CHAPTER XV

Of the quartette that sat down to dinner that evening—a homely dinner, without pretension—three at least were in the best of spirits, and ready to laugh over Molly's peculiar methods of service. Mr. Barham had little sense of humor; in that respect, at least, he was not American; he took life very gravely. It needed all his son's fire to keep things alight in so damp an atmosphere. But Saul's cheek was flushed; he was voluble, excited! Grace had never seen him so brilliant, so evidently happy and at his ease. For here he was at home, with no carping listeners; he could give his fun and fancy play, and this was the occasion which he had thought of so often, and which he had desired so keenly to bring about, during the past two months. It was not in his father's power to depress him to-night. Had he not that gracious, delightful creature opposite, all to himself? No Jem Gunning beside her, as at theTeutonicboard, nor cynic Ferrars, as at Brackly. His empire, for a few brief hours at least, was undivided.

Molly, having heaved a joint down before the master, whispered very audibly to the mistress,

"Will ye be doin' y'r own stretchin', m'm, for a few minutes, whiles I fetch the praties and squab pie?"

Grace made as though she heard not, but Saul laughed outright, as the girl scuttled from the room.

"You have no idea, Miss Ballinger, what Molly is, until you have seen her in the presence of an Irish patriot. We had one here last week. I may as well own to you"—here he gave a droll glance at the minister, whose stern glance was riveted on the joint, which he was endeavoring to penetrate with a plated knife[2]—"I may as well own to you that my father has Home Rule proclivities. So he offered Mr. —— hospitality, when he and his colleagues were down here, on their Propaganda tour, last week. Molly out-did herself on that occasion."

"I can believe it," laughed Grace, "from what she said to me."

"What she said to you?" cried Mrs. Barham. "Why, when?"

"Before dinner. I found her haranguing my maid upon the wrongs of 'ould Ireland,' and upon the privilege I enjoyed of sleeping in the bed which had been occupied by 'the biggest Irish pathriot, barrin' Misther Parnell,' a few days ago. When I entered, she continued in the same strain, and assured me, 'There is nothin' changed but the sheets since the blessed man lay here—an' sure y'r dreams will be all the sweeter, miss, for knowin' it.'"

Mrs. Barham and Saul laughed heartily; Mr. Barham alone was silent. When he spoke, it was to say, gravely,

"One cannot expect English persons to feel as we do on this subject. Few take a dispassionate view of questions that touch their own interests."

"Very few," said his son, smiling. "You were an abolitionist because you were a Northerner, and did not possess slaves. Rives from New Orleans, who is ruined, swears the colored people were far happier, more prosperous, better educated and cared for, in a state of slavery than they now are. It all depends, as you say, on the point of view."

"I am no politician," said Grace, "but I was in Ireland five years ago, and again last year, and I was struck with the improved aspect of the people, of the land, of everything, since Mr. Balfour's reign. That is the only 'point of view'Ihave, but I dare say I am quite wrong. Women have capital instincts—I think my own instincts about people are almost unerring; but my opinions on other subjects are generally worth nothing. My aunt always says so."

"That is, no doubt, when they differ from hers," observed Saul, with a smile.

"My aunt is a very clever woman, with decided views about everything in heaven above and in the earth beneath. She cannot tolerate compromise, or shilly-shallying, or weakness of any kind. She often upbraids me for not disliking people more cordially than I do. If I don't like them, they are indifferent to me. So few seem worth hating—at least, judged by the aspect they present to the world. Of course, onemayentertain murderers, as well as angels, unawares."

"You hated Lady Clydesdale, I think—just alittle? I hear she is in Boston."

"I hope I sha'n't meet her. Is she popular there?"

"She is a clever woman in her way, and holds the same views that some of our advanced women do—only samer. Then she is a countess." Here he smiled. "Well, now, you have an English countess coming with the most democratic and subversive ideas among us stanch republicans. You must confess there is something fascinating about it."

"I can't say, not being a republican. I only knowsheis not fascinating. Her manners are odious, and then she has a most uncharitable tongue. She is just the sort of woman to give the worst impression of an English lady to foreigners."

"Do you call us foreigners?"

She laughed.

"What do you call yourselves? I am quite ready to accept your own definition."

"We call ourselves your sixth cousins—once removed."

"Very well; then you must not expect the privileges that attach to aliens."

"What are they? I never heard of them."

"Oh! it is a small matter, but one which some of your countrymen cavil at—the question of precedence. If we treat them as of our own family, and follow our own laws of etiquette, I have heard them say it was discourteous."

"Then they were fools—non raggionam' di lor. Republicans should be above such rubbish as that."

"'The first shall be last, and the last shall be first!'" said his father, looking up from the havoc of meat before him.

The conversation was carried on chiefly between Saul and Grace. Mrs. Barham occasionally put in her oar, a gentle tentative stroke, never out of time, never impeding progress; but the main work was in the hands of the two strong young pullers. The minister said but little. The talk was of things concerning which he knew nothing, or the echo of which, at most, had reached him from a distance, without awakening much interest. In his narrow sphere, where there was no circulating library, and where he rarely came into contact with a mind which had left the beaten high-roads, along which its possessor jogged contented daily to his business or his farm, the air was exhausted, vitiated. There was no free current of thought as in more spacious centres of activity, where men meet, discuss, and learn the lessons that are taught by friction. Not that the village was a dream of idyllic peace, or free from the jealousies that are born of theological controversy. How could it be otherwise in a comparatively small community, which boasted, besides the Episcopal church, of a Unitarian, a Baptist, a first Methodist, a second Methodist, and a Congregational chapel. It was astonishing that they all fared as well together as they did; but, in the nature of things, discussion and criticism constantly arose, and it was Mr. Barham's misfortune that these conflicts of opinion never tended to enlarge his own strongly fortified views, for the minds with which he had to deal were all distinctly inferior to his own. Endowed with considerable capacity, combative, obstinate, and unswerving in rectitude and his idea of duty, he might, under different circumstances, have become a modern St. Paul. At least, so his son said. But then St. Paul had been, as we know, buffeted about a good deal, in the course of which process he had acquired considerable knowledge of the world. It is true that, like St. Paul, Mr. Barham was neither diffident nor humble. It was possible to conceive that he might, at the close of his life, say, "I have fought a good fight, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness." But he never could have written, "I am made all things to all men," for a more uncompromising opponent in discussion, or one who less understood the wisdom of yielding in small things, never stepped the earth.

Between Saul and his father there were differences of opinion on other subjects than that of Home Rule; but the son, while he had inherited some of Mr. Barham's obstinacy and tenacity of purpose, had a more plastic mind, and possessed the invaluable capacity of being able to hold his tongue. Thus he never argued with his father, knowing that it would be useless to assail the bulwarks behind which his opinions were intrenched, and doubly reluctant, now that he had left home, to enter into controversy which might leave some soreness of feeling behind it. The father respected his son—his character, his attainments, the estimation in which he knew Saul was held. Therein lay the young man's strength. But for this, it could hardly have been that altercation should not have arisen, from time to time, between a man of so dominant a disposition as Mr. Barham and the one human being who had grown up under his direct influence, and upon whom it might be expected he would have imposed his views. A little gentle banter, as on this occasion, was all that the young professor ever permitted himself towards his father; and this the minister received much as a majestic Newfoundland does the bark of a puppy. It was beneath his notice.

"My father, you see, has become a total abstainer lately," he said to Grace, towards the end of dinner, "and it is no use my mother's quoting St. Paul to him, 'Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake.' The pitchers of ice-water he consumes in a day would float a lugger. I have remarked to him occasionally that excesses in ice-water are as pernicious—or perhaps more so—as in spirits; but my words of wisdom fall on inattentive ears."

Grace replied, "All I know is, we were specially warned against falling into the habit, when we came to America. As to my aunt, she thinks there are 'germs' or 'microbes,' or something, in every glass, and would sooner die of thirst, I believe, than drink water which she could not trace to its very source."

Even the minister himself smiled at this, but he did not attempt to argue the point; it was not worth while. His attitude throughout the evening was the same—that of a listener, standing somewhat aloof from the subjects discussed; rarely a participator in the discussion. The ground they traversed was never personal. Grace felt that her curiosity about the young professor's views and aspirations must be curbed in the presence of his father, before whom she instinctively knew he would not speak openly.

The next morning Saul returned to his work, and Mrs. Barham proposed taking Grace to visit that magnificent female university, Wellesley College, which was only a short distance by rail. It far surpasses, in extent and scope, as Grace found, any similar institution in England. Seven hundred girls were receiving instruction from the very best professors, in classics, modern languages, literature, science, and art, according to their proclivities and the object each had in view. The main building, and the fine park in which it stands, were the donation of a man who lost his only child, and devoted his vast fortune to the erection and endowment of this college. For three hundred dollars yearly, a girl has every privilege belonging to it—including bed and board; and the education of the body is no less well cared for than that of the mind. There is a gymnasium and a big lake, where the girls row in summer-time and skate in winter. They looked blooming and merry, this bright February morning, flying over the ice, their young voices, pitched in a high key, rippling along the sharpened air as they pursued each other.

Their English visitor was exceedingly interested. The aspect of the place and of the students alike charmed her; it was so cheerful, so far removed from the sternness of the Academic Grove. Here each girl seemed to be pursuing with enthusiasm, and with a joyousness of spirit that struck Grace as wholly un-English, the studies she had selected as likely to be most serviceable to her in after-life. There was no enforced "curriculum," no obligatory course of learning. A high standard of excellence in each department stimulated the energies and the ambition of the students; it seemed in no instance to have crushed them. The common objection made to women taking up serious studies, that it unfits them for domestic life, and in many instances frightens away the would-be suitor, was effectually answered when Grace was told that nearly every girl who had taken a high degree, and had left the college meaning to earn her livelihood by mental labor, had married within a few months, and had settled down, contented, in the home that had been offered her.

"Are all these girls of one class?" asked Grace of Mrs. Barham.

"No; some are the daughters of rich men, who have no need to work for their living. The greatest proportion, of course, mean to become governesses, for whom there is a great and constantly increasing demand. Some, again, will become doctors, some designers, and so on. Quite a number become writers for the periodicals or for the daily press."

"Oh! I hope they don't become interviewers, like that dreadful Miss Clutch, who forced herself on me in New York?"

"Why, no, I should think not, for their refining education must render such a course most repulsive. But then, all interviewers are not like Miss Clutch; you must not think it. Some of them are quite ladies, who would never force themselves on any one."

"Who was the visitor with a charming face, whom you introduced to me as Miss Forster?"

"She is quite a friend of mine, though we do not often meet, who is greatly interested in the college, and visits there every week. It is an object, you see, for a woman who is alone in the world. I often think what I should do without my husband and my son."

"Alone in the world!" That was what Quintin Ferrars had called himself. It was the second time within a few days that the phrase had forced itself upon her, and this time it struck her like a blow. Would not she be "alone in the world," when Mordy had taken unto himself a wife, and no longer needed her? She would never marry for expediency's sake, or for any reason but one. Therefore, it seemed tolerably sure now that she would be left "alone in the world." How strange, that when two people cared for each other—and she knew, no matter what she might say to Mordy, that Ivor Lawrencedidcare for her—how strange that a mistaken pride should be suffered to divide them! But then, might there not also be mistaken pride on her part, which had held her back hitherto from writing?

As these thoughts sped through her mind, in the train, on their way back, Mrs. Barham observed the far-away look on her companion's face, and was silent. That evening, on Saul's return home to dinner, this self-communing bore unexpected fruit in the course of her conversation with the young man. They were sitting alone in the twilight, both Saul's parents being out of the room. He coughed a good deal, and looked ill, the excitement of the previous evening having passed; and, without showing the concern she felt, she questioned him as to his health and his work.

"I am afraid you take too much out of yourself."

"I can't do less," he replied. "If I was at home here, doing nothing, I should be much worse. I must have work; and my best relaxation is to discuss things with my friends, men whose ways of thought are congenial with mine. My father's, you see, are not. He is a splendid man. I admire and respect him immensely. But we both avoid discussion, knowing that neither will ever convince the other. So it would never do for me to live at home."

"I can understand that. Family controversy is always disagreeable. Have you, at Harvard, any friend with whom you are really intimate?—any one towards whom you feel as a brother?"

"Yes, one; a man to whom I am not afraid of speaking openly on nearly every subject, feeling sure he will understand, even if he does not agree with me."

There was a pause. Grace, who rarely hesitated, hesitated now before she said,

"If that friend had done something which you could not understand, something which seemed incompatible with his character, and that he remained silent, that he explained nothing, what would you do? Would you write to him? Or would you, rather, say, 'I will not allow my trust to be shaken because I do not understand his conduct. He has his own reasons for remaining silent. It is not for me to force an explanation from him.'"

He looked at her fixedly for a moment, then answered, in his decided way,

"There is a higher trust than that implied by silence—the confidence that my friend will not misunderstand me. I should certainly speak. If he says, 'I can tell you nothing,' that is enough. My trust would remain unshaken; but I am bound, by that very trust, to speak openly to him, not to let the shadow of misapprehension exist between us."

"Those are brave words. I believe you are right. False pride often prevents such directness in real life, and," she added, with a smile, "still more often in novels. But, of course, there may be a complication of causes, which renders it more difficult to speak in—in some cases than in others."

"Of course; but I fancy the difficulty depends more upon the character of the speaker than the circumstances. You, for instance, might speak to any one whom you had really made yourfriendwithout fear of misconception, no matter under what circumstances."

She looked away. "I am glad you think that. I shall remember your words."

Here Molly burst into the room, with a telegram for Grace in one hand, and a paraffine lamp, which in her haste she nearly upset, in the other.

"The bhoy's a-waitin' for the answer, bekase it's paid for."

The telegram ran thus,

"Aunt Susan arrived. Gone to the Hurlstones. Can meet you to-morrow in Boston, if you do not wish to stay till Monday where you are."

She wrote in pencil on the blank form,

"Will meet you and Aunt Susan on Monday. Very happy here."

Then she handed both to the young professor.

"I am taking it for granted that your father and mother do not want to get rid of me."

"Have we not got beyond conventional phrases? I shall not answer that, except to remind you that Sunday is the only day I can pass here. To-morrow my mother has promised to bring you over to lunch at Cambridge, where I will ask a few of our prominent men to meet you, and afterwards show you Harvard College."

That programme for the following day was carried out very satisfactorily to all concerned. The distance by rail was short; the day, though intensely cold, was fine; the atmosphere, through which the brown skeletons of the trees stood up against the pale blue background, was clear. Perspectives of possible beauty when the gracious spring should clothe these skeletons with tender green, and carpet, with blade and blossom, the iron-bound earth, arose before Grace's eyes. Hitherto she had been disappointed. She had looked for bigger trees, higher hills, less tameness and monotony than she found in the New England landscape. I know not on what grounds she had built her expectations, but the reality certainly fell short of them. This short railway journey, however, carried her past spots of undeniable picturesqueness, where little streams, like silvery trout, twirled and darted through the red logwood and yellow reeds and sedges. She could conceive how pretty much of it must be in summer.

At the station, of what the guide-book calls "the great academic city," Saul met them. Their walk through the main street and villa-fringed highways to the small house where the young professor and a friend lived together gave Grace rather the impression of a suburb, an accretion of well-to-do residences that have grown and spread out from some great centre. And, though "well-to-do," those residences, as a rule, did not convey to English eyes much idea of comfort. The impossibility of any privacy in dwellings standing in "yards," unseparated from each other, and undefended even by the conventional grove of laurel, was a shock to her insular, and no doubt un-Christian, prejudices. When Grace passed the homes of the great men whose names were household words to her, she marvelled, until she remembered that genius is never dependent on its surroundings.

The luncheon-party was most agreeable—the five men asked to meet the ladies being not only very able in different ways, but knowing how to make their abilities serviceable to social use, as is not always the case even with the cleverest Englishmen. After luncheon most of them had to hurry off; one, however, agreed to accompany the ladies and Saul round the university. Mrs. Barham naturally fell to him; Saul and Grace walked on in front, through the grand Memorial Hall, the University Library, the fine architectural gymnasium. Grace was properly enthusiastic.

"Harvard surpasses my expectations," she said. "I can understand your being very happy here."

"I do not think I said I was very happy," he replied. "But if I am not, the fault, no doubt, is in myself."

She looked up at him, and saw, with concern, how wan and tired he looked. He had been flushed and in brilliant spirits all the morning. He coughed at times, but then she had never known him without a cough. Now her old fear returned. But of what use was it to speak? It was clear that he would not relax in his work, still less give it up and seek a milder climate. Like the Pompeiian sentinel, he would die at his post, but never flee. Neither spoke for some minutes. Their thoughts were upon very different lines; she had forgotten his last words, and failed to see the connection of ideas when he said,

"I am not a philosopher, you see. I cannot accept the inevitable. When a thing is beyond a man's reach he ought not even to think about it."

"But isn't it because you do not think enough of the plain, simple thing—I would say theduty—that is within your reach, that you are troubled about the unattainable? Those old Romans were so wise when they said that 'a healthy mind' depended on 'a healthy body.' You ought to leave off work—I am sure you ought—and go 'right away,' as you say here, and get quite strong before you return to this trying climate. You should do this for your mother's sake. If you resistherappeal, with her sweet, suffering face, of course no words of mine can be of any avail."

For a minute it seemed as though he had not heard her. His brow was knit, his lips tight clenched; he walked on without turning his head. Then, catching his breath as he spoke, he said, in a low voice,

"On the contrary. If you told me to go—to follow you—anywhere—I would do it. That is the only thing that would make me throw up my professorship."

She was painfully startled; she had not in the least anticipated this. She knew—what woman does not?—that she was admired; but their intercourse had been of such a purely friendly nature, it had never occurred to her that this young man, in whom she had not hesitated to show her deep interest, secretly nourished a far stronger feeling. They were just the same age; yet to her, in spite of his decision and force of character, he had seemed much younger. Poor fellow! Oh, the pity of it! That, ill as she knew him to be, she must speak words which must wound him, words which sounded cruel even in her own ears.

"That is a responsibility I could never undertake. I can only advise you as a friend, a friend of your mother's as of yours. I can only tell you what it seems to me it is right you should do. Beyond that, I cannot direct your future."

"Of course. I never thought you would," he said, in a low voice, as they entered the Memorial Hall.

His mother touched her on the shoulder at the same moment.

"Those are Lafarge's famous windows," she said. "How do you like them?"

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