The ball of hospitality which had been set rolling by kindly hands a
month since was snatched from one to another during that last week of
our travellers' stay in New York, and seemed to acquire a more vigorous
impetus as the day of their departure drew near. That this constant
round of social engagements was fatiguing to Grace, that she longed for
a little repose and leisure for reflection, is true; but, under the
circumstances, perhaps it was as well that this luxury was withheld.
She had come abroad, as her brother's companion, with the definite
resolve to put the past behind her. For months one subject--one
cruel, gnawing trouble--had absorbed all her thoughts. It should do
so no longer. She would never suffer a hint of reproach, or a word
of accusation against Ivor Lawrence to fall from the lips of either
her aunt or brother without defending him hotly. But, unless forced
to do so, she never uttered his name. Both Mrs. Frampton and Mordaunt
recognized the effort to dismiss him from her heart. They thought
they were helping her to do so; but they learned the inefficacy of
abuse. Happily, there was a natural rebound in her healthy temperament
against sitting down with folded hands, and doing nothing in this
world. Visiting the poor was not in her line; she had tried "slumming"
in London, and had found it a failure--it was the only thing which
paralyzed her with shyness. The pursuit of science and art were equally
foreign to her nature. The work which seemed fitting and natural for
her just now was to be Mordaunt's help-mate and companion, until such
time as he should select one for life. He was not made to be alone.
And this work which her hand had found, she would do, as she had done
everything, with all her might.
Therefore it was that she had thrown herself frankly and without stint
into the stream of society in New York, resolved to take what interest
and amusement she could find, without letting any one--least of all
her brother--see the dark shadow that obtruded itself, from time to
time, across the brilliant scene. And she had her reward. There is not
so much cordiality in the world that a warm-hearted girl can remain
indifferent to such a welcome as had been accorded to Grace, even where
there was not much in common between her and her new acquaintances.
Some she really liked greatly; some had only amused her; towards all
she felt unaffectedly grateful for the many thoughtful attentions
she had received. The Hurlstones had been persistently kind, and now
proposed to receive Mrs. Frampton, their old acquaintance, on her
landing; but, as regarded them, Grace could not but feel it was just as
well that her brother and she were leaving New York. If the girl took
Mordaunt's spasmodic flirtation seriously, the sooner he was removed
from her the better. Grace was sceptical as to his ever being very hard
hit; at all events, Beatrice Hurlstone was not the one to deal the
decisive blow.
As to her other acquaintances, the Caldwells and Mrs. Siebel were
those from whom she parted with most regret. The first Grace hoped
soon to see again; the latter was to be in Europe next summer, when
she and Miss Ballinger would meet. Jem Gunning had gone to recover
his equilibrium from defeat at St. Augustine. Grace was glad to be
spared any farewells from the young millionnaire. Mr. Sims was so
peripatetic that he might turn up anywhere--at Boston, or Chicago,
or San Francisco. "As long as I am this side the grave you are never
safe from me," as he himself put it. Mrs. Van Winkle proposed to give
a _thé funèbre_ on the Ballingers' departure. She had lately given
one on the death of a third cousin, who had left her an amethyst
necklace. "A thing I couldn't wear, you know, and so I sold it, and
spent the produce in cypress wreaths and immortelles, tied with black
ribbon, with which I decorated the room and the tea-table in the poor
thing's honor; and though we didn't have 'funeral baked meats,' we ate
'_soupirs_,' and every one said it was charming, so original." But
Grace declined the proffered honor, as she was obliged to do many other
entertainments that last week.
Some twelve miles from Boston, but served by a branch railway which
decants the traveller at a station hard by the gate of the grounds,
stands a pleasant gray stone house of moderate size, built by the
late Mr. Richardson. That talented architect, who struck out a new
line in domestic building, and created, it may be said, the school
of American architecture which is now so flourishing throughout the
land, never designed a more picturesque home than this of Brackly. The
low Byzantine arch, beneath which the front-door steps ascend, and
then turn sharp to the right hand; the heavy mullioned bay-window and
corner turret with its sharp pinnacle and wide range of outlook, over
the cliffs and down to the sea; the steep-pitched red roof and stone
balcony thrust out from a recessed window under another arch; the heavy
oak door with its old Venetian knocker of wrought iron--every feature
is agreeable and harmonizes. And the face of this delightful dwelling,
on the summit of a green slope, surrounded by fine beeches, is as the
face of a friend from the Old World to the traveller who has just left
behind him the hideous uniformity of city streets. The trees were still
bare; through the rich brown earth of the flower-beds not even a crocus
had as yet thrust its golden head; but the sea beyond the sand-hills
was very blue, and the logwood down by the lake made a spot of crimson
color against the gray-green bank.
Grace lingered for an instant on the door-step.
"How lovely!" she cried.
"There ought to be ducks there. By Jove! I see some," said Mordaunt.
Then they turned into the oak-panelled hall. A curtain of old Flemish
tapestry was lifted at the farther end, and Mrs. Courtly, as lithe as a
girl of fifteen, with a garden hat, an apron, and a pair of scissors in
her hand, ran towards them.
"Welcome to Brackly! So glad to see you both. And you have brought fine
weather. It snowed yesterday--I was in despair. You like my little
home? I am so glad. It is not like your grand English places, but the
view is pretty, and the house comfortable, I hope."
"There is comfort for the eyes, and comfort for the mind, I see," said
Grace, looking round her, "as well as for the body."
"Those were wonderful cobs that brought us from the station," said
Mordaunt. "I never sat behind better steppers."
"You shall sit behind something better to-morrow, Sir Mordaunt--one of
our fast trotters; but come into the parlor, or, as you would say, the
drawing-room."
She lifted the portière again and they entered a long apartment, with
deep bay-windows, at the farther end of which was a daïs, raised upon
three steps, where stood the piano. From this "coign of vantage," the
view over the sand-hills to the sea was more extensive; and here some
rocking-chairs, and a table covered with books, showed that it was a
favorite corner with Mrs. Courtly and her friends. On the walls of this
room were a few good Italian pictures, not too many; one or two fine
plates of Maestro Giorgio, and Spanish lustre ware, with silver-bound
missals and ivory caskets, in an old English glazed cabinet; in another
some rare books. But the place had not the air of a curiosity-shop,
nor was the first impression you received one of stupefaction at what
it must all have cost. Thoroughly comfortable chairs, the last new
books and magazines, the score of "Parsifal" upon the desk of the open
piano--these touches of modernity and cultivation "up to date" disarmed
the Philistine who might be disposed to charge the collector of these
treasures with æsthetic affectation.
"How charming it all is!" exclaimed Grace. "I never saw a more
delightful 'lady's bower.' It seems as if nothing but what is refined
could live here--nothing but sunshine enter those windows!"
"Ah! it is twelve years old; it has already had its share of storm and
showers." She sighed, and then, turning, said, "I see you are looking
at my portrait, Sir Mordaunt. It is by Michael Angelo Brown. Do you
like it?"
"No, I think it is horrid. It doesn't do you justice, Mrs. Courtly."
"And I think it masterly," said his sister.
"He has caught that enigmatical expression that reminded me, when I
first saw you, of Leonardo's 'Gioconda.'"
"I am pleased. You are the second person who has said that. I shall
tell Brown."
"You may add also what I say," said Mordaunt, laughing, "that it
doesn't do you a bit of justice."
"Oh! you are a flatterer and a Philistine, Sir Mordaunt. You prefer
prettiness to individuality. The New School, which Brown represents
here, rather courts ugliness; certainly would rather have ugliness
than lose individuality."
"I know. I've seen a whole lot he did of Mrs. Van Winkle. I thought
them all beastly. Mrs. Van Winkle fencing, apparently in a vapor bath;
Mrs. Van Winkle yawning--no, singing, I suppose it is, because she is
at the piano, with one hand up, and her little finger stuck out at
right angles with her hand. Forgive me if I say it is all so damned
affected."
"You talk of what you don't understand, Mordy," said Grace,
impatiently. "Both those pictures are very, _very_ clever."
Mrs. Courtly gave her low, rippling laugh.
"I like the fresh expression of opinion. One so seldom gets it. Mrs.
Planter--you know the Planters?--stood dumb before my portrait for a
minute or two. Then she said the _chiaro-oscuro_ was wonderful."
"I should like it better if it were more _chiaro_ and less _oscuro_,"
laughed Mordaunt in reply. "Is she a fool?"
"By no means. She is a dear woman, only she has not the courage of her
opinions. She is so anxious to be amiable. They arrived this morning,
and are gone up to their rooms to rest. I expect Quintin Ferrars
presently, and two great friends of mine from Boston--George Laffan,
the author, and Burton, a young musician, whose compositions I think
charming."
"I shall be quite out of it among all this talent!" sighed Mordaunt;
and he shrugged his shoulders, with a smile.
"How absurd you are, Sir Mordaunt! Is he accustomed to have compliments
paid him all the time, Miss Ballinger? Is he fishing?"
"He has had too many since he landed. Don't increase the evil, Mrs.
Courtly. It is quite time we went to the Wild West. In New York we both
ran the risk of being spoiled."
"We shall not spoil you here," rejoined her hostess, with one of her
bright smiles, "because it is what is best in you, and therefore
impossible to spoil, that we Bostonians shall chiefly prize. I claim to
be a Bostonian, you know, because I was born there. Ah! I see you are
looking at that small picture by Jansen. Do you recognize the face? It
is supposed to be Mary Stuart."
"She must have had as many heads as Cerberus," said Mordaunt, "for no
two resemble each other."
"Pardon me! this is very like the one at Windsor. Next it is a
Rembrandt I bought at the Demidoff sale at Florence."
"How wonderful, to make an ugly old woman so interesting!" Grace
exclaimed. "What an odd sort of battledore and shuttlecock Art and
Nature play! One would not be attracted by a face like a withered
walnut till one saw this admirable portrait. The next time one saw it
in the flesh one would be delighted."
"Well, I shouldn't," said Mordaunt, moving on to a cabinet of
miniatures. "I like these much better. In miniatures they have always
got such awfully nice skins--like velvet. I wish more women in real
life had such complexions. That must have been a little duck--that
woman with the powdered hair."
"Madame de Pompadour--well, she was a duck, in her way. She swam in
troubled waters, and so did this poor bird, who was more of a swan,
Marie Antoinette, white and stately, with her long throat. And this
is our Martha Washington, more of the barn-door fowl, and near to her
Lafayette, and further on Franklin. I love to talk to these historic
ghosts. I can take up one of these miniatures and be carried right back
to those days. I seem to read all their stories in those faces. But
here is the tea, and more substantial food than ghosts can give us."
Two servants entered with trays, which they arranged on a table, with
an old Chelsea service, out of which it was manifest one could drink
nothing but a "dish" of tea, and a George III. "equipage" of silver,
urn-shaped kettle and all. Grace could have fancied herself in an old
English country-house, where all had remained unchanged for the last
hundred years.
Presently the Planter ladies descended. It was obvious that the "rest"
they were credited with having required was an euphony for elaborate
toilette. The mother's clothes became her years, but the daughter was
so nobly beautiful that she should have been simply dressed. Grace, in
her tight-fitting tweed, felt no feminine envy for the gold-braided
waistcoat and velvet jacket, trimmed with blue fox, which the girl
wore; here, in the country, this splendor was singularly out of place;
even in the city it would have seemed to English ideas a little
oppressive on one so young. But the smile on that beautiful and by no
means weak face was so captivating that "the first instalment of her,"
as Grace afterwards expressed it, could not fail to please.
"I am so glad to meet you in the country," she said, as she sat down
on the sofa next to Grace. "One knows people so much better in the
country. Why would you not come to Tuxedo, when Jem Gunning asked us to
meet you? We had such a good time. But it would have been ever so much
better if you had come."
"It is very kind of you to say that, but I never promised Mr. Gunning
to go to Tuxedo. I should have been very glad to have met you, but--I
am sure this is much nicer than Tuxedo."
"Of course it is. Brackly is just like an English house, isn't it?"
"Yes, and that, I see, is a compliment in your eyes."
"I should think so! I love England. Do you know Wraxford? No? or Binly?
This reminded me a little of Binly."
"I should have thought the duke had too many places for any of them to
look as much lived in as this does. That is the advantage of having
only one home."
Miss Planter looked puzzled for an instant--not longer.
"If you fill your house full of friends all the time, it will soon get
to look lived in, I think. You in England understand all the amusements
of country life so well. We have no country life, no hunting and
shooting for the men, to take them away from business; so, if we do go
to the country, it's awfully slow, and we never remain long."
"You have no interests, I suppose? Perhaps it requires an education
to feel an interest in a village--in the school--in all the little
schemes that arise for the welfare of the poor, in the cutting of
trees, and irrigation of the land, and gardening, and beautifying your
property. Those who really love country life have no end of interests
and amusements, independent of society."
"Well, of course I saw nothing of that quiet sort of life. It was
boating or riding, lawn tennis or picnics, with dancing or music of an
evening, all the time."
"And is the result of your experience that you would like to live in
England?"
"Well, I don't know. I had a very good time there, but I am awfully
fond of my own country, my own people. I would require a great
inducement to give them up. I suppose the truth is, it would all depend
on the man. I should want to be very much in love."
"I am glad to hear that. It is supposed to be an antiquated idea, as
much out of date here, I suppose, as with us. But as you have made so
many friends in England, if you return there you are almost sure to
find the man."
"I don't know about that. Papa doesn't want me to find him in England.
Mamma doesn't mind, if the man has a good position." Here she turned,
with her lovely smile, to Ballinger, and said, "Don't you want to give
me some tea, Sir Mordaunt?"
As he handed the cup to her, his sister read in his eyes that he
wished for her seat by Miss Planter; so Grace rose, and joined the two
ladies at the tea-table. She could not help thinking that Mrs. Courtly
was just a little bored by the conversation of the "dear woman." The
desire not to be ranked as an ordinary Pittsburgher, but as a person
belonging to the most exclusive circles in London and New York, was
a little irritating. She could talk of nothing else. Pittsburgh was
relegated to the dust-bin of things to be swept away, though there
Père Planter was still amassing his dollars, and, while he allowed
his spouse to spend them freely during the greater part of the year,
constrained her to join him occasionally. Grace sat by and listened
to Mrs. Planter's small fry of gossip, floating in a shallow bath of
sentiments, and brought to the surface to nibble from time to time,
by an "Ah!" or "Indeed!" from her hostess; much as an indolent fisher
languidly casts a net, conscious that the only fish to be caught are
insignificant and flabby.
There was a pleasant diversion, however, before long, caused by the
arrival of Messrs. Laffan and Burton. The coming of the two Bostonians
was hailed by Mrs. Courtly with pretty demonstrations of pleasure.
She was never afraid of showing the satisfaction she derived from the
presence of her men friends; and this frankness of demonstration was
sometimes ill-naturedly commented upon by her own sex.
Miss Ballinger had met Mr. Laffan in London. Who had not met that
gracious, elderly man of the world, who acted so long as a social
bridge between the two countries? The bridge is now broken; others
will arise in succession, but none will ever take exactly the place
of that which is gone. It is needless to describe one so well known,
who was always greeted with as much warmth in London as in his native
city; it is enough to say that in Mrs. Courtly's house he was a special
favorite, and a very constant visitor.
Mr. Burton, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity to Grace. She
had never before met a romantic-looking American, with tender, dreamy
eyes, and that soft, far-away manner which indicates a mind little fit
to cope with the hard actualities of life. He had none of the brilliant
incisiveness common to his countrymen; he would have been sadly at a
loss in a contest with May Clayton. But it was not till after dinner,
when he sat down to play, that she realized how much the man lived
in a world of his own. He seemed to forget that he had an audience;
he was talking to himself, as it were, in that sweet poet's language
which only the chosen few can understand. As his soliloquy rambled on,
through doubt, remonstrance, despair, from plaintive elegy to wild
rhapsody, two at least among his hearers were stirred as though they
were listening to the passionate struggles, the jubilant conquest of a
troubled soul.
But Quintin Ferrars was not one of those to whom music speaks. He had
arrived very late, and Grace had not seen him till just before dinner.
At table the conversation was general, but later he sat down by Grace,
who was next the piano, and began talking, regardless of the fact that
Burton was playing. Twice Grace placed her finger on her lips, the
third time Mrs. Courtly came up and shook her fan at him.
"You bad man! If you want to talk, you must go into the next room."
"Won't you come, Miss Ballinger?" he said. "Your brother and Miss
Planter are there. That will equalize the company."
"I am sorry for their want of taste. I prefer listening to Mr. Burton."
Ferrars said nothing, but retired to a distant corner of the room,
and took up the _Century_. He spoke to no one during the remainder of
the evening. Mrs. Planter murmured at proper intervals that it was
truly delightful, so intellectual, so metaphysical (she pronounced it
mutterphysical). Mrs. Courtly and Grace scarcely spoke, but silence is
often more eloquent than words, and in his hostess, at least, the young
musician knew he had a listener who understood what it was he meant
to say. It was this power of understanding which made Mrs. Courtly a
delightful companion to so many and to such very different sorts of
people.