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The bedroom itself was well furnished in genuine Sheraton, which he had brought up from his palatial home in Devonshire, for the old man denied himself no personal comfort.
"It is just as Gordon Orme told your father, and as I admitted to you. I was engaged to be married to Miss Sheraton, and I am still so engaged." Still her small hands beat together softly, but she would not cry out, she would not exclaim, protest, accuse. I went on with the accusation against myself. "I did not tell you. I had and have no excuse except that I loved you.
I presume that young Sheraton felt something of this, for he began awkwardly to speak of matters related thereto. "It's awfully hard," he began, "to see strangers there in your own house I know it must be hard. But I say, your father must have plunged heavily on those lands over West in the mountains.
It bathed his hands, that hung lax over the arms of the Sheraton chair, and tipped his lifted chin, leaving the strong brow and closed eyes in shadow. But as the pale glimmer of dawn began to outline the edges of the blinds and stretched at length a broad, pointing finger across the quiet room, the sleeping face showed greyish pale and luminous as a drawing by Whistler in silver-point.
The room, very evidently, was a study. But much of its floor, just now, was heaped, ankle high, with hundreds of pages of torn and crumpled paper. The desk-top and a Sheraton cabinet and table were bare of all contents. On the floor reposed countless shattered articles of glass and porcelain; jumbled together with blotters an pastepot and shears and ink-stand and other utensils.
Sheraton, tall, dark, and lace-draped, who also joined us in response to Colonel Sheraton's request. I could not fail to notice the quick glance with which Orme took in the face and figure of Grace Sheraton; and, indeed he had been a critical man who would not have called her fair to look upon.
"Hurrah for C'fedrate States of America!" "Very well," I said to him, "suppose we do hurrah for the Confederate States of America. But let us wait until there is such a thing." He glowered at me. "Also," he said, solemnly, "Hurrah for Miss Grace Sheraton, the pretties' girl in whole C'federate States America!" "Harry," I cried, "stop! You're drunk, man. Come on, I'll take you home."
Better perhaps that I should say nothing, save that it was like Grace Sheraton herself, formal, correct and cold. It was the first written word I had ever received from my fiancée, and I had expected I do not know what. At least I had thought to be warmed, comforted, consoled in these times of my adversity.
Events had somewhat hurried me in the two days since my arrival at Jefferson Barracks, but on the morning following the awkward ending of my match with Orme I had both opportunity and occasion to take stock of myself and of my plans. The mails brought me two letters, posted at Wallingford soon after my departure; one from Grace Sheraton and one from my mother. The first one was what shall I say?
They had turned in the long winding avenue, and were following the old gray wall that swept in a wide circle past the negro cabins, then toward the house. Suddenly Mrs. Sequin pointed dramatically to the little porch of one of the cabins. "A Sheraton! Great heavens! Where did it come from? What is it doing there?"
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