On that first morning I got no more than the gist of what had happened
during Hugh's visit to his cousin Andrew Brew. Hugh announced it in fact
by a metaphor as soon as we had exchanged greetings and he had sat down
at the table with his arm over Gladys's shoulder.
"Well, little Alix, I got it where the chicken got the ax."
"Where was that?" I asked, innocently, for the figure of speech was new
to me.
"In the neck."
Neither of us laughed. His tone was so lugubrious as to preclude
laughing. But I understood. I may say that by the time he had given me
the outline of what he had to say I understood more than he. I might
have seen poor Hugh's limitations before; but I never had. During the
old life in Halifax I had known plenty of young men brought up in
comfort who couldn't earn a living when the time came to do it. If I had
never classed Hugh among the number, it was because the Brokenshires
were all so rich that I supposed they must have some secret prescription
for wringing money from the air. Besides, Hugh was an American; and
American and money were words I was accustomed to pronounce together. I
never questioned his ability to have any reasonable income he
named--till now. Now I began to see him as he must have seen himself
during those first few minutes after turning his back on the parental
haven, alone and in the dark.
I cannot say that for the moment I had any of the qualms of fear. My
yearning over him was too motherly for that. I wanted to comfort and, as
far as possible, to encourage him. Something within me whispered, too,
the words, "It's going to be up to me." I meant--or that which spoke in
me meant--that the whole position was reversed. I had been taking my
ease hitherto, believing that the strong young man who had asked me to
marry him would do the necessary work. It was to be up to him. My part
was to be the passive bliss of having some one to love me and maintain
me. That Hugh loved me I knew; that in one way or another he would be
able to maintain me I took for granted. With a Brokenshire, I assumed,
that would be the last of cares. And now I saw in a flash that I was
wrong; that I who was nothing but a parasite by nature would somehow
have to give my strong young man support.
When all was said that he could say at the moment I took the
responsibility of sending Gladys indoors with the maid who was waiting
on the table, after which I asked Hugh to walk down the lawn with me. A
stone balustrade ran above the Cliff Walk, and here was a bit of
shrubbery where no one could observe us from the house, while passers on
the Cliff Walk could see us only by looking upward. At that hour in the
morning even they were likely to be rare.
"Hugh, darling," I said, "this is becoming very, very serious. You're
throwing yourself out of house and home and your father's good-will for
my sake. We must think about it, Hugh--"
His answer was to seize me in his arms--we were sufficiently screened
from view--and crush his lips against mine in a way that made speech
impossible.
Again I must make a confession. It was his doing that sort of thing that
paralyzed my judgment. You will blame me, perhaps, but, oh, reader, have
you any idea of what it is never to have had a man wild to kiss you
before? Never before to have had any one adore you? Never before to have
been the greatest of all blessings to so much as the least among his
brethren? The experience was new to me. I had no rule of thumb by which
to measure it. I could only think that the man who wanted me with so mad
a desire must have me, no matter what reserves I might have preferred to
make on my own account.
I struggled, however, and with some success. For the first time I
clearly perceived that occasions might arise in which, between love and
marriage, one might have to make a distinction. Ethel Rossiter's dictum
came back to me: "People can't go about marrying every one they love,
now can they?" It came to me as a terrible possibility that I might be
doomed to love Hugh all my life, and equally doomed to refuse him. If I
didn't, the responsibilities would be "up to me." If besides loving him
I were to accept him and marry him, it would be for me to see that the
one possible condition was fulfilled. I should have to bring J. Howard
to his knees.
When he got breath to say anything it was with a mere hot muttering into
my face, as he held me with my head thrown back:
"I know what I'm doing, little Alix. You mustn't ask me to count the
cost. The cost only makes you the more precious. Since I have to suffer
for you I'll suffer, but I'll never give you up. Do you take me for a
fellow who'd weigh money or comfort in the balances with you?"
"No, Hugh," I whispered. His embrace was enough to strangle me.
"Well, then, never ask me to think about this thing again, I've thought
all I'm going to. As I mean to get you anyhow, little Alix, you may as
well promise now, this very minute, that whatever happens you'll be my
wife."
But I didn't promise. First I got him to release me on the ground that
some bathers, after a dip at Eastons Beach, were going by, with their
heads on a level with our feet. Then I asked the natural question:
"What do you think of doing now?"
He said he was going to let no mushrooms spring in his footsteps, and
that he was taking a morning train for New York. He talked about bankers
and brokers and moneyed things in general in a way I couldn't follow,
though I could see that in spite of Cousin Andrew Brew's rejection he
still expected great things of himself. Like me, he seemed to feel that
there was a faculty for conjuring money in the very name of Brokenshire.
Never having known what it was to be without as much money as he wanted,
never having been given to suppose that such an eventuality could come
to pass, it was perhaps not strange that he should consider his power of
commanding a large income to be in the nature of things. Bankers and
brokers would be glad to have him as their associate from the mere fact
that he was his father's son.
I endeavored to throw a cup of cold water on too much certainty, by
saying:
"But, Hugh, dear, won't you have to begin at the beginning? Wasn't that
what your cousin Andrew Brew--?"
"Cousin Andrew Brew is an ass. He's one great big Boston
stick-in-the-mud. He wouldn't know which side his bread was buttered on,
not if it was buttered on both."
"Still," I persisted, "you'll have to begin at the beginning."
"Well, I shouldn't be the first."
"No, but you might be the first to do it with a clog round his feet in
the shape of a person like me. How many years did your cousin
say--twenty or thirty, wasn't it?"
"R-rot, little Alix!" He brought out the interjection with a
contemptuous roll. "It might be twenty or thirty years for a numskull
like Duffers, but for me! There are ways by which a man who's in the
business already, as you might say, goes skimming over the ground the
common herd have to tramp. Look at the gentlemen-rankers in your own
army. They enlist as privates, and in two or three years they're in the
officers' mess with a commission. That comes of their education and--"
"That's often true, I admit. I've known of several cases in my own
experience. But even two or three years--"
"Wouldn't you wait for me?"
He asked the question with a sharpness that gave me something like a
stab.
"Yes, of course, Hugh, if I promised you. And yet to bind you by such a
promise doesn't seem to me fair."
"I'll take care of that," he declared, manfully. "As a matter of fact,
when father sees how determined I am, he'll only be too happy to do the
handsome thing and come down with the brass."
"You think he's bluffing then?" I threw some conviction into my tone as
I added, "I don't."
"He's not bluffing to his own knowledge; but he is--"
"To yours. But isn't it his knowledge that we've got to go by? We must
expect the worst, even if we hope for the best."
"And what it all comes to is--"
"Is that you're facing a very hard time, Hugh, and I don't feel that I
can accept the responsibility of encouraging you to do it."
"But, good Lord, Alix, you're not encouraging me. It's the other way
round. You're a perfect wet blanket; you're an ice-water shower. I'm
doing this thing on my own--"
"You know, Hugh, I've seen your father since you went away."
His face brightened.
"Good! And did he show any signs of tacking to the wind?"
"Not a bit. He said you would be ruined, and that I should ruin you."
"The deuce you will! That's where he's got the wrong number, poor old
dad! I hope you told him you would marry me--and let him have it
straight."
I made no reply to that, going on to tell him all that was said as to
bringing J. Howard to his knees.
He roared with ironic laughter.
"You did have the gall!"
"Then you think they'll never, never accept me?"
"Not that way; not beforehand."
Hot rage rose within me, against him and them and this scorn of my
personality.
"I think they will."
"Not on your life! Dad wouldn't do it, not if I was on my death-bed and
needed you to come and raise me up. Milly is the only one; and even she
thinks I'm the craziest idiot--"
"Very well, then, Hugh," I said, quickly; "I'm afraid we must consider
it all--"
He gathered me into his arms as he had done before, and once more
stopped my protests. Once more, too, I yielded to this masculine
argument.
"For you and me there's nothing but love," he murmured, with his cheek
pressed close against mine.
"Oh no, Hugh," I managed to say, when I had struggled free. "There's
honor--and perhaps there's pride." It gave some relief to what I
conceived of as the humiliation he unconsciously heaped on me to be able
to add: "As a matter of fact, pride and honor, in me, are as inseparable
as the oxygen and hydrogen that go to make up water."
He was obliged to leave it there, since he had no more than the time to
catch his train for New York. It was, however, the sense of pride and
honor that calmed my nerves when Mrs. Rossiter asked me to take little
Gladys to see her grandfather in the afternoon. I had done it from time
to time all through the summer, but not since Hugh had declared his love
for me. If I went now, I reasoned, it would have to be on a new footing;
and if it was on a new footing something might come of the visit in
spite of my fears.
We started a little after three, as Gladys had to be back in time for
her early supper and bed. Chips, the wire-haired terrier, was nominally
at our heels, but actually nosing the shrubbery in front of us, or
scouring the lawns on our right with a challenging bark to any of his
kind who might be within earshot to come down and contest our passage.
"_Qu'il est drole, ce Chips! N'est-ce-pas, mademoiselle?_" Gladys would
exclaim from time to time, to which I would make some suitable and
instructive rejoinder.
Her hand was in mine; her eyes as they laughed up at me were of the
color of the blue convolvulus. In her little smocked liberty silk, with
a leghorn hat trimmed with a wreath of tiny roses, she made me yearn for
that bassinet between which and myself there were such stormy seas to
cross. Everything was to be up to me. That was the great solemnity from
which my mind couldn't get away. I was to be the David to confront
Goliath, without so much as a sling or a stone. What I was to do, and
how I was to do it, I knew no more than I knew of commanding an army. I
could only take my stand on the maxim of which I was making a
foundation-stone. I went so far as to believe that if I did right more
right would unfold itself. It would be like following a trail through a
difficult wood, a trail of which you observe all the notches and steps
and signs, sometimes with misgivings, often with the fear that you're
astray, but on which a moment arrives when you see with delight that
you're coming out to the clearing. So I argued as I prattled with Gladys
of such things as were in sight, of ships and lobster-pots and little
dogs, giving her a new word as occasion served, and trying to keep my
mind from terrors and remote anticipations.
If you know Newport at all you know J. Howard Brokenshire's place in the
neighborhood of Ochre Point. Anyone would name it as you passed by. J.
Howard didn't build the house; he bought it from some people who, it
seemed, hadn't found in Newport the hospitality of which they were in
search. It is gloomy and fortress-like, as if the architect had planned
a Palazzo Strozzi which he hadn't the courage to carry out. That it is
incongruous with its surroundings goes without saying; but then it is
not more incongruous than anything else. I had been long enough in
America to see that for the man who could build on American soil a house
which would have some relation to its site--as they can do in Mexico,
and as we do to a lesser degree in Canada--fame and fortune would be in
store.
The entrance hall was baronial and richly Italianate. One's first
impressions were of gilding and red damask. When one's eye lighted on a
chest or settle, one could smell the stale incense in a Sienese or Pisan
sacristy. At the foot of the great stairway ebony slaves held gilded
torches in which were electric lights.
Both the greyhounds came sniffing to meet Chips, and J. Howard, who had
seen our approach across the lawn as we came from the Cliff Walk,
emerged from the library to welcome his grandchild. He wore a suit of
light-gray check, and was as imposingly handsome as usual. Gladys ran to
greet him with a childish cry. On seizing her he tossed her into the air
and kissed her.
I stood in the middle of the hall, waiting. On previous occasions I had
done the same thing; but then I had not been, as one might say,
"introduced." I wondered if he would acknowledge the introduction now or
give me a glance. But he didn't. Setting Gladys down, he took her by the
hand and returned to the library.
There was nothing new in this. It had happened to me before. Left like
an empty motor-car till there was need for me again, I had sometimes
seated myself in one of the huge ecclesiastical hall chairs, and
sometimes, if the door chanced to be open, had wandered out to the
veranda. As it was open this afternoon, I strolled toward the glimpse of
green lawn, and the sparkle of blue sea which gleamed at the end of the
hall.
It was a possibility I had foreseen. Mrs. Brokenshire might be there. I
might get into further touch with the mystery of her heart.
Mrs. Brokenshire was not on the veranda, but Mrs. Billing was. She was
seated in a low easy-chair, reading a French novel, and had been smoking
cigarettes. An inlaid Oriental taboret, on which were a gold
cigarette-case and ash-tray, stood beside her on the red-tiled floor.
I had forgotten all about her, as seemingly she had forgotten about me.
Her surprise in seeing me appear was not greater than mine at finding
her. Instinctively she took up her lorgnette, which was lying in her
lap, but put it down without using it.
"So it's you," was her greeting.
"I beg your pardon, madam," I stammered, respectfully. "I didn't know
there was anybody here."
I was about to withdraw when she said, commandingly:
"Wait." I waited, while she went on: "You're a little spitfire. Did you
know it?"
The voice was harsh, with the Quaker drawl I have noticed in the older
generation of Philadelphians; but the tone wasn't hostile. On the
contrary, there was something in it that invited me to play up. I played
up, demurely, however, saying, with a more emphatic respectfulness:
"No, madam; I didn't."
"Well, you can know it now. Who are you?" She made the quaint little
gesture with which I have seen English princesses summon those they
wished to talk to. "Come over here where I can get a look at you."
I moved nearer, but she didn't ask me to sit down. In answer to her
question I said, simply, "I'm a Canadian."
"Oh, a Canadian! That's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. It's nothing."
"No, madam, nothing but a point of view."
"What do you mean by that?"
I repeated something of my father's:
"The point of view of the Englishman who understands America or of the
American who understands England, as one chooses to put it. The Canadian
is the only person who does both."
"Oh, indeed? I'm not a Canadian--and yet I flatter myself I know my
England pretty well."
I made so bold as to smile dimly.
"Knowing and understanding are different things, madam, aren't they? The
Canadian understands America because he is an American; he understands
England because he is an Englishman. It's only of him that that can be
said. You're quite right when you label him a point of view rather than
a citizen or a subject."
"I didn't label him anything of the kind. I don't know anything about
him, and I don't care. What are you besides being a Canadian?"
"Nothing, madam," I said, humbly.
"Nothing? What do you mean?"
"I mean that there's nothing about me, that I have or am, that I don't
owe to my country."
"Oh, stuff! That's the way we used to talk in the United States forty
years ago."
"That's the way we talk in Canada still, madam--and feel."
"Oh, well, you'll get over it as we did--when you're more of a people."
"Most of us would prefer to be less of a people, and not get over it."
She put up her lorgnette.
"Who was your father? What sort of people do you come from?"
I tried to bring out my small store of personal facts, but she paid them
no attention. When I said that my father had been a judge of the
Supreme Court of Nova Scotia I might have been calling him a voivode of
Montenegro or the president of a zemstvo. It was too remote from herself
for her mind to take in. I could see her, however, examining my
features, my hands, my dress, with the shrewd, sharp eyes of a
connoisseur in feminine appearance.
She broke into the midst of my recital with the words:
"You can't be in love with Hugh Brokenshire."
Fearing attack from an unexpected quarter, I clasped my hands with some
emotion.
"Oh, but, madam, why not?"
The reply nearly knocked me down.
"Because you're too sensible a girl. He's as stupid as an owl."
"He's very good and kind," was all I could find to say.
"Yes; but what's that? A girl like you needs more than a man who's only
good and kind. Heavens above, you'll want some spice in your life!"
I maintained my meek air as I said:
"I could do without the spice if I could be sure of bread and butter."
"Oh, if you're marrying for a home let me tell you you won't get it.
Hugh'll never be able to offer you one, and his father wouldn't let him
if he was."
I decided to be bold.
"But you heard what I said the other day, madam. I expect his father to
come round."
She uttered the queer cackle that was like a hen when it crows.
"Oh, you do, do you? You don't know Howard Brokenshire. You could break
him more easily than you could bend him--and you can't break him. Good
Lord, girl, I've tried!"
"But I haven't," I returned, quietly. "Now I'm going to."
"How? What with? You can't try if you've nothing to try on."
"I have."
"For Heaven's sake--what?"
I was going to say, "Right"; but I knew it would sound sententious. I
had been sententious enough in talking about my country. Now I only
smiled.
"You must let me keep that as a secret," I answered, mildly.
She gave herself what I can only call a hitch in her chair.
"Then may I be there to see."
"I hope you may be, madam."
"Oh, I'll come," she cackled. "Don't worry about that. Just let me know.
You'll have to fight like the devil. I suppose you know that."
I replied that I did.
"And when it's all over you'll have got nothing for your pains."
"I shall have had the fight."
She looked hard at me before speaking.
"Good girl!" The tone was that of a spectator who calls out, "Good hit!"
or, "Good shot!" at a game. "If that's all you want--"
"No; I want Hugh."
"Then I hope you won't get him. He's as big a dolt as his father, and
that's saying a great deal." Terrified, I glanced over my shoulder at
the house, but she went on imperturbably: "Oh, I know he's in there; but
what do I care? I'm not saying anything behind his back that I haven't
said to his face. He doesn't bear me any malice, either, I'll say that
for him."
"Nobody could--" I began, deferentially.
"Nobody had better. But that's neither here nor there. All I'm telling
you is to have nothing to do with Hugh Brokenshire. Never mind the
money; what you need is a husband with brains. Don't I know? Haven't I
been through it? My husband was kind and good, just like Hugh
Brokenshire--and, O Lord! The sins of the father are visited on the
children, too. Look at my daughter--pretty as a picture and not the
brains of a white mouse." She nodded at me fiercely, "You're my kind. I
can see that. Mind what I say--and be off."
She turned abruptly to her book, hitching her chair a little away from
me. Accepting my dismissal, I said in the third person, as though I was
speaking to a royalty:
"Madam flatters me too much; but I'm glad I intruded, for the minute,
just to hear her say that."
I had made my courtesy and reached the door leading inward when she
called after me:
"You're a puss. Do you know it?"
Not feeling it necessary to respond in words, I merely smiled over my
shoulder and entered the house.
In one of the big chairs I waited a half-hour before J. Howard came out
of the library with his grandchild. He had given her a doll which she
hugged in her left arm, while her right hand was in his. The farewell
scene was pretty, and took place in the middle of the hall.
"Now run away," he said, genially, after much kissing and petting, "and
give my love to mamma."
He might have been shooing the sweet thing off into the air. There was
no reference whatever to any one to take care of her. His eyes rested on
me, but only as they rested on the wall behind me. I must say it was
well done--if one has to do that sort of thing at all. Feeling myself,
as his regard swept me, no more than a part of the carved
ecclesiastical chair to which I stood clinging, I wondered how I was
ever to bring this man to seeing me.
I debated the question inwardly while I chatted with Gladys on the way
homeward. I was obliged, in fact, to brace myself, to reason it out
again that right was self-propagating and wrong necessarily sterile.
Right I figured as a way which seemed to finish in a blind alley or
cul-de-sac, but which, as one neared what seemed to be its end, led off
in a new direction. Nearing the end of that there would be still a new
lead, and so one would go on.
And, sure enough, the new lead came within the next half-hour, though I
didn't recognize it for what it was till afterward.