CHAPTER II
"May I walk up and down with you?"
The gentle little woman smiled her assent.
"I was never more surprised than to hear you were the mother of the young man opposite me—you look like his eldest sister."
"I was married very young."
"Is he your only child?"
"The only one alive. I lost two younger. That is why I—why we are doubly anxious about him."
"Your husband is alive, then? What is he?"
It was only this young woman's great charm of manner which prevented her curiosity sometimes from seeming obtrusive. But there was such genuine interest in the look of her clear, truthful eyes that no one, least of all the gentle, unsophisticated creature she addressed, could resent it.
"My husband is a minister; our name is Barham. We live in a very quiet village in New England, and seldom leave it. Of course, I should not have gone abroad with Saul, had it not been for his health. But my husband urged it, and so I went."
"And you are glad you went, I am sure. As you were anxious about your son, it must have been a great comfort to you to be with him. Has he always been delicate?"
"Well, he has never been very strong." Here she sighed. "We feared lung trouble at one time. Our climate is rather trying, and Saul overworked himself."
"Was he at Harvard University? I am sure he is very clever."
"Yes, he is very clever. When he left Harvard he became a teacher. Then they made him a professor at the university a few months ago—a great compliment to so young a man. But whether his health will stand it—" Here she sighed again, and left her sentence unfinished.
"But he is going now to return to his work?"
"Why, certainly! He would not give that up for the world. He was offered a fine salary to remain in Europe and travel with two boys. It would have been a grand thing for his health, and he would have made more money than he can do at home, but he would not accept it. He has a deal of ambition, you see; and there's—there's something else. He is so fond of me, he couldn't bear to leave me, and go right away. Here he comes; don't say anything to him about his health, Miss—"
"Miss Ballinger. No, I will not. I am so much obliged to you for telling me so much about yourselves.... Mr. Barham, I am going to introduce myself formally to you. Your mother and I have been making friends. It is like being at a masquerade not knowing who and what people are; and it saves so much idle speculation and back-stair ferreting-out to label one's self at once. I am Miss Ballinger, spinster, aged twenty-five, travelling with her brother, Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, Baronet and member of Parliament. Any discreet question you like to ask I am prepared to answer; for I have a mania for asking questions myself, as your mother knows by this time; and I don't want any unfair advantage."
The young man looked at her fixedly for a moment, and then laughed. He had never met any one like this young lady. Was she a specimen of her country? He knew so few of them.
"All the questions I shall ask will be mental ones, which you will answer, whether you like it or not," he said. "I find those replies, unconsciously given, so much more satisfying than any others. Little mother, you look tired; lie down here. Perhaps Miss Ballinger will continue her quarter-deck walk with me."
He tucked up the "little mother" on a deck-chair, with a plaid round her legs; then turned, and resumed his walk with Miss Ballinger. She began at once:
"What a charming face Mrs. Barham has! She reminds me of Scheffer's picture of the mother of St. Augustine—only younger."
"Yes. It is a pity I am not more likehim. The only point of resemblance that I can recall is, that whenever I pray to be made good, I add, like Augustine—'but not to-day, O Lord!'"
She turned her bright, penetrating glance full upon him, half laughing, half serious.
"Are you one of the men who are anxious to be thought very wicked? I should not have expected that. But there I am, questioning again! Well, never mind. Strong characters are rarely saints in youth, I suppose; though I don't know why they shouldn't be, if they are only strongenough."
"Perhaps I am not strong at all."
"Yes, you are. Your mouth and chin told me that, before you spoke."
"You are a physiognomist. How about the eyes? Do you attach any importance to them?—those 'windows of the soul?'"
"He does not expect me to say that his windows are luminous ones, magnificently draped, does he? If he does, he shall be disappointed," thought Grace. What she said was:
"Eyes are the most deceptive feature—there is no trusting them. I have grown quite tired of fine eyes."
The young American smiled in a peculiar manner. "I am beginning my mental questions."
"What do you mean?"
"I am wondering whether you yourself are always perfectly truthful."
She flushed, and looked annoyed. "You are quite justified. Of course, I was not speaking the exact truth—though it is really my opinion that eyes do not denote character."
"I think your eyes do—better than your words, perhaps."
"As how?"
He smiled again. "Well, that brings the confession thatIwas not perfectly truthful. I was not wondering—I never doubted that you were truthful and straightforward generally; though you might say things that were not quite so, some times."
She burst out laughing.
"Upon my word, Mr. Barham! That is a pretty character, and, unfortunately, it is quite true. It is lucky I am not like Mrs. Van Winkle—have you spoken to Mrs. Van Winkle? she is most amusing—who told me she loved flattery, in every form; there was no amount of it she could not swallow! Now, I like it, of course—what woman doesn't! But it must be in homœopathic doses. You have administered an infinitesimal grain of it wrapped up in a very wholesome bitter. I shall take care what I say to you in future."
"Pray, don't. That would be punishing my impertinence too severely. Yes, Mrs. Van Winkle spoke to me this morning, hearing I was from Harvard. She said she felt that those who were fellow-workers in one field should interchange thoughts. I suppose I stared, for she hastened to inform me that she had written a book which was pronounced to be a work of genius."
"Hernaïvetéis quite delightful!"
"Presently she went on to tell me that a painter had begged her to sit to him as Clio, when she was in Rome, and that her hands and feet had been modelled by a sculptor in Paris. I suppose that wasnaïve."
"Certainly it was. Most of us would have gone a roundabout way to convey the same information. We are all vain. My vanity is fed by the belief that people will find out what a nice person I am, without my giving a sort of auctioneer's inventory of my merits, as that dear innocent Mrs. Van Winkle does."
"Innocent? Well!... She told me her husband would be the next minister to England, and that she would not return there till then, as she did not choose to go about, having to explain herself. I thought—with the Paris sculptor and the modelling—that afoot-note might be explanation enough. But I have not an idea what she meant."
"She meant that the Van Winkles are not to be herded with common travelling Americans."
"I have been a common travelling American myself for the last three months."
"And I dare say youhadsometimes to explain yourself."
"Never. I know too well the way in which my pushing countrymen are spoken of, to seek any one. Those who have sought me have had to do so without any 'explanation.'"
"Proud as Lucifer," thought Grace. "Clearlynotthe stuff of which saints are made." Then aloud, "How did you like Europe?"
"Very much, for a time—for many times, I might say. I should like to travel there yearly. I hope it may be possible for me to do so. But I would not live out of my own country."
"Because you prefer it as a residence—or from a sense of duty?"
He demurred. "The associations of early life have a strong hold on one, and there are special reasons in my case why—" Here he broke off; then began anew: "Of course, there are things I dislike, things I deplore, in my own country; but she has a great future before her, and it behooves every American to do his best to advance that future; so that the generation that follows may be richer than the present, in wisdom and in worth."
"Not only in wealth?"
"You have been told that is the only god we worship? Well, that is true, perhaps, of the majority—not of all. And this god, when he has been won by the self-made man, is generally a very munificent god with us. Where will you find colleges, hospitals, libraries, galleries, the gift of private individuals, to the same extent as with us? Every city has its record of them—a record to be proud of."
"I see I shall have to strike a balance in my judgment between you and Mr. Ferrars. He is pessimist, and you are optimist, as regards your country."
"I do not know Mr. Ferrars," said the young man, dryly. "But it is a cheap way of showing your superiority, to decry your own nation and point out all its shortcomings."
"There is such a thing as exaggerated patriotism that will not admit shortcomings. As a nation, you are so over-sensitive to criticism. Why, you will not allow one of your own best writers to represent certain types, to laugh at certain follies, without crying out that he is unpatriotic! The whole stock in trade of Dickens and Thackeray was laughing at our shams and vulgarities, and who ever thought of bringing such a charge againstthem?"
"Weareover-sensitive, but then we are very young, remember."
Here a slight accident interrupted their progress. Mrs. Courtly was emerging from the main gangway just as Miss Ballinger and her companion crossed it, and a lurch of the vessel, for the wind had been gradually rising and the sea was no longer perfectly smooth, sent the unprepared lady, adroit and nimble as she was, into the young man's arms. She was a small, slight woman, exquisitely built and proportioned, no longer in her first youth, with a pale face lit by a wonderful smile, which recalled to Grace Leonardo da Vinci's enigmatical "Joconde."
Apologies on both sides, with a good deal of laughing on the lady's part, followed. Grace came forward, and a few words were exchanged, during which Barham took off his hat and walked away, to Miss Ballinger's surprise—perhaps, it may be said, to her annoyance.
"Who is your friend whom I so unceremoniously embraced?" asked Mrs. Courtly, in her low, musical voice. "Why is he gone away? I am so sorry to have interrupted your walk."
"If he had wished, I suppose, he would have stayed. He is a professor from Harvard University; his name is Barham."
"Really? I never heard of him, and I have so many friends at Harvard. My home in Massachusetts is not so very far distant. He is very good-looking; is he clever?"
"Certainly; but not much of a society man. He suffers from a form of shyness which I suppose is not common in the States—a dread of being thought forward, pushing. I am sure that is why he beat a retreat."
"How very singular! It was I who was forward and pushing!" Here she laughed softly. "You must present him formally to me; I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance; I love to gather round me all that is best worth knowing. By the way, your brother has been promising to bring you to stay with me. I am within easy reach of Boston. I hope you won't object."
"You are very good; it sounds delightful. I have always looked forward to seeing Boston, and I hope my brother will go there. I have heard there is nothing like Boston society."
"You must not expect the magnificence of New York. We New-Englanders live much more simply; but there is a pleasant mixture of the grave and the gay. I am reproached with being too gay—too frivolous for my years. But my principle is to enjoy everything as long as I can, to live and to let live. And so I get a great deal of pleasure out of existence."
She said this in a low, cooing voice that was wonderfully persuasive.
"And confer a great deal," rejoined Grace. "Most people get so soonblasés, it is refreshing to find any one who retains youthfulness of spirit into middle age. But, then, you have a wonderful variety of interests in life, I am told."
"Oh, yes; I care for a great many things, I am glad to say—books, and pictures, and people. If I cannot get some excitement out of one, I do out of another; life is so curious, so full of problems. Who told you about me? If you listen to all you hear—"
"It was Mr. Ferrars—evidently a very true friend—who spoke of you."
"Oh! poor Quintin Ferrars! Yes, he is a good friend."
"Why do you say 'poor'?"
"Because he has not had a happy life."
"Partly his own fault, I should think. He strikes me as not having a happy temperament."
"Is that his own fault?" asked Mrs. Courtly, smiling. "He has not a happy temperament, it is true. I have always told him that he does not extract the enjoyment he might out of life—though it struck me he was doing so successfully this morning! But, poor fellow! he has been heavily handicapped; circumstances have been against him, they have embittered everything."
Grace was dying to ask what those circumstances were, but something restrained her. Her acquaintance with Mrs. Courtly was but slight; it would hardly be seemly for Grace to press for information about Mrs. Courtly's friend which that lady thought fit to conceal. Presently Mrs. Courtly said,
"Will you come and have tea in my cabin at five o'clock? I have a deck cabin; it can hold half a dozen people—Mrs. Van Winkle, and your brother, and Quintin Ferrars, and one other man; shall I ask Jem Gunning?"
"Not for me, please; I have enough of him at three meals every day. Do you like him?"
"Why, yes. Jem is not a bad boy in his way. A clever woman would twist Jem round her finger, and might make him very different to what he is."
"What he is, is not pleasing to me at present. Perhaps if I meet him hereafter, when he has been duly twisted by the clever woman, I may appreciate him more."
"How sarcastic you are!" purred Mrs. Courtly, showing her white teeth; "all our young men will be quite afraid of you, Miss Ballinger."
"I am not sarcastic—far from it," said Grace, laughing. "Only I know what I like and what I don't."
"You prefer your friend, the Harvard professor?" She smiled with a malicious twinkle in her hazel eyes. "Well, will you invite him? Bring him with you."
Grace was a little taken aback. "I—I can't bring him. I will deliver your message ... if I see him.... But he is nofriendof mine. I never spoke to him till half an hour ago."
After a few more words interchanged, the two ladies separated. Later in the afternoon, Grace found Mr. Barham, seated by his mother, reading, in the upper deck cabin. It had by this time become rough and cold, and only the very hardy were still pacing the deck.
"I have a message from Mrs. Courtly (the lady who would have fallen but for you to-day). She wishes to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barham, and asks if you will come and have tea in her cabin at five o'clock. My brother and I are going."
The young man had laid down his book, and had risen. He looked much surprised.
"What can Mrs. Courtly want to know me for? I am not a society man, and I cannot do anything to amuse her.... But ... of course ... if ... you are quite sure—"
"I should not transmit such a message if I were not quite sure. You will do as you please about accepting the invitation." Then, turning abruptly to Mrs. Barham, "Can you recommend to me a thoroughly representative American book—I mean representative of real American life, not from the satirical or humorist point of view? I see there is a capital library here."
"Our New England life is very well depicted in Mary Wilkins's tales, and also in Sarah Orne Jewett's. They are truthful pictures of our quiet homes, our quiet lives, removed from the turmoil of the great cities. But perhaps you might find them dull."
"I have read them, and thought them charming. Spinsterhood is great, and Miss Wilkins is its prophet. But I want to know about something besides those dear old women. Miss Jewett, also, charming as she is, is circumscribed. I want something wider in range. I was given 'On Both Sides' the other day. It amused me, but as a caricature."
"You mean that the English are caricatured—not the American," said Saul Barham, with a smile.
"Yes, I do. No woman in society ever said the outrageously vulgar things Mrs. Sykes is made to say. She maythinkthem—she may even act them—she could notsaythem. It strikes a false note. Then there is a beautiful young man, supposed to be a typical young man of society, who tells a long story in which he repeats over and over again, 'Isaysto him.' Why! no one above a stable-boy ever used such a form of speech."
"Is it quite possible for one nation to judge another fairly?" asked Mrs. Barham, gently.
"I hope so. Why not? I am sure I have no anti-American prejudices. But as we are so closely bound together by language and origin, it is more difficult for us not to look at differences between us from an English standpoint, than it is when we are discussing any European nation. And no doubt it is the same with you, if you confess it."
"I do confess it," said the young man.
Mrs. Barham murmured something about there being "quite a number of persons in America who imitate everything English now."
Saul laughed.
"Why, we have a cousin who is so anxious to be taken for an Englishman that we can scarcely understand what he says, he swallows his words so."
After which he recommended two books to Grace, one of which she found on the shelves disengaged, and departed with it.