Sir Mordaunt Ballinger was, indeed, as his sister had said, made a
great deal of in New York society. It took but a few days to accomplish
this. From the square, business-like letters to the blush-colored
note, documents poured in on him all day long. There were invitations
from men to lunch at the "Lawyers' Club down-town," to meet railway
directors, promoters of mines, and others "who can give you information
concerning," etc., etc. There were formal cards requesting his presence
at great club dinners and private banquets; and there were informal
invitations to every species of entertainment, from four o'clock teas
upwards. No stranger in London ever found himself so swiftly and
surely swept away on a tide of hospitality. Mrs. Frampton had rightly
predicted that her brother's name would be an "open sesame" to his
son and daughter. For Grace was not left out of all this cordial
welcome. Ladies' luncheons, "to meet Miss Ballinger," theatre-parties,
receptions, diversions of all kinds, were offered her. Still, it was
not to be expected that she should be made quite so much fuss with as
her brother. He was in some sense a public man. His name and position
as his father's successor and an M.P. carried a certain weight; and
then he was good-looking, with invariably charming manners to women,
and variably attractive ones to men, with a genuine relish of a
joke, which made him popular after dinner among those who told good
stories--and where is the sharp American who has not a store of them?
For serious, practical purposes, however, these gifts did not, as a
certain May Clayton told him, "amount to much."
"You're a lovely man to flirt with, but, unless you find a girl with a
pile, you're not eligible as a husband, you see."
May Clayton was a young lady whom he met at that dinner Mr. Sims gave
at Delmonico's. She was a "bud," as Mr. Sims informed his English
friends--that is, she was only just formally introduced to society.
But, owing to her education, she had no shyness or diffidence, and
in knowledge of the world and effrontery of speech might have been a
woman of forty. She could not remember the time when she had not had
flirtations, had not been escorted back from daily school by youthful
beaux, had not been to parties every week, and received bouquets and
bonbons. It was astonishing she should be as captivating as she was,
with all the bloom of youth rubbed off her and her speech interlarded
with slang. But she was pretty, quick-witted, and her exuberant spirits
were especially attractive to English people, who have so little gas
in themselves they are glad to be lit and their stock replenished by
others. She and a Mrs. Flynn were the only ladies besides Grace. Both
of them could tell who their grandfathers were, both had connections
who were among the Four Hundred, and yet neither were in what Mr. Sims
called "the swim." They went to the Assembly and Patriarch balls, but
the great leaders of society knew them not; they had not learned as yet
to ingratiate themselves with the venerable leader of cotillons, Mrs.
Flynn not being rich enough to give balls herself. They were cousins.
Mr. Flynn had something to do with steel plates, and had failed twice.
Perhaps this was why his pretty little wife had also failed. He rarely
went into society, nor did Mrs. Clayton when she could avoid it, being
apparently shelved as completely as though she were defunct. Her
daughter already received visits, gave parties, and went everywhere,
either with Mrs. Flynn or alone to houses where there was a matron.
She told Sir Mordaunt she expected him to call, "and mind, you're not
to ask for mamma, but for me." And to Grace she said, "You're just as
nice as ever you can be, and I hope you'll come and see me, but not
with your brother." May was bright, and cheery, and shrill as a canary.
She chirped and trilled away, drowning every one else's voice, even
those of the young American men of the party, though they were jovial,
high-spirited fellows, fully able to hold their own. She told one of
them who was boasting a little to "come off that roof!" To Ballinger,
who said something about the breast and the leg of a chicken, she said,
"_We_ always call it the brown meat and white meat."
"Would not that sound rather odd if applied to the human form?" he
asked, with apparent innocence.
"Well! To be sure--I never thought of that! Then she seemed about to
illustrate this by an example, but only laughed and turned the subject.
Being challenged, she sang a stave of some "darky" song, to the delight
of her auditors, then suddenly stopped. "No, it isn't nice. I won't
sing any more," nor could any supplications induce her to continue. The
audacious, wayward little creature had evidently clearly defined limits
of her own, beyond which her high spirits never transgressed, no matter
what encouragement she met. And her admirers understood this. They
drew her out, and roared at her sallies; but there was no suspicion of
license in the familiarity, which was nevertheless unlike anything to
which the English guests had been accustomed.
"Have they all been brought up together?" Miss Ballinger asked her host.
"Oh, no. She is a Kentucky girl--only came here this winter. They
probably danced the German together for the first time a few weeks ago.
I asked her and Mrs. Flynn, because I thought it would amuse you more
to meet two individual types of Americans of a certain stamp--as they
are before the edge is taken off them--than the smart conventional
women, such as we met the other night, who are much the same all the
world over. You don't object?"
"On the contrary, I much prefer it. I am all for different nations
having different codes of manners. I don't see why we are all to be
built up on the same pattern."
Mr. Sims laughed. "Don't run away with the impression that this is
the general code of manners. No; they belong to a certain type--a
type which you English enjoy more than some of our own countrymen do,
especially the Anglomaniacs. We shall soon have all the originality
rubbed out of us. There is Mrs. Flynn. She was twice as amusing a year
or two ago. Now she is afraid to let herself _go_. She is eating her
heart out, poor little woman, because she doesn't get on. I'm afraid
she is going in for the 'prunes and prism' business."
"I shouldn't have thought it," said Miss Ballinger, smiling, as she
glanced at the graceful little woman, who was carrying on a lively
flirtation with Mordaunt.
After dinner they went to the theatre, where their host had taken
a row of stalls, in order that his guests might see a thoroughly
representative American play. Viewed as a literary production, the
piece was amazing. But the capital picture of American country life,
the naturalness of the characters, the humor and pathos of the acting
in these scenes, redeemed that portion which was supposed to depict the
graces and the vices of the moneyed aristocracy of New York. It seemed
curious to Grace that the actors and actresses should not have caught
even the faintest outward resemblance to ladies and gentlemen. On this
point, however, her American acquaintances were more indignant, more
bitter in ridicule, than herself.
Mordaunt Ballinger told his sister, as they drove home, that New York
was an awfully nice place. He believed he was being put up to a good
thing or two, and he should be in no hurry to go away. Grace assured
him she was quite content to remain there, as long as he liked. "Only
don't fall in love with Miss Clayton," she added, laughing. "I don't
think Aunt Susan _could_ stand her for a niece."
He laughed in return. "She is very fetching. Why is it that no English
girl has that _abandon_? But you needn't be afraid. She is too 'cute
to marry a pauper. She warned me that I wasn't eligible. Fancy an
English girl doing that! As Sims said (Sims is a deuced clever fellow),
'American women are like pins. Their heads will always prevent them
from being lost, plunge they never so deep!'"
Quintin Ferrars called on the Ballingers the day after their arrival.
He was remaining on in New York; for what purpose did not seem very
clear, as he had told Grace during the voyage that business in Virginia
was bringing him over, and that nothing but business would have induced
him to come at this season. Nor had he any friends in New York. He
seemed as much a stranger there as the Ballingers--indeed, more so, for
they had invitations and he had none--and spoke with profound aversion
of New York society. He visited with them the Metropolitan Museum
of Art, some exhibitions of modern pictures, and several private
collections which they had obtained permission to see. They also
accompanied him to Daly's Theatre, where some of those slight comedies
in which the canvas was nothing and the work thereon perfection were
being performed. His remarks were always trenchant and original, his
satire sometimes pungent. But it seemed to Grace that the man was more
depressed, and at times more bitter, than he had appeared during the
passage. The one thing which she did not see was that he was in love
with her. Mordaunt, with not half her perspicacity, saw it, but held
his peace. Grace had too recently had a bitter disappointment for him
to fear that she would fall in love with the first middle-aged American
who laid his heart and fortune at her feet. Still, it was well that he
should make inquiries touching this Ferrars. But he could learn little
or nothing. Those he asked said the man came of a good old Virginian
stock, and was well off. But he had not lived in America for many
years; during his occasional visits few saw him; if anything was to be
known of his life, it was not in New York.
About Gunning, on the other hand, who had been unremitting in
his attentions to Grace ever since their arrival, there were no
inquiries to be made. He had proposed Sir Mordaunt as a visitor to
the Knickerbocker and Manhattan Athletic Clubs. There and elsewhere
every one spoke well of the young man. He did not drink; he did not
gamble; he had never been known to do a shabby thing. He was manly,
straightforward, and liberal with his money. To his mother, who lived
with him, he was an excellent son; to his companions a generous friend.
He was not always "very good form," but Ballinger had seen worse
failings than a little bombast, a little empty talk, knocked out of a
man. He certainly did not wish his sister to marry an American, he said
to himself; but if she should have a fancy that way, it would be as
well if she would select one for whom every one had a good word, and
who possessed a million of dollars a year.
Here is a passage from a letter to his aunt:
"People say no American man ever _really_ likes an Englishman. Some
of the young fellows may be a little jealous of a stranger, if he
has any success here; but all I know is that most of them have
been awfully kind to me, and many of them are capital company. I
dare say one mustn't inquire too curiously how some of these great
fortunes were made; that is no concern of mine. They all seem very
glad to put one in the way of making a good thing. One fellow tells
me that orange groves or fruit-orchards in Southern California
are the safest investments; giving the largest returns, from 25
to 40 per cent. on the capital laid out. Another advises 'reel
estate,' as they call it, near one of the rising cities (mining
centres) in Colorado. He says land can't fail to double or treble
in value, only one must be content to let the money remain tied up
for a time. A third recommends a Mexican opal mine which he says
he knows is a first-rate thing. But the man I am most disposed to
trust is a shrewd chap named Reid, to whom I brought a letter. He
has been awfully kind explaining things. He says there is nothing
like being on the spot, and recommends strongly my going out West
and looking into these various investments. He has been explaining
to me how the whole city is ruled by the Irish vote, and what
awful corruption goes on. Talk of liberty! It seems to me they
have precious little here--everything is sacrificed to party. And
the worst of it is, the best men stand aloof. Fellows of high
character and enormous wealth, who ought to have the chief weight
in municipal matters, have none. They won't mix themselves up with
the Irish, whom they hate. Apropos of Americans, the greatest
_parti_ in New York, a young chap named Gunning, is awfully gone on
Grace. He crossed with us, and it began then; but she would have
nothing to say to him, preferring the society of a man nearly old
enough to be her father, named Ferrars (so like her, isn't it?),
or of a thin, pasty-looking young professor, in horribly made
overalls and a 'reach-me-down.' Gracey always _will_ be queer in
her tastes to the end of the chapter! Flowers come every morning
from this Gunning. She can't return _them_, but she declines
every other mortal thing he offers--his riding-horses, carriages,
theatre-parties, etc. I have had difficulty in getting her to
accept a party he is giving 'to meet Miss Ballinger'--that is
the New York form when they want to do a person special honor. He
heard her say she would like to see a Spanish dancer who is here,
and who only performs at a low _café_ where ladies can't go, but
occasionally dances at private houses for a select circle--that is
how he caught her. I wish I could see that she took any interest in
any one _particularly_--that there was any symptom of her _having
forgotten_. She is always cheery, always ready for everything--but,
by the bye, have you heard when the trial is to take place? I hope
soon, while we are over here. It would be much better that Grace
should not be in England when it comes off. It would worry her, and
rake up the past. Well! I hope you are coming out to us soon. We
both want you awfully."
On the subject of invitations I may here give a characteristic note
which Miss Ballinger received a few days after their arrival:
"MY DEAR MISS BALLINGER,--Will you and your brother give me the
pleasure of your company at a blue dinner on the 28th of January,
at 8 o'clock? I have selected this color, not because I am called
a 'blue-stocking' by those who are amazed that a woman should know
Greek, but to honor you and the country I adore. I shall never
rest till Mr. Van Winkle is appointed Minister to Saint James's. I
believe your Queen would be gratified by having at her court one
woman representative alike of literature and fashion.
"Your true-blue friend,
"CORRINA VAN WINKLE."
This dinner had not yet come off. In the meantime Mordaunt and Grace
went to the Hurlstones' box one night to hear "Siegfried." The box
was a large one, on the grand tier, and besides the Hurlstone ladies
and the Ballingers, there were Gunning and another of the _jeunesse
dorée_ of New York. Grace had heard that society was enthusiastic about
Wagner's music, and that there was a great difficulty in obtaining
a good opera-box, for which far larger sums were paid than are ever
given in England. She innocently imagined that people went to listen
to the music; she was undeceived. She had petitioned to go early, as
she had never heard "Siegfried," and she and Mordaunt were in the
box nearly an hour before the owners of it arrived. At first all was
well. The upper boxes were crowded by Germans, who listened devoutly
to every note; so did the unfashionable occupants of the stalls in
their morning dress. But in the middle of the second act, the grand
tier, which till then had been nearly empty, filled rapidly with smart
ladies and their attendant cavaliers, and from that time onward a
continuous fire of conversation was kept up, without even the semblance
of any attention to the orchestra or the stage. That was the only part
of the theatre to which opera-glasses seemed rarely to be directed.
They raked every box, and the Hurlstones', by reason of its stranger
guests, more persistently than any other. In vain Grace fixed her eyes
alternately on the book of the words and on the stage. In vain there
were angry expostulations from the stalls of "Stop that talking!" Miss
Hurlstone actually turned round deliberately and sat with her back to
the house, talking to the Marquis de Tréfeuille and a number of other
young men who flocked in and out; and in doing this, she was only
following the example of others. To listen to the lightest French or
Italian opera under such conditions would have been impossible; but
when the music was Wagner's--music which demands the strain of every
nerve, the tension of every intellectual faculty, to grasp the meaning
of that tumult of sound, to follow and seize the floating gossamers
of melody from the brambles of apparent discord--it was nothing short
of exasperating. It became sound and fury, signifying nothing. Grace
recalled the darkness, the death-like silence, of the theatre at
Bayreuth. If Wagner could have risen from the grave to see himself so
treated! She gave it up at last in despair, as Mrs. Hurlstone leaned
forward for the fourth time (Gunning had been pouring his thin stream
of small talk over her shoulder) and said,
"There is the Princess Lamperti just come in with George Ray--that fat
woman in black, with yellow pompons and pearls. You know her history,
poor thing! She was Miss Morse, of Baltimore, and fell in love with
the prince at Rome. He married her for her money, and he behaved very
ill. They were married more than ten years. There was never a word said
against her, but after a miserable life she has at last divorced him
on the ground of his desertion at his solicitation, they say, in order
that he may marry some Spanish woman to whom he has long been devoted,
and who is also very rich. Dreadful, isn't it? Every one feels very
much for the poor princess."
Here Gunning, who had heard part of Mrs. Hurlstone's narrative, said,
"You know the prince, I suppose, Mrs. Hurlstone? Look up at the third
box on the second tier. You'll see him there behind a very dark lady--I
suppose Madame Moretto."
"You don't mean that he has had the effrontery to come here, when he
knew his wife was in New York?"
"Why not? They're divorced, and Lamperti has cheek enough for anything.
I don't think they are staying in New York City, however."
Mrs. Hurlstone, whose glass had been riveted on the box during this
speech, exclaimed,
"It is the prince, sure enough! Well, I never heard anything like
it--flying in the face of public opinion like that! Of course, every
one will cut him. And what a coarse-looking creature Madame Moretto is!
What on earth brings them _here_?"
"I am sure I don't know. Perhaps it has something to do with the
settlement of the princess's money."
"Why, it must all have been settled when she married. You don't suppose
she would give him anything more? He has got enough out of her already.
Besides, I thought this Madame Moretto was also very rich?"
"So I conclude. He wouldn't have married her without."
"He is, then, actually married to her."
"Why, certainly, or, if not married, going to be."
"Upon my honor! It is a pretty story altogether. We pride ourselves
upon our society being very free from scandals; but if people _will_
marry foreigners--" then she corrected herself--"I mean foreign
princes, who are mere fortune-hunters, what can one expect?"
Grace, meantime, had looked at the rivals in this pitiful story, and
had come to the conclusion that Madame Moretto's was no common face.
She was handsome, though young no longer, but the strength of the
countenance, more than its beauty, made it remarkable. A woman, this,
to exercise a fateful hold, probably, over any man on whom she had
fastened--certainly over a weak one. As Grace looked at those eyes,
burning like lamps in the depths of two dark caverns, at the proud and
splendidly poised head and ample bust, and then at the figure and face
of the deserted wife, she read at once how unequal the contest must
have been. Coarse? Well, she might be coarse, but it was the coarse
strength of Tintoretto, as compared with the faded feebleness of Guido.
The curtain had now fallen upon the second act, and Mordaunt, with the
other men, had left the box, to visit their acquaintances and make
room for those who wished to pay their respects to Mrs. Hurlstone
and inspect the English beauty more closely. Among these was a
powerfully built young man, of medium height, with a fine resolute
face and a delightfully frank smile. His general bearing and ease of
manner, which never touched the confines of familiarity--that snare
of the underbred--would have distinguished him in any society. He was
greeted with cordiality by mother and daughter, and introduced to Miss
Ballinger as Mr. Caldwell. He repeated her name, as all Americans do,
on being presented.
"Mr. Caldwell does not honor New York very much," explained Mrs.
Hurlstone, with a smile. "We spoil him so much here, whenever he
comes, that he thinks it best to make himself precious."
"Quite true," said the young fellow, showing the whitest teeth in the
world under his incipient black moustache. "It is only coming here very
seldom that makes me tolerated, I know. I am a grub, an earth-worm, who
is out of place among the butterflies."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Hurlstone. "You know quite well that
you despise us butterflies. You prefer being a grub in those horrid
mines all the time, and won't come out of your chrysalis. It's too bad!"
"That is all very well, Miss Hurlstone, but how would the butterflies
ever exist but for the state of grubdom? Perhaps I shall burst my
chrysalis some day, and flutter up and be a giddy old butterfly, but I
am afraid you will have nothing to say to me then."
"Nothing!" said the young lady, decisively; "if you will not when you
may," and the battledore and shuttlecock of chaff went on, while Mrs.
Hurlstone, who had been sweeping the house with her opera-glass, said
to Grace,
"Who are the people whose box Sir Mordaunt is in?"
Grace felt sure Mrs. Hurlstone knew.
"Mrs. Flynn and Miss Clayton. Have you never met them?"
"Oh, I believe I have met them, but they are not in our set. I fancy
they are from Kentucky."
"There is no objection to that, is there?" asked Grace, with apparent
innocence. "If Kentucky can produce such pretty women, I congratulate
Kentucky."
"Pretty, yes--but such style! You English, my dear Miss Ballinger, are
so very odd. You take up people that we should never know! You do that
all the time in England. We hear of such extraordinary people being
received there. It does seem so strange to _us_."
Grace recognized some truth in what Mrs. Hurlstone said. Probably, if
she were American, she would feel much as Mrs. Hurlstone did. But she
felt sure these young women were quite harmless; they had amused her;
in a certain way she had liked them; she was too loyal to give them up.
So when Mrs. Hurlstone followed up her remark with, "Do tell me where
you made Mrs. Flynn's acquaintance?" Grace replied, "At a dinner your
friend, Mr. Sims, gave us at Delmonico's. Is there any reason why he
should not have asked them?"
"Oh, no reason exactly--except that, as a man of the world, he ought to
have known they were not the kind of people you ought to meet as good
specimens of New York society. I am sorry you should meet any but our
best people."
Grace checked the question, "What are the best?--the richest?" which
rose to her lips, and said,
"Mr. Sims thought we should be more entertained by meeting some
American types, such as we have not seen in England, and he was right.
Miss Clayton, especially, amused us both very much."
"We don't like our English friends to be _amused_ in that way," said
Mrs. Hurlstone, with trenchant emphasis.
"Dear Mrs. Hurlstone, if every one were alike, the world would be very
dull. A little originality is so delightful. I want to see as many
different types as I can in going through the States. I don't think the
worse of people for not having the manners I have been used to. Their
manners are good for _them_, as mine are for me."
"Forgive me for saying that that is all nonsense, Miss Ballinger. There
is but one code of good manners, all the world over. You will go back
to England, and quote these people, and say _that_ is the way Americans
behave. You know you will!"
"Some Americans--not all," replied Grace, calmly. "And why not? What is
the use of blinking the truth? There are differences--you can't deny
it--and I want to see them all. The New-Englanders, about whom I have
read so much, the warm Southerners, the wild Westerners, I know I shall
find them all interesting in their different ways. I don't want only to
see the smart conventional people. I have plenty of them at home."
Here some one entered the box, and Caldwell rose. Then, approaching
Grace, he said,
"I believe my mother has taken the liberty of writing to you to-night,
Miss Ballinger. She knew your father quite well when he was over here,
and would like to make your acquaintance, but did not like to call
without writing to explain why. We shall be only a short time in New
York, but my mother hopes she may see you."
"Certainly. I shall be charmed. If she will appoint any hour I will be
at home, or call on her."
"I will tell her. She thought, perhaps--but no. She has written, and I
will not forestall her note. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you
to-morrow night at Mr. Gunning's party. Good-night."
He bowed. She extended her hand. "Do not forget my message." Then, when
he had left the box, she said to her hostess, "What a charming face
that young man has! So frank, and manly, and straightforward. Who is
he?"
"His mother's only son. The father died two years ago, and left great
mining operations in a state that required very active and constant
supervision. This boy--as he was then--undertook it all, worked like a
slave, and showed great cleverness, great tact and judgment, I am told,
in dealing with the men, who all adore him, I hear. He lives there,
in Colorado, almost entirely, with his mother and a young sister, and
resists all temptations to come to New York, unless business brings
him. It is most extraordinary."
"It is admirable. And his mother--is she as nice as he?"
"I don't know her. She never goes into society here. She devotes
herself to the education of her daughter, I believe, and to making a
comfortable home for her son."
But the third act had now begun, and with it Mr. Gunning's fluid
vacuity, which played with a mild spray down Miss Ballinger's back for
the remainder of the evening.