The day after her arrival this is the letter Miss Ballinger wrote to
Mrs. Frampton:
"_9th January, 1891._
"DEAREST AUNT SUSAN,--We were delighted to have your telegram
just before starting, saying that Miss Frampton had rallied. I
hope that her recovery will be so rapid as to enable you to leave
her before many weeks are over. We miss you terribly, and shall
do so, now that we have landed, more than ever. The voyage was
really delightful--I never could have believed it would have gone
so quickly; and I had such an appetite, dear aunt, you would have
been ashamed of me--instead of scolding, as you have done lately,
because I ate so little. Mordy was very happy. He made friends
with one man who was in pork, and another in oil. (I wonder which
is nicest, to be in pork, or in oil?) I always knew which he had
been pounding the deck with, by his coming up to me afterwards,
and saying, 'Do you know, I'm thinking seriously of going into
pork'--or 'oil,' as the case might be. Then he fell in love with
a dear woman, nearly old enough to be his mother, a Mrs. Courtly,
whom most of the other women hated and abused--particularly odious
Lady Clydesdale, who was on board. The things she said to me about
her!... I replied that Mrs. Courtly's only crime, as far as I
could see, was that she succeeded in attracting people--'and it
is a pity more women don't try,' I added. 'They might at least
_try_. For my part, my only serious aim in life is to make as
many people like me as ever I can.' You should have seen her
face of ineffable scorn as she turned away. You always say I am
so toast-and-watery, aunt, that I can't hate. I have at last
accomplished it; congratulate me; I really do hate Lady Clydesdale.
Among those on board whom I liked was an odd, clever man named
Ferrars. He would puzzle and, I believe, interest you. His past is
mysterious: he never speaks of it, nor, indeed, of his present, for
that matter. I discovered--by that exhaustive process of pumping
which Mordy declares qualifies me to become a female interviewer
(Oh! I have something to tell you about _that_, presently), that he
is a Southerner, who lives chiefly in Europe, and that he writes;
but _what_, and _where_, he curtly refused to say. He is quite
indifferent to fame or money, and we generally disagreed about
everything: and yet I got to like him. In contrast to Mr. Ferrars,
who I am sure is not just to his country's future, whatever he
may be to her present, there was a young professor from Harvard,
an ardent patriot, who could not bear a word to be said against
America. I do not feel sure that you would like this Mr. Barham
as much as Mr. Ferrars, though he is to me much more interesting.
But he is shy, and proud, and not very forthcoming, and you like
turbulent youth. You _might_ call him 'a prig,' which would
distress me; but when you saw his mother, who is a Philadelphian,
and I am certain must be a direct descendant of William Penn--so
sweet, and drab-colored, and gentle, with the youngest and yet
saddest face you ever looked upon, to be the mother of this
handsome young man--I say, when you looked upon her you would
better understand why he is as he is: you would see that repression
was born in him. Then there was a very rich young man from New
York, who, like the young man in Scripture, ought to be told to go
and sell all that he has, he would be so much happier. But, being
very stupid, he doesn't know that he is not happy. He fancies the
fatigue of doing nothing vigorously is enjoyment. Last of all, in
our set--for you must know a steamer has its 'sets,' as well as a
city--was the authoress of 'Phryne,' a rather _risky_ novel which
has had some success. You know how fatal it is to any but a strong
head to write a moderately successful book. Mrs. Van Winkle is
pretty and good-natured, but I suppose she was born foolish--the
book has done the rest. We got through the Custom-House very well,
though the officer seemed to think it impossible that any 'gent'
could require so many 'pants' as Mordy brought with him. Virginie
had frightened me so by saying I should have to pay duty on all my
new gowns, that I was relieved when the inquisition was over. The
first impression of New York in a fog was not favorable. Then the
paving of the streets! Words cannot describe to you the condition
of all the thoroughfares. Our London streets, Heaven knows, are
bad enough in wet weather; and even in dry are not above reproach
compared with those of Paris; but these!--the smallest town in
Bulgaria would be ashamed of such atrocities. In some there are
holes so deep that it is necessary to put a tub or a few stones
round the gaping chasm to prevent people falling in. In some the
electric wires were lying playfully about under the horses' feet,
a storm, I am told, having brought them all down _more than a
week ago_! In Broadway the tramways intersect each other like
the criss-crossings on some withered old palm; but the line of
life cannot be long, I imagine, for any one who resides there. We
found comfortable rooms awaiting us at the hotel, but heated by
a furnace such as only Shadrach & Co. could face. I flung open
all the windows, to the manager's amazement. On the table was a
splendid bouquet of crimson roses, with a note and a card. Whose
do you think? The Hurlstones. A very pretty attention, which I
am afraid _we_ should not have thought of. To be greeted thus on
arrival by strangers--for to us they are absolute strangers--is
very pleasant. The note was to ask us to dine with them to-night.
Presently another card was brought me, on which was written 'Miss
M.T. Clutch,' with a request that I would receive the lady. I
innocently thought this must be another kindly disposed person, to
whom friends had written, unknown to us, on our behalf. Judge of my
consternation when a small, smirking woman entered, who introduced
herself thus:
"'I represent _The New York Scavenger_, one of our prominent
dailies, Miss Ballinger. Your name is well-known--I may say it is
a household word among us. I trust you feel like answering a few
questions which will be of interest to our readers.'
"'You must be mistaking me for some one else,' I replied. 'I am
not eminent in any way, and your readers can not possibly--' She
interrupted me, 'Oh! but you are Sir Henry Ballinger's daughter,
and, as such, are quite an interesting personality in America.
We thought a heap of him. We claim that his book had a bigger
circulation in the States than in England.'
"'It is a pity, then, that the States paid him nothing for it,' I
said. 'But do you really mean that you consider the relations of
a well-known man to be public property? I have not even written a
book that can be pirated. I don't lecture, or preach, or act. I am
a perfectly obscure individual, whom your readers cannot possibly
know anything about.'
"'Oh! but they _do_,' she insisted. 'They've seen your photograph
among the society beauties; they've read your name in the society
papers; they know you belong to the tip-top swells. And then there
was the report which went all the round of the States that a German
prince had nearly blown out his brains for love of you.'
"This was more than I could stand. I rose quickly. 'You must pardon
me if I decline to continue this conversation. I am not accountable
for all the rubbish you may have heard, but at least I will not be
a party to disseminating more. Good-morning.'
"'You might just tell me why you are come here, and--and a few
other things?'
"'Nothing at all. I wish to remain unnoticed.'
"'Well! That is real disobliging. But if you conclude to say
nothing, I guess it's no good my staying.'
"'No,' I repeated after her, 'I guess it's no good.'
"And so she left the room. Mordy says I ought to have submitted to
the infliction, and that I showed my usual want of worldly wisdom
in snubbing a reporter. But why? It is all very well for him to see
these people: he has had a tribe of them after him, and it may be
proper and even useful that he should see them all. But in my case
it would be worse than ridiculous, and I think it a gross piece of
impertinence on Miss Clutch's part, trying to force publicity upon
me.
* * * * *
"_10th January._--I did not close my letter yesterday, finding it
would catch to-day's mail if I posted it this morning; and I knew
you would like to hear about our dinner. The Hurlstones live in
Fifth Avenue. It is a fine house, and everything about it is very
grand--more grand, perhaps, than comfortable, according to our
ideas. Americans have always been ruled by French taste, not only
in dress, but in art and in certain social matters. The old French
idea of a _salon_ prevails here: gorgeous furniture, but no books,
no writing-table, no evidences of occupation--except a grand piano,
shrouded in some rare gold-woven tapestry. A few pictures by Corot,
Daubigny, and Troyon adorn the walls. A bust of Mrs. Hurlstone by
D'Epinay, with a bunch of roses in her hair, a necklace and a lace
fichu over her shoulders, stands in the window. The two ladies
were dressed, like their home, in the perfection of French taste.
You know the father and the mother--who is still handsome--so I
need not describe them; but the daughter has grown up since they
were in England, and is considered a beauty. She has delicate
features, fine eyes, and pretty, though not brilliant, coloring.
She is intelligent, vivacious, and meets one more than half way in
her desire to be agreeable, as few English girls of eighteen would
be able to do. She has, moreover, no twang, no ugly intonations
of voice. Why don't I admire her more? I kept asking myself this
as I watched her. Though set off by dress to the best advantage,
for some reason she does not produce the effect she should. There
is one son, a year older, equally good-looking, perhaps even
handsomer, but of that order of beauty that leaves no impression. I
have already forgotten what he was like, except that he wore a very
large diamond in his shirt-front. The father took me in to dinner.
I like him exceedingly, perhaps the best of the family; but all
were most amiable. We were sixteen at dinner. Nearly every other
guest was actually, or prospectively, a millionnaire. The women
were all very well dressed, and wore a great many jewels--more
than, perhaps, we should think quite good taste for this sort of
party. They were, one and all, extremely civil--offering to take
me out driving, and so on. One of them, a Mrs. Siebel, married to
a wealthy banker of German origin, was particularly bright and
amusing. I felt as if I knew her better in half an hour than I have
ever done an Englishwoman in the same time. Another, Mrs. Thorly,
who is the sovereign of all social entertainments here, was most
gracious. She is going to give a great ball, to which she invited
us. Some of the men struck me as clever; especially in conversation
with their own countrywomen, their quickness and incisiveness were
remarkable. With me they seemed a little stiff--a little on their
p's and q's. One of the exceptions was a man whom they called
'George Ray the Third.' When I inquired the reason of this curious
appellation I was told it was because his father and grandfather,
both alive, were also Georges. He is a splendid animal, and he
knows it. _He_ certainly cannot be accused of being stiff. He
planted his chair opposite me, leant his elbows on his knees, and
told me of all the great people he knew in London, as though he
thought that was the only topic that would interest me. This was
not clever on George the Third's part. And yet he was anything
but dull, and his perfect self-satisfaction entertained me. Mrs.
Hurlstone seemed afraid he might prove perilously entertaining. She
was good enough to inform me that he had not a penny--he had run
through everything. It was considerate of her. A much more amusing
man, however, sat next me at dinner--a barrister named Sims, shrewd
and humorous. I asked him who a little red-haired man with a waxed
moustache opposite was; evidently a foreigner. He replied, 'He is
Jean Jacques, Marquis de Tréfeuille, a _pair de France_ of the
first water, who is come over here to hitch on to an heiress, if he
can. It was of him that some wag wrote,
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,
Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"I inquired if the girl next him was the future marquise. He shook
his head. 'I doubt it. Even if she tumbles to the coronet, he will
find her father won't make the settlement the marquis expects. He
will give her a big allowance, but not a lump sum down, and I doubt
if that will suit the marquis.' Before the evening was over Mr.
Sims asked Mordy and me to dine with him at Delmonico's next week.
I have no time for more.
"Your ever affectionate niece,
"GRACE BALLINGER.
"P.S.--Mordy says he will write to you by the next mail. He is
already up to his eyes in engagements, and made a great deal of, a
great deal _more_ of than he is in London, so no wonder he likes it.
"Second P.S.--Mordy has just run in, shouting with laughter, this
morning's _Scavenger_ in his hand. 'Here you are!' he cried, 'and
serve you right!' Then he read the cutting (I am not sunk so low as
to mean a pun) which I enclose. I hope it will amuse you as much as
it did _him_."
The paragraph was as follows:
"Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, Baronet and M.P., with his sister, landed
here from the _Teutonic_ yesterday. She is credited with being
a London belle, and as such, and the daughter of one of the few
Englishmen who have not written gross falsehoods concerning our
country, we were desirous of interviewing her; but the young woman,
with a rudeness peculiarly British, refused to submit to any
interrogation. If she is a specimen of London's beauty we cannot
congratulate that city on its show. A grenadier in petticoats,
quite wanting in the delicacy and elegance we consider essential
for beauty, best describes her. She is decidedly too fleshy. Her
hair is not stylishly coifed, and there is a slip-sloppiness
about her attire which denotes that she is not gowned in Paris.
Altogether, we have seldom experienced a greater disappointment,
both as to appearance and manner, in a woman of whom we had been
taught to expect so much."