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When Laura had been in Washington three months, she was still the same person, in one respect, that she was when she first arrived there—that is to say, she still bore the name of Laura Hawkins. Otherwise she was perceptibly changed.—
She had arrived in a state of grievous uncertainty as to what manner of woman she was, physically and intellectually, as compared with eastern women; she was well satisfied, now, that her beauty was confessed, her mind a grade above the average, and her powers of fascination rather extraordinary. So she was at ease upon those points. When she arrived, she was possessed of habits of economy and not possessed of money; now she dressed elaborately, gave but little thought to the cost of things, and was very well fortified financially. She kept her mother and Washington freely supplied with money, and did the same by Col. Sellers—who always insisted upon giving his note for loans—with interest; he was rigid upon that; she must take interest; and one of the Colonel’s greatest satisfactions was to go over his accounts and note what a handsome sum this accruing interest amounted to, and what a comfortable though modest support it would yield Laura in case reverses should overtake her.
In truth he could not help feeling that he was an efficient shield for her against poverty; and so, if her expensive ways ever troubled him for a brief moment, he presently dismissed the thought and said to himself, “Let her go on—even if she loses everything she is still safe—this interest will always afford her a good easy income.”
Laura was on excellent terms with a great many members of Congress, and there was an undercurrent of suspicion in some quarters that she was one of that detested class known as “lobbyists;” but what belle could escape slander in such a city? Fairminded people declined to condemn her on mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk made no very damaging headway. She was very gay, now, and very celebrated, and she might well expect to be assailed by many kinds of gossip. She was growing used to celebrity, and could already sit calm and seemingly unconscious, under the fire of fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even overhear the low voice “That’s she!” as she passed along the street without betraying annoyance.
The whole air was full of a vague vast scheme which was to eventuate in filling Laura’s pockets with millions of money; some had one idea of the scheme, and some another, but nobody had any exact knowledge upon the subject. All that any one felt sure about, was that Laura’s landed estates were princely in value and extent, and that the government was anxious to get hold of them for public purposes, and that Laura was willing to make the sale but not at all anxious about the matter and not at all in a hurry. It was whispered that Senator Dilworthy was a stumbling block in the way of an immediate sale, because he was resolved that the government should not have the lands except with the understanding that they should be devoted to the uplifting of the negro race; Laura did not care what they were devoted to, it was said, (a world of very different gossip to the contrary notwithstanding,) but there were several other heirs and they would be guided entirely by the Senator’s wishes; and finally, many people averred that while it would be easy to sell the lands to the government for the benefit of the negro, by resorting to the usual methods of influencing votes, Senator Dilworthy was unwilling to have so noble a charity sullied by any taint of corruption—he was resolved that not a vote should be bought. Nobody could get anything definite from Laura about these matters, and so gossip had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses. But the effect of it all was, that Laura was considered to be very wealthy and likely to be vastly more so in a little while. Consequently she was much courted and as much envied: Her wealth attracted many suitors. Perhaps they came to worship her riches, but they remained to worship her. Some of the noblest men of the time succumbed to her fascinations. She frowned upon no lover when he made his first advances, but by and by when she was hopelessly enthralled, he learned from her own lips that she had formed a resolution never to marry. Then he would go away hating and cursing the whole sex, and she would calmly add his scalp to her string, while she mused upon the bitter day that Col. Selby trampled her love and her pride in the dust. In time it came to be said that her way was paved with broken hearts.
Poor Washington gradually woke up to the fact that he too was an intellectual marvel as well as his gifted sister. He could not conceive how it had come about (it did not occur to him that the gossip about his family’s great wealth had any thing to do with it). He could not account for it by any process of reasoning, and was simply obliged to accept the fact and give up trying to solve the riddle. He found himself dragged into society and courted, wondered at and envied very much as if he were one of those foreign barbers who flit over here now and then with a self-conferred title of nobility and marry some rich fool’s absurd daughter. Sometimes at a dinner party or a reception he would find himself the centre of interest, and feel unutterably uncomfortable in the discovery. Being obliged to say something, he would mine his brain and put in a blast and when the smoke and flying debris had cleared away the result would be what seemed to him but a poor little intellectual clod of dirt or two, and then he would be astonished to see everybody as lost in admiration as if he had brought up a ton or two of virgin gold. Every remark he made delighted his hearers and compelled their applause; he overheard people say he was exceedingly bright—they were chiefly mammas and marriageable young ladies. He found that some of his good things were being repeated about the town. Whenever he heard of an instance of this kind, he would keep that particular remark in mind and analyze it at home in private. At first he could not see that the remark was anything better than a parrot might originate; but by and by he began to feel that perhaps he underrated his powers; and after that he used to analyze his good things with a deal of comfort, and find in them a brilliancy which would have been unapparent to him in earlier days—and then he would make a note of that good thing and say it again the first time he found himself in a new company. Presently he had saved up quite a repertoire of brilliancies; and after that he confined himself to repeating these and ceased to originate any more, lest he might injure his reputation by an unlucky effort.
He was constantly having young ladies thrust upon his notice at receptions, or left upon his hands at parties, and in time he began to feel that he was being deliberately persecuted in this way; and after that he could not enjoy society because of his constant dread of these female ambushes and surprises. He was distressed to find that nearly every time he showed a young lady a polite attention he was straightway reported to be engaged to her; and as some of these reports got into the newspapers occasionally, he had to keep writing to Louise that they were lies and she must believe in him and not mind them or allow them to grieve her.
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Washington was as much in the dark as anybody with regard to the great wealth that was hovering in the air and seemingly on the point of tumbling into the family pocket. Laura would give him no satisfaction. All she would say, was:
“Wait. Be patient. You will see.”
“But will it be soon, Laura?”
“It will not be very long, I think.”
“But what makes you think so?”
“I have reasons—and good ones. Just wait, and be patient.”
“But is it going to be as much as people say it is?”
“What do they say it is?”
“Oh, ever so much. Millions!”
“Yes, it will be a great sum.”
“But how great, Laura? Will it be millions?”
“Yes, you may call it that. Yes, it will be millions. There, now—does that satisfy you?”
“Splendid! I can wait. I can wait patiently—ever so patiently. Once I was near selling the land for twenty thousand dollars; once for thirty thousand dollars; once after that for seven thousand dollars; and once for forty thousand dollars—but something always told me not to do it. What a fool I would have been to sell it for such a beggarly trifle! It is the land that’s to bring the money, isn’t it Laura? You can tell me that much, can’t you?”
“Yes, I don’t mind saying that much. It is the land.
“But mind—don’t ever hint that you got it from me. Don’t mention me in the matter at all, Washington.”
“All right—I won’t. Millions! Isn’t it splendid! I mean to look around for a building lot; a lot with fine ornamental shrubbery and all that sort of thing. I will do it to-day. And I might as well see an architect, too, and get him to go to work at a plan for a house. I don’t intend to spare any expense; I mean to have the noblest house that money can build.” Then after a pause—he did not notice Laura’s smiles “Laura, would you lay the main hall in encaustic tiles, or just in fancy patterns of hard wood?”
Laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh that had more of her former natural self about it than any sound that had issued from her mouth in many weeks. She said:
“You don’t change, Washington. You still begin to squander a fortune right and left the instant you hear of it in the distance; you never wait till the foremost dollar of it arrives within a hundred miles of you,” —and she kissed her brother good bye and left him weltering in his dreams, so to speak.
He got up and walked the floor feverishly during two hours; and when he sat down he had married Louise, built a house, reared a family, married them off, spent upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars on mere luxuries, and died worth twelve millions.
Laura went down stairs, knocked at/the study door, and entered, scarcely waiting for the response. Senator Dilworthy was alone—with an open Bible in his hand, upside down. Laura smiled, and said, forgetting her acquired correctness of speech,
“It is only me.”
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“Ah, come in, sit down,” and the Senator closed the book and laid it down. “I wanted to see you. Time to report progress from the committee of the whole,” and the Senator beamed with his own congressional wit.
“In the committee of the whole things are working very well. We have made ever so much progress in a week. I believe that you and I together could run this government beautifully, uncle.”
The Senator beamed again. He liked to be called “uncle” by this beautiful woman.
“Did you see Hopperson last night after the congressional prayer meeting?”
“Yes. He came. He’s a kind of—”
“Eh? he is one of my friends, Laura. He’s a fine man, a very fine man. I don’t know any man in congress I’d sooner go to for help in any Christian work. What did he say?”
“Oh, he beat around a little. He said he should like to help the negro, his heart went out to the negro, and all that—plenty of them say that but he was a little afraid of the Tennessee Land bill; if Senator Dilworthy wasn’t in it, he should suspect there was a fraud on the government.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Yes. And he said he felt he couldn’t vote for it. He was shy.”
“Not shy, child, cautious. He’s a very cautious man. I have been with him a great deal on conference committees. He wants reasons, good ones. Didn’t you show him he was in error about the bill?”
“I did. I went over the whole thing. I had to tell him some of the side arrangements, some of the—”
“You didn’t mention me?”
“Oh, no. I told him you were daft about the negro and the philanthropy part of it, as you are.”
“Daft is a little strong, Laura. But you know that I wouldn’t touch this bill if it were not for the public good, and for the good of the colored race; much as I am interested in the heirs of this property, and would like to have them succeed.”
Laura looked a little incredulous, and the Senator proceeded.
“Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t deny that it is for the interest of all of us that this bill should go through, and it will. I have no concealments from you. But I have one principle in my public life, which I should like you to keep in mind; it has always been my guide. I never push a private interest if it is not Justified and ennobled by some larger public good. I doubt if a Christian would be justified in working for his own salvation if it was not to aid in the salvation of his fellow men.”
The Senator spoke with feeling, and then added,
“I hope you showed Hopperson that our motives were pure?”
“Yes, and he seemed to have a new light on the measure: I think will vote for it.”
“I hope so; his name will give tone and strength to it. I knew you would only have to show him that it was just and pure, in order to secure his cordial support.”
“I think I convinced him. Yes, I am perfectly sure he will vote right now.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” said the Senator; smiling, and rubbing his hands. “Is there anything more?”
“You’ll find some changes in that I guess,” handing the Senator a printed list of names. “Those checked off are all right.”
“Ah—’m—’m,” running his eye down the list. “That’s encouraging. What is the ‘C’ before some of the names, and the ‘B. B.’?”
“Those are my private marks. That ‘C’ stands for ‘convinced,’ with argument. The ‘B. B.’ is a general sign for a relative. You see it stands before three of the Hon. Committee. I expect to see the chairman of the committee to-day, Mr. Buckstone.”
“So, you must, he ought to be seen without any delay. Buckstone is a worldly sort of a fellow, but he has charitable impulses. If we secure him we shall have a favorable report by the committee, and it will be a great thing to be able to state that fact quietly where it will do good.”
“Oh, I saw Senator Balloon”
“He will help us, I suppose? Balloon is a whole-hearted fellow. I can’t help loving that man, for all his drollery and waggishness. He puts on an air of levity sometimes, but there aint a man in the senate knows the scriptures as he does. He did not make any objections?”
“Not exactly, he said—shall I tell you what he said?” asked Laura glancing furtively at him.
“Certainly.”
“He said he had no doubt it was a good thing; if Senator Dilworthy was in it, it would pay to look into it.”
The Senator laughed, but rather feebly, and said, “Balloon is always full of his jokes.”
“I explained it to him. He said it was all right, he only wanted a word with you,”, continued Laura. “He is a handsome old gentleman, and he is gallant for an old man.”
“My daughter,” said the Senator, with a grave look, “I trust there was nothing free in his manner?”
“Free?” repeated Laura, with indignation in her face. “With me!”
“There, there, child. I meant nothing, Balloon talks a little freely sometimes, with men. But he is right at heart. His term expires next year and I fear we shall lose him.”
“He seemed to be packing the day I was there. His rooms were full of dry goods boxes, into which his servant was crowding all manner of old clothes and stuff: I suppose he will paint ‘Pub. Docs’ on them and frank them home. That’s good economy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, but child, all Congressmen do that. It may not be strictly honest, indeed it is not unless he had some public documents mixed in with the clothes.”
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“It’s a funny world. Good-bye, uncle. I’m going to see that chairman.”
And humming a cheery opera air, she departed to her room to dress for going out. Before she did that, however, she took out her note book and was soon deep in its contents; marking, dashing, erasing, figuring, and talking to herself.
“Free! I wonder what Dilworthy does think of me anyway? One . . . two . . . eight . . . seventeen . . . twenty-one . . . ’m’m . . . it takes a heap for a majority. Wouldn’t Dilworthy open his eyes if he knew some of the things Balloon did say to me. There . . . . Hopperson’s influence ought to count twenty . . . the sanctimonious old curmudgeon. Son-in-law . . . sinecure in the negro institution. . . . That about gauges him. . . . The three committeemen . . . sons-in-law. Nothing like a son-in-law here in Washington or a brother-in-law. . . . And everybody has ’em. . . .Let’s see: . . . sixty-one. . . . with places . . . twenty-five . . . persuaded—it is getting on; . . . . we’ll have two-thirds of Congress in time . . . Dilworthy must surely know I understand him. Uncle Dilworthy . . . . Uncle Balloon!—Tells very amusing stories . . . when ladies are not present . . . I should think so . . . .’m . . . ’m. Eighty-five. There. I must find that chairman. Queer. . . . Buckstone acts. . . . Seemed to be in love . . . . . I was sure of it. He promised to come here . . . and he hasn’t. . . . Strange. Very strange . . . . I must chance to meet him to-day.”
Laura dressed and went out, thinking she was perhaps too early for Mr. Buckstone to come from the house, but as he lodged near the bookstore she would drop in there and keep a look out for him.
While Laura is on her errand to find Mr. Buckstone, it may not be out of the way to remark that she knew quite as much of Washington life as Senator Dilworthy gave her credit for, and more than she thought proper to tell him. She was acquainted by this time with a good many of the young fellows of Newspaper Row; and exchanged gossip with them to their mutual advantage.
They were always talking in the Row, everlastingly gossiping, bantering and sarcastically praising things, and going on in a style which was a curious commingling of earnest and persiflage. Col. Sellers liked this talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a little at sea in it—and perhaps that didn’t lessen the relish of the conversation to the correspondents.
It seems that they had got hold of the dry-goods box packing story about Balloon, one day, and were talking it over when the Colonel came in. The Colonel wanted to know all about it, and Hicks told him. And then Hicks went on, with a serious air,
“Colonel, if you register a letter, it means that it is of value, doesn’t it? And if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the government will have to take extra care of it and even pay you back its full value if it is lost. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes. I suppose it’s so.”.
“Well Senator Balloon put fifteen cents worth of stamps on each of those seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipped that ton of second-hand rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what not through the mails as registered matter! It was an ingenious thing and it had a genuine touch of humor about it, too. I think there is more real talent among our public men of to-day than there was among those of old times—a far more fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity. Now, Colonel, can you picture Jefferson, or Washington or John Adams franking their wardrobes through the mails and adding the facetious idea of making the government responsible for the cargo for the sum of one dollar and five cents? Statesmen were dull creatures in those days. I have a much greater admiration for Senator Balloon.”
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“Yes, Balloon is a man of parts, there is no denying it”
“I think so. He is spoken of for the post of Minister to China, or Austria, and I hope will be appointed. What we want abroad is good examples of the national character.
“John Jay and Benjamin Franklin were well enough in their day, but the nation has made progress since then. Balloon is a man we know and can depend on to be true to himself.”
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“Yes, and Balloon has had a good deal of public experience. He is an old friend of mine. He was governor of one of the territories a while, and was very satisfactory.”
“Indeed he was. He was ex-officio Indian agent, too. Many a man would have taken the Indian appropriation and devoted the money to feeding and clothing the helpless savages, whose land had been taken from them by the white man in the interests of civilization; but Balloon knew their needs better. He built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the money, and the lumber sold for enormous prices—a relative of his did all the work free of charge—that is to say he charged nothing more than the lumber would bring.” “But the poor Injuns—not that I care much for Injuns—what did he do for them?”
“Gave them the outside slabs to fence in the reservation with. Governor Balloon was nothing less than a father to the poor Indians. But Balloon is not alone, we have many truly noble statesmen in our country’s service like Balloon. The Senate is full of them. Don’t you think so Colonel?”
“Well, I dunno. I honor my country’s public servants as much as any one can. I meet them, Sir, every day, and the more I see of them the more I esteem them and the more grateful I am that our institutions give us the opportunity of securing their services. Few lands are so blest.”
“That is true, Colonel. To be sure you can buy now and then a Senator or a Representative but they do not know it is wrong, and so they are not ashamed of it. They are gentle, and confiding and childlike, and in my opinion these are qualities that ennoble them far more than any amount of sinful sagacity could. I quite agree with you, Col. Sellers.”
“Well”—hesitated the Colonel—“I am afraid some of them do buy their seats—yes, I am afraid they do—but as Senator Dilworthy himself said to me, it is sinful,—it is very wrong—it is shameful; Heaven protect me from such a charge. That is what Dilworthy said. And yet when you come to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed to—to—bribery. It is a harsh term. I do not like to use it.”
The Colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with the Austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow.
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In due time Laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the titles of the handsome array of books on the counter. A dapper clerk of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile and an affable—
“Can I—was there any particular book you wished to see?”
“Have you Taine’s England?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Taine’s Notes on England.”
The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and reflected a moment:
“Ah—I see,” [with a bright smile]—“Train, you mean—not Taine. George Francis Train. No, ma’m we—”
“I mean Taine—if I may take the liberty.”
The clerk reflected again—then:
“Taine . . . . Taine . . . . Is it hymns?”
“No, it isn’t hymns. It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now, and is very widely known—except among parties who sell it.”
The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion. He went away and conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns. Then both came forward and the proprietor said:
“Is it an American book, ma’m?”
“No, it is an American reprint of an English translation.”
“Oh! Yes—yes—I remember, now. We are expecting it every day. It isn’t out yet.”
“I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago.”
“Why no—can that be so?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itself, on the counter.”
She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. Then she asked the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table—and was pained to see the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face. He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired it. She said, no, never mind. Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other favorites of her idle hours. Meantime the clerk’s eyes were busy, and no doubt his admiration was returning again—or may be he was only gauging her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement only known to his guild. Now he began to “assist” her in making a selection; but his efforts met with no success—indeed they only annoyed her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. Presently, while she was holding a copy of “Venetian Life” in her hand and running over a familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to dislodge the dust:
“Now here is a work that we’ve sold a lot of. Everybody that’s read it likes it”—and he intruded it under her nose; “it’s a book that I can recommend—‘The Pirate’s Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.’ I think it’s one of the best things that’s come out this season.”
Laura pushed it gently aside with her hand and went on and went on filching from “Venetian Life.”
“I believe I do not want it,” she said.
The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another, but apparently not finding what he wanted.
However, he succeeded at last. Said he:
“Have you ever read this, ma’m? I am sure you’ll like it. It’s by the author of ‘The Hooligans of Hackensack.’ It is full of love troubles and mysteries and all sorts of such things. The heroine strangles her own mother. Just glance at the title please,—‘Gonderil the Vampire, or The Dance of Death.’ And here is ‘The Jokist’s Own Treasury, or, The Phunny Phellow’s Bosom Phriend.’ The funniest thing!—I’ve read it four times, ma’m, and I can laugh at the very sight of it yet. And ‘Gonderil,’—I assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read. I know you will like these books, ma’m, because I’ve read them myself and I know what they are.”
“Oh, I was perplexed—but I see how it is, now. You must have thought I asked you to tell me what sort of books I wanted—for I am apt to say things which I don’t really mean, when I am absent minded. I suppose I did ask you, didn’t I?”
“No ma’m,—but I—”
“Yes, I must have done it, else you would not have offered your services, for fear it might be rude. But don’t be troubled—it was all my fault. I ought not to have been so heedless—I ought not to have asked you.”
“But you didn’t ask me, ma’m. We always help customers all we can. You see our experience—living right among books all the time—that sort of thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know.”
“Now does it, indeed? It is part of your business, then?”
“Yes’m, we always help.”
“How good it is of you. Some people would think it rather obtrusive, perhaps, but I don’t—I think it is real kindness—even charity. Some people jump to conclusions without any thought—you have noticed that?”
“O yes,” said the clerk, a little perplexed as to whether to feel comfortable or the reverse; “Oh yes, indeed, I’ve often noticed that, ma’m.”
“Yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness. Now some people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes and the innocent enthusiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the Vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an older person would delight in them too—but I do not think it odd at all. I think it natural—perfectly natural in you. And kind, too. You look like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little thing in the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing and glad to share that pleasure with others—and that, I think, is noble and admirable—very noble and admirable. I think we ought all to share our pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy, do not you?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, you are quite right, ma’m.”
But he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable, now, notwithstanding Laura’s confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone.
“Yes, indeed. Many people would think that what a bookseller—or perhaps his clerk—knows about literature as literature, in contradistinction to its character as merchandise, would hardly, be of much assistance to a person—that is, to an adult, of course—in the selection of food for the mind—except of course wrapping paper, or twine, or wafers, or something like that—but I never feel that way. I feel that whatever service you offer me, you offer with a good heart, and I am as grateful for it as if it were the greatest boon to me. And it is useful to me—it is bound to be so. It cannot be otherwise. If you show me a book which you have read—not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read—and you tell me that you enjoyed it and that you could read it three or four times, then I know what book I want—”
“Thank you!—th—”
—“to avoid. Yes indeed. I think that no information ever comes amiss in this world. Once or twice I have traveled in the cars—and there you know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out a book of murders if you are fond of theology; or Tupper or a dictionary or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry; or he hands you a volume of distressing jokes or a copy of the American Miscellany if you particularly dislike that sort of literary fatty degeneration of the heart—just for the world like a pleasant spoken well-meaning gentleman in any bookstore. But here I am running on as if business men had nothing to do but listen to women talk. You must pardon me, for I was not thinking.—And you must let me thank you again for helping me. I read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day and I would be sorry to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little. Might I ask you to give me the time? Ah-two-twenty-two. Thank you very much. I will set mine while I have the opportunity.”
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But she could not get her watch open, apparently. She tried, and tried again. Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be allowed to assist. She allowed him. He succeeded, and was radiant under the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded acknowledgements with gratification. Then he gave her the exact time again, and anxiously watched her turn the hands slowly till they reached the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked as happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain. Laura thanked him once more. The words were music to his ear; but what were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his whole system? When she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trussed up during so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her conquests and was a flattered and happy thrall, with the dawn-light of love breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart.
It was about the hour, now, for the chairman of the House Committee on Benevolent Appropriations to make his appearance, and Laura stepped to the door to reconnoiter. She glanced up the street, and sure enough—
That Chairman was nowhere in sight. Such disappointments seldom occur in novels, but are always happening in real life.
She was obliged to make a new plan. She sent him a note, and asked him to call in the evening—which he did.
She received the Hon. Mr. Buckstone with a sunny smile, and said:
“I don’t know how I ever dared to send you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for you have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex.”
“Why I am sure my reputation does me wrong, then, Miss Hawkins. I have been married once—is that nothing in my favor?”
“Oh, yes—that is, it may be and it may not be. If you have known what perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot interest you now.”
“Even if that were the case it could not affect you, Miss Hawkins,” said the chairman gallantly. “Fame does not place you in the list of ladies who rank below perfection.” This happy speech delighted Mr. Buckstone as much as it seemed to delight Laura. But it did not confuse him as much as it apparently did her.
“I wish in all sincerity that I could be worthy of such a felicitous compliment as that. But I am a woman, and so I am gratified for it just as it is, and would not have it altered.”
“But it is not merely a compliment—that is, an empty complement—it is the truth. All men will endorse that.”
Laura looked pleased, and said:
“It is very kind of you to say it. It is a distinction indeed, for a country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and culture. You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to the trouble to come this evening.”
“Indeed it was no trouble. It was a pleasure. I am alone in the world since I lost my wife, and I often long for the society of your sex, Miss Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary.”
“It is pleasant to hear you say that. I am sure it must be so. If I feel lonely at times, because of my exile from old friends, although surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief from the cares of state that weigh you down. For your own sake, as well as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener. I seldom see you at a reception, and when I do you do not usually give me very much of your attention.”
“I never imagined that you wished it or I would have been very glad to make myself happy in that way.—But one seldom gets an opportunity to say more than a sentence to you in a place like that. You are always the centre of a group—a fact which you may have noticed yourself. But if one might come here—”
“Indeed you would always find a hearty welcome, Mr. Buckstone. I have often wished you would come and tell me more about Cairo and the Pyramids, as you once promised me you would.”
“Why, do you remember that yet, Miss Hawkins? I thought ladies’ memories were more fickle than that.”
“Oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen’s promises. And besides, if I had been inclined to forget, I—did you not give me something by way of a remembrancer?”
“Did I?”
“Think.”
“It does seem to me that I did; but I have forgotten what it was now.”
“Never, never call a lady’s memory fickle again! Do you recognize this?”
“A little spray of box! I am beaten—I surrender. But have you kept that all this time?”
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Laura’s confusion was very pretty. She tried to hide it, but the more she tried the more manifest it became and withal the more captivating to look upon. Presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed air, and said:
“I forgot myself. I have been very foolish. I beg that you will forget this absurd thing.”
Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by Laura’s side on the sofa, said:
“Please let me keep it, Miss Hawkins. I set a very high value upon it now.”
“Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do not speak so. I have been sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness. You cannot take pleasure in adding to my distress. Please give it to me.”
“Indeed I do not wish to distress you. But do not consider the matter so gravely; you have done yourself no wrong. You probably forgot that you had it; but if you had given it to me I would have kept it—and not forgotten it.”
“Do not talk so, Mr. Buckstone. Give it to me, please, and forget the matter.”
“It would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so I restore it. But if you would give me part of it and keep the rest—”
“So that you might have something to remind you of me when you wished to laugh at my foolishness?”
“Oh, by no means, no! Simply that I might remember that I had once assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more.”
Laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment. She was about to break the twig, but she hesitated and said:
“If I were sure that you—” She threw the spray away, and continued: “This is silly! We will change the subject. No, do not insist—I must have my way in this.”
Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces and proceeded to make a wily advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully-contrived artifices and stratagems of war. But he contended with an alert and suspicious enemy; and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had made but little progress. Still, he had made some; he was sure of that.
Laura sat alone and communed with herself;
“He is fairly hooked, poor thing. I can play him at my leisure and land him when I choose. He was all ready to be caught, days and days ago—I saw that, very well. He will vote for our bill—no fear about that; and moreover he will work for it, too, before I am done with him. If he had a woman’s eyes he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything and never suspects. If I had shown him a whole bush he would have thought it was the same. Well, it is a good night’s work: the committee is safe. But this is a desperate game I am playing in these days—a wearing, sordid, heartless game. If I lose, I lose everything—even myself. And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all? I do not know. Sometimes I doubt. Sometimes I half wish I had not begun. But no matter; I have begun, and I will never turn back; never while I live.”
Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward:
“She is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable discretion—but she will lose, for all that. There is no hurry; I shall come out winner, all in good time. She is the most beautiful woman in the world; and she surpassed herself to-night. I suppose I must vote for that bill, in the end maybe; but that is not a matter of much consequence the government can stand it. She is bent on capturing me, that is plain; but she will find by and by that what she took for a sleeping garrison was an ambuscade.”
Now this surprising news caus’d her fall in ’a trance,Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance,Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he tookAnd she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.The Barnardcastle Tragedy.
Now this surprising news caus’d her fall in ’a trance,Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance,Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he tookAnd she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.The Barnardcastle Tragedy.
“Don’t you think he is distinguished looking?”
“What! That gawky looking person, with Miss Hawkins?”
“There. He’s just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. Such high-bred negligence and unconsciousness. Nothing studied. See his fine eyes.”
“Very. They are moving this way now. Maybe he is coming here. But he looks as helpless as a rag baby. Who is he, Blanche?”
“Who is he? And you’ve been here a week, Grace, and don’t know? He’s the catch of the season. That’s Washington Hawkins—her brother.”
“No, is it?”
“Very old family, old Kentucky family I believe. He’s got enormous landed property in Tennessee, I think. The family lost everything, slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in the war. But they have a great deal of land, minerals, mines and all that. Mr. Hawkins and his sister too are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition of the colored race; they have some plan, with Senator Dilworthy, to convert a large part of their property to something another for the freedmen.”
“You don’t say so? I thought he was some guy from Pennsylvania. But he is different from others. Probably he has lived all his life on his plantation.”
It was a day reception of Mrs. Representative Schoonmaker, a sweet woman, of simple and sincere manners. Her house was one of the most popular in Washington. There was less ostentation there than in some others, and people liked to go where the atmosphere reminded them of the peace and purity of home. Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected in Washington society as she was in her own New York house, and kept up the spirit of home-life there, with her husband and children. And that was the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there.
Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of society within a radius of a mile. To a large portion of the people who frequent Washington or dwell there, the ultra fashion, the shoddy, the jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they would be in a refined New England City. Schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the House, but he was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty. No one would have thought of offering to carry National Improvement Directors Relief stock for him.
These day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies present, in view of this fact, to discover whether women dress more for the eyes of women or for effect upon men. It is a very important problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would form one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman’s character. We are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature.
“They are coming this way,” said Blanche. People who made way for them to pass, turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the eyes of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious.
“Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins. My friend, Miss Medlar.”
Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. In extricating himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own. And Mr. Hawkins righted himself.