Beverly of Graustark | Page 3

masculine Washington looked humbly to her for the
balm that might soothe its pains. The wily god of love was fair enough
to protect the girl whom he forced to be his unwilling, perhaps
unconscious, ally. He held his impenetrable shield between her heart
and the assaults of a whole army of suitors, high and low, great and
small. It was not idle rumor that said she had declined a coronet or two,
that the millions of more than one American Midas had been offered to
her, and that she had dealt gently but firmly with a score of hearts
which had nothing but love, ambition and poverty to support them in
the conflict.
The Calhouns lived in a handsome home not far from the residence of
Mr. and Mrs. Grenfall Lorry. It seemed but natural that the two
beautiful young women should become constant and loyal friends.
Women as lovely as they have no reason to be jealous. It is only the
woman who does not feel secure of her personal charms that cultivates
envy. At the home of Graustark's princess Beverly met the dukes and
barons from the far east; it was in the warmth of the Calhoun
hospitality that Yetive formed her dearest love for the American
people.
Miss Beverly was neither tall nor short. She was of that divine and
indefinite height known as medium; slender but perfectly molded;
strong but graceful, an absolutely healthy young person whose beauty
knew well how to take care of itself. Being quite heart-whole and
fancy-free, she slept well, ate well, and enjoyed every minute of life. In
her blood ran the warm, eager impulses of the south; hereditary love of
case and luxury displayed itself in every emotion; the perfectly normal
demand upon men's admiration was as characteristic in her as it is in
any daughter of the land whose women are born to expect chivalry and
homage.

A couple of years in a New York "finishing school" for young ladies
had served greatly to modify Miss Calhoun's colloquial charms. Many
of her delightful "way down south" phrases and mannerisms were
blighted by the cold, unromantic atmosphere of a seminary conducted
by two ladies from Boston who were too old to marry, too penurious to
love and too prim to think that other women might care to do both.
There were times, however,--if she were excited or enthusiastic,--when
pretty Beverly so far forgot her training as to break forth with a very
attractive "yo' all," "suah 'nough," or "go 'long naow." And when the
bands played "Dixie" she was not afraid to stand up and wave her
handkerchief. The northerner who happened to be with her on such
occasions usually found himself doing likewise before he could escape
the infection.
Miss Calhoun's face was one that painters coveted deep down in their
artistic souls. It never knew a dull instant; there was expression in
every lineament, in every look; life, genuine life, dwelt in the mobile
countenance that turned the head of every man and woman who looked
upon it. Her hair was dark-brown and abundant; her eyes were a deep
gray and looked eagerly from between long lashes of black; her lips
were red and ever willing to smile or turn plaintive as occasion required;
her brow was broad and fair, and her frown was as dangerous as a smile.
As to her age, if the major admitted, somewhat indiscreetly, that all his
children were old enough to vote, her mother, with the reluctance born
in women, confessed that she was past twenty, so a year or two either
way will determine Miss Beverly's age, so far as the telling of this story
is concerned. Her eldest brother--Keith Calhoun (the one with the
congressional heritage)--thought she was too young to marry, while her
second brother, Dan, held that she soon would be too old to attract men
with matrimonial intentions. Lucy, the only sister, having been happily
wedded for ten years, advised her not to think of marriage until she was
old enough to know her own mind.
Toward the close of one of the most brilliant seasons the Capital had
ever known, less than a fortnight before Congress was to adjourn, the
wife of Grenfall Lorry received the news which spread gloomy
disappointment over the entire social realm. A dozen receptions, teas

and balls were destined to lose their richest attraction, and hostesses
were in despair. The princess had been called to Graustark.
Beverly Calhoun was miserably unhappy. She had heard the story of
Gabriel's escape and the consequent probability of a conflict with
Axphain. It did not require a great stretch of imagination to convince
her that the Lorrys were hurrying off to scenes of intrigue, strife and
bloodshed, and that not only Graustark but its princess was