Mrs. Stuart Digby scarcely approved Kate's fondness for Miss Theodora
and her friends. Stuart Digby had married two or three years before
John, and was living in Paris when the Civil War broke out. His own
impulse was to return at once and fight; but as his wife would not
consent to this, they remained abroad until Ralph was ten years old and
Kate four years younger. Both children at this time spoke French better
than English, and Ralph for a long time disliked everything
American--like his mother, who, not Boston born, professed little
interest in things Bostonian. But in Kate Stuart Digby saw the
enthusiasm which had marked his own youth, and he encouraged her in
having ideals, only wishing that he had been true to his own.
"Perhaps if I hadn't married so early," he would think--then, with a
sigh, would wonder if, left to himself, he might possibly have amounted
to something. For Stuart Digby was not nearly as self-satisfied as the
chance observer supposed.
When he and John were at school he had intended to study medicine, for
his scientific tastes were as decided as John's bent for the law. But he
had yielded all too weakly to his love for the prettiest girl in his
set, and an heiress, too. By the death of his father and mother he had
already come into possession of his own large fortune. When these two
independent and rich young people were married, therefore, a month after
he was graduated from Harvard, it was hardly strange that Stuart put
aside his medical course until he should have made the tour of Europe.
Then, when once domiciled in their own hotel in Paris, what wonder that
they let all thoughts of Boston disappear in the background? Just before
the war what could the United States offer pleasure-seekers comparable
with the delights of Paris under the Second Empire? They stayed in
Europe until the beginning of the Franco-Prussian war, and managed to
leave Paris just before the siege.
Not only the upsetting of things in France, but a crisis in Stuart
Digby's business affairs, hastened him home at last. Besides, he felt a
little remorse about his children. He did not wish them to grow up
thorough Parisians; already, young as they were, they began to show
symptoms of regarding France as their country rather than America.
Disregarding, therefore, his wife's remonstrances, he broke up their
Paris establishment, despatched his foreign furniture and bric-a-brac to
Boston, and, following soon afterward with his family, bought a house in
the new part of Beacon Street, a region which, when he went to Europe,
had been submerged in water.
Though some people fancied that Stuart Digby could afford whatever he
wished, he himself thought otherwise. After his return to Boston he
found that there had been a shrinkage both in his own and his wife's
income. There was little danger that they or their children should ever
want, and yet the fact that they had a few thousands a year less than
they had expected bred in them an unwonted spirit of economy. This
spirit of economy showed itself chiefly in their dealings with other
people. Stuart, for example, had always intended to settle a sum of
money on Miss Theodora and Ernest, but now he decided to wait. He would
help the boy somewhat in his education, and he would remember him in his
will.
Faultless though he was in his address, elegant though he was in his
personal appearance, Stuart Digby was by no means satisfied with the
reflection that his mirror showed him. He had never expected at
forty-five to find himself so portly, so rubicund. Idleness, easy
living, and a steady, if moderate, indulgence in ruddy drinks will
increase the girth and deepen the complexion of any man, no matter
toward how lofty a goal the thoughts of his youth may have tended. In
youth he had professed scorn for his own prospective wealth. He, as well
as John, should carve out a career for himself. His money he would use
in certain philanthropic schemes. But falling in love had been fatal to
this single-mindedness,--and now, at forty-five, what wonder that he was
dissatisfied.
To saunter down Beacon Street to the club, to play a game of whist with
a trio as idle as himself, to drive, never in those days to ride, to sit
near uncongenial people at a tedious, if fashionable, dinner, to dance
attendance on his wife or some other woman in the brilliant crushes
imposed on all who would be thought on intimate terms with
society--this, he knew, was not the life he had once planned. To be
sure, his footsteps sometimes carried him beyond the club to a little
downtown office where he was supposed to have business--business so
slight that it only irritated him to pretend to follow it. To sign
papers, to approve plans which his lawyer and his agent had already
carefully thought out, this, he reasoned, was almost beneath his notice;
and so after a time he gave up even going to the office, and papers
were sent to his house instead for his signature.
He might, of course, have rid himself, at least partially, of his ennui,
by engaging in some definite philanthropic schemes; but philanthropy as
a profession by itself wasn't the vogue among rich men in Boston two
decades ago. Even had it been the fashion, Stuart Digby could with
difficulty have adjusted himself to the condition which this work
imposed. His long residence abroad made it impossible for him to regard
impartially his American fellow-citizens, whether looked at as an object
of political or philanthropic interest.
Yet if Stuart Digby fell far short of his own ideal, there was at least
one person in the world who believed him to be perfect; not his wife,
not his son, but his daughter Kate, who was never so happy as when,
clinging to his hand, she could coax him to take a long walk with her
over the Mill-dam toward the Brookline boundary.
Moreover, it may be said without sarcasm that his many years' residence
in Europe had made Stuart Digby of much more value to his friends in
general than he himself perhaps realized. He had what might be called a
refined and thorough geographical taste; this is to say, he was a
connoisseur of places. He could tell intending travellers just what
climate, what cuisine, even what company they would be likely to find at
Nice, at Gastein, at Torquay, at certain seasons. He had many a
picturesque and hitherto unheard of nook to recommend, and when the
great capitals, especially Paris, were under discussion, he could
pronounce discriminatingly upon the hotels and shops most worthy the
patronage of a man of culture.
[Illustration]