Mrs. Hilary was a large woman, of portly frame, the prophecy in
amplitude of what her son might come to be if he did not carry the
activities of youth into his later life. She, for her part, was long
past such activities; and yet she was not a woman to let the grass grow
upon any path she had taken. She appointed the afternoon of the day
following her talk with Matt for leaving the farm and going to the
shore; Louise was to go with her, and upon the whole she judged it best
to tell her why, when the girl came to say good-night, and to announce
that her packing was finished.
"But what in the world are we in such a hurry for, mamma, all of a
sudden?"
"We are in a hurry because--don't you really know, Louise?--because in
the crazy atmosphere of this house, one loses the sense of--of
proportion--of differences."
"Aren't you rather--Emersonian, mamma?"
"Do you think so, my dear? Matt's queer notions infect everybody; I
don't blame _you_, particularly; and the simple life he makes people
lead--by leading it himself, more than anything else--makes you think
that you could keep on living just as simply if you wished, everywhere."
"It's very sweet--it's so restful," sighed the girl. "It makes you sick
of dinners and ashamed of dances."
"But you must go back to them; you must go back to the world you belong
to; and you'd better not carry any queer habits back with you."
"You _are_ rather sphinx-like, mamma! Such habits, for instance, as?"
"As Mr. Maxwell." The girl's face changed; her mother had touched the
quick. She went on, looking steadily at her daughter, "You know he
wouldn't do, there."
"No; he wouldn't," said Louise, promptly; so mournfully, though, that
her mother's heart relented.
"I've seen that you've become interested in him, Louise; that your fancy
is excited; he stimulates your curiosity. I don't wonder at it! He _is_
very interesting. He makes you feel his power more than any other young
man I've met. He charms your imagination even when he shocks your
taste."
"Yes; all that," said Louise, desolately.
"But he does shock your taste?"
"Sometimes--not always."
"Often enough, though, to make the difference that I'm afraid you'll
lose the sense of. Louise, I should be very sorry if I thought you were
at all--in love with that young man!"
It seemed a question; Louise let her head droop, and answered with
another. "How should I know? He hasn't asked me."
This vexed her mother. "Don't be trivial, don't be childish, my dear.
You don't need to be asked, though I'm exceedingly glad he _hasn't_
asked you, for now you can get away with a good conscience."
"I'm not sure yet that I want to get away," said the girl, dreamily.
"Yes, you are, my dear!" her mother retorted. "You know it wouldn't do
at all. It isn't a question of his poverty; your father has money
enough: it's a question of his social quality, and of all those little
nothings that make up the whole of happiness in marriage. He would be
different enough, being merely a man; but being a man born and reared in
as different a world from yours as if it were another planet--I want you
to think over all the girls you know--all the _people_ you know--and see
how many of them have married out of their own set, their own circle--we
might almost say, their own family. There isn't one!"
"I've not said I wished to marry him, mamma."
"No. But I wish you to realize just what it would be."
"It would be something rather distinguished, if his dreams came true,"
Louise suggested.
"Well, of course," Mrs. Hilary admitted. She wished to be very, very
reasonable; very, very just; it was the only thing with a girl like
Louise; perhaps with any girl. "It would be distinguished, in a way. But
it wouldn't be distinguished in the society way; the only way you've
professed to care for. I know that we've always been an intellectual
community, and New-Yorkers, and that kind of people, think, or profess
to think, that we make a great deal of literary men. We do invite them
somewhat, but I pass whole seasons without meeting them; and I don't
know that you could say that they are _of_ society, even when they are
_in_ it. If such a man has society connections, he's in society; but
he's there on account of his connections, not on account of his
achievements. This young man may become very distinguished, but he'll
always be rather queer; and he would put a society girl at odds with
society. His distinction would be public; it wouldn't be social."
"Matt doesn't think society is worth minding," Louise said, casually.
"But _you_ do," returned her mother. "And Matt says that a man of this
young man's traditions might mortify you before society people."
"Did Matt say that?" Louise demanded, angrily. "I will _speak_ to Matt
about that! I should like to know what he means by it. I should like to
hear what he would say."
"Very likely he would say that the society people were not worth
minding. You know his nonsense. If you agree with Matt, I've nothing
more to say, Louise; not a word. You can marry a mechanic or a
day-laborer, in that case, without loss of self-respect. I've only been
talking to you on the plane where I've always understood you wished to
be taken. But if you don't, then I can't help it. You must understand,
though, and understand distinctly, that you can't live on two levels;
the world won't let you. Either you must be in the world and of it
entirely; or you must discard its criterions, and form your own, and
hover about in a sort of Bohemian limbo on its outskirts; or you must
give it up altogether." Mrs. Hilary rose from the lounge where she had
been sitting, and said, "Now I'm going to bed. And I want you to think
this all carefully over, Louise. I don't blame you for it: and I wish
nothing but your good and happiness--yours and Matt's, both. But I must
say you've been pretty difficult children to provide for. Do you know
what Matt has been doing?" Mrs. Hilary had not meant to speak of it, but
she felt an invincible necessity of doing so, at last.
"Something new about the Northwicks?"
"Very decidedly--or about one of them. He's offered himself to Suzette."
"How grand! How perfectly magnificent! Then she can give up her property
at once, and Matt can take care of her and Adeline both."
"Or, your father can, for him. Matt has not the crime of being a
capitalist on his conscience. His idea seems to be to get Suzette to
live here on the farm with him."
"I don't believe she'd be satisfied with that," said Louise. "But could
she bear to face the world? Wouldn't she always be thinking what people
thought?"
"I felt that I ought to suggest that to Matt; though, really, when it
comes to the practical side of the matter, people wouldn't care much
what her father had been--that is, society people wouldn't, _as_ society
people. She would have the education and the traditions of a lady, and
she would have Matt's name. It's nonsense to suppose there wouldn't be
talk; but I don't believe there would be anything that couldn't be lived
down. The fact is," said Mrs. Hilary, giving her daughter the advantage
of a species of soliloquy, "I think we ought to be glad Matt has let us
off so easily. I've been afraid that he would end by marrying some
farmer's daughter, and bringing somebody into the family who would say
'Want to know,' and 'How?' and 'What-say?' through her nose. Suzette is
indefinitely better than that, no matter what her father is. But I must
confess that it was a shock when Matt told me they were engaged."
"Why, _were_ you surprised, mamma?" said Louise. "I thought all along
that it would come to that. I knew in the first place, Matt's sympathy
would be roused, and you know that's the strongest thing in him. And
then, Suzette _is_ a beautiful girl. She's perfectly regal; and she's
just Matt's opposite, every way; and, of _course_ he would be taken with
her. I'm not a _bit_ surprised. Why it's the most natural thing in the
world."
"It might be very much worse," sighed Mrs. Hilary. "As soon as he has
seen your father, we must announce it, and face it out with people.
Fortunately, it's summer; and a great many have gone abroad this year."