XIX
His father was standing on the hearth-rug, awaiting his return with some uneasiness. Fessenden gave his hand a mighty grip. “It’s all right,” he said. “I was born into this family, and that is the end of it. I’d never go back on you, anyhow. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to the mountains for a while. I’d like it awfully if you would come, too, of course—it’s only that I can think better there than anywhere else—and it occurs to me for the first time that I am rather tired—the examinations were very stiff, and I went in for an unusual amount.”
“The Adirondacks, by all means, if you prefer them; and I am badly in need of a holiday; but how would you like a yachting cruise for a change? I have a newsteam-yacht of 7000 tons that I think would interest—”
“A steam-yacht of 7000 tons!” cried Fessenden, his terrible responsibilities forgotten. “I can think of nothing on earth—what sort of machinery has she got? How fast can she go? Can I run her?”
While Mr. Abbott was answering questions, luncheon was announced, and he passed his hand through his son’s arm. “We are lunching earlier than usual on your account, and the time has run away,” he said haltingly. “I don’t wish to give you too many shocks in one day, but I must make another confession. You have—I married again some years ago.”
“My dear father,” replied his son dryly, “if you told me that you had married Queen Victoria and annexed the British realm—in fact I expect it. Are there—have I any more brothers and sisters scattered about among the palaces of Europe?”
Mr. Abbott laughed. “No, I did not marry another young wife. Your step-mother is ornamental in her way; but I selected her partly for companionship—I had known her always—partly because I wanted some one to bring up your sister with common-sense and care. I am perfectly satisfied with her; and, as she is a woman of infinite tact, I am sure you will get on with her whether you like her or not. She will probably be a little late for luncheon—she has so many morning engagements—charities—”
But this was not the occasion for Mrs. Abbott’s tact to fail her. She had given the father and son their uninterrupted morning; but to hasten home and preside at luncheon at the unseemly hour of half-past twelve, to make such a performance appear both natural and a compliment, was an occasion for subtlety too rare to be missed. She was standing in the dining-room as theyentered, one hand resting on the table, her eyes fixed in pleasant anticipation on the Gobelin which hung before the door. She still wore her hat, she was slightly flushed, her wrap was half removed—her whole appearance was stamped with delicate haste. As she shook hands warmly with Fessenden, smiling and talking rapidly in a very cultivated voice, her step-son wondered at her extreme unlikeness to any woman of her probable age that he had ever seen. She was tall, slender, as willowy as youth; her hair was as black as her eyes, her skin, although sallow, was without wrinkle or line, and her features were mobile. She wore a gown of light summer silk and a large hat, yet both were made and worn with such tact that the painful affectation of lost youth was not suggested: she looked what she was, a woman of the ever-receding middle age, fashionably dressed. Whatever use she might make of modern science to avert age, she employed no art to simulate youth, and as her year was various and crowded, both mind and face were plastic. Whatever her temperament may have been originally, she had made it equable long since; and while she escaped the stigma of amiability, her self-control carried her evenly through the smooth waters of her life. No one ever knew whether she were a really intellectual woman or a brilliantly superficial one, for she had a delicately masterful habit of changing the conversation, as if the end of living were to avert the monotonies. Even in the soft vagueness of chiffon and lace she looked well groomed, and on the promenade and in her carriage no one outshone her in distinction. Distinction, indeed, was the keynote of her personality; and it is doubtful if she would not have sacrificed all other possible gifts to this. An efficient housekeeper managed her twenty servants, her pin-money would have kept an ambitious family of the middle class in affluence, her life was farmore luxurious than royalty’s; she was the leader of the most exclusive old set in New York, presided over the most important charities, and yet found time to read the foreign news and play with intellect. With it all she had the rare good sense to be content with her lot and to keep her health.
But in spite of this charming personage who diffused ease as with unseen wings, discontent had assailed Fessenden again. The immense dim baronial room, the automatic butler, the catlike footmen, absurdly tall in their livery, the gold and crystal and floral splendor of the table, made him long gloomily forPocahontasand a “hunk” of Christina’s bread. He was grateful, however, that Mrs. Abbott talked constantly, in her sprightly abrupt manner. She had been educated as thoroughly as an Englishwoman, trained in a deportment which was a nice mixture of reserve and graciousness—Fessenden inferred that she would treat a servant with the utmost consideration, and never permit a liberty from a friend—and she had cultivated the art of conversation, of appearing spontaneous—rarely finishing a long sentence—and of adapting herself to all men, from a reforming drunkard in the slums straight up to royalty. She presently divined her step-son’s mental state, and diverted him by talking of his sister.
“Alexandra spends her winters with the Archduchess, with whom she was brought up, you know. She hates New York, but is fond of our home on the Hudson, and will go with me this summer to Newport—makes her début, you know—she is just eighteen, but went to court functions during the year preceding Rudolf’s death. The Archduchess—they are the same age—came out at sixteen—the Empress being so much away made a difference. Alexandra has rather Americanized her, although in her way she is as much of an individual asthe German Emperor—if she only becomes American enough, I believe Europe will hear of her—do you observe your father smile? It’s too bad, really—if you rush off yachting like this, you won’t see Alexandra for months; she has remained later than usual this year, for the Archduchess is still in terrible distress over the death of her brother—a greater tragedy for Europe than for her, however! I wonder how you and Alexandra will like each other? How odd for you to meet for the first time at your age! She is most brilliantly educated, very clever, and a really remarkable linguist; speaks even Hungarian with fluency, and already has quite a knowledge of the world—foreign men are such an education; but I don’t think she will marry early. She is a handsome girl—looks like your mother, but less beautiful; not in the least susceptible—has a remarkably level head; is singularly like your father in many respects. We hardly fancy she will marry a foreigner. If she does, her choice is sure to be a wise one; her head is very cool, and she is in a position to take any step with her eyes open.”
Fessenden had all the young, or the untravelled, American’s contempt for the foreigner. As his step-mother paused for breath, he elevated the nose that England had given him. “I should hope she wouldn’t,” he said emphatically. “Aren’t there enough men in America? Why don’t you make her live over here? I think hobnobbing with royalty is ridiculous for an American.”
Mrs. Abbott laughed pleasantly. “If you could only be an American woman for five minutes! But don’t worry; your sister is as good an American as you are—we have seen to that—and, as I have said, remarkably level-headed; Europe has merely improved, not changed her. I am positive you will be delighted with her, andwhat she can’t tell you ofla haute politique!— She is tremendously interested in you—but I must run! I have an engagement with the housekeeper, and she has the vice of promptness. She is moving us to The Abbey, and we are late this year—I love New York; and as your father was going abroad, and Alex is so far behind time—you will excuse me, I know; and mind you come to tea with me in my own little room at half-past five. You are included in that invitation, my lord.” And, nodding brightly, she left the room with an elastic step that in no way detracted from the light dignity of her carriage.
Fessenden drew a long breath.
“It is not always so,” said Mr. Abbott, with a smile. “As I remarked before, she has great tact. She saw that you were bored, and was determined to entertain you; but when another wants the floor, I do not know any one who can yield it more gracefully. But of course she lives in an atmosphere of flattery—you must expect to find her rather spoiled; but if you really are a good American, you won’t mind that. Alexandra is far less so; she has been educated in a severer school, and she has a far juster sense of proportion—knows exactly what the flattery of the courtier amounts to. That is one reason I have permitted her to be over there so much—one of many reasons.”
He lapsed into the dreamy condition his son remembered so well; but he emerged in a few moments, and waved his hand. The servants disappeared. Mr. Abbott concentrated his gaze on his son. “Fessenden,” he said slowly, “I will tell you my programme for the next year; and please remember, as you listen, that if you do not like it you are at liberty to follow one of your own. I shall never do more than suggest again; for I admit that I have had my day, and that it is your turnnow. To prove my entire sincerity in this respect, I shall deposit a million dollars to your credit to-morrow. That will make you your own master—”
Fessenden had flung himself half-way across the table. “I know what I will do with it,” he cried eagerly. “I never dreamed I could get to work so soon—but pardon me; go ahead, sir. Mine will keep.”
“I have no doubt that plans will come to you very thickly, but I want you to learn something of Europe before settling down. I shall take three secretaries on the yacht with me—I should break down if I relaxed altogether—and in the course of the journey you will learn a great deal about my affairs. After that preliminary course I want you to stay over there for a time, and apply yourself to the study of Europe. If churches and picture-galleries happen to interest you, polish them off as quickly as possible, and then get down beneath the surface. Study politics, governments, the financial and commercial conditions of the first-rate powers—make yourself master at first hand of national traits and idiosyncrasies; you will have letters that will carry you everywhere. There are going to be two controlling forces in the world in the next thirty years, yourself and William of Germany—if he lives!—if he lives! Keep a hawk-eye on him, and don’t make the common shallow mistake of underrating him. He alone can block the progress of the United States; all the other nations put together are not worth considering. He only needs certain conditions to scoop in Europe like another Charlemagne. It may be that he will create these conditions. It may be that you will help him to them, if you both happen to pull in the same direction. That of course is for the future. I will see that you meet him informally this summer. But if he fascinates you—as he probably will—make always this reserve: your future friendshipfor him depends upon his course towards the United States. It is not too soon to begin checkmating him, and it can always be done by this country; but it must be done by the individual. Washington is blind by too much occupation with other things. Would you like to walk down-town and see our offices? Historical landmarks, too—Washington—Hamilton— Let me hear your plans.”