CHAPTER XXXII.THE DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.
Another year has passed—a busy and prosperous year for the firm of “Dykes & Delano, Florists.” Miss Galway, the modiste, still continued to dispose of the small bouquets, and for two years, finding the supply constant and the demand certain, she had devoted one of her windows exclusively to them, furnished it with a little fountain, and given it into the hands of the little girl, her sister, who sold a part of Susie’s first installment on the Common. On the promise of Miss Galway to devote the whole proceeds of this window to the education of the little girl, our florists had agreed to continue the supply two years more, though they now had their own showroom and order department in the city, conducted by Annie, now Mrs. Storrs, assisted by another woman as book-keeper; for the firm of Dykes & Delano were “sworn,” as the doctor declared, to never employ a man when a woman could be found to do the work required. The conservatory had been extended and supplied with new heating apparatus. The wedding of Annie and George had taken place as the doctor predicted, and Min had a lion’s share of the wedding-cake, having munched it at intervals for a month after the event. She was nownearly five and a half years old, for it was April, and somewhat more than a year since Annie found her new and better world through the good and great heart of Dr. Forest. George had kept his promise to the doctor, to enter the lists as the champion of women, and under the influence of his reading and the society of Annie’s friends, he had greatly improved. His secret ambition was to become an author; and though he continued to gain his bread as a compositor, and was expert in the art, he spent all his spare time writing or studying. Annie proved in every way a treasure to him, and had implicit faith in his success. She wrote every week to “Madame Susie,” as she called her, or to Clara, giving the most careful and minute account of the progress of her wing of the business. Orders came in constantly, after the first six months; and although the firm had opened business relations with a great English nursery establishment in another part of the State, which supplied them with young shade-trees, shrubs, and evergreens from rare foreign invoices, they could hardly supply the demand. Ten acres of Minnie’s legacy from Mrs. Buzzell had been put in order as a nursery, and the propagation of shrubs and trees was progressing finely. Clara and Susie became more and more enterprising and ambitious. The taste in Oakdale and neighboring towns for lawn and park cultivation, was rapidly increasing, and the young firm looked forward to getting their supplies directly from England, instead of receiving them at second hand. One man was now constantly employed in the nursery, and other help indoors and out, when the busier part of the season demanded more hands.
One morning, as Clara was busy in the conservatory,Susie brought her the card of a gentleman who was waiting in the sitting-room.
“Frauenstein?” said Clara, looking at the card, on which was written, in pencil underneath the name, “sends his compliments to Mrs. Delano and her partner, and would esteem it a favor to be admitted into her conservatories.”
“Bring him in, Susie. I cannot present myself in the drawing-room in this rig. Don’t you think I shall make an impression on his countship?” she asked, glancing at her looped-up dress and bibbed apron.
“Why not? You are beautiful in any dress.”
“You wicked little flatterer! Well, send in his Exalted Highness, the Count Von Frauenstein.”
Before Clara had scarcely glanced at the face of the count, she was strongly impressed with the distinguished air of the man. He wore a dark-blue circular, reaching nearly to the knee, and as he stepped through the folding-doors into the broad, central passage in the conservatory, he removed a very elegant shaped hat of soft felt, and seeing Clara, bowed silently, with a simple, courtly air, seldom attained except by men of the Continent. Clara returned the salute, but remembering the European custom, did not offer him her hand.
“Madam,” he said, “I have had several glimpses of your flowers from the outside, and I greatly desire to have a better view, if you will pardon my presumption.”
“I am very glad to see you, sir,” Clara replied. “My father has often spoken of you, for he is one of your ardent admirers.”
“He flatters me greatly. I am proud of his good opinion, for it is worth more than that of other men.”
After passing, in a few minutes, those meaningless and unremembered preliminaries, inevitable between those meeting for the first time, and conscious of affecting each other and of being affected by a new and strange power, the count said: “To-night I hope to meet Dr. Forest at the Kendrick reception. You, madam, do not patronize the society here much, I think, or I should have had the pleasure of meeting you.” Clara’s perfect lips curled slightly, as she said, “No; I am nearly always at home since I returned to Oakdale.”
The count had called for no other purpose than to delight his senses with the sight of flowers, of which he was excessively fond; but standing there among the magnificent array of colors, and breathing the delicious breath of jasmines and heliotropes, he saw nothing, was conscious of nothing, but the presence of a charming woman, whose every movement, every outline, was a study, from the poise of her regal head to the step of her beautiful feet. As the conversation continued, his wonder increased that there should be found in an out-of-the-way, unknown niche of the world like this Oakdale, a woman of such rare intelligence, such grace of bearing, and that clear and concise expression of thoughts, found very seldom among women, and not often among men, except a choice few. Then there was a modesty surrounding her like an atmosphere—not the modesty that is supposed to belong only to refined women, but the modesty of the philosopher, and which is as charming in men as in women, and equally rare in both. Yet she was self-poised, sure of herself, and when she raised her long, dark lashes, and flashed her splendid frank eyes upon him, he felt a diffidence inher presence, arising from his keen desire to please her, and which was as new to him as it was charming.
While they were talking, Min came to the door and stopped, watching the count. As soon as he saw her, she made him a courtesy—a thing she seldom did impromptu, though she practiced it often before Clara and with her, Clara considering it an art, like musical execution, not to be attained except by commencing early. Min somewhat overdid it on this occasion, but the count returned the salutation very gravely and impressively. Min laughed. This just suited her, for she was, as the doctor said, a born courtier. “This is your brother’s child,” said the count, addressing Clara. “Why, she is wonderfully beautiful!”
Minnie opened a conversation with the count, which soon developed so many purely family matters, that Clara suggested her going away.
“Oh, do let me stay, auntie dear. I won’t talk so much any more.” After a little silence on her part, during which Min watched the count as a cat would a mouse, she asked, “Do you know what my name is?”
“I do. It is Minnie.”
“What is your name? please.”
“It is Paul.”
“Oh, that is a nice name. Paul, are you going to stay to dinner?” she asked, insinuating her hand into his.
Both smiled at this outrageous freedom in the child; but Clara said, “Minnie, you must know——”
“Now, auntie dear,please!” and she pressed her dimpled fingers tightly over her lips, as much as to say, “Not one more word shall they utter.”
“My child, auntie does not wish you to keep as silent as a statue, only you must not do all the talking; that is impolite.” The count pressed the little hand still resting in his, and the little hand returned the pressure with interest, but fearing to be sent away, she maintained her silence, evidently by a most gigantic effort, and the conversation continued until Min, hearing the doctor’s gig drive up, flew out of the conservatory like a streak. When she returned, it was in the doctor’s arms. He set her down, and greeted the count with more deep heartiness than Clara had ever seen her father manifest to any man, and this cordiality was fully reciprocated by the count. “It does me good to see you again,” said the doctor. “I was going to bring you to see my daughter. You must know it has been a long-cherished desire on my part that you two should meet. Knowing the opinions and tastes of both, I could predict that you would find much to like in each other.”
“Permit me to say,” said the count, “that you do me great honor. I have passed a more delightful hour than I ever expected to in Oakdale.”
“That is good!” said the doctor, delighted to discover an unmistakable sincerity in the count’s face, and he looked towards Clara.
“I see you expect me to be effusive, also,” she said, blushing. “Well, then, I am too embarrassed to be original. I can only echo the sentiment of your friend, papa.”
“My doctor,” said Min, who could not keep silent any longer, “Paul won’t stay to dinner; and we are going to have caper-sauce, and ’sparagus, and pudding.”
“How can he resist such aménu?” said the doctor,smiling, “but are you not rather presumptive in calling the gentleman Paul?”
“No,” said Min, decidedly. “He calls me Minnie.”
“Indeed!” replied the doctor, amused at Min’s justification.
“We shall be very glad to have you dine with us,” said Clara, “if you will do us that honor; and papa can stay also, perhaps.” But Von Frauenstein, knowing his invitation was more or less due to Min’s unofficial cordiality, declined, saying he was expected to dine with the Kendricks, which was the case, though he would willingly have forgotten that fact, had he felt perfectly free to obey his inclination. He added: “But if you will permit me, I will call again to see your flowers. You must know I have thus far given them no attention whatever.” The look that accompanied these last words could not fail to flatter Clara. The count had the most charming voice imaginable, perfectly modulated, and in its low tones as indescribable as music itself.
Clara knew well, and every woman understands how, though it can no more be expressed by words than can the sensation experienced at the sound of delicious music, that this was not the last time she was to see the Count Paul Von Frauenstein, and the certainty was a deep satisfaction to her. As for him, as he walked away, breathing the delicate perfume of a little bouquet in his button-hole that he had begged from Clara, he wondered simply that there was such a woman in the world; but he, a man of the world, acquainted with men and women of the best rank in many countries—he knew well the secret of the charm that invested her: it was her freedom—a quality found very seldom in women, and for thebest reasons. He met her as an equal on his own plane, and knew by instinct that no wealth, no social rank might win her hand, much less her heart. There were no outposts raised by feminine coquetry, to be taken by storm, or by strategy. If she could love a man, she would turn to him as naturally as the flowers turn to the sun. During the rest of the day, the count’s thoughts continually kept wandering back to that pleasant hour among the flowers; to the beautiful child, whose liking for him was so quick and frank in its expression; and especially to Clara, a worthy daughter, he thought, of one of the most admirable men he had ever met. And he thought of her, and saw her mentally, in other lights than simply as the noble daughter of an honest and clear-thinking man;—but of that hereafter.
That evening the parlors of the Kendrick mansion were brilliantly lighted. A pleasant wood fire burned in the open grates, and everywhere there was a rich odor of flowers pervading the air. Mrs. Kendrick, still young in appearance, wearing a black velvet dress with a train, and her thin, white hands sparkling with jewels, received the guests in a rather solemn manner that said, “Man delights me not, nor woman either;” but the guests were in no way troubled, for they did not expect any manifestation of exuberant cordiality on the part of any of the Kendricks. There were but very few invited, all being “solid” men and their wives, with the exception of the Forests. It was a special gathering, having a special object—that of bringing Frauenstein and the solid men together for a special purpose: namely, the springing of a trap to catch the count’s money for a grand life and fire insurance company, of which he was to be president.The count had often talked as if he would some day settle in Oakdale, though the suave, impressible cosmopolitan had talked the same thing from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast, whenever he had been pleased with the enterprise, industrial advantages, or location of places; but Kendrick did not know this; and as the count’s only relatives in America were the Kendricks, except the Delanos in Boston—and Boston the count hated—and as it was certain that Prussia was novaterlandto him, the chances did look rather bright. But the idea of tempting Frauenstein with the presidency of a great joint-stock insurance company, showed that Kendrick knew as little of the man as Satan did of the One he took up “into an exceeding high mountain.” Whoever is acquainted with the Mephistophelian penetration of Satan, must wonder at the shallow device. How could temporal power flatter One who said, “Blessed are the poor,” and taught that we should take no heed of the morrow?
The count was apparently without any ordinary ambition. He had made his immense wealth by what proved to be shrewd investments during and before the war. He had bought and sold cotton, turned over gold in Wall Street, bought stock in many enterprises, and instead of commanding two millions, as Kendrick believed, he had actually at his control five times that amount and more. Society, especially fashionable society, was duller to him than a twice-told tale. He saw too well its miserable want of high purpose, its petty jealousies and rivalries, its instinctive worship of idols that to him were a vanity and vexation of spirit. One thing his wealth gave him, and that he enjoyed—the power to utter frankly his opinions on all subjects. No one criticisedhisradicalism; inhim, it was only charming eccentricity, at the very worst. The only exception was Miss Charlotte, whom he had always highly esteemed. They had been fast friends for many years.
When Mrs. Forest entered the Kendrick drawing-rooms, the first thing she saw was Miss Charlotte Delano talking with Von Frauenstein. The latter she expected to see; but Miss Delano’s presence was a surprise that gave her great uneasiness. This, however, was of short duration. Both came forward and greeted her; the count, with an easy courtesy, and Charlotte, much to Mrs. Forest’s astonishment, rather more cordially than ever before. The three talked together for a few minutes, until Miss Louise Kendrick carried off the count to the piano. Then Mrs. Forest sought to relieve her over-burdened spirit. Seeing that Charlotte was not likely to broach the subject, she said:
“I have not seen you, Miss Delano, since the unfortunate separation of Dr. Delano and my daughter. I can assure you it was as terrible a shock to my family as it must have been to yours.”
“It is to be regretted, certainly,” answered Charlotte; “but I trust it will prove for the best. I don’t think Clara is to be blamed in the least.”
Now Mrs. Forest had counted on a right dismal, mutual howl over the disgrace to the two families, and the sympathy she expected, from the moment she saw that Miss Charlotte was not disposed to avoid her, was totally wanting. Mrs. Forest began to fear that the whole world was lapsing into loose and latitudinarian sentiments. Pretty soon the fact was revealed that Clara had visited Charlotte in Boston since the separation.By great effort Mrs. Forest concealed her annoyance. Clearly there was a secret kept from her by the doctor, for, of course, whatever Clara did he would know. To vex Mrs. Forest still more, Charlotte said that she had never really been acquainted with Clara until the separation, and that it was owing to the trial Clara had gone through that they had been drawn together. Here then was an anomaly; the very thing that had alienated her own mother from Clara had cemented the friendship between Clara and Dr. Delano’s only sister! Mrs. Forest was at loggerheads with herself and the world generally.
While the count played an accompaniment for a duet by the twins, the solid men were talking in the further parlor, hidden from the piano by one of the folding-doors. The principal one, after Kendrick, was Mr. Burnham, one of the bank directors—a bald, clean-shaven, oldish gentleman, whose whole air suggested stocks, bonds, investments, and high rates of interest. He sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, for lounging or ease was something he had never cultivated. Like Kendrick, making money was the only interest he had in life; not so much from any miserly feeling perhaps, as from long habit of thinking and scheming in that one narrow field. As many women grow by habit into household drudges, until they come to feel uneasy in pretty dresses and momentary release from the housekeeping treadmill, so these men felt uneasy, and almost out of place any where but in the counting-room. After a while the solid Burnham said: “I don’t see, Kendrick, that we are to get a chance at the count to-night.”
“Upon my word,” said another, “he is as fond of woman’s talk as a sophomore.”
“A wise fool, eh?” said Kendrick. “Yes, these foreigners are funny dogs; but Frauenstein has a remarkably clear head, financially, though he’s all wrong in politics—believes in female suffrage, for example. All the women like him, that’s certain.”
“H’m! Not difficult to find a man agreeable who is a count and a millionaire. Singular there should be so much attraction in a title in this democratic country.”
“Frauenstein maintains that we are not a democratic country,” said Kendrick; “that there never has been a democratic government in the world’s history, because never one where all citizens have the ballot.”
“Haven’t they in this country? I should like to know,” said Mr. Burnham.
“Why, women have not, and they constitute more than half of the adult citizens. I tell you, Burnham, you can’t argue that question with the count. He’s armed at all points.”
“I’ve no desire to; but I don’t feel like waiting much longer for him to get through his opera squalling and dawdling with the women.”
Now it was a part of Kendrick’s plan to broach the insurance scheme, not in a set business way, but to spring it suddenly upon the count in a general conversation when the ladies were present. He knew that many men, ladies’ men especially, would be more vulnerable under such circumstances—less apt to manifest any closeness where money was concerned. The opportunity was soon found.
With the collation, or after it, coffee was brought in—a thing never dreamed of at night, except when the count was present; then, indeed, it was available atalmost any hour, for he was, like most Europeans, very fond of it. The solid men joined the group of three or four around a table, where the count was sipping hiscafé noir.
“Wouldn’t you like some cognac in your coffee, Frauenstein?” asked Mr. Kendrick; and a glance at the waiter caused an elegant decanter to appear. The count measured out two tea-spoonfuls. Kendrick and the other gentlemen drank a tiny glass clear, and while Frauenstein was talking to Mrs. Burnham and Mrs. Kendrick about the beauties and merits generally of Oakdale, the solid men added valuable information about the increase of population and the enterprise of the town. This led up to the subject neatly, and Kendrick introduced the insurance scheme, and hoped the count would examine it. “We ought to start,” he said, “with a capital of half a million—say a hundred shares, at five thousand dollars each. The truth is, everything is ripe for a heavy insurance business and the capital can easily be doubled in a short time. The heaviest buyer would be the president, of course.”
“That should be you, count,” said Burnham, rolling the tiny stem of his glass, and looking boldly at a point between the count’s eyes. The golden bait was not snapped at. On the contrary, Frauenstein threw cold water on the project. He said he did not believe in private insurance companies. The government should insure all its citizens. “Now this scheme,” he said, “will benefit a few at the expense of the many. Make it a mutual affair between all the house-owners in your town, and I will ‘go in,’ as you say.”
“How?” asked Kendrick, not liking to discourageany advance on the part of the count, whom he had just pronounced sound on questions of finance. “Give us your plan.”
“Well, issue for a month, in your daily paper, a call to the citizens to prepare for taking steps to form a mutual banking and insurance company, and announce a meeting at the end of that time, when they will have discussed the matter very generally. Let the president and board of directors be chosen by the popular voice. Trust the majority for knowing who the honest men are. Let the shares be sold at one dollar, and limited to ten for each buyer, until a certain capital is raised. Above this amount, let any citizen deposit as much as he chooses, at the legal rate of interest, for the banking business. I will take all the stock of this part of the interest, if you like; for I am pretty nearly ready to set on foot a grand enterprise here in your midst—or just over the river, on the fifty acres of land I’ve bought there.”
By this time all were eager to know what the count’s proposition was; but he did not show his hand at once. He was, in fact, waiting for Dr. Forest, who, from the nature of his professional demands, was excused for coming at any hour. Mrs. Forest and her daughters had already retired.
Kendrick did not ask directly what the count’s enterprise was. He only remarked upon the nature of the land, its soil and so forth, and while he was talking, Miss Delano, who was seated next the count, pulled back the little bouquet that was falling forward from his button-hole, and said:
“How fragrant these are still! Where did you get them, Paul?”
“At your florists’ here—the firm of Dykes & Delano. I was in their conservatory an hour or so, this morning, and had a very interesting conversation with Mrs. Delano. Why, she is a very cultivated, very charming woman. Why is it, Mrs. Kendrick,” he asked, looking squarely at that lady, “that I have never met her at your receptions?”
Mercy! What a graveyard silence met this fatal question. Kendrick was fidgety; Burnham annoyed that the conversation had drifted away from business. Mrs. Kendrick, out of respect to Charlotte’s presence, could not answer as she wished, so she looked into her coffeecup, and the silence grew more and more oppressive. Charlotte did not consider herself called upon to speak. At length Mrs. Burnham said, smiling: “You ask, sir, for information, and I do not see why you should not be answered. Since Mrs. Delano came back to Oakdale, she has not been received in society.”
“Indeed!” replied the count, sucking the coffee-drops from his long, silky moustache, and using his napkin. “Indeed! then all I can say is, so much the worse for your Oakdale society. Madame, that lady’s presence would grace any society, however distinguished.”
Mrs. Kendrick saw clearly, by the attitude and expression of her husband, that he was expecting her tact to guide the conversation into a smoother current; so she said quickly, and with some embarrassment, that it was not so much the fault of Oakdale society as of Mrs. Delano herself, who evidently wished for seclusion, and therefore her motives should be respected.
This did not satisfy the count. He saw clearly the same spirit that he hated and had fought all his life—thesacrifice of honest fraternal feeling to conventional forms. He knew, without a word of explanation, that this Mrs. Delano had offended society, and had been unforgiven; and further, that this offence could hardly be her separation from her husband alone, since such separations are of common occurrence. He knew Dr. Delano, and after meeting Clara, he was at no loss to understand the cause of the discord between them. He gave his opinions, therefore, very concisely and pointedly, upon the folly and short-sightedness of society, in refusing fellowship with any honest citizens whose education and refinement gave them a natural right to admiration and respect; and then he gave his opinion upon the special claim these women florists had upon the community, because of their brave effort towards gaining an independence through means which added much to the refinement and education of the people.
“You are a true friend of our sex, Paul,” said Miss Delano; and addressing Louise Kendrick, she added, “You know Frauenstein means ‘ladies’ rock,’ so he is rightly named.”
“And on such rocks,” said Kendrick, “I suppose they would build their church.”
“There are not enough, unfortunately,” replied Miss Delano, “for a grand cathedral, so we must build little altars here and there, wherever we can find a Frauenstein.”
“You do me a very gracious honor,” said the count, “but one I am far from deserving. I believe, though, I am always on the side of women as against men. I see very few really happy women; and they never can be happy, until they are pecuniarily independent.All fields should be freely opened to them. They are quite as capable of enterprise as men are, and of filling offices of trust. They should have the same education that men have. Men should give their daughters money, as they do their sons, and send them abroad to continue their education. Every man knows how culture and experience adds to the attractiveness of a woman.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Burnham, petulantly, “I don’t see the use of bringing up our daughters to be modest and home-loving, if just the opposite qualities are to be most admired.”
“My dear madam,” replied the count, “do you suppose a woman is less a true woman and a devoted wife because of her culture and experience?”
This led Mrs. Burnham to say that every one was aware that Clara Forest was well educated, and “considered” very superior, intellectually, but that she had not certainly been a model wife.
“You are wrong,” said Miss Delano. “I find it very distasteful to me to discuss such a subject, but it is my duty to say that my brother, and not his wife, is at fault. The plain truth is, he did not show that he could appreciate her devotion.”
“Why can’t they make it up, then?” asked Burnham. “It looks bad to see wives cutting out in that way.”
“If women were independent, as I desire to see them,” said Von Frauenstein, “there would be much more ‘cutting out,’ as you call it, than you have any idea of. But, by the same token, it would make men more careful to carry the illusions of love into matrimony.”
Here Dr. Forest was announced, and the conversation took a different turn.