Saul did not return to Fellbridge that evening with his mother and
Grace. Mrs. Barham, indeed, urged him not to do so, seeing how ill he
looked, and he yielded without a word. His mother enjoined him to rest,
and to go to bed early, "for you look just fairly worn out, Saul."
And when they were in the train, she turned to Grace, with a deep sigh,
and said,
"He has gotten back that ashy color which he had before he went abroad.
And his cough; did you hear how he coughed? Oh, Miss Ballinger, I am so
down-hearted about my only boy, the only one left!"
She turned her face away, but it was not to hide any tears in her
stone-blue eyes. Her anxiety, her grief were far too deep for wailing.
Grace pressed silently the small gloved hand that lay on the poor
mother's lap. She felt as though she were, in a measure, responsible
for Saul's condition. With a word she could send him away to some sunny
clime, where he might revive, as it seemed almost certain to her he
would not do here. But she could never speak that word.
Grace had rarely found it so hard to be cheerful as this evening. When
she looked at the handsome but rigid face of her reverend host, and
thought of "Little Mother" confronted by some great sorrow, with no
solace but in the stern Calvinism of her husband, the girl shivered. It
was probably a difficult evening to all three. The minister, who had
no special anxiety about his son, exerted himself to supply the young
man's place, but he felt himself to be an inefficient substitute, in
conversation with his English guest. As to "Little Mother," she did
her duty bravely; but it made Grace's heart ache to look into those
deep, sad eyes--sad, even when the lips smiled and she spoke lightly of
indifferent matters.
When she went to her room that night, Grace sat down and wrote a
letter. Its composition did not take her long; indeed, it may be said
that every word of it had been burned into her brain many months ago.
She had desired exceedingly, at that time, to write to Ivor Lawrence,
and she had refrained. Again in New York, after Mordaunt had broached
the subject once more, the impulse to tell the friend, who was laboring
under a foul aspersion, how deeply she felt for him had been strong;
but still, moved by her brother's indignant remonstrance, she bad
forborne. And now, it was strange, but Saul's few words, and the
reproach of her pusillanimity they carried with them, had upset all
this. The forcible way in which he had confirmed her instinct--and,
like most women, she believed in her instincts--decided her.
This is what she wrote:
"FELLBRIDGE, MASS., U. S.,
"_18th February, 1891_.
"MY DEAR MR. LAWRENCE,--I know you too well to doubt that you
have some good and sufficient motive in your own eyes for having
entirely given up all communication with your friends, since this
dark cloud has hung over you. That you should wilfully deprive
yourself of the personal sympathy of those who would never for an
instant believe you capable of a dishonorable action--no matter
the amount of testimony brought against you--seems to me strange.
I have waited, but waited in vain, all these months, for a line
that should tell me that you trusted in my friendship; that you
felt certain I could never doubt your rectitude and truth. I
have been disappointed. But, since it has seemed good to you to
be silent, I do not see that a corresponding silence is imposed
upon me; and, after some misgiving, at the risk of appearing
obtrusive, I write to assure you that you have friends who watch
with intense interest, but without _anxiety_, your present fight
with calumny and suspicion. They never doubt but that you will
come triumphantly through this ordeal. My taking up my pen to say
this may seem to you a very uncalled-for step on my part, but, as
I think you know me well, I am not in the least afraid of your
misinterpreting it. I cannot longer allow a friend, whom I value,
to suffer as I know you must be suffering, without a word to tell
him of my unwavering confidence and cordial sympathy.
"Sincerely yours,
"GRACE BALLINGER.
"P.S.--We are travelling in the United States, and shall not return
to England before May."
She felt more tranquil after writing this than she had done for a long
time. The endeavor to put the subject away from her had failed. In the
watches of the night it had come back, and upbraided her, no matter
by what specious arguments she had striven to persuade herself that
it was unfitting she should write. She knew her heart and intellect
did not subscribe to conventional laws, though in traffic with the
world her habitual conduct did so. But this was an exceptional case.
Her aunt, her brother, could never understand it, because they did not
understand Ivor Lawrence's peculiar character. It was that character
which, after his strange behavior, justified this action in her own
eyes. Upon no other man could she have _forced_ her sympathy. He had
loved her--she felt sure of that, she could not be mistaken--and yet
he had never spoken of his love. To most women this would have been
a cause of misgiving, if not of offence and bitterness. It was not so
to this strange girl. She felt that she could comprehend it all--the
pride that kept him silent as long as he was a poor and briefless
barrister, and that shrank still further from avowal when his name
was branded with infamy. But the world had not comprehended; her own
kith and kin had been indignant. To one and all the man's behavior had
seemed disgraceful. He had paid Grace such marked attention for months
as had kept other and better men aloof; then, on inheriting this vast
fortune, had completely dropped her! And half this fortune must be
his, it was said, even if the verdict in the approaching trial should
be given against him, as an earlier will had been found, dividing Mr.
Tracy's property equally between his two nephews. It was thus, as Grace
knew, that her friends argued; and every effort to make them see the
circumstances in a different light would be of no avail.
The next day, Sunday, Saul appeared soon after morning service. He
looked as if he had not slept all night, and he coughed a great deal;
but, by a resolute effort of will, he talked very much as usual. Grace
should not be distressed during her last day, nor should "Little
Mother," by his depression of spirits. After all, how was he worse
off now than when Grace arrived here? He knew then--he had known all
along--how utterly hopeless was his attachment. He had been surprised,
like a fool, into an avowal of his feelings, and he bitterly regretted
it. A thin screen of ice had formed itself, since then, between him
and her. Nothing, now, could melt that; but, at least, the last hours
of their intercourse under his father's roof should be as little
constrained as possible, under the circumstances.
At parting, as he held her hand for an instant, he said, quite simply,
"If we never meet again, Miss Ballinger, pray remember that you brought
happiness into at least one obscure New England home. We shall think of
your visit here with gratitude, and often talk of it, my mother and I.
Good-by."
Firm, self-contained to the end, his voice betrayed no emotion, as he
raised her hand respectfully to his lips. She said nothing. What could
she say? Then he turned; the white face, the shrunk, shadowy figure,
vanished in the gloaming; and that was the last she saw of Saul Barham.
* * * * *
In a ground-floor "parlor" at the Brunswick, late the following
afternoon--a parlor that was heavily decorated and brilliant with
electric light, Grace fell into Mrs. Frampton's expansive embrace. It
was a bitterly cold day, and the cheek which her niece pressed seemed
frozen. It belonged to a short, stout woman, still almost as vigorous
as at twenty, with iron-gray hair, that rose in crisp waves, and broke
over the broad, prominent forehead, indicating stubborn natural force.
Swift black eyes, a healthy color, fine white teeth, told the same
tale of strong vitality. The expanded nostrils, and full mobile mouth,
showed perhaps other, but not contradictory, characteristics.
Impossible to doubt that this was a clever, dominant, possibly at
times a violent woman; attractive to some, to others a terror and a
_bête noir_. Voluble, beyond the limits of discretion, yet rarely
foolish; impulsive as a child; loving and hating with equal intensity;
yet prudent, worldly-wise, humorous, and quick-sighted, it was not
difficult to form an idea, more or less just, of Mrs. Frampton in five
minutes' conversation. But then, as her nephew said, "Aunt Susan always
lets herself go." It was that quality of "letting herself go" which
made her so entertaining a companion.
She spoke rapidly, in a high but not unmusical voice, holding her niece
out at arm's-length after embracing her, while she scanned the girl's
countenance.
"You look well, my child! This horrible climate agrees with you, then?
I have been shrivelling up visibly every hour since I landed. And then
the awful heat of these furnaces! I thought I should be roasted alive
in the railway-carriage coming here! How can you stand it?"
"I grin and bear it as well as I can, Aunt Su. And as to the climate, I
like this dry cold a great deal better than the damp and fog of London."
She shrugged her shoulders. "'Quel drôle de goût!' as the irreverent
Frenchman said when some one spoke of the Jews as 'God's chosen
people.' Mordy has been talking the same nonsense. As if the London
climate was not good enough for any living creature, except, perhaps,
an asthmatic poodle! My nerves are all rasped here. I hate it."
"Well, aunty, we won't rasp you more by saying anything about the
climate, but we mean to make you like the country very much."
"Never!" she cried, in a melodramatic tone. "Except the Hurlstones'
house, everything I have seen is hideous. Those dreadful streets!
You didn't say half enough about those dreadful New York streets. I
felt as if every bone in my body was dislocated, when I drove through
them! And then their way of spitting about one! There was one man who
actually aimed across me at a spittoon! Pray, have you got accustomed
to _that_?"
"I never see it," returned Grace, with a smile. "You know I am one of
those stupid but happy people who don't see ugly things, unless they
are thrust under their very nose."
"Well, my dear, this _was_ thrust under my very nose. No, I hate all
I have seen of the people, except the Hurlstones. I except _them_,
for they are thoroughly well bred, nice people, and their house is
charming."
"There are plenty of houses as good--indeed better, to my taste--and
plenty of people as nice."
"You didn't do them justice, Gracey, in your letters to me. They are a
charming family. I was most agreeably surprised in Beatrice Hurlstone.
She would hold her own in any London drawing-room."
"I didn't say she would not, aunty. I am sure I said nothing against
them. I was very grateful for all their kindness and hospitality."
"Oh! grateful. We know what _that_ means. You didn't like them, and you
put Mordy off from liking the girl."
"My dear aunt! What nonsense! As if anything I could say would
influence him in the slightest degree in that way! He flirted with her
at first, and then he found some one he admired more."
"That is just it. If he _will_ marry an American, I'd rather it was
Beatrice Hurlstone than any one. I don't at all like the idea of Miss
Planter, whom he raves to me about. He sha'n't marry her, if I can
help it. In the first place, I am told she is a desperate flirt. Then
her father is one of those speculators who is rich to-day and may be
poor to-morrow, and will only give his daughter an income--will settle
nothing upon her. Whereas Mr. Hurlstone's large fortune will be divided
equally between his son and his daughter--he told me so himself."
"That was considerate of him," said Grace, with one of her rare touches
of sarcasm.
And the hero of their talk entering the room at that moment, there was
an abrupt change in the conversation.
"I find her looking very well, Mordy!" cried his aunt. "Is it the New
England parsonage that has given her those roses? She looked like a
squeezed lemon four months ago."
"Oh! twenty-four hours at sea picked her up. She is an awfully good
sailor and never missed a meal; and amused herself, I can tell you,
'pretty considerable,' as we say over here--having three men, all very
much gone on her."
Mrs. Frampton laughed heartily.
"And you have been staying with the parents of one of them--the young
man you say is a prig?"
"I didn't say that," responded Grace, quickly. "I said _you_ might call
him so. He is a very remarkable young man, and I like him exceedingly;
but I am much afraid he will not live long. He is sadly changed, even
since we were on board ship together. His poor mother's face haunts me.
He is her only son."
The mocking expression of Aunt Susan's countenance changed while her
niece was speaking. The eyes were veiled with a tender sympathy, which
contrasted curiously with their habitual outlook. She, too, had known
what this sorrow meant, long years ago.
"Poor woman! And is there nothing to be done?"
"Perhaps if he went to a warm climate, and gave up his professorship,
he might recover, but that is just what he won't do."
"Then he doesn't really love his mother!" she cried, impatiently.
"These Americans are all alike--can't rest--must fret themselves to
fiddle-strings. The idea of a man sacrificing his life to his work! It
is positively wicked."
"I suspect he is a romantic sort of cove, who fancies there is only
one woman in the world," said her nephew, fixing his eyes on Grace. "If
he is disappointed, he doesn't care to live. I have known one chap like
that. It's very rum."
His sister said nothing. She rose and went to the window, where
the curtains had not been dropped before the gas-lit street. A
well-appointed brougham stood at the door. Grace thought she recognized
the horses, and at the same moment the negro waiter entered and asked
if the ladies were at home to Mrs. Courtly.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Frampton. Then, as the man disappeared, "I hear
she is a delightful person--not only from Mordy, but others."
"I am glad you hear that," said Grace, smiling. "She _is_ a delightful
person, but many women are jealous of her, and you might have heard, as
I did, that she is only delightful to men, which is not the least true."
The object of these remarks entered, swathed in velvet and silver-fox,
and redolent of Parma violets. Her bright smile, graceful manner, and
musical voice could not but dispose favorably one as sensitive to
impressions as Mrs. Frampton.
"I do not feel that we are strangers--you have been so good to my
children," she said.
Mrs. Courtly responded in a like strain, and then,
"I suppose I ought to apologize for calling on you just as you have
arrived from a long journey, Mrs. Frampton, but I wanted to engage you
all to dine with me to-morrow. I know you are to be here but a few
days, and you must see something of our society--we think ourselves
very nice, you know. I say 'we,' though I don't belong to Boston--only
come in occasionally from my solitude, for a little social relaxation."
"Solitude! I like that!" laughed Ballinger. "I don't believe you are
ever alone, Mrs. Courtly. I am sure you have a regular succession of
representative men and women: literature, fashion, and the fine arts,
they all go to you, and you take them in."
"That is a doubtful compliment," and the American lady gave a rippling
laugh, "but I am afraid it is the truth. I do take them in--that is,
the representatives of literature and the fine arts. They think I know
something--I am just clever enough never to _do_ anything, and so
they do not discover what a fraud I am. As to fashion--oh, I can be
frivolous enough, as you have seen. There is no sham about _that_."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Frampton, nodding her head, "for I
am frivolous, too--frivolous and worldly, as this very superior young
woman, my niece, is always pointing out to me."
"What a detestable creature you make me out! Happily, Mrs. Courtly
knows me a little. When did you come to Boston, Mrs. Courtly, and where
are you staying?"
"I am at the Vendôme, where I always go. I came on Saturday, and have
been hunting up some of my friends to meet you to-morrow. On Wednesday,
if agreeable to you, we will dine at the Country Club, where they have
a little informal dance, ending at eleven o'clock, once a week. I think
it will amuse you. If it snows, which it threatens to do to-night, we
will go in sleighs."
Mrs. Frampton looked petrified.
"What! in evening dress?"
"Why, yes! We wrap up well, with fur hoods and double veils, and wear
frocks that won't tumble; and the drive back, under a full moon, as we
have now, will be delightful."
"Well," said Mrs. Frampton, dubiously, "I never did anything so
skittish when I was young--and now that I am an old woman--what if I am
upset?"
"Oh, you won't be upset--and if you were, it wouldn't hurt you. You
have no distance to fall, and in the soft white snow--"
"Good heavens! The very idea of it sends cold water down my back. No,
thank you. _They_ shall go, but you must excuse _me_. A nocturnal
sleighing-party--returning from a ball--running races, I dare say--no,
thank you--not for me!"
Mrs. Courtly's prediction was verified. The snow came down heavily
before morning. The streets were blocked; the horse-cars moved
stealthily along. Then it froze, and every one who ventured from his
door trod very carefully, trying to obtain some hold on the white
surface, slippery as glass and glistening in the noonday sun.