A ROUND of solemn afternoon dinings followed the return of the Berkeleys to Isleham, and were scrupulously returned. But both the Colonel and Olivia felt that it would not be well to include any of the county gentry the day Madame Koller and Mr. Ahlberg were to dine with them. Mr. Cole had already been invited—and Colonel Berkeley of his own free will, without saying a word to Olivia, asked the two Pembrokes. Olivia, when she heard of this, was intensely vexed. She had used both sarcasm and persuasion on Pembroke in Paris to get him home, and he had laughed at her. Yet she was firmly convinced, as soon as Madame Koller expressed a determination to come, either Pembroke had agreed, or else Madame Koller had followed him—in either case Olivia was not pleased, and received the Colonel’s information that the Pembrokes would be there sure in ominous silence. Nothing remained but for her to show what a remarkably good dinner she could give—and this she felt was clearly within her power. She was naturally a clever housekeeper, and as the case often was in those days, the freedom of the negroes had made but little difference in the ménage at Isleham. Most of the house servants had turned squatters on the plantation. Petrarch, unpopular among his confrères because of his superior advantages and accomplishments as well as his assumption of righteousness, was the major-domo—and then there was Ike, a gingerbread colored Chesterfield, as dining-room servant.
“Miss ’Livy, you jes’ let me manage dem black niggers,” was Petrarch’s sensible advice. “Dey doan know nuttin’ ’bout a real swell dinner. I say yistiddy to Cook M’ria, ‘Why doan yer have some orntrees fur dinner outen all dat chicken an’ truck you has lef’ over ev’y day?’ an’ Miss ’Livy, ef you will b’lieve me, dat nigger, she chase me outen de kitchen wid a shovel full o’ live coals. She ain’ got no ’spect for ’ligion. Arter I got out in de yard, I say, ‘You discontemptuous, disreligious ole cantamount, doan’ you know better’n to sass de Lord’s ’n’inted?’” (this being Petrarch’s favorite characterization of himself). “But M’ria ain’ got de sperrit ’scusin’ ’tis de sperrit o’ owdaciousness. Ez fur dat Ike, I done tole him ‘I am de Gord o’ respicution,’ an’ he ’low I ain’t no sech a thing. I gwi’n lick dat yaller nigger fo’ long.”
“You’d better not try it Uncle Petrarch—” (Petrarch was near to sixty, and was therefore by courtesy, Uncle Petrarch). “Ike won’t stand it, and I won’t have it either, I can tell you.”
The Berkeleys went against the county custom, and dined in the evening. Therefore, at seven o’clock precisely, on the evening of the dinner, French Pembroke and his brother entered the quaint old drawing-room at Isleham. Olivia had learned the possibilities of ancient mahogany furniture and family portraits, and the great rambling old house was picturesque enough. A genuine Virginia wood fire roared up the chimney, where most of the heat as well as the flame went. Wax candles, in tall silver candlesticks, were on the mantel, and the piano. Miss Berkeley herself, in a white wool gown, looked a part of the pleasant home-like picture, as she greeted her two guests. French Pembroke had called twice to see them, but neither time had Olivia been at home. This, then, was their first meeting, except the few minutes at the races. He was the same easy, pleasantly cynical Pembroke she had known in Paris. There was another French Pembroke whom she remembered in her childish days as very good natured, when he was not very tyrannical, in the visits she used to pay with her dead and gone mother long ago to Malvern—and this other Pembroke could recite wonderful poetry out of books, and scare little Miles and herself into delicious spasms of terror by the weird stories he would tell. But Miles had changed in every way. He had been in his earlier boyish days the pet and darling of women, but now he slunk away from the pity in their tender eyes. He had once had a mannish little strut and a way of looking out of his bold blue eyes that made a path for him wherever he chose to tread. But now he shambled in, keeping as far out of sight as possible behind the elder brother’s stalwart figure.
Colonel Berkeley shook Miles’s one hand cordially. His armless sleeve was pinned up to his coat front.
“God bless my soul,” the Colonel cried. “Am I getting old? Here’s little Miles Pembroke almost a man.”
“Almost—papa—you mean quite a man. It is a dreadful reflection to me that I am older than Miles,” said Olivia, smiling. Then they sat about the fire, and Olivia, putting her fan down in her lap, looked French Pembroke full in the face and said, “You know, perhaps, that Madame Koller and Mr. Ahlberg dine here to-night?”
“Yes,” answered Pembroke, with all the coolness of conscious innocence—or brazen assurance of careless wickedness, Olivia could not tell which.
“You saw a good deal of them abroad, didn’t you?” was her next question.
“Yes,” again replied Pembroke.
“Olivia, my dear,” said her father, who very much enjoyed this little episode, “you women will never learn that you can’t find anything out by asking questions; and Pembroke, my boy, remember that women never believe you except when you are lying to them. Let him alone, Olivia, and he will tell you the whole story, I’ll warrant.”
Olivia’s training had made her something of a stoic under Colonel Berkeley’s remarks, but at this a deep red dyed her clear pale face. She was the best of daughters, but she could at that moment have cheerfully inflicted condign punishment on her father. Pembroke saw it too, not without a little malicious satisfaction. She had quietly assumed in her tone and manner that he was in some way responsible for Madame Koller and her mother being at The Beeches—an incident fraught with much discomfort for him—none the less that there was nothing tragic about it, but rather ridiculous. All the same, he determined to set himself right on the spot.
“Of course, I saw them often. It would have been quite unpardonable if I had not, considering we were often in the same places—and our land joins. I can’t say that I recollect Madame Koller very much before she went away. I only remember her as rather an ugly little thing, always strumming on the piano. I took the liberty of telling both her and Madame Schmidt that I did not think they would find a winter at The Beeches very pleasant—but it seems she did not agree with me. Ahlberg is a cousin by marriage, and has been in the diplomatic corps—”
And at that very moment Petrarch threw open the drawing-room door and announced “Mrs. Koller and Mr. Ahlberg, sah.”
Madame Koller’s appearance was none the less striking in evening dress, with ropes of amber around her neck, and some very fine diamonds. Who says that women are indifferent to each other? The instant Olivia beheld Madame Koller in her gorgeous trailing gown of yellow silk, and her jewels, she felt plain, insignificant, and colorless both in features, dress and manner—while Madame Koller, albeit she knew both herself and other women singularly well, almost envied Olivia the girlish simplicity, the slightness and grace that made her a pretty picture in her white gown with the bunch of late autumn roses at her belt.
The clergyman came last. Then Petrarch opened the folding doors and announced dinner, and Colonel Berkeley gallantly offering his arm to Madame Koller, they all marched in.
Something like a sigh of satisfaction escaped Mr. Ahlberg. Once more he was to dine. Madame Koller sat on the Colonel’s right, and at her right was Mr. Cole. The clergyman’s innocent heart beat when he saw this arrangement. He still fancied that he strongly disapproved of Madame Koller, the more so when he saw the nonchalant way in which she took champagne and utterly ignored the carafe of water at her plate. Mr. Cole took only claret, and watered that liberally.
Madame Koller certainly had a very pretty manner—rather elaborate and altogether different from Olivia’s self-possessed simplicity. She spoke of her mother—“so happy once more to be back in Virginia.” Madame Schmidt, always wrapped up in shawls, and who never volunteered a remark to anybody in her life, scarcely seemed to outsiders to be quite capable of any enjoyment. And Aunt Peyton—dear Aunt Peyton—so kind, so handsome—so anxious that people shall please themselves—“Upon my soul, madam,” cried the Colonel, with much hearty good humor, “I am delighted to hear that last about my old friend Sally Peyton. I’ve known her well for fifty years—perhaps she wouldn’t acknowledge it—and a more headstrong, determined, self-willed woman I never saw. Sally is a good woman, and by heaven, she was a devilish pretty one when—when—you may have heard the story, ma’am—but she always wanted to please herself a d—n sight more than anybody else—including Ned Peyton.”
The Colonel said this quite pleasantly, and Madame Koller smiled at it—she seldom laughed. “Were you not some years in the army, Colonel Berkeley?” she asked presently. “It seems to me I have some recollection of having heard it.” Colonel Berkeley colored slightly. He valued his military title highly, but he didn’t know exactly how he came by it.
“The fact is madam,” he replied, clearing his throat, “in the old days we had a splendid militia. Don’t you remember the general musters, hay? Now I was the—the commanding officer of the Virginia Invincibles—a crack cavalry company, composed exclusively of the county gentlemen—and in some way, they called me colonel, and a colonel I remained.”
“The title seems quite natural,” said Madame Koller, with a sweet smile—“You have such a military carriage—that indescribable air—” at which the Colonel, who never tired of laughing at other people’s foibles, straightened up, assumed a martial pose, and showed vast elation and immense pleasure—which Madame Koller saw out of the corner of her eye.
Miles, sitting next Olivia, had grown confidential. “I—I—want to tell you,” he said bashfully, “the reason why I didn’t come to see you in Paris. It required some nerve for a fellow—in my condition—to face a woman—even the best and kindest.”
“Was that it?” answered Olivia half smiling.
“You are laughing at me,” he said reproachfully.
“Of course I am,” replied Olivia.
A genuine look of relief stole into his poor face. Perhaps it was not so bad after all if Olivia Berkeley could laugh at his sensitiveness.
“So,” continued Olivia, promptly, “you acted like a vain, foolish boy. But I see you are getting over it.”
“I’ll try. You wouldn’t treat me so cavalierly, would you, if—if—it were quite—dreadful?”
“No, it isn’t dreadful at all, or anything like it,” replied Olivia, telling one of those generous and womanly fibs that all true women utter with the full approval of their consciences.
Meanwhile, Ahlberg and Pembroke had been conversing. Ahlberg was indeed a clever fellow—for he talked in a straightforward way, and gave not the slightest ground in anything he said for the suspicion that Pembroke obstinately cherished against him.
“What do you do with yourself all day, Miss Berkeley?” asked Pembroke after a while.
“There is plenty to do. I have a dozen servants to manage that ran wild while we were away—and the house to keep, and to look after the garden—and I ride or drive every day—and keep up my piano playing—and read a little. What do you do?”
“Nothing,” answered Pembroke, boldly.
Olivia did not say a word. She threw him one brief glance though, from her dark eyes that conveyed a volume.
“I have a license to practice law,” he continued, coolly. “I’ve had it for five years—got it just before the State went out, when I went out too. Four years’ soldiering isn’t a good preparation for the law.”
“Ah!” said Olivia.
“I have enough left, I daresay, to keep me without work,” he added.
If he had studied how to make himself contemptible in Olivia’s eyes, he could not have done so more completely. She had acquired perfect self-possession of manner, but her mobile face was as yet undisciplined. When to this last remark she said in her sweetest manner, “Won’t you let Petrarch fill your glass?” it was equivalent to saying, “You are the most worthless and contemptible creature on this planet.” Just then the Colonel’s cheery voice resounded from the foot of the table.
“Pembroke, when I drove through the Court House to-day, it made me feel like a young man again, to see your father’s old tin sign hanging out of the old office, ‘French Pembroke, Attorney at Law.’ It has been a good many years since that sign was first put up. Egad, your father and I have had some good times in that office, in the old, old days. He always kept a first-class brand of liquors. His style of serving it wasn’t very imposing, but it didn’t hurt the liquor. I’ve drank cognac fit for a king in that office, and drank it out of a shaving mug borrowed from the barber next door—ha! ha!”
A change like magic swept over Olivia’s face. It indicated great relief that Pembroke was not an idle scamp after all. She tried to look sternly and reproachfully at him, but a smile lurked in her eyes.
“You are not as lazy as I thought you, but twice as deceitful,” she said.
Pembroke was amused at the extreme suavity of the two ladies toward each other, knowing that at heart it masked an armed neutrality. Particularly did he notice it after dinner, when they returned to the drawing-room and the piano was opened. Madame Koller was asked to sing, but first begged that Miss Berkeley should play. Olivia, without protesting, went to the piano. Her playing was finished and artistic, and full of the delicate repose of a true musician. When she rose Madame Koller overflowed with compliments. “And now, madam,” said the Colonel, rising and offering his hand with a splendid and graceful flourish, “will you not let us hear that voice that charmed us when you were little Eliza Peyton.”
Madame Koller did not like to be called Eliza Peyton—it was too commonplace—Elise Koller was much more striking. And then she was uncertain whether to sing or not. She had tried hard to keep that stage episode secret, and she was afraid if she sang, that something might betray her. She glanced at Ahlberg, as much as to say, “Shall I?” but Ahlberg maintained a sphinx-like gravity. But the temptation was too great. Olivia’s playing was pretty for an amateur—but Madame Koller despised the best amateur performance as only a true professional can. Therefore she rose and went to the piano, and turned over some of the ballads there. She pretended to be looking at them, but she was not.
“Louis,” she said to Ahlberg, who was twisting his waxed mustache. He came at once and seated himself at the piano.
“What do you think of ‘Caro nome?’” she asked.
“Very good. You always sung the Rigoletto music well.”
Madame Koller was not pleased at this slip—but at all events, nobody but herself understood it in the sense that Ahlberg meant.
Ahlberg struck a few chords, and Madame Koller begun from memory the celebrated aria. As she sang, Colonel Berkeley opened his sharp old eyes very wide indeed. This was not the kind of music often heard in drawing-rooms. He glanced at Pembroke, to see if he was astonished. That young gentleman only leaned back in the sofa corner near the fire to better enjoy this delicious singing. Olivia’s face looked puzzled—so did Miles. In singing, Madame Koller was handsomer than ever. She had perfect control over her facial expression, and seemed quite transformed. Once or twice she used a graceful gesture, or made a step forward—it was highly dramatic, but not in the least stagy.
But if Madame Koller’s performance was far out of the common run, so was that of her accompanist. He looked remarkably at home on the piano stool, and Colonel Berkeley rubbed his eyes and tried to recall if he had ever seen Ahlberg ornamenting a piano stool at a concert, but could not remember. When the last brilliant note and rich chord died away Miles Pembroke suddenly began to clap his knee loudly with his one remaining hand—which produced a furious hand clapping, in which everybody else vehemently and involuntarily joined, Mr. Cole feebly shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” Madame Koller started, and when the applause ceased, she seemed like one coming out of a dream. In the buzz of compliments that followed, Ahlberg’s voice cut in saying, “You were too dramatic.”
Madame Koller had been receiving the compliments paid her with smiling grace, but at this, she cast a strange look on Ahlberg, nor would she sing again, although urged to do so. And presently it was time to leave, and Madame Koller and her escort departed in the little victoria which had come for them, the Colonel wrapping her up in innumerable furs to protect her from the sharp night air of November.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Olivia and the clergyman and the Pembrokes were all standing around the blazing fire. The Colonel walked in, and squaring himself before the generous fireplace with his coat tails over his arm, surveyed the company and remarked,
“Professional, by Jove.”
“Now, papa,” said Olivia, taking him by the arm, “you are the best and kindest of men, but you shan’t say ‘professional, by Jove,’ of Madame Koller, the very minute she has quitted your house. You know how often I’ve told you of my rule that you shall not mention the name of a guest until twenty-four hours after that guest’s departure.”
She said it with an air of authority, and tweaked the Colonel’s ear to emphasize her severity.
“But I am not saying any harm about her, Olivia.”
“Just what I expected,” groaned Mr. Cole.
“Perhaps her voice gave out, and she quitted the stage early,” remarked Pembroke.
“Not a word more,” cried Olivia sternly. “She sings delightfully. But—a—it was rather prima donna-ish.”
“Aha! Oho!” shouted the Colonel. “There you are, my dear!”