home, or deeply sunk in something; people at first fancied he
was a poet, meditating a great work, which finished, he would soon
leave Carlsruhe. He never was seen to look at a woman, not overmuch at
his wife, and was not yet popular in society.

But it was true that he was newly married. He was married in Boston, in
'Forty-three or four, to Emily Austin, a far-off cousin of his, whom he
had known (he himself was a Carolinian) during his four years at
Cambridge. For his four years in Cambridge were succeeded by two more
at the Law School; then he won a great case against Mr. Choate, and was
narrowly beaten in an election for Congress; after that it surprised no
one to hear the announcement of his engagement to Miss Austin, for his
family was unexceptionable and he had a brilliant future. The marriage
came in the fall, rather sooner than people expected, at King's Chapel.
They went abroad, as was natural; and then he surprised his friends and
hers by accepting his consulship and staying there. And they were
imperceptibly, gradually, slowly, and utterly forgotten.

The engagement came out in the spring of 'Forty-three. And in June of
that year young Pinckney had gone to visit his _fiancee_ at Newport.
Had you seen him there, you would have seen him in perhaps the
brightest role that fate has yet permitted on this world's stage. A
young man, a lover, rich, gifted, and ambitious, of social position
unquestioned in South Carolina and the old Bay State--all the world
loved him, as a lover; the many envied him, the upper few desired him.
Handsome he has always remained.

And the world did look to him as bright as he to the world. He was in
love, as he told himself, and Miss Austin was a lovable girl; and the
other things he was dimly conscious of; and he had a long vacation
ahead of him, and was to be married late in the autumn, and he walked
up from the wharf in Newport swinging his cane and thinking on these
pleasant things.

Newport, in those days, was not the paradise of cottages and curricles,
of lawns and laces, of new New Yorkers and Nevada miners; it was the
time of big hotels and balls, of Southern planters, of Jullien's
orchestras, and of hotel hops; such a barbarous time as the wandering
New Yorker still may find, lingering on the simple shores of Maine,
sunning in the verdant valleys of the Green Mountains; in short, it was
Arcadia, not Belgravia. And you must remember that Pinckney, who was
dressed in the late