Beasleys Christmas Party | Page 3

Apperthwaite herself, in her youth, might have sat to an illustrator of
Scott or Bulwer. Even now you could see she had come as near being

romantically beautiful as was consistently proper for such a timid,
gentle little gentlewoman as she was. Reduced, by her husband's
insolvency (coincident with his demise) to "keeping boarders," she did
it gracefully, as if the urgency thereto were only a spirit of quiet
hospitality. It should be added in haste that she set an excellent table.
Moreover, the guests who gathered at her board were of a very
attractive description, as I decided the instant my eye fell upon the lady
who sat opposite me at lunch. I knew at once that she was Miss
Apperthwaite, she "went so," as they say, with her mother; nothing
could have been more suitable. Mrs. Apperthwaite was the kind of
woman whom you would expect to have a beautiful daughter, and Miss
Apperthwaite more than fulfilled her mother's promise.
I guessed her to be more than Juliet Capulet's age, indeed, yet still
between that and the perfect age of woman. She was of a larger, fuller,
more striking type than Mrs. Apperthwaite, a bolder type, one might
put it--though she might have been a great deal bolder than Mrs.
Apperthwaite without being bold. Certainly she was handsome enough
to make it difficult for a young fellow to keep from staring at her. She
had an abundance of very soft, dark hair, worn almost severely, as if its
profusion necessitated repression; and I am compelled to admit that her
fine eyes expressed a distant contemplation--obviously of habit not of
mood--so pronounced that one of her enemies (if she had any) might
have described them as "dreamy."
Only one other of my own sex was present at the lunch-table, a Mr.
Dowden, an elderly lawyer and politician of whom I had heard, and to
whom Mrs. Apperthwaite, coming in after the rest of us were seated,
introduced me. She made the presentation general; and I had the
experience of receiving a nod and a slow glance, in which there was a
sort of dusky, estimating brilliance, from the beautiful lady opposite
me.
It might have been better mannered for me to address myself to Mr.
Dowden, or one of the very nice elderly women, who were my
fellow-guests, than to open a conversation with Miss Apperthwaite; but
I did not stop to think of that.
"You have a splendid old house next door to you here, Miss
Apperthwaite," I said. "It's a privilege to find it in view from my
window."

There was a faint stir as of some consternation in the little company.
The elderly ladies stopped talking abruptly and exchanged glances,
though this was not of my observation at the moment, I think, but
recurred to my consciousness later, when I had perceived my blunder.
"May I ask who lives there?" I pursued.
Miss Apperthwaite allowed her noticeable lashes to cover her eyes for
an instant, then looked up again.
"A Mr. Beasley," she said.
"Not the Honorable David Beasley!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," she returned, with a certain gravity which I afterward wished
had checked me. "Do you know him?"
"Not in person," I explained. "You see, I've written a good deal about
him. I was with the "Spencerville Journal" until a few days ago, and
even in the country we know who's who in politics over the state.
Beasley's the man that went to Congress and never made a
speech--never made even a motion to adjourn--but got everything his
district wanted. There's talk of him now for Governor."
"Indeed?"
"And so it's the Honorable David Beasley who lives in that splendid
place. How curious that is!"
"Why?" asked Miss Apperthwaite.
"It seems too big for one man," I answered; "and I've always had the
impression Mr. Beasley was a bachelor."
"Yes," she said, rather slowly, "he is."
"But of course he doesn't live there all alone," I supposed, aloud,
"probably he has--"
"No. There's no one else--except a couple of colored servants."
"What a crime!" I exclaimed. "If there ever was a house meant for a
large family, that one is. Can't you almost hear it crying out for heaps
and heaps of romping children? I should think--"
I was interrupted by a loud cough from Mr. Dowden, so abrupt and
artificial that his intention to check the flow of my innocent prattle was
embarrassingly obvious--even to me!
"Can you tell me," he said, leaning forward and following up the
interruption as hastily as possible, "what the farmers were getting for
their wheat when you left Spencerville?"
"Ninety-four cents," I answered, and felt my ears growing red with

mortification. Too late, I remembered that the new-comer in a
community should guard his tongue among the natives until he has