1 The Play of Words

They were dancing in the ballroom, and the music—the light flow of an Austrian waltz—rippled through the halls, the careless notes of the melody, played on such a night, returning to me with a sinister echo. Yet the touch of foreboding was faint, and I felt that it was alike folly and bad taste to be sad when others laughed.

“And I hear that he has turned back,” said Varian, in cool, precise tones. “A President without a nation or a nation without a President, which is it?—either or both? Now, being elected President, which no one denies, why does not Lincoln come to claim his own?”

This was news that he told, and I felt a quickening of my blood. Unwelcome though his words were, I would have asked him to speak more fully; but I saw Elinor’s face, and knowing from the quiver of her lips that she was about to take up the thread of the talk, I was silent.

“Turned back, do you say, Mr. Varian?” she asked. “Do you mean to tell us that Mr. Lincoln is not now on the way to Washington?—that the man whom the people have chosen to be their President is not permitted to come to the capital?”

A flush due chiefly to indignation rose to her cheeks, and her blue eyes, as clear and direct as her question, looked into Varian’s. Anger, if it be without sacrifice of dignity, becomes a beautiful woman; and having no cause to like Varian, I could find it in my heart to forgive him when I saw the look of admiration on his face. To show a proper appreciation of Elinor Maynard was to prove one’s own good sense.

“I heard in the ballroom a half hour ago,” replied Varian, smiling a little and showing his even white teeth—“Tourville, the man from South Carolina, I think it was who told me—that Lincoln came as far as Harrisburg to-day, became frightened there, because of a conspiracy here to kill him, carry off his Presidential Chair, or commit some other deed of violence repugnant to a peaceful Illinois rail splitter, and promptly facing about, fled to Philadelphia.”

I had been trying to decide for a long time whether I liked Varian. He was a man of many facets, and each glittered with a different light. His ease of manner, his careless air, his long life in the Old World, and the inability of any one to say whether he was American or European by birth, which lent to his name a certain agreeable mystery, made him an interesting figure among us, while none could deny the charm of his conversation or his knowledge of a larger and more complex society than ours. I fancy it was the latter quality that made him attractive to young men like Pembroke and myself.

But at the present moment I was sure that I did not like him. The facet that he was presenting to our gaze gave forth a light, repellent—to me at least. He seemed to cheapen alike the nation and the crisis at the verge of which it stood, and the look that he bent upon Elinor was a little bolder than I liked, perhaps a little freer than the usage of our country favoured.

“This retreat is only for the moment,” said Elinor, whose high blood, I knew, was aflame. “Lincoln will start again, and we shall all see him become President upon the appointed day.”

She spoke with the spirit of a young and beautiful woman, having a mind not inferior to her youth and beauty. Varian’s eyes were upon her, and the gleam of admiration in them deepened. There was a strange attraction about Elinor Maynard that drew all men, an illusive charm that I have never known in any other woman. I think it was the peculiar mingling of Northern and Southern blood in her veins, the odd grafting of Massachusetts stock upon Kentucky soil.

Varian’s eyes lingered upon her, and the admiration in his look remained unrepressed. I noticed with a slight contraction of the heart his deepening anxiety to please her, and the manner in which he called to his aid all his knowledge of the world and women, learned in lands older and more polished than ours. As I read his eyes then he coveted this maid, and yet I knew that I had no right to blame him, since he was not alone in such a wish. He was older than Pembroke or I, but his youth was not wholly passed. He seemed to me to be at an age dangerous to women.

“A newsboy is calling his wares,” I said; “perhaps the papers are telling of Lincoln’s flight.”

I raised the window a little, but I could hear only the call and not its significance. The chill February air blew in, but the night outside was silent save for the newsboy’s cry and the rattle of a lone soldier’s bayonet as they changed the guard. I shut the window and then heard only ourselves and the music from the ballroom.

Paul Warner, our host, heavy and fussy, joined us. He was a large, fat man, with pouchy, black rings under his eyes, and a variety of jewels on his fingers. He reeked of his wealth, and I often reflected that I had never seen two more unlike than Paul Warner, Government contractor and rich man, and his niece, Elinor Maynard.

“I have been looking for you the last half hour, Elinor,” he said, in short, gasping sentences, spreading out his hands in a deprecatory gesture until the rings upon them flashed in the gaslight. “A dozen people have asked me where you are, and I could not tell them. I have prepared for you the finest ball of the season, and you have fled.”

“We were discussing important news, uncle,” said Elinor.

“And what is that, my dear niece?”

“Mr. Lincoln came no farther than Harrisburg, and has returned from there to Philadelphia, to escape, it is said, a plot to kill him.”

“Do you know this to be a fact?”

“I am responsible for the statement so far as this room is concerned,” said Varian, “and I have no doubt of its truth.”

Mr. Warner dropped his lids over his eyes until the beam from them narrowed to a point, sharp and penetrating. The vulgarity of his manners disappeared for the time, and he was the shrewd, alert business man looking into the future. I was willing to wager with an invisible opponent that I knew the trend of Paul Warner’s thoughts.

“If Lincoln has gone back it means that the capital is to be left to the South, and that has the savour of speedy war,” he said. “It will be war anyhow, but the flight of Lincoln will hasten it. The South has her mind made up; she is able and decided, while the North is lazy, doubting, and negligent. Who could have thought that each section would show qualities the exact opposite of those we associate with it!”

He seemed to be thoughtful, and I might have added as a spur to his reflections that war demanded supplies which made possible large contracts and equally large profits for the wary and tolerant, but I thought it neither necessary nor polite. The beam in his eye changed to a twinkle, and I saw that Paul Warner was not displeased. But he changed the subject; and, in truth, war was an inopportune topic, time and place considered.

“Come,” he said, “it is time to go to supper now. That is a call, perhaps, that does not speak so loudly to the young as it does to us who are of middle age or more, but you must heed it.”

It was my privilege to take Elinor, and Varian went with our host in search of the lady with whom he was to have the happiness, I saw Elinor’s eyes watching him until he disappeared in the ballroom, and when he was gone she seemed grave and abstracted. I feared that she felt the charm of this man’s manner and speech and of the indefinable quality that we call, for the lack of a better name, personal magnetism. That he had it I could not deny, and men as well as women were glad to be seen receiving his notice.

“Can you tell me who and what he is, Henry?” she asked.

“Why does he arouse every one’s curiosity?” I said, feeling a pang of jealousy and making my reply a question. “Even you are now asking about him, Elinor, and ordinarily there is so little in your nature that is inquisitive.”

“I do not know why,” she replied simply.

“No one here has learned much concerning him,” I said, somewhat ashamed of the feeling that had shown in my tone. “Philip Augustus Varian has been in Washington the last six months. He came from Europe, so it is said, and there have been wagers as to whether he is English or American, while others equally wise hold that he is neither.”

“He speaks English without an accent.”

“Likewise French and German; so we can infer nothing from that. In fact, Varian’s interests seem to be French. It is said, whether truly I do not know, that he has some sort of a commission here from the French Emperor. Napoleon is building up an empire in Mexico with the Austrian Maximilian as his little wooden man to wear the crown, and he wants to win more prestige by breaking up the American republic, appearing then as the patron and protector of the South, for which France will take benefits. It is said that Varian—and again I warn you I know not whether it is true—is here to speak for him with the Southern leaders. Certain it is, he is intimate with some of the ablest secessionists. Elinor, I think that Varian is a dangerous man.”

“Why so?” she asked, turning her clear eyes upon me. “The South is going to secede whether Mr. Varian is here or not, and if he is hostile to the Union there are ten thousand more in Washington who are equally so.”

I was not thinking of politics or war, and I did not answer her. We were at the door of the supper room, from which came the sound of many voices, and I had a good excuse.

No one could complain justly of Paul Warner’s table, and this night he reached the extreme degree of luxuriance and prodigality. Yet he was diplomatic, as became his trade, never extreme in the expression of opinion, and the partisans of North and South alike met around his silver and glass and china, setting the seal of approval upon his hospitality. Varian was not far from us, but on the other side of the table, where I could see him well, and I was compelled to admit that his features were strong and handsome. The sunburn of his face, and the calm, easy air with which he accepted all things as a matter of course, became him. He was in a uniform of white and silver, which I took to be a variation of a French colonel’s, modified by his own taste, and he was the most splendid figure in the room. He was talking just then to Elinor’s aunt, Mrs. Maynard, a lady of thin features, acid smile, and gray complexion, who had always done me the honour of withholding from me her approval. Varian’s manner toward her was as deferential as if Elinor sat in her place, and the slight softness of her features showed that she was pleased.

“Your health to-night, Miss Maynard,” said a voice. “We are all your subjects. What a pity we could not cast off our allegiance in order that we might have the pleasure of coming back, renewing it, and then throwing ourselves at your feet, thus obtaining the blessings allotted to the one sinner out of a hundred. To look at this scene one would not think, Miss Maynard, that the breath of war is already upon our cheeks. War is a dreadful thing, but the nations have never been able to get along without it; it is one of the five necessary plagues—war, work, disease, debt, and Yankees.”

The liquid trickle of his talk ceased for a moment as he took breath. It was Major Titus Tyler, of Mississippi, who spoke, he of the endless speech and supreme good nature, a man who saw the world through optimistic eyes. His title was not to be taken in vain. It had been earned honestly on Mexican battlefields, bravery being one of his natural and irresponsible qualities. Habit had not dimmed for me the contrast between the idle flow of the major’s speech and the distinction of his appearance.

“You hold that war is a necessary evil, Major Tyler,” said Varian, who was within easy hearing. “I agree with you in part at least. It is not exactly a necessary evil, but an evil that we must expect.”

I did not hear the reply, a faint sound from the street coming just then to my ears and claiming my attention with its significance. It was the marching of troops to the slow distant beat of a drum—no new sound in Washington in the closing months of the winter of 1860-’61. But the words of Major Tyler, “The breath of war is already upon our cheeks,” so idly spoken, borrowed new force from the prophetic drumbeat. Yet there was no sign of war within. The silver and the glass shone in the rays of many lights, and the red wine sparkled in the goblets. Mr. Warner beamed from his black-ringed eyes and expanded in his wide waistcoat. Men and women were joyous, taking the evening for what it was. I believed that we alone had been talking or even thinking of coming dangers.

“It’s the drum that you hear, Mr. Kingsford,” said Varian, who saw me listening. “It is not a bad sound. All the nations have marched to its tune.”

“If there is anything I hate particularly, it’s trying to prove things right through precedents,” said Pembroke. “You can always find a precedent, because, as the wise man said, there is nothing new under the sun.”

Varian smiled tolerantly, and the talk shifted to lighter topics. The drumbeat was forgotten, and there was no bar to the increasing gaiety of the guests. I saw through the open doors of the room into the long halls, where the lights stretched in parallel rows like two belts of flame, narrowing in the distance. Mr. Warner was at his happiest. Much incense floated to him at the head of the table, and the flavour of it was pleasant. The house was one of the finest in Washington, and it was his. The beauty and distinction of his niece were reflections of his own glory. The colour and the lights appealed to his physical senses, and he was responsible for them too.

We returned to the ballroom. I could not expect to claim much of Elinor’s time on such an evening, and leaving her, I paid my respects to her aunt, Mrs. Maynard. We had never been very good friends. Perhaps the hostility grew out of the ill feeling between Mrs. Maynard and my grandmother, which, was of an origin antedating my birth, and therefore so far as concerned me was an inheritance. They were near neighbours in Kentucky, and my grandmother, who was a devout woman—believing sincerely that the Kingdom of Heaven was bounded on the north by the Ohio River, and on the east, south, and west by the Presbyterian Church—had a righteous distrust of Mrs. Maynard’s Northern origin and Episcopal affiliations. Mrs. Maynard, a woman capable of speaking for herself, retaliated, and, planted in such fertile ground and nourished by proximity, the weed of discord grew.

These memories must have been present with Mrs. Maynard on this night, as she received with small favour my efforts to please, the gray parchment of her face wrinkling dryly at my best-turned sentences, and her eyes following Elinor and Varian, who were then dancing together. So I excused myself presently, and walked with Pembroke into the garden, where we might find fresh air. We stood there in the darkness, the moon having faded, and looked back at the house, alive with many lights. But we remained silent, each full of his own thoughts, and I believed that his, like mine, were of Elinor and Varian.

When we returned to the house I decided that it was time for me to go. I sought Elinor, that I might pay my parting respects, and found her aunt, Varian, and Major Titus Tyler near her. There was a slight change in her manner toward me—not a lack of warmth, but a difference in its quality; I seemed younger to her.

“Mr. Kingsford and Elinor were children together, Mr. Varian,” said Mrs. Maynard, drawing her thin lips into an acid smile.

“An ideal relationship,” said Varian. “The only Platonic friendship that can endure. One might wish for the sake of example that nothing would interfere with the continuity of this.”

“Nothing is likely to do so. These old friendships begun in childhood are very beautiful,” said Mrs. Maynard.

I did not reply to them, though my blood was hot, and said good night in a firm voice. Then I passed down the street into another atmosphere, and the lights of the great house soon faded.

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