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Here, in the hotel General Deffenbaugh was holding in reserve Elmville's trump card. Elmville knew; for the trump was a fixed one, and its lead consecrated by archaic custom. At the proper moment Governor Pemberton, beautifully venerable, magnificently antique, tall, paramount, stepped forward upon the arm of the General. Elmville watched and harked with bated breath.
I told him particularly that I like automobiles, and he thought a minute, and then said: "If you were going to be playing near the Whitman station to-morrow I'd pick you up and take you on a twenty-mile spin. I'm lunching with some people near Whitman, and going on to Elmville." "Oh, pickles!" said I. "Will you, really? Of course, I'll be there.
And as the wheels turned, the rhythm of their turning was set to one simple phrase, the one which had sent her world whirling upside down and made the stars leap out of their courses: "When may I come?" Hope to reach Elmville at seven to-night. This was the first of them. When Georgiana received it she had been waiting eight days for this first word.
Some of the younger set were actually after him to join the golf club. A striking proof of his abandonment to obscurity was his adoption of a most undignified, rakish, little soft hat, reserving the "plug" for Sundays and state occasions. Billy was beginning to enjoy Elmville, though that irreverent burgh had neglected to crown him with bay and myrtle.
Elmville had done her best. There were bands, flowers, carriages, uniforms, banners, and committees without end. High-school girls in white frocks impeded the steps of the party with roses strewn nervously in bunches. The chieftain had seen it all before scores of times. He could have pictured it exactly in advance, from the Blue-and-Gray speech down to the smallest rosebud.
Grandson of his State, and stepchild to Elmville thus had fate fixed his kinship to the body politic. Billy lived with his father in the old mansion. The two and an elderly lady a distant relative comprised the family. Perhaps, though, old Jeff, the Governor's ancient coloured body-servant, should be included. Without doubt, he could have claimed the honour.
In "Governor" Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the inhabitants of Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient greatness and glory. In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country. His state had pressed upon him every honour within its gift.
His full-skirted frock-croak was always buttoned snugly about his tall, spare figure. He wore a high, well-kept silk hat known as a "plug" in Elmville and nearly always gloves. His manners were punctilious, and somewhat overcharged with courtesy. The Governor's walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession.
After many years of tireless labour he had become known in certain quarters far from Elmville as a master of the principles of the law. Twice he had gone to Washington and argued cases before the highest tribunal with such acute logic and learning that the silken gowns on the bench had rustled from the force of it.
Yes; General Deffenbaugh was Elmville. One little incident that usually occurred during the Governor's morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more important matters. The procession was accustomed to halt before a small brick office on the Avenue, fronted by a short flight of steep wooden steps. A modest tin sign over the door bore the words: "Wm. B. Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law."
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