A QUEEN OF FASHION.
Here high-born men were proud to wait,
And beauty watched to imitate
Her gentle voice, her lovely mien,
And gather from her air and gait
The graces of its queen.—BYRON.
Alexander went with his uncle and cousin to their hotel.
“And now, my boy,” said the old gentleman, after he had dismissed the
carriage and taken his grand-daughter into the private entrance, “let us
lose no time in going to the office and securing your rooms. Guests are
arriving by every train, and the house is in a fair way of being crowded
if it is not so already. Indeed, I fear you may not, even now, be able
to obtain rooms here.”
“Heaven grant I may not!” was the fervent, though silent, aspiration of
Mr. Lyon, who was almost at his wits’ ends with perplexity.
In the strong hope that there was no room to be had, he let his uncle
drag him along to the counter of the office, which was crowded with
applicants for accommodations. It was some minutes before General Lyon
could get audience with the sorely embarrassed clerk of the house. When
he did, it was to receive the answer that the crowded state of the
office led him to anticipate.
There was not a room nor a half a room, nor a bed nor a half a bed, at
the disposal of the house.
“I thought so. Well, Alick, I am sorry; but you must try to get rooms as
near us as possible. I don’t think the Blank House is full yet. It is
too far up town for strangers. But hark ye! it will be full in an hour
from this time. ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’ Run, now; jump into a
cab and drive for life to the Blank, and engage your rooms before this
crowd gets there and tills the house.”
Again, what could Alexander do? He saw at a glance that he must
ostensively live at Washington—that he must have rooms at some hotel,
though he might never, or very seldom, occupy them. And he was only too
glad that he was not obliged to have rooms in the same house with his
uncle, and so be always under the old gentleman’s eye.
He thanked General Lyon for his advice, and said that he should avail
himself of it.
And he went out and jumped into the first cab that offered, and drove to
the Blank House, where he happened to be in time to engage the only
bedroom at the disposal of the proprietor.
He took the key of his room, which he meant only to occupy on his
occasional visits to the city, and then he drove to the “establishment”
of a fashionable tailor and gentleman’s outfitter, and he suited himself
with a full evening dress, including linen, gloves, perfumery, et
cetera. These he ordered to be sent to his room at the Blank House.
“I am booked for his Excellency’s reception this evening, and so it will
be considerably after midnight before I can hope to get back to
Cedarwood. Poor little Drusa! I hope she won’t be anxious, and sit up
and lose her rest,” he said, as he hurried back to his hotel to make his
toilet for the evening.
While waiting for his parcel from the tailor’s he lounged into the
reading room, and took up one of the evening papers; but its columns
could scarcely engage his attention, which was wholly engrossed by his
embarrassments.
“It is now near sunset,” so ran his thoughts, “and poor little soul! she
has been watching for me for hours, is watching for me at this moment,
and will watch for me for hours longer, until long after midnight,
tormented by nobody knows how many fears and fancies concerning me.
Plague take the old man! what brought him bothering to Washington just
at this time?” very irreverently muttered Mr. Lyon to himself, as his
eyes ran over the news items of the paper without taking cognizance of
their meaning.
His ostensible reading and his real reverie was rudely interrupted by
the clap of a hand upon his shoulder, and the ring of a laugh in his
ear.
He turned sharply around and recognized Captain Reding and Lieutenant
Harpe, two young officers of the army, who had been among the visitors
to his box on the evening when he had taken Drusilla to the German
Opera.
He bowed coldly in rebuke to their laughter, but they took no offence.
“Hey, old boy! so here you are at last!” said Reding.
“We have been looking for you for days—ever since we saw you at the
German Opera with that pretty little girl,” said Harpe.
“Where have you been hiding yourself all this time?” inquired Reding.
“And above all, where have you hidden that little beauty, you churlish
fellow?” added Harpe.
“You never presented us to her,” said Reding.
“Ah! we owe you one for that,” added Harpe.
“Gentlemen,” answered Mr. Lyon, slowly and coldly collecting his
thoughts, “if you will be good enough to speak, one at a time, and
forbear a second question until a first is answered, perhaps I may be
able to satisfy your curiosity. On the evening to which you allude I
happened to be passing through Washington, having in my charge the
daughter of a clergyman. She was the very young lady whom you saw with
me at the opera. I made no stay in the city beyond that evening; but
took my young charge immediately to her home.”
And in this statement also Mr. Lyon told something near the literal
truth, while intentionally giving a false impression.
“Ah, well,” said Reding, “but why did you not introduce us to the little
beauty?”
“If you must have it, I did not think two gay young blades like
yourselves very desirable acquaintances for a clergyman’s daughter,”
said Mr. Lyon.
“And you were!—oh! oh! oh!” laughed Reding.
“Deuce take it, what do you mean by that, Alick?” inquired Mr. Harpe.
“Nothing against your honor, gentlemen. If my charge for the evening had
been any other young lady in the world, I would have presented you to
her.”
“Much obliged,” said Reding; “but to tell you the truth, Lyon, whether
you like it or not, the young person in question did not impress us as
being a young lady.”
“What do you mean by _that_?” exclaimed Mr. Lyon, in a low, stern voice,
as he glared at the speaker.
“Oh, nothing against _her_ honor—nothing in the world. I mean simply
that the little creature seemed to us to be, not exactly of ‘low birth,’
but of ‘humble parentage,’ as the phrase goes. She had not the manners
of good society,” answered Reding.
“Heaven forbid she ever should have,” said Alexander, firmly. And yet
the criticism galled him; all the more, perhaps, because he felt it to
be the truth. His lovely young wife had not, as these critics said, the
manners of “good society.” Yet it was hard to say what she lacked.
Whatever it was, it was something in which Miss Anna Lyon, a very queen
in society, excelled. What was it, then? Drusilla was pretty, graceful,
well educated, and well-dressed. She excelled in many accomplishments,
and was conversant with the history of the past and the literature of
the present, and she conversed intelligently upon all these. She was
sweet, gentle and courteous in her deportment to all persons. What then
did she lack? I will tell you—self-esteem and self-possession—both of
which qualities are in high favor in “good society.” Drusilla’s manner
was that of one who had always occupied a subordinate position by living
among her superiors. She had too little of assurance and too much of
deference.
And this delicate and retiring manner, which had been one of her
sweetest charms in the eyes of her lover, now suddenly became
objectionable in the estimation of her husband.
“No,” he muttered to himself, “she has _not_ the air of a lady; she has
the air of a maid-servant. Poor little thing! I fear I shall never be
able to introduce her.”
“No offence, I hope, Alick!” said young Harpe, good-humoredly, noticing
Mr. Lyon’s gloomy abstraction.
“None in the world,” answered Alexander.
“Because, if there should be, I am ready to fight or apologize, or to
give you any sort of satisfaction you may please to demand,” laughed the
young lieutenant.
“I ask as a favor that you will drop the subject of this young lady; for
she is a lady by position, if not—according to your judgment—in manners.
And now, gentlemen, as I have an engagement, I must wish you good
evening,” said Mr. Lyon, bowing and withdrawing from their proximity.
“No,” he said, as he went slowly up to his room, “I must not bring
Drusilla into public again. Her beauty excites attention and her
simplicity provokes criticism, and both raise questions difficult to
meet. Poor little Drusa, she must always be a hidden treasure, a secret
‘well-spring of joy’ to me. Well, she will not object to that, and she
will be all the lovelier and the sweeter for this seclusion,” he added,
in some self-satisfaction, as he entered his room and began to dress for
the evening.
As soon as he was ready he went down to the dining-room, took a single
cup of strong tea, and then passed out to the sidewalk and called the
best-looking cab that he saw upon the stand.
A short drive took him to the hotel where his uncle and cousin were
stopping. He was shown up into their private parlor, where they were
awaiting him.
“You are late, Alick,” said Anna, advancing from the fire to meet him
half way across the room.
“I had to wait for my parcels,” replied Alexander, bowing and smiling
apologetically.
“Oh, your luggage from the railway station? Well, the porters _are_
slow, that is certain; but then they have so much to do,” said old
General Lyon, drawing a natural inference.
Alexander bowed in an absent sort of a manner, but did not reply. He was
gazing at his cousin. How grandly beautiful she looked, how graceful,
how stately! Ah! _she_ had the air, not only of “good society,” but of
the best society! And that upstart puppy, that good for nothing Dick
Hammond, to aspire to her. Ugh!
Such was the tenor of Mr. Alexander’s thoughts as he stood for a moment
contemplating his beautiful and imperious-looking cousin. In fact, Anna
was at an age when every season added to her beauty. Always
well-looking, she had never in her life looked so well as to-night.
She wore a deep mourning full dress of black crape, over a black silk.
It was made with a low corsage and short sleeves; both sleeves and
corsage were edged with a narrow trimming of fine white thule; and the
fairness of her perfect neck and arms were set off by a necklace and
bracelets of jet. Her golden auburn hair was in plain rolls at the back
of her head, and a band of jet above her forehead was its only ornament.
This simple mourning dress set off her blonde beauty more completely
than the most elaborate toilet could have done.
“I am ready, Alick. What are you waiting for?” she inquired, breaking in
upon the spell that bound him.
“Nothing,” he answered, with a slight start. “I am at your service this
instant.”
And he stepped towards her, and fastened the glove on the hand that she
held out to him. And then he wrapped her opera cloak carefully around
her shoulders, tied the little hood under her chin, drew her arm within
his own, and led her from the room down to the carriage, wondering all
the way how it was that his cousin Anna, whom he had only known as a
rather pretty girl so long, should so suddenly have become so beautiful
in his eyes.
Ah! Mr. Lyon, she had grown beautiful to you only in becoming
unattainable by you. A common case.
Old General Lyon followed them closely, and saw Alick put Anna into her
seat, and tuck her wrappings carefully around her, and then get in and
place himself beside her.
“Take care of her, Alick; the night is growing colder,” said the old
gentleman.
“I shall take the best care of her, sir,” replied Alexander.
“Anna, mind, you are not to stay late,” said Anna’s grandfather.
“‘Late?’—Who stays late at a President’s reception? Everybody—that is,
almost everybody, leaves before twelve. I shall be back by half-past
eleven, sir. It is only to make one’s bow or courtesy to his Excellency
in the Reception Room, and walk once or twice through the East Room, and
come away,” laughed Anna.
“Very well, I shall sit up for you,” said General Lyon, by way of
sealing the bargain, as he retreated from the carriage door.
The coachman put up the steps, clapped to the door, mounted his box, and
drove off.