perhaps, that Madame
Koller and Mr. Ahlberg dine here to-night?”
“Yes,” answered Pembroke, with all the coolness of conscious
innocence--or brazen assurance of careless wickedness, Olivia could not
tell which.
“You saw a good deal of them abroad, didn’t you?” was her next question.
“Yes,” again replied Pembroke.
“Olivia, my dear,” said her father, who very much enjoyed this little
episode, “you women will never learn that you can’t find anything out
by asking questions; and Pembroke, my boy, remember that women never
believe you except when you are lying to them. Let him alone, Olivia,
and he will tell you the whole story, I’ll warrant.”
Olivia’s training had made her something of a stoic under Colonel
Berkeley’s remarks, but at this a deep red dyed her clear pale face.
She was the best of daughters, but she could at that moment have
cheerfully inflicted condign punishment on her father. Pembroke saw
it too, not without a little malicious satisfaction. She had quietly
assumed in her tone and manner that he was in some way responsible for
Madame Koller and her mother being at The Beeches--an incident fraught
with much discomfort for him--none the less that there was nothing
tragic about it, but rather ridiculous. All the same, he determined to
set himself right on the spot.
“Of course, I saw them often. It would have been quite unpardonable if
I had not, considering we were often in the same places--and our land
joins. I can’t say that I recollect Madame Koller very much before she
went away. I only remember her as rather an ugly little thing, always
strumming on the piano. I took the liberty of telling both her and
Madame Schmidt that I did not think they would find a winter at The
Beeches very pleasant--but it seems she did not agree with me. Ahlberg
is a cousin by marriage, and has been in the diplomatic corps--”
And at that very moment Petrarch threw open the drawing-room door and
announced “Mrs. Koller and Mr. Ahlberg, sah.”
Madame Koller’s appearance was none the less striking in evening dress,
with ropes of amber around her neck, and some very fine diamonds. Who
says that women are indifferent to each other? The instant Olivia
beheld Madame Koller in her gorgeous trailing gown of yellow silk,
and her jewels, she felt plain, insignificant, and colorless both in
features, dress and manner--while Madame Koller, albeit she knew both
herself and other women singularly well, almost envied Olivia the
girlish simplicity, the slightness and grace that made her a pretty
picture in her white gown with the bunch of late autumn roses at her
belt.
The clergyman came last. Then Petrarch opened the folding doors and
announced dinner, and Colonel Berkeley gallantly offering his arm to
Madame Koller, they all marched in.
Something like a sigh of satisfaction escaped Mr. Ahlberg. Once more he
was to dine. Madame Koller sat on the Colonel’s right, and at her right
was Mr. Cole. The clergyman’s innocent heart beat when he saw this
arrangement. He still fancied that he strongly disapproved of Madame
Koller, the more so when he saw the nonchalant way in which she took
champagne and utterly ignored the carafe of water at her plate. Mr.
Cole took only claret, and watered that liberally.
Madame Koller certainly had a very pretty manner--rather elaborate and
altogether different from Olivia’s self-possessed simplicity. She spoke
of her mother--“so happy once more to be back in Virginia.” Madame
Schmidt, always wrapped up in shawls, and who never volunteered a
remark to anybody in her life, scarcely seemed to outsiders to be quite
capable of any enjoyment. And Aunt Peyton--dear Aunt Peyton--so kind,
so handsome--so anxious that people shall please themselves--“Upon
my soul, madam,” cried the Colonel, with much hearty good humor,
“I am delighted to hear that last about my old friend Sally Peyton.
I’ve known her well for fifty years--perhaps she wouldn’t acknowledge
it--and a more headstrong, determined, self-willed woman I never saw.
Sally is a good woman, and by heaven, she was a devilish pretty one
when--when--you may have heard the story, ma’am--but she always wanted
to please herself a d--n sight more than anybody else--including Ned
Peyton.”
The Colonel said this quite pleasantly, and Madame Koller smiled
at it--she seldom laughed. “Were you not some years in the army,
Colonel Berkeley?” she asked presently. “It seems to me I have some
recollection of having heard it.” Colonel Berkeley colored slightly.
He valued his military title highly, but he didn’t know exactly how he
came by it.
“The fact is madam,” he replied, clearing his throat, “in the old
days we had a splendid militia. Don’t you remember the general
musters, hay? Now I was the--the commanding officer of the Virginia
Invincibles--a crack cavalry company, composed exclusively of the
county gentlemen--and in some way, they called me colonel, and a
colonel I remained.”
“The title seems quite natural,” said Madame Koller, with a sweet
smile--“You have such a military carriage--that indescribable air--”
at which the Colonel, who never tired of laughing at other people’s
foibles, straightened up, assumed a martial pose, and showed vast
elation and immense pleasure--which Madame Koller saw out of the corner
of her eye.
Miles, sitting next Olivia, had grown confidential. “I--I--want to tell
you,” he said bashfully, “the reason why I didn’t come to see you in
Paris. It required some nerve for a fellow--in my condition--to face a
woman--even the best and kindest.”
“Was that it?” answered Olivia half smiling.
“You are laughing at me,” he said reproachfully.
“Of course I am,” replied Olivia.
A genuine look of relief stole into his poor face. Perhaps it was not
so bad after all if Olivia Berkeley could laugh at his sensitiveness.
“So,” continued Olivia, promptly, “you acted like a vain, foolish boy.
But I see you are getting over it.”
“I’ll try. You wouldn’t treat me so cavalierly, would you, if--if--it
were quite--dreadful?”
“No, it isn’t dreadful at all, or anything like it,” replied Olivia,
telling one of those generous and womanly fibs that all true women
utter with the full approval of their consciences.
Meanwhile, Ahlberg and Pembroke had been conversing. Ahlberg was indeed
a clever fellow--for he talked in a straightforward way, and gave
not the slightest ground in anything he said for the suspicion that
Pembroke obstinately cherished against him.
“What do you do with yourself all day, Miss Berkeley?” asked Pembroke
after a while.
“There is plenty to do. I have a dozen servants to manage that ran
wild while we were away--and the house to keep, and to look after
the garden--and I ride or drive every day--and keep up my piano
playing--and read a little. What do you do?”
“Nothing,” answered Pembroke, boldly.
Olivia did not say a word. She threw him one brief glance though, from
her dark eyes that conveyed a volume.
“I have a license to practice law,” he continued, coolly. “I’ve had it
for five years--got it just before the State went out, when I went out
too. Four years’ soldiering isn’t a good preparation for the law.”
“Ah!” said Olivia.
“I have enough left, I daresay, to keep me without work,” he added.
If he had studied how to make himself contemptible in Olivia’s
eyes, he could not have done so more completely. She had acquired
perfect self-possession of manner, but her mobile face was as yet
undisciplined. When to this last remark she said in her sweetest
manner, “Won’t you let Petrarch fill your glass?” it was equivalent to
saying, “You are the most worthless and contemptible creature on this
planet.” Just then the Colonel’s cheery voice resounded from the foot
of the table.
“Pembroke, when I drove through the Court House to-day, it made me feel
like a young man again, to see your father’s old tin sign hanging out
of the old office, ‘French Pembroke, Attorney at Law.’ It has been a
good many years since that sign was first put up. Egad, your father
and I have had some good times in that office, in the old, old days.
He always kept a first-class brand of liquors. His style of serving
it wasn’t very imposing, but it didn’t hurt the liquor. I’ve drank
cognac fit for a king in that office, and drank it out of a shaving mug
borrowed from the barber next door--ha! ha!”
A change like magic swept over Olivia’s face. It indicated great relief
that Pembroke was not an idle scamp after all. She tried to look
sternly and reproachfully at him, but a smile lurked in her eyes.
“You are not as lazy as I thought you, but twice as deceitful,” she
said.
Pembroke was amused at the extreme suavity of the two ladies toward
each other, knowing that at heart it masked an armed neutrality.
Particularly did he notice it after dinner, when they returned to the
drawing-room and the piano was opened. Madame Koller was asked to
sing, but first begged that Miss Berkeley should play. Olivia, without
protesting, went to the piano. Her playing was finished and artistic,
and full of the delicate repose of a true musician. When she rose
Madame Koller overflowed with compliments. “And now, madam,” said the
Colonel, rising and offering his hand with a splendid and graceful
flourish, “will you not let us hear that voice that charmed us when you
were little Eliza Peyton.”
Madame Koller did not like to be called Eliza Peyton--it was too
commonplace--Elise Koller was much more striking. And then she was
uncertain whether to sing or not. She had tried hard to keep that stage
episode secret, and she was afraid if she sang, that something might
betray her. She glanced at Ahlberg, as much as to say, “Shall I?” but
Ahlberg maintained a sphinx-like gravity. But the temptation was too
great. Olivia’s playing was pretty for an amateur--but Madame Koller
despised the best amateur performance as only a true professional can.
Therefore she rose and went to the piano, and turned over some of the
ballads there. She pretended to be looking at them, but she was not.
“Louis,” she said to Ahlberg, who was twisting his waxed mustache. He
came at once and seated himself at the piano.
“What do you think of ‘_Caro nome?_’” she asked.
“Very good. You always sung the _Rigoletto_ music well.”
Madame Koller was not pleased at this slip--but at all events, nobody
but herself understood it in the sense that Ahlberg meant.
Ahlberg struck a few chords, and Madame Koller begun from memory the
celebrated aria. As she sang, Colonel Berkeley opened his sharp old
eyes very wide indeed. This was not the kind of music often heard in
drawing-rooms. He glanced at Pembroke, to see if he was astonished.
That young gentleman only leaned back in the sofa corner near the
fire to better enjoy this delicious singing. Olivia’s face looked
puzzled--so did Miles. In singing, Madame Koller was handsomer than
ever. She had perfect control over her facial expression, and seemed
quite transformed. Once or twice she used a graceful gesture, or made a
step forward--it was highly dramatic, but not in the least stagy.
But if Madame Koller’s performance was far out of the common run, so
was that of her accompanist. He looked remarkably at home on the piano
stool, and Colonel Berkeley rubbed his eyes and tried to recall if
he had ever seen Ahlberg ornamenting a piano stool at a concert, but
could not remember. When the last brilliant note and rich chord died
away Miles Pembroke suddenly began to clap his knee loudly with his
one remaining hand--which produced a furious hand clapping, in which
everybody else vehemently and involuntarily joined, Mr. Cole feebly
shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” Madame Koller started, and when the applause
ceased, she seemed like one coming out of a dream. In the buzz of
compliments that followed, Ahlberg’s voice cut in saying, “You were too
dramatic.”
Madame Koller had been receiving the compliments paid her with smiling
grace, but at this, she cast a strange look on Ahlberg, nor would she
sing again, although urged to do so. And presently it was time to
leave, and Madame Koller and her escort departed in the little victoria
which had come for them, the Colonel wrapping her up in innumerable
furs to protect her from the sharp night air of November.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Olivia and the clergyman and the
Pembrokes were all standing around the blazing fire. The Colonel walked
in, and squaring himself before the generous fireplace with his coat
tails over his arm, surveyed the company and remarked,
“Professional, by Jove.”
“Now, papa,” said Olivia, taking him by the arm, “you are the best and
kindest of men, but you shan’t say ‘professional, by Jove,’ of Madame
Koller, the very minute she has quitted your house. You know how often
I’ve told you of my rule that you shall not mention the name of a guest
until twenty-four hours after that guest’s departure.”
She said it with an air of authority, and tweaked the Colonel’s ear to
emphasize her severity.
“But I am not saying any harm about her, Olivia.”
“Just what I expected,” groaned Mr. Cole.
“Perhaps her voice gave out, and she quitted the stage early,” remarked
Pembroke.
“Not a word more,” cried Olivia sternly. “She sings delightfully.
But--a--it _was_ rather prima donna-ish.”
“Aha! Oho!” shouted the Colonel. “There you are, my dear!”