AUNT JANE was eager to hear about the ball, and called everybody into her breakfast-parlor the next morning. She was still hesitating about her bill of fare.
“I wish somebody would invent a new animal,” she burst forth. “How those sheep bleated last night! I know it was an expression of shame for providing such tiresome food.”
“You must not be so carnally minded, dear,” said Kate. “You must be very good and grateful, and not care for your breakfast. Somebody says that mutton chops with wit are a great deal better than turtle without.”
“A very foolish somebody,” pronounced Aunt Jane. “I have had a great deal of wit in my life, and very little turtle. Dear child, do not excite me with impossible suggestions. There are dropped eggs, I might have those. They look so beautifully, if it only were not necessary to eat them. Yes, I will certainly have dropped eggs. I think Ruth could drop them; she drops everything else.”
“Poor little Ruth!” said Kate. “Not yet grown up!”
“She will never grow up,” said Aunt Jane, “but she thinks she is a woman; she even thinks she has a lover. O that in early life I had provided myself with a pair of twins from some asylum; then I should have had some one to wait on me.”
“Perhaps they would have been married too,” said Kate.
“They should never have been married,” retorted Aunt Jane. “They should have signed a paper at five years old to do no such thing. Yesterday I told a lady that I was enraged that a servant should presume to have a heart, and the woman took it seriously and began to argue with me. To think of living in a town where one person could be so idiotic! Such a town ought to be extinguished from the universe.”
“Auntie!” said Kate, sternly, “you must grow more charitable.”
“Must I?” said Aunt Jane; “it will not be at all becoming. I have thought about it; often have I weighed it in my mind whether to be monotonously lovely; but I have always thrust it away. It must make life so tedious. It is too late for me to change,—at least, anything about me but my countenance, and that changes the wrong way. Yet I feel so young and fresh; I look in my glass every morning to see if I have not a new face, but it never comes. I am not what is called well-favored. In fact, I am not favored at all. Tell me about the party.”
“What shall I tell?” said Kate.
“Tell me what people were there,” said Aunt Jane, “and how they were dressed; who were the happiest and who the most miserable. I think I would rather hear about the most miserable,—at least, till I have my breakfast.”
“The most miserable person I saw,” said Kate, “was Mrs. Meredith. It was very amusing to hear her and Hope talk at cross-purposes. You know her daughter Helen is in Paris, and the mother seemed very sad about her. A lady was asking if something or other were true; ‘Too true,’ said Mrs. Meredith; ‘with every opportunity she has had no real success. It was not the poor child’s fault. She was properly presented; but as yet she has had no success at all.’
“Hope looked up, full of sympathy. She thought Helen must be some disappointed school-teacher, and felt an interest in her immediately. ‘Will there not be another examination?’ she asked. ‘What an odd phrase,’ said Mrs. Meredith, looking rather disdainfully at Hope. ‘No, I suppose we must give it up, if that is what you mean. The only remaining chance is in the skating. I had particular attention paid to Helen’s skating on that very account. How happy shall I be, if my foresight is rewarded!’
“Hope thought this meant physical education, to be sure, and fancied that handsome Helen Meredith opening a school for calisthenics in Paris! Luckily she did not say anything. Then the other lady said, solemnly, ‘My dear Mrs. Meredith, it is too true. No one can tell how things will turn out in society. How often do we see girls who were not looked at in America, and yet have a great success in Paris; then other girls go out who were here very much admired, and they have no success at all.’
“Hope understood it all then, but she took it very calmly. I was so indignant, I could hardly help speaking. I wanted to say that it was outrageous. The idea of American mothers training their children for exhibition before what everybody calls the most corrupt court in Europe! Then if they can catch the eye of the Emperor or the Empress by their faces or their paces, that is called success!”
“Good Americans when they die go to Paris,” said Philip, “so says the oracle. Naughty Americans try it prematurely, and go while they are alive. Then Paris casts them out, and when they come back, their French disrepute is their stock in trade.”
“I think,” said the cheerful Hope, “that it is not quite so bad.” Hope always thought things not so bad. She went on. “I was very dull not to know what Mrs. Meredith was talking about. Helen Meredith is a warm-hearted, generous girl, and will not go far wrong, though her mother is not as wise as she is well-bred. But Kate forgets that the few hundred people one sees here or at Paris do not represent the nation, after all.”
“The most influential part of it,” said Emilia.
“Are you sure, dear?” said her sister. “I do not think they influence it half so much as a great many people who are too busy to go to either place. I always remember those hundred girls at the Normal School, and that they were not at all like Mrs. Meredith, nor would they care to be like her, any more than she would wish to be like them.”
“They have not had the same advantages,” said Emilia.
“Nor the same disadvantages,” said Hope. “Some of them are not so well bred, and none of them speak French so well, for she speaks exquisitely. But in all that belongs to real training of the mind, they seem to me superior, and that is why I think they will have more influence.”
“None of them are rich, though, I suppose,” said Emilia, “nor of very nice families, or they would not be teachers. So they will not be so prominent in society.”
“But they may yet become very prominent in society,” said Hope,—“they or their pupils or their children. At any rate, it is as certain that the noblest lives will have most influence in the end, as that two and two make four.”
“Is that certain?” said Philip. “Perhaps there are worlds where two and two do not make just that desirable amount.”
“I trust there are,” said Aunt Jane. “Perhaps I was intended to be born in one of them, and that is why my housekeeping accounts never add up.”
Here hope was called away, and Emilia saucily murmured, “Sour grapes!”
“Not a bit of it!” cried Kate, indignantly. “Hope might have anything in society she wishes, if she would only give up some of her own plans, and let me choose her dresses, and her rich uncles pay for them. Count Posen told me, only yesterday, that there was not a girl in Oldport with such an air as hers.”
“Not Kate herself?” said Emilia, slyly.
“I?” said Kate. “What am I? A silly chit of a thing, with about a dozen ideas in my head, nearly every one of which was planted there by Hope. I like the nonsense of the world very well as it is, and without her I should have cared for nothing else. Count Posen asked me the other day, which country produced on the whole the most womanly women, France or America. He is one of the few foreigners who expect a rational answer. So I told him that I knew very little of Frenchwomen personally, but that I had read French novels ever since I was born, and there was not a woman worthy to be compared with Hope in any of them, except Consuelo, and even she told lies.”
“Do not begin upon Hope,” said Aunt Jane. “It is the only subject on which Kate can be tedious. Tell me about the dresses. Were people over-dressed or under-dressed?”
“Under-dressed,” said Phil. “Miss Ingleside had a half-inch strip of muslin over her shoulder.”
Here Philip followed Hope out of the room, and Emilia presently followed him.
“Tell on!” said Aunt Jane. “How did Philip enjoy himself?”
“He is easily amused, you know,” said Kate. “He likes to observe people, and to shoot folly as it flies.”
“It does not fly,” retorted the elder lady. “I wish it did. You can shoot it sitting, at least where Philip is.”
“Auntie,” said Kate, “tell me truly your objection to Philip. I think you did not like his parents. Had he not a good mother?”
“She was good,” said Aunt Jane, reluctantly, “but it was that kind of goodness which is quite offensive.”
“And did you know his father well?”
“Know him!” exclaimed Aunt Jane. “I should think I did. I have sat up all night to hate him.”
“That was very wrong,” said Kate, decisively. “You do not mean that. You only mean that you did not admire him very much.”
“I never admired a dozen people in my life, Kate. I once made a list of them. There were six women, three men, and a Newfoundland dog.”
“What happened?” said Kate. “The Is-raelites died after Pharaoh, or somebody, numbered them. Did anything happen to yours?”
“It was worse with mine,” said Aunt Jane. “I grew tired of some and others I forgot, till at last there was nobody left but the dog, and he died.”
“Was Philip’s father one of them?”
“No.”
“Tell me about him,” said Kate, firmly.
“Ruth,” said the elder lady, as her young handmaiden passed the door with her wonted demureness, “come here; no, get me a glass of water. Kate! I shall die of that girl. She does some idiotic thing, and then she looks in here with that contented, beaming look. There is an air of baseless happiness about her that drives me nearly frantic.”
“Never mind about that,” persisted Kate. “Tell me about Philip’s father. What was the matter with him?”
“My dear,” Aunt Jane at last answered,—with that fearful moderation to which she usually resorted when even her stock of superlatives was exhausted,—“he belonged to a family for whom truth possessed even less than the usual attractions.”
This neat epitaph implied the erection of a final tombstone over the whole race, and Kate asked no more.
Meantime Malbone sat at the western door with Harry, and was running on with one of his tirades, half jest, half earnest, against American society.
“In America,” he said, “everything which does not tend to money is thought to be wasted, as our Quaker neighbor thinks the children’s croquet-ground wasted, because it is not a potato field.”
“Not just!” cried Harry. “Nowhere is there more respect for those who give their lives to intellectual pursuits.”
“What are intellectual pursuits?” said Philip. “Editing daily newspapers? Teaching arithmetic to children? I see no others flourishing hereabouts.”
“Science and literature,” answered Harry.
“Who cares for literature in America,” said Philip, “after a man rises three inches above the newspaper level? Nobody reads Thoreau; only an insignificant fraction read Emerson, or even Hawthorne. The majority of people have hardly even heard their names. What inducement has a writer? Nobody has any weight in America who is not in Congress, and nobody gets into Congress without the necessity of bribing or button-holing men whom he despises.”
“But you do not care for public life?” said Harry.
“No,” said Malbone, “therefore this does not trouble me, but it troubles you. I am content. My digestion is good. I can always amuse myself. Why are you not satisfied?”
“Because you are not,” said Harry. “You are dissatisfied with men, and so you care chiefly to amuse yourself with women and children.”
“I dare say,” said Malbone, carelessly. “They are usually less ungraceful and talk better grammar.”
“But American life does not mean grace nor grammar. We are all living for the future. Rough work now, and the graces by and by.”
“That is what we Americans always say,” retorted Philip. “Everything is in the future. What guaranty have we for that future? I see none. We make no progress towards the higher arts, except in greater quantities of mediocrity. We sell larger editions of poor books. Our artists fill larger frames and travel farther for materials; but a ten-inch canvas would tell all they have to say.”
“The wrong point of view,” said Hal. “If you begin with high art, you begin at the wrong end. The first essential for any nation is to put the mass of the people above the reach of want. We are all usefully employed, if we contribute to that.”
“So is the cook usefully employed while preparing dinner,” said Philip. “Nevertheless, I do not wish to live in the kitchen.”
“Yet you always admire your own country,” said Harry, “so long as you are in Europe.”
“No doubt,” said Philip. “I do not object to the kitchen at that distance. And to tell the truth, America looks well from Europe. No culture, no art seems so noble as this far-off spectacle of a self-governing people. The enthusiasm lasts till one’s return. Then there seems nothing here but to work hard and keep out of mischief.”
“That is something,” said Harry.
“A good deal in America,” said Phil. “We talk about the immorality of older countries. Did you ever notice that no class of men are so apt to take to drinking as highly cultivated Americans? It is a very demoralizing position, when one’s tastes outgrow one’s surroundings. Positively, I think a man is more excusable for coveting his neighbor’s wife in America than in Europe, because there is so little else to covet.”
“Malbone!” said Hal, “what has got into you? Do you know what things you are saying?”
“Perfectly,” was the unconcerned reply. “I am not arguing; I am only testifying. I know that in Paris, for instance, I myself have no temptations. Art and history are so delightful, I absolutely do not care for the society even of women; but here, where there is nothing to do, one must have some stimulus, and for me, who hate drinking, they are, at least, a more refined excitement.”
“More dangerous,” said Hal. “Infinitely more dangerous, in the morbid way in which you look at life. What have these sickly fancies to do with the career that opens to every brave man in a great nation?”
“They have everything to do with it, and there are many for whom there is no career. As the nation develops, it must produce men of high culture. Now there is no place for them except as bookkeepers or pedagogues or newspaper reporters. Meantime the incessant unintellectual activity is only a sublime bore to those who stand aside.”
“Then why stand aside?” persisted the downright Harry.
“I have no place in it but a lounging-place,” said Malbone. “I do not wish to chop blocks with a razor. I envy those men, born mere Americans, with no ambition in life but to ‘swing a railroad’ as they say at the West. Every morning I hope to wake up like them in the fear of God and the love of money.”
“You may as well stop,” said Harry, coloring a little. “Malbone, you used to be my ideal man in my boyhood, but”—
“I am glad we have got beyond that,” interrupted the other, cheerily, “I am only an idler in the land. Meanwhile, I have my little interests,—read, write, sketch—”
“Flirt?” put in Hal, with growing displeasure.
“Not now,” said Phil, patting his shoulder, with imperturbable good-nature. “Our beloved has cured me of that. He who has won the pearl dives no more.”
“Do not let us speak of Hope,” said Harry. “Everything that you have been asserting Hope’s daily life disproves.”
“That may be,” answered Malbone, heartily. “But, Hal, I never flirted; I always despised it. It was always a grande passion with me, or what I took for such. I loved to be loved, I suppose; and there was always something new and fascinating to be explored in a human heart, that is, a woman’s.”
“Some new temple to profane?” asked Hal severely.
“Never!” said Philip. “I never profaned it. If I deceived, I shared the deception, at least for a time; and, as for sensuality, I had none in me.”
“Did you have nothing worse? Rousseau ends where Tom Jones begins.”
“My temperament saved me,” said Philip. “A woman is not a woman to me, without personal refinement.”
“Just what Rousseau said,” replied Harry.
“I acted upon it,” answered Malbone. “No one dislikes Blanche Ingleside and her demi monde more than I.”
“You ought not,” was the retort. “You help to bring other girls to her level.”
“Whom?” said Malbone, startled.
“Emilia.”
“Emilia?” repeated the other, coloring crimson. “I, who have warned her against Blanche’s society.”
“And have left her no other resource,” said Harry, coloring still more. “Malbone, you have gained (unconsciously of course) too much power over that girl, and the only effect of it is, to keep her in perpetual excitement. So she seeks Blanche, as she would any other strong stimulant. Hope does not seem to have discovered this, but Kate has, and I have.”
Hope came in, and Harry went out. The next day he came to Philip and apologized most warmly for his unjust and inconsiderate words. Malbone, always generous, bade him think no more about it, and Harry for that day reverted strongly to his first faith. “So noble, so high-toned,” he said to Kate. Indeed, a man never appears more magnanimous than in forgiving a friend who has told him the truth.
IT was true enough what Harry had said. Philip Malbone’s was that perilous Rousseau-like temperament, neither sincere enough for safety, nor false enough to alarm; the winning tenderness that thrills and softens at the mere neighborhood of a woman, and fascinates by its reality those whom no hypocrisy can deceive. It was a nature half amiable, half voluptuous, that disarmed others, seeming itself unarmed. He was never wholly ennobled by passion, for it never touched him deeply enough; and, on the other hand, he was not hardened by the habitual attitude of passion, for he was never really insincere. Sometimes it seemed as if nothing stood between him and utter profligacy but a little indolence, a little kindness, and a good deal of caution.
“There seems no such thing as serious repentance in me,” he had once said to Kate, two years before, when she had upbraided him with some desperate flirtation which had looked as if he would carry it as far as gentlemen did under King Charles II. “How does remorse begin?”
“Where you are beginning,” said Kate.
“I do not perceive that,” he answered. “My conscience seems, after all, to be only a form of good-nature. I like to be stirred by emotion, I suppose, and I like to study character. But I can always stop when it is evident that I shall cause pain to somebody. Is there any other motive?”
“In other words,” said she, “you apply the match, and then turn your back on the burning house.”
Philip colored. “How unjust you are! Of course, we all like to play with fire, but I always put it out before it can spread. Do you think I have no feeling?”
Kate stopped there, I suppose. Even she always stopped soon, if she undertook to interfere with Malbone. This charming Alcibiades always convinced them, after the wrestling was over, that he had not been thrown.
The only exception to this was in the case of Aunt Jane. If she had anything in common with Philip,—and there was a certain element of ingenuous unconsciousness in which they were not so far unlike,—it only placed them in the more complete antagonism. Perhaps if two beings were in absolutely no respect alike, they never could meet even for purposes of hostility; there must be some common ground from which the aversion may proceed. Moreover, in this case Aunt Jane utterly disbelieved in Malbone because she had reason to disbelieve in his father, and the better she knew the son the more she disliked the father retrospectively.
Philip was apt to be very heedless of such aversions,—indeed, he had few to heed,—but it was apparent that Aunt Jane was the only person with whom he was not quite at ease. Still, the solicitude did not trouble him very much, for he instinctively knew that it was not his particular actions which vexed her, so much as his very temperament and atmosphere,—things not to be changed. So he usually went his way; and if he sometimes felt one of her sharp retorts, could laugh it off that day and sleep it off before the next morning.
For you may be sure that Philip was very little troubled by inconvenient memories. He never had to affect forgetfulness of anything. The past slid from him so easily, he forgot even to try to forget. He liked to quote from Emerson, “What have I to do with repentance?” “What have my yesterday’s errors,” he would say, “to do with the life of to-day?”
“Everything,” interrupted Aunt Jane, “for you will repeat them to-day, if you can.”
“Not at all,” persisted he, accepting as conversation what she meant as a stab. “I may, indeed, commit greater errors,”—here she grimly nodded, as if she had no doubt of it,—“but never just the same. To-day must take thought for itself.”
“I wish it would,” she said, gently, and then went on with her own thoughts while he was silent. Presently she broke out again in her impulsive way.
“Depend upon it,” she said, “there is very little direct retribution in this world.”
Phil looked up, quite pleased at her indorsing one of his favorite views. She looked, as she always did, indignant at having said anything to please him.
“Yes,” said she, “it is the indirect retribution that crushes. I’ve seen enough of that, God knows. Kate, give me my thimble.”
Malbone had that smooth elasticity of surface which made even Aunt Jane’s strong fingers slip from him as they might from a fish, or from the soft, gelatinous stem of the water-target. Even in this case he only laughed good-naturedly, and went out, whistling like a mocking-bird, to call the children round him.
Toward the more wayward and impulsive Emilia the good lady was far more merciful. With all Aunt Jane’s formidable keenness, she was a little apt to be disarmed by youth and beauty, and had no very stern retributions except for those past middle age. Emilia especially charmed her while she repelled. There was no getting beyond a certain point with this strange girl, any more than with Philip; but her depths tantalized, while his apparent shallows were only vexatious. Emilia was usually sweet, winning, cordial, and seemed ready to glide into one’s heart as softly as she glided into the room; she liked to please, and found it very easy. Yet she left the impression that this smooth and delicate loveliness went but an inch beyond the surface, like the soft, thin foam that enamels yonder tract of ocean, belongs to it, is a part of it, yet is, after all, but a bequest of tempests, and covers only a dark abyss of crossing currents and desolate tangles of rootless kelp. Everybody was drawn to her, yet not a soul took any comfort in her. Her very voice had in it a despairing sweetness, that seemed far in advance of her actual history; it was an anticipated miserere, a perpetual dirge, where nothing had yet gone down. So Aunt Jane, who was wont to be perfectly decisive in her treatment of every human being, was fluctuating and inconsistent with Emilia. She could not help being fascinated by the motherless child, and yet scorned herself for even the doubting love she gave.
“Only think, auntie,” said Kate, “how you kissed Emilia, yesterday!”
“Of course I did,” she remorsefully owned. “I have kissed her a great many times too often. I never will kiss her again. There is nothing but sorrow to be found in loving her, and her heart is no larger than her feet. Today she was not even pretty! If it were not for her voice, I think I should never wish to see her again.”
But when that soft, pleading voice came once more, and Emilia asked perhaps for luncheon, in tones fit for Ophelia, Aunt Jane instantly yielded. One might as well have tried to enforce indignation against the Babes in the Wood.
This perpetual mute appeal was further strengthened by a peculiar physical habit in Emilia, which first alarmed the household, but soon ceased to inspire terror. She fainted very easily, and had attacks at long intervals akin to faintness, and lasting for several hours. The physicians pronounced them cataleptic in their nature, saying that they brought no danger, and that she would certainly outgrow them. They were sometimes produced by fatigue, sometimes by excitement, but they brought no agitation with them, nor any development of abnormal powers. They simply wrapped her in a profound repose, from which no effort could rouse her, till the trance passed by. Her eyes gradually closed, her voice died away, and all movement ceased, save that her eyelids sometimes trembled without opening, and sweet evanescent expressions chased each other across her face,—the shadows of thoughts unseen. For a time she seemed to distinguish the touch of different persons by preference or pain; but soon even this sign of recognition vanished, and the household could only wait and watch, while she sank into deeper and yet deeper repose.
There was something inexpressibly sweet, appealing, and touching in this impenetrable slumber, when it was at its deepest. She looked so young, so delicate, so lovely; it was as if she had entered into a shrine, and some sacred curtain had been dropped to shield her from all the cares and perplexities of life. She lived, she breathed, and yet all the storms of life could but beat against her powerless, as the waves beat on the shore. Safe in this beautiful semblance of death,—her pulse a little accelerated, her rich color only softened, her eyelids drooping, her exquisite mouth curved into the sweetness it had lacked in waking,—she lay unconscious and supreme, the temporary monarch of the household, entranced upon her throne. A few hours having passed, she suddenly waked, and was a self-willed, passionate girl once more. When she spoke, it was with a voice wholly natural; she had no recollection of what had happened, and no curiosity to learn.
IT had been a lovely summer day, with a tinge of autumnal coolness toward nightfall, ending in what Aunt Jane called a “quince-jelly sunset.” Kate and Emilia sat upon the Blue Rocks, earnestly talking.
“Promise, Emilia!” said Kate.
Emilia said nothing.
“Remember,” continued Kate, “he is Hope’s betrothed. Promise, promise, promise!”
Emilia looked into Kate’s face and saw it flushed with a generous eagerness, that called forth an answering look in her. She tried to speak, and the words died into silence. There was a pause, while each watched the other.
When one soul is grappling with another for life, such silence may last an instant too long; and Kate soon felt her grasp slipping. Momentarily the spell relaxed. Other thoughts swelled up, and Emilia’s eyes began to wander; delicious memories stole in, of walks through blossoming paths with Malbone,—of lingering steps, half-stifled words and sentences left unfinished;—then, alas! of passionate caresses,—other blossoming paths that only showed the way to sin, but had never quite led her there, she fancied. There was so much to tell, more than could ever be explained or justified. Moment by moment, farther and farther strayed the wandering thoughts, and when the poor child looked in Kate’s face again, the mist between them seemed to have grown wide and dense, as if neither eyes nor words nor hands could ever meet again. When she spoke it was to say something evasive and unimportant, and her voice was as one from the grave.
In truth, Philip had given Emilia his heart to play with at Neuchatel, that he might beguile her from an attachment they had all regretted. The device succeeded. The toy once in her hand, the passionate girl had kept it, had clung to him with all her might; he could not shake her off. Nor was this the worst, for to his dismay he found himself responding to her love with a self-abandonment of ardor for which all former loves had been but a cool preparation. He had not intended this; it seemed hardly his fault: his intentions had been good, or at least not bad. This piquant and wonderful fruit of nature, this girlish soul, he had merely touched it and it was his. Its mere fragrance was intoxicating. Good God! what should he do with it?
No clear answer coming, he had drifted on with that terrible facility for which years of self-indulged emotion had prepared him. Each step, while it was intended to be the last, only made some other last step needful.
He had begun wrong, for he had concealed his engagement, fancying that he could secure a stronger influence over this young girl without the knowledge. He had come to her simply as a friend of her Transatlantic kindred; and she, who was always rather indifferent to them, asked no questions, nor made the discovery till too late. Then, indeed, she had burst upon him with an impetuous despair that had alarmed him. He feared, not that she would do herself any violence, for she had a childish dread of death, but that she would show some desperate animosity toward Hope, whenever they should meet. After a long struggle, he had touched, not her sense of justice, for she had none, but her love for him; he had aroused her tenderness and her pride.
Without his actual assurance, she yet believed that he would release himself in some way from his betrothal, and love only her.
Malbone had fortunately great control over Emilia when near her, and could thus keep the sight of this stormy passion from the pure and unconscious Hope. But a new distress opened before him, from the time when he again touched Hope’s hand. The close intercourse of the voyage had given him for the time almost a surfeit of the hot-house atmosphere of Emilia’s love. The first contact of Hope’s cool, smooth fingers, the soft light of her clear eyes, the breezy grace of her motions, the rose-odors that clung around her, brought back all his early passion. Apart from this voluptuousness of the heart into which he had fallen, Malbone’s was a simple and unspoiled nature; he had no vices, and had always won popularity too easily to be obliged to stoop for it; so all that was noblest in him paid allegiance to Hope. From the moment they again met, his wayward heart reverted to her. He had been in a dream, he said to himself; he would conquer it and be only hers; he would go away with her into the forests and green fields she loved, or he would share in the life of usefulness for which she yearned. But then, what was he to do with this little waif from the heart’s tropics,—once tampered with, in an hour of mad dalliance, and now adhering in-separably to his life? Supposing him ready to separate from her, could she be detached from him?
Kate’s anxieties, when she at last hinted them to Malbone, only sent him further into revery. “How is it,” he asked himself, “that when I only sought to love and be loved, I have thus entangled myself in the fate of others? How is one’s heart to be governed? Is there any such governing? Mlle. Clairon complained that, so soon as she became seriously attached to any one, she was sure to meet somebody else whom she liked better. Have human hearts,” he said, “or at least, has my heart, no more stability than this?”
It did not help the matter when Emilia went to stay awhile with Mrs. Meredith. The event came about in this way. Hope and Kate had been to a dinner-party, and were as usual reciting their experiences to Aunt Jane.
“Was it pleasant?” said that sympathetic lady.
“It was one of those dreadfully dark dining-rooms,” said Hope, seating herself at the open window.
“Why do they make them look so like tombs?” said Kate.
“Because,” said her aunt, “most Americans pass from them to the tomb, after eating such indigestible things. There is a wish for a gentle transition.”
“Aunt Jane,” said Hope, “Mrs. Meredith asks to have a little visit from Emilia. Do you think she had better go?”
“Mrs. Meredith?” asked Aunt Jane. “Is that woman alive yet?”
“Why, auntie!” said Kate. “We were talking about her only a week ago.”
“Perhaps so,” conceded Aunt Jane, reluctantly. “But it seems to me she has great length of days!”
“How very improperly you are talking, dear!” said Kate. “She is not more than forty, and you are—”
“Fifty-four,” interrupted the other.
“Then she has not seen nearly so many days as you.”
“But they are such long days! That is what I must have meant. One of her days is as long as three of mine. She is so tiresome!”
“She does not tire you very often,” said Kate.
“She comes once a year,” said Aunt Jane. “And then it is not to see me. She comes out of respect to the memory of my great-aunt, with whom Talleyrand fell in love, when he was in America, before Mrs. Meredith was born. Yes, Emilia may as well go.”
So Emilia went. To provide her with companionship, Mrs. Meredith kindly had Blanche Ingleside to stay there also. Blanche stayed at different houses a good deal. To do her justice, she was very good company, when put upon her best behavior, and beyond the reach of her demure mamma. She was always in spirits, often good-natured, and kept everything in lively motion, you may be sure. She found it not unpleasant, in rich houses, to escape some of those little domestic parsimonies which the world saw not in her own; and to secure this felicity she could sometimes lay great restraints upon herself, for as much as twenty-four hours. She seemed a little out of place, certainly, amid the precise proprieties of Mrs. Meredith’s establishment. But Blanche and her mother still held their place in society, and it was nothing to Mrs. Meredith who came to her doors, but only from what other doors they came.
She would have liked to see all “the best houses” connected by secret galleries or underground passages, of which she and a few others should hold the keys. A guest properly presented could then go the rounds of all unerringly, leaving his card at each, while improper acquaintances in vain howled for admission at the outer wall. For the rest, her ideal of social happiness was a series of perfectly ordered entertainments, at each of which there should be precisely the same guests, the same topics, the same supper, and the same ennui.
MALBONE stood one morning on the pier behind the house. A two days’ fog was dispersing. The southwest breeze rippled the deep blue water; sailboats, blue, red, and green, were darting about like white-winged butterflies; sloops passed and repassed, cutting the air with the white and slender points of their gaff-topsails. The liberated sunbeams spread and penetrated everywhere, and even came up to play (reflected from the water) beneath the shadowy, overhanging counters of dark vessels. Beyond, the atmosphere was still busy in rolling away its vapors, brushing the last gray fringes from the low hills, and leaving over them only the thinnest aerial veil. Farther down the bay, the pale tower of the crumbling fort was now shrouded, now revealed, then hung with floating lines of vapor as with banners.
Hope came down on the pier to Malbone, who was looking at the boats. He saw with surprise that her calm brow was a little clouded, her lips compressed, and her eyes full of tears.
“Philip,” she said, abruptly, “do you love me?”
“Do you doubt it?” said he, smiling, a little uneasily.
Fixing her eyes upon him, she said, more seriously: “There is a more important question, Philip. Tell me truly, do you care about Emilia?”
He started at the words, and looked eagerly in her face for an explanation. Her expression only showed the most anxious solicitude.
For one moment the wild impulse came up in his mind to put an entire trust in this truthful woman, and tell her all. Then the habit of concealment came back to him, the dull hopelessness of a divided duty, and the impossibility of explanations. How could he justify himself to her when he did not really know himself? So he merely said, “Yes.”
“She is your sister,” he added, in an explanatory tone, after a pause; and despised himself for the subterfuge. It is amazing how long a man may be false in action before he ceases to shrink from being false in words.
“Philip,” said the unsuspecting Hope, “I knew that you cared about her. I have seen you look at her with so much affection; and then again I have seen you look cold and almost stern. She notices it, I am sure she does, this changeableness. But this is not why I ask the question. I think you must have seen something else that I have been observing, and if you care about her, even for my sake, it is enough.”
Here Philip started, and felt relieved.
“You must be her friend,” continued Hope, eagerly. “She has changed her whole manner and habits very fast. Blanche Ingleside and that set seem to have wholly controlled her, and there is something reckless in all her ways. You are the only person who can help her.”
“How?”
“I do not know how,” said Hope, almost impatiently. “You know how. You have wonderful influence. You saved her before, and will do it again. I put her in your hands.”
“What can I do for her?” asked he, with a strange mingling of terror and delight.
“Everything,” said she. “If she has your society, she will not care for those people, so much her inferiors in character. Devote yourself to her for a time.”
“And leave you?” said Philip, hesitatingly.
“Anything, anything,” said she. “If I do not see you for a month, I can bear it. Only promise me two things. First, that you will go to her this very day. She dines with Mrs. Ingleside.”
Philip agreed.
“Then,” said Hope, with saddened tones, “you must not say it was I who sent you. Indeed you must not. That would spoil all. Let her think that your own impulse leads you, and then she will yield. I know Emilia enough for that.”
Malbone paused, half in ecstasy, half in dismay. Were all the events of life combining to ruin or to save him? This young girl, whom he so passionately loved, was she to be thrust back into his arms, and was he to be told to clasp her and be silent? And that by Hope, and in the name of duty?
It seemed a strange position, even for him who was so eager for fresh experiences and difficult combinations. At Hope’s appeal he was to risk Hope’s peace forever; he was to make her sweet sisterly affection its own executioner. In obedience to her love he must revive Emilia’s. The tender intercourse which he had been trying to renounce as a crime must be rebaptized as a duty. Was ever a man placed, he thought, in a position so inextricable, so disastrous? What could he offer Emilia? How could he explain to her his position? He could not even tell her that it was at Hope’s command he sought her.
He who is summoned to rescue a drowning man, knowing that he himself may go down with that inevitable clutch around his neck, is placed in some such situation as Philip’s. Yet Hope had appealed to him so simply, had trusted him so nobly! Suppose that, by any self-control, or wisdom, or unexpected aid of Heaven, he could serve both her and Emilia, was it not his duty? What if it should prove that he was right in loving them both, and had only erred when he cursed himself for tampering with their destinies? Perhaps, after all, the Divine Love had been guiding him, and at some appointed signal all these complications were to be cleared, and he and his various loves were somehow to be ingeniously provided for, and all be made happy ever after.
He really grew quite tender and devout over these meditations. Phil was not a conceited fellow, by any means, but he had been so often told by women that their love for him had been a blessing to their souls, that he quite acquiesced in being a providential agent in that particular direction. Considered as a form of self-sacrifice, it was not without its pleasures.
Malbone drove that afternoon to Mrs. Ingleside’s charming abode, whither a few ladies were wont to resort, and a great many gentlemen. He timed his call between the hours of dining and driving, and made sure that Emilia had not yet emerged. Two or three equipages beside his own were in waiting at the gate, and gay voices resounded from the house. A servant received him at the door, and taking him for a tardy guest, ushered him at once into the dining-room. He was indifferent to this, for he had been too often sought as a guest by Mrs. Ingleside to stand on any ceremony beneath her roof.
That fair hostess, in all the beauty of her shoulders, rose to greet him, from a table where six or eight guests yet lingered over flowers and wine. The gentlemen were smoking, and some of the ladies were trying to look at ease with cigarettes. Malbone knew the whole company, and greeted them with his accustomed ease. He would not have been embarrassed if they had been the Forty Thieves. Some of them, indeed, were not so far removed from that fabled band, only it was their fortunes, instead of themselves, that lay in the jars of oil.
“You find us all here,” said Mrs. Ingleside, sweetly. “We will wait till the gentlemen finish their cigars, before driving.”
“Count me in, please,” said Blanche, in her usual vein of frankness. “Unless mamma wishes me to conclude my weed on the Avenue. It would be fun, though. Fancy the dismay of the Frenchmen and the dowagers!”
“And old Lambert,” said one of the other girls, delightedly.
“Yes,” said Blanche. “The elderly party from the rural districts, who talks to us about the domestic virtues of the wife of his youth.”
“Thinks women should cruise with a broom at their mast-heads, like Admiral somebody in England,” said another damsel, who was rolling a cigarette for a midshipman.
“You see we do not follow the English style,” said the smooth hostess to Philip. “Ladies retiring after dinner! After all, it is a coarse practice. You agree with me, Mr. Malbone?”
“Speak your mind,” said Blanche, coolly. “Don’t say yes if you’d rather not. Because we find a thing a bore, you’ve no call to say so.”
“I always say,” continued the matron, “that the presence of woman is needed as a refining influence.”
Malbone looked round for the refining influences. Blanche was tilted back in her chair, with one foot on the rung of the chair before her, resuming a loud-toned discourse with Count Posen as to his projected work on American society. She was trying to extort a promise that she should appear in its pages, which, as we all remember, she did. One of her attendant nymphs sat leaning her elbows on the table, “talking horse” with a gentleman who had an undoubted professional claim to a knowledge of that commodity. Another, having finished her manufactured cigarette, was making the grinning midshipman open his lips wider and wider to receive it. Mrs. Ingleside was talking in her mincing way with a Jew broker, whose English was as imperfect as his morals, and who needed nothing to make him a millionnaire but a turn of bad luck for somebody else. Half the men in the room would have felt quite ill at ease in any circle of refined women, but there was not one who did not feel perfectly unembarrassed around Mrs. Ingleside’s board.
“Upon my word,” thought Malbone, “I never fancied the English after-dinner practice, any more than did Napoleon. But if this goes on, it is the gentlemen who ought to withdraw. Cannot somebody lead the way to the drawing-room, and leave the ladies to finish their cigars?”
Till now he had hardly dared to look at Emilia. He saw with a thrill of love that she was the one person in the room who appeared out of place or ill at ease. She did not glance at him, but held her cigarette in silence and refused to light it. She had boasted to him once of having learned to smoke at school.
“What’s the matter, Emmy?” suddenly exclaimed Blanche. “Are you under a cloud, that you don’t blow one?”
“Blanche, Blanche,” said her mother, in sweet reproof. “Mr. Malbone, what shall I do with this wild girl? Such a light way of talking! But I can assure you that she is really very fond of the society of intellectual, superior men. I often tell her that they are, after all, her most congenial associates. More so than the young and giddy.”
“You’d better believe it,” said the unabashed damsel. “Take notice that whenever I go to a dinner-party I look round for a clergyman to drink wine with.”
“Incorrigible!” said the caressing mother. “Mr. Malbone would hardly imagine you had been bred in a Christian land.”
“I have, though,” retorted Blanche. “My esteemed parent always accustomed me to give up something during Lent,—champagne, or the New York Herald, or something.”
The young men roared, and, had time and cosmetics made it possible, Mrs. Ingleside would have blushed becomingly. After all, the daughter was the better of the two. Her bluntness was refreshing beside the mother’s suavity; she had a certain generosity, too, and in a case of real destitution would have lent her best ear-rings to a friend.
By this time Malbone had edged himself to Emilia’s side. “Will you drive with me?” he murmured in an undertone.
She nodded slightly, abruptly, and he withdrew again.
“It seems barbarous,” said he aloud, “to break up the party. But I must claim my promised drive with Miss Emilia.”
Blanche looked up, for once amazed, having heard a different programme arranged. Count Posen looked up also. But he thought he must have misunderstood Emilia’s acceptance of his previous offer to drive her; and as he prided himself even more on his English than on his gallantry, he said no more. It was no great matter. Young Jones’s dog-cart was at the door, and always opened eagerly its arms to anybody with a title.