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Title: Stories of New York
Author: Annie Eliot
George A. Hibbard
Bliss Perry
Edith Wharton
John S. Wood
Release date: December 10, 2024 [eBook #74866]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: C. Scribner's sons
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF NEW YORK ***
“_Books that you may carry
to the fire, and hold
readily in your hand, are
the most useful after all_”
—JOHNSON
[Illustration: [Books]]
STORIES OF
NEW YORK
[Illustration: [Couple]]
STORIES FROM SCRIBNER
❦
STORIES OF
NEW YORK
[Illustration: [Woman]]
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1894
_Copyright, 1893, by
Charles Scribner’s Sons_
_Trow Print_
STORIES OF NEW YORK
❦
FROM FOUR TO SIX
A COMEDIETTA BY ANNIE ELIOT
THE COMMONEST POSSIBLE STORY
BY BLISS PERRY
THE END OF THE BEGINNING
BY GEORGE A. HIBBARD
A PURITAN INGÉNUE
BY JOHN S. WOOD
MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW
BY EDITH WHARTON
FROM FOUR TO SIX
BY ANNIE ELIOT
A COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT
[Illustration: [Woman]]
ESTHER VAN DYKE. HAROLD WHITNEY. A MAID.
ESTHER _discovered seated in a New York drawing-room. She has been
reading and tearing old letters._
_E._ I am sure one might ask anyone to an afternoon tea, even if anyone
were one’s old lover; and I am sure one might come to anyone’s afternoon
tea, even if anyone were one’s quondam sweetheart. From both Harold’s
stand-point and mine, it seems to me perfectly safe. Certainly the
vainest man could not believe that a woman wished to rake up the leaves
of a dead past because she sent him an At-home from four to six card,
for a day when she is to be at home for two hundred people besides. If
it were an evening party, now—in summer with the lawn, or in winter with
a conservatory—or if there is not a conservatory there are always
stairs; and it’s daily more and more the fashion to build them curved.
Another generation may find discreet recesses at every landing. When
people are really thoughtful there will be a temporary addition where
people can go up and down. Oh, if it was an evening party I could not
blame Harold for staying away. Or if it was private theatricals—the
stage is itself one grand opportunity! Or a picnic—what innumerable
openings for raking up the dry leaves of a dead past on a picnic! But an
afternoon tea! Nothing stronger or dryer than tea-leaves to be had.
Harold need not be in the least afraid. Besides, it would have been
really unfriendly not to send him a card. Everybody knows he is at home
again, and from a four years’ trip. Even after all that has passed I
would not wish to be unfriendly. Four years, and they say that he is
engaged to Mattie Montgomery—and just before he went away he was engaged
to me. (_A little sadly._) Perhaps he was foolish. Perhaps—I was.
Undoubtedly we both were. I suppose I ought to feel flattered that he
waited four years—but somehow I don’t—altogether; “flattered” does not
seem to be the word. Well, it makes little difference now, and it will
make less when I tell him to-morrow that I am engaged to Dr. Tennant. I
thought I might as well look over his letters. I have burned all but the
last. (_Takes up letter from the table._) Here it is. (_Takes up a
second letter._) And here is Dr. Tennant’s first. Two models of
epistolary communication—but of different orders. (_Reads._)
“MY DEAR MISS VAN DYKE: I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon
you this afternoon at five o’clock. It rests with you whether or not
this pleasure is to be intensified a hundredfold, or attended with
lasting pain. I remain always,
“Yours most cordially,
“EDWARD TENNANT.”
What could be better suited to the circumstances than that? Not too
impassioned, but sufficiently interested. I am always affected by
well-turned phrases—I think this is charming. And here is Harold’s.
(_Reads other letter._)
“You have made it plain enough. There is no necessity for more words.
Heaven forgive you—and good-by.”
(_Thoughtfully._) He was in a pretty passion when he wrote that—and I
have not seen him since. I hope he will come to-morrow. He used to think
Mattie Montgomery was a doll of a thing. Perhaps he will tell her that I
am a—no, he won’t. Whatever I am, I’m not a doll of a thing, and he
knows it. (_Looks at the two letters side by side._) How amusing one’s
old flirtations look in the light of a new and serious reality—for I
have made up my mind what to say to Dr. Tennant. It will be rather good
fun to tell Harold of it confidentially to-morrow. I will drop it in his
tea with a lump of sugar. (_Glances at clock._) After four o’clock.
Well, I must go and make myself fascinating and give orders that Dr.
Tennant and I are not to be disturbed. We may as well begin to get used
to _tête-à-têtes_. (_Exit after putting the letters under a book, out of
sight._)
_Enter_ HAROLD WHITNEY. _He seems disturbed._
_H._ This is certainly confoundedly odd. I expected to find fifty other
people here at least, and Esther in her best gown receiving them. I
can’t have mistaken the hour. It is some time after four. There is
certainly a mistake somewhere, however, and under the circumstances it
is likely to be a particularly awkward one. I would walk a good mile and
a half to avoid a _tête-à-tête_ with Esther Van Dyke. Because I have
been fool enough after four years to remember the color of her eyes, I
don’t care to have her know it and see it. I would leave now, like the
historic Arab, if I hadn’t been such an ass as to give my card to the
servant, and Esther has seen it by this time. I would rather face the
music than give her the pleasure of laughing at me for running away. But
what does it mean? I must—the blood curdles in my veins at the thought—I
must have mistaken the day! The Fate which I have felt dogging my
footsteps from the cradle has at last laid hold upon me! I have dreamed
of getting to a place the day before I was asked. I have loitered
irresolutely on door-mats. I have gone slowly by and watched until I saw
another carriage go in, but I have never _done_ it before. And to have
come to Esther Van Dyke’s after four years, and such a parting, a day
too soon! My bitterest foe would find it in his heart to pity me now.
What can I do? (_Walks around the room and fingers things restlessly._)
I might go off with the spoons to divert suspicion. I would rather be
arrested as a professional burglar, entering the house under false
pretences, than witness Esther’s smile when she comes to a realizing
sense of what I have done. Professional burglars probably retain their
self-respect. There is no reason why they shouldn’t. The date of _their_
visit is not fixed by invitation. But, confound it! there won’t be any
spoons until to-morrow. Perhaps she won’t know I have come a day too
soon—but she always did know things—that was the kind of person she was.
(_Takes up a book from the table._) I might read to compose my mind.
“Familiar Quotations,”—I wish I could find an elegant and appropriate
one for the occasion. I can think of several, entirely familiar to the
most unlearned, but too forcible for a lady’s drawing-room. “Too late I
stayed” would hardly do. I wonder what the fellow would have sung if
“Too soon he’d come.” (_Throws down book._) I thought I could accept an
invitation to an afternoon tea, because I need only say a word to her,
see if she had changed, and leave. That seemed safe enough. Besides,
Miss Montgomery chaffed me about coming, and wouldn’t have hesitated to
make the most of it if I had stayed away. (_Looks about._) The room has
not changed much. I wonder—here she is. Now, for all I have learned in
four years, I would like to conceal myself in the scrap-basket, but it
is out of the question.
_Enter_ ESTHER.
_E._ How do you do, Mr. Whitney? I am very glad to see you. (_They shake
hands._)
_H._ It is very good of you to say so, Esth—Miss Van Dyke. (_Aside._) I
never felt so fresh in my life.
_E._ It was nice of you to think of coming this afternoon instead of
waiting until the crush to-morrow, when I should have an opportunity for
no more than a word with you.
_H._ (_aside_). She does not _look_ satirical. Why didn’t I bring some
flowers or something? (_They sit. Aloud, with somewhat exaggerated ease
of manner._) When one’s hostess receives all the world, one’s own
reception cannot be a personal one. After four years I wished for
something more positive. Perhaps I have been too bold, but an afternoon
tea is so very impersonal, you know.
_E._ (_a little embarrassed by his manner, aside_). Can it be that he
does not wish our relations to be impersonal? Of course not! (_Aloud._)
Yes, I know. Very impersonal indeed. I was thinking the same thing
before you came.
_H._ (_aside_). Yes, and I was thinking the same thing before I came. We
haven’t either of us gotten on much. (_Aloud._) I was always an exacting
sort of fellow, you know, so you will not be surprised at my coming to
get a reception on my own account.
_E._ (_aside_). I should think I did know. (_Aloud._) No, I am not
surprised. (_A moment’s pause—with a slight effort._) So you are an
exacting sort of fellow still? I am looking for the changes of four
years, you see.
_H._ (_significantly_). You may not find many, after all (_Somewhat
gloomily._) The rose-color wears off one’s glasses somewhat in four
years, to be sure, but I don’t think the perspective changes much.
_E._ Don’t you? It strikes me that time reverses the glasses—that we
find ourselves suddenly looking through the other end, and things that
once were so large are a long way off, and have become extremely small.
_H._ (_aside_). Which means, I suppose, that I have taken a back seat,
and must keep at opera-glass distance. (_Aloud._) Things have no
importance of their own, then? I suppose it is a good deal a matter of
which way you look at it.
_E._ Yes, education does everything for us—which is something of a
platitude. But I am sorry about the rose-color. I’d much rather you
should look at me through tinted glasses. I said the other day to a
confidential friend that my complexion is no longer what it was.
_H._ (_refusing to be diverted_). No, I do not think one’s views of
persons change—or perhaps I should say one’s attitude toward
persons—as do those of abstractions. One does not expect to find
truth—trust—honor—_love_, growing so large.
_E._ (_soberly_). In other words, truth is a hot-house, and one’s ideas
are tropical. Well, it is perhaps as well to come out into the open air,
even if things do seem a little—stunted—at first.
_H._ Undoubtedly. Yet the comfort of the human frame demands something
in the way of a temperate zone between. A sudden plunge into the arctic
regions is apt to convey a chill—quite a serious one sometimes.
_E._ (_aside_). I wonder if that is meant for a veiled allusion.
(_Aloud._) But nature generally provides a way of softening matters, and
makes such changes not chilling, but bracing.
_H._ (_carelessly_). Yes—Nature has been much maligned in her time, but,
after all she is kinder than humanity in certain of even its most
attractive forms. She is impartial and she contrives to let one down
easily. I am sometimes astonished that Nature should be personified as a
woman.
_E._ (_looking away from him_). I see you have become a cynic.
_H._ (_with intention_). I have, perhaps, lived up to my opportunities.
They have not been unfavorable to cynicism. (_Laughing._) Do you know,
Esther, this is very much the way we used to talk? We were continually
dealing in the most artistic abstractions. How easily one drops into old
fashions!
_E._ (_aside_). How can he speak so lightly of “the way we used to
talk,” or is it only I that remember? (_Aloud, coldly._) Possibly, but
old fashions are very readily seen not to belong to the present day. And
yet—I may be mistaken—but it seems to me that we used to talk in a way
that bordered on—on the concrete.
_H._ (_a little nonplussed_). Yes—that is true—but we were not so
successful there. (_Aside._) Decidedly we did. On the very concrete,
indeed! And that was where she always had the better of me. She is quite
capable of doing it again—but she does not wish to.
_E._ (_calmly_). But where were we in our abstractions? Ah, with Nature.
I always get beyond my depth when Nature is introduced into the
conversation. Human nature I do not mind at all, you know, but Nature by
itself frightens me. I think it is the capital N. I feel that I ought to
go out-of-doors and appreciate her.
_H._ I remember you were always afraid of getting beyond your depth. I
was less prudent, however, which was sometimes unfortunate. (_Aside._) I
shall be floundering again if I go on with this remembering. (_Aloud._)
So you are still cautious? I have not had the four years to myself. Have
they not changed _you_ at all, Esth—Miss Van Dyke?
_E._ (_pensively_). Yes.
_H._ (_with attention_). You are not quite the same, then? I should not
have known it.
_E._ (_with emphasis_). Wouldn’t you, really?
_H._ Unfortunately for me—no.
_E._ No, I am not the same.
_H._ (_in a low tone_). Will you tell me how you have changed?
_E._ (_after a pause_). I have grown stout! Yes, I have. I have gained
twenty pounds in the four years you have been away.
_H._ (_laughing_). The inference pains me deeply. But twenty pounds can
be judiciously distributed without actual injury to the possessor. Is
there anything else?
_E._ (_sentimentally_). Ah, yes, when I am introduced to a new man I no
longer expect to find him a mine of entertainment. I used to. Now I am
surprised if I have not to be clever for both of us.
_H._ Is that so new? (_Thoughtfully._) I sometimes think I was stupid
for both of us—or—could it have been only that you were too wise?
(_Aside._) Oh, this fatal tendency to reminiscence—and I know better!
_E._ (_with a slight effort_). You are carrying me too far back. I am
marking my progress since I saw you. (_Aside._) Certainly this is too
much like burrowing in the leaves of a dead past. No wonder he did not
wait until to-morrow.
_H._ Forgive me, and go on with the disillusionments.
[Illustration: [Couple]]
_E._ Sadder yet, I no longer care when a younger and a fairer girl “cuts
me out,” to put it boldly. I think I shall, you know, but I don’t. I
sigh—but I forget them—_both_!
_H._ This shows a callousness really alarming. You might at least
reserve the guiltier party for future punishment. Perfidy merits at
least remembrance. It is sometimes a man’s last hold.
_E._ (_carelessly_). A man should risk little on so commonplace a
resource—if one wishes to be remembered, one should be unusual. Besides,
you would imply that the man is the guiltier party?
_H._ Only as far as his lights are taken into consideration, of course.
Man is a poor creature at his best—in comparison.
_E._ And sometimes a comparatively innocent one. To find another woman
more attractive is blamable, but to be a more attractive woman ought to
be unpardonable.
_H._ “To err is human—fiendish to outshine.” I understand. (_With marked
politeness._) Permit me to suggest that it is rarely——
_E._ (_laughing_). But I have said I have lost my capacity for feeling
thrusts of this kind. (_In a lower tone._) At least, I believed that I
had.
_H._ (_dryly_). I was always a little unfortunate in my attempts to make
amends—always too late, perhaps.
_E._ (_meeting his eyes_). Yes, making amends was never your forte.
_H._ Any more than cherishing illusions is yours. But, pray, go on with
your revelations. I must improve the unexpected pleasure of finding you
alone.
_E._ (_a little embarrassed_). Whom, then, did you expect to find here?
(_Aside._) He cannot have known that Dr. Tennant is coming. (_Aloud._)
Who would interfere, did you think, with the personal welcome you so
desired?
_H._ (_aside_). I was getting on so well. (_Lightly._) Oh, party calls,
you know, and——
_E._ (_dryly_). You will find that _customs_ have not changed so much in
four years. It is still unusual to pay party calls in advance.
_H._ (_aside_). That was a brilliant way to recoup my falling fortunes!
(_Boldly._) Is this an indirect way of blaming me for coming this
afternoon? (_Rising._) I suppose it was unwise. (_Aside._) I should
rather think it was. (_Aloud._) I will go now—Esther.
_E._ (_quickly_). You know, Harold, I did not mean anything so rude. Do
not go—unless you must.
_H._ (_aside_). I must—theoretically. But I sha’nt—not after that
“Harold.” If I hadn’t prided myself for years on its being inalienable
property, I should say I was losing my head. (_Aloud._) Will you tell me
more of your four years?
_E._ (_seriously_). Yes. I have grown wise. I have grown hard—a little.
_H._ (_softly_). You were hard before—a little.
_E._ Are they not the same—wisdom and hardness? I have learned to
believe that they are.
_H._ (_impulsively_). Not always.
_E._ And I, too, have acquired the sense of proportion. I have seen
that—that—Love is not all the world. I have learned that the comfortable
is more to be desired than gold—yea, than fine gold.
_H._ Yes; Gold and Love must both be tried in the furnace, which is
seldom a comfortable operation.
_E._ And you—do you not agree with me? Is it not better to look on?
_H._ So long as it is not at another’s happiness that one has desired
for one’s self—yes.
_E._ (_aside_). How if it be another’s unhappiness, I wonder. Poor Dr.
Tennant. (_Sighs._)
_H._ (_aside_). I shall make an ass of myself in a moment. She is not
changed an atom. (_Aloud._) But what leaves of wisdom have you steeped
for me? I expected a cup of tea, and you have given me a decoction that
should heal all disappointments.
_E._ (_half sadly_). If I had known I possessed such a secret I should
have brewed some for myself before this. But (_rising_) if you expected
a cup of tea you shall have it.
_H._ (_eagerly_). By Jove! Esther! I beg pardon—but Miss Van Dyke, I beg
of you—— (_Stops helplessly._)
_E._ I was just about to send for it for myself. (_She rings. Aside._) I
see it all. He has come a day too soon. And he would have had me believe
that he cared to see me alone. And I was actually growing sentimental.
He shall pay for it. (_Enter a maid._) Tea, Mary Ann.
_H._ (_who has been fidgeting about the room—aside_). If only I had gone
half an hour ago—in the flush of triumph, as it were! It was
unnecessary, in order to avoid making a sentimental spectacle of myself,
to fall back upon the larder!
_E._ (_going back to table and taking up a letter_). Do you know what I
was doing when you came this afternoon?
_H._ Learning a new Kensington stitch? Studying a receipt-book? Putting
a man out of his misery by letter? These are, I believe, some
departments of “woman’s work.”
_E._ No, I was reading an old letter—one by which a man put himself out
of misery. Your last letter, in fact.
_H._ My last letter?
_E._ Yes.
MARY ANN _brings in the tea, and as_ ESTHER _moves things on the
table, she hands him_ DR. TENNANT’S _letter by mistake_. HAROLD
_glances at it and looks up surprised, but_ ESTHER _does not see
him_.
_H._ Am I to read this?
_E._ Certainly.
MARY ANN _leaves the room_. ESTHER _busies herself with the
tea-things_.
_H._ (_having read the letter—stiffly_). Very elegant penmanship.
_E._ (_surprised but indifferently_). I had not thought of that. (_A
pause._)
_H._ (_glancing at the letter again_). I fancy the writer did.
_E._ (_coldly_). Possibly. (_Aside._) Oh, why did I show it to him? I
would not have believed he would be so hard. (_Aloud._) Rather a
forcible style, I think.
_H._ Stiff, rather than forcible, I would suggest.
_E._ (_with suppressed feeling_). Your criticisms are less pointed than
usual. If you had said unnatural it might express your meaning still
better.
_H._ (_a little irritated_). He is a fortunate man who is able to
express himself with such justness and freedom from exaggeration.
_E._ It seemed to me exaggerated at the time.
_H._ (_with mock admiration_). Oh, how can you say so! It is positively
Grandisonian—almost Chesterfieldian. (_Aside._) And utterly detestable.
_E._ (_almost with tears_). I was wrong to fancy you would be interested
in such a trifle. Please give it back.
_H._ (_politely, handing it to her_). Not at all. Certainly, the writer
deserves the lasting happiness he refers to. (_Aside._) And I wish it
were nothing to me—if he gets it or not.
_E._ What do you mean? Is this what I gave you? Oh, dear! (_Much
embarrassed._) It was the wrong one! Never mind. Here is your tea.
_H._ (_takes the cup, after a short pause_). I feel as if I had forced
myself into your confidence.
_E._ You need not. It was my own stupidity, of course.
_H._ (_tastes his tea_). Might I see the other one?
_E._ Yes. (_Gives it to him._)
_H._ (_reads it while_ ESTHER _watches him_). Yes; well, I might have
said more. But that was enough.
_E._ Yes, that was, as the children say, a great plenty. Oh, I neglected
your tea! One lump, or two?
_H._ (_thoughtfully_). One. I wonder if it has?
_E._ What has?
_H._ Heaven.
_E._ Heaven has what?
_H._ Forgiven you.
_E._ I think so, by this time. It doesn’t bear malice. Cream?
_H._ Yes—prussic acid—anything. Thank you. You do not ask whether I have
or not.
_E._ No. I understood you shifted the responsibility once for all.
(_Sipping her tea._)
_H._ Perhaps I did. It is generally once for all with me.
_E._ Is it? It is better to have all—for once. It is broader. It is more
liberal. It is my motto.
_H._ Yes. So it was then. I have heard there is safety in numbers.
(_Aside._) If I believed that, I should begin to repeat the
multiplication-table. I shall never be in greater need of it.
_E._ Not always.
_H._ (_with an effort_). Possibly Sir Charles Grand—I mean Mr. Edward
Tennant—may have a narrowing influence. (_Aside._) It is no use. I can’t
be discreet. Confound Mr. Edward Tennant!
_E._ (_innocently_). Perhaps. (_Drinks tea._) And so you are engaged to
Mattie Montgomery?
_H._ (_formally_). You do me too much honor.
_E._ Really! (_More coolly._) That is a pity. I hoped we might proffer
mutual congratulations. An exchange of compliments is such a promoter of
good feeling.
_H._ (_more stiffly_). I see I have been remiss. But I did not
understand.
_E._ No, it is not yet time—but I have betrayed his confidence
inadvertently. To-morrow you must congratulate me. To-morrow I shall
tell you that I am engaged. Let me give you another cup.
_H._ (_rising_). No, one is enough. Once ought always to be enough! But
it seems I am fated to have it twice! I know I am incoherent—but never
mind! It’s the tea!
_E._ (_playing with her teaspoon a little nervously_). And you have
forgiven me?
_H._ I do not know that I have. But (_coldly_) whether I have or not is
of course only a personal matter.
_E._ (_feebly_). Of course.
_H._ And so you are to tell me to-morrow that you are engaged? Might I
ask you if, in taking this step, you were actuated by a wish to obtain
my forgiveness?
_E._ (_laughing_). I expected you to ask mine—for being engaged to
Mattie Montgomery.
_H._ (_sits_). Suppose this afternoon you tell me about the—to be
colloquial—the happy man. And I will have some more tea.
_E._ (_looking into the sugar-bowl_). Well, to tell the truth this
afternoon—he doesn’t happen—to be—colloquially—the happy man.
_H._ (_aside; walking about_). So that note was written to-day. I did
not see the date. It is not yet five o’clock, and it is not yet too
late. I shall gain nothing by getting rattled and making a fool of
myself. (_Aloud, coming back and holding out his cup, into which_ ESTHER
_drops sugar as they speak_.) Have I then taken his place?
_E._ (_gravely_). No. He is (_lump_) conservative (_lump_) in his
(_lump_) tastes (_lump_). He takes (_lump_) no sugar (_lump_) at all
(_lump_) in his.
_H._ (_who has been watching_ ESTHER’S _face, and not her fingers, sets
down his cup hastily_). Seven lumps is a little radical. Then you have
forgotten all in four years? (_Pacing the floor._) Forgotten what I,
Esther, have been fool enough to remember as if it had happened
yesterday! Who is it talks about woman’s constancy?
_E._ (_aside_). Not I. But I am very much afraid I shall begin to. Has
the tea gone to my head too?
_H._ (_with much feeling_). The bitterest lesson the four years have
taught me, Esther, is that one’s earliest lessons are never unlearned.
They have been kinder to you.
_E._ (_in a tone_). Have they? Perhaps. They have taught us both,
however, that it is not necessary to unlearn them; one can go on as if
one had never studied—old lessons.
_H._ Or old letters? (_Coming nearer and taking up the letter._) But you
did care for me enough to keep this letter—to read it over to-day—to
give one thought to old happiness in the presence of new?
_E._ (_recovering herself with an effort_). I thought enough of myself
to keep it. It is a mistaken theory that a woman keeps old love-letters
for the sake of the sender. She keeps them because they are
flattering—because they—they sound nice. I have lots more.
_H._ (_offended_). And you were only weeding them out to-day? Very well.
That is enough. No further words are necessary.
_E._ Yes—so you said before (_glancing at letter_), or something very
like it (_Looking into the teapot._) There is no more tea for us, and
the lamp has gone out. (_Looking about._) And no matches—unless you have
one in your pocket.
_H._ (_who has been thinking, moodily feels in all his pockets_). I am
very sorry—but I cannot supply you with even the necessaries of life.
_E._ Never mind, I can light it from the fire.
_H._ (_pushes the letters toward her_). Make a lamplighter of one of
these, and I will light it for you.
ESTHER _hesitates an instant, takes up one letter, and then the
other_.
_H._ Oh, use mine. It has failed to rekindle a passion, but it may do
for a teakettle. It may as well be reduced to ashes along with the rest
of the poor little love-story.
ESTHER _turns her head a little away and slowly twists both letters
into lamp-lighters_.
_H._ (_aside_). I shall let all my hopes burn in the flame with my
letter. If she uses that, I give her up. I shall know she is not mine to
give up. I have come to the pass where folly is my only reason. She is
twisting Dr. Tennant’s! But now she is twisting mine. (_She rises to go
to the fire and he rises to do it for her._)
_E._ I prefer to do it myself.
_She returns with one burning, with which she lights the lamp, and
lays the other down on the table. He takes it up eagerly._
_H._ So, Esther, you did not burn it, after all? (_Rising and coming
toward her._) You did not care that the last of it should go out in
ashes?
_E._ (_speaking lightly_). It was not that so much, but I was afraid it
was better suited for an—extinguisher. I think that was more what you
meant it for.
HAROLD _goes back to his seat gloomily and tastes his tea._ ESTHER
_plays with the teaspoon—a pause._
_E._ How do you like your tea?
_H._ It is a little—cloying.
_E._ (_rising and moving about the room_). A bad fault.
_H._ (_dryly_). But fortunately an uncommon one.
_E._ (_with feeling_). I have made a great many mistakes in my
life—suffered a great deal of unhappiness—because I have been afraid of
being cloying. (_Aside._) Am I mad, that I should tell him the foolish
truth!
_H._ (_rising_). I should say it was a fault to which you were not
constitutionally inclined. (_Aside._) That sounds much firmer than I
feel.
_E._ No, but on that very account people should have borne with me more
than they have! (_Still with feeling._) Things might have been
different.
_H._ (_going toward her_). Esther! (_A bell._)
_E._ (_hurriedly_). Never mind! There is the door-bell! Things are going
to be different! (_With a faint smile._) I told you he did not like any
sweet at all in his.
_H._ (_impetuously_). And have I not had my full allowance of bitter? It
is time you began dispensing sweets—so let him stay away.
_E._ (_laughing nervously_). But—but it wasn’t my idea to get rid of
him.
_H._ The plan is ready for your acceptance. You were going to tell me
you were engaged to-morrow—tell him so to-day, instead!
_E._ (_glancing at clock_). I cannot. His engagement was made with me a
week ago.
_H._ And mine five years ago. (_She hesitates._) Besides, he is
late—half an hour late. What is it about a lover who is late? He has
divided his time into more than “the thousandth part of a minute.”
_E._ (_laughing_). And are you not later—by four years?
_H._ (_firmly_). I am twenty-four hours ahead of time.
_A knock. Enter maid with a card._
_E._ Show him into the reception-room. I will come in a moment. (_Exit
maid._) It is he, Harold. I must go.
_H._ (_taking her hands_). Esther, think one moment. Forget the four
years. I have come a day too soon. I have swallowed two cups of tea and
eight lumps of sugar and made a general ass of myself—but—I love you.
_E._ But—but this is so shameless! I thought I should have to
say—something like that—to him.
_H._ (_coolly_). And I am in time to save you from so unfortunate a
mistake. You had much better tell it to me.
_E._ But I must give him an answer.
_H._ Give me one first! Adopt my plan, it is so simple. Send word—or
tell him, if you like—that you are engaged. But come back!
_E._ Indeed, he shall have his answer first. His right demands
precedence at least. But (_opening the door_) I will come back.
_H._ To five years ago?
_E._ Perhaps. (_Returns just as she is leaving the room._) But, Harold,
Harold, I thought an afternoon tea was so safe, or I should _never_ have
asked you.
_H._ And so did I—or I should never have come.
CURTAIN.
[Illustration: [Couple]]
THE COMMONEST POSSIBLE STORY
BY BLISS PERRY
[Illustration: [Flowers]]
Philander Atkinson, bachelor of law and writer of light verse, sat one
murky August evening in his hall-bedroom, with the gas turned low,
wondering whether the night would be too hot for sleep. At a quarter
before ten a loitering messenger-boy brought him a line from his friend
Darnel: _Come around at once. Just back. The very greatest news._
Thereupon Atkinson discarded his smoking-jacket, reluctantly exchanged
his slippers for shoes, and took the car down to Twelfth Street,
remembering meanwhile that Darnel’s brief vacation from the Broadway
Bank expired that day, and speculating as to the nature of the great
news which the clerk had brought back from Vermont. The lawyer was a
Vermonter too, and it was this fact, as well as a common literary
ambition, that had drawn the young fellows together at first, long
before Philander, on the strength of having two triolets paid for, had
moved up to Thirty-first Street. Philander Atkinson liked Darnel,
admired his feverish energy and his pluck, envied his acquaintance with
books. He had always persisted in thinking that Darnel’s stories would
sell, if only some magazine would print one for a starter; and he had
patiently listened to most of these stories, and to some of them several
times over. Yet Darnel had never had any luck; had never had even his
deserts; and the sincerity of his congratulations whenever Atkinson’s
verses saw the light always caused Philander to feel a trifle awkward.
He knew that the indefatigable clerk had two or three manuscripts
“out”—out in the mails—when the vacation began, and as he turned in at
Darnel’s boarding-house he had almost persuaded himself that _The Æon_
had accepted “Laki,” his friend’s Egyptian story. It was a long climb up
to Darnel’s room, and the writer of light verse mounted deliberately,
being fat with overmuch sitting in his office chair. On the third floor
the air was heavy with orange-flowers and Bonsilene roses, and a caterer
was carrying away ice-boxes. A whimsical rhyme came into Philander’s
head, and he made a mental note of it. Just then Darnel appeared,
leaning over the balustrade of the fourth-floor landing, his coat off,
his collar visibly the worse for the railway journey, and an eager smile
upon his thin, homely face.
“Hullo, D.,” said Philander. “Here I am. Been having a wedding here?” he
added in a low voice, as he grasped Darnel’s hand.
“I believe so. I’m just back. Come in, Phil. You got my message?”
“Why else should I be here, old fellow? Is it ‘Laki,’ sure?”
Without answering, Darnel led the way into his tiny room. His trunk lay
upon the floor, half-unpacked, the folding-bed was down, for the better
accommodation of some of the trunk’s contents, and the desk in the
corner, under the single jet of gas, was covered with piles of finely
torn paper. Darnel’s manner, usually nervous and somewhat conscious,
betrayed a certain exhilaration, but he was under perfect self-control.
“‘Laki?’” he said, seating himself in his revolving chair and whirling
around to the desk, while Atkinson threw himself upon the bed, “‘Laki?’
Oh, I had forgotten. It’s probably here.” He pulled over the mail
accumulated during his absence. “Yes.” He tore open the big envelope.
“‘The editor of _The Æon_ regrets to say,’ etc.;” and he tossed the
printed slip, with the manuscript, into his waste-basket, with a laugh.
Atkinson’s heart sank. Poor Darnel; it was not a cheerful welcome home.
But Darnel was busied with his letters.
“And here are the others,” he went on. “I thank the Lord none of them
were accepted.”
“What!” exclaimed Philander, turning upon his elbow.
Darnel looked at him with a puzzling smile.
“That’s why I sent for you,” said he. “Phil, all that I’ve been writing
here for three years is stuff, and I’ve only just found it out. I can do
something different now.”
Atkinson stared. Darnel had rarely talked about his own work, and then
in a scarcely suppressed fever of excitement and anxiety. Many a time
had Atkinson noticed his big hollow eyes turn darker, and his sallow
face grow ashy, even in reading over with a shaking voice some of that
same “stuff.”
“I have learned the great secret,” Darnel added, quietly.
“You have Aladdin’s ring?” said Atkinson. “Or are you in love?”
“Both,” replied Darnel. “It is the same thing.”
Philander flung himself back upon the pillow, with a little laugh. “Go
ahead, D.”
“I have found her, and myself. Let me turn down the gas a little; I see
it hurts your eyes. I belong in the world now; I am in the heart of it—I
said to myself coming down the river this afternoon—in the heart of the
world.” He lingered over the words. “Phil,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “all
the time I was trying to write I was really trying to lift myself by the
boot-straps. I was laboring to imagine things and people, and to get
them on paper. It was all wrong. Do you remember that French poem you
read me last winter, about the idol and the Eastern princess—how she lay
on her couch sleeping—the night was hot—with the bronze idol gazing at
her with its porphyry eyes, while her brown bosom rose and sank in her
sleep, and the porphyry eyes kept staring at her—staring—but they never
saw? Well, I believe my eyes have been like that. In ‘Laki,’ now, you
know I wanted to describe the exact color of the stone in the quarry,
and asked the Egyptologist up at the Museum to tell me what it was? He
laughed at me. Very well. It was a dull-red stone, with bright-red
streaks across it; I saw the same thing in Troy this afternoon, when a
hod-carrier fell five stories and they picked him up from a pile of
bricks.”
“You’re getting rather realistic,” muttered Philander. Darnel was not
looking at him, and went on unheeding.
“I have but to tell what I see. I have stopped imagining; my head has
ached—Phil, you don’t know how it has ached—trying to imagine things. I
am past that now; if you only shut your eyes and look, it is all easy.
Take that old Edda story that I tried to work up, about the fellow who
fought all day long against his bride’s father, and when night came the
bride stole out and raised all the dead men on both sides, by magic, so
that the next day, and every day, the battle raged on as before. I used
to plan about the magic she used, and tried to invent a charm. Why, all
she did was to pass over the battle-field at night, where the dead lay
twisted in the frost, and while the wolves snarled around her and the
spray from the fiord wet her cheek, she stooped to touch the dead men’s
wrists; and they loosed their grip upon broken sword and split linden
shield, their breath came again, soft and low like a baby’s, and so they
slept till the red dawn.”
“Look here,” said Atkinson, sitting up very straight, “you’ve been
reading ‘The Finest Story in the World,’ and it has turned your head.”
“Oh, the London clerk who was conscious of pre-existences, and forgot
them all when he fell in love? I could have told Rudyard Kipling better
than that myself.” Darnel gave an impatient whirl to the revolving
chair.
“You mean you think you can,” replied Atkinson, sharply.
“As you like.” He spoke dreamily, and Atkinson dropped back on the
pillow again, watching his friend as narrowly as the dim light would
allow. Hard work and unearthly hours had told on Darnel; he certainly
seemed light-headed.
“Sickening heat—black frost—” he was murmuring; “marching, stealing,
fighting, toiling—joy, pain—the life of the race—is a man to grow
unconscious of these things in the moment that he really enters the life
of the race, that he feels himself a part of it? What do you think,
Phil?”
“I think,” was the slow reply, “that whatever has happened to you in
Vermont has shaken you up pretty well, old fellow. They say that when
someone asked Rachel how she could play _Phèdre_ so devilishly well, she
just opened her black Jewish eyes and said, ‘I have seen her.’ And I
think, in the mood you’re in now, you can see as far back as Rachel or
anybody else. It’s like being opium-drunk; if you could keep so, and put
on paper what you see, you could beat Kipling and all the rest of them.
But you can’t keep drunk, and you can’t write prose or verse on
love-delirium. It’s been tried.”
“Suppose Rachel had said, ‘I _am Phèdre_?’”
Atkinson lifted his stout shoulders, laughing uneasily. “So much the
worse. I should say, the less pre-existence of that sort the better. You
might as well tell me the whole story, D. What is her name?”
“In a moment. She loves me, Phil. She is waiting for me in her little
house among the hills. I left her only this morning, and soon I shall go
back and leave New York forever. I can write the story up there—the
story I have dreamed of writing—for I shall always have the secret of
it. I have but to shut my eyes and tell what I see; and it is because
she loves me. All the life of all the past—I can call that ‘A Story of
the Road.’ Then there will be the future to write of—the men and women
that are to come; for we shall have children, Phil, and in them——”
“You’re making rapid progress,” ejaculated Philander.
“——I shall know the story of the future. Even now I know it; I do not
simply foresee it, I see it. Why not ‘A Story of the Goal!’ For I belong
to it—do you not understand? Yet, after all, what is that compared with
the present? It shall be ‘A Story of the March!’ Look there!”
He threw his eyes up to the ceiling, which was brightened for an instant
by the headlight of an elevated train as it rushed past.
“Do you know what that engineer was really thinking of as he went by?
That would be story enough. Or what was in the heart of the bride
to-night, down on the third landing—you smelled the orange-flowers as
you came up? To feel that your heart is in them, and theirs in you——”
But Philander Atkinson was not listening to the lover’s rhapsody. He was
thinking of a certain summer when he, too, had had strange fancies in
his head; when his thoughts played backward and forward with swift
certainty; when he had grown suddenly conscious of great desires and
deep affinities, and for a space of some three months he had dreamed of
being something more than a mere verse-maker, a master of the file.
Then—whether it was that she grew tired of him, or they both realized
that some dull mistake had been made—it was all over. There was still in
his drawer a package of manuscript he had written that summer; in blank
verse, none too noble a form for the high thoughts which then filled
him; in a queer new rhythm, too, the secret of whose beat he had caught
at and then lost, for the lines read harshly to him now. He looked these
things over occasionally, as a sort of awful example of himself to
himself; though he had gone so far as to borrow some of their imagery,
not without a certain shame, to adorn his light verse. His card-house
had fallen, but some of the colored pasteboard was pretty enough to be
used again. Curiously, he found that he could cut pasteboard into more
ingenious shapes than ever since his brief experience in piling it;
fancy served him better after imagination left him; his triolets were
admirably turned, and his luck with the magazines began. Altogether it
had been an odd experience; half those crazy ideas of Darnel had been
his two years before, but he was quite over them—yes, quite—and now it
was D.’s turn. He listened again to something that Darnel was murmuring.
“And she is an ordinary woman, one would say; a common woman. That is
the mystery and the glory of it. I do not know that she is even
beautiful. There must be thousands of women like her; I can see it
plainly enough, that there must be thousands of women in the world like
_her_.” There was a reverent hush in his voice.
[Illustration: [Woman]]
Atkinson choked back an exclamation. Was D.’s head really turned? “A
common woman”—“not know whether she is beautiful?” A face rose before
him, unlike any face in all the world: eyes with the blue of Ascutney,
when you look at it through ten miles of autumn haze; hair brown as the
chestnut leaf in late October; mouth——
Philander trembled slightly, and rising to his feet, stood looking down
at Darnel, haggardly. It was quite over, that experience of two summers
before, but while it lasted he had at least never dreamed that there
were thousands of women in the world like _her_.
“Sit down, Phil, I am almost through. A woman like other women, and the
story, when I write it, a common story. It will be the commonest
possible story; common as a rose, common as a child. I am going back to
Vermont, where I was born, and where I have been born anew. There will
be plenty of time for the story—years, and years, and years. I have only
to close my eyes some day, and she will write down all I tell her, and I
shall call the story hers and mine.”
But Atkinson still stood, his hands in his pockets, his heavy figure
stooping, the lines hardening in his face, while he watched the rapt
gaze of Darnel, and drearily reflected how strange it was that a woman
should open all the gates of the wonder-world to one man’s imagination,
and that some other woman should close those secret gates, quietly,
inexorably, upon that man’s friend.
“Wait,” said Darnel. “Must you go back to your triolets? Let me show you
her picture first.” He turned the gas up to its fullest height, and held
out a photograph.
It was the same woman.
[Illustration: [Landscape]]
THE END OF THE BEGINNING
BY GEORGE A. HIBBARD
[Illustration: [Man]]
CITY OF NEW YORK,
April 10, 1887.
DEAR SIR: It is with some hesitation that I venture to trespass upon
your valuable time, knowing as I do that the demands of clients, of
constituents, of friends, are so exacting. Still, as what I am about to
ask relates to a matter lying very near my heart, I hope you will
forgive me. A young man in whom, in spite of the usual extravagances and
follies of youth, I discern some promise, and whom I hope, for his own
sake and from my friendship for his excellent father, dead long ago, to
see occupying a respectable position in the community, has, with the
heedlessness peculiar to his age, involved himself in certain
difficulties which, although at present of a sufficiently distressing
nature, may, I hope, be satisfactorily overcome. Knowing so well your
distinguished abilities, ripe judgment, and great experience, I can
think of no one to whom I can, in this critical period of his life, more
confidently send him for counsel, instruction, and aid, and I
accordingly commend him to you, trusting to our old friendship to
account for and excuse my somewhat unusual act. Though what I ask of you
is something not usually required of a lawyer, I think you will
understand my reason for thus troubling you. No one can have a more
thorough knowledge of the world than an old practitioner like yourself,
and what you may say must fall upon the ears of youth with weighty
authority. Talk to him as you would to your son, if you had one, not as
to a client, and I will be inexpressibly indebted to you, for I know you
will lead him to appreciate the serious realities of life, which, at
present, he is so disposed to disregard.
I need only add that he is a young man of some fortune, and, certainly,
by birth worthy of much consideration. He will call upon you in person
and himself explain his present embarrassments.
I remain, now as always,
Your obedient servant,
RICHARD BEVINGTON.
THE HON. JACOB MASKELYNE,
Counsellor at law,
Number — William Street,
City of New York.
This was the letter that the Honorable Jacob Maskelyne read, reread, and
read yet again. Indeed, not content with its repeated perusal, he turned
it this way and that, looked at it upside and down, and finally, laying
it upon the table, he held up its envelope in curious study, as people
so often do when thus perplexed. It bore the common, dull-red two-cent
stamp and was post-marked the day before. Both it and the letter were
apparently as much matters of the every-day world as a jostle on the
sidewalk. Nevertheless, the old lawyer was more than puzzled—more than
puzzled, although he, of all men in the great, wideawake city, would in
popular opinion have been thought perhaps the very last to be thus at
fault. If millstones were to be worn as monocles—if there was any seeing
what the future might bring forth—the chances of a project, the risks of
rise or fall in a stock, the hazards of a corner in a staple, the
prospects of a party or of a partisan, Jacob Maskelyne would be regarded
as the man of men for the work. But, under the circumstances, even to
him this letter was more than perplexing. Here, on this spring morning,
with floods of well-authenticated sunshine pouring into every nook and
corner, dissipating every mystery of shadow and, it might seem, every
shadow of mystery—here, in his office, bricked in by the unimaginative
octavos of the law—those hide-bound volumes, heavy literature of all
things most amazingly matter of fact; here, in the eighteen hundred and
eighty-seventh year of the Christian era, in the one hundred and
eleventh year of the Republic, he had received a letter from his old
guardian, whom, when he himself was not more than twenty, he remembered
walking about a feeble old man with many an almost Revolutionary
peculiarity in speech and manner, and whose funeral he, with the heads
and scions of most of the first families of the town, had attended full
twenty-five years ago. It certainly was enough to bewilder anyone. He
again took up the letter. It was unquestionably in old Bevington’s best
style, courtly enough, but a trifle pompous. Had it not been for its
true tone he would undoubtedly have thought the thing a hoax and
immediately have dismissed it from his mind. He touched a hand-bell, and
in response a young man—a very prosaic young man—over whose black
clothes the gray of age had begun to gather, appeared.
[Illustration: [Man]]
“Bring me the letters received of the year eighteen sixty—letter B,”
said the lawyer, sharply.
That was the year in which his father’s estate had been finally settled,
and he knew that there would be many examples of his guardian’s
handwriting in the correspondence of that time.
The clerk soon returned with a tin case, and laid it on the table. Mr.
Maskelyne took one from among the many papers therein, and, striking it
sharply against the arm of his chair, to scatter the dust that invests
all things in the garment the outfitter Time warrants such a perfect
fit, he spread it out beside the letter he had just read with such blank
wonder.
“Identically the same,” he muttered. “No other man ever made an _e_ like
that.”
The clerk had vanished and the lawyer was again alone.
He glanced once more at the mysterious missive, and then, with the
purposelessness of abstraction, he rose and went to the window. Nothing
caught his eye but the sign-bedecked front of the opposite building and
one small patch of blue sky—near, gritty, limestone fact and a faraway
something without confine. Still, amazed as he was the contagious joy of
the time sensibly affected him.
[Illustration: [Bridge]]
The sparrows, quarrelsome gamins of the air, for the time reformed by
honest labor into respectable artisans, upon an opposite entablature, in
garrulous amity plied their small, nest-making joinery. The sunlight
falling through a haze of wires, wrought into something bright with its
own glow a tuft of grass which clumped its spears in its fortalice,
taken in assault, on the opposite frieze. Of even these small things,
and of much more, Mr. Maskelyne was partially conscious. But the letter!
Clear-sighted as he was, he knew but little—so forthright was his look,
so fixed toward mere gain—of the wonderful country which lies beneath
every man’s nose, less even of the vanishing tracts which retrospection
sometimes sees over either shoulder. But the letter! It peopled his
vision with things long gone. It brought into view old Bevington—“Dick
Bevington,” as he was called to the last day of his life—and a nickname
at fifty indicates much of character; brought up before him Dick
Bevington as he was before age had stiffened his easy but dignified
carriage or taught his once polished but positive utterance to veer and
haul in sudden change; brought up old Bevington, as he himself, in
childhood, had seen him, stately but debonair, the perfection of
aristocratic exclusiveness, affable, however, in the genial kindliness
of a kind-hearted man secure in every position—a genuine Knickerbocker
in every practice and in every principle—a well-born, well-bred
gentleman. And that once active and once ebullient life had long ago
gone out! It almost seemed that such vitality, so held in self-contained
management, so wisely put forth, so well invested, so to speak, should
have lasted forever. But now there was nothing left to bring him to mind
but a portrait in the rooms of the Historical Society, or a name in the
list of directors when the history of some bank was given, or in the
pamphlet in which the story of some charitable institution was told from
the beginning—really there was nothing more than this to recall Dick
Bevington, foremost among the city’s fathers, the leader of the _ton_.
When he had last seen his guardian he had thought him of patriarchal
age. And was not he himself now nearly as old? In spite of the
blithesome aspects of the morning, Jacob Maskelyne turned away from the
window with an unwonted weight at his heart and a new wrinkle on his
brow. The whole world seemed to be going from him, losing charm and
significance in a sort of blurring dissatisfaction, as upon a globe,
when swiftly turned, lines of longitude and of latitude, and even
continents and seas, vanish from sight, and all because his own life
suddenly seemed but vexed nothingness. He had not even mellowed into age
as had Bevington. He was as sharp and as rough-edged as an Indian’s
flint arrow-head, and he knew it.
He seated himself at his table. Automatically he was about to take up
the first of several bundles of law-papers, when he was startled by the
entrance of the clerk. He leaned back in his chair, and his reawakened
wonder grew the more when a card was placed before him upon which was
written, in a dashing hand, “From Mr. Bevington.”
“A gentleman to see you,” said the clerk.
“What does he look like?” asked Mr. Maskelyne, suspiciously.
“Nobody I ever saw before,” answered the clerk; “and he seems rather
strange about his clothes,” he added, in a rather doubtful, tentative
manner.
“Let him come in,” said Mr. Maskelyne, after a moment’s pause.
[Illustration: [Man]]
The door had hardly closed upon the vanishing messenger when it again
swung upon its hinges, and a new figure stood in relief against the
clearer light from without. In his eagerness to see of what nature a
being so introduced might be, Mr. Maskelyne turned his chair completely
around, and silently gazed at the new-comer as he entered. His eyes fell
upon a slim, graceful young man dressed in the mode of at least
forty-five years ago—a mode not without its own good tone undoubtedly,
but with a tendency toward gorgeousness which an exquisite of these days
of assertive unobtrusiveness might think almost vulgar. His whole attire
was touched in every detail with that nameless something which really
makes the consummate result unattainable by any not born to such
excellence; but in the bright intelligence shining in his dark eyes and
the clear intellectual lines of his face, even Maskelyne could see that
if he had given much thought to his dress it was only from a proper
self-respect, and not because dress was the ultimate or the best
expression of what he was. Few could look into the luminous countenance
and not feel a glow of sudden sympathy with the high aspirations, the
pure disinterestedness, the clear intellect, that lit up and
strengthened his features. Even the old lawyer, disciplined as he was by
years of hard experience to disregard all such misleading impulses, felt
his heart warm toward the young man.
“I hope,” said the new-comer, with a smile so pleasant, so ingenuous, so
confiding, that all Maskelyne’s ideas of deception—had he had time to
recognize them in the moment before a strange, unquestioning
acquiescence took complete possession of him—were at once dissipated,
“that I do not intrude too greatly on your time.”
Won really in spite of himself by the appearance of his visitor, the
famous counsellor waved his hand toward a chair.
“I suppose,” continued the stranger, with an almost boyish sweetness, as
he seated himself, “that Mr. Bevington has already told you why I am
here.”
Mr. Maskelyne might very well have answered that Mr. Bevington was
hardly to be looked to for any information on any subject, but he did
not—the wonderful circumstances of the interview had been so driven from
his mind by the potent charm of the young man’s personality.
“Mr.”—and he paused as if waiting for enlightenment as to the name of
the stranger.
“I’m in a devil of a scrape,” continued the young man, apparently
imagining that the letter had made all necessary explanations, and
mentioning the devil as though he was an every-day acquaintance, a
pleasant fellow whom he had just left at the door awaiting his return.
“Ah!” murmured the lawyer.
“I did not wish to see you,” continued the other, his singularly
trustful smile breaking again over lip and cheek.
“Indeed,” said Maskelyne, his wits and perceptions in most confusing
entanglement.
“No,” went on the unaccountable visitor. “I supposed that you would give
me what the world calls good advice. But I don’t want that. I want to
hear something better.”
He laughed aloud in such a joyous, cheery fashion that the old lawyer
even smiled.
“You don’t think I am a good man to come to for bad advice?” he said.
“The last in the world. I don’t suppose that you ever did a foolish
thing in your life.”
“And therefore am perhaps less competent to advise others who have,”
replied Maskelyne, half heedlessly, for his thoughts were slowly turning
in a new direction. The more he looked the more the eager, spirited face
seemed familiar. He had certainly seen the young fellow before, but
where? It seemed to him that he could certainly remember in a moment, if
he only had time to think.
“Mr. Bevington——”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Maskelyne, in a significant tone, “you said Mr.
Bevington?”
“Certainly,” said the stranger, suddenly looking up in evident surprise.
“Didn’t he write?”
“I have received a letter,” said the old lawyer, cautiously.
He was on the point of making some further inquiries, but the impulse
came to nothing. The former feeling of acquiescent but expectant apathy
again possessed him; indeed, he had never been much in the habit of
asking questions. He knew that he often learned more than was suspected
even, by letting people talk on in their own way.
“In the first place,” and he paused a moment—“I am very much in debt.”
The young man spoke as he might of taking a cold asleep in the open
air—as if he had been exposed to debt and had caught it.
The first look of sadness rose and deepened over his face as he shook
his head dejectedly.
“But I’ll get over it—‘Time and I.’ Don’t you rather like the astute old
king after all, Mr. Maskelyne?”
“By your own exertions?” asked the lawyer, dryly, and evading the
question.
“I write a little,” replied the impenitent, modestly. “I have even heard
of people who admired some of my verses.”
“You have no other occupation?”
Old Maskelyne was asking enough questions now. Indeed, under the magic
of the stranger’s manner he had quite forgotten himself, his usual
caution, and even the exceptional manner in which his companion had been
introduced to him.
“Yes,” the other admitted, “I am a lawyer.”
“Don’t you think,” said the older man, answering almost instinctively,
“that on the whole you might find the employments of the law more
remunerative than the calling of a—poet?”
[Illustration: [Algebra]]
“Mr. Maskelyne, I sometimes think that the world really believes in the
sort of thing underlying your question—that there is wisdom in what it
so complacently repeats as indisputable. And I am sent here
phrase-gathering—to carry off small packages of words put up in little
flat, portable sentences, alternatives ready for daily use. But there
are gains you cannot invest in lands and stocks—columns with statues at
the top as well as columns whose sums are at the bottom. Wasn’t ‘Le
Barbier’ a better investment than any in Roderigue Hortales et Cie., and
what could John Ballantyne & Co. show beside ‘Guy Mannering?’ If the
world says what it does, it mustn’t do as it does. It’s inconsistent.
Who will undertake to strike the balance between fame and fortune; what
mathematician will undertake to say that _x_, the unknown quantity of
fame, does not equal the dollar-mark?” Then he added, after a moment’s
pause, “Mr. Maskelyne, don’t you think it is true that
“‘One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth a world without a name,’—
don’t you really?”
It was hard to resist such enthusiasm, such unquestioning certainty. The
old lawyer did not even smile as he lay back in his chair, a new life
shooting through every nerve, his gaze fixed on the flushing face of the
young man.
“And the consciousness of best employing the best that is in you,” he
continued. “Who dare shorten the reach or blunt the nicety of man’s wit,
make purblind the imagination, stiffen the cunning hand? Tell men that
in some Indian sea, fathoms deep, lie hid forever Spanish galleons in
which doubloons and moidores, as when honey more than fills the comb,
almost drip from their sacks, and you will see in their sudden
thoughtfulness how quickly they appreciate such loss; tell them, if you
can, what, through poverty, erring endeavor, uncongenial occupation, the
world with each year loses in intellectual riches, and they will stand
heedless.”
Speaking with the incomparable confidence of youth, its own glorious
nonsense, the young man’s voice sent old Maskelyne’s blood hastening
through his veins in almost audible pulsations.
“What if I do not wish great wealth,” the speaker continued, “must I be
made to have it? I want but little. Give me food, clothing, habitation,
sufficient that my eyes may see the delights this world has to show,
that my ears may catch the whispered harmonies of all things beautiful,
gladden me with the radiance of common joy, and that’s all I want. Who
is unreasonable when what he wants is all he wants? Are the worldly so
insecure that, as the frightened kings sought to still beneath their
tread the first throb of the French Revolution, they must stamp out the
first symptom of revolt against the almighty dollar?
“‘Chi si diverte di poco, è ricco di molto.’
Mr. Maskelyne, must I eat when I am only thirsty, drink when I am only
hungry?”
He paused, and glanced triumphantly at the old man. He felt in some
secret, instinctive way that he was gaining ground. A squadron of fauns
had charged from amid the vine-leaves, and the legion upon the highway
was in rout. Fine sense was victorious for the moment over common sense.
“I think,” said Maskelyne, at last, and with a strange, sad, patient
air, unwearied, however, by the young man’s dithyrambic, sometimes
almost incoherent speech, “I think I cannot attempt to advise you.
Having discarded the wisdom of ages, what heed will you give the wisdom
of age?”
A cloud seemed to cast its shadow over the other’s face. Could it be
that, lost in himself, he had spoken almost in presumptuous disrespect
to a man so distinguished, to a man whom he honored and whom he felt
that he could even like?
“If I speak strongly,” he said, “it is because I feel strongly. If I did
not feel strongly I would not attempt to withstand the amount of
testimony against me.”
“Might I ask,” said Maskelyne, gently, in his inexplicable sympathy with
the young fellow, “why, if you feel such confidence in all you say, you
do not, without hesitation, enter on a life in accordance with your
convictions?”
At last there was hesitation in the young stranger’s manner. He turned
his hat nervously in his hand, and sat silent for a moment.
“You see,” he began, paused, and began again—“You see, if I were alone
it would be one thing. But I’m not—not at all alone,” he added,
evidently gaining confidence.
“Ah!” exclaimed the old lawyer, a sudden gleam of new intelligence
shining in his dull, weary old eyes.
“And how am I to get married, Mr. Maskelyne?”
“The lady does not approve of your—poetic aspirations?”
“Not approve!” cried the young fellow, eagerly; “she has made me promise
that I will give nothing up, that I will refuse all Mr. Bevington has
arranged for me. You can’t tell how inspiring our misery is. And our
courage,—a young Froissart must be our chronicler, sir. We take our
sorrows gladly.”
“And may I ask——”
“Anything, anything,” interrupted the young man, gayly. “I’m sent here
to be talked out of what they may call my folly. You see I can’t be
talked out of it. Don’t that prove that it is no folly?”
“You seem,” said Maskelyne, dryly, “to have settled it between you—you
and she.”
“Settled it! We did not need help about that. It’s the unsettling. There
comes a time when friends are the worst enemies. You know that, Mr.
Maskelyne?”
The old lawyer paused. “Indeed I do,” he said at last, and the sneer
stealing over the outlines of his face slunk away before the look of
regret that came swiftly on. Almost in embarrassment, with nervous hand,
he shuffled the papers on his table.
Far back in the past, when his eyes were not yet dimmed by the dust
blown from law-books, nor his ears deadened by the stridulent clamor of
litigation, before his life had gone in attempts at
“Mastering the lawless science of our law,”
or he had lost himself in
“That codeless myriad of precedent,
That wilderness of single instances;”
when he, too, dwelt in that other-world of the young, forgotten by
everyone but himself, but, although hardly ever remembered, never
forgotten by him—not one grain of its golden sand, not one drop of its
honey-dew, not one tremor of its slightest thrill—then even he had had
his romance. The freshness of the early spring morning, the airy
brightness of his young visitor, himself no bad exponent of the day, the
awe-footed shadow which, with almost unrecognized obtrusion, skirts the
border where the ripened grain fills the field of life and nods to the
ready sickle—was it something of such kind, or was it the simple story
of which he had had such telling intimation, that brought it all up in
memory’s half-tender glow? He, too, had once been in love. He, too, had
written verses to his inamorata. He remembered it all now, with a smile
of mingled pity and contempt. It needed no ransacking of the brain now
to quicken into full view his own “It might have been”—to people once
more the mystic world whose first paradise is rich in the slight
garniture of glances and sighs and smiles and tears. Lost in himself,
the old man forgot his visitor.
“You are very young,” he said at last, absently.
“Twenty-three,” was the answer.
“And she?”
“Eighteen.”
It was strange, but he, too, had been twenty-three and she eighteen when
the end came in that glimmering, gleaming past. He remembered, and how
strange the recollection seemed, taking her some flowers and some slight
silver gift—a poor, inexpensive thing; she would let him give no more
because he, too, was in debt—on her birthday. And now, with strange
revulsion, he hardened almost into his habitual self, and grimly thought
that it all was youthful nonsense, and that all such follies were very
much alike. Had he spoken, he would have been guilty of one of those
faults often packed with error, an apothegm—he would have said that we
only become original, even in our folly, as age gives us character.
“We could be so happy with so little,” said the youthful lover.
The old man started. These were his own words many, many years ago; his
very words to his guardian when the final appeal was made by old
Bevington to what he called his better judgment so very, very long ago,
in the dark, stately house upon Second Avenue.
“So very little,” repeated the young man. “I have always said,” he
continued, as pleased with the conceit as if it had never before
glittered in the song of finches of his feather, “that we should have
gold enough in her hair.”
[Illustration: [Woman]]
“And is her hair golden?” asked Maskelyne, and, startled by the sound of
such words dropped from the lips of the distinguished counsel for many a
soulless corporation and many as soulless a man, he added, hurriedly,
“light.” And then the old lawyer remembered that he too, had a lock of
hair that he had not sent back when he returned her letters and her
picture. How bright it was! What had become of it? Where was it? In what
pigeon-hole, what secret drawer? He could not for the moment remember.
He looked out of the window. How bright the sunshine was! How empty the
world! It seemed to build up its vacancy around him as a wall.
“And she, of course, has no money?” he said, turning again.
“None.”
He had been sure of it. He rose and went to the window. The joyful
attributes of the morning were there, but they were no longer joyful to
him. The light fell in the same broad flood, still promising the glory
of summer, the ripened harvest, but there was no promise for him. The
sparrows preluded still the full-voiced singers of the year, when leaves
are heavy with the dust and brooks run dry, but he heard only a quick,
petulant twitter. A sort of dull despondency suddenly settled upon him.
He forgot his visitor, and even time and place. Amid the glimmering
lights and shaking shadows of the past he sought a vision, as at
twilight one seeks in some deserted corridor a statue which would seem
to have so taken into its grain the last rays of the already sunken sun
that the marble glows in the gathering darkness with a radiance not its
own.
The young man grew impatient as the revery was prolonged. He stirred
uneasily. The old lawyer turned and looked curiously at him. Of course,
of course! Was a man to be changed, the bone of what he was to have its
marrow drawn, the fibre of every muscle to be untwisted, by this
nonsense of a boy? Of course old Bevington was right—and for the moment
he did not remember that Bevington was dead—in sending the young fool to
such a cool old hand as himself. But if Bevington had known what a
turbulence of disappointment, discontent, and revolt had risen, and
poured in strength-gathering torrent, even at that instant, through his
heart, would he not have kept his young charge away? He would talk to
him—certainly he would—pave his way for him, perhaps, as with flagstones
of wisdom. Perhaps—and then he thought with grim satisfaction of what
Bevington might think should he learn that he recognized that there were
other paths than those edged by a curbstone.
[Illustration: [Man]]
“You have been sent to me,” he said, very seriously, coming from the
window and leaning with both hands on the table, “for advice and
admonition. I will give my lesson in sternest characters. I will teach
by example, but I may not teach what you were sent here to learn. When I
was young as you—do not start, I was young once,” and he spoke with
infinite sadness, “I loved as you love, and, as with you, love was
returned. They who called themselves my friends strove, with what they
called reason, to tear me from what they called my folly. My folly! It
was the wisdom that it takes all that is blent into humanity, at
supremest moments, to attain; their reason, the fatuous folly only
enough to give habitual stir to an earth-beclotted brain! I yielded, as
you have not yielded. I killed out even the natural impulses of my
nature. Gradually almost new instincts came, desire for delight sank
into appetite for gain, hope for the joy of higher existence was lost in
the ambition for mere advancement. I wrought out in myself that fearful
piece of handiwork whose every effort is but to grasp the worthless
handful man can only wrest from the mere world. I lost, and I have not
won. I was a man and I am only a lawyer, and to him you have been sent
for advice. I can find no precedent better, no authority more weighty
for your guidance than my own life. Such strength as enabled me to work
such a change will also enable you to make yourself a new being, to
accomplish self-overthrow, to bring you to what I am—a man rich,
successful, courted, revered—most miserable. He who has so won, so lost,
stands alone or he would not so win. Choose rather the close
companionship of worldly defeat, if it must be, and I say to you in the
rapture of your youth, clay plastic to the moment’s touch, hold to
yourself, and believe that no fame, no power, no wealth, can compensate
for a contentious life, an empty heart, a desolate old age. If I were
you——”
He did not finish. Slowly the young stranger rose to his full height,
every lineament of his face clear in cold light. His whole aspect was
one of steadfast command.
“Stop!” he cried, in a stern tone. “I am yourself. No ghost walks save
that which is what a man might have been. We throng the world. Beside
everyone through life moves the image of a past potentiality, the thing
he could have become had he held along another course. I am what you
were, the promise of what you might have been. For forty years I have
walked by your side. I have touched you and you have shuddered, I have
chilled you and you have shrunk from me. Your nature has so grown
athwart, all impulse has been so long gone, all that softens or ennobles
so thrown off that, in almost final self-assertion, what you really were
or might have been stands by your side and bids you measure stature with
itself. Your life has entered upon its wintry days, but sunlight is
sunshine even in December and in youth.”
The old lawyer, almost shuddering, stepped back with repelling gesture.
He passed his hand quickly across his eyes, and then, as if his heart
had beat recall, summoning back every retreating force in quick rally,
compelled but not unwilling, he turned in combative instinct to meet the
stranger face to face, nature to nature, turned—and found himself alone.
Once more the clerk opened the door.
“Eleven o’clock, sir,” he said, “and you know the General Term this
morning——”
“You saw the gentleman who just went out?” asked the lawyer.
“I, sir,” answered the man; “I saw no one go out.”
“No one?”
“No one.”
“You certainly brought me a card and showed a young gentleman in a few
minutes ago?”
“I, sir!” repeated the clerk. “I brought in a card and showed a young
gentleman in! Aren’t you well this morning, sir?”
“That will do,” said Maskelyne, sternly.
As soon as he was again alone he stepped to the table. The card and the
letter were gone. And still he knew he had not been dreaming. A man
swung high in the air was busy painting a sign upon a building not far
away, and he was conscious that all through the strange interview he had
watched him at work. He had seen him finish one letter and then another,
and now if he found him adding the final consonant he would be assured
that he could not have been asleep. He looked up and found that he was
right. The man had just made the heavy shaded side and was busy putting
the little finishing line at the bottom of the letter.
Two men—one of rotund middle age, the other younger but yet not
young—came down the steps of the Union Club one day a few weeks later.
They met an old man rounding the corner of the Avenue.
“See what you would come to if you had your own way,” said the elder of
the two. “There’s old Maskelyne. He’s got everything you’re making
yourself wretched to get. Do you want to be like him?”
“No,” said the other. “Then you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“He’s a changed man, all within a month.”
“Has his brain or his heart softened?”
“As you look at life,” said the younger. “He has sent for that clever,
improvident, gracefully graceless good-fellow of a good-for-nothing, his
nephew, him and his pretty-handed, big-eyed wife—he hadn’t seen either
of them since they ran away and were married—sent for them and put them
in his great, old house and—didn’t you hear Maceration growling about
the luck some people have just before we left? He says the nephew will
have all the old man’s property.”
“What’s the world coming to?” said the senior, “or what is coming to the
world?”
[Illustration: [Inkwell]]
A PURITAN INGÉNUE
BY JOHN SEYMOUR WOOD
[Illustration: [Man]]
I
The Archibald house, on West Forty-— Street, was of the character
described as a “modernized front.” A handsome arch in rough stone
surmounted the front-door, which was done in polished oak and
plate-glass. The stoop was on a level with the sidewalk; a richly carved
bow-window jutted out from the second story. “No. 41,” in old iron open
work, formed a pretty grating above the door. There was, in fact,
nothing which would lead an ordinary person to conceive of the house as
given over to boarders, except, possibly, the sign,
+----------------------+
| TO LET, FURNISHED. |
+----------------------+
which was posted conspicuously below the first-story window, and at an
angle which enabled him that ran to read.
Old Mr. Archibald’s death, the autumn before, had left his widow rather
poorer than she anticipated. He was a great collector of pretty things.
His taste was exquisite, and he had gratified it by filling his house
with a variety of _bric-à-brac_, pictures, statuary, and old furniture,
which made it a centre of attraction to many of the old gentleman’s
artistic friends. Mrs. Archibald, loath to dispose of her husband’s art
collections, determined to let the house, as it stood, “at an exorbitant
figure, to a very rich tenant without children.” Under these terms, on
her departure for Europe, her agent was entrusted with the house, and
her son Jerome, when he saw her off on the steamer, received a parting
injunction, “Be sure and see that they have no children.” Jerome
Archibald saw his mother and sisters depart—in no very enviable frame of
mind; but he was a good son, and he resolved to forego Newport, if it
would tend to dispose of the house as his mother wished, and add to her
diminished income.
His mother and sisters sailed in May. It was now July, and very warm and
disagreeable. As the “heated term” set in, he began to think it too bad,
you know, of mamma and the girls to remain abroad for three whole years.
It was positively absurd. What was he to do? After the house was
let—where was he to go? By Jove, he felt deuced lonely, don’t you know!
It was especially trying for a sensitive man to go in and out of a house
with a great placard on it, “To Let, Furnished,” but it was a deal more
trying to have people come and want board. Yes, actually, two ladies
came one morning and wanted to know if they could see the landlord. It
was positively ridiculous! His agent was a clevah fellow, but even he
gave up hope of letting the house until fall. Hadn’t he better run down
to Newport? He got a letter from Dick Trellis that morning, and they
really didn’t see how they were going to get on without him in the polo
matches. It put him in a fuming fury. He had never stayed late in the
city in summer before. How infernally hot it was—and nahsty—don’t you
know! His collars were in a perpetual state of wilt—they never wilted at
Newport. Then everybody was not only out of town, having a good time
somewhere, but they had a provoking way now of ostentatiously boarding
up their front-doors—yes—and their windows, too—which made it doubly
disagreeable for those who had to remain. It was bad enough to see the
blinds drawn down, but boxing up their stonework and planking up their
front-doors caused Mr. Jerome Archibald unutterable pangs. Then they
thought it was a boarding-house!
_They_ were coming again in the afternoon, at four. There were two of
them—ladies. In his rather depressing and solitary occupation of living
alone in his house, with one solemn apoplectic cook and one chalk-faced
maid, in order to exhibit it to that endless raft of females with
“permits,” who universally condemned or “damned with faint praise” his
father’s exquisite taste in rugs and furniture, Mr. Jerome Archibald had
to-day admitted to himself a distinct pleasure in showing “Miss Perkins”
and her niece (whose name did not happen at the time to be mentioned)
over the house, and pointing out in his quiet way its excellences.
They saw the sign, they said, and so made bold to enter. Evidently Miss
Perkins was a prim, thin, tall, spectacled, New England old maid. She
had the delicate air and manner of a lady. A lady faded, perhaps, and
unused to a larger social area than that surrounding her native village
green. She had also the timid manner of hesitancy of New England
spinsters—hesitancy concerning everything except questions of casuistry
and religion—and seemed, in what she did, to be spurred on from behind
by the niece, who was, on the whole, as Mr. Jerome Archibald told a
friend at the club later, “quite extraordinary.”
In the first place, as he said, the niece was undeniably beautiful.
“She wore rawther an odd street dress,” he said, “made up in the country
somewhere, by a seamstress who gathered her crude notions of the
prevailing fashions from some prevaricating ladies’ journal, and her hat
was something positively ridiculous—but her _face_!” The fastidious Mr.
Jerome Archibald at once conceded to it a certain patrician quality of
elegance. It denoted pure blood and pure breeding, somewhere up among
Vermont hills or Maine forests. A long line of “intelligent ancestors,”
perhaps. It was fine, and—beautiful. The forehead high, nose straight,
the large eyes gray, the mouth and chin sweet, and yet quite determined.
When he showed them a large room at the rear, on the second story,
facing the north, the niece had observed, with a lofty air—mind, the
room was literally crammed with the most costly _bric-à-brac_—“I think
this will suit me very well, aunt dear, on account of the light.”
He noticed in her unfashionable dress a certain artistic sense of
freedom, a _soupçon_ of colored ribbon here and there, and he concluded
that she was all the more interesting, as an artist, in that she so
quietly accepted the elegancies around her. She gave an unconscious sigh
over a small glass-covered “Woodland Scene,” by Duprez. Mr. Jerome
Archibald noticed it, and inwardly smiled, delighted.
Perhaps the niece captivated him the more by her silent appreciation of
some things he himself admired exceedingly. It was odd that she seemed
always to choose _his_ favorites. There was nothing said as to the rent,
the size of the house, the lot, the plumbing. He spent an hour showing
his etchings alone, and in the afternoon, at four, they were coming
again, “to decide.”
II.
Of course Mr. Jerome Archibald must have been an extremely susceptible
young man to have fallen in love at first sight with a strange young
woman, who had come to look at his house with a view to renting. But he
was—“rawther down and depressed.” The usual summer malaria had set in.
The usual excavations in the streets were going on—they were digging
with “really extraordinary energy” that summer—the pavements were up on
all the Fortieth streets. Fifth Avenue presented the appearance of a
huge empty canal. It was something more, this presidential year, than
the perennial laying down and taking up of pipes. “He was really ripe
for _une grande affaire du cœur_,” said one of his club friends, he was
getting so lonesome. He _did_ fall quite entirely in love,
precipitately, unquestionably, in spite of the fact that they took the
house for a boarding-place! They asked to hire but one room only.
When they arrived, at 4 P.M., they sat a few moments in the
reception-room, while the chalk-faced, alert maid announced them to
Archibald in the room above. Miss Perkins folded her faded, gloved hands
in her lap and sat up on the sofa stiffly. They had looked at ever so
many houses, and they had come back to No. 41 with instinctive
preference.
“I don’t think one room would be so very expensive,” said Miss Perkins.
“He could put up two beds easily in that north room, and the room we saw
on Thirty-fourth Street was only twelve dollars—what do you think,
Elvira?”
“I think twelve dollars is altogether too high,” said the niece, looking
up from a delicate little Elzevir she was holding. “I think he wants to
let the rooms very much; none of them seem to be taken. Remember it is
midsummer, aunt dear.”
There was a little pause.
“Of course he will prefer having _nice_ people. It will be a great help
to your art, Elvira—you can study at great advantage. There are so many
pictures for you to copy. I think your father would say it was a ‘lucky
find.’ If you will persist in your art, why, I think we are very
fortunate.”
“You are always ready to sneer at my art, Aunt Perkins.” And she gave a
peculiar laugh.
“It is something that has come up since my day,” she replied, glancing
about over the pictures and the rare editions on the table. “I was
brought up to plain living. But I guess if we can get it all for twelve
dollars we ought to be satisfied. It’s a pleasant change to see the
city. It’s pleasant to see these ornaments. Yes, I don’t blame art so
much as your father does, Elvira, and I don’t believe _he_ would blame
it if he knew we could have so much of it for twelve dollars.”
“Father secretly admires it as much as I do,” said the niece; “only he
likes to talk.”
Just then Mr. Jerome Archibald entered. He was faultlessly dressed in
half-mourning for his father. Indeed, he had dressed himself with
exceeding care, being desirous, he frankly admitted to himself, of
making an impression. He bowed graciously, and took Elvira’s extended
gloved hand, which, as she offered it, he held a moment. “Have you
decided?” he asked.
They had explained, when they left in the morning, that they should want
only one room, and he tacitly inferred that they would require board. He
received a dreadful shock, but made up his mind that the charming niece
would prove the more charming on closer acquaintance, and he
deliberately decided to keep both the gentle New Englanders under his
roof for a time, if he could! The more he thought of the plan, the more
interesting the situation became to him. He fairly dreaded, at last,
lest they should find their way into a remote boarding-house in some
cheap quarter of the city, where it would be quite impossible for him to
follow them. He gravely announced to the astonished maid that he had
determined to let out the rooms to the ladies, who, he pretended for her
benefit, were old acquaintances. When they were announced he was
scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. Mr. Jerome Archibald had fallen
in love.
“We have decided to take one room,” said Elvira, “if we can agree upon
the price; and we wish to know the price of board—”
“We shan’t want much to eat,” put in Miss Perkins, with a nervous
twitch.
Archibald admirably concealed a smile. His long mustache aided him a
good deal in doing this. He was still standing, and he put his hand to
his lips: “I think we shall agree very easily upon the price,” he said.
Miss Perkins again twitched a little. “We thought twelve dollars—room
and board——” she said, leaving the sentence half finished, while Elvira
looked up at him, expectantly.
“My dear ladies, I should not think of charging more than ten. You are
strangers in the city, and I would not impose upon you for the world. It
happens that this is the dull season——”
“So we thought,” said Miss Perkins, “and board and lodging ought to come
a little cheaper.”
“Precisely. The maid will show you your sleeping-room—and, of course,
the entire house is at your service. I hope you will find everything to
your comfort. I am very anxious to please.” He laughed a little.
Elvira gave him a grateful, but at the same time a rather patronizing,
glance. He felt at once that in carrying out his little _ruse_ he had
placed himself deliberately upon a questionable footing with the
beautiful girl. He hoped, however, to redeem himself by impressing her
with his knowledge of the pursuit which, he accurately judged, had
brought the ladies to the city. Archibald had at one time done a little
painting himself. He had dreamed dreams, as a young man, which indolence
and the stern business atmosphere of the city had choked off
prematurely. As he looked down upon the girl’s sweet gray eyes a vision
of this youthful period came back to him. Twenty-two and thirty-two have
this in common, that the latter age is not too far away to quite despise
the younger enthusiasm. Archibald at thirty-two still believed in
himself, don’t you know.
III.
Several days passed, during which the ladies settled themselves very
readily in their new surroundings. They were very methodical, preferring
to rise at an hour which, to Archibald, was something savoring of
barbarism. He studied their habits, with a view to conforming to them as
far as possible, but found that he could not bring himself to give up
his nine-o’clock breakfasts, and so went to his club, leaving orders
that the ladies should be accommodated at the earliest hour they might
choose. He found that they had discovered Central Park, and came to make
it a habit to stroll with them of a morning upon the Mall, and around
the stagnant lakes. Central Park was a novelty to him, except as seen
from horseback, or a four-in-hand, and it really seemed very beautiful
those summer mornings—he was really surprised, don’t you know! He
wondered that nice people did not use the Park more—as they did Hyde
Park in London. As the days went on he filled his house with flowers,
turned the second floor into an immense studio for Elvira, sat about and
watched her, criticised, encouraged her. He forgot Newport, forgot his
polo. He had strangely ceased to be bored. He was happy in New York in
midsummer! Dick Trellis told his polo friends at Newport that Archibald
was probably undergoing private treatment for softening of the brain,
which theory, in fact, they deemed sufficiently complimentary.
As for his mother and sisters in Europe—why, pray, should he inform them
of his little joke?
Elvira worked away at her easel when the light was best—during the
afternoon. In the evening, after dinner, the ladies became socially
inclined. It was then that they allowed Archibald to smoke in the
“studio” and talk Art with Elvira. Indeed he found it very difficult to
talk anything else with the shy New England primrose.
About Art—with a big A—she was rapturous. There seemed to be in her soul
a strange hunger for everything ornate and richly beautiful. Archibald
devoted himself to studying her. He became strangely interested in East
Village, Vt., where, he gathered, the Hon. Ephraim B. Price, her father,
was a very distinguished Republican lawyer and politician. He drew Aunt
Perkins out concerning her Congregational church, her minister, her fear
of the Catholics, her fondness for cats, her secret disbelief in Art.
Once in a while they read him a letter from the Hon. Ephraim, in which
he could see reflected their own liking for _him_. He found that he was
spoken of as “Landlord Archibald.” The Hon. Ephraim was a shrewd old
fellow, however, and his counsels and advice were generally of the
“trust-not-too-much-to-appearances” order. One evening Miss Perkins
complained of a headache, and Archibald found himself alone for an hour
with Elvira. She sat beneath the rich brazen lamp, with its pretty
crimson shade, absorbing some of the red glow in her lovely face. They
had been two weeks in the city, and out of delicate feeling had
deposited two ten-dollar bills upon the mantelpiece in the library,
where Archibald would see them. He had roared with laughter over them
and intended having them framed, but ultimately he found a different use
for their amusing board-money.
He made some little allusion to the time they had been with him.
“Two very short weeks,” said Elvira, “and you have been so very
unusually kind, Mr. Archibald. You have done so much for us. We have
noticed it. Is it usual for landlords to—to do so much, in the city?”
“It depends,” he said, gravely. “Landlords do more for people who are
congenial—you are congenial——”
“Oh!” A slight pause.
“You are more than congenial, _really_,” said Archibald. “For you take
an interest, Miss Price. I have secretly espied both you and your aunt
dusting——”
Elvira bit her lip. “We _have_ dusted,” she admitted, reddening a
little, “but it is merely out of force of habit.”
“Really,” said Archibald, “I rawther like you the better for it, don’t
you know!”
“I’m afraid,” said Elvira, her face lighting up with conscious pleasure,
“that you have made up your mind as a landlord to like us, whatever we
do. I’m afraid you would not like it at all if you knew everything that
aunt has done.”
“Tell me—I will keep it a profound secret, I assure you,” he laughed.
“She has actually dared to invade your kitchen!”
“Has she?” said Archibald, dubiously; “really!”
“Yes, and she declares that your cook wastes enough every day to keep
four families!”
“Really!” said Archibald; “I’ll have to look into it.”
“You won’t save much out of what we pay,” said Elvira, “and we don’t
want to stay if it doesn’t pay you; but——”
“Well?”
“Mr. Archibald, we are poor.” She looked down.
“I’m very sorry, I’m sure—I—” he really did feel a compassion which
found its way into his voice, and made it tremble a little.
“Aunt says you _can’t_ be making any money. Now, we don’t think it is
right to stay another day and be _burdens_, do you see?”
A solemn pause.
“Isn’t that what they are talking about so much now in the novels?” he
asked, at length.
“What?”
“The terrible New England conscience?”
“Right is right and wrong is wrong, Mr. Archibald, disguise it how we
may,” and Elvira compressed her pretty lips firmly.
Archibald puffed on his cigar, lazily.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said, as if a doubt had crept into his mind.
She glanced at him impatiently.
“Can’t you _see_ how wrong it would be for us to stay here and enjoy all
we have in your beautiful house, knowing that we were swindling you?”
She stamped her foot. “Mercy!” she added, half to herself, “what _can_
you be made of?”
He hastened to a display of rugged conscience, which relieved her.
“Oh, of course, I see how wicked it would be if you _did_ swindle; but
I’m making money! Really—I haven’t spent the twenty dollars board-money
yet. Oh, pray rest assured—I shan’t lose. I will tell you when I run
behind.”
A great sense of relief seemed to come over the girl.
“But it is all we can pay. I told father I would not ask for more.
Father said he knew it would take more, but I said I would give up Art
first.”
“Oh, I say!” he protested.
“And to-morrow I am going to begin taking lessons, but I _will_ not call
on father for another cent. He shan’t be able to throw it in my face
that it turned out as he said, and that I was wrong. When he and I
dispute it always does turn out as he says—this time it _shan’t_.”
Archibald laughed a little. The poor fool, don’t you know, was so
captivated that every word, every action of the girl was music to him.
The two weeks of observation had told on her dress. To-night she wore a
white muslin, elaborated with pretty ribbons. She no longer seemed
especially rustic to him. He noticed that she was doing her hair now in
the prevailing style. “By Jove!” he said to himself, “I’ll see that she
comes out at the Patriarchs’ next winter!”
This was his highest earthly happiness for a _débutante_.
“I am going to make money,” she went on; “I’m going to paint vases,
plates, odds and ends, pot-boilers, you know, and so father shan’t know
what it costs.”
[Illustration: [Woman]]
“Oh, by the way, if you do,” he pretended, lazily blowing out a ring of
smoke, “I happen to know a fellow—an old friend of mine—who gives very
fair prices for those sort of things. Now, I am sure he will take any
gimcrack you may do.”
Somehow the word gimcrack displeased her.
“My Art work has always been thought very pretty in East Village,” she
said. “It would never _sell_, but it was thought pretty. I used to long
to help father—and our family is so large, you know, four little
brothers and two sisters younger than I am—and now, if I only _could_
get on, and help father! Oh, Mr. Archibald, you don’t know how _little_
law there is to go round in East Village!” She heaved a deep sigh.
He tried to appear sympathetic.
“I know a fellow who gets a thousand dollars for a portrait, and he has
only just commenced. You can’t help but succeed, Miss Price, really!”
She gave him a grateful glance.
“Oh, if I _could_!” she said, anxiously. “I taught school one winter,
but the pay was so small. And I’ve tried—you will laugh, Mr. Archibald,
at my telling you these things—but I’ve tried story writing. I was _so_
hopeful about it, and it took as many as ten rejections before I became
convinced; and now, if my Art fails me——”
She gave a little fluttering sigh.
“I think you have talent.”
“Perhaps it is only enthusiasm——”
“That amounts to the same thing. It will keep you up to your work. They
used to tell me I had talent, but I had no enthusiasm, so I dropped it.
I wish to encourage you,” he added; “I hope you will go on. It takes a
lot of work, but you have just the right temperament. You _will_ work.
You _will_ get on, and when you become celebrated, Miss Price, you won’t
forget your old friends?”
He realized that it was a rather bold step forward, and he trembled for
her reply.
“I shall always recommend your house,” she said, a little stiffly,
making him feel more than ever her aristocratic superiority to
landlords, “and I shall always remember your kindness. We went to at
least six boarding-houses until we saw your sign—we saw the landladies.
Really, Mr. Archibald, you have no idea how vulgar and unartistic _most_
of the houses were. There was always a disagreeable odor, as if somebody
was frying something. If I _do_ succeed, as I wish, and make friends,
and get to be known, and all, you may be certain that I shan’t forget
you. I may organize an Art class, and take the whole house myself!”
He went no further. It was enough to him, as he sat opposite her in his
evening dress, his rich opal, set with diamonds, flashing on his white
shirt-front, his lawn tie, low shoes, white waistcoat—everything in the
latest and most expensive style—it was enough for Mr. Jerome Archibald
to sit there and smoke his delicate Havana, and reflect that he at least
had her promise to do what she could to recommend his boarding-house!
The next day, at dinner, he again suggested, in an offhand way, that
Miss Price should turn her attention to portrait-painting. Miss Perkins
seriously objected at once.
“Your father would never give his consent,” she said. “There was old Mr.
Raymond, who lived on the Poor Farm, because he found portrait-painting
didn’t pay.”
“Mr. Raymond painted dreadful, hideous caricatures,” said Elvira. “He
painted my mother’s portrait, and father is always throwing him in my
face. But I don’t know. I have no one to begin on except aunt, and I
have tried and tried, and I can’t get anything but the expression of her
spectacles.”
Even Aunt Perkins laughed at this a little.
“Begin on me,” ventured Archibald. “Call it the ‘Portrait of an Ideal
Landlord.’”
There was a little pause. The ladies rose without replying, and
Archibald followed them into the drawing-room, feeling indefinitely that
he had been too forward. As he lit his cigar and sat near an open
window, feeling the cool southern breeze, he reflected that it was not
improbable that in East Village the only landlord known to them was the
keeper of a common tavern. It amused him to think of their primitive,
quaint ignorance of city ways. He pictured the small life of East
Village, Vt., the narrow social horizon, the strange interest in
politics, the religious intolerance, the “strong” views on the
temperance question which obtained there, and which leaked out from Miss
Perkins as the days went on into August. The easy sense of accommodation
to their new surroundings also amused him.
[Illustration: [Man]]
Archibald returned to the portrait. “I’d rawther like to have one for
the dining-room,” he said; “I think it would interest some of my
boarders when they come back next winter. I could give you no end of
sittings, Miss Price——”
Elvira exhibited some hesitancy:
“Well, I might try,” she said. “But I’m not at all good at hair——”
“Shave off my mustache if you like,” said the infatuated Archibald, with
a grimace.
The ladies changed the subject decorously. It was plain that
Archibald’s little advances toward an intimacy, to be derived from
portrait-painting, were being met in rather an unencouraging spirit,
don’t you know! The next day he invited them, as an agreeable
diversion, to visit Coney Island; but Elvira made an excuse that she
had no time for “pleasuring.” They seemed, indeed, to have few
pleasures. The morning walk in Central Park was given up; Miss Perkins
spent the greater part of the time when Elvira was at the Art School
in riding to and fro, apparently, upon street-cars. One day she came
home very late to dinner, saying that she had discovered the “Belt
Line.” While waiting her return for dinner, Archibald had an agreeable
_tête-à-tête_ with Elvira.
IV.
He was growing more and more in love with this self-contained, charming,
young New Englander. It had come to a time when he felt that he must
speak. They had been at No. 41 now these four weeks, aunt and niece, and
yet they had managed to preserve their distance. He was no nearer than
the day they arrived.
He reflected that the pleasant little daily comedy which had amused him
so entirely would have to be given up the instant he made known to her
his state of feeling. But at the same time he felt he could act out the
equivocation no longer. He must, as a gentleman, make a clean breast of
his deception. Archibald had seen a great deal of women, and he believed
that he understood them pretty well. He believed he understood Miss
Price well enough to reckon upon the flattery of her sudden fascination
that first day, for him, as the cause of his deceit. He planned to
boldly tell her this, one day, while they were waiting for Miss Perkins
to revolve around the “Belt Line.” But Elvira turned the conversation
against his will. She seemed to have remarkable intuitions, this strange
creature! Perhaps she had an intuition then. At any rate, she announced
their determination to return to East Village the following Saturday.
“Father writes that his ague is no better—that I must come home,” she
said. “There are, besides, the preserves——”
Archibald expressed no surprise. “If you go,” he said, “I think I’ll
take a run up there also. I have the greatest curiosity about East
Village.”
“There is nothing—it is dreadfully—I wouldn’t have you visit East
Village for all the world!”
“Why?”
“Because—” she replied, sedately.
Recognizing this as a sufficient reply, Archibald took a seat on the
sofa near her. She was in one of her pretty, soft, white muslins, tied,
this evening, with ribbons of the very latest shade of fashionable
apple-green. He had noticed the steady growth of fashion in the girl’s
appearance, but he was not quite prepared for the dozen silver bangles,
which jingled as she raised her hand to her hair. She had a pretty arm
and hand, and were it not for the bangles, which somehow altered the
current of his thought, he had nerved himself up to the point of taking,
or trying to take, her hand in his, and telling her in a manly way his
story. The bangles, however, don’t you know, diverted him. He could not
be serious. He laughed. It was as if he had happened upon a wood nymph
in seven-button kid gloves! She misinterpreted his laughter, believing
that he intended to ridicule the pastoral delights of East Village.
“I’m not ashamed of Vermont,” she said, drawing away a little. “I can’t
bear to have it laughed at. You would laugh at East Village, Mr.
Archibald—you laugh at everything. You are not sincere. You have too
much of the city in you—too much of its glitter and—” She caught his
eyes directed laughingly upon her bangles, and blushed guiltily.
“Time works its changes, don’t you know,” he said. “Even you, Miss
Elvira, are a _little_ affected.”
“I hate myself for it,” she said; “I _do_ find myself growing to like
things I never cared for before. I think of what I have on from morning
to night,” she confessed, guiltily, with an imploring glance at her
landlord.
“Can the dead dulness of midsummer in the city have wrought so wondrous
a change?” he laughed. “How very gay, really, you will be next winter.”
“Seriously,” said Elvira, “I look forward to a visit to East Village as
a complete change and rest. When I think of the white, dead walls of our
meetinghouse, I am glad; when I think of the lack of color in everybody
up there, it makes me glad; when I think of the plainness of everything,
the simpleness, the _truth_ of everything, I’m glad to go back. But
don’t you—don’t come up to Vermont, Mr. Archibald. Really, please,
don’t.”
Again Archibald felt impelled to seize her white, pretty hand, and tell
his story. He had never come to so intimate a point before. What chance
had he ever to come so near again? All that his mother and sisters could
write would have no effect upon him now. All that his friends at the
club would say, all that his Aunt Newbold would say—his Aunt Newbold was
the formidable dragon of his family—nothing, he felt sure, would alter
his mind. He had deliberated a month, he would deliberate no more.
Besides, she was going away; perhaps if he did _not_ speak his
opportunity would never again occur. He paled a little as he was about
to open his lips.
Bother!
The chalk-faced maid entered with a card on a silver tray.
V.
Mr. Jerome Archibald had very few hatreds; people whom he disliked he
carefully avoided. Being fastidious to an extreme, he had few friends,
but he likewise had no enemies. He had, however, a certain cousin who
lived in Boston, who had in some way early offended him, and for whom he
continued to have a most inexplicable dislike. Hunnewell Hollis was a
Harvard man, who had been a great swell at college, and who was
considered “clevah.” He was a year or two older than Archibald, and he
usually presumed a little upon his age and upon his superior education.
It was Hunnewell Hollis’s card which was brought up on the silver tray.
Archibald impatiently rose and went down to the reception-room. There he
found Hollis walking up and down the room, apparently in some
excitement.
“Jerry, this won’t do, old man!—heard ladies’ voices upstairs! ’Twon’t
do! Lucky I ran down with the yacht. Now I’m going to carry you off with
me. By the way, Somers and Billy Nahant and Jack Chadwick are here, and
I took the liberty to invite them here overnight—knew you were
alone—knew you would be glad to put them up.”
“By Jove, you do me great honor! Unfortunately I haven’t room for
you—I’ve only just let the house—taken—by Jove! I must take in the
sign.”
Archibald’s face betrayed no sign of his justifiable prevarication.
“Well, then, as it is dinner-time I’ll stay to dinner with you.”
“Sorry, very sorry. But the ladies who have taken the house would think
it very odd——”
“Well, how in the devil are _you_ dining with them, Jerry?”
“They asked me, in order to discuss the terms. A few details before
signing the lease, don’t you know!”
“Well, it puts me in a rather awkward position; I’ve left the fellows
your address; they’ll be here shortly.”
“Why don’t you head ’em off?” suggested Archibald, coolly.
Mr. Hunnewell Hollis gave his cousin a glance of anger. “The whole thing
is rather fishy,” he said, suspiciously. “I trust, Jerry, for the honor
of the family——”
Archibald never quite detested his cousin so much before.
“There are a great many adventuresses about; they are on the lookout for
rich young men like you, Jerry,” and Hunnewell Hollis, giving his cousin
a rather gravely serious nod, took up his hat and cane and departed.
Archibald went directly upstairs. He heard a rustle of a dress against
the furniture. Had Elvira been listening? He hoped not.
VI.
Adventuress! How that odious word rang in his ears as he entered the
room where the sweet primrose face was still in its corner of the sofa.
He swore he would never write to, nor speak to, Hunnewell Hollis again.
He had done with him forever. Yet, had he heard the rustle of her dress?
It gave him a slightly disagreeable sensation to think that it were
possible. Elvira Price apparently had not moved from her seat. She was
in the same pretty attitude in which he had left her, leaning back,
easily, against the corner of the sofa, her hands crossed in her lap. As
he entered it seemed to him that she was studying his face.
“I was so anxious about aunt,” she said. “I went out to the stairs
thinking I heard her come in. Do you know, it isn’t the Belt Line only;
she goes to a mission—a boy’s mission. She has taken the greatest
interest in it; all the teachers have gone away for the summer. It is in
an out-of-the-way part of the city, and it worries me.”
Archibald hesitated a moment, then he said:
“Did you hear the row with my cousin? He was very impertinent; but all
Bostonians are impertinent.”
The name Bostonian seemed to give her a slight sensation.
“You have been in Boston?” he asked.
“N—yes, and I, too, found Bostonians impertinent.” She gave him an
appealing glance; then she added, after a pause, “I find New York quite
different.”
Miss Perkins came in shortly after, much fatigued, and Archibald after
dinner went over to the club, where he fell in with Hunnewell Hollis
again, in spite of the fact that he did his best to avoid him. Hunnewell
had found his yachting friends, and they had had a very good dinner.
They were all very talkative—Somers, Billy Nahant, and Jack Chadwick.
They were in flannel suits and yachting caps, and each was bronzed and
sunburned to a fine copper hue.
“What is the name of the people who have taken your house?” asked
Hunnewell, bluntly, after he had introduced Archibald to his friends.
“Miss Perkins and her niece, Miss Elvira Price,” replied Archibald,
coldly.
Instantly Billy Nahant pricked up his ears. “Why,” he said, “isn’t she
an actress? Didn’t she play in Boston last winter?”
“Who?” asked Archibald.
“Why, Elvira Price. She made quite a hit, I believe—her _début_ too—at
the Boston Theatre. She played to crowded houses exactly two weeks; at
the end of that time, to everyone’s surprise, she went home to Vermont,
whence she came, and she calmly gave up the stage forever!”
Archibald’s face was a study.
“Did you know you were letting your mother’s house to actresses?” asked
Hollis, with a sneer.
“Miss Price is probably a different person from the one to whom Mr.
Nahant has reference,” said Archibald, coldly.
“I remember the girl,” said Jack Chadwick. “She was very young and
beautiful, and fitted her part admirably. She made an excellent
_ingénue_. She held herself well—not at all gushing, don’t you know—but
poetic, _spirituelle_. She played in ‘A Scrap of Paper’—some picked-up
company with her. She carried the play very well. I have often wondered
what became of her.”
“So this is the creature who has rented your house, and whom you dined
with to-night,” sneered Hollis; “an _ingénue_, indeed!”
“Miss Price is a lady—not a ‘creature,’” said Archibald, haughtily. “As
far as I have seen, she can only honor our house by remaining under its
roof.” And Archibald bowed stiffly, and took his leave in the midst of
an embarrassed silence.
VII.
He preferred not to see Elvira again before she took her departure for
Vermont the next day. Her aunt remained in the city to look after her
“mission work.” Archibald presented her, as the gift of a rich, unknown
friend, fifty dollars—their board-money—to send some of her boys into
the country. After Elvira’s departure he became very despondent.
Elvira’s image was broken to him, and while she had not become in his
mind quite an adventuress, yet she had concealed her former life from
him. She had deceived him.
But as the days went by and he missed her, he found that he must speak
to Miss Perkins about Elvira’s acting, or go through a serious case of
nervous prostration. He said very bluntly to her, one day, at dinner:
“So I hear your niece is a great actress.”
Miss Perkins gave him a quick, sharp glance.
“She _has_ acted,” she replied. “But Elvira Price had too much
conscience to act _long_.”
He gave a sigh of relief.
“She acted in Boston, because she was bound to try it. She wanted to try
everything—everything that would keep her father out of the poor-house
and educate the family. But acting, Mr. Archibald, is a dreadful
business! As soon as Elvira saw into it a little she quit. The air
wasn’t pure enough, somehow, for her. Elvira, she needs awful pure air!”
Again Archibald felt a certain glow of satisfaction steal over him.
“Do you know,” he said, after a suitable pause, “I am more than
half-inclined to make her angry by running up to East Village.”
Miss Perkins gave a little quinzied laugh of satisfaction. She was
beginning to like Archibald very much.
“It would startle Elvira; but she’d be pleased,” ventured the thin old
maid. “She’d be pleased—in spite of everything!”
A few days later Archibald, after half a day’s journey, found himself in
Vermont. As the train drew near East Village the mountains grew higher
and the scenery wilder. He could see the great August moon roll itself
above the high crest of the mountains to the west. Though Archibald was
far from superstitious, he was pained to observe that he saw the moon
over his left shoulder.
It was late when he stumbled from the steps of the car upon the wooden
platform of the station at East Village. It was dark, also, and to him,
extraordinarily cold. He groped his way, shivering, past a blinding
reflector, where half a dozen men in cow-hide boots were examing a list
of invoices, to what he could dimly outline as the village stage. No one
spoke to him, and he found that no one seemed to care whether he, the
sole passenger, was carried. He had visions of an unpleasant nature of
being deposited inside the coach in a shed or stable to await the
morning. He felt the stage pitch and toss for twenty minutes like a bark
upon an angry sea. When all was still again he found that the driver had
drawn up before a white-pillared old-fashioned house, which stood a
little back from the street. At the side of the gate a small wooden
building bore the sign, which was illuminated by the stage lamp,
_Ephraim B. Price, Attorney at Law._
“Oh,” said Archibald, “this is Elvira’s house, and the driver is
delivering my box of flowers.”
He leaned forward, hoping to catch sight of the fair young girl when the
front-door opened to take in the box. But he was disappointed. The
impatient driver had merely left it on the steps of the high,
white-pillared portico, after giving the door-bell a vigorous pull.
Then followed a further few minutes of pitching and tossing, and the
stage drew up before the tavern-door. A row of a dozen men, whose hats
were drawn down over their eyes, and whose feet fell instantaneously
from the rail to the floor as the coach drew up, came forward, and one
of them betrayed a desire to grasp Archibald’s in his own horny hand.
“Guess ye’ll stop overnight? Th’ain’t no other place. ’Sprised to see a
stranger to-night, tew. Will you go in an’ sign—will you, sir?”
“So this uncouth ruffian,” thought Archibald, “is Elvira’s ideal
landlord! No wonder she distrusts me!”
“We’re local temp’rance,” said the landlord. “An’ no licker’s being seen
to East Village for nigh six years. Not a drop, sir, an’ it’s bustin’ my
ho-tel higher’n a kite. Yes, it is!”
Archibald expressed commiseration.
“As I tell’d Squar’ Price, ‘yeou high-toned, ’ristocratic temp’rance
folk’ll hurt East Village when ye close the hotel!’ Why, when a gent
comes up here fr’ the city, he wants to be able to call fer a glass o’
gin or a glass o’ whiskey ’s often ’s he likes.”
Archibald thought he detected the faint smell of liquor upon the
landlord’s breath as he talked, and it occurred to him that his
obtrusively free-and-easy-manner was the result of a secret violation of
the prohibitory local license law. “Bein’ fr’ the city, as you be,” said
the landlord, lowering his voice to a whisper, and placing his heavy
hand on Archibald’s shoulder familiarly, “I calc’late you’re cold an’
ready for a tidy drink. I calc’late I’m talkin’ to a gent as is used ter
lickerin’ up, even ef ’tis agin the law?” To humor him, Archibald
admitted that he had no stringent prohibitory sentiments.
“Well then, good! Jest you foller me!”
Archibald followed the landlord out into the hotel yard, where the
latter pulled up the flaps of a cellar-door. Hearing the creaking sound,
and taking it for an admonitory signal, the row of men on the hotel
piazza, who had resumed their seats, again dropped their feet on the
floor, rose, and came out into the yard in Indian file, in perfect
silence. Archibald followed his landlord down into the darkness of the
cellar, where, beneath the dim light of a solitary candle he perceived a
cask with a wooden spigot, and near it half a dozen tin cups. The men
filed down the steps behind him. “You’ve heerd o’ apple jack?” asked the
landlord, in a whisper.
Archibald nodded.
“Drink that, then!” and the landlord handed him a cupful of the
beverage. It was enough to intoxicate him. He drank but a very little;
as he saw the other men were waiting, he passed the cup on to them.
“Welcome to East Village, stranger,” said one of the men, drinking. “Be
you up ’ere a-sellin’ marchandize?”
“Oh, no!”
“Be you come to see the Squar’?”
“Well—perhaps—yes.”
“Wa’l, this is a dead give away!” and the men laughed noisily, as
rustics will. “Don’t mention this ’ere cider to Squar’ Price!”
The next morning was delicious, the air clear and smelling of the
mountains. The mist hung above the distant river, and a line of hills
showed their green wooded outline above it. As Archibald breathed the
sweet country air, he stepped more briskly, felt less of his city
malaria, drew into his lungs a long breath of the fresh, invigorating
summer wind, which seemed to come to him across the high upland, from
such a vast distance.
He came to the old colonial gate and entered. The Hon. Ephraim B. Price
was just at the moment sauntering down the gravel path from his house to
his law office. As he saw Archibald enter, he came forward somewhat more
rapidly. He was a man of large frame, gaunt rather than spare, of
prominent cheekbones, of lengthy chin-beard. His eyes were very keen,
and his entire expression was one of patient alertness—as if there was
very little to be alert over, but a deep necessity of keeping up a
reputation. Archibald learned afterward how indefatigable a partisan,
and how strenuous a believer in the Republican party the Hon. Ephraim
was.
“Sir,” he said, after greeting Archibald, and looking with a grin of
pity upon his engraved card—a grin directed chiefly to the “Mr.” before
Archibald’s name—“you are Elvira’s landlord down to New York—tell me,
how is your city and State going, do you think?”
Archibald felt taken aback. Politics were something of which he knew
nothing. He was but barely aware that it was a presidential year. In the
city he kept severely out of politics, as hardly the employment of
gentlemen.
“I—I—think it will go Democratic.”
A more violent frown than before. “If I thought so, sir; if I imagined
so; if for one instant I believed that what we fought for during the
war—Eh, Elvira? Here is Mr. Archibald!”
Then the Hon. Ephraim turned abruptly and entered his office, where, it
may be added, he sat for the next hour, his feet on the cold stove
before him, meditating where his next fee was to come from, and breaking
out with an occasional invective against the wicked democracy.
Before the old gentleman was a square window which looked out over the
town. All day long he sat before this, as upon a watch-tower—a censor of
village morals and deportment.
“Father is so interested in the election,” apologized Elvira. “But how
strange to see you here; and I told you not to!”
She held a small gray kitten in her arms, which she stroked slowly. She
was still in his favorite white muslin, and she had a gentle, sweet
flush of pleasure in her face.
“I came, Miss Price—because—don’t you know—I—aw—missed you,” and he
smiled.
“You are very good. How is Aunt Perkins? Did she bring her mission boys
to your house? She has written that a friend of yours has given fifty
dollars for the boys. Do tell me about it. Is she well? Have any more
boarders come?”
She plied him with questions as they strolled toward the white-pillared
portico. The house was old and shabby, but he did not notice it. The
place was run down and impoverished, but it seemed very beautiful to
him, for he noticed that she wore one of his roses in her lustrous hair.
Entering the hallway he met some of the younger brothers and sisters,
and felt a sudden strange affection spring up in his heart for them.
Elvira took him through into a gloomy parlor, lined with plain
hair-cloth furniture. On the walls were several portraits. “This was my
mother,” said the girl, affectionately, pointing to what Archibald felt
to be a hideous daub, a red-faced woman in black, against a green
background. It was the portrait by Mr. Raymond, whose abode was now the
poor-house. “She died only two years ago——”
“I fancy if she had lived,” said Archibald, “you would not have
tried—the stage?”
She looked at him calmly a moment.
“That Boston man has told you?”
“Yes, I learned the fact from his friends.”
“I shall never—again.” There was a despairing pathos in her voice.
“Elvira,” he said, slowly, “as I see it—I think it was very noble of you
to try.”
Then, unaccountably to him, she burst into tears.
“It is what I love—what I long for—to be an actress—a great actress,”
she sobbed. “But I can’t—I can’t! I can’t exist with those
creatures—those horrible men who hang about you! No one knows what I
endured! No one knows what, too, I gave up when I left the stage and
came home; but I _had_ to.”
He leaned forward in sympathy.
“You may say what you will, but there is no Art like acting, and nothing
so fine as applause. Oh, that I could bring myself to do it—to be strong
enough to do it—to save our fortunes—to help father. You little know how
I have suffered, Mr. Archibald.”
“By Jove—I—I quite like you for it!”
He was on his feet at her side. Impulsively he bent down and whispered
close to her ear. “Let me be your audience the rest of my life! Act for
_me_—let me applaud everything—anything you do, my darling! always!
always!”
She put him away.
“I don’t feel I have acted just right _with_ you,” she said. “I should
have told you that I was—or might be again—an actress.” She spoke
coldly. “I don’t believe you want them in your boarding-house. They are
not always desirable, I believe!” Elvira’s eyes were fastened on the
floor.
Archibald paced to and fro in the parlor. “Confound her odd New England
conscience!” he muttered to himself. Seizing her hands, he cried,
passionately, “I, too, must confess. Elvira, I loved you that first day
you came. _I loved you!_ Therefore I let you think—it _was_ a boarding
house.”
“And it isn’t—it’s your own private—Oh, Mr. Archibald!”
She sat and looked at him with a horrified stare. The full truth of his
imposition began to steal upon her gradually. Then her face fell and she
averted it, as she felt that a fatal untruth had come between them. She
rose quietly and left him standing near her. She went upstairs to her
room and threw herself upon her bed in an agony of tears.
Through it all Archibald had merely smiled!
VIII.
But when she left him he felt rather weak for a moment, as if his city
malaria had returned upon him with a double force. As Elvira showed no
signs of returning, he amused himself by turning over the leaves of the
family photograph album. Face by face revealed the stern, set, arid,
Puritan features, the hard, determined chins, and the “firmness,” which,
in the person of the Hon. Ephraim, he felt still dominated and
controlled the public affairs of East Village. He threw down the album
with a feeling of impotent rage against the survival of this colonial
“narrowness,” as he liked to call it. He walked out of the house and
wandered, much crestfallen and full of malaria, along the village street
toward the hotel. A great many farm wagons were tied along the sidewalk,
and there were numbers of fresh-cheeked country girls walking in threes
and fours, and sweeping the sidewalk as they went. Upon a slight
elevation stood a white wooden meetinghouse, with a white steeple, and
it gave him a chill even on that warm morning to look at it—it _looked_
so cold. Small groups of hard-featured farmers in fur caps stood on the
corners of the streets discussing, presumably, the crops. He wondered if
the fur caps were needed in that arid, bleak region to keep warm the
natives’ sense of Right and Wrong? He made his way out, beneath some
beautiful elms, into a small, old-fashioned burying-ground, where he
discovered that “erring sinners” apparently comprised the only element
of those who were requested to “_Pause and Read_.” Feeling himself to be
now, for some reason, a distinctly immoral person, he read some of the
quaint epitaphs, to which he was invited, in a spirit of humility, which
presently changed to amusement. In death as in life, the hard, stern old
village characters preserved on their headstones a fund of grim humor
for the “sinner,” which in Archibald’s instance made him smile. “Oh,” he
sighed to himself, “I long to take her away from all this sort of
thing—forever!”
He took a long walk in the afternoon, and returned to the hotel to find
a coldly worded note from Elvira inviting him around to tea. He removed
the stains of his walk, and dressed himself with his usual care. He
found Elvira waiting for him beneath the high white pillars, in an
unbecoming, and as it seemed to him, forbidding dress of black. Her face
seemed unusually stern and relentless. There were traces of tears in her
red eyelids, but the tears were dried away now, and her eyes were very
bright and hard.
“Don’t say anything _now_. Father feels very deeply about it. We have
had a long talk. When he heard of the—of the unfortunate house affair—he
was _so_ angry I could hardly pacify him.”
Archibald’s heart sank within him. He fairly shivered.
“He said that he did not want me to lower my standard,” continued
Elvira, in her clear, musical, passionless voice. “And I told him that
he need have no fears. I wanted to see you first, and tell you. Let us
not have any _feeling_ about it.”
“Any _feeling_!” exclaimed Archibald. “Why—how can we help it!”
“Let us act as if we had never understood one another. I will go back to
the city with you, and Aunt Perkins and I will find some other place at
once.”
“Go back with me—and expect me to show no feeling! Elvira, this is
preposterous!”
“Then I will go back alone.” She compressed her lips, just as he had
observed her father do.
“I beg pardon, Elvira, do you mean—can you mean that I can never—I can
never hope!”
She nodded her pretty flower-like head gravely. “Come in to tea, won’t
you?” she said, coolly. “I want father to hear you talk about Art.”
He turned on his heel. At last he, too, was angry.
“Thanks, awfully,” he said. “But if I go back to the hotel now, I shall
just have time to pack my valise and catch the evening train.”
He walked rapidly away, leaving her standing upon the white-pillared
portico, looking with pure, sweet, upturned face, like a saint who has
for all time renounced the world, the flesh, and the devil. Had he
looked back, Mr. Jerome Archibald’s tender heart would have been touched
by her attitude; he would have returned, and, against her will, clasped
her in his arms and covered her pale lips with warm kisses. It might
have melted her high “standard” a little. But he let a night intervene
without seeing her, and the entering wedge of her high sense of duty did
its work before morning. He determined to remain another day and make a
further trial. When he called the next day she was obdurate. “Love
cannot be built upon deceit and untruth,” she said, sententiously. “I
was not frank, you were not. It is better that we should part. I could
never hold up my head—I could never face the world. I know what they
would call me. They would call me an _adventuress!_ and they would hate
me for being successful. Yes—your mother, your sisters—everyone.”
“But you were perfectly innocent about it, Elvira.”
There was a little pause.
“I, too, was innocent. I meant no more than to have you near me, where I
could learn to know you—love you—and now, really, it seems as if you had
built up a mountain of ice between us, don’t you know.”
She merely shook her head.
When Archibald returned to the city his malaria compelled him to go away
again almost immediately to Newport. There, a few weeks later, his agent
wrote him that he had succeeded in renting the house “at an exorbitant
figure to a very rich tenant without children”—thus fulfilling his
mother’s conditions to the letter. He went back to the city, recovered
in health, to pack up a few personal effects, and found to his surprise
that Miss Perkins and her niece were, at the moment he arrived, in the
house. They had taken board on Ninth Street, and had gone up to take a
last look of the charming interior where, Elvira guiltily acknowledged,
life had been “so wrongly pleasant.” He found Elvira holding a fan in
her hand and seated pensively in an old Venetian chair in what was
formerly her studio. As he entered the room she rose, blushing a most
vivid red, and as rapidly turning pale again.
“Mr. Archibald!” she exclaimed. “I did not know you were in the city!”
“I have been here only an hour,” he said, stiffly.
“It is time for us to go;” and she turned to the door.
“Elvira!” His face looked sick and ghastly.
“Well?” She drew herself up very coldly.
“Are you made of stone?”
“Mr. Archibald, what can you mean?”
“My child, you are capable of grinding one who loves you into
powder—like—er—a millstone!”
“Aunt Perkins!” she called out, “let us go!”
“No,” he cried, “I will not let you go. You shall hear me! I love you!
Do you hear? And you shall not leave this house until you say you will
be my wife! I know you care for me—everything tells me so—but you will
wear your own and my heart out with your hard, cruel conscience! What
brought you here? _You loved me!_ Why have you been sitting in this
room? You love me, Elvira—I know it—I feel it!”
Gently he drew her to him and kissed her. She laid her head on his
shoulder and breathed a little contented sigh. “_I don’t think this—is
right!_” she said.
MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW
BY EDITH WHARTON
The view from Mrs. Manstey’s window was not a striking one, but to her
at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the
back room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street
where the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the
pavement would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a
clerk in a large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for
her only daughter had married in California, and could not afford the
long journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might
have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many
years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each other’s
society, and their intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of
a few perfunctory letters, written with indifference by the daughter,
and with difficulty by Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff
with gout. Even had she felt a stronger desire for her daughter’s
companionship, Mrs. Manstey’s increasing infirmity, which caused her to
dread the three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would
have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey; and
without, perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since accepted
as a matter of course her solitary life in New York.
She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now
and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by.
Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husband’s
lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many
years she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a
hen-house and a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving
only in the breast of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness
for plants and animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her
cling so fervently to the view from her window, a view in which the most
optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover anything
admirable.
Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting
bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of
unwholesome-looking bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her own
dwelling, of which, however, she could get but a restricted glimpse.
Still, her gaze took in the topmost boughs of the ailanthus below her
window, and she knew how early each year the clump of dicentra strung
its bending stalk with hearts of pink.
But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part
attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness
and fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments
and frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to
admire in the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were,
indeed, but stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and
no shade in spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the
clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others,
the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the
broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed
her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of
the prospect before her.
[Illustration: [Magnolia]]
In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white
flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little
way down the line, a fence foamed over every May by lilac waves of
wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff
and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite
yard June was sweet with the breath of a neglected syringa, which
persisted in growing in spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its
welfare.
But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey’s view, there was
much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the
houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored
curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor’s window opposite; but
she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks
washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often
show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in
sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; she
knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly
painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the
stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Manstey’s warmest sympathies were given.
On one occasion her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid,
who for two days forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the
third day, Mrs. Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a
letter, beginning: “Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has
been fed,” when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of
seed in her hand.
But in Mrs. Manstey’s more meditative moods it was the narrowing
perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at
twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid
yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to
Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her mind’s eye to a pale
phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart
Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at all events she was sensible of many
changes of color unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the
green of early spring was the black lattice of branches against a cold
sulphur sky at the close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny
thaws of March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like
ink-spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better
still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced the
clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain interest
the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and missed a detail
in the landscape when the factory was closed and the smoke disappeared.
Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not
idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view
surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her
rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the
contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain
green points in a neighboring flowerbed which might, or might not, turn
into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor’s anecdotes
about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey’s real friends were the
denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot,
the maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his
mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was
the church-spire floating in the sunset.
One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside
and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the
door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not care
for her landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike
resignation. To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from
the blue sky and the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampson’s unsuggestive
face, and Mrs. Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so.
“The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson,” she
remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the
absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not
likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of
expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she
wished to.
“The what, Mrs. Manstey?” inquired the landlady, glancing about the room
as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey’s statement.
“The magnolia in the next yard—in Mrs. Black’s yard,” Mrs. Manstey
repeated.
“Is it, indeed? I didn’t know there was a magnolia there,” said Mrs.
Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that
there was a magnolia in the next yard!
“By the way,” Mrs. Sampson continued, “speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me
that the work on the extension is to begin next week.”
“The what?” it was Mrs. Manstey’s turn to ask.
“The extension,” said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of
the ignored magnolia. “You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to
build an extension to her house? Yes, ma’am, I hear it is to run right
back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in
these hard times I don’t see; but she always was crazy about building.
She used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly
ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should
have thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess it’s a
disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday.”
Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady
did not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said:
“Do you know how high the extension will be?”
“That’s the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right
up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?”
Mrs. Manstey paused again. “Won’t it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs.
Sampson?” she asked.
“I should say it would. But there’s no help for it; if people have got a
mind to build extensions there’s no law to prevent ’em, that I’m aware
of.” Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. “There is no help for it,”
Mrs. Sampson repeated, “but if I _am_ a church member, I wouldn’t be so
sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I’m glad
to find you so comfortable.”
So comfortable—so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned once
more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky with
its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus had
put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, the magnolia
flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon
the wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her.
Between her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly
rise; presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant
world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the dinner-tray
brought to her that evening. She lingered in the window until the windy
sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she lay sleepless
all night.
Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but
even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm—and then
the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that
the ailanthus was growing dusty.
“Of course I might move,” said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the
window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might
she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation.
The room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was
as much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years.
She knew every stain on the wallpaper, every rent in the carpet; the
light fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown
shabby on their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and
knew which way to lean to the sun. “We are all too old to move,” she
said.
That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared through
torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the
flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the
building of the extension was to begin.
On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged
in gathering up the fragments of the boarders’ dinner in the basement.
The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey’s name.
“One of Mrs. Sampson’s boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can
give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah,” said Mrs. Black,
“tell the lady I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”
Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with
statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down.
Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust,
Mrs. Black advanced to her visitor.
“I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please,” the landlady
remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to
build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down.
“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?” Mrs. Black continued. “My
house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and——”
“It is about the extension that I wish to speak,” said Mrs. Manstey,
suddenly. “I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a happy
one. I shall have to talk about myself first to—to make you understand.”
Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis.
“I never had what I wanted,” Mrs. Manstey continued. “It was always one
disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country.
I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was
no sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter
married years ago and went away—besides, she never cared for the same
things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen
years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampson’s, and I have been there ever
since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don’t get out
often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can
understand my sitting a great deal in my window—the back window on the
third floor——”
“Well, Mrs. Manstey,” said Mrs. Black, liberally, “I could give you a
back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex——”
“But I don’t want to move; I can’t move,” said Mrs. Manstey, almost with
a scream. “And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I
shall have no view from my window—no view! Do you understand?”
Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had
always heard that lunatics must be humored.
“Dear me, dear me,” she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way,
“that is too bad, isn’t it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure,
the extension _will_ interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey.”
“You do understand?” Mrs. Manstey gasped.
“Of course I do. And I’m real sorry about it, too. But there, don’t you
worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right.”
Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door.
“What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to
change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I
have two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could
manage, to give you a thousand if——” Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were
rolling down her cheeks.
“There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don’t you worry,” repeated Mrs. Black,
soothingly. “I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I can’t stay
and talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with
supper to get——”
Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized
her wrist.
“You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you
accept my proposition?”
“Why, I’ll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldn’t
annoy you for the world——”
“But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told,” Mrs. Manstey persisted.
Mrs. Black hesitated. “It shan’t begin, I promise you that; I’ll send
word to the builder this very night.” Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold.
“You are not deceiving me, are you?” she said.
“No—no,” stammered Mrs. Black. “How can you think such a thing of me,
Mrs. Manstey?”
Slowly Mrs. Manstey’s clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open
door. “One thousand dollars,” she repeated, pausing in the hall; then
she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting
herself on the cast-iron railing.
“My goodness,” exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door,
“I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and
ladylike, too.”
Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was
awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what haste
she might and, looking out, saw that Mrs. Black’s yard was full of
workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard,
others beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which
adorned each story of Mrs. Black’s house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had
been deceived. At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs.
Sampson, but a settled discouragement soon took possession of her and
she went back to bed, not caring to see what was going on.
Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she
rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were
stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her.
When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen had
removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had
multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated
face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the
ground; the next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in
passing.
“Look out, Jim,” called one of the men to another who was smoking a
pipe, “if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper you’ll
have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it.” And Mrs.
Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were several barrels of
paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony.
At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and
a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the
west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded,
in her usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and
lit it with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a
zinc-covered shelf in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it
assumed its peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed,
like their mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet
evening, and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the
table and began to knit.
That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind
was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey
rose once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing
was discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These
lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their
extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she
merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her
head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the
kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her
pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door,
and a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase,
led by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the
bottom of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter
darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as
there was less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she
contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold
wind smote her as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the
clothes-lines.
That morning at three o’clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to
Mrs. Black’s door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson’s startled boarders to
their windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black’s house was
ablaze, and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs.
Manstey, leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window.
The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the
house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that
little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and
smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs.
Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not
unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an
open window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she
was very ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor’s verdict
would be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson’s table
were awe-struck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs.
Manstey well; she “kept to herself,” as they said, and seemed to fancy
herself too good for them; but then it is always disagreeable to have
anyone dying in the house, and, as one lady observed to another: “It
might just as well have been you or me, my dear.”
[Illustration: [Woman]]
But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived,
lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs.
Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs.
Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All
day she said nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter’s address
she shook her head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be
listening attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she
dozed.
The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs.
Sampson, and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move.
“Lift me up—out of bed,” she whispered.
They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to
the window.
“Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit there
all day,” Mrs. Sampson explained. “It can do her no harm, I suppose?”
“Nothing matters now,” said the nurse.
They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The
dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a
golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in
shadow. In Mrs. Black’s yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the
balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire
the builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a
few more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed.
It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe. Each moment it grew more
difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not
understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating
ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was
there—the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to
blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the
sun.
Mrs. Manstey’s head fell back, and smiling she died.
That day the building of the extension was resumed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
STORIES FROM SCRIBNER
❦
STORIES OF
NEW YORK
[Illustration: [Woman]]
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1893
In this series of little books, issued under the general title “Stories
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Stories of New York.
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Stories of Italy.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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