_A PLEASANT ENTERTAINMENT._
It is doubtless unnecessary to remind the reader that on a certain
evening a social after-dinner gathering took place in the drawing-room
of the Bonbright cottage at Bar Harbor. We deemed it advisable to take
our leave for a time of the people there assembled and revert to other
and distant scenes already passed, because of their vital connection
with the lives of these persons in whose history we are interested.
How our pathways touch and cross those of other pedestrians on the
highway of life; and how each contact colors, modifies, deflects, and
even transforms our careers and their outcome. How small the world
really is!
Mrs. Smith of San Francisco, and Mrs. Brown of Chicago, have opposite
apartments at a hotel on the summit of the Rigi, and both are called
up to witness the sunrise. Mrs. Smith, as she takes in the view,
soliloquizes, though unconsciously, in audible tones, “Not much finer
than our Sierras.”
Mrs. Brown, near by, has overheard the soliloquy and quietly observes,
“Beg pardon, but I infer that you may be from San Francisco.”
“You are quite right,” replies Mrs. Smith. “My husband, Mr. Smith, is
of the banking firm of Smith, Simpkins & Co. of that city.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, but is Mr. Simpkins the Mr. William J. Simpkins
formerly of Albany?”
“The very same person. Were you acquainted with him?”
“I should rather think so,” replied Mrs. Brown. “But for a slight
accident, the loss of a letter, I should have become his wife.”
“Indeed! That fact reminds me that I often have heard him speak of you.
You, then, must be Mrs. Brown of Chicago, and your maiden name was
Perkins.”
“You are quite correct,” replied Mrs. Brown. “Isn’t the view glorious?”
“Perfectly gorgeous! My uncle, Dr. Hitchcock, who is here, says that it
is worth coming to Europe to see.”
“What Dr. Hitchcock is he, may I inquire? It can’t be possible that he
is Dr. G. W. Hitchcock, of Portland, Maine?”
“The very same,” replied Mrs. Smith.
“No other than my old physician and Sunday-school teacher,” said Mrs.
Brown.
“By the way, did you happen to know any of the Joneses, when you lived
in Albany?” said Mrs. Smith.
“Yes, indeed. Mr. Abram V. Jones was an intimate friend of mine.”
“You astound me,” said Mrs. Smith. “He is my twin brother.”
Just then the breakfast gong interrupted the evolutionary process.
People who “want the earth” should remember that it is a limited affair.
The younger members of the company on the evening of the dinner-party
had arranged for a sail on the following day, which took place with the
result narrated in the preceding chapter.
On the morning following the rescue, Mr. Bonbright called upon Colonel
Tapley to express his thanks, and also to invite the Sea-Foam party
to dine with him on the same evening. “My dear colonel,” said Mr.
Bonbright, “we can never discharge the debt of gratitude we owe to you
and your party, especially to your son and Mr. Burton. We hope that you
will do us the honor to dine with us to-night, and we wish to see you
all very often during your stay at Bar Harbor. We should be gratified
if the young gentlemen would become our guests. Our young people will
be delighted to entertain them, and will do all in their power to make
their stay agreeable.”
Colonel Tapley thanked Mr. Bonbright, and in behalf of himself and
party accepted the invitation to dinner, and also said he would make
known Mr. Bonbright’s wishes to the young gentlemen.
Colonel Tapley selected a convenient hotel for the headquarters of his
party during their stay at Bar Harbor. With the Sea-Foam at hand, they
could make short excursions in the bay, and along the near-by coast,
and thus enjoy the scenery to the best advantage.
The Tapley party were most warmly received upon their arrival at the
Bonbright cottage, in response to the invitation of the morning. Such
a welcome was theirs as usually would be accorded only to old and dear
friends. Before the events of the previous day, with the exception of a
casual business acquaintance between Colonel Tapley and Mr. Bonbright,
these families were strangers to each other. Now they were not only
friends, but there existed between them a tie the formation of which,
under ordinary circumstances, would have required a long process of
growth.
It is significant how any deep though often short experience, perhaps
a mutual danger safely passed, a common emergency survived, or an
episode like the rescue of the previous day, will draw hearts together.
Such experiences unseal the deepest fountains of human sympathy, so
that their waters mingle together; formalities become mere cobwebs,
and the intrinsic brotherhood of man is thereby revealed. How the
conventionalities of society and social intercourse chill human
affection, and build artificial walls and barriers between human souls!
We touch the merest surface of those around us, and know nothing of
their life-currents. A code of formal precedents, rules, and maxims
becomes the unwritten though inviolable law of society, which in the
main has its foundation in selfishness and self-seeking. People mingle
with each other, each wearing an invisible armor, perhaps polished with
external brilliancy and even attractiveness, but as impenetrable as
tempered steel. Any deep mutual experience melts away the armor, and
divine human qualities shine out, and heart responds to heart.
A carload of human freight plunges over a precipice. All may escape
injury; but what a shattering of armors and crumbling of partition
walls! A mutual kinship, embracing every soul in that car, has grown up
with marvellous quickness, and has made itself felt and real.
More than a score of years ago, the steamer Lady Elgin was sunk in
Lake Michigan as the result of a collision. The event was tragic, and
the experience of the survivors thrilling and pathetic. The resulting
kinship has since expressed itself in annual gatherings, which will
probably continue until the diminishing ranks have faded away.
Why should it require a great emergency to soften and melt human
frigidity? Mutual love should exist, not merely on account of the
intrinsic worth of each, but because it is the fulfilment of the
highest law of our being.
The dinner-party was much larger than the one of two nights previous.
In the commodious drawing-room little Tom was the central attraction,
and, notwithstanding his recent experience, appeared as “bright as a
dollar.” He still insisted that he had been rudely awakened from the
most beautiful dream imaginable; but yet he at once took a great fancy
to Burton, which was reciprocated with interest.
“Do you know any good ghost stories?” he asked, as Burton drew him upon
his knee.
“Perhaps I can think of one some time when we are by ourselves,” said
Burton. “Are you fond of them?”
“Oh, I just dote on ghost stories.”
“How do you like fairy tales?”
“Oh, I dote on fairy tales, too. I like anything that is strange and
misty, and a little bit mischievous.”
“I have known some larger boys, even some that had gray heads, just
like you, Tom.”
A more general conversation prevented a fuller discussion of Tom’s
favorite topic.
Dinner was soon announced. Mr. Bonbright escorted Mrs. Tapley to
the dining-room, followed by Colonel Tapley with Mrs. Bonbright,
Lord Percival with Miss Rosamond, Burton with Miss Helen, Van Roden
with Miss Jenness, Adelbert with Miss Tapley, and then the surplus
gentlemen, the ladies in this case--unlike most summer-resort
dinner-parties--being in the minority. Colonel Tapley and Lord Percival
were seated respectively on the right and left of Mrs. Bonbright,
and Mrs. and Miss Tapley occupied corresponding positions at Mr.
Bonbright’s end of the table. Burton was seated between Helen and Miss
Jenness, with Van Roden next, and Miss Tapley on his right. Tapley was
on the opposite side, between Bishop Alban and Miss Rosamond.
A great floral pyramid of rare beauty occupied the centre of the table.
The size of the company made general conversation rather difficult; the
sociability therefore was mainly confined to groups, embracing those
in immediate proximity.
Helen Bonbright appeared in a simple costume of white muslin, without
ornament of any kind; her wealth of blond hair gathered in a great knot
behind, which, with her exquisitely chiselled features and delicate
complexion, made a picture of feminine beauty which would fill the
ideal of an artist. Her unaffected manner and low, musical voice gave
a peculiar charm to her conversation, while as a listener she was no
less attractive. Miss Rosamond, with her lustrous black eyes, graceful,
volatile, and almost coquettish bearing, heightened by an elaborate
costume, could not fail to dazzle and captivate. Miss Jenness, tall,
queenly, and with pronounced independence, was an excellent example
of another type of beauty. Miss Tapley was quite _petite_, with
rather unattractive features, but very intellectual in character and
appearance.
The loud hum of conversation gave evidence that a “feast of reason and
flow of soul” was in progress.
“I hope,” said Helen to Burton, “that you and Mr. Tapley have felt no
serious ill effects from your diving, and from the enforced delay in
the change of your dripping clothing. I have been anxious all day to
hear of your welfare, and to learn that you have not suffered from your
self-sacrificing exposure.”
“I assure you, Miss Bonbright, that we are both in perfect health.
The opportunity to serve, when improved, is such a moral tonic that
I think it even penetrates through and invigorates the physical man.
Within any reasonable limits, nothing is more wholesome than the
privilege--improved--of doing one’s duty.”
“Do you think that hardship experienced in the performance of an act
of mercy would be less harmful than equal exposure incurred in the
ordinary course of events?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Burton; “though not because of any special
interposition of Providence in that particular case, but because such
an act is in accord with spiritual law, which is higher and ruling in
its bearing upon physical manifestations.”
“Would it not be in the nature of the ‘miraculous,’ if two equal cases
of physical exposure should have quite different results?” asked Miss
Bonbright, much interested.
“Quite so,” replied Burton; “the miraculous, in the true sense, is
normal. To the observer from a purely material standpoint, the unlike
results would be a wonder; in fact, miraculous. He would conclude that
physical laws had been either suspended or violated.”
“How would you otherwise explain it, Mr. Burton?”
“In the simplest way possible, Miss Bonbright. Nature, revelation,
and analogy teach that the higher should rule the lower; but it does
not suspend nor repeal it. No natural law, either in the material or
spiritual realm, is capricious or changeable. It is to be relied upon.
I lift a pebble from the ground. The quality of gravity in the pebble
has not been suspended nor lessened, but a higher and superior force
has come in and ruled and overcome it. The moral and spiritual forces
involved in the two supposed cases are unequal, and therefore the
visible, manifested results are unlike. The age of miracles has not
passed, but they are all in accordance with orderly law. Miraculous
works are real, but not abnormal. The beneficent result is veritable,
but the miraculous tinge, which colors the process, fades out when
viewed in the white light of spiritual force and causation.”
“That view hardly accords with the current estimate,” said Miss
Bonbright, “but certainly it appears logical, and I see no reason why
it is not reverent and scriptural.”
“Yes,” responded Burton, “to regard miracles as the orderly action of
ruling, unseen forces, bringing into subjection those tendencies which
are seen and material, does more honor to the Creator than to consider
them as special, irregular, or spasmodic. The realm of causation is
located within the confines of the Unseen. The seen is the external
sequence. Half the confusion in the world arises from mistaking visible
effects for primary causes.”
“You undoubtedly recognize necessary limitations in the present
application of higher or spiritual law,” suggested Helen.
“Most assuredly. In the present materialistic age, each one is curbed
and held back by inherited and prevailing race belief, or rather
unbelief. Even Jesus declared of certain places that in them he ‘could
not do many mighty works,’ because of prevailing unbelief. There must
be, not only willingness, but desire. Principles, though complete
in themselves, can have but partial application amidst crude and
imperfect conditions. In the not distant future, when there will be a
more general ‘living in spirit,’ and thorough appreciation of unseen
forces, their practical working sphere will be greatly enlarged, and
demonstrations will be common which now would be classed as miraculous.
As the race becomes familiar with divinely ordained spiritual forces, a
dexterous use will be made of them. Both physical and mental ills will
be eliminated to an extent now unimagined. It is our privilege to be
pioneers in this advance, and by steadily holding up these ideals to
hasten forward their realization.”
“I suppose that you recognize all spiritual aids as divinely bestowed,”
said Helen.
“Certainly. There is a Presence with each one of us, of which, in
the din of the world, we are unconscious; but, when recognized and
dwelt with, there follows an at-one-ment, which is most wholesome and
inspiring. The Divine Spirit, as a force and as a teacher, reveals
itself to our perception in proportion as we hold it steadily in our
consciousness.”
“I infer that you regard the degree of such consciousness to be a
matter of cultivation,” observed Helen.
“Upon that point there can be no doubt,” replied Burton. “But I
must beg your pardon for so much moralizing, in the midst of such
surroundings. I fear that you regard it as inopportune.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Burton, I am very fond of metaphysics, and
delight in the consideration of spiritual topics. I have been greatly
interested in your views, and they are in close accord with my own.”
Often it is not easy for one to find an appreciative listener, when
topics out of the common order are introduced.
The fashions, the latest gossip, the weather, the markets, current
amusements, the races, baseball, the last defalcation, are interesting
to the majority; but, if the conversation chances to shade into
subjects more vital, many listen with one ear, or by their manner say,
“Please excuse me.” Social usage places a quiet but effectual “taboo”
upon higher topics. People are ready to talk about the pleasures and
the pains of their bodies, or the experience of their physical senses,
but are reticent regarding their higher nature and deeper experiences.
Helen did not belong to “the majority.” She had been keenly impressed
with Burton’s spirit, because the chords of her own being intuitively
responded to the same ideals. Her words had been few, but mere words
are rubbish. The two souls were like two musical instruments attuned
to the same key, and responsive to the same melodies. Across the table,
and partly hid by the great floral pyramid, Tapley and Miss Rosamond
were chatting in a lively manner, but a close observer might have
detected in Tapley an absence of mental pose and concentration, which
usually were well marked in him. As Miss Rosamond made some bright
suggestion, or flashed out some witty repartee, his attention was
variable and some of his responses rather mechanical and not entirely
lucid. His gaze appeared to be directed towards the mass of floral
beauty before him. Had he taken a new interest in floriculture, or
was he deeply abstracted upon some metaphysical problem? A closer
inspection would have revealed the fact that his glances went beyond
the flowers, and rested for intermittent periods upon beauty of a
higher genus.
Tapley was not the man to be captivated by mere external loveliness,
but that personality beyond the pyramid, unconscious and unaffected,
who was drinking in Burton’s rounded sentences, was more than
beautiful. Even at their very first meeting on board the Sea-Foam,
Tapley had experienced a kind of mental shock, which he did not
understand. Her perfection of form and feature made no unusual
impression upon him, except as it was a mirror-like reflection of a
real figure behind. There seemed to be an indefinable mist or halo
surrounding her personality; intangible, yet perceptible.
Did he wish that chance had placed her at his side rather than by
Burton? No! emphatically no! Not a shade of envy entered his mind. His
devotion was only a worthily bestowed homage paid to a pure shrine
because of an intuitive recognition of its quality.
“The soul’s calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy,
Is virtue’s prize.”
Rosamond devoted herself mainly to Lord Percival, who occupied the
seat on her right, though she had tried to be agreeable to Tapley,
regardless of his abstraction. She thought Lord Percival charming.
True, he manifested an “indefinable air of condescension,” when
discussing American manners and institutions, but she reflected similar
sentiments by an attitude of apology regarding everything in her own
country.
“I fancy that you have often visited England and the Continent?” said
Lord Percival as soon as they were fairly seated.
“Oh, yes, my lord. I should be sorry to have always lived in America.
We have passed considerable time abroad, and hope soon to make another
European tour. I am perfectly delighted with English manners and
society, and also fancy your form of government, and institutions
generally. With us there is such a dearth of art, antiquity, and
romance, and even our best society has no well-defined limits. It
shades off beyond even the slightest artificial distinctions. In
observing our social conditions, Lord Percival, you will find it
necessary to make great allowances, for this is a democratic nation. I
dislike the very name.”
“Your discriminating sense of social distinctions does you honor, Miss
Rosamond. I fancy that your own family has a history, and that not so
very far back the roots of your ancestral tree may have been nourished
in the soil of good old England.”
“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “our genealogy has been traced back, and it is
found that our paternal ancestor, who came to this country in 1690, was
the youngest son of the Duke of Penzance.”
“By Jove! what a coincidence! The eldest son of that same Duke, who
lived from 1640 to 1694, was my ancestor. A paltry two hundred years
ago, and our ancestors were brothers. It is evident that we really
are cousins, a few times removed, to be sure, but the removals are of
small account. Blood will tell, Miss Rosamond. Please regard it, not
as flattery, but as sound discrimination, when your--cousin, shall I
say?--avers that in you the quality of the good old English stock has
been perfectly maintained.”
“You are rather free with your cousinly compliments,” she replied,
but by a rather fascinating toss of her head it was evident that her
reproof was not deeply serious.
“’Pon my word,” he resumed, “there are no visible signs to show
that you are a native of America. You have no nasal tone, no
American accent, and you make no use of such beastly terms as, guess
and calculate, don’t you know. Were I to see you in a West-End
drawing-room, I should--aw--aw--beg pardon, regard it as an honor to
gain an introduction, which here I have been so fortunate as to obtain
under less formal conditions.”
“You do me too much honor, Lord Percival,” she replied with a
bewitching smile. “The last time that we were in England I had the
honor of being presented to the Queen, and several of the best people
were very kind to me, and made me quite at home. The Queen’s reception
that I refer to was held June 18, 188-.”
“Another coincidence, by Jove! I happened to be present on that very
occasion. I remember the date for the reason that my only sister was
married the day before. I fancy that I must have seen you. I vividly
recall the fact that there were present some unusual specimens of
feminine beauty. You will pardon such a slight reminiscence for
relation’s sake.”
A merry laugh, and a blossoming rose on each cheek, gave evidence that
she was not deeply offended.
“With all our crudity, I am glad that your worst anticipations of
American life, so far, have not been realized, Lord Percival.”
“Really, Miss Rosamond, I must admit that the intolerable things which
I have observed since landing on this side are remarkably few. A
certain familiar vulgarity is noticeable, but so far I have been rather
agreeably disappointed.”
“How delightful it must be to live all one’s life in dear old England,”
said Rosamond. “Everything here is so commonplace and practical. I
hate practicality. I like to live for the poetry there is in life.
Our American gentlemen, as a rule, are completely enveloped in an
atmosphere redolent with business and profits. Such an everlasting
grind tends toward vulgarity, and renders life hardly worth the
trouble. We have a surplus of mere bigness when looked at on the
map, but that quality is coarse. Big things are always ordinary and
unrefined. A country without any old castles or ruins, with no dim
history, no mellow romance of a feudal period, no cathedrals, court,
kings, queens, nor lords, is perfectly insipid.”
“I fancy that I quite agree with you, my dear Miss Rosamond, though
I would hesitate to express my sentiments, except to you, don’t you
know,” said Lord Percival, while toying with his single eyeglass.
“Really, it would be quite awkward, you observe, to manifest a spirit
of criticism while one was a guest. But I do give Americans credit for
being more like English people than I had fancied. I imagine that when
I go farther west, where the natives are more removed from English
influences, I shall find the genuine American characteristics. I came
over, you know, to indulge in a little study of specimens.”
“Somewhat with the spirit of an enthusiastic entomologist, when he is
on the track of a rare spider or an uncommon bug, I suppose,” replied
Rosamond, laughing.
“Yes, aw--aw--quite fancy character study; but to make it interesting,
one must have unique specimens, you know, which so far are a little
rare,” said Lord Percival, while caressing his mutton-chop whiskers.
“As you cannot pin them up and dry them, how will you take them along
for exhibition?” inquired Rosamond, with a quizzing little smile.
“That is not in the least awkward,” replied his lordship. “I shall
take them in the shape of pen-photographs, and on my return put into
book-form my impressions of American institutions and people, don’t you
know.”
“I trust that you will honor me with a copy,” said Rosamond.
“My dear cousin--slightly removed--it will give me the greatest
pleasure.”
Lord Percival had seen America through the medium of current fiction,
of the realistic variety, and this view, supplemented by a few days of
visiting, made him feel quite competent to write the proposed treatise.
In Mr. Lowell’s sketch “Regarding a Certain Condescension in
Foreigners,” he intimates that in some degree it may be due to our
aping foreign manners, or, in other words, to our efforts to become
second-hand Englishmen. He says, “There are not wanting those who give
their whole genius to reproducing here the original Bull, whether by
gaiters, the cut of their whiskers, by factitious brutality in their
tone, or by an accent that is forever tripping and falling flat over
the tangled roots of our common tongue. The average Briton meets with
so many bad imitators as to conclude himself the only real thing in a
wilderness of shams.”
We may have a Great West, but we have no West End. When we have
occasion to make a business call upon an Englishman in his castle,
we must ring at the area-bell, and not disturb the slumbers of the
venerable knocker. Our manners are not of the aristocratic stamp, and
we are awkward in interpreting the delicate expressions of caste.
Let us, then, have our own standard, and not try to appropriate or
counterfeit that of the Briton, even if it be perfection.
Frustadt seemed uneasy in his seat, which was between Bishop Alban
and Mrs. Tapley. He exchanged a few commonplaces with the latter, and
talked a little of life in the Heidelberg University with the bishop.
He cast keen, fiery glances towards Lord Percival, who, to him, was an
ever-present embodiment of the genus aristocrat. His discomfiture was
further intensified by the fact that the Englishman monopolized the
attention of the pretty Miss Rosamond. To a close observer, the scars,
as plainly as an audible voice, exclaimed, “You robber! you want the
earth, and that pretty girl besides.”
Van Roden, who by chance--how much chance is responsible for--had
handed Miss Jenness into the dining-room, continued his “study of
character” during the several courses, and in the intervals between.
Like Lord Percival, he enjoyed a kind of professional dissection of
specimens. Perhaps his experience as a medical student had sharpened
this propensity. He only wanted to make a sort of scientific analysis
of this unique female personality, that he first had met only
forty-eight hours before. As a disciple of Huxley, he wanted to find
out by what process of evolution or natural selection this “subject”
had arrived at a point where she could successfully cope with him in
intellectual sparring. His only motive was scientific curiosity. Any
one, however, with both eyes open, might have noticed that when Burton,
from the other side, was attentive to Miss Jenness, Van Roden improved
the first pause to continue his monopoly of the “investigation.”
For the number and intensity of flirtations the average summer-resort
bears off the palm. Released from the ordinary duties and occupations
of life, and with nothing better to do, people flirt who never flirted
before, and who never expect to again. They make it a temporary
vocation, and then attend strictly to business. Not merely the young
and giddy, but the old, the staid, the sedate, all “go in” to make
conquests. By some mysterious power of natural selection, “affinities”
are discovered as surely and quickly as an underground spring is
located by the witch-hazel divining-rod in the hands of an expert.
Married and unmarried, widows and widowers, D.D.’s as well as M.D.’s,
in all their little games manage to throw doublets. Shake them up
as you may, and despite the law of general average, they drop out
together; they ride together, they walk together. Together they admire
mountains, adore waterfalls, enjoy autumnal tints, and glorify sunsets.
On an ocular test, the average summer visitor sees double. Three days
before, the affinities never had met, and three days later they will
part forever. No difference. During this short companionship they
become more intimately acquainted than would be possible if they
merely moved in the same circle of metropolitan society for ten years.
Friendships quickly become cemented, and congenial spirits rapidly
become more congenial. Uncongenialities also become pronounced. A
polarization of positive and negative influences produces groups and
cliques defined by mutual attraction and repulsion.
The dinner proved an exceedingly pleasant entertainment in every
respect. Lord Percival appreciatively remarked on the way to his hotel
that it almost took him back to England, and called upon Jove to
witness that there was not a single intolerable detail about the whole
affair. As the Tapley party took their leave, the Bonbrights pressed
them to waive all formality, and visit them very often while they
remained at Bar Harbor. “But for the timely arrival of your ‘Angels of
Mercy,’” said Mr. Bonbright, as he grasped Colonel Tapley’s hand when
they parted, “our household to-night would be plunged into the depths
of sorrow and mourning.”
As they filed out to their carriages, Lord Percival made a very
profound bow to Rosamond, and Tapley’s abstraction was not diminished
as he bade adieu to the mystic, lovable Helen Bonbright.