Mrs. Belding's house was next to that of Mr. Farnham, and the
neighborly custom of Algonquin Avenue was to build no middle walls of
partition between adjoining lawns. A minute's walk, therefore, brought
the young man to the door of Mrs. Belding's cottage. She called it a
cottage, and so we have no excuse for calling it anything else, though
it was a big three-storied house, built of the soft creamy stone of the
Buffland quarries, and it owed its modest name to an impression in the
lady's mind that gothic gables and dormer windows were a necessary
adjunct of cottages. She was a happy woman, though she would have been
greatly surprised to hear herself so described. She had not been out of
mourning since she was a young girl. Her parents, as she sometimes
said, "had put her into black"; and several children had died in
infancy, one after the other, until at last her husband, Jairus
Belding, the famous bridge-builder, had perished of a malarial fever
caught in the swamps of the Wabash, and left her with one daughter and
a large tin box full of good securities. She never afterward altered
the style of her dress, and she took much comfort in feeling free from
all further allegiance to milliners. In fact, she had a nature which
was predisposed to comfort. She had been fond of her husband, but she
had been a little afraid of him, and, when she had wept her grief into
tranquillity, she felt a certain satisfaction in finding herself the
absolute mistress of her income and her bedroom. Her wealth made her
the object of matrimonial ambition once or twice, and she had
sufficient beauty to flatter herself that she was loved more for her
eyes than her money; but she refused her suitors with an indolent
good-nature that did not trouble itself with inquiries as to their
sincerity. "I have been married once, thank you, and that is enough";
this she said simply without sighing or tears. Perhaps the unlucky
aspirant might infer that her heart was buried in the grave of Jairus.
But the sober fact was that she liked her breakfast at her own hours.
Attached to the spacious sleeping-room occupied in joint tenancy by
herself and the bridge-builder were two capacious closets. After the
funeral of Mr. Belding, she took possession of both of them, hanging
her winter wardrobe in one and her summer raiment in the other, and
she had never met a man so fascinating as to tempt her to give up to
him one of these rooms.
She was by no means a fool. Like many easy-going women, she had an
enlightened selfishness which prompted her to take excellent care of
her affairs. As long as old Mr. Farnham lived, she took his advice
implicitly in regard to her investments, and after his death she
transferred the same unquestioning confidence to his grandson and heir,
although he was much younger than herself and comparatively
inexperienced in money matters. It seemed to her only natural that some
of the Farnham wisdom should have descended with the Farnham millions.
There was a grain of good sense in this reasoning, founded as it was
upon her knowledge of Arthur's good qualities; for upon a man who is
neither a sot nor a gambler the possession of great wealth almost
always exercises a sobering and educating influence. So, whenever Mrs.
Belding was in doubt in any matter of money, she asked Arthur to dine
with her, and settle the vexing questions somewhere between the soup
and the coffee. It was a neighborly service, freely asked and willingly
rendered.
As Farnham entered the widow's cosey library, he saw a lady sitting by
the fire whom he took to be Mrs. Belding; but as she rose and made a
step toward him, he discovered that she was not in mourning. The quick
twilight was thickening into night, and the rich glow of the naming
coal in the grate, deepening the shadows in the room, while it
prevented him from distinguishing the features of her face, showed him
a large full form with a grace of movement which had something even of
majesty in it.
"I see you have forgotten me," said a voice as rich and full as the
form from which it came. "I am Alice Belding."
"Of course you are, and you have grown as big and beautiful as you
threatened to," said Farnham, taking both the young girl's hands in
his, and turning until she faced the fire-light. It was certainly a
bonny face which the red light shone upon, and quite uncommon in its
beauty. The outline was very pure and noble; the eyes were dark-brown
and the hair was of tawny gold, but the complexion was of that clear
and healthy pallor so rarely met with among blonde women. The finest
thing about her face was its expression of perfect serenity. Even now,
as she stood looking at Farnham, with her hands in his, her cheek
flushed a little with the evident pleasure of the meeting, she received
his gaze of unchecked admiration with a smile as quiet and unabashed as
that of a mother greeting a child.
"Well, well!" said Farnham, as they seated themselves, "how long has it
taken you to grow to that stature? When did I see you last?"
"Two years ago," she answered, in that rich and gentle tone which was a
delight to the ear. "I was at home last summer, but you were away--in
Germany, I think."
"Yes, and we looked for you in vain at Christmases and Thanksgivings."
"Mamma came so often to New York that there seemed no real necessity of
my coming home until I came for good. I had so much to learn, you know.
I was quite old and very ignorant when I started away."
"And you have come back quite young and very learned, I dare say."
She laughed a little, and her clear and quiet laugh was as pleasant as
her speech.
Mrs. Belding came in with gliding footsteps and cap-strings gently
fluttering.
"Why, you are all in the dark! Arthur, will you please light that
burner nearest you?"
In the bright light Miss Alice looked prettier than ever; the jet of
gas above her tinged her crisp hair with a lustre of twisted gold wire
and threw tangled shadows upon her low smooth forehead.
"We have to thank Madame de Veaudrey for sending us back a fine young
woman," said Farnham.
"Yes, she _is_ improved," the widow assented calmly. "I must show you
the letter Madame de Veaudrey wrote me. Alice is first in languages,
first----"
"In peace, and first in the hearts of her countrywomen," interrupted
Miss Alice, not smartly, but with smiling firmness. "Let Mr. Farnham
take the rest of my qualities for granted, please."
"There will be time enough for you two to get acquainted. But this
evening I wanted to talk to you about something more important. The
'Tribune' money article says the Dan and Beersheba Railroad is not
really earning its dividends. What am I to do about that, I should like
to know?"
"Draw your dividends, with a mind conscious of rectitude, though the
directors rage and the 'Tribune' imagine a vain thing," Farnham
answered, and the talk was of stocks and bonds for an hour afterward.
When dinner was over, the three were seated again in the library. The
financial conversation had run its course, and had perished amid the
arid sands of reference to the hard times and the gloomy prospects of
real estate. Miss Alice, who took no part in the discussion, was
reading the evening paper, and Farnham was gratifying his eyes by
gazing at the perfect outline of her face, the rippled hair over the
straight brows, and the stout braids that hung close to the graceful
neck in the fashion affected by school-girls at that time.
A servant entered and handed a card to Alice. She looked at it and
passed it to her mother.
"It is Mr. Furrey," said the widow. "He has called upon _you_."
"I suppose he may come in here?" Alice said, without rising.
Her mother looked at her with a mute inquiry, but answered in an
instant, "Certainly."
When Mr. Furrey entered, he walked past Mrs. Belding to greet her
daughter, with profuse expressions of delight at her return, "of which
he had just heard this afternoon at the bank; and although he was going
to a party this evening, he could not help stopping in to welcome her
home." Miss Alice said "Thank you," and Mr. Furrey turned to shake
hands with her mother.
"You know my friend Mr. Farnham?"
"Yes, ma'am--that is, I see him often at the bank, but I am glad to owe
the pleasure of his acquaintance to you."
The men shook hands. Mr. Furrey bowed a little more deeply than was
absolutely required. He then seated himself near Miss Alice and began
talking volubly to her about New York. He was a young man of medium
size, dressed with that exaggeration of the prevailing mode which seems
necessary to provincial youth. His short fair hair was drenched with
pomatum and plastered close to his head. His white cravat was tied with
mathematical precision, and his shirt-collar was like a wall of white
enamel from his shoulders to his ears. He wore white kid gloves, which
he secured from spot or blemish as much as possible by keeping the tips
of the fingers pressed against each other. His speech was quicker than
is customary with Western people, but he had their flat monotone and
their uncompromising treatment of the letter R.
Mrs. Belding crossed over to where Farnham was seated and began a
conversation with him in an undertone.
"You think her really improved?"
"In every way. She has the beauty and stature of a Brunhild; she
carries herself like a duchess, I was going to say--but the only
duchess I ever knew was at Schwalbach, and she was carried in a wicker
hand-cart. But mademoiselle is lovely, and she speaks very pretty
English; and knows how to wear her hair, and will be a great comfort to
you, if you can keep the boys at bay for awhile."
"No danger there, I imagine; she will keep them at bay herself. Did you
notice just now? Mr. Furrey called especially to see her. He was quite
attentive to her last summer. Instead of going to the drawing-room to
see him, she wants him to come in here, where he is in our way and we
are in his. That is one of Madame de Veaudrey's notions."
"I should fancy it was," said Farnham, dryly; "I have heard her spoken
of as a lady of excellent principles and manners."
"Now you are going to side against me, are you? I do not believe in
importing these European ideas of surveillance into free America. I
have confidence in American girls."
"But see where your theories lead you. In Algonquin Avenue, the young
ladies are to occupy the drawing-room, while the parents make
themselves comfortable in the library. But the houses in Dean Street
are not so spacious. Most citizens in that quarter have only two rooms
below stairs. I understand the etiquette prevailing there is for
parents, when their daughters receive calls, to spend the evening in
the kitchen."
"Oh, dear! I see I'm to get no help from you. That's just the way Alice
talks. When she came home to-day, there were several invitations for
her, and some notes from young gentlemen offering their escort. She
told me in that quiet way of hers, that reminds me of Mr. Belding when
he was dangerous, that she would be happy to go with me when I cared to
go, and happy to stay at home if I stayed. So I imagine I am booked for
a gay season."
"Which I am sure you will greatly enjoy. But this Madame de Veaudrey
must be a sensible woman."
"Because I disagree with her? I am greatly obliged. But she is a saint,
although you admire her," pursued the good-tempered woman. "She was a
Hamilton, you know, and married Veaudrey, who was secretary of legation
in Washington. He was afterward minister in Sweden, and died there. She
was returning to this country with her three girls, and was shipwrecked
and they all three perished. She was picked up unconscious and
recovered only after a long illness. Since then she has gone very
little into the world, but has devoted herself to the education of
young ladies. She never has more than three or four at a time, and
these she selects herself. Alice had heard of her from Mrs. Bowman, and
we ventured to write to ask admission to her household, and our request
was civilly but peremptorily declined. This was while we were in New
York two years ago. But a few days afterward we were at church with
Mrs. Bowman, and Madame de Veaudrey saw us. She called the next day
upon Mrs. Bowman and inquired who we were, and then came to me and
begged to withdraw her letter, and to take Alice at once under her
charge. It seems that Alice resembled one of her daughters--at all
events, she was completely fascinated by her, and Alice soon came to
regard her in return as the loveliest of created beings. I must admit I
found her a little still--though she _was_ lovely. But still, I cannot
help being afraid that she has made Alice a little to particular; you
know the young gentlemen don't like a girl to be too stiff."
Farnham felt his heart grow hot with something like scorn for the
worthy woman, as she prattled on in this way. He could hardly trust
himself to reply and soon took his leave. Alice rose and gave him her
hand with frank and winning cordiality. As he felt the warm soft
pressure of her strong fingers, and the honest glance of her wide young
eyes, his irritation died away for a moment, but soon came back with
double force.
"Gracious heavens!" he exclaimed, as he closed the door behind him, and
stepped into the clear spring starlight, hardly broken as yet by the
budding branches of the elms and limes. "What a crazy woman that mother
is! Her daughter has come home to her a splendid white swan, and she is
waddling and quacking about with anxiety and fear lest the little male
ducklings that frequent the pond should find her too white and too
stately."
Instead of walking home he turned up the long avenue, and went rapidly
on, spurred by his angry thoughts.
"What will become of that beautiful girl? She cannot hold out forever
against the universal custom. She will be led by her friends and pushed
by her mother, until she drops to the level of the rest and becomes a
romping flirt; she will go to parties with young Furrey, and to church
with young Snevel. I shall see her tramping the streets with one, and
waltzing all night with another, and sitting on the stairs with a
third. She is too pretty to be let alone, and her mother is against
her. She is young and the force of nature is strong, and women are born
for sacrifice--she will marry one of these young shrimps, and do her
duty in the sphere whereto she has been called."
At this thought so sharp a pang of disgust shot through him, that he
started with surprise.
"Oh, no, this is not jealousy; it is a protest against what is probable
in the name of the eternal fitness of things."
Nevertheless, he went on thinking very disagreeably about Mr. Furrey.
"How can a nice girl endure a fellow who pomatums his hair in that
fashion, and sounds his R's in that way, and talks about Theedore
Thommus and Cinsunnatta? Still, they do it, and Providence must be on
the side of that sort of men. But what business is all this of mine? I
have half a mind to go to Europe again."
He stopped, lighted a cigar, and walked briskly homeward. As he passed
by the Belding cottage, he saw that the lower story was in darkness,
and in the windows above the light was glowing behind the shades.
"So Furrey is gone, and the tired young traveller is going early to
rest."
He went into his library and sat down by the dying embers of the grate.
His mind had been full of Alice and her prospects during his long walk
in the moonlight; and now as he sat there, the image of Maud Matchin
suddenly obtruded itself upon him, and he began to compare and contrast
the two girls, both so beautiful and so utterly unlike; and then his
thoughts shifted all at once back to his own early life. He thought of
his childhood, of his parents removed from him so early that their
memory was scarcely more than a dream; he wondered what life would have
been to him if they had been spared. Then his school-days came up
before him; his journey to France with his grandfather; his studies at
St. Cyr; his return to America during the great war, his enlistment as
a private in the regular cavalry, his promotion to a lieutenancy three
days afterward, his service through the terrible campaign of the
Peninsula, his wounds at Gettysburg, and at last the grand review of
the veterans in front of the White House when the war was over.
But this swift and brilliant panorama did not long delay his musing
fancy. A dull smart like that of a healing wound drew his mind to a
succession of scenes on the frontier. He dwelt with that strange
fascination which belongs to the memory of hardships--and which we are
all too apt to mistake for regret--upon his life of toil and danger in
the wide desolation of the West. There he met, one horrible winter, the
sister-in-law of a brother captain, a tall, languid, ill-nourished girl
of mature years, with tender blue eyes and a taste for Byron. She had
no home and no relatives in the world except her sister, Mrs. Keefe,
whom she had followed into the wilderness. She was a heavy burden on
the scanty resources of poor Keefe, but he made her cordially welcome
like the hearty soldier that he was. She was the only unmarried white
woman within a hundred miles, and the mercury ranged from zero to -20
degrees all winter. In the spring, she and Farnham were married; he
seemed to have lost the sense of there being any other women in the
world, and he took her, as one instinctively takes to dinner the last
lady remaining in a drawing-room, without special orders. He had had
the consolation of reflecting that he made her perfectly proud and
happy every day of her life that was left. Before the autumn ended,
she died, on a forced march one day, when the air was glittering with
alkali, and the fierce sun seemed to wither the dismal plain like the
vengeance of heaven. Though Farnham was even then one of the richest
men in the army, so rigid are the rules imposed upon our service, by
the economy of an ignorant demagogy, that no transportation could be
had to supply this sick lady with the ordinary conveniences of life,
and she died in his arms, on the hot prairie, in the shade of an
overloaded baggage wagon. He mourned her with the passing grief one
gives to a comrade fallen on the field of honor. Often since he left
the army, he reproached himself for not have grieved for her more
deeply. "Poor Nellie," he would sometimes say, "how she would have
enjoyed this house, if she had lived to possess it." But he never had
that feeling of widowhood known to those whose lives have been torn
in two.