CHAPTER XXI.ARTHUR GOES HOME.
THE days were growing unnumbered by this time, measure of time being only necessary when one has daily petty duties, and existence is not a continuous, untroubled joy. Arthur positively bloomed; even Derwent seemed a shade less anxious for the souls of men, and Mr. Wemyss a point less analytic. And the morning was one to bring a bit of fresh color to the cheek of a very Tannhäuser who had been long years jaded with Venus’s joys, his dull eyes rested with the lights of earth again, his ear soothed by notes of spring and human love. The land was beautiful with bud-promise, the air steeped with joyous light of life. And the girls came down to breakfast, looking each and all a Hebe.
For the will of the world comes out in this—that all that has to do with life, new life, charms and attracts us; that all that speaks of over-thought, of over-soul, if you will, is wan and weird—either positively uncanny, or laughable, like the chorus of old men in Faust! Instinctively, we all turn to the flower, to the fresh looks of the young girl, to the rosy lips, full of the promise of future life. No wrinkled wisdom, no sorrowful lines of character, can make up for this.The first thoughtless girl we meet shows herbeauté du diablemore than a match for all the crow’s-feet of the intellect. And this is the magnetism of vitality; it is your full-blooded man that the masses of the world delight to follow. The unthinking are repelled by too much consciousness, as by disease.
We all have known such sunny mornings, when we that are living live, and the dead lie dead in their churchyards. Gayly the party mounted; and the strong horses galloped over the roads. They were still in the broad valley of the Hudson; far behind them lay the river, unseen, but farther still was visible yet the blue film of the Catskills. They crossed a broad intervale, and ahead of them was a gap in the hills, over which the road wound in a sort of pass. And now as they galloped up it in the shadow of the elms it was as if they had gone through a narrow door into a different country; the scene changed, the hills grew small, rugged, and broken; the vegetation was less rich; they were in New England. So marked was it that Wemyss pointed out the change; even the color of the houses was not the same, nor the look of the barns. They were small and neat, and painted sternly white; the very gates were better hung, and the sidewalks more neatly trimmed; the squalid, unkempt look was gone, and with it the greater luxuriance. One no longer felt the vastness of the Continent, but seemed to be in an older corner of it, the bars not yet let down, where elbow-room was less, and ideas and conventions artificially preserved. The hills were smaller, and the trees looked stunted; human habitationshad a look like an old dress which the wearer in her penury still struggled to keep neat. Arthur was reminded at once of the look of the land about the hill-town to which he had driven on that day with Gracie. They had crossed the line into Connecticut, and the boundary was more marked than is usual in political divisions. Even in New York there had been a suggestion of the Western prairies; here was none. But there was a greater vigor in the air, which had a sort of moorland sparkle in it; and the talk was livelier than ever. They had a long and breezy drive of it, and the cock-horse was used many times in pulling up the grassy old road, which led uncompromisingly up the barren, ferny hills. For lunch they stopped at a little place called Lakeville, nestling in the hills between two clear blue ponds; and here John Haviland (having performed his errand) had to leave them to take his train back to the city.
In the afternoon Arthur was allowed to try his hand at driving; he sat on the box-seat with Miss Farnum, who was very silent, and Mrs. Gower and Wemyss had the rear seat to themselves. Kill Van Kull was allowed to get into the “cabin” and go to sleep, a refreshment which he averred the country air made most needful to him. Behind him on the middle seat the party were very noisy, and Arthur had much ado to keep his attention on the horses, who seemed also to feel the tang of the keen soft air. As they were going down a crooked hill, longer than he had expected, so that no shoe had been put on, the horses got almost beyond his control. He gathered the fourreins together and pulled his best, and just managed to keep them in the road. The people behind were laughing and talking, unconscious of what was going on; and Arthur had already begun to congratulate himself upon his escape, when, as they were nearing the bottom, he got too far on the outer curve, and the heavy wheels sank deep in the gravel, still wet with the spring rains. One awful moment of suspense, and then the ponderous vehicle swayed heavily, rolled majestically over on its side. A shrill scream resounded behind him—it is not the custom for American girls to scream—and Mrs. Hay threw her arms wildly around Lord Birmingham, with the feminine instinct to embrace something in emergencies. But it was of no avail; and they all sailed gracefully off into the long grass, Arthur still devotedly hanging to the reins.
No one was hurt; and after a bare pause for reflection, everybody burst forth in a roar of laughter. Loudly and long they laughed, holding their sides; they were laughing too much to get up; one horse was down, and the others rearing and plunging. Van Kull put his head ruefully out of the window of the coach that was uppermost and contemplated the scene. His hat was crushed, he was nigh smothered with shawls and veils, and his hair hanging down over his eyes; and his head protruded slowly, like a disabled jack-in-the-box, amid the merriment of the company.
“Perhaps, when some of you damned fools get through laughing,” said he, without undue emphasis, “you’ll find time to attend to those leaders.”
Van Kull’s remark, though over-forcible, was undeniablyjust; and Derwent was already at their heads. The groom was also there; and in a few moments the horses were taken out, the coach set upright again, and all damage repaired. Everyone agreed that the accident was in nowise due to Arthur’s driving, but entirely to the soft bit in the road.
“These things will happen, you know,” said Birmingham, good-naturedly.
“It’s half the fun, I think,” said Pussie Duval.
“I thought you’d ’a dumped ’em, sir,” said the groom, “when I see that ere soft bit in the road.” And as a mark of special confidence, Arthur was allowed to drive the coach the rest of the way into Great Barrington, where they were to stop for the night.
The merriment consequent on their disaster did not cease during the afternoon, and Arthur was many times maliciously thanked for the diversion he had afforded the party. But Miss Farnum, who was still his companion on the box, seemed fortunately as much inclined to silence as he was himself. Indeed, she had been strangely silent all the day.
The country roads gradually drew themselves together and made themselves into the broad, straight avenue that is Great Barrington’s main street; and up this they swept gayly, about an hour before sunset. They did not pass the Judge’s old place; but as Arthur heard Mrs. Gower’s light laughter behind him the old scene in the garden recurred to him at once. It was not yet a year ago: and he remembered now that the man she had been driving with was Wemyss.
They drew up merrily before the village hotel—it seemed so odd to Arthur to be there in his own town; he had never associated it with so gay a party—and after a few minutes of preparation they started out to see the place. Miss Farnum made pretext of a headache and did not go; but the others sauntered along beneath the overarching elms. To the left the setting sun lay across the intervale in broad gold bars. Arthur was walking with Lord Birmingham and Mrs. Hay.
Coming back, they met Mrs. Gower at the dinner-table. “I am sorry,” said she, “Miss Farnum has to go home.”
“Dear me, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Hay, politely.
“What, you don’t mean she’s going to leave us?” said Lord Birmingham, blankly. He looked from one to the other of the party, as if asking an explanation. “She said nothing to me about it,” he added, naïvely.
“I have telegraphed to Mrs. Malgam to ask her to join us,” said Mrs. Flossie, hurriedly checking the general inclination to laugh that had succeeded his lordship’s last speech. “You need not look so blank, you men—no Jack shall be left without a Jill.”
“AJill,” said Wemyss, maliciously, accentuating the indefinite article, and looking at Mrs. Hay.
“’Pon my word, I think you’re very insulting,” broke in Mrs. Hay, savagely. No one could exactly see why; whereupon Van Kull, with much social dexterity, looked upon Mrs. Hay and sighed. Further comment was checked by the arrival of Miss Farnumherself, who bore her fine face quite as unconsciously, a shade more coldly, than usual. And then the finer emotions gave place to food.
Arthur was honored by a seat on Mrs. Gower’s left; but he was silent through the meal, a fact which was maliciously attributed to the events of the afternoon. “Don’t look upset, Mr. Holyoke, please!” cried Miss Duval. “We have quite regained our composure.” Arthur had not been thinking of the accident at all; but he did color again, to be reminded of it. “It was a soft spot in the road, you know,” said he.
“A soft spot in your heart, I much suspect,” laughed Mrs. Gower. “Miss Farnum, you should not have sat with him.”
“Who?” said the beauty, bringing her gaze to a focus. “Oh,” she added, indifferently. “I?”
“’Pon my word,” screamed Mrs. Wilton Hay. “You two are too delicious! But you’re positively too absent-minded to be trusted together. Aren’t they Mrs. Gower? They might not have presence of mind enough not to elope, you know.”
Soon after this Miss Farnum left the table; and when Arthur followed, he found her out upon the doorstep, talking with Lionel Derwent. The sun had gone down now, and its last radiance came down upon them from some scarlet clouds. Miss Farnum went in almost immediately, leaving him with Derwent alone.
“A lovely evening,” said he. “Will you take a tramp?”
Arthur hesitated. Then he spoke with decision.“Yes. I have a call to make—won’t you come with me? Miss Livingstone, you know, and my cousin, Miss Holyoke, are here—do you know them?”
“No,” said the other; “but I shall like to.”
“Come along, then,” said Arthur. And they went up the long village street until the road began to twist among the apple-orchards and they got into the dusk that was already at the base of the wooded hills. Derwent pulled out a brierwood pipe and smoked it, and they walked in silence.
At last they came in front of the dignified old house, wearing, like a wig, its high-pitched roof and white balustrade, with its terrace for silk stockings and its dressed front of quaint old flowers as a ruffle of old lace. The gate creaked in its wonted way; and they walked up the familiar gravel-walk. “The ladies were at home;” and the two went into the large living-room, and found Gracie and Mamie Livingstone together. Arthur shook hands with Mamie, and then, after introducing Mr. Derwent, sat down by his cousin, leaving Mamie to his friend, a proceeding which the latter noticed. Derwent talked nearly all the time to Mamie, whose little self he read at once, but his eyes wandered more than once to Gracie and her cousin. Now, Gracie Mamie thought a character far simpler than herself. They all sat so near that when either pair was silent the other’s conversation could be heard. Their call had lasted nearly an hour, when Miss Brevier came in, who was there, matronizing the young people, for a few days only. Then the conversation became more general, save that Derwent talked somehalf an hour, at the end, with Miss Holyoke. It was after ten before they rose to go.
“So you are going to Lenox to-morrow,” said Gracie. “And after that?”
“After that, I don’t know; perhaps I shall come here?”
“I don’t think you could bear being at the Barrington Hotel,” said Gracie, with a laugh. Arthur bit his lip.
“Well, I suppose a fellow can go somewhere,” said he. “I may have to go back to the shop. Where do you go, Derwent?”
“I am going out among the Rockies of British Columbia, hunting,” said he. “I wish you’d come,” he added, turning to Arthur suddenly, as if the thought had then first struck him.
“Thanks,” said Arthur, ill-naturedly. “Unfortunately, I’m nothing but a broker’s clerk.” But hisamour-proprewas soothed by the evident increased consideration that Miss Livingstone had shown him; and even to the last moment she pressed him with questions, and hung admiringly upon his history of the trip.
“Who did you say was with you on the box when you upset?” she said, as they lingered at the doorway. The moon was up by this time, bleaching all the colored roses of the terrace in its yellow light.
“Miss Farnum,” said Arthur. “But I believe Mrs. Malgam takes her place to-morrow,” he added, carelessly.
“Oh!” said Mamie. “I’m fearing you’ll be quitetoo grand to speak to me when I’m a bud.” And she gave him a look—one of her practised looks—out of her very pretty eyes, a look that Gracie never could have compassed. Arthur returned it, with the skill of a year’s experience; meantime, Derwent was taking leave of the others, and they soon were walking home together—that is, to the Great Barrington Hotel.
“A charming girl,” said Derwent.
“Who?” said Arthur, curtly.
“Miss Livingstone,” said the other, after a pause. “Your young New York girls are such delicate flowers—and yet so hardy, too. And they can be trained to almost anything.”
Arthur did not sleep well that night; but the morning was a lovely one again. They had to wait until the New York train arrived, which was not until the afternoon, for Mrs. Malgam. Kitty Farnum had started off quietly, early in the morning, and Derwent had gone with her, meaning to see her safely to New Haven, where her maid would meet her, and then take the return train back with Mrs. Malgam. Lord Birmingham had been too dull to think of this proceeding, and was in a vicious humor all the day in consequence. Arthur was in two minds about going to see Gracie in the morning. But as Birmingham sulked all day, there were not men enough without him; so he went to walk with Mrs. Hay instead. Mrs. Hay was one of those women whose flirting was less intellectual than the American type; she delighted chiefly in appealing to men’s senses; and her company was not ennobling.
But in the afternoon appeared Mrs. Malgam, clothed in the loveliest of smiles and spring dresses. If she had any grudge against Flossie, she did not show it; but spoke to her caressingly, and with a certain deference, as from a giddy young girl to her chaperone. And then, as if her conscience were safely in Flossie’s charge, she inaugurated a most audacious and ostentatious love-affair with the peer; that is, she caused him to inaugurate it. Baby Malgam never inaugurated anything; she only looked as if she understood it. A pan of cream, indeed; not milk and water; opaque, unfathomable to the eye, and yet, perhaps, not deep. Wemyss talked with Arthur about it. “You are the only fellow left whom one can talk to,” said he. “Birmingham’s too dull, and Derwent’s not a man of the world.” Arthur’s heart warmed to him at once. “Baby Malgam,” said he, “means to beat Mrs. Gower on her own ground.”
This was said on the way to Lenox. At five the horses were brought up to the door; the brilliant party were again in their familiar seats, and bowling briskly over the well-made roads. And our hero was himself again; and the exhilaration of the motion, and the bright eyes and pretty dresses, and the trained flattery of their most desirable owners, and the admiration of the populace—to him as to them, was the breath of his nostrils.
“A woman’s looksAre barbèd hooks,That catch by artThe strongest heart,”
“A woman’s looksAre barbèd hooks,That catch by artThe strongest heart,”
“A woman’s looks
Are barbèd hooks,
That catch by art
The strongest heart,”
says the old Elizabethan poet; but they swallowed the hooks in those days.
So they came to Lenox; Lenox of the sleepy hills, and sweet wild roads, and shady green seclusion. Here were the first good roads they had seen since they left Mrs. Gower’s home; and Van Kull “let out” the horses, and they galloped like a summer storm. And the gayety seemed redoubled since Mrs. Malgam’s arrival. Lord Birmingham was evidently drinking her in like some new sort of wine; Derwent alone was silent and abstracted. So they were none of them sorry when he told them that he, too, must leave at Lenox. In the evening, he got a long walk with Arthur, and spoke most bitterly about them all. “As for Mrs. Hay,” he said, “she’s hardly worth considering; she only injures men, and men who are her mates. But Mrs. Gower is a woman who has successively sought and successively attained, or appeared to attain, every height, every good thing, and every great place in turn, in order that she might vulgarize it. She has mounted every summit but to make it hers. Do you see how Mrs. Malgam, and Miss Duval, and all the others ape her?”
Arthur thought him very ill-bred and rude to this most charming hostess, and almost dared to say so. Derwent pulled out his brierwood pipe, and they walked on in silence.
“Now,” the other went on, “take another sort of girl—a girl like your friend Miss Holyoke, for instance——”
“I don’t see what Miss Holyoke has to do with the case,” said Arthur, goading himself into a passion. And the walk ended—purposely, so far as Arthur was concerned—in a sort of quarrel. Coming back, he found Mrs. Malgam walking in the lawn of Mrs. Gower’s cottage, and joined her, and found solace after the Englishman’s asperity.
Mrs. Malgam was dressed in a faultless summer gown, and wore the famous pearls that she had bought with the estate of her first husband. Arthur revenged himself by repeating to her all Derwent’s conversation.
“I am glad he’s going,” said she. “He’s the most cynical person I ever met; and I hate cynicism.”
“Who’s that you’re talking of?” said Wemyss, coming up.
“Derwent,” said Arthur. “We’re both glad he’s going.”
“Oh, Derwent is quite impossible,” said Wemyss. “He’s well enough at a dinner where they feed the lions, but quite out of his place in society. The fellow’s a crank, too; just the sort of a man who ends by marrying a woman of the demi-monde.”
“By way of reformation, I suppose,” laughed Mrs. Malgam. Arthur walked with her some time, as Wemyss left upon this lastbon mot; and the next day, when they came together after breakfast, there was no trace of Derwent.
“Do you know he’s a friend of Chinese Gordon?” said Lord Birmingham.
“I should think, quite possible,” said Wemyss. “Ihope we’ll get a better fellow in his place—a gentleman, at least,” he added,sotto voce.
“They say he belongs to one of the oldest families in Northumberland, do you know,” said Mrs. Hay.
“All rot,” said Wemyss; “I believe him to be a mere adventurer—nothing more.”
“Well,” said Flossie, “I’ve written to Tony Duval in his place.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Pussie. “I hate to go about with Tony; or, rather, he says he hates to go about with me. He says he can’t have any fun while I’m around.”
“He hates to flirt before his little sister,” laughed Mrs. Gower. “Never mind, dear—I think you’ll soon be even with him.” And when Tony Duval arrived, all his simple soul went out to Mrs. Hay. “She is the finest woman I ever saw,” he would say to Arthur, almost with a sigh. And he sent to Long Island for his two best blooded horses; and the first day they rode out he spilled Mrs. Hay over a four-barred fence, just as they were returning, and brought the fair burden home in his brawny arms. Her eyes unclosed soon after she was in the house; and she was not seriously injured. And Arthur, who had indited a telegram to Wilton Hay at Washington, sensibly put the despatch in his pocket.
So the days went by delightfully. Arthur had fears that he was sometimes the odd man; but after all, they seemed to like him pretty well; and if even Pussie Duval failed him, there were other fair in Lenox with no cavaliers imported, like the fruit inthe hampers, from the city. So June waned toward July, and everyone almost cheered at Flossie Gower’s proposal that they should have one more drive—to Lake George—before they parted. This new excursion was duly chronicled in all the newspapers, where Mamie Livingstone, eager, and perhaps a little envious, saw it. Arthur wrote and got his leave of absence extended at the office. They were easy-going people at the office.
Meantime, Derwent was “hunting big game” out in the Rockies, and Charlie Townley was sweltering in the city—“working like a dog, by Jove,” he would say—at the affairs of Messrs. Townley & Tamms. And Gracie Holyoke was in great Barrington, alone.