AT BREAKFAST.
"How do you like New York, Lois? You have been here long enough to
judge of us now?"
"Have I?"
Mrs. Wishart and her guest being at breakfast, this question and answer
go over the table. It is not exactly in New York, however. That is, it
is within the city bounds, but not yet among the city buildings. Some
little distance out of town, with green fields about it, and trees, and
lawn sloping down to the river bank, and a view of the Jersey shore on
the other side. The breakfast room windows look out over this view,
upon which the winter sun is shining; and green fields stand in
beautiful illumination, with patches of snow lying here and there. Snow
is not on the lawn, however. Mrs. Wishart's is a handsome old house,
not according to the latest fashion, either in itself or its fitting
up; both are of a simpler style than anybody of any pretension would
choose now-a-days; but Mrs. Wishart has no need to make any pretension;
her standing and her title to it are too well known. Moreover, there
are certain quain't witnesses to it all over, wherever you look. None
but one of such secured position would have such an old carpet on her
floor; and few but those of like antecedents could show such rare old
silver on the board. The shawl that wraps the lady is Indian, and not
worn for show; there are portraits on the walls that go back to a
respectable English ancestry; there is precious old furniture about,
that money could not buy; old and quain't and rich, and yet not
striking the eye; and the lady is served in the most observant style by
one of those ancient house servants whose dignity is inseparably
connected with the dignity of the house and springs from it. No new
comer to wealth and place can be served so. The whole air of everything
in the room is easy, refined, leisurely, assured, and comfortable. The
coffee is capital; and the meal, simple enough, is very delicate in its
arrangement.
Only the two ladies are at the table; one behind the coffee urn, and
the other near her. The mistress of the house has a sensible, agreeable
face, and well-bred manner; the other lady is the one who has been so
jealously discussed and described in another family. As Miss Julia
described her, there she sits, in a morning dress which lends her
figure no attraction whatever. And--her figure can do without it. As
the question is asked her about New York, her eye goes over to the
glittering western shore.
"I like this a great deal better than the city," she added to her
former words.
"O, of course, the brick and stone!" answered her hostess. "I did not
mean _that_. I mean, how do you like _us?_"
"Mrs. Wishart, I like _you_ very much," said the girl with a certain
sweet spirit.
"Thank you! but I did not mean that either. Do you like no one but me?"
"I do not know anybody else."
"You have seen plenty of people."
"I do not know them, though. Not a bit. One thing I do not like. People
talk so on the surface of things."
"Do you want them to go deep in an evening party?"
"It is not only in evening parties. If you want me to say what I think,
Mrs. Wishart. It is the same always, if people come for morning calls,
or if we go to them, or if we see them in the evening; people talk
about nothing; nothing they care about."
"Nothing _you_ care about."
"They do not seem to care about it either."
"Why do you suppose they talk it then?" Mrs. Wishart asked, amused.
"It seems to be a form they must go through," Lois said, laughing a
little. "Perhaps they enjoy it, but they do not seem as if they did.
And they laugh so incessantly,--some of them,--at what has no fun in
it. That seems to be a form too; but laughing for form's sake seems to
me hard work."
"My dear, do you want people to be always serious?"
"How do you mean, 'serious'?"
"Do you want them to be always going 'deep' into things?"
"N-o, perhaps not; but I would like them to be always in earnest."
"My dear! What a fearful state of society you would bring about!
Imagine for a moment that everybody was always in earnest!"
"Why not? I mean, not always _sober;_ did you think I meant that? I
mean, whether they laugh or talk, doing it heartily, and feeling and
thinking as they speak. Or rather, speaking and laughing only as they
feel."
"My dear, do you know what would become of society?"
"No. What?"
"I go to see Mrs. Brinkerhoff, for instance. I have something on my
mind, and I do not feel like discussing any light matter, so I sit
silent. Mrs. Brinkerhoff has a fearfully hard piece of work to keep the
conversation going; and when I have departed she votes me a great bore,
and hopes I will never come again. When she returns my visit, the
conditions are reversed; I vote _her_ a bore; and we conclude it is
easier to do without each other's company."
"But do you never find people a bore as it is?"
Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Do you?"
"Sometimes. At least I should if I lived among them. _Now_, all is new,
and I am curious."
"I can tell you one thing, Lois; nobody votes you a bore."
"But I never talk as they do."
"Never mind. There are exceptions to all rules. But, my dear, even you
must not be always so desperately in earnest. By the way! That handsome
young Mr. Caruthers--does he make himself a bore too? You have seen a
good deal of him."
"No," said Lois with some deliberation. "He is pleasant, what I have
seen of him."
"And, as I remarked, that is a good deal. Isn't he a handsome fellow? I
think Tom Caruthers is a good fellow, too. And he is likely to be a
successful fellow. He is starting well in life, and he has connections
that will help him on. It is a good family; and they have money enough."
"How do you mean, 'a good family'?"
"Why, you know what that phrase expresses, don't you?"
"I am not sure that I do, in your sense. You do not mean religious?"
"No," said Mrs. Wishart, smiling; "not necessarily. Religion has
nothing to do with it. I mean--we mean-- It is astonishing how hard it
is to put some things! I mean, a family that has had a good social
standing for generations. Of course such a family is connected with
other good families, and it is consequently strong, and has advantages
for all belonging to it."
"I mean," said Lois slowly, "a family that has served God for
generations. Such a family has connections too, and advantages."
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Wishart, opening her eyes a little at the
girl, "the two things are not inconsistent, I hope."
"I hope not."
"Wealth and position are good things at any rate, are they not?"
"So far as they go, I suppose so," said Lois. "O yes, they are pleasant
things; and good things, if they are used right."
"They are whether or no. Come! I can't have you holding any extravagant
ideas, Lois. They don't do in the world. They make one peculiar, and it
is not good taste to be peculiar."
"You know, I am not in the world," Lois answered quietly.
"Not when you are at home, I grant you; but here, in my house, you are;
and when you have a house of your own, it is likely you will be. No
more coffee, my dear? Then let us go to the order of the day. What is
this, Williams?"
"For Miss Lot'rop," the obsequious servant replied with a bow,--"de
bo-quet." But he presented to his mistress a little note on his salver,
and then handed to Lois a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers. Mrs.
Wishart's eyes followed the bouquet, and she even rose up to examine it.
"That is beautiful, my dear. What camellias! And what geraniums! That
is the Black Prince, one of those, I am certain; yes, I am sure it is;
and that is one of the new rare varieties. That has not come from any
florist's greenhouse. Never. And that rose-coloured geranium is Lady
Sutherland. Who sent the flowers, Williams?"
"Here is his card, Mrs. Wishart," said Lois. "Mr. Caruthers."
"Tom Caruthers!" echoed Mrs. Wishart. "He has cut them in his mother's
greenhouse, the sinner!"
"Why?" said Lois. "Would that be not right?"
"It would be right, _if_--. Here's a note from Tom's mother, Lois--but
not about the flowers. It is to ask us to a luncheon party. Shall we
go?"
"You know, dear Mrs. Wishart, I go just where you choose to take me,"
said the girl, on whose cheeks an exquisite rose tint rivalled the Lady
Sutherland geranium blossoms. Mrs. Wishart noticed it, and eyed the
girl as she was engrossed with her flowers, examining, smelling, and
smiling at them. It was pleasure that raised that delicious bloom in
her cheeks, she decided; was it anything more than pleasure? What a
fair creature! thought her hostess; and yet, fair as she is, what
possible chance for her in a good family? A young man may be taken with
beauty, but not his relations; and they would object to a girl who is
nobody and has nothing. Well, there is a chance for her, and she shall
have the chance.
"Lois, what will you wear to this luncheon party?"
"You know all my dresses, Mrs. Wishart. I suppose my black silk would
be right."
"No, it would not be right at all. You are too young to wear black silk
to a luncheon party. And your white dress is not the thing either."
"I have nothing else that would do. You must let me be old, in a black
silk."
"I will not let you be anything of the kind. I will get you a dress."
"No, Mrs. Wishart; I cannot pay for it."
"I will pay for it."
"I cannot let you do that. You have done enough for me already. Mrs.
Wishart, it is no matter. People will just think I cannot afford
anything better, and that is the very truth."
"No, Lois; they will think you do not know any better."
"That is the truth too," said Lois, laughing.
"No it isn't; and if it is, I do not choose they should think so. I
shall dress you for this once, my dear; and I shall not ruin myself
either."
Mrs. Wishart had her way; and so it came to pass that Lois went to the
luncheon party in a dress of bright green silk; and how lovely she
looked in it is impossible to describe. The colour, which would have
been ruinous to another person, simply set off her delicate complexion
and bright brown hair in the most charming manner; while at the same
time the green was not so brilliant as to make an obvious patch of
colour wherever its wearer might be. Mrs. Wishart was a great enemy of
startling effects, in any kind; and the hue was deep and rich and
decided, without being flashy.
"You never looked so well in anything," was Mrs. Wishart's comment. "I
have hit just the right thing. My dear, I would put one of those white
camellias in your hair--that will relieve the eye."
"From what?" Lois asked, laughing.
"Never mind; you do as I tell you."