"To make myself known to a friend of my father's."
"So, so! I've heard that story before. Young people nowadays make a show of Mrs. C——, and ferret her out with some story of old times and their fathers. Your name's Humphreys? Pike told me of you. I keep a sharp eye on all the country round. I think I did know a Humphreys in Colonel Shepler's time. Get you before me into the house."
During this harangue, she had been composedly putting on her stockings, and fastening a pair of low shoes with the old-fashioned buckles of brilliants on the instep. I preceded her into the house, entering the low-raftered kitchen, as she directed.
"There's a fire there. It's chilly."
She perched herself on a high chair, her toes on the rung, while she subjected me to a rigid cross-examination about my father. I observed her as closely. A small, withered old woman, as if Nature had at first begrudged her the sap and genial juices of life, and dried them out of her as speedily as might be; only her eyes blazed, fresh, keen, vindictive. She sat bolt upright in her chair, her skinny hands crossed over her coarse blue dress, the fingers loaded with rings, many of them jewels of great value. Her white hair was drawn back in a thick puff under a cap of cheap lace, and fastened there with a diamond pin. A great turnip-shaped gold watch was fastened on her left shoulder, her hollow chest garlanded with massive chains, a bunch of steel keys ending them, among which those of the pantry and cellar were conspicuous.
She pronounced my verdict at last.
"I believe you are not lying. Come Marquise into my house. I am glad to see Philip Humphreys's son. A shiftless dog, but good blood, good blood,"—leading me into a spacious dining-room, uncarpeted and dreary, the plaster falling from the walls, but a magnificent buffet filling up one entire side and laden with massive plate, among which I noticed several cups, prizes at Southern race-courses.
Her keen eye caught my passing glance at them.
"Yes, yes! I had a good eye for the the turf once! Keep clear of it, young Humphreys! It has gone down into a money-making jobbery. Gentlemen cannot keep even their vices intact—in—the—Republic," with a delicate, fine smile of satire.
Once within this inner court of hospitality, her manner had changed instantly. The change was so unnatural as to be almost appalling: it was like a corpse putting on a gracious, gay life again. Evening found me still charmed to my seat, a willing listener. I do not think even now that it was because I was an inexperienced, uncritical youth, that I was so readily puzzled and interested. I have written this paper mainly for the purpose of sketching a real character, thinking her now, as I did then, a curious study for the dilettante in anomalies of human nature, as well as one of the most noteworthy women of her time from extraneous circumstances. Once having taken up her rôle as hostess, the roughness and vulgarity slid from her as by a magic touch,—as coarse armor with which she kept her neighbors at bay. She had the keen insight, the delicate instinct, dainty in expression of manner and speech, of a woman habituée du monde for many crowded and watchful years. From the time of her first marriage she spent her winters in Washington, at first notes as a beauty and bel esprit, then an object of interest from her eccentricities, her cool skill, and long familiarity with the private political life of the capital. Her manner had the quaint archness, over-lying intense pride, of an old French Marquise, to whom Bonaparte is "plebeian," and the fruitful, vulgar present worthy only of being dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders.