CHAPTER V
The day after her arrival this is the letter Miss Ballinger wrote to Mrs. Frampton:
"9th January, 1891."Dearest Aunt Susan,—We were delighted to have your telegram just before starting, saying that Miss Frampton had rallied. I hope that her recovery will be so rapid as to enable you to leave her before many weeks are over. We miss you terribly, and shall do so, now that we have landed, more than ever. The voyage was really delightful—I never could have believed it would have gone so quickly; and I had such an appetite, dear aunt, you would have been ashamed of me—instead of scolding, as you have done lately, because I ate so little. Mordy was very happy. He made friends with one man who was in pork, and another in oil. (I wonder which is nicest, to be in pork, or in oil?) I always knew which he had been pounding the deck with, by his coming up to me afterwards, and saying, 'Do you know, I'm thinking seriously of going into pork'—or 'oil,' as the case might be. Then he fell in love with a dear woman, nearly old enough to be his mother, a Mrs. Courtly, whom most of the other women hated and abused—particularly odious Lady Clydesdale, who was on board. The things she said to me about her!... I replied that Mrs. Courtly's only crime, as far as I could see, was that she succeeded in attracting people—'and it is a pity more women don't try,' I added. 'They might at leasttry. For my part, my only serious aim in life is to make as many people like me as ever I can.' You should have seen her face of ineffable scorn as she turned away. You always say I am so toast-and-watery, aunt, that I can't hate. I have at last accomplished it; congratulate me; I really do hate Lady Clydesdale. Among those on board whom I liked was an odd, clever man named Ferrars. He would puzzle and, I believe, interest you. His past is mysterious: he never speaks of it, nor, indeed, of his present, for that matter. I discovered—by that exhaustive process of pumping which Mordy declares qualifies me to become a female interviewer (Oh! I have something to tell you aboutthat, presently), that he is a Southerner, who lives chiefly in Europe, and that he writes; butwhat, andwhere, he curtly refused to say. He is quite indifferent to fame or money, and we generally disagreed about everything: and yet I got to like him. In contrast to Mr. Ferrars, who I am sure is not just to his country's future, whatever he may be to her present, there was a young professor from Harvard, an ardent patriot, who could not bear a word to be said against America. I do not feel sure that you would like this Mr. Barham as much as Mr. Ferrars, though he is to me much more interesting. But he is shy, and proud, and not very forthcoming, and you like turbulent youth. Youmightcall him 'a prig,' which would distress me; but when you saw his mother, who is a Philadelphian, and I am certain must be a direct descendant of William Penn—so sweet, and drab-colored, and gentle, with the youngest and yet saddest face you ever looked upon, to be the mother of this handsome young man—I say, when you looked upon her you would better understand why he is as he is: you would see that repression was born in him. Then there was a very rich young man from New York, who, like the young man in Scripture, ought to be told to go and sell all that he has, he would be so much happier. But, being very stupid, he doesn't know that he is not happy. He fancies the fatigue of doing nothing vigorously is enjoyment. Last of all, in our set—for you must know a steamer has its 'sets,' as well as a city—was the authoress of 'Phryne,' a ratherriskynovel which has had some success. You know how fatal it is to any but a strong head to write a moderately successful book. Mrs. Van Winkle is pretty and good-natured, but I suppose she was born foolish—the book has done the rest. We got through the Custom-House very well, though the officer seemed to think it impossible that any 'gent' could require so many 'pants' as Mordy brought with him. Virginie had frightened me so by saying I should have to pay duty on all my new gowns, that I was relieved when the inquisition was over. The first impression of New York in a fog was not favorable. Then the paving of the streets! Words cannot describe to you the condition of all the thoroughfares. Our London streets, Heaven knows, are bad enough in wet weather; and even in dry are not above reproach compared with those of Paris; but these!—the smallest town in Bulgaria would be ashamed of such atrocities. In some there are holes so deep that it is necessary to put a tub or a few stones round the gaping chasm to prevent people falling in. In some the electric wires were lying playfully about under the horses' feet, a storm, I am told, having brought them all downmore than a week ago! In Broadway the tramways intersect each other like the criss-crossings on some withered old palm; but the line of life cannot be long, I imagine, for any one who resides there. We found comfortable rooms awaiting us at the hotel, but heated by a furnace such as only Shadrach & Co. could face. I flung open all the windows, to the manager's amazement. On the table was a splendid bouquet of crimson roses, with a note and a card. Whose do you think? The Hurlstones. A very pretty attention, which I am afraidweshould not have thought of. To be greeted thus on arrival by strangers—for to us they are absolute strangers—is very pleasant. The note was to ask us to dine with them to-night. Presently another card was brought me, on which was written 'Miss M.T. Clutch,' with a request that I would receive the lady. I innocently thought this must be another kindly disposed person, to whom friends had written, unknown to us, on our behalf. Judge of my consternation when a small, smirking woman entered, who introduced herself thus:"'I representThe New York Scavenger, one of our prominent dailies, Miss Ballinger. Your name is well-known—I may say it is a household word among us. I trust you feel like answering a few questions which will be of interest to our readers.'"'You must be mistaking me for some one else,' I replied. 'I am not eminent in any way, and your readers can not possibly—' She interrupted me, 'Oh! but you are Sir Henry Ballinger's daughter, and, as such, are quite an interesting personality in America. We thought a heap of him. We claim that his book had a bigger circulation in the States than in England.'"'It is a pity, then, that the States paid him nothing for it,' I said. 'But do you really mean that you consider the relations of a well-known man to be public property? I have not even written a book that can be pirated. I don't lecture, or preach, or act. I am a perfectly obscure individual, whom your readers cannot possibly know anything about.'"'Oh! but theydo,' she insisted. 'They've seen your photograph among the society beauties; they've read your name in the society papers; they know you belong to the tip-top swells. And then there was the report which went all the round of the States that a German prince had nearly blown out his brains for love of you.'"This was more than I could stand. I rose quickly. 'You must pardon me if I decline to continue this conversation. I am not accountable for all the rubbish you may have heard, but at least I will not be a party to disseminating more. Good-morning.'"'You might just tell me why you are come here, and—and a few other things?'"'Nothing at all. I wish to remain unnoticed.'"'Well! That is real disobliging. But if you conclude to say nothing, I guess it's no good my staying.'"'No,' I repeated after her, 'I guess it's no good.'"And so she left the room. Mordy says I ought to have submitted to the infliction, and that I showed my usual want of worldly wisdom in snubbing a reporter. But why? It is all very well for him to see these people: he has had a tribe of them after him, and it may be proper and even useful that he should see them all. But in my case it would be worse than ridiculous, and I think it a gross piece of impertinence on Miss Clutch's part, trying to force publicity upon me.
"9th January, 1891.
"Dearest Aunt Susan,—We were delighted to have your telegram just before starting, saying that Miss Frampton had rallied. I hope that her recovery will be so rapid as to enable you to leave her before many weeks are over. We miss you terribly, and shall do so, now that we have landed, more than ever. The voyage was really delightful—I never could have believed it would have gone so quickly; and I had such an appetite, dear aunt, you would have been ashamed of me—instead of scolding, as you have done lately, because I ate so little. Mordy was very happy. He made friends with one man who was in pork, and another in oil. (I wonder which is nicest, to be in pork, or in oil?) I always knew which he had been pounding the deck with, by his coming up to me afterwards, and saying, 'Do you know, I'm thinking seriously of going into pork'—or 'oil,' as the case might be. Then he fell in love with a dear woman, nearly old enough to be his mother, a Mrs. Courtly, whom most of the other women hated and abused—particularly odious Lady Clydesdale, who was on board. The things she said to me about her!... I replied that Mrs. Courtly's only crime, as far as I could see, was that she succeeded in attracting people—'and it is a pity more women don't try,' I added. 'They might at leasttry. For my part, my only serious aim in life is to make as many people like me as ever I can.' You should have seen her face of ineffable scorn as she turned away. You always say I am so toast-and-watery, aunt, that I can't hate. I have at last accomplished it; congratulate me; I really do hate Lady Clydesdale. Among those on board whom I liked was an odd, clever man named Ferrars. He would puzzle and, I believe, interest you. His past is mysterious: he never speaks of it, nor, indeed, of his present, for that matter. I discovered—by that exhaustive process of pumping which Mordy declares qualifies me to become a female interviewer (Oh! I have something to tell you aboutthat, presently), that he is a Southerner, who lives chiefly in Europe, and that he writes; butwhat, andwhere, he curtly refused to say. He is quite indifferent to fame or money, and we generally disagreed about everything: and yet I got to like him. In contrast to Mr. Ferrars, who I am sure is not just to his country's future, whatever he may be to her present, there was a young professor from Harvard, an ardent patriot, who could not bear a word to be said against America. I do not feel sure that you would like this Mr. Barham as much as Mr. Ferrars, though he is to me much more interesting. But he is shy, and proud, and not very forthcoming, and you like turbulent youth. Youmightcall him 'a prig,' which would distress me; but when you saw his mother, who is a Philadelphian, and I am certain must be a direct descendant of William Penn—so sweet, and drab-colored, and gentle, with the youngest and yet saddest face you ever looked upon, to be the mother of this handsome young man—I say, when you looked upon her you would better understand why he is as he is: you would see that repression was born in him. Then there was a very rich young man from New York, who, like the young man in Scripture, ought to be told to go and sell all that he has, he would be so much happier. But, being very stupid, he doesn't know that he is not happy. He fancies the fatigue of doing nothing vigorously is enjoyment. Last of all, in our set—for you must know a steamer has its 'sets,' as well as a city—was the authoress of 'Phryne,' a ratherriskynovel which has had some success. You know how fatal it is to any but a strong head to write a moderately successful book. Mrs. Van Winkle is pretty and good-natured, but I suppose she was born foolish—the book has done the rest. We got through the Custom-House very well, though the officer seemed to think it impossible that any 'gent' could require so many 'pants' as Mordy brought with him. Virginie had frightened me so by saying I should have to pay duty on all my new gowns, that I was relieved when the inquisition was over. The first impression of New York in a fog was not favorable. Then the paving of the streets! Words cannot describe to you the condition of all the thoroughfares. Our London streets, Heaven knows, are bad enough in wet weather; and even in dry are not above reproach compared with those of Paris; but these!—the smallest town in Bulgaria would be ashamed of such atrocities. In some there are holes so deep that it is necessary to put a tub or a few stones round the gaping chasm to prevent people falling in. In some the electric wires were lying playfully about under the horses' feet, a storm, I am told, having brought them all downmore than a week ago! In Broadway the tramways intersect each other like the criss-crossings on some withered old palm; but the line of life cannot be long, I imagine, for any one who resides there. We found comfortable rooms awaiting us at the hotel, but heated by a furnace such as only Shadrach & Co. could face. I flung open all the windows, to the manager's amazement. On the table was a splendid bouquet of crimson roses, with a note and a card. Whose do you think? The Hurlstones. A very pretty attention, which I am afraidweshould not have thought of. To be greeted thus on arrival by strangers—for to us they are absolute strangers—is very pleasant. The note was to ask us to dine with them to-night. Presently another card was brought me, on which was written 'Miss M.T. Clutch,' with a request that I would receive the lady. I innocently thought this must be another kindly disposed person, to whom friends had written, unknown to us, on our behalf. Judge of my consternation when a small, smirking woman entered, who introduced herself thus:
"'I representThe New York Scavenger, one of our prominent dailies, Miss Ballinger. Your name is well-known—I may say it is a household word among us. I trust you feel like answering a few questions which will be of interest to our readers.'
"'You must be mistaking me for some one else,' I replied. 'I am not eminent in any way, and your readers can not possibly—' She interrupted me, 'Oh! but you are Sir Henry Ballinger's daughter, and, as such, are quite an interesting personality in America. We thought a heap of him. We claim that his book had a bigger circulation in the States than in England.'
"'It is a pity, then, that the States paid him nothing for it,' I said. 'But do you really mean that you consider the relations of a well-known man to be public property? I have not even written a book that can be pirated. I don't lecture, or preach, or act. I am a perfectly obscure individual, whom your readers cannot possibly know anything about.'
"'Oh! but theydo,' she insisted. 'They've seen your photograph among the society beauties; they've read your name in the society papers; they know you belong to the tip-top swells. And then there was the report which went all the round of the States that a German prince had nearly blown out his brains for love of you.'
"This was more than I could stand. I rose quickly. 'You must pardon me if I decline to continue this conversation. I am not accountable for all the rubbish you may have heard, but at least I will not be a party to disseminating more. Good-morning.'
"'You might just tell me why you are come here, and—and a few other things?'
"'Nothing at all. I wish to remain unnoticed.'
"'Well! That is real disobliging. But if you conclude to say nothing, I guess it's no good my staying.'
"'No,' I repeated after her, 'I guess it's no good.'
"And so she left the room. Mordy says I ought to have submitted to the infliction, and that I showed my usual want of worldly wisdom in snubbing a reporter. But why? It is all very well for him to see these people: he has had a tribe of them after him, and it may be proper and even useful that he should see them all. But in my case it would be worse than ridiculous, and I think it a gross piece of impertinence on Miss Clutch's part, trying to force publicity upon me.
"10th January.—I did not close my letter yesterday, finding it would catch to-day's mail if I posted it this morning; and I knew you would like to hear about our dinner. The Hurlstones live in Fifth Avenue. It is a fine house, and everything about it is very grand—more grand, perhaps, than comfortable, according to our ideas. Americans have always been ruled by French taste, not only in dress, but in art and in certain social matters. The old French idea of asalonprevails here: gorgeous furniture, but no books, no writing-table, no evidences of occupation—except a grand piano, shrouded in some rare gold-woven tapestry. A few pictures by Corot, Daubigny, and Troyon adorn the walls. A bust of Mrs. Hurlstone by D'Epinay, with a bunch of roses in her hair, a necklace and a lace fichu over her shoulders, stands in the window. The two ladies were dressed, like their home, in the perfection of French taste. You know the father and the mother—who is still handsome—so I need not describe them; but the daughter has grown up since they were in England, and is considered a beauty. She has delicate features, fine eyes, and pretty, though not brilliant, coloring. She is intelligent, vivacious, and meets one more than half way in her desire to be agreeable, as few English girls of eighteen would be able to do. She has, moreover, no twang, no ugly intonations of voice. Why don't I admire her more? I kept asking myself this as I watched her. Though set off by dress to the best advantage, for some reason she does not produce the effect she should. There is one son, a year older, equally good-looking, perhaps even handsomer, but of that order of beauty that leaves no impression. I have already forgotten what he was like, except that he wore a very large diamond in his shirt-front. The father took me in to dinner. I like him exceedingly, perhaps the best of the family; but all were most amiable. We were sixteen at dinner. Nearly every other guest was actually, or prospectively, a millionnaire. The women were all very well dressed, and wore a great many jewels—more than, perhaps, we should think quite good taste for this sort of party. They were, one and all, extremely civil—offering to take me out driving, and so on. One of them, a Mrs. Siebel, married to a wealthy banker of German origin, was particularly bright and amusing. I felt as if I knew her better in half an hour than I have ever done an Englishwoman in the same time. Another, Mrs. Thorly, who is the sovereign of all social entertainments here, was most gracious. She is going to give a great ball, to which she invited us. Some of the men struck me as clever; especially in conversation with their own countrywomen, their quickness and incisiveness were remarkable. With me they seemed a little stiff—a little on their p's and q's. One of the exceptions was a man whom they called 'George Ray the Third.' When I inquired the reason of this curious appellation I was told it was because his father and grandfather, both alive, were also Georges. He is a splendid animal, and he knows it.Hecertainly cannot be accused of being stiff. He planted his chair opposite me, leant his elbows on his knees, and told me of all the great people he knew in London, as though he thought that was the only topic that would interest me. This was not clever on George the Third's part. And yet he was anything but dull, and his perfect self-satisfaction entertained me. Mrs. Hurlstone seemed afraid he might prove perilously entertaining. She was good enough to inform me that he had not a penny—he had run through everything. It was considerate of her. A much more amusing man, however, sat next me at dinner—a barrister named Sims, shrewd and humorous. I asked him who a little red-haired man with a waxed moustache opposite was; evidently a foreigner. He replied, 'He is Jean Jacques, Marquis de Tréfeuille, apair de Franceof the first water, who is come over here to hitch on to an heiress, if he can. It was of him that some wag wrote,"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'""I inquired if the girl next him was the future marquise. He shook his head. 'I doubt it. Even if she tumbles to the coronet, he will find her father won't make the settlement the marquis expects. He will give her a big allowance, but not a lump sum down, and I doubt if that will suit the marquis.' Before the evening was over Mr. Sims asked Mordy and me to dine with him at Delmonico's next week. I have no time for more."Your ever affectionate niece,"Grace Ballinger."P.S.—Mordy says he will write to you by the next mail. He is already up to his eyes in engagements, and made a great deal of, a great dealmoreof than he is in London, so no wonder he likes it."Second P.S.—Mordy has just run in, shouting with laughter, this morning'sScavengerin his hand. 'Here you are!' he cried, 'and serve you right!' Then he read the cutting (I am not sunk so low as to mean a pun) which I enclose. I hope it will amuse you as much as it didhim."
"10th January.—I did not close my letter yesterday, finding it would catch to-day's mail if I posted it this morning; and I knew you would like to hear about our dinner. The Hurlstones live in Fifth Avenue. It is a fine house, and everything about it is very grand—more grand, perhaps, than comfortable, according to our ideas. Americans have always been ruled by French taste, not only in dress, but in art and in certain social matters. The old French idea of asalonprevails here: gorgeous furniture, but no books, no writing-table, no evidences of occupation—except a grand piano, shrouded in some rare gold-woven tapestry. A few pictures by Corot, Daubigny, and Troyon adorn the walls. A bust of Mrs. Hurlstone by D'Epinay, with a bunch of roses in her hair, a necklace and a lace fichu over her shoulders, stands in the window. The two ladies were dressed, like their home, in the perfection of French taste. You know the father and the mother—who is still handsome—so I need not describe them; but the daughter has grown up since they were in England, and is considered a beauty. She has delicate features, fine eyes, and pretty, though not brilliant, coloring. She is intelligent, vivacious, and meets one more than half way in her desire to be agreeable, as few English girls of eighteen would be able to do. She has, moreover, no twang, no ugly intonations of voice. Why don't I admire her more? I kept asking myself this as I watched her. Though set off by dress to the best advantage, for some reason she does not produce the effect she should. There is one son, a year older, equally good-looking, perhaps even handsomer, but of that order of beauty that leaves no impression. I have already forgotten what he was like, except that he wore a very large diamond in his shirt-front. The father took me in to dinner. I like him exceedingly, perhaps the best of the family; but all were most amiable. We were sixteen at dinner. Nearly every other guest was actually, or prospectively, a millionnaire. The women were all very well dressed, and wore a great many jewels—more than, perhaps, we should think quite good taste for this sort of party. They were, one and all, extremely civil—offering to take me out driving, and so on. One of them, a Mrs. Siebel, married to a wealthy banker of German origin, was particularly bright and amusing. I felt as if I knew her better in half an hour than I have ever done an Englishwoman in the same time. Another, Mrs. Thorly, who is the sovereign of all social entertainments here, was most gracious. She is going to give a great ball, to which she invited us. Some of the men struck me as clever; especially in conversation with their own countrywomen, their quickness and incisiveness were remarkable. With me they seemed a little stiff—a little on their p's and q's. One of the exceptions was a man whom they called 'George Ray the Third.' When I inquired the reason of this curious appellation I was told it was because his father and grandfather, both alive, were also Georges. He is a splendid animal, and he knows it.Hecertainly cannot be accused of being stiff. He planted his chair opposite me, leant his elbows on his knees, and told me of all the great people he knew in London, as though he thought that was the only topic that would interest me. This was not clever on George the Third's part. And yet he was anything but dull, and his perfect self-satisfaction entertained me. Mrs. Hurlstone seemed afraid he might prove perilously entertaining. She was good enough to inform me that he had not a penny—he had run through everything. It was considerate of her. A much more amusing man, however, sat next me at dinner—a barrister named Sims, shrewd and humorous. I asked him who a little red-haired man with a waxed moustache opposite was; evidently a foreigner. He replied, 'He is Jean Jacques, Marquis de Tréfeuille, apair de Franceof the first water, who is come over here to hitch on to an heiress, if he can. It was of him that some wag wrote,
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,
Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"I inquired if the girl next him was the future marquise. He shook his head. 'I doubt it. Even if she tumbles to the coronet, he will find her father won't make the settlement the marquis expects. He will give her a big allowance, but not a lump sum down, and I doubt if that will suit the marquis.' Before the evening was over Mr. Sims asked Mordy and me to dine with him at Delmonico's next week. I have no time for more.
"Your ever affectionate niece,
"Grace Ballinger.
"P.S.—Mordy says he will write to you by the next mail. He is already up to his eyes in engagements, and made a great deal of, a great dealmoreof than he is in London, so no wonder he likes it.
"Second P.S.—Mordy has just run in, shouting with laughter, this morning'sScavengerin his hand. 'Here you are!' he cried, 'and serve you right!' Then he read the cutting (I am not sunk so low as to mean a pun) which I enclose. I hope it will amuse you as much as it didhim."
The paragraph was as follows:
"Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, Baronet and M.P., with his sister, landed here from theTeutonicyesterday. She is credited with being a London belle, and as such, and the daughter of one of the few Englishmen who have not written gross falsehoods concerning our country, we were desirous of interviewing her; but the young woman, with a rudeness peculiarly British, refused to submit to any interrogation. If she is a specimen of London's beauty we cannot congratulate that city on its show. A grenadier in petticoats, quite wanting in the delicacy and elegance we consider essential for beauty, best describes her. She is decidedly too fleshy. Her hair is not stylishly coifed, and there is a slip-sloppiness about her attire which denotes that she is not gowned in Paris. Altogether, we have seldom experienced a greater disappointment, both as to appearance and manner, in a woman of whom we had been taught to expect so much."
"Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, Baronet and M.P., with his sister, landed here from theTeutonicyesterday. She is credited with being a London belle, and as such, and the daughter of one of the few Englishmen who have not written gross falsehoods concerning our country, we were desirous of interviewing her; but the young woman, with a rudeness peculiarly British, refused to submit to any interrogation. If she is a specimen of London's beauty we cannot congratulate that city on its show. A grenadier in petticoats, quite wanting in the delicacy and elegance we consider essential for beauty, best describes her. She is decidedly too fleshy. Her hair is not stylishly coifed, and there is a slip-sloppiness about her attire which denotes that she is not gowned in Paris. Altogether, we have seldom experienced a greater disappointment, both as to appearance and manner, in a woman of whom we had been taught to expect so much."