affairs–for that inverted corner means “Congratulations.” If Mrs. B.’s
husband falls downstairs and breaks his neck, Mrs. A. calls, leaves her
card with the upper right hand corner turned down, and then takes her
departure; this corner means “Condolence.” It is very necessary to get
the corners right, else one may unintentionally condole with a friend on
a wedding or congratulate her upon a funeral. If either lady is about to
leave the city, she goes to the other’s house and leaves her card with
“P. P. C.” engraved under the name–which signifies, “Pay Parting Call.”
But enough of etiquette. Laura was early instructed in the mysteries of
society life by a competent mentor, and thus was preserved from
troublesome mistakes.
The first fashionable call she received from a member of the ancient
nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a pattern with all she received
from that limb of the aristocracy afterward. This call was paid by Mrs.
Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson and daughter. They drove up at one in the
afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle with a faded coat of arms on the
panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachman on the box and a younger
darkey beside him–the footman. Both of these servants were dressed in
dull brown livery that had seen considerable service.
The ladies entered the drawing-room in full character; that is to say,
with Elizabethan stateliness on the part of the dowager, and an easy
grace and dignity on the part of the young lady that had a nameless
something about it that suggested conscious superiority. The dresses of
both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to material, but as notably modest
as to color and ornament. All parties having seated themselves, the
dowager delivered herself of a remark that was not unusual in its form,
and yet it came from her lips with the impressiveness of Scripture:
“The weather has been unpropitious of late, Miss Hawkins.”
“It has indeed,” said Laura. “The climate seems to be variable.”
“It is its nature of old, here,” said the daughter–stating it apparently
as a fact, only, and by her manner waving aside all personal
responsibility on account of it. “Is it not so, mamma?”
“Quite so, my child. Do you like winter, Miss Hawkins?” She said “like”
as if she had, an idea that its dictionary meaning was “approve of.”
“Not as well as summer–though I think all seasons have their charms.”
“It is a very just remark. The general held similar views. He
considered snow in winter proper; sultriness in summer legitimate; frosts
in the autumn the same, and rains in spring not objectionable. He was
not an exacting man. And I call to mind now that he always admired
thunder. You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?”
“He adored it.”
No doubt it reminded him of battle,” said Laura.
“Yes, I think perhaps it did. He had a great respect for Nature.
He often said there was something striking about the ocean. You remember
his saying that, daughter?”
“Yes, often, Mother. I remember it very well.”
“And hurricanes… He took a great interest in hurricanes. And animals.
Dogs, especially–hunting dogs. Also comets. I think we all have our
predilections. I think it is this that gives variety to our tastes.”
Laura coincided with this view.
“Do you find it hard and lonely to be so far from your home and friends,
Miss Hawkins?”
“I do find it depressing sometimes, but then there is so much about me
here that is novel and interesting that my days are made up more of
sunshine than shadow.”
“Washington is not a dull city in the season,” said the young lady.
“We have some very good society indeed, and one need not be at a loss for
means to pass the time pleasantly. Are you fond of watering-places, Miss
Hawkins?”
“I have really had no experience of them, but I have always felt a strong
desire to see something of fashionable watering-place life.”
“We of Washington are unfortunately situated in that respect,” said the
dowager. “It is a tedious distance to Newport. But there is no help for
it.”
Laura said to herself, “Long Branch and Cape May are nearer than Newport;