Of the quartette that sat down to dinner that evening--a homely dinner,
without pretension--three at least were in the best of spirits, and
ready to laugh over Molly's peculiar methods of service. Mr. Barham had
little sense of humor; in that respect, at least, he was not American;
he took life very gravely. It needed all his son's fire to keep things
alight in so damp an atmosphere. But Saul's cheek was flushed; he was
voluble, excited! Grace had never seen him so brilliant, so evidently
happy and at his ease. For here he was at home, with no carping
listeners; he could give his fun and fancy play, and this was the
occasion which he had thought of so often, and which he had desired
so keenly to bring about, during the past two months. It was not in
his father's power to depress him to-night. Had he not that gracious,
delightful creature opposite, all to himself? No Jem Gunning beside
her, as at the _Teutonic_ board, nor cynic Ferrars, as at Brackly. His
empire, for a few brief hours at least, was undivided.
Molly, having heaved a joint down before the master, whispered very
audibly to the mistress,
"Will ye be doin' y'r own stretchin', m'm, for a few minutes, whiles I
fetch the praties and squab pie?"
Grace made as though she heard not, but Saul laughed outright, as the
girl scuttled from the room.
"You have no idea, Miss Ballinger, what Molly is, until you have seen
her in the presence of an Irish patriot. We had one here last week. I
may as well own to you"--here he gave a droll glance at the minister,
whose stern glance was riveted on the joint, which he was endeavoring
to penetrate with a plated knife[2]--"I may as well own to you that my
father has Home Rule proclivities. So he offered Mr. ---- hospitality,
when he and his colleagues were down here, on their Propaganda tour,
last week. Molly out-did herself on that occasion."
[Footnote 2: Economy of labor has almost abolished the use of steel
knives throughout the United States.]
"I can believe it," laughed Grace, "from what she said to me."
"What she said to you?" cried Mrs. Barham. "Why, when?"
"Before dinner. I found her haranguing my maid upon the wrongs of
'ould Ireland,' and upon the privilege I enjoyed of sleeping in the bed
which had been occupied by 'the biggest Irish pathriot, barrin' Misther
Parnell,' a few days ago. When I entered, she continued in the same
strain, and assured me, 'There is nothin' changed but the sheets since
the blessed man lay here--an' sure y'r dreams will be all the sweeter,
miss, for knowin' it.'"
Mrs. Barham and Saul laughed heartily; Mr. Barham alone was silent.
When he spoke, it was to say, gravely,
"One cannot expect English persons to feel as we do on this subject.
Few take a dispassionate view of questions that touch their own
interests."
"Very few," said his son, smiling. "You were an abolitionist because
you were a Northerner, and did not possess slaves. Rives from New
Orleans, who is ruined, swears the colored people were far happier,
more prosperous, better educated and cared for, in a state of slavery
than they now are. It all depends, as you say, on the point of view."
"I am no politician," said Grace, "but I was in Ireland five years ago,
and again last year, and I was struck with the improved aspect of the
people, of the land, of everything, since Mr. Balfour's reign. That
is the only 'point of view' _I_ have, but I dare say I am quite wrong.
Women have capital instincts--I think my own instincts about people are
almost unerring; but my opinions on other subjects are generally worth
nothing. My aunt always says so."
"That is, no doubt, when they differ from hers," observed Saul, with a
smile.
"My aunt is a very clever woman, with decided views about everything in
heaven above and in the earth beneath. She cannot tolerate compromise,
or shilly-shallying, or weakness of any kind. She often upbraids me for
not disliking people more cordially than I do. If I don't like them,
they are indifferent to me. So few seem worth hating--at least, judged
by the aspect they present to the world. Of course, one _may_ entertain
murderers, as well as angels, unawares."
"You hated Lady Clydesdale, I think--just a _little_? I hear she is in
Boston."
"I hope I sha'n't meet her. Is she popular there?"
"She is a clever woman in her way, and holds the same views that some
of our advanced women do--only samer. Then she is a countess." Here he
smiled. "Well, now, you have an English countess coming with the most
democratic and subversive ideas among us stanch republicans. You must
confess there is something fascinating about it."
"I can't say, not being a republican. I only know _she_ is not
fascinating. Her manners are odious, and then she has a most
uncharitable tongue. She is just the sort of woman to give the worst
impression of an English lady to foreigners."
"Do you call us foreigners?"
She laughed.
"What do you call yourselves? I am quite ready to accept your own
definition."
"We call ourselves your sixth cousins--once removed."
"Very well; then you must not expect the privileges that attach to
aliens."
"What are they? I never heard of them."
"Oh! it is a small matter, but one which some of your countrymen cavil
at--the question of precedence. If we treat them as of our own family,
and follow our own laws of etiquette, I have heard them say it was
discourteous."
"Then they were fools--_non raggionam' di lor_. Republicans should be
above such rubbish as that."
"'The first shall be last, and the last shall be first!'" said his
father, looking up from the havoc of meat before him.
The conversation was carried on chiefly between Saul and Grace. Mrs.
Barham occasionally put in her oar, a gentle tentative stroke, never
out of time, never impeding progress; but the main work was in the
hands of the two strong young pullers. The minister said but little.
The talk was of things concerning which he knew nothing, or the echo
of which, at most, had reached him from a distance, without awakening
much interest. In his narrow sphere, where there was no circulating
library, and where he rarely came into contact with a mind which had
left the beaten high-roads, along which its possessor jogged contented
daily to his business or his farm, the air was exhausted, vitiated.
There was no free current of thought as in more spacious centres of
activity, where men meet, discuss, and learn the lessons that are
taught by friction. Not that the village was a dream of idyllic peace,
or free from the jealousies that are born of theological controversy.
How could it be otherwise in a comparatively small community, which
boasted, besides the Episcopal church, of a Unitarian, a Baptist, a
first Methodist, a second Methodist, and a Congregational chapel. It
was astonishing that they all fared as well together as they did; but,
in the nature of things, discussion and criticism constantly arose,
and it was Mr. Barham's misfortune that these conflicts of opinion
never tended to enlarge his own strongly fortified views, for the
minds with which he had to deal were all distinctly inferior to his
own. Endowed with considerable capacity, combative, obstinate, and
unswerving in rectitude and his idea of duty, he might, under different
circumstances, have become a modern St. Paul. At least, so his son
said. But then St. Paul had been, as we know, buffeted about a good
deal, in the course of which process he had acquired considerable
knowledge of the world. It is true that, like St. Paul, Mr. Barham
was neither diffident nor humble. It was possible to conceive that he
might, at the close of his life, say, "I have fought a good fight, I
have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of
righteousness." But he never could have written, "I am made all things
to all men," for a more uncompromising opponent in discussion, or one
who less understood the wisdom of yielding in small things, never
stepped the earth.
Between Saul and his father there were differences of opinion on other
subjects than that of Home Rule; but the son, while he had inherited
some of Mr. Barham's obstinacy and tenacity of purpose, had a more
plastic mind, and possessed the invaluable capacity of being able to
hold his tongue. Thus he never argued with his father, knowing that it
would be useless to assail the bulwarks behind which his opinions were
intrenched, and doubly reluctant, now that he had left home, to enter
into controversy which might leave some soreness of feeling behind
it. The father respected his son--his character, his attainments, the
estimation in which he knew Saul was held. Therein lay the young man's
strength. But for this, it could hardly have been that altercation
should not have arisen, from time to time, between a man of so dominant
a disposition as Mr. Barham and the one human being who had grown up
under his direct influence, and upon whom it might be expected he would
have imposed his views. A little gentle banter, as on this occasion,
was all that the young professor ever permitted himself towards his
father; and this the minister received much as a majestic Newfoundland
does the bark of a puppy. It was beneath his notice.
"My father, you see, has become a total abstainer lately," he said to
Grace, towards the end of dinner, "and it is no use my mother's quoting
St. Paul to him, 'Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy
stomach's sake.' The pitchers of ice-water he consumes in a day would
float a lugger. I have remarked to him occasionally that excesses in
ice-water are as pernicious--or perhaps more so--as in spirits; but my
words of wisdom fall on inattentive ears."
Grace replied, "All I know is, we were specially warned against falling
into the habit, when we came to America. As to my aunt, she thinks
there are 'germs' or 'microbes,' or something, in every glass, and
would sooner die of thirst, I believe, than drink water which she could
not trace to its very source."
Even the minister himself smiled at this, but he did not attempt to
argue the point; it was not worth while. His attitude throughout the
evening was the same--that of a listener, standing somewhat aloof from
the subjects discussed; rarely a participator in the discussion. The
ground they traversed was never personal. Grace felt that her curiosity
about the young professor's views and aspirations must be curbed in the
presence of his father, before whom she instinctively knew he would not
speak openly.
The next morning Saul returned to his work, and Mrs. Barham proposed
taking Grace to visit that magnificent female university, Wellesley
College, which was only a short distance by rail. It far surpasses, in
extent and scope, as Grace found, any similar institution in England.
Seven hundred girls were receiving instruction from the very best
professors, in classics, modern languages, literature, science, and
art, according to their proclivities and the object each had in view.
The main building, and the fine park in which it stands, were the
donation of a man who lost his only child, and devoted his vast fortune
to the erection and endowment of this college. For three hundred
dollars yearly, a girl has every privilege belonging to it--including
bed and board; and the education of the body is no less well cared for
than that of the mind. There is a gymnasium and a big lake, where the
girls row in summer-time and skate in winter. They looked blooming and
merry, this bright February morning, flying over the ice, their young
voices, pitched in a high key, rippling along the sharpened air as they
pursued each other.
Their English visitor was exceedingly interested. The aspect of the
place and of the students alike charmed her; it was so cheerful, so
far removed from the sternness of the Academic Grove. Here each girl
seemed to be pursuing with enthusiasm, and with a joyousness of spirit
that struck Grace as wholly un-English, the studies she had selected
as likely to be most serviceable to her in after-life. There was
no enforced "curriculum," no obligatory course of learning. A high
standard of excellence in each department stimulated the energies and
the ambition of the students; it seemed in no instance to have crushed
them. The common objection made to women taking up serious studies,
that it unfits them for domestic life, and in many instances frightens
away the would-be suitor, was effectually answered when Grace was told
that nearly every girl who had taken a high degree, and had left the
college meaning to earn her livelihood by mental labor, had married
within a few months, and had settled down, contented, in the home that
had been offered her.
"Are all these girls of one class?" asked Grace of Mrs. Barham.
"No; some are the daughters of rich men, who have no need to work
for their living. The greatest proportion, of course, mean to become
governesses, for whom there is a great and constantly increasing
demand. Some, again, will become doctors, some designers, and so on.
Quite a number become writers for the periodicals or for the daily
press."
"Oh! I hope they don't become interviewers, like that dreadful Miss
Clutch, who forced herself on me in New York?"
"Why, no, I should think not, for their refining education must render
such a course most repulsive. But then, all interviewers are not like
Miss Clutch; you must not think it. Some of them are quite ladies, who
would never force themselves on any one."
"Who was the visitor with a charming face, whom you introduced to me as
Miss Forster?"
"She is quite a friend of mine, though we do not often meet, who is
greatly interested in the college, and visits there every week. It is
an object, you see, for a woman who is alone in the world. I often
think what I should do without my husband and my son."
"Alone in the world!" That was what Quintin Ferrars had called himself.
It was the second time within a few days that the phrase had forced
itself upon her, and this time it struck her like a blow. Would not she
be "alone in the world," when Mordy had taken unto himself a wife, and
no longer needed her? She would never marry for expediency's sake, or
for any reason but one. Therefore, it seemed tolerably sure now that
she would be left "alone in the world." How strange, that when two
people cared for each other--and she knew, no matter what she might
say to Mordy, that Ivor Lawrence _did_ care for her--how strange that
a mistaken pride should be suffered to divide them! But then, might
there not also be mistaken pride on her part, which had held her back
hitherto from writing?
As these thoughts sped through her mind, in the train, on their way
back, Mrs. Barham observed the far-away look on her companion's face,
and was silent. That evening, on Saul's return home to dinner, this
self-communing bore unexpected fruit in the course of her conversation
with the young man. They were sitting alone in the twilight, both
Saul's parents being out of the room. He coughed a good deal, and
looked ill, the excitement of the previous evening having passed; and,
without showing the concern she felt, she questioned him as to his
health and his work.
"I am afraid you take too much out of yourself."
"I can't do less," he replied. "If I was at home here, doing nothing,
I should be much worse. I must have work; and my best relaxation is to
discuss things with my friends, men whose ways of thought are congenial
with mine. My father's, you see, are not. He is a splendid man. I
admire and respect him immensely. But we both avoid discussion, knowing
that neither will ever convince the other. So it would never do for me
to live at home."
"I can understand that. Family controversy is always disagreeable. Have
you, at Harvard, any friend with whom you are really intimate?--any one
towards whom you feel as a brother?"
"Yes, one; a man to whom I am not afraid of speaking openly on nearly
every subject, feeling sure he will understand, even if he does not
agree with me."
There was a pause. Grace, who rarely hesitated, hesitated now before
she said,
"If that friend had done something which you could not understand,
something which seemed incompatible with his character, and that he
remained silent, that he explained nothing, what would you do? Would
you write to him? Or would you, rather, say, 'I will not allow my trust
to be shaken because I do not understand his conduct. He has his own
reasons for remaining silent. It is not for me to force an explanation
from him.'"
He looked at her fixedly for a moment, then answered, in his decided
way,
"There is a higher trust than that implied by silence--the confidence
that my friend will not misunderstand me. I should certainly speak.
If he says, 'I can tell you nothing,' that is enough. My trust would
remain unshaken; but I am bound, by that very trust, to speak openly to
him, not to let the shadow of misapprehension exist between us."
"Those are brave words. I believe you are right. False pride often
prevents such directness in real life, and," she added, with a
smile, "still more often in novels. But, of course, there may be a
complication of causes, which renders it more difficult to speak in--in
some cases than in others."
"Of course; but I fancy the difficulty depends more upon the character
of the speaker than the circumstances. You, for instance, might speak
to any one whom you had really made your _friend_ without fear of
misconception, no matter under what circumstances."
She looked away. "I am glad you think that. I shall remember your
words."
Here Molly burst into the room, with a telegram for Grace in one hand,
and a paraffine lamp, which in her haste she nearly upset, in the other.
"The bhoy's a-waitin' for the answer, bekase it's paid for."
The telegram ran thus,
"Aunt Susan arrived. Gone to the Hurlstones. Can meet you to-morrow
in Boston, if you do not wish to stay till Monday where you are."
She wrote in pencil on the blank form,
"Will meet you and Aunt Susan on Monday. Very happy here."
Then she handed both to the young professor.
"I am taking it for granted that your father and mother do not want to
get rid of me."
"Have we not got beyond conventional phrases? I shall not answer
that, except to remind you that Sunday is the only day I can pass
here. To-morrow my mother has promised to bring you over to lunch at
Cambridge, where I will ask a few of our prominent men to meet you, and
afterwards show you Harvard College."
That programme for the following day was carried out very
satisfactorily to all concerned. The distance by rail was short; the
day, though intensely cold, was fine; the atmosphere, through which the
brown skeletons of the trees stood up against the pale blue background,
was clear. Perspectives of possible beauty when the gracious spring
should clothe these skeletons with tender green, and carpet, with blade
and blossom, the iron-bound earth, arose before Grace's eyes. Hitherto
she had been disappointed. She had looked for bigger trees, higher
hills, less tameness and monotony than she found in the New England
landscape. I know not on what grounds she had built her expectations,
but the reality certainly fell short of them. This short railway
journey, however, carried her past spots of undeniable picturesqueness,
where little streams, like silvery trout, twirled and darted through
the red logwood and yellow reeds and sedges. She could conceive how
pretty much of it must be in summer.
At the station, of what the guide-book calls "the great academic city,"
Saul met them. Their walk through the main street and villa-fringed
highways to the small house where the young professor and a friend
lived together gave Grace rather the impression of a suburb, an
accretion of well-to-do residences that have grown and spread out
from some great centre. And, though "well-to-do," those residences,
as a rule, did not convey to English eyes much idea of comfort.
The impossibility of any privacy in dwellings standing in "yards,"
unseparated from each other, and undefended even by the conventional
grove of laurel, was a shock to her insular, and no doubt un-Christian,
prejudices. When Grace passed the homes of the great men whose names
were household words to her, she marvelled, until she remembered that
genius is never dependent on its surroundings.
The luncheon-party was most agreeable--the five men asked to meet the
ladies being not only very able in different ways, but knowing how to
make their abilities serviceable to social use, as is not always the
case even with the cleverest Englishmen. After luncheon most of them
had to hurry off; one, however, agreed to accompany the ladies and Saul
round the university. Mrs. Barham naturally fell to him; Saul and Grace
walked on in front, through the grand Memorial Hall, the University
Library, the fine architectural gymnasium. Grace was properly
enthusiastic.
"Harvard surpasses my expectations," she said. "I can understand your
being very happy here."
"I do not think I said I was very happy," he replied. "But if I am not,
the fault, no doubt, is in myself."
She looked up at him, and saw, with concern, how wan and tired he
looked. He had been flushed and in brilliant spirits all the morning.
He coughed at times, but then she had never known him without a cough.
Now her old fear returned. But of what use was it to speak? It was
clear that he would not relax in his work, still less give it up and
seek a milder climate. Like the Pompeiian sentinel, he would die at his
post, but never flee. Neither spoke for some minutes. Their thoughts
were upon very different lines; she had forgotten his last words, and
failed to see the connection of ideas when he said,
"I am not a philosopher, you see. I cannot accept the inevitable. When
a thing is beyond a man's reach he ought not even to think about it."
"But isn't it because you do not think enough of the plain, simple
thing--I would say the _duty_--that is within your reach, that you are
troubled about the unattainable? Those old Romans were so wise when
they said that 'a healthy mind' depended on 'a healthy body.' You ought
to leave off work--I am sure you ought--and go 'right away,' as you say
here, and get quite strong before you return to this trying climate.
You should do this for your mother's sake. If you resist _her_ appeal,
with her sweet, suffering face, of course no words of mine can be of
any avail."
For a minute it seemed as though he had not heard her. His brow was
knit, his lips tight clenched; he walked on without turning his head.
Then, catching his breath as he spoke, he said, in a low voice,
"On the contrary. If you told me to go--to follow you--anywhere--I
would do it. That is the only thing that would make me throw up my
professorship."
She was painfully startled; she had not in the least anticipated
this. She knew--what woman does not?--that she was admired; but their
intercourse had been of such a purely friendly nature, it had never
occurred to her that this young man, in whom she had not hesitated to
show her deep interest, secretly nourished a far stronger feeling. They
were just the same age; yet to her, in spite of his decision and force
of character, he had seemed much younger. Poor fellow! Oh, the pity of
it! That, ill as she knew him to be, she must speak words which must
wound him, words which sounded cruel even in her own ears.
"That is a responsibility I could never undertake. I can only advise
you as a friend, a friend of your mother's as of yours. I can only
tell you what it seems to me it is right you should do. Beyond that, I
cannot direct your future."
"Of course. I never thought you would," he said, in a low voice, as
they entered the Memorial Hall.
His mother touched her on the shoulder at the same moment.
"Those are Lafarge's famous windows," she said. "How do you like them?"