University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
ALL THE WORLD.

“I made eighty-two calls yesterday, between
eleven o'clock in the morning and
eleven at night, sir,” said Mr. Laforét upon
the second of January in the year of which we
write, “and I give you my honor, sir, that
I did not find a handsomer drawing-room, or
two women any thing near as handsome as at
Israel Barstow's. I give you my honor, Mrs.
Chappelleford, since her return, is enough to
take the breath right out of a man; and Mrs.
Barstow, when she gets herself up in black
velvet, with just a touch of rouge, and the
right shade under her eyelids, and sits with
her back to the light, I tell you she is stunning.
As for the spread, it was perfect—just
enough, and nothing too much: sherry and
sweet wines, but no champagne, no punchbowl—nothing
loud. No occasion for fellows
to carry olives in their pockets to that house, or
to come out of it noisy—just the best house in
town, sir, I give you my honor.”

And having the opinion of such an authority
as Mr. Laforét, we need not doubt that Mrs.
Barstow's New-Year's at home was perfectly
successful, or go farther into the details of
the occasion.

The day wore on until about five o'clock in
the afternoon, and Mrs. Barstow had just
smiled acceptance of Mr. Monckton's compliments,
when Beatrice saw a slight, nervous
tremor run through her figure, and at once
turned her own eyes toward the door.

A gentleman stood just within it, looking
with peculiar earnestness toward the hostess—
a gentleman in middle life, of military figure
and bearing, and with a face once singularly
handsome, but now wasted and haggard with
a life of fatigue, exposure, and unrestrained
passions.

“A volcano almost burned out,” thought
Beatrice, as she watched the new-comer advancing
slowly up the room, his eyes still intently
fixed upon his hostess, who, pretending
not to observe him, jested flippantly with Mr.
Monckton.

“Juanita!” said Beatrice in a low voice,
and full of meaning.

Mrs. Barstow turned her head, smiled with
a very tolerable imitation of indifferent surprise,
and said:

“Is it possible, Major Strangford! Did you
drop from the heavens among us?”

“No, I have come `up from the under
world,' as your favorite Tennyson has it.
You see, I remember your tastes, Mrs. Barstow.”

“So good of you. But then you have been
out of the world, and so have had time for
the pleasures of memory. We of the town
are too busy for that luxury,” said Mrs. Barstow
with admirable sangfroid.

“Beatrice, allow me to present Major Strangford,
a gentleman I used to see in New-Orleans.
Mrs. Chappelleford, Major Strangford; Mr.
Monckton, I believe, you know.”

“Your servant, Mrs. Chappelleford. How are
you, Monckton,” said the Major, acknowledging
the presence of those whom he addressed
with brief courtesy, and turning again to
Juanita with a malicious smile.

“Yes, Mrs. Barstow, I have just arrived in
town, and my wife has hardly recovered from
her journey; but when she does I hope she
will see you among her first visitors. You
and she should be good friends.”

“You are married, then? You forget that
we have all been ignorant of your movements,
your very existence, I may say, for so long,
that we hardly know where to place you.
There was even a rumor of your death some
time ago. Did you not tell me so, Mr. Monckton?”

“Yes, several years ago, before I went
abroad.”

“So I was thinking; but one lives so fast in
these days,” said Mrs. Barstow, with a little
sigh of protest against the heartlessness of the
age.

“And one's dearest friends are soon forgotten,”
said Major Strangford bitterly.

“Is that your experience, Major? Well,
now, I don't find it so. Delusions and fancies
pass away, but I don't find that real friendships
do. How is it with you, Beatrice?”

“One certainly sees more clearly as one gets
on in life,” said Beatrice quietly. “And the
certainty that things are at last reduced to
their true limits is a consolation in seeing

them lose the magnificent proportions with
which we first invested them.”

“Some things reduced to their true limits
become so insignificant as to disappear altogether,”
replied Major Strangford with a sneer.
“Lovers' vows, for instance.”

“Or mean revenge,” added Beatrice coolly.
“Yes, most small and false matters become
extinct with time. The world has only room
for truth and nobility of purpose.”

“What a peculiar world you must live in,
Mrs. Chappelleford,” said Major Strangford,
turning to stare her almost rudely in the face.
“And what a delightful sympathy must exist
between Mrs. Barstow and yourself!”

“Such an one should exist, since we are
kinswomen, or at least close connections,”
said Beatrice, unmoved by look or tone.

“Indeed! May I ask how?'

“Mrs. Barstow married my uncle, and I
hers; so we are naturally much together.”

“I see; and you are educating your niece in
your own way of thinking, are you not?”

“Juanita, will not the gentleman take some
refreshments?” asked Beatrice as quietly as
if she had not heard the taunting question:
and Mrs. Barstow, aroused to a memory of her
duties, hastily replied:

“Oh! certainly. Mr. Monckton, will you do
the honors of the dining-room to Major Strangford?”

Both gentlemen rose, and the entrance of
another party most opportunely offered cover
for a retreat, which might otherwise have
become very awkward; but Mrs. Barstow,
smiling and bowing welcome to Messieurs
Rein and Grahame, could smile and bow adieu
to Messieurs Monckton and Strangford in the
same breath and with precisely the same
manner.

An hour later, the ladies withdrew to rest
for a short period before dinner, and had to prepare
for the fatigues of the evening, which
was to be celebrated by a “little gathering”
of Mrs. Barstow's dear five hundred friends.

“That will do, Pauline; you may go now,”
said Mrs. Barstow impatiently, as the maid
lingered after inspecting and repairing the
fabric of her mistress's toilet.

“O my dear, dear Beatrice!” continued she
as the door closed. “I am so obliged to you,
and how splendidly you stood by me!”

“I am sure I do not see how,” replied Beatrice
with a smile. “You treated Major
Strangford as a lady should treat a gentle
man, and he treated both of us as a boor
treats women of whom he is not afraid. That
is all there is to say.”

“Well, he is a boor, although I used to
think him the most polished gentleman of
my acquaintance,” said Mrs. Barstow reflectively.
“But I was entirely disappointed in
him—entirely shocked, I may say. Did you
notice how broken and ugly his teeth are?”

“I noticed how false and malicious his eyes
are, and how tremulous and dissipated his
hands,” said Beatrice with lofty scorn.