CHAPTER XVI
Saul did not return to Fellbridge that evening with his mother and Grace. Mrs. Barham, indeed, urged him not to do so, seeing how ill he looked, and he yielded without a word. His mother enjoined him to rest, and to go to bed early, "for you look just fairly worn out, Saul."
And when they were in the train, she turned to Grace, with a deep sigh, and said,
"He has gotten back that ashy color which he had before he went abroad. And his cough; did you hear how he coughed? Oh, Miss Ballinger, I am so down-hearted about my only boy, the only one left!"
She turned her face away, but it was not to hide any tears in her stone-blue eyes. Her anxiety, her grief were far too deep for wailing.
Grace pressed silently the small gloved hand that lay on the poor mother's lap. She felt as though she were, in a measure, responsible for Saul's condition. With a word she could send him away to some sunny clime, where he might revive, as it seemed almost certain to her he would not do here. But she could never speak that word.
Grace had rarely found it so hard to be cheerful as this evening. When she looked at the handsome but rigid face of her reverend host, and thought of "Little Mother" confronted by some great sorrow, with no solace but in the stern Calvinism of her husband, the girl shivered. It was probably a difficult evening to all three. The minister, who had no special anxiety about his son, exerted himself to supply the young man's place, but he felt himself to be an inefficient substitute, in conversation with his English guest. As to "Little Mother," she did her duty bravely; but it made Grace's heart ache to look into those deep, sad eyes—sad, even when the lips smiled and she spoke lightly of indifferent matters.
When she went to her room that night, Grace sat down and wrote a letter. Its composition did not take her long; indeed, it may be said that every word of it had been burned into her brain many months ago. She had desired exceedingly, at that time, to write to Ivor Lawrence, and she had refrained. Again in New York, after Mordaunt had broached the subject once more, the impulse to tell the friend, who was laboring under a foul aspersion, how deeply she felt for him had been strong; but still, moved by her brother's indignant remonstrance, she bad forborne. And now, it was strange, but Saul's few words, and the reproach of her pusillanimity they carried with them, had upset all this. The forcible way in which he had confirmed her instinct—and, like most women, she believed in her instincts—decided her.
This is what she wrote:
"Fellbridge, Mass., U. S.,"18th February, 1891."My dear Mr. Lawrence,—I know you too well to doubt that you have some good and sufficient motive in your own eyes for having entirely given up all communication with your friends, since this dark cloud has hung over you. That you should wilfully deprive yourself of the personal sympathy of those who would never for an instant believe you capable of a dishonorable action—no matter the amount of testimony brought against you—seems to me strange. I have waited, but waited in vain, all these months, for a line that should tell me that you trusted in my friendship; that you felt certain I could never doubt your rectitude and truth. I have been disappointed. But, since it has seemed good to you to be silent, I do not see that a corresponding silence is imposed upon me; and, after some misgiving, at the risk of appearing obtrusive, I write to assure you that you have friends who watch with intense interest, but withoutanxiety, your present fight with calumny and suspicion. They never doubt but that you will come triumphantly through this ordeal. My taking up my pen to say this may seem to you a very uncalled-for step on my part, but, as I think you know me well, I am not in the least afraid of your misinterpreting it. I cannot longer allow a friend, whom I value, to suffer as I know you must be suffering, without a word to tell him of my unwavering confidence and cordial sympathy."Sincerely yours,"Grace Ballinger."P.S.—We are travelling in the United States, and shall not return to England before May."
"Fellbridge, Mass., U. S.,
"18th February, 1891.
"My dear Mr. Lawrence,—I know you too well to doubt that you have some good and sufficient motive in your own eyes for having entirely given up all communication with your friends, since this dark cloud has hung over you. That you should wilfully deprive yourself of the personal sympathy of those who would never for an instant believe you capable of a dishonorable action—no matter the amount of testimony brought against you—seems to me strange. I have waited, but waited in vain, all these months, for a line that should tell me that you trusted in my friendship; that you felt certain I could never doubt your rectitude and truth. I have been disappointed. But, since it has seemed good to you to be silent, I do not see that a corresponding silence is imposed upon me; and, after some misgiving, at the risk of appearing obtrusive, I write to assure you that you have friends who watch with intense interest, but withoutanxiety, your present fight with calumny and suspicion. They never doubt but that you will come triumphantly through this ordeal. My taking up my pen to say this may seem to you a very uncalled-for step on my part, but, as I think you know me well, I am not in the least afraid of your misinterpreting it. I cannot longer allow a friend, whom I value, to suffer as I know you must be suffering, without a word to tell him of my unwavering confidence and cordial sympathy.
"Sincerely yours,
"Grace Ballinger.
"P.S.—We are travelling in the United States, and shall not return to England before May."
She felt more tranquil after writing this than she had done for a long time. The endeavor to put the subject away from her had failed. In the watches of the night it had come back, and upbraided her, no matter by what specious arguments she had striven to persuade herself that it was unfitting she should write. She knew her heart and intellect did not subscribe to conventional laws, though in traffic with the world her habitual conduct did so. But this was an exceptional case. Her aunt, her brother, could never understand it, because they did not understand Ivor Lawrence's peculiar character. It was that character which, after his strange behavior, justified this action in her own eyes. Upon no other man could she haveforcedher sympathy. He had loved her—she felt sure of that, she could not be mistaken—and yet he had never spoken of his love. To most women this would have been a cause of misgiving, if not of offence and bitterness. It was not so to this strange girl. She felt that she could comprehend it all—the pride that kept him silent as long as he was a poor and briefless barrister, and that shrank still further from avowal when his name was branded with infamy. But the world had not comprehended; her own kith and kin had been indignant. To one and all the man's behavior had seemed disgraceful. He had paid Grace such marked attention for months as had kept other and better men aloof; then, on inheriting this vast fortune, had completely dropped her! And half this fortune must be his, it was said, even if the verdict in the approaching trial should be given against him, as an earlier will had been found, dividing Mr. Tracy's property equally between his two nephews. It was thus, as Grace knew, that her friends argued; and every effort to make them see the circumstances in a different light would be of no avail.
The next day, Sunday, Saul appeared soon after morning service. He looked as if he had not slept all night, and he coughed a great deal; but, by a resolute effort of will, he talked very much as usual. Grace should not be distressed during her last day, nor should "Little Mother," by his depression of spirits. After all, how was he worse off now than when Grace arrived here? He knew then—he had known all along—how utterly hopeless was his attachment. He had been surprised, like a fool, into an avowal of his feelings, and he bitterly regretted it. A thin screen of ice had formed itself, since then, between him and her. Nothing, now, could melt that; but, at least, the last hours of their intercourse under his father's roof should be as little constrained as possible, under the circumstances.
At parting, as he held her hand for an instant, he said, quite simply,
"If we never meet again, Miss Ballinger, pray remember that you brought happiness into at least one obscure New England home. We shall think of your visit here with gratitude, and often talk of it, my mother and I. Good-by."
Firm, self-contained to the end, his voice betrayed no emotion, as he raised her hand respectfully to his lips. She said nothing. What could she say? Then he turned; the white face, the shrunk, shadowy figure, vanished in the gloaming; and that was the last she saw of Saul Barham.
In a ground-floor "parlor" at the Brunswick, late the following afternoon—a parlor that was heavily decorated and brilliant with electric light, Grace fell into Mrs. Frampton's expansive embrace. It was a bitterly cold day, and the cheek which her niece pressed seemed frozen. It belonged to a short, stout woman, still almost as vigorous as at twenty, with iron-gray hair, that rose in crisp waves, and broke over the broad, prominent forehead, indicating stubborn natural force. Swift black eyes, a healthy color, fine white teeth, told the same tale of strong vitality. The expanded nostrils, and full mobile mouth, showed perhaps other, but not contradictory, characteristics.
Impossible to doubt that this was a clever, dominant, possibly at times a violent woman; attractive to some, to others a terror and abête noir. Voluble, beyond the limits of discretion, yet rarely foolish; impulsive as a child; loving and hating with equal intensity; yet prudent, worldly-wise, humorous, and quick-sighted, it was not difficult to form an idea, more or less just, of Mrs. Frampton in five minutes' conversation. But then, as her nephew said, "Aunt Susan always lets herself go." It was that quality of "letting herself go" which made her so entertaining a companion.
She spoke rapidly, in a high but not unmusical voice, holding her niece out at arm's-length after embracing her, while she scanned the girl's countenance.
"You look well, my child! This horrible climate agrees with you, then? I have been shrivelling up visibly every hour since I landed. And then the awful heat of these furnaces! I thought I should be roasted alive in the railway-carriage coming here! How can you stand it?"
"I grin and bear it as well as I can, Aunt Su. And as to the climate, I like this dry cold a great deal better than the damp and fog of London."
She shrugged her shoulders. "'Quel drôle de goût!' as the irreverent Frenchman said when some one spoke of the Jews as 'God's chosen people.' Mordy has been talking the same nonsense. As if the London climate was not good enough for any living creature, except, perhaps, an asthmatic poodle! My nerves are all rasped here. I hate it."
"Well, aunty, we won't rasp you more by saying anything about the climate, but we mean to make you like the country very much."
"Never!" she cried, in a melodramatic tone. "Except the Hurlstones' house, everything I have seen is hideous. Those dreadful streets! You didn't say half enough about those dreadful New York streets. I felt as if every bone in my body was dislocated, when I drove through them! And then their way of spitting about one! There was one man who actually aimed across me at a spittoon! Pray, have you got accustomed tothat?"
"I never see it," returned Grace, with a smile. "You know I am one of those stupid but happy people who don't see ugly things, unless they are thrust under their very nose."
"Well, my dear, thiswasthrust under my very nose. No, I hate all I have seen of the people, except the Hurlstones. I exceptthem, for they are thoroughly well bred, nice people, and their house is charming."
"There are plenty of houses as good—indeed better, to my taste—and plenty of people as nice."
"You didn't do them justice, Gracey, in your letters to me. They are a charming family. I was most agreeably surprised in Beatrice Hurlstone. She would hold her own in any London drawing-room."
"I didn't say she would not, aunty. I am sure I said nothing against them. I was very grateful for all their kindness and hospitality."
"Oh! grateful. We know whatthatmeans. You didn't like them, and you put Mordy off from liking the girl."
"My dear aunt! What nonsense! As if anything I could say would influence him in the slightest degree in that way! He flirted with her at first, and then he found some one he admired more."
"That is just it. If hewillmarry an American, I'd rather it was Beatrice Hurlstone than any one. I don't at all like the idea of Miss Planter, whom he raves to me about. He sha'n't marry her, if I can help it. In the first place, I am told she is a desperate flirt. Then her father is one of those speculators who is rich to-day and may be poor to-morrow, and will only give his daughter an income—will settle nothing upon her. Whereas Mr. Hurlstone's large fortune will be divided equally between his son and his daughter—he told me so himself."
"That was considerate of him," said Grace, with one of her rare touches of sarcasm.
And the hero of their talk entering the room at that moment, there was an abrupt change in the conversation.
"I find her looking very well, Mordy!" cried his aunt. "Is it the New England parsonage that has given her those roses? She looked like a squeezed lemon four months ago."
"Oh! twenty-four hours at sea picked her up. She is an awfully good sailor and never missed a meal; and amused herself, I can tell you, 'pretty considerable,' as we say over here—having three men, all very much gone on her."
Mrs. Frampton laughed heartily.
"And you have been staying with the parents of one of them—the young man you say is a prig?"
"I didn't say that," responded Grace, quickly. "I saidyoumight call him so. He is a very remarkable young man, and I like him exceedingly; but I am much afraid he will not live long. He is sadly changed, even since we were on board ship together. His poor mother's face haunts me. He is her only son."
The mocking expression of Aunt Susan's countenance changed while her niece was speaking. The eyes were veiled with a tender sympathy, which contrasted curiously with their habitual outlook. She, too, had known what this sorrow meant, long years ago.
"Poor woman! And is there nothing to be done?"
"Perhaps if he went to a warm climate, and gave up his professorship, he might recover, but that is just what he won't do."
"Then he doesn't really love his mother!" she cried, impatiently. "These Americans are all alike—can't rest—must fret themselves to fiddle-strings. The idea of a man sacrificing his life to his work! It is positively wicked."
"I suspect he is a romantic sort of cove, who fancies there is only one woman in the world," said her nephew, fixing his eyes on Grace. "If he is disappointed, he doesn't care to live. I have known one chap like that. It's very rum."
His sister said nothing. She rose and went to the window, where the curtains had not been dropped before the gas-lit street. A well-appointed brougham stood at the door. Grace thought she recognized the horses, and at the same moment the negro waiter entered and asked if the ladies were at home to Mrs. Courtly.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Frampton. Then, as the man disappeared, "I hear she is a delightful person—not only from Mordy, but others."
"I am glad you hear that," said Grace, smiling. "Sheisa delightful person, but many women are jealous of her, and you might have heard, as I did, that she is only delightful to men, which is not the least true."
The object of these remarks entered, swathed in velvet and silver-fox, and redolent of Parma violets. Her bright smile, graceful manner, and musical voice could not but dispose favorably one as sensitive to impressions as Mrs. Frampton.
"I do not feel that we are strangers—you have been so good to my children," she said.
Mrs. Courtly responded in a like strain, and then,
"I suppose I ought to apologize for calling on you just as you have arrived from a long journey, Mrs. Frampton, but I wanted to engage you all to dine with me to-morrow. I know you are to be here but a few days, and you must see something of our society—we think ourselves very nice, you know. I say 'we,' though I don't belong to Boston—only come in occasionally from my solitude, for a little social relaxation."
"Solitude! I like that!" laughed Ballinger. "I don't believe you are ever alone, Mrs. Courtly. I am sure you have a regular succession of representative men and women: literature, fashion, and the fine arts, they all go to you, and you take them in."
"That is a doubtful compliment," and the American lady gave a rippling laugh, "but I am afraid it is the truth. I do take them in—that is, the representatives of literature and the fine arts. They think I know something—I am just clever enough never todoanything, and so they do not discover what a fraud I am. As to fashion—oh, I can be frivolous enough, as you have seen. There is no sham aboutthat."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Frampton, nodding her head, "for I am frivolous, too—frivolous and worldly, as this very superior young woman, my niece, is always pointing out to me."
"What a detestable creature you make me out! Happily, Mrs. Courtly knows me a little. When did you come to Boston, Mrs. Courtly, and where are you staying?"
"I am at the Vendôme, where I always go. I came on Saturday, and have been hunting up some of my friends to meet you to-morrow. On Wednesday, if agreeable to you, we will dine at the Country Club, where they have a little informal dance, ending at eleven o'clock, once a week. I think it will amuse you. If it snows, which it threatens to do to-night, we will go in sleighs."
Mrs. Frampton looked petrified.
"What! in evening dress?"
"Why, yes! We wrap up well, with fur hoods and double veils, and wear frocks that won't tumble; and the drive back, under a full moon, as we have now, will be delightful."
"Well," said Mrs. Frampton, dubiously, "I never did anything so skittish when I was young—and now that I am an old woman—what if I am upset?"
"Oh, you won't be upset—and if you were, it wouldn't hurt you. You have no distance to fall, and in the soft white snow—"
"Good heavens! The very idea of it sends cold water down my back. No, thank you.Theyshall go, but you must excuseme. A nocturnal sleighing-party—returning from a ball—running races, I dare say—no, thank you—not for me!"
Mrs. Courtly's prediction was verified. The snow came down heavily before morning. The streets were blocked; the horse-cars moved stealthily along. Then it froze, and every one who ventured from his door trod very carefully, trying to obtain some hold on the white surface, slippery as glass and glistening in the noonday sun.