_HOLIDAYS_.
She did not see her new acquaintance again till they met at the
supper-table. She behaved herself then in an extremely well-bred way;
was dignified and reserved and quiet; hardly said anything, as with a
nice recognition that her words were not wanted; scarce ever seemed to
look at the new arrival, of whom, nevertheless, not a word nor a look
escaped her; and was simply an elegant quiet figure at the table, so
lovely to look at that words from her seemed to be superfluous. Whether
the stranger saw it, or whether he missed anything, there was no sign.
He seemed to be provokingly and exclusively occupied with his father
and mother; hardly, she thought, giving to herself all the attention
which is due from a gentleman to a lady. Yet he fulfilled his duties in
that regard, albeit only as one does it to whom they are a matter of
course. Betty listened attentively to everything that was said, while
she was to all appearance indifferently busied with her supper.
But the conversation ran, as it is wont to run at such times, when
hearts long absent have found each other again, and fling trifles
about, knowing that their stores of treasure must wait for a quieter
time to be unpacked. They talked of weather and crops and Pitt's
voyage, and the neighbours, and the changes in the village, and the
improvements about the place; not as if any of these things were much
cared for; they were bubbles floating on their cups of joy. Questions
asked and questions answered, as if in the pleasure of speaking to one
another again the subject of their words did not matter; or as if the
supreme content of the moment could spare a little benevolence even for
these outside things. At last a question was asked which made Betty
prick up her ears; this must have been due to something indefinable in
the tone of the speakers, for the words were nothing.
'Have you heard anything of the Gainsboroughs?'
'No.'
It was the elder Dallas who answered.
'What has become of them?'
'I am not in condition to tell.'
'Have you written to them?'
'No, not since the last time; and that was a good while ago.'
'Then you do not know how things are with them, of course. I do not see
how you have let them drop out of knowledge so. They were not exactly
people to lose sight of.'
'Why not, when they went out of sight?'
'You do not even know, sir, whether Colonel Gainsborough is still
living?'
'How should I? But he was as likely to live as any other man.'
'He did not think so.'
'For which very reason he would probably live longer than many other
men. There is nothing like a hypochondriack for tough holding out.'
'Well, I must search New York for them this time, until I find them.'
'What possible occasion, Pitt?' said his mother, with a tone of
uneasiness which Betty noted.
'Duty, mamma, and also pleasure. But duty is imperative.'
'I do not see the duty. You tried to look them up the last time you
were here, and failed.'
'I shall not fail this time.'
'If it depended on your will,' remarked his father coolly. 'But I think
the probability is that they have gone back to England, and are
consequently no longer in New York.'
'What are the grounds of that probability?'
'When last I heard from the colonel, he was proposing the question of
reconciliation with his family. And as I have heard no more from him
since then, I think the likeliest thing is that he has made up his
quarrel and gone home.'
'I can easily determine that question by looking over the shipping
lists.'
'Perhaps not,' said Mr. Dallas, rubbing his chin. 'If he has gone, I
think it will have been under another name. The one he bore here was, I
suspect, assumed.'
'What for?' demanded Pitt somewhat sharply.
'Reasons of family pride, no doubt. That is enough to make men do
foolisher things.'
'It would be difficult to find a foolisher thing to do,' replied his
son. But then the conversation turned. It had given Miss Betty
something to think of. She drew her own conclusions without asking
anybody. And in some indefinite, inscrutable way it stimulated and
confirmed her desire for the game Mrs. Dallas had begged her to play.
Human hearts are certainly strange things. What were the Gainsboroughs
to Miss Betty Frere? Nothing in the world, half an hour before; now?
Now there was a vague suspicion of an enemy somewhere; a scent of
rivalry in the air; an immediate rising of partisanship. Were these the
people of whom Mrs. Dallas was afraid? against whom she craved help?
She should have help. Was it not even a meritorious thing, to withdraw
a young man from untoward influences, and keep him in the path marked
out by his mother?
Miss Frere scented a battle like Job's war-horse. In spirit, that is;
outwardly, nothing could show less signs of war. She was equal to Pitt,
in her seeming careless apartness; the difference was, that with her it
_was_ seeming, and with him reality. She lost not a word; she failed
not to observe and regard every movement; she knew, without being seen
to look, just what his play of feature and various expressions were;
all the while she was calmly embroidering, or idly gazing out of the
window, or skilfully playing chess with Mr. Dallas, whom she inevitably
beat.
Pitt, the while, his mother thought (and so thought the young lady
herself), was provokingly careless of her attractions. He was going
hither and thither; over the farm with his father; about the village,
to see the changes and look up his old acquaintances; often, too, busy
in his room where he had been wont to spend so many hours in the old
time. He was graver than he used to be; with the manner of a man, and a
thoughtful one; he showed not the least inclination to amuse himself
with his mother's elegant visitor. Mrs. Dallas became as nearly fidgety
as it was in her nature to be.
'What do you think of my young friend?' she asked Pitt when he had been
a day or two at home.
'The lady? She is a very satisfactory person, to the eye.'
'To the eye!'
'It is only my eyes, you will remember, mother, that know anything
about her.'
'That is your fault. Why do you let it be true?'
'Very naturally, I have had something else to think of.'
'But she is a guest in the house, and you really seem to forget it,
Pitt. Can't you take her for a drive?'
'Where shall I take her?'
'_Where?_ There is all the country to choose from. What a question! You
never used to be at a loss, as I remember, in old times, when you went
driving about with that little protegée of yours.'
It was very imprudent of Mrs. Dallas, and she knew it immediately, and
was beyond measure vexed with herself. But the subject was started.
'Poor Esther!' said Pitt thoughtfully. 'Mamma, I can't understand how
you and my father should have lost sight of those people so.'
'They went out of our way.'
'But you sometimes go to New York.'
'Passing through, to Washington. I could not have time to search for
people whose address I did not know.'
'I cannot understand why you did not know it. They were not the sort of
people to be left to themselves. A hypochondriack father, who thought
he was dying, and a young girl just growing up to need a kind mother's
care, which she had not. I would give more than I can tell you to find
her again!'
'What could you possibly do for her, Pitt? You, reading law and living
in chambers in the Temple,--in London,--and she a grown young woman by
this time, and living in New York. No doubt her father is quite equal
to taking care of her.'
Pitt made no reply. His mother repeated her question. 'What could you
do for her?'
She was looking at him keenly, and did not at all like a faint smile
which hovered for a second upon his lips.
'That is a secondary question,' he said. 'The primary is, Where is she?
I must go and find out.'
'Your father thinks they have gone back to England. It would just be
lost labour, Pitt.'
'Not if I found that was true.'
'What _could_ you do for them, if you could discover them?'
'Mother, that would depend on what condition they were in. I made a
promise once to Colonel Gainsborough to look after his daughter.'
'A very extraordinary promise for him to ask or for you to give, seeing
you were but a boy at the time.'
'Somewhat extraordinary, perhaps. However, that is nothing to the
matter.'
There was a little vexed pause, and then Mrs. Dallas said:
'In the meanwhile, instead of busying yourself with far-away claims
which are no claims, what do you think of paying a little attention to
a guest in your own house?'
Pitt lifted his head and seemed to prick up his ears.
'Miss Frere? You wish me to take her to drive? I am willing, mamma.'
'Insensible boy! You ought to be very glad of the privilege.'
'I would rather take you, mother.'
The drive accordingly was proposed that very day; did not, however,
come off. It was too hot, Miss Frere said.
She was sitting in the broad verandah at the back of the house, which
looked out over the garden. It was an orderly wilderness of cherry
trees and apple trees and plum trees, raspberry vines and gooseberry
bushes; with marigolds and four o'clocks and love-in-a-puzzle and
hollyhocks and daisies and larkspur, and a great many more sweet and
homely growths that nobody makes any account of nowadays. Sunlight just
now lay glowing upon it, and made the shade of the verandah doubly
pleasant, the verandah being further shaded by honeysuckle and trumpet
creeper which wreathed round the pillars and stretched up to the eaves,
and the scent of the honeysuckle was mingled with the smell of roses
which came up from the garden. In this sweet and bowery place Miss
Frere was sitting when she declared it was too hot to drive. She was in
an India garden chair, and had her embroidery as usual in her hand. She
always had something in her hand. Pitt lingered, languidly
contemplating the picture she made.
'It _is_ hot,' he assented.
'When it is hot I keep myself quiet,' she went on. 'You seem to be of
another mind.'
'I make no difference for the weather.'
'Don't you? What energy! Then you are always at work?'
'Who said so?'
'I said so, as an inference. When the weather has been cool enough to
allow me to take notice, I have noticed that you were busy about
something. You tell me now that weather makes no difference.'
'Life is too short to allow weather to cut it shorter,' said Pitt,
throwing himself down on a mat. 'I think I have observed that you too
always have some work in hand whenever I have seen you.'
'My work amounts to nothing,' said the young lady. 'At least you would
say so, I presume.'
'What is it?'
Miss Betty displayed her roll of muslin, on the free portion of which
an elegant line of embroidery was slowly growing, multiplying and
reproducing its white buds and leaves and twining shoots. Pitt regarded
it with an unenlightened eye.
'I am as wise as I was before,' he said.
'Why, look here,' said the young lady, with a slight movement of her
little foot calling his attention to the edge of her skirt, where a
somewhat similar line of embroidery was visible. 'I am making a border
for another gown.'
Pitt's eye went from the one embroidery to the other; he said nothing.
'You are not complimentary,' said Miss Frere.
'I am not yet sure that there is anything to compliment.'
The young lady gave him a full view of her fine eyes for half a second,
or perhaps it was only that they took a good look at him.
'Don't you see,' she said, 'that it is economy, and thrift, and all the
household virtues? Not having the money to buy trimming, I am
manufacturing it.'
'And the gown must be trimmed?'
'Unquestionably! You would not like it so well if it were not.'
'That is possible. The question remains'--
'What question?'
'Whether Life is not worth more than a bit of trimming.'
'Life!' echoed the young lady a little scornfully. 'An hour now and
then is not Life.'
'It is the stuff of which Life is made.'
'What is Life good for?'
'That is precisely the weightiest question that can occupy the mind of
a philosopher!'
'Are you a philosopher, Mr. Dallas!'
'In so far as a philosopher means a lover of knowledge. A philosopher
who has attained unto knowledge, I am not;--that sort of knowledge.'
'You have been studying it?'
'I have been studying it for years.'
'What Life is good for?' said the young lady, with again a lift of her
eyes which expressed a little disdain and a little impatience. But she
saw Pitt's face with a thoughtful earnestness upon it; he was not
watching her eyes, as he ought to have been. Her somewhat petulant
words he answered simply.
'What question of more moment can there be? I am here, a human creature
with such and such powers and capacities; I am here for so many years,
not numerous; what is the best thing I can do with them and myself?'
'Get all the good out of them you can.'
'Certainly! but you observe that is no answer to my question of "how."'
'Good is pleasure, isn't it?'
'Is it?'
'I think so.'
'Make pleasure lasting, and perhaps I should agree with you. But how
can you do that?'
'You cannot do it, that ever I heard. It is not in the nature of
things.'
'Then what is the good of pleasure when it is over, and you have given
your life for it?'
'Well, if pleasure won't do, take greatness, then.'
'What sort of greatness?' Pitt asked in the same tone. It was the tone
of one who had gone over the ground.
'Any sort will do, I suppose,' said Miss Frere, with half a laugh. 'The
thing is, I believe, to be great, no matter how. I never had that
ambition myself; but that is the idea, isn't it?'
'What is it worth, supposing it gained?'
'People seem to think it is worth a good deal, by the efforts they make
and the things they undergo for it.'
'Yes,' said Pitt thoughtfully; 'they pay a great price, and they have
their reward. And, I say, what is it worth?'
'Why, Mr. Dallas,' said the young lady, throwing up her head, 'it is
worth a great deal--all it costs. To be noble, to be distinguished, to
be great and remembered in the world,--what is a worthy ambition, if
that is not?'
'That is the general opinion; but what is it _worth_, when all is done?
Name any great man you think of as specially great'--
'Napoleon Buonaparte,' said the young lady immediately.
'Do not name _him_,' said Pitt. 'He wore a brilliant crown, but he got
it out of the dirt of low passions and cold-hearted selfishness. His
name will be remembered, but as a splendid example of wickedness. Name
some other.'
'Name one yourself,' said Betty. 'I have succeeded so ill.'
'Name them all,' said Pitt. 'Take all the conquerors, from Rameses the
Great down to our time; take all the statesmen, from Moses and onward.
Take Apelles, at the head of a long list of wonderful painters;
philosophers, from Socrates to Francis Bacon; discoverers and
inventors, from the man who first made musical instruments, in the
lifetime of Adam our forefather, to Watt and the steam engine. Take any
or all of them; _we_ are very glad they lived and worked, _we_ are the
better for remembering them; but I ask you, what are they the better
for it?'
This appeal, which was evidently meant in deep earnest, moved the mind
of the young lady with so great astonishment that she looked at Pitt as
at a _lusus naturae_. But he was quite serious and simply matter of
fact in his way of putting things. He looked at her, waiting for an
answer, but got none.
'We speak of Alexander, and praise him to the skies, him of Macedon, I
mean. What is that, do you think, to Alexander now?'
'If it is nothing to him, then what is the use of being great?' said
Miss Frere in her bewilderment.
'You are coming back to my question.'
There ensued a pause, during which the stitches of embroidery were
taken slowly.
'What do you intend to do with _your_ life, Mr. Dallas, since pleasure
and fame are ruled out?' the young lady asked.
'You see, that decision waits on the previous question,' he answered.
'But it has got to be decided,' said Miss Frere, 'or you will be'--
'Nothing. Yes, I am aware of that.'
There was again a pause.
'Miss Frere,' Pitt then began again, 'did you ever see a person whose
happiness rested on a lasting foundation?'
The young lady looked at her companion anew as if he were to her a very
odd character.
'What do you mean?' she said.
'I mean, a person who was thoroughly happy, not because of
circumstances, but in spite of them?'
'To begin with, I never saw anybody that was "thoroughly happy." I do
not believe in the experience.'
'I am obliged to believe in it. I have known a person who seemed to be
clean lifted up out of the mud and mire of troublesome circumstances,
and to have got up to a region of permanent clear air and sunshine. I
have been envying that person ever since.'
'May I ask, was it a man or a woman?'
'Neither; it was a young girl.'
'It is easy to be happy at _that_ age.'
'Not for her. She had been very unhappy.'
'And got over it?'
'Yes; but not by virtue of her youth or childishness, as you suppose.
She was one of those natures that are born with a great capacity for
suffering, and she had begun to find it out early; and it was from the
depths of unhappiness that she came out into clear and peaceful
sunshine; with nothing to help her either in her external surroundings.'
'Couldn't you follow her steps and attain her experience?' asked Miss
Frere mockingly.
Pitt rose up from the mat where he had been lying, laughed, and shook
himself.
'As you will not go to drive,' he said, 'I believe I will go alone.'
But he went on horseback, and rode hard.