A man who in middle age falls passionately in love, after many bitter
disappointments, is as liable to do foolish things, in this same
matter, as a raw youth of twenty. He is blind once more. Experience
has taught him nothing. His hard, cruel insight into the folly and
weakness of others is now of no avail. It may be that he is deceived in
the woman; or, as in this case, that his worldly wisdom unaccountably
fails him just when it should be of most service to protect him from
committing an irretrievable error.
It was strange that Ferrars should mistake the difference Miss
Ballinger showed in her manner when talking to him and to other men,
the keen alacrity with which she listened to, and the fearless manner
in which she attacked, many of his views, for growing interest of a
deeper kind. He misunderstood her character, if not completely, at all
events in part. No woman, he believed, could care so much to convert
a man to her way of thinking, who was indifferent as to that man's
future. She was not indifferent; this young woman felt an unusual,
almost a passionate concern about the lives of those in whom she was
interested; and she was sincerely interested in Quintin Ferrars. But it
was not the sort of interest he imagined; therein was the initial error
of his conduct towards her.
On the way from church that evening, he sounded Mrs. Courtly.
"Have you had much conversation with Miss Ballinger since she arrived?"
"No private conversation. Why?"
"I saw a great deal of her in New York. We met every day. Sometimes I
was for hours virtually alone with her. You can guess the result as
regards myself. I thought I could never care for a woman again. But
I care about this English girl as I never cared before. Has she ever
spoken to you about me?"
"Not since we were on board the _Teutonic_. She asked me then about
you, but I told her nothing. I knew you disliked your secret being
talked of, and, as it has been so well kept, I resolved to say nothing,
unless absolutely forced to do so." Then, after a pause, "She is not a
woman to be lightly won, Quintin."
"No; but--unless I am an ass--she takes that sort of interest in
me which may deepen into--something stronger. What I want, on all
accounts, is time. And that is just the difficulty. They will only be
here a few days."
"Yes, they are going west, after passing a day or two in Boston, when
their aunt arrives."
"And they will leave America in the spring. And if I follow them west,
they will be staying with people I don't know. It is time, you see, I
want--time!"
"Do nothing precipitate, at all events. When will you be free?"
"Not for five months yet. Oh, my dear friend! It seems such an age
now, before I can throw off those cursed bonds; and I had grown so
indifferent to them! My life was blasted, and as long as I loved no
other woman, it was all one to me. But now--"
He broke off with so deep a sigh that Mrs. Courtly was startled. All
the way home he talked of this English girl, and of nothing else. His
friend recognized no longer the man who for years had found so little
in life to prize, to admire, or to love.
On their return home they found Saul Barham. Mrs. Courtly had said
nothing of his coming for the night; she had kept it as a little
surprise for Grace, who would be pleased, she knew, to see him. And she
was right. Miss Ballinger greeted the young professor with a warmth
which made Quintin Ferrars jealous. He had never liked Barham. More
than once on board the _Teutonic_ their opinions, or something that
lay deeper than opinions, had clashed. Ferrars, so trenchant in his
judgments, found a man, fifteen years his junior, who treated him more
than cavalierly; for hesitation and diffidence were not among Saul's
weaknesses. The young Harvard professor felt a certain contempt for
this idle, wandering fellow-countryman of his, with his superior _nil
admirari_ tone about their common land; and he showed it. The greeting
between the two, therefore, was cold, almost to freezing-point, on this
occasion; and Ferrars was sore at heart when he saw Grace's fair face
beaming with smiles.
"How is your mother, to begin with?" she asked; and when reassured on
that point, "Have you felt strong, yourself, since you returned to
work? You look a little pale--not quite as well as you did after our
six days' voyage."
"Of course not," he replied, smiling. "The Creation took six days. I
was re-created during that voyage. I was another man. For the last two
months I have been a worm again, grubbing in the earth, but, barring a
real little cough, I am pretty well."
She thought him looking thin and worn, but said no more on the
subject. She told him she meant to write to Mrs. Barham, and propose
herself for an afternoon visit, as soon as she and her brother arrived
in Boston.
"She will love to receive you, Miss Ballinger. She so often speaks
of you to me. She would not venture to ask you to stay, but if any
circumstance should render it possible for you to pass a few days under
our roof it would be a real joy to--us all."
"It would be nice if I could manage it. Perhaps, if my brother goes to
meet my aunt in New York, I may be able, for a couple of days--but I am
afraid you won't be at home?"
"I can run down in the evenings to dine and sleep, and back to my work
in Cambridge in the morning. I very often do it. It is no distance by
rail. And I generally pass my Sunday at home. You will let me take you
over Harvard College, I hope?"
"Certainly. I am looking forward to seeing Cambridge, which is
associated in my mind with so many eminent men. You like your life
there? You are happy?"
"I like my work; I know it is the best thing my hand can find to
do, and I am told I do it successfully. Then I am in touch with men
of congenial minds. But happy--?" He paused, and looked out on the
twilight deepening into night, with the fixed gaze in those large gray
eyes which was so characteristic of him. "Happiness, I believe, depends
greatly on physical conditions. I am not quite as strong as I should
like to be. We have a splendid gymnasium. If I could take more athletic
exercise than I do, I dare say I should have more even spirits."
Mrs. Courtly here joined them, and the little _tête-à-tête_ was broken
up. The lamps were brought in, the shutters closed. In the meantime
Mrs. Planter, at the farther end of the room, was questioning Sir
Mordaunt as to the new guest, whom Miss Ballinger appeared to know so
well.
"Barham? I never heard of the name. It does not belong to any of our
first families, anyhow."
"Well known in England," said Mordaunt, carelessly. "'Ingoldsby
Legends,' you know."
"Do you mean there is any legendary lore connected with the Barhams?
Well, they _may_ have come over in the _Mayflower_, but I never heard
them mentioned."
"No. I mean the author of 'The Jackdaw of Rheims,' and lots of other
things--awfully good fun, you know--was a parson, named Barham."
"Oh! a minister--oh! And what is this young man?"
"A professor, I believe."
"He does not look like a well man. So _very_--"
"Yes, very," echoed Ballinger, impatiently. "But he makes up in brains,
I am told, what he wants in flesh and muscle. My sister thinks a great
deal of him. He is not my sort of man; rather a prig, I think; but
people have different tastes. Now _she_ couldn't bear Gunning, whom _I_
thought not half a bad fellow."
"Jem Gunning is not very cultivated, I admit," said Mrs. Planter,
authoritatively, as though cultivation and she were inseparable; "but
he is _very_ amiable."
"I don't think Grace cares for amiability alone," laughed her brother.
"Well, but--he _has_ something else--one of our greatest _partis_!"
"That wouldn't affect her a bit. She is a queer girl."
"Looks to an alliance with your aristocracy, I conclude?"
He laughed again. "That is the last thing she would think of. I
believe, Mrs. Planter, you think a great deal more of that in America
than we do in England."
"Is that so? Well, I always say to Mr. Planter there's nothing like
your aristocracy, Sir Mordaunt. I don't hold much to foreign nobility,
but English, when one has once seen them in their home--ah! they are
so _very_--"
"Right you are, Mrs. Planter. But hasn't foreign nobility a
considerable value among you, too? Look at the fuss they made in New
York with that young Marquis de Tréfeuille."
"Well, I always told my daughter that he did not amount to much, though
his patent of nobility dates from Louis XV. Clare does not care for
foreigners, anyway."
"I'm glad you don't count us as foreigners. After all, we have the same
blood, haven't we? If we were Scotch, we _might_ be relations. It is
such rot, that jealousy between the two countries."
Had he been the most astute diplomatist, he could not have made a
speech better calculated to please Mrs. Planter. She said to her
daughter, as they dressed for dinner, that she had always liked Sir
Mordaunt Ballinger, but she found him now really too nice for anything.
The beautiful Clare murmured something which was not very intelligible
to her mother. Indeed, her daughter's sentiments on this subject were
not clear to her fond parent. The girl had been having a "good time"
to-day, in almost uninterrupted flirtation with the English baronet.
But Mrs. Planter attached no undue importance to this. She knew her
daughter too well. Clare had all the wisdom of her countrywomen in the
conduct of such affairs: she would never lose her head; she would never
be led, by vanity, or tenderness, or passion, to commit herself, until
she was satisfied that this was the man, and none other, she ought,
and desired to marry. Herein she showed her superiority to the English
girl, who becomes quickly intoxicated, loses all balance of judgment,
and plights her troth in a flood of foolish words, which she often
bitterly regrets. We are apt to call the American cold and heartless.
She is not necessarily so because she seems to be playing with a man,
much as a cat does with a mouse. It may be that she is worldly and
calculating; it may be that she is diverting herself at her adorer's
expense. But there is the other possibility: she may be gauging, in the
only way a woman can gauge, the man's character, and the measure of
her liking for him. She does not succumb to his personal charm, to his
fervent admiration, at once; she wants to know more of him, and, having
very keen perceptions, builds up her knowledge from all the chance
words he lets fall. It is true that she responds to his advances,
that she "encourages" him, as we call it, more than custom approves
in England; but she looks upon the game as a fair one, entailing, as
she conceives, but small damage to either party. Ever since she was a
little girl she has known that man is a predatory animal, seeking whom
he may devour. She has no idea of being devoured; least of all when she
is a great heiress, fully conscious how many hunters are on her track.
No! she will fight them with their own weapons, and when she yields it
will not be from ignorance of their vulnerable points.
In this case Grace, who watched her brother's movements with keen
interest, could not make up her mind how far either or both players
were in earnest. Mordaunt had an unlimited capacity for flirtation; but
under that thin surface of chaff and protestation, with which he met
the attack of every pretty woman, there were layers of susceptibility,
which had more than once been pierced. This careless, impudent young
Englishman, with all his faults, had a heart. It had been touched,
though happily not very seriously, before now. But if this state of
things went on for several days, and if the girl had a stronger head
than her brother (which Grace never doubted), and was only amusing
herself, how would it be with Mordaunt then? She had not seen enough of
Clare Planter to determine whether she wished her for a sister-in-law;
but she was quite sure she had no prejudice against her on the score of
nationality. If the girl should care for him, and if her character was
one likely to make him happy, Grace would further her brother's wishes
by every means in her power.
Her reflections did not take this substantive form till Tuesday
morning. The Sunday evening had been very pleasant to every one but
Ferrars. Burton had played, and Saul Barham had sat beside Grace,
and a few words had passed now and again during the intervals of the
music. There was a bond of sympathy between them which, for the time
being, required no other language. Mordaunt and Clare were not so
easily satisfied. At the farther end of the long room, where their
whispers could not reach Mrs. Courtly, they lay back on a settee, the
shaded lamp-light defining dimly the silhouette of their two heads,
and touching more sharply the edges of the girl's pink and silver
dress and the tips of patent-leather which terminated the man's long
legs, crossed one over the other. That was the picture which often
rose before Grace's eyes when she pondered on what her brother's fate
would be. The actual dialogue would not have struck an eavesdropper
as sentimental. But then there are so many different avenues to the
citadel of the affections.
She was fond of referring to England. "Have you ever stayed at Lord
Grantham's?"
"No. He never asked me, and I shouldn't have gone if he had."
"Why not?"
"Oh! I don't know. He's not in my set. I shouldn't meet any one I knew
there."
"That is very civil to me! We stayed there quite a number of times.
Pray, why is he not in 'your set'? Is he not of as good a family as
there is in England?"
"Yes. It's a very old title. But rank isn't everything. That is a
mistake Americans are so apt to make. Men of rank are not always much
thought of in society."
"Well, I don't care whether he is much thought of or not, _I_ think he
is a very nice fellow."
"If I had known he was such a great friend of yours, I wouldn't have
said a word. You asked me."
She laughed. "How funny Englishmen are! I see I must never ask one man
his opinion of another, unless he belongs to the same club--if I don't
mean him to be sniffed at. Well! I am never influenced by any one's
opinion. If I like people, I like them, and if I don't, I don't."
"Capital! You have the courage of your opinions. So few girls have the
pluck to do that, to stick to what they think. I wonder if you will
always remain like that."
She was playing with her fan, and looked up, to find his eyes fixed
upon her. She laughed lightly.
"I have been chaffed pretty badly about being an Anglomaniac since
I returned home; but I don't mind. I like England and Englishmen. I
don't care so much about Englishwomen. They are kind of condescending,
I find, and I suspect they are a little jealous of us--so many of our
girls having carried off their young men. In short, I believe our best
time with you is over."
"Why do you say that? I thought people were so very civil to you?"
"So they were--many of them--more than civil; but my eyes and ears were
wide open. I saw things--I heard things said about me; and I know we
were refused invitations to several balls because we were American."
"No, only because society is already much too big for our small houses;
and as to jealousy, isn't that a feminine form of appreciation?"
"Do males rise superior to it?"
They both laughed.
On the Monday morning, Barham returned early to Cambridge, and Ferrars
had the field once again to himself.
Soon after breakfast a buggy came round, drawn by a famous American
trotter, who had won several races, and who, to the uninitiated,
was as ugly a specimen of the equine race as could well be seen. His
long straight neck, poked forward, his flat back, and his action in
walking or ambling, were utterly opposed to the Greek, or even the
mediæval, conception of what a horse should be, and how he should
move. It appeared, moreover, that this wonderful pace, which was the
animal's _specialité_, could not be maintained for more than a mile or
so. Therefore, for all practical purposes, it seemed a useless gift,
purchased at the sacrifice of grace and beauty; but perhaps Grace was
the only one present who thought this. Mordaunt, for whose special
delectation the buggy was brought, was invited by Mrs. Courtly to take
Miss Planter for a drive. Of course he was delighted; the girl did not
hesitate; only Mrs. Planter thought fit to say to Grace,
"We should not do this in England, of course, but here in the country,
you know, and especially in the West, where we live, the young people
drive out together, all the time."
"If it is the custom, why not?"
"I was afraid you might think it sort of strange. But I assure you
Clare has been _very_ strictly brought up."
Mordaunt's declaration on his return was that he had never enjoyed
a drive so much in his life, and his untiring attendance upon Clare
during the remainder of the day first made Grace think seriously of
his condition. She lay awake some time that night, and her meditations
ended in a resolve to speak to Mrs. Courtly. It was curious that
hitherto she had not found an opportunity of being alone with her
hostess for half an hour. Yet there was another subject on which she
desired to sound her. But Mrs. Courtly seemed to live in a round of
small excitement, of constant and varied occupation, the preparation
or execution of schemes for the pleasure of herself and others, or for
the benefit of others only. When driving, or walking, or sitting over
the fire, she expected some of her men friends to talk to her, just
as she held it imperative that some of them should be devoted to her
women guests. She had no idea of allowing men to talk together, or of
encouraging women to gossip with each other, when the opposite sexes
met. And when did they not meet in her house?
On Tuesday morning a cablegram from Mrs. Frampton, which had been
delayed two days in consequence of misdirection, announced that she
was on the eve of embarkation at Liverpool. As the cablegram was
dated the previous Saturday, she might be expected in New York the
following Friday, and Mordaunt would of course go and meet her. He and
Clare would therefore be but two days more under the same roof. Would
this precipitate matters?--or would it be the simple termination of a
pastime on both sides?
Grace laid her hand on Mrs. Courtly's arm, as they were leaving the
dining-room.
"May I come to your boudoir for a few minutes?"
"Why, of course!" and she led the way to that sanctuary of religion and
the fine arts, defiled only in one corner by account-books, business
letters, and bills of fare.
"I want to ask you a straightforward question," began Grace,
plunging boldly into the subject uppermost in her thoughts, without
circumlocution. "Is Miss Planter a coquette? Is she trifling with my
brother, or do you think she cares the least about him?"
Mrs. Courtly smiled one of her sweet enigmatical smiles.
"My dear Miss Ballinger, is Sir Mordaunt trifling with Clare?"
Grace colored.
"You are quite justified in returning my question. I do not believe
he is. If they are thrown much more together, I believe he will be
rendered very unhappy should it prove that she cares nothing about
him."
"He tells me he must go to New York by the night mail on Thursday."
"Yes, but we are going west after that, and so are the Planters. If I
had an inkling of the girl's real character, I might either help him or
save him a great deal of pain."
"Clare Planter is a curious girl--in fact, she is an American product,
and not like any English girl. It is impossible to tell what she will
do. Even her own mother does not know. I know _she_ would be quite in
your brother's favor, but that would have no weight with Clare, any
more than opposition would have. She will probably take a long time to
make up her mind as to the man she wishes to marry, but when it is once
made up nothing will change her."
"I like that. I could not wish a better answer to my question. So
then," she added, laughing, "this desperate flirtation is based, on her
part, upon the profoundest principles, and a sense of the importance
of knowing a man well before you consent to marry him? Well, I can't
disapprove of that--only the man, you see, may suffer in the process."
"Men don't suffer as we do, my dear." She gave a half-suppressed sigh.
"At all events, it is never any use interfering in these matters."
"Certainly. If both are bent on this, I would be the last to interfere.
But if I thought the girl was leading him on to propose, in order
that she may refuse him, I would do all I could, with my aunt's
help--she has immense influence with Mordaunt--to save him from a
will-o'-the-wisp dance half over America."
"If I understand Clare--which I don't feel certain I do--she will
never be the slave of her senses. Flirtation does not affect her in
_that_ way; she will never be precipitated into an engagement. She is
capable of strong attachment, but that is a plant of slow growth. She
is genuinely attached to her father. If she marries an Englishman, she
will never consent to be as much separated from her parents and her
country as so many American women are."
"I am glad of that. Though I confess I think Mrs. Planter a bore, I
shouldn't wish her daughter to think so. If you are right, the girl
has a great deal of character, and though I see her faults--which are
partly those of training and association--I believe her good qualities
would preponderate with me in the long run."
"I think they would. She has a rare power--rare even for an
American--of adapting herself to the country, the people, the
circumstances, which surround her. If she were stuck down in a ranch
in Texas, without a 'help,' I believe she would make the beds and cook
the dinner as well as any one--"
"Splendid!" cried Grace, enthusiastically. "I thought her adaptability
might be limited to catching the tone of society. I am glad it has a
wider range. I begin to hope now that our parting on Thursday may not
be final."
"But _you_ are not going on Thursday? You stay on with me, I hope, and
meet your brother in Boston, when he brings your aunt there."
"Thank you so much, but I have written to Mrs. Barham, to ask if she
likes to receive me for a day or two."
Mrs. Courtly opened her eyes. "I suppose you know it is only a very
small rectory? I hope you will be comfortable."
"Oh! I am not afraid of that."
"Well, I shall meet you in Boston. I will go to the Vendôme for a few
days--I often do so--in order to present you to some of my friends. You
should see something of its society while there. But I am so sorry you
won't stay longer with me." Then she added, in a low voice, "Quintin
Ferrars will be in despair. He has so few friends."
"Yes," said Grace, slowly. "That is a pity, and I am sure it is his own
fault. Will you tell me something of his past life? I am interested in
him, otherwise I suppose I should not care what his past had been. He
puzzles me. I feel there is something to be explained, he is so very
odd. But I have not _le mot de l'énigme_."
"No one here knows it, but it is quite right _you_ should. I meant to
have told you before. He married a Spanish woman many years ago, a
widow. She was a beautiful creature, I am told, and she had an ample
fortune, but she turned out to be thoroughly bad. He left her after a
few months, and has never seen her since. She returned to the name of
her first husband, and washed her hands of Quintin. He never took a
farthing of her money, which she has spent chiefly, they say, on Prince
Lamperti--"
"Prince Lamperti! Do you mean that that woman, Madame Moretto, is Mr.
Ferrars's wife?"
"Yes, that was her first husband's name."
"Good heavens! that explains his strange conduct in New York. He must
have seen his wife once when he left us suddenly, and another time I
remember his going out of the room abruptly when the Princess Lamperti
entered it. But he is divorced, I suppose?"
"No, not yet. I will tell you the whole story. Very few people knew
of his marriage; he has no near relations. He was married abroad, and
during the short time he and his wife were together, he never came to
America. When he learned what she was, he was so disgusted and ashamed
that, as she chose to return to her first husband's name, he thought
it useless to have the scandal of a divorce. He felt sure he should
never wish to marry again, himself--he thinks differently now--and
so he tried to forget that terrible episode, though it had left him
bruised and embittered, to a degree no one who did not know him before
can imagine. Lately, the Princess Lamperti, finding it impossible to
reclaim her husband, at last decided to divorce him. Whereupon Madame
Moretto resolved to come over here, and live in the State of Rhode
Island for six months, in order to sue for _her_ divorce, on the plea
of her husband's desertion and want of 'maintenance,' though, as she
is a rich woman, and he comparatively a poor man, that is absurd. But
Quintin, of course, did not oppose it; and now he is very, _very_ glad.
He would have gone on, a miserable, lonely man, to the end of his life,
I suppose, if she had not moved in the matter. I hope now he may find
consolation and happiness in the course of time."
"He is certainly much to be pitied," said Grace, a little dryly, as it
seemed to Mrs. Courtly; "most of all, I think, because his troubles
seem to have destroyed his belief in all goodness."
"No, not _all_ goodness; only the greater part of what passes as such.
I assure you he never doubts yours."
"I had rather he believed in humanity, generally, than in me, whom I
suspect he understands very little."
And then Grace turned the subject, and shortly afterwards left the
room.