CHAPTER IV
The rest of the voyage was performed swiftly and uneventfully. Mordaunt Ballinger walked the quarter-deck for hours with certain American men, whom he encouraged to talk of their various interests and enterprises, and believed he was gaining a vast store of useful information thereby. The acquaintances brought together in Mrs. Courtly's cabin saw more or less of each other, according to their proclivities; and in some cases intimacies were formed which could hardly die the natural death which is the common lot of close companionship on board ship. This was especially so in the friendship which Miss Ballinger had established with the Barhams, and though they lay more out of her path, so to speak, than the others, she resolved not to let the threads of her intercourse with mother and son drop on landing. She felt really interested in the young man; she should be sorry to think this was to be the end of their long talks and discussions, pacing the deck, or watching the moonlight upon the sea, on warm nights, as they leaned over the bulwarks.
Quintin Ferrars also she had grown to know, and to like better. That is to say, she liked some parts of him better and disliked other parts less, recognized his ability and made more allowances for his cynicism, as all women do for the cynicism of a man who is never cynical at their expense. Conversation with him stimulated thought; and, though it generally roused opposition, left something behind it to be pondered over and re-discussed with that other self which only makes itself heard very often when both speakers are silent.
Mrs. Courtly Grace admired and liked more and more. She had expected to find the gracious little lady too much of "a man's woman" to take much thought for her, an English girl. They could have but a small community of interest, she thought; and "men's women" were, as a rule, distasteful to her. But, whatever her faults might be, Mrs. Courtly, she felt sure, was a really kind woman; and, moreover, so appreciative, so amusing, and so many-sided, that Grace found it impossible to resist her charm. What a blessed gift (taking too low a stand among the virtues—indeed, not regarded as a virtue at all by some) is tact! Mrs. Courtly possessed it in a conspicuous degree. She never said anything to wound the susceptibilities of her audience; whereas Mrs. Van Winkle, clever as she was, never seemed to have any perception of when she might, with impunity, astonish her audience, and when it would be wiser to sacrifice that keen but momentary enjoyment. Vanity, and a desire to maintain her reputation for audacious wit, rendered her case-hardened against shocked looks. She said to Grace,
"You know, the very last person with whom one should be seen in New York society is one's husband. Now,Istarted very badly; I began married life by being really in love with mine, and, socially, it nearly ruined me. It has taken me fifteen years to live it down, and I am only just recovering from the fatal mistake I made."
The girl knew exactly what value to attach to such utterances as these. She never gratified the speaker by looking surprised.
Grace stood on the deck with Saul Barham as theTeutonicslowly, almost imperceptibly, neared the landing-wharf. A thick fog had shrouded the great Statue of Liberty, the shores of New Jersey, Staten Island, and all the features of the beautiful sea-avenue to New York.
"I am angry," said Barham, "that you should not have a better impression of the city on landing. It is too bad to have a fog here to greet you that is worthy of London."
"A delicate attention on the part of America to make us Britishers feel 'at home.'"
"I hope you will appreciateallsuch attentions," he returned, smiling, "and not be too much influenced by first impressions. Ladies, I believe, generally are."
"And men?"
"Well, a man—at all events an American—is slower in forming any in his intercourse with foreigners. You see, English manners are different in some ways from ours. It wouldn't do for us to trust first impressions very often."
"Has your remark any personal application?" asked Grace, laughing. "Did my manners repel you at first?"
"No," he replied, quietly; "I had never met a young lady like you, and yet I can't exactly say why; for your manners have more of the frankness of our nicest American girls than those of most Englishwomen I have met. And Englishmen—well, as I say—they require to be known."
Miss Ballinger was silent. She felt sure that her brother's free-and-easy, ratherde-haut-en-basmanner was in the sensitive young American's mind. She knew also what a good fellow Mordaunt really was at heart, and how either man if he could discard his husk would appreciate the other. But the husk of manner is as necessary a protection to the Englishman, who is habitually on the defensive, as the unfashionable clothes worn by the American were to his body. She hoped these two would draw nearer to each other by and by, but at present there was nothing to be done. Presently he said,
"That Lady Clydesdale—is she really a great lady? Her opinions and her manners seem to us rather odd."
"I wish I could say she is not well-born, but she is. I shouldn't mind her opinions if she had only better manners. Such an incendiary should at least offer her firebrands with some persuasive charm, not fling them in your face; pray don't regard her as a typical Englishwoman. I am ashamed of my countrywoman."
He smiled.
"And yet I fancy she will have great success with some of our advanced women. When are you coming to Boston, Miss Ballinger?"
"I have no idea; but I shall let you know as soon as we arrive. I have promised Mrs. Barham to go out and spend a day at your father's house. It will interest me to see something of your New England village life."
"Well," he began, hesitatingly, "I will not discourage you. Mother will love dearly to receive you, but you must not expect anything like an English village, or—or the comforts of an English rectory. Things are much simpler with us and quite different."
"I am prepared for that. If they were not different they would not interest me; though, indeed, all that concerns your mother would interest me. I took to her at once—I told you so—and, in that case, my first impressions have strengthened more and more."
He replied, gravely,
"Our having met you, Miss Ballinger—your having spoken to my mother has made a great difference in our voyage. I shall never forget it. When we meet again it will probably not be on the same terms. How can it be in a great city? I shall call, and you will be kind enough to say you are glad to see me; but the informal intimacy of our long talks on deck—can it be renewed on shore? I think not. Still, I shall always look back to those hours as some of the most delightful in my life."
"I hope they will be renewed. I assure you I shall always remember them with the greatest pleasure."
"Ah! you have many such pleasant memories, no doubt. I have very few."
The crowd, the shouts of porters, emissaries from hotels, and friends of passengers, who now rushed on board, put an end to further conversation. Grace had only time to bid him and his mother good-by (she had already taken leave of her other friends), when she was hurried off by her brother to the carriage which was waiting to take them to the hotel.
And here I will seize the opportunity, while our travellers are landing, of saying a few words as to the Ballinger family, which will make the position of this brother and sister more easily understood.
Sir Henry Ballinger, who died only two years ago, was, as every one knows, a remarkable man: prominent in politics, he had been twice a cabinet minister, distinguished as an author upon currency and international law, absorbed in the frigid, more than in the burning, questions of the day, but still so much absorbed as to have little leisure to bestow upon his children. Their mother died when Mordaunt was sixteen and Grace was twelve; and what they would have done without Mrs. Frampton, their father's sister, who almost took Lady Ballinger's place in the household from that time forward, it is hard to say. Mordaunt was at Eton; he was an impressionable lad, who stood too much in awe of his father ever to make a friend of him, and to whom the loss of a mother's sympathy meant more than it would to many boys. He was much less clever than his sister, but possessed far more "worldly wisdom," as it is called, which, from a high standpoint, is probably nearer akin to foolishness. Nevertheless, he had a capacity for strong attachment; and as a boy his mother had been everything to him. He was very fond of his sister, and as years advanced she became more and more prominent in his life; but at this time she was too young to be his companion, still less his confidante. Happily, Mordaunt and his aunt had always been great friends. He used to say he could talk more easily with her than with any one—her plane of wisdom was not too far above him. Soon after Lady Ballinger's death, Mrs. Frampton arrived on a long visit; and from that time filled the vacant place at the head of the table during several months each year. She had her own house in London, and when resident there the two establishments were separate; but when Sir Henry moved to the country, or if he took Grace abroad, Mrs. Frampton always accompanied them. Between the aunt and the niece there was also a strong affection; but, Grace's nature being less plastic than her brother's, Mrs. Frampton's influence was less than it was upon Mordaunt. As the girl grew up, the difference of opinion on many points between her aunt and herself grew more marked. It did not prevent them being the best of friends, but their way of looking at many questions was diametrically opposed. Intellectually, Mrs. Frampton and her niece had much in common; but Mordaunt had that respect for his aunt's judgment which led him to consult her upon points where Grace would have decided for herself, and decided differently.
Grace's education had been a broken one: now sent to a foreign school for a year, when her father went to Australia, now left in her aunt's charge, to the tuition of governesses and masters. It is doubtful whether she had profited much by either. What she was she had made herself, more than had been made by instruction. She was not accomplished; but her bright, quick intelligence, and keen delight in books, stood her in good stead in her intercourse with all the clever men who flocked to her father's house. She had been in the world five years when he died, and was now nearly six-and-twenty. Early youth had had for her its usual illusions, its usual disappointments, but they had not embittered, they had only strengthened, the sweet, fresh nature, which retained a healthy capacity for enjoyment.
Within the past year she had suffered the keenest trouble she had yet known, and consequent upon this, and upon their divergent views, had occurred the nearest approach to estrangement between aunt and niece which they had ever known. It is not necessary in this place to enter into the nature of the cloud which had arisen, and had darkened the sky in that small household. Of course, Mordaunt Ballinger sided with his aunt—he always did in any family discussion—and Grace consequently pent up her hopes and her disappointments in silence, and with a brave face that told nothing. She did not go quite so much into the world during the following months, neither would she altogether shun society; and when the suggestion came from Mordaunt that she and Mrs. Frampton should accompany him to America, she hailed the idea. Change of scene, change of people, change of thought—she felt that all this was the best thing for her just now.
Mrs. Frampton was an odd combination of the child of nature and the woman of the world. Clever, impulsive, strong in her affections, unjust and implacable in her hatreds, often humorous, sometimes sarcastic, even at her own expense, she possessed an extraordinarily sound, clear judgment in all business matters, and such as concerned temporal welfare and advancement. There was no sacrifice she would not have made for her nephew and her niece; but her devotion to Grace was perhaps even greater than to Mordaunt, though between him and herself there had never been a difference, and between her and Grace so many. This last subject of division, and the withdrawal of Grace's confidence, the feeling that there was one forbidden subject between them, had tried the elder woman sorely. She had been very bitter about it until Grace's demeanor had shown her that there could no longer be any discussion; if she attempted to renew it her niece left the room. In her inward heart she admired the noble-minded, resolute girl all the more for her attitude, though she never admitted that she did so. She spoke of it to Mordaunt as "reprehensible folly," which was justly punished—"but, thank goodness! there is an end, once and forever, to allthat." She was delightfully inconsistent—it made her the amusing and provoking person she was—in all that did not pertain to hard-headed calculation and worldly perspicacity.
Mordaunt Ballinger found himself, at his father's death, with all the expensive habits that are bred in the life he was leading, and but very moderate means. Sir Henry's pension, of course, died with him; so did a considerable income, which he had enjoyed as chairman of certain railway and other companies. His son resolved to rent his country-house, which was too expensive for him to keep up, and he left the Guards. The constituency which his father had represented offered to nominate him in the late baronet's place, and after a little hesitation he accepted the proposal, and was elected. These steps he had not taken without consulting Mrs. Frampton, whose influence had also been wisely exercised in restraining him from embarking in sundry speculations. His thoughts had now been turned for some time past to America, as an Eldorado, where he might improve his fortunes, as certain friends of his had done. Not that he meant to give up Parliament, leave England and all its pleasures, and live upon a ranch. That would not have suited Mordaunt at all. But there was "real estate" in some of the rising cities, silver mines, shares in canned-meat companies—railways, tramways, waterworks; surely in some of these he might find a good investment that would bring him in eight or ten per cent. Mrs. Frampton's present terror was that her nephew would be induced by some designing person to risk considerable sums in that land of reckless speculation. When he proposed, therefore, that she and Grace should accompany him on a visit to the United States, she jumped at the suggestion. To see the Americanschez euxwas the thing of all others she had always wished. It was odd that she had never been heard to express the wish before, but no one was surprised at anything Mrs. Frampton said. She suddenly remembered that she had some dear friends, the Hurlstones, in New York. It was eight years since she had seen or heard of them, but she would write to them at once; she felt sure they would do all in their power to make New York pleasant to herself and her belongings. But, as to that, her brother's—Sir Henry's—name was sure to secure them a warm welcome in a country where he had been so well known, and Mordaunt's being in Parliament would be an additional reason. It would be charming, too, for Grace; it would change the current of her thoughts. She only said this to Mordaunt, but the alacrity with which his sister acceded to the proposition told him and his aunt that she felt this to be true.
Unfortunately, within a week of their sailing, just before Christmas, Mrs. Frampton was summoned by telegram to Geneva, by a sister of her late husband. The message stated that Miss Frampton was dying, and desired her sister-in-law's presence. Mrs. Frampton felt she had no choice but to obey. It was unfortunate. Had it only come a few days later! As it was, there was nothing for it but to start by the next train, and let Mordaunt and Grace sail for New York without her. She promised to follow them, if Mordaunt resolved to remain all the winter in the States. And, on the other hand, she exacted a promise from him to embark in no scheme without consulting her. With this understanding they parted, hurriedly and sorrowfully, and a fortnight from the day when they had seen her into the train at Charing Cross they landed at New York.