Chapter XVI: 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.