University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.

“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

[ILLUSTRATION]

SHE SAID "PARDON."

[Description: 499EAF. Page 342. In-line image of a party with two couples mad at one another and walking in opposite directions.] 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.

“Don't you find it very warm to-day, Mr. Hawkins?” said
Blanche, by way of a remark.

“It's awful hot,” said Washington.

“It's warm for the season,” continued Blanche pleasantly.
“But I suppose you are accustomed to it,” she added, with a
general idea that the thermometer always stands at 90° in all
parts of the late slave states. “Washington weather generally
cannot be very congenial to you?”

“It's congenial,” said Washington brightening up, “when
it's not congealed.”

“That's very good. Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins
says it's congenial when it's not congealed.”

“What is, dear?” said Grace, who was talking with
Laura.

The conversation was now finely under way. Washington
launched out an observation of his own.

“Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?”

“Oh, yes, aren't they queer. But so high-bred, so picturesque.
Do you think that color makes any difference, Mr.
Hawkins? I used to be so prejudiced against color.”

“Did you? I never was. I used to think my old mammy
was handsome.”

“How interesting your life must have been! I should like
to hear about it.”

Washington was about settling himself into his narrative
style, when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.

“Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?”

Washington had not. “Is anything uncommon going
on?”

“They say it was very exciting. The Alabama business
you know. Gen. Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England,
and they say he wants war.”

“He wants to make himself conspicuous more like,” said
Laura. “He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on
the gallery, while the other is on the speaker.”

“Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and
wicked. He knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope
it will be for the patriots of Cuba. Don't you think we want
Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I think we want it bad,” said Washington. “And Santo
Domingo. Senator Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend
our religion over the isles of the sea. We've got to round
out our territory, and”

Washington's further observations were broken off by
Laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and
reminded him that they must make their adieux.

“How stupid and tiresome these people are,” she said.
“Let's go.”

They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when
Laura's attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman

[ILLUSTRATION]

"IT'S HE! IT'S HE!"

[Description: 499EAF. Page 344. In-line image of a man and a woman about to walk outside, when the woman recognizes someone else at the party.] who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. For a second
her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome man of forty
and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he
walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame. He might
be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and
he was pale.

No. It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a
resemblance. But as the gentleman turned and she saw his
full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington's
arm to prevent herself from falling.

Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual
looked 'round in wonder. Laura's eyes were blazing fire and
hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face
was livid.

[ILLUSTRATION]

REFLECTION.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 345. In-line image of a woman standing and looking at herself in the mirrow.]

“Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper.”

“It's he, it's he. Come, come,” and she dragged him
away.

“It's who?” asked Washington, when they had gained
the carriage.

“It's nobody, it's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint
with the heat. Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it,”
she added earnestly, grasping his arm.

When she had gained her room she went to the glass and
saw a pallid and haggard face.

“My God,” she cried, “this will never do. I should have
killed him, if I could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to
come here. I ought to kill him. He has no right to live.
How I hate him. And yet I loved him. Oh heavens, how
I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me? He
might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but
he shall not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may
have forgotten. He will find that a woman's hate doesn't

forget. The law? What would the law do but protect him
and make me an outcast? How all Washington would gather
up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if
he hates me as I do him?”

So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a
tumult of passion, which she gave way to with little effort to
control.

A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache.
The hour came for the President's reception. She
had a raving headache, and the Senator must go without her.

That night of agony was like another night she recalled.
How vividly it all came back to her. And at that time she
remembered she thought she might be mistaken. He might
come back to her. Perhaps he loved her, a little, after all.
Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a coldblooded
scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these
years. She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she
wondered. She caught at that, and it gave a new current to
her thoughts. Perhaps, after all—she must see him. She
could not live without seeing him. Would he smile as in
the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as
when she last saw him? If he looked so, she hated him. If
he should call her “Laura, darling,” and look so! She must
find him. She must end her doubts.

Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and
another—a nervous headache, a cold—to the great anxiety of
the Senator's household. Callers, who went away, said she
had been too gay—they did not say “fast,” though some of
them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and successful
in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days,
without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary.

When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale
may be, but unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened
lines about the eyes they had been concealed. Her
course of action was quite determined.

At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual

noise during the night? Nobody had. Washington never
heard any noise of any kind after his eyes were shut. Some
people thought he never did when they were open either.

Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was
detained in a little consultation after the Congressional prayer
meeting. Perhaps it was his entrance.

No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She
might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was
trying to get into the house.

Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as
none of the members were occupied in night session.

The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that
kind of newspaper slang. There might be burglars about.

Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness.
But she thought she would feel safer if Washington would
let her take one of his pistols. Washington brought her one
of his revolvers, and instructed her in the art of loading and
firing it.

During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker's
to pay a friendly call.

“Your receptions are always delightful,” she said to that
lady, “the pleasant people all seem to come here.”

“It's pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins. I believe
my friends like to come here. Though society in Washington
is mixed; we have a little of everything.”

“I suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel
element?” said Laura with a smile.

If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singular remark for
a lady to make, who was meeting “rebels” in society every
day, she did not express it in any way, but only said,

“You know we don't say `rebel' anymore. Before we
came to Washington I thought rebels would look unlike
other people. I find we are very much alike, and that kindness
and good nature wear away prejudice. And then you
know there are all sorts of common interests. My husband
sometimes says that he doesn't see but confederates are just
as eager to get at the treasury as Unionists. You know that
Mr. Schoonmaker is on the appropriations.”

“Does he know many Southerners?”

“Oh, yes. There were several at my reception the other day.
Among others a confederate Colonel—a stranger—handsome
man with gray hair, probably you didn't notice him, uses a
cane in walking. A very agreeable man. I wondered why
he called. When my husband came home and looked over
the cards, he said he had a cotton claim. A real southerner.
Perhaps, you might know him if I could think of his name.
Yes, here's his card—Louisiana.”

Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure
of the address, and then laid it down, with,

“No, he is no friend of ours.”

That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched the following
note. It was in a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and
it was directed to a number and street in Georgetown:—

On Wednesday at 3 P. M. no one of the family was likely
to be in the house except Laura.