"I've asked Ellis to drive out with us," said the major, as he took the lines from the colored man who had the trap in charge. "We'll go by the office and pick him up."
Clara frowned, but perceiving Mrs. Carteret's eye fixed2 upon her, restrained any further expression of annoyance3.
The major's liking4 for Ellis had increased within the year. The young man was not only a good journalist, but possessed5 sufficient cleverness and tact6 to make him excellent company. The major was fond of argument, but extremely tenacious7 of his own opinions. Ellis handled the foils of discussion with just the requisite8 skill to draw out the major, permitting himself to be vanquished9, not too easily, but, as it were, inevitably10, by the major's incontrovertible arguments.
Olivia had long suspected Ellis of feeling a more than friendly interest in Clara. Herself partial to Tom, she had more than once thought it hardly fair to Delamere, or even to Clara, who was young and impressionable, to have another young man constantly about the house. True, there had seemed to be no great danger, for Ellis had neither the family nor the means to make him a suitable match for the major's sister; nor had Clara made any secret of her dislike for Ellis, or of her resentment11 for his supposed depreciation12 of Delamere. Mrs. Carteret was inclined to a more just and reasonable view of Ellis's conduct in this matter, but nevertheless did not deem it wise to undeceive Clara. Dislike was a stout13 barrier, which remorse14 might have broken down. The major, absorbed in schemes of empire and dreams of his child's future, had not become cognizant of the affair. His wife, out of friendship for Tom, had refrained from mentioning it; while the major, with a delicate regard for Clara's feelings, had said nothing at home in regard to his interview with her lover.
At the Chronicle office Ellis took the front seat beside the major. After leaving the city pavements, they bowled along merrily over an excellent toll15-road, built of oyster16 shells from the neighboring sound, stopping at intervals17 to pay toll to the gate-keepers, most of whom were white women with tallow complexions18 and snuff-stained lips,—the traditional "poor-white." For part of the way the road was bordered with a growth of scrub oak and pine, interspersed19 with stretches of cleared land, white with the opening cotton or yellow with ripening20 corn. To the right, along the distant river-bank, were visible here and there groups of turpentine pines, though most of this growth had for some years been exhausted21. Twenty years before, Wellington had been the world's greatest shipping22 port for naval23 stores. But as the turpentine industry had moved southward, leaving a trail of devastated24 forests in its rear, the city had fallen to a poor fifth or sixth place in this trade, relying now almost entirely25 upon cotton for its export business.
Occasionally our party passed a person, or a group of persons,—mostly negroes approximating the pure type, for those of lighter26 color grew noticeably scarcer as the town was left behind. Now and then one of these would salute27 the party respectfully, while others glanced at them indifferently or turned away. There would have seemed, to a stranger, a lack, of spontaneous friendliness28 between the people of these two races, as though each felt that it had no part or lot in the other's life. At one point the carriage drew near a party of colored folks who were laughing and jesting among themselves with great glee. Paying no attention to the white people, they continued to laugh and shout boisterously29 as the carriage swept by.
Major Carteret's countenance30 wore an angry look.
"The negroes around this town are becoming absolutely insufferable," he averred31. "They are sadly in need of a lesson in manners."
Half an hour later they neared another group, who were also making merry. As the carriage approached, they became mute and silent as the grave until the major's party had passed.
"The negroes are a sullen32 race," remarked the major thoughtfully. "They will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than they dream. By the way," he added, turning to the ladies, "what was the arrangement with Tom? Was he to come out this evening?"
"He came out early in the afternoon," replied Clara, "to go a-fishing.
He is to join us at the hotel."
After an hour's drive they reached the hotel, in front of which stretched the beach, white and inviting33, along the shallow sound. Mrs. Carteret and Clara found seats on the veranda34. Having turned the trap over to a hostler, the major joined a group of gentlemen, among whom was General Belmont, and was soon deep in the discussion of the standing35 problem of how best to keep the negroes down.
Ellis remained by the ladies. Clara seemed restless and ill at ease.
Half an hour elapsed and Delamere had not appeared.
"I wonder where Tom is," said Mrs. Carteret.
"I guess he hasn't come in yet from fishing," said Clara. "I wish he would come. It's lonesome here. Mr. Ellis, would you mind looking about the hotel and seeing if there's any one here that we know?"
For Ellis the party was already one too large. He had accepted this invitation eagerly, hoping to make friends with Clara during the evening. He had never been able to learn definitely the reason of her coldness, but had dated it from his meeting with old Mrs. Ochiltree, with which he felt it was obscurely connected. He had noticed Delamere's scowling37 look, too, at their last meeting. Clara's injustice38, whatever its cause, he felt keenly. To Delamere's scowl36 he had paid little attention,—he despised Tom so much that, but for his engagement to Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt.
He had even wished that Clara might make some charge against him,—he would have preferred that to her attitude of studied indifference39, the only redeeming40 feature about which was that it was studied, showing that she, at least, had him in mind. The next best thing, he reasoned, to having a woman love you, is to have her dislike you violently,—the main point is that you should be kept in mind, and made the subject of strong emotions. He thought of the story of Hall Caine's, where the woman, after years of persecution41 at the hands of an unwelcome suitor, is on the point of yielding, out of sheer irresistible42 admiration43 for the man's strength and persistency44, when the lover, unaware45 of his victory and despairing of success, seizes her in his arms and, springing into the sea, finds a watery46 grave for both. The analogy of this case with his own was, of course, not strong. He did not anticipate any tragedy in their relations; but he was glad to be thought of upon almost any terms. He would not have done a mean thing to make her think of him; but if she did so because of a misconception, which he was given no opportunity to clear up, while at the same time his conscience absolved47 him from evil and gave him the compensating48 glow of martyrdom, it was at least better than nothing.
He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing. It had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive,—they had exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation. It was a greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him,—a pleasure which, in this instance, was partly offset49 when he interpreted her request to mean that he was to look for Tom Delamere. He accepted the situation gracefully50, however, and left the ladies alone.
Knowing Delamere's habits, he first went directly to the bar-room,—the atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking. Delamere was not there. Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel.
"Yes, sir," returned the man at the desk, "he was here at luncheon51, and then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen. I think they came back about three o'clock. I'll find out for you."
He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded.
"Front," said the clerk, "see if young Mr. Delamere's upstairs. Look in 255 or 256, and let me know at once."
The bell-boy returned in a moment.
"Yas, suh," he reported, with a suppressed grin, "he's in 256, suh. De do' was open, an' I seed 'im from de hall, suh."
"I wish you'd go up and tell him," said Ellis, "that—What are you grinning about?" he asked suddenly, noticing the waiter's expression.
"Nothin', suh, nothin' at all, suh," responded the negro, lapsing52 into the stolidity53 of a wooden Indian. "What shall I tell Mr. Delamere, suh?"
"Tell him," resumed Ellis, still watching the boy suspiciously,—"no, I'll tell him myself."
He ascended54 the broad stair to the second floor. There was an upper balcony and a parlor55, with a piano for the musically inclined. To reach these one had to pass along the hall upon which the room mentioned by the bell-boy opened. Ellis was quite familiar with the hotel. He could imagine circumstances under which he would not care to speak to Delamere; he would merely pass through the hall and glance into the room casually56, as any one else might do, and see what the darky downstairs might have meant by his impudence57.
It required but a moment to reach the room. The door was not wide open, but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within.
Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with an array of empty bottles and glasses. Sprawling58 on a lounge, with flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest buttoned
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