Mr. Van Ness returned to the Hemlock Farm at stated periods during the
summer. He had, to be plain, sat down before Jane's heart to besiege it
with the same ponderous benign calm with which he ate an egg or talked of
death. There was a bronze image of Buddha in the hall at the Farm, the gaze
of the god fixed with ineffable content, as it had been for ages, on his
own stomach.
Jane went up to it one day after an hour's talk with Mr. Van Ness. "This
creature maddens me," she said. "I always want to break it into pieces to
see it alter."
Little Mr. Waring, who had come with Van Ness, hurried up as a connoisseur
in bronzes, adjusting his eye-glasses. "Why, it is faultless, Miss
Swendon!" he cried.
"That is precisely what makes it intolerable."
Much of Jane's large, easy good-humor was gone by this time. She had grown
thin, was eager, restless, uncertain of what she ought or ought not to do,
even in trifles.
Mr. Waring and Judge Rhodes were both at the Farm now. They ran over to New
York every week or two. Phil Waring was not a marrying man, but it was part
of his duty as a leader in society to be intimate with every important
heiress or beauty in the two cities. Out of sincere compassion to Jane's
stupendous ignorance he would sit for hours stroking his moustache, his
elbows on his knees, his feet on a rung of the chair, dribbling information
as to the nice effects in the Water-Color Exhibition, or miraculous "finds"
of Spode or Wedgwood in old junk-shops, or the most authentic information
as to why the Palfreys had no cards to Mrs. Livingstone's kettledrums,
while Jane listened with a quizzical gleam in her eyes, as she did to the
little bantam hen outside cackling and strutting over its new egg.
"We must have you in society this winter," he urged. "It is a duty you owe
in your position. You have no choice about it."
"You are right, Mr. Waring," called the captain from the corner where he
sat with Judge Rhodes. "The child must have friends in her own class." He
dropped his voice again: "The truth is, Rhodes, she has no ties like other
girls. Her dog and two or three old women and some children--that is all
she knows of life. It's enough while she has me. But I shall not be here
long, now. Not many months."
The eyes of the two men met.
"Does she know?" asked the judge after a while.
"No." The captain's gaunt features worked: he trotted his foot to some
tune, looking down from the window and whistling under his breath. "It was
for this I sent for you," he added presently. "If I could only see her
settled, married, before I go! She is no more fit to be left alone in the
world than Bruno."
The judge shook his head in gloomy assent. His own opinion was that Jane
would follow her own instincts in a dog-like fashion if her father was out
of the way, and God only knew where they would lead her! He had brought his
own girls, Rose and Netty, with him to visit her, in order that she might
have a domestic feminine influence upon her. They found, accidentally, that
she did not know a word of any catechism, and, terrified, loaned her
religious novels to convert her: she took them graciously, but never cut
the leaves. There were to them even more heathenish indications in her
hoopless straight skirts: the good little creatures zealously cut and
trimmed a dress for her from the very last patterns. She put it on, and
straightway went through bog and brake with Bruno for mushrooms, coming
back with it in tatters. They chattered in their thin falsetto voices the
last Culpepper gossip into her patient ear--the story of Rosey's balls at
Old Point, and Netty's lovers, all of whom were "splendid matches until
impohverished by the war." She listened to their chirping with amused eyes,
tapping them, when they were through, approvingly on the head as though
they were clever canaries. The girls told their father that they "feared
her principles leaned toward infidelity, and that it was never safe to be
intimate with these original women," and had gone home the next day, not
waiting for the judge. They washed their hands of her, and gloved them
again, but he still felt responsible for her. After he left the captain he
went to her, fatherly interest radiant in every feature: "Mr. Waring is
right, Jane. It is high time that you were taking your part in society.
Your father wishes it."
"I will do whatever he wishes," quietly.--"You did not know us when we
lived in the old house in Southwark, Mr. Waring. We invented our patents
then. Sometimes we could afford to go to the gallery at the theatre when
the play was good. Father and the newsboys would lead the clapping. And we
went once a year in our patched shoes a-fishing for a holiday. Those were
good times."
"Perfect child of Nature!" telegraphed Mr. Waring uneasily to the judge.
"How Mrs. Wilde will rejoice in you, Miss Swendon! Nature is her specialty.
She is coming to call this morning.--Miss Swendon," turning anxiously to
the judge, "can have no better sponsor in society than Mrs. Wilde. She only
can give the accolade to all aspirants. No amount of money will force an
entrance at her doors. There must be blood--blood. 'Swendon?' she said when
I spoke to her about this call. 'The Swedish Svens? I remember. Queen
Christina's gallant lieutenant was her great-grandfather. Good stock. None
better. The girl must belong to our circle.' So, now it is all settled!"
rubbing his hands and smiling.
"Jane is careless," said the captain eagerly. "People of the best fashion
have called, and she has not even left cards. Her dress too--Now a Paris
gown, fringes and--"
The three men looked at her at that with a sudden imbecile despair, at
which she laughed and went out.
The captain found her presently down by the boat in which she had heard
Neckart's story. She bailed it out and cleaned it carefully every day, but
she had never gone on the river in it since that night.
"Father," stepping ashore, "what have I done that I must be turned into
another woman?"
"Now, Jenny, making models and crabbing were well enough for you as a
child. But, as Waring justly observes, the society to which you belong is
inexorable in its rules for a woman."
She flung out her arms impatiently, and then clasped them above her head.
It seemed as if a thousand fine clammy webs were being spun about her.
"If you had any especial talent, as Waring says--if you were artistic or
musical, or concerned in some asylum-work--you could take your own path,
independent of society. But--" looking down at her anxiously.
"I understand. I don't know what I was made for."
It was the first time in her life that she had been driven in to consider
herself. She stood grave and intent, saying nothing for some time. Every
other woman had some definite aim. The whole world was marching by, keeping
step to a neat, orderly little tune. They made calls, they gave alms, they
dressed, all of the same fashion.
"Why not be like other people?" her father was saying, making a burden to
her thought.
"I don't know why," drearily.
"What would you have, Jenny?" taking her hand in his.
"Father, I never loved but one or two people in the world. You and Bruno
and--not many others. I can do nothing outside of them."
"Nonsense! You cannot be a law to yourself, child. God knows I want to see
you happy!" his voice breaking. "But," straightening his eye-glasses,
"Waring says, very justly, you are out of the groove which all other girls
are in." He stopped inquiringly, but she did not answer. She was a
strongly-built woman in mind and body, and just then she felt her strength.
The blood rushed in a swift current through her veins. Why should she be
hampered with these thousand meaningless, sham duties? She was fit for but
one purpose--to serve two men whom she loved. Her father was ill, and he
pushed her from him into Society; and Bruce Neckart was alone, and with a
worse fate than death creeping on him, and he--
"Why does not Mr. Neckart come to us?" she asked abruptly. "It is months
since I have seen him."
"His health is failing. There is some trouble of the brain threatened. I
hear that he is going to give up the paper, and is settling up his business
to go to Europe." Her question startled him: he watched her with a new keen
suspicion.
"If this must come on him, why should he not come here to bear it? I can
nurse you both. Surely, that is as good work as returning calls or learning
to dress in Parisian style," with a short laugh.
The captain's face gathered intelligence as he listened. He knew her secret
now. For a moment he felt a wrench of pity for her. But love, with the
captain, had been a sentimental fever ending in a cold ague: he had
experienced light heats and chills of it many a time since. This wild fancy
of the girl's would speedily burn itself out if judiciously damped. He
would at once take the matter in hand.
"Neckart," he said deliberately, eying her to gauge the effect of his
words, "is a man of sense and knowledge of the world. He knows his
condition, and in the little time left to him he attends to his business
and important political affairs, instead of nursing a romantic friendship
which cannot serve him, and would only compromise you."
"Compromise me? I don't understand you, father."
"A woman could not render such service as you offer except to her betrothed
lover or husband."
"Why, he would understand."
"But Society, child--"
"Oh, Society!" with a laugh. "But you do not remember!" clasping her hands
on his shoulder. "If this thing comes upon him--he has looked forward to it
all his life--he has nobody. He is quite alone."
"At least," impatiently, "you will not be involved. I did not understand
before why Bruce had deserted us lately. I see now that he has acted very
properly. It was not his fault nor yours--this flirtation--preference--or
whatever you may choose to call it. But Bruce knows the world, and knows
just how long-lived such fancies are, and he intends that it shall be no
hinderance to your marriage--making an excellent match."
"I marry? Make an excellent match?"
"Yes. Certainly. What else should you do? Don't look in that way, my
darling. It frightens me. I'm not strong. It is not death that is coming to
you, but a good husband. You need not turn so white."
"And Mr. Neckart planned this for _me?_"
"N-no. I can't say 'planned,' to be accurate. But he agreed in our plan.
Why, Bruce has common sense. He knows it is the way of the world that a
woman should marry, and he will be much happier to know that you are the
wife of a good man--good and good-looking too. Much more presentable than
Bruce, poor fellow!"
The captain watched her closely as he gave this home-thrust. How a woman
could turn from that magnificent, devout reformer to any lean, irascible
politician! Her foot was on the edge of the little skiff. She pushed it
into the water. While he sat in the boat there that night, with the
moonlight white about them, while he told her that he loved her, he had
been planning this good match for her! There was no such thing as love,
then, in the world? Or truth? But there was Society and common sense and
the inexorable rules of propriety. Bruce Neckart represented to her
Strength itself, and he submitted to these rules cheerfully. He was happy
to think of her as the wife of a good, presentable man!
When she had thought of him as going alone with his terrible burden away
from her into the wilderness, true to her until the last breath of reason
was gone, there had been a thrill of delight in the intolerable pain. But
planning, like finical little Waring, that she should fall snugly into a
fashionable set, Parisian gowns, a suitable marriage!
Jane had not the womanish faculty of thinning every fact or thought that
came to her into tears or talk. Neckart had gone out of her life. She
accepted the fact at once, without argument. What the loss imported to her
would assuredly be known only to her own narrow, one-sided mind, and the
God who had given it to her.
"Shall we go to the house, father? Can't you laugh again, and look like
yourself? Why, I will give myself up, body and soul, to Society or
Philanthropy--anything you choose--rather than see you so shaken." She hung
on his arm as they went up the path, talking incessantly, and laughing
more, as even the captain felt, than the jokes would warrant. The moment
was favorable for introducing the subject he had at heart.
"The last train brought out a dozen men to consult Mr. Van Ness," he
began--"deputations from church and charitable organizations. 'Pon my soul,
I don't know what Christianity in this country would do without that man!"
"It would wear a very different face," absently.
"I went with Rhodes to a great revival-meeting in town one night lately,
and Van Ness, of course, was called up on the platform. Rhodes thought he
looked like one of the apostles in modern dress; and all the ladies near me
said that his face beamed with heavenly light. It would have made anybody
devout to look at him. Are you listening?" glancing at her abstracted face.
"You certainly think him remarkably handsome? As to his nose, now?"
"I don't suppose anybody could find fault with his nose," smiling.
"Nor with his manner?"
"Nor with his manner."
"And yet you are not friends, eh?" holding his breath for her answer.
"No," carelessly. "Mr. Van Ness and I could not be friends."
"Why? why?"
"How could I tell?" with a shrug, and looking at Bruno, who was fighting a
cat just then without cause.
The captain looked and sighed. It was of no use, he thought, to try to
account for the prejudices or likings of any of the lower animals.
Mr. Waring met them at the moment in an anxious flutter: "Mrs. Wilde is
here. She is coming down the path."
Mrs. Wilde was a small, plump old lady with a sober, tranquil face framed
in soft puffs of white hair; her dress never rustled or brought itself into
any notice; her language never fell uneasily out of its quiet gait; when
she spoke to you, you felt that something genuine and happy dominated you
for the moment.
"I followed Mr. Waring here," holding out her hand. "One makes acquaintance
so much more quickly out of doors. I must begin ours by asking for your
arm, Miss Swendon. I am fat and scant o' breath, and apt to forget it."
Jane drew the puffy hand eagerly through her arm. She would have liked to
say outright how welcome the motherly presence and the honest voice were to
her just then.
Mrs. Wilde dismissed the captain and Mr. Waring, and the two women sat down
in the arbor, and at once were at ease and at home with each other. Bruno
came up, eyed and smelled the new-comer, and snuggled down on her skirts to
go to sleep.
"He vouches for me," she said nodding. "You must take me at his valuation."
"He makes no mistakes."
"Nor do you, I suspect. That reminds me, Miss Swendon. I brought a friend
with me, and now that I have seen you I mean to bespeak your good-will for
her. She needs just such healthy influence as yours would be."
"Is she ill?"
"Only in mind. One of those morbid women who must make a drama out of their
lives, and prefer to make it a tragedy. A Madame Trebizoff, an
English-woman who married a Russian prince. She is a widow now, with large
means--came to New York a few months ago, and has had much court paid to
her. But her nature makes her always a very lonely woman." She spoke
hastily as the trailing of heavy skirts approached on the grass. "Here she
is, poor thing! Be good to her," she whispered before presenting her in
form. Madame Trebizoff was draped in black, with a good deal of lace about
her head and an artificial yellow rose at her throat. Jane went up to her
with outstretched hand, but when the sallow face turned full on her she
stopped short, looked at it a moment, and then bowed without a word.
"It is the materialized spirit!" But she did not speak, for in a moment she
remembered that she had once taken the bread from the wretched woman's
mouth. She would not do it again.