The morning after this dinner, Mordaunt, looking up from his newspaper,
said with a laugh, "Well! You've done it this time, Gracey--you
profited by experience, and were civil to that jolly little woman who
sat next me at dinner. I didn't know she was a press writer till we
were well through, but we got on like a house a-fire, and here is your
reward and mine."
Then he read aloud:
"'Mrs. Reid offered a dinner at her sumptuous residence in Commonwealth
Avenue, last night, to the Countess of Clydesdale, Sir Mordaunt
Ballinger, Bart., M.P., Miss Ballinger, and Mrs. Frampton. Some of
our most prominent citizens were invited to meet the distinguished
guests, and especial interest was felt in the presence of the son and
daughter of an Englishman who was so firm a friend to America, and so
honored here, as the late Sir Henry Ballinger. Of the countess, that
advanced thinker, who recently addressed a large audience on woman's
rights, it is needless to speak. Mrs. Frampton, Sir Mordaunt's aunt,
is an elderly lady, evidently of great bodily and mental activity.
The present baronet, like his father, is a Conservative in politics,
and has the stalwart bearing and aristocratic air that we associate
with the heroes of modern English romance. He is eager to acquire
knowledge as to the natural resources of our country, and the urbanity
of his manner and his brilliant social qualities'--ho! ho!--'must
make him welcome wherever he goes. As to his sister, the accounts
which had reached us of her beauty and charm do scant justice to this
fascinating English belle, who is not only lovely to a fault, but can
be impassioned in her eloquence when roused, and combines acuteness of
intellect with the frankness of a child.'"
"Well done!" cried Mrs. Frampton. "You owe Lady Clydesdale something
for having brought out your 'impassioned eloquence,' Gracey."
Then, seeing that her niece looked annoyed, while a flush mounted to
the roots of the girl's hair, she felt it was unwise to have alluded to
that scene, and tried to change the subject. But Grace, with a resolute
disregard to pain, said presently,
"It was very nice of you, Mordy, to speak up as you did last night,
feeling as you do on the subject. I am ashamed to have been so roused,
aunty. I am ashamed to think such a woman could have it in her power to
make me show what I felt. Passion should not be wasted on donkeys--even
on malevolent donkeys. This one tries to knock you down, and ride over
you. If she can find out where your heart is, she will plant her hoofs
there. If not, she will kick at your brains. Nothing shall induce me
ever to speak to her again."
Her aunt and her brother exchanged glances, but no word passed; and
presently Mordaunt began discussing financial matters with Mrs.
Frampton, expressing his intention of pushing on to Colorado as soon as
possible. The relative merits of ranches, mines, and building property
could only be investigated on the spot.
Grace had her own ideas as to what lay at the bottom of this increased
alacrity to go west, but she held her peace.
Mrs. Courtly was to take them to the theatre that night, and to
return to Brackly the following day. Mordaunt declared that the chief
attraction of Boston for him would then be gone, and he proposed to
start for Chicago the same morning.
Will either of the three ever forget that evening, when they witnessed
Jefferson's performance in "The Heir at Law"? It will always live
as an epoch in their dramatic experiences. His "Rip Van Winkle" is
not a greater triumph, though in a different line; for the exquisite
naturalness of this fine artist transforms an artificial and farcical
impossibility into an eccentric character of flesh and blood, in
which he persuades us to believe so implicitly that we should never
be surprised to meet Dr. Pangloss walking down Beacon Street or
Piccadilly. What a lesson to actors is here! The rigid fidelity to
nature--the nature of intonation, expression, and gesture--never
allowing the laughter of the "groundlings" to seduce him into
exaggeration of any kind--this has its reward in our frank acceptance
of, nay, our sympathy with, a very unreal personage. Played by an
inferior actor, I can imagine nothing more tedious than Dr. Pangloss
would be, with his endless quotations, his facile venality, his
outrageous wig. What seemed funny to our grandfathers does not amuse us
very much. It needs the genius of a Jefferson to vivify the dry bones
of an antiquated farce.
They all bade Mrs. Courtly good-by with real regret.
"We must meet in Bayreuth next year," she said. "Will you give me a
rendezvous for the end of July?"
"No," said Mrs. Frampton, decidedly, before Grace could speak. "Before
that, in my house in London. Make it your hotel, when you pass
through, for as long as you can. Write or cable that you are coming;
that is all that is necessary."
Grace had not felt so depressed since she landed in America as she did
during that journey to Chicago. It was in vain she said to herself,
over and over again, that nothing which her aunt or Mordaunt, or, least
of all, Lady Clydesdale, had said concerning Ivor Lawrence, had the
smallest effect on her. In one sense, it had not--she never doubted
him. But the apprehension of an overwhelming trouble to him--a cloud,
from which it might prove impossible to clear himself--had visibly
strengthened in her mind. It was useless to argue against it; she could
not shake off this cold, sickening dread which swept in gusts over her.
With her usual bravery she concealed her feelings; but, the call for
social exertion being now over, there were long spaces of silence and
solitude on the journey, when, with a book in her hand, she could brood
over this trouble, unsuspected by her two companions.
The route chosen was by Philadelphia. They did not stop at New York,
but travelled straight through at night, arriving at their destination
early in the morning. Here they halted the remainder of the day, and
visited "Independence Hall," where the Declaration was signed, and
where the room and its furniture remain much as they were on that
famous day when the heat was so great and the flies so irritating that
as the assembled gentlemen flicked their silk handkerchiefs and wiped
their brows the voting is said to have been hurried through, and some
members not even waited for. Yet the minority against the Declaration
was a considerable one. As Mordaunt said to the amiable gentleman who
acted as their guide,
"Who knows how a cold day and a full hall might have changed the
destinies of this continent, eh?"
The amiable gentleman, being a stanch patriot, looked confounded. Then,
after they had been shown several pastels of the chief voters and
orators of that stirring time, and had examined the building, which is
like many a Georgian mansion in the English counties, and was built of
red bricks brought from England, they were driven through some portion
of the largest and most beautiful city park in the world. It extends
over three thousand acres of hill and dale, wood and winding river,
untortured by man. Happily, to use the guide-book's language, "Art has
as yet done little for it." May it never do more. It is a beautiful
spot, and Philadelphia may be proud in the possession of so unique a
playground.
But what of its streets? Mrs. Frampton was greatly disconcerted by
being nearly jolted off her seat as she drove along.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" she cried. "I thought New York and
Boston bad enough--but this! How can the people who live in those nice
little red houses, picked out with white marble, and marble steps so
beautifully clean--"
"Stoops. You must call them 'stoops,' aunt," said Mordaunt.
"Stoups? I never heard of a stoup of anything but Burgundy--in Scott's
novels. But never mind. I say, how _can_ people living in houses that
are like Dutch toys, so spick and span, tolerate such roadways? Really,
these Americans are an incomprehensible people!"
"No, not incomprehensible," said her nephew. "Ask any fellow here.
He'll explain it fast enough. All public works are jobberies. If the
streets were freshly paved to-morrow, in all these cities, it would be
so badly done--so much money would be made _out_ of them--that they
would be as bad as ever next year."
"Abominable!" said Mrs. Frampton, with energy.
"Besides that," he continued, "this particular city is regarded by most
Americans--especially New-Yorkers--as a 'Sleepy Hollow.' Miss Pie,
who is a Philadelphian, told me she had been puzzled to see herself
spoken of in some paper as the only female citizen who _suffered from
insomnia_. Then she remembered the vile aspersion, which of course she
denied. She was awfully good fun, that little woman. She gave me the
idea of a middle-aged Puck, eh? Puck was a sexless sort of a being, I
fancy."
The Stratford Hotel, where they stayed one night, met with great favor
at Mrs. Frampton's hands; and so did the Auditorium, at Chicago, in
contradistinction to others, on the road, which shall be nameless.
The manner of serving every meal in the public room of these latter
hostelries, all the dishes being pitched simultaneously in a semicircle
of saucers round the consumer, was exasperating.
"Pray, do you expect me to devour fish, pudding, entrées, meat, and all
those unknown vegetables at one and the same time? Why on earth can't
you bring them separately?" she demanded of the astonished negro waiter.
Then the inevitable pitcher of ice-water which came up each time she
rang her bell was another offence. She marvelled greatly as she looked
down the long crowded dining-room, and saw only this same ice-water or
tea being drunk at dinner by stalwart men. Any delusions, however,
which she might have had as to their "total abstinence" were soon
dispelled. Whenever she passed through the public hall, she saw some of
these men at the bar; they were not then drinking tea or ice-water.
The party stayed three days at Chicago, and were duly impressed with
its vastness, the massiveness of the business portion of the city, the
length and extraordinary diversity of architecture of its boulevards.
Some of the least pretentious houses, and notably those by Richardson,
were good, and gave a pleasant impression of happy home life, without
ostentation. But many appeared to have been built regardless of any
known principle, save that of endeavoring to out-do your neighbor. The
classic and Gothic styles here take hands, and might almost be said to
dance a _cancan_ together, as they assuredly have never been seen to do
before. These jokes in stone and marble of every hue are like a child's
design for a palace, striking up spikes into the sky, and jumbling
together turrets and pillars, porticoes and machicolated walls, in a
fashion which Mordaunt declared entitled it to be called "the Porcine,
or Bristle-on-end" style of architecture.
Of course he went to witness the assassination of the hogs, and,
watch in hand, counted sixteen despatched in one minute, while the
ladies spent the morning at the Art Museum, and found, with wonder
and delight, many of the gems of the Demidoff Collection, which they
remembered in the Villa San Donato, at Florence. It seemed a curious
illustration of the Chicago mind, munificent of everything but its
time, and jealous for the city's reputation, that, while willing to
expend large sums on such acquisitions as these, it had not leisure
to arrange and exhibit them properly. Mrs. Frampton observed to a
wealthy and acute citizen, to whom she brought a letter, that it was
a pity such treasures were not seen to more advantage. His reply was
characteristic:
"Well, you see, we business men are making money all the time. It is
a race in which one is very soon left out of the running. If I go to
Europe for three months I have to look pretty sharp to keep my place,
I can tell you, when I return. Time enough to build galleries and all
that by and by."
This reminded Grace of a saying of Mr. Laffan's, "You must make the man
before you can make the statue."
Mordaunt dined out each night, and was interested in meeting several of
the shrewd business men who had amassed huge fortunes. He was almost
tempted to invest in grain, live-stock, or lumber, but Mrs. Frampton,
with a hand of iron, restrained him.
"Are you going to spend your life here?" she asked. "These men do, and
know what they are about. From their cradle they have heard nothing
but money talked of. They are born 'cute men of business. What do you
think that pretty child of five, in the hotel, said to me yesterday,
when I asked him what he meant to be when he grew up?--'I guess I'll
keep a store!' I expected him to say, 'I mean to be the President,' or
a general, or something. But no, he would 'keep a store!' There you
are. How can you compete with such people? No. Invest in something that
doesn't require your constant personal supervision, or else leave it
alone."
On one of these evenings there was a dance, to which all were bidden,
but only Mordaunt went. The next morning he described how he had met a
charming family, who all spoke of their "factory," which, on inquiry,
he learned was one of coffins! They referred in the most natural way
to their industry--the father mentioning the "boom" there had been in
his trade not long since, owing to the influenza; the son informing
Mordaunt that he had charge of the brass-nail and plate department;
the daughter, that she designed the embroidery for the palls. This
cheerful conversation took place in the intervals of the merry dance
and at the convivial supper-table.
"They were awfully nice," added Mordaunt, "but it sent cold water
down my back to hear them talk. It sounded like ghouls, fattening on
graves." Then he told them of an old man he had met, who came from a
neighboring city, where he had amassed a vast fortune, and lived in
great loneliness, his wife and children electing to reside in Europe.
Why he had been weak enough originally to give in to this arrangement
was unexplained; but there was something at once humorous and pathetic
in the monody of gratified vanity and personal loneliness with which he
favored the Englishman.
"I give you my word, I didn't know whether to congratulate or to
condole with him," said Mordaunt, "when he told me that his only
daughter was married to a French count, and that he should never see
her again now--never! The tears trickled down his thin cheeks, as he
said that she had forgotten all about her old home--her old father.
But, in the midst of his trouble, be recovered himself. There was balm
in Gilead yet. 'You know, sir, _the family dates back to Charlemagne_!'
So it is for this that such devoted parents are content to toil and
moil all their lives! By the Lord Harry! Self-sacrifice takes very
funny forms sometimes!"
And Aunt Su fully agreed with him.
Having heard from Mrs. Caldwell that she awaited their arrival, they
started for Denver on the fourth morning, between which city and
Colorado Springs her home was situated. Two days and nights' travelling
rather tried Mrs. Frampton's patience and powers of endurance, but the
air, which grew keener and more elastic during the last twelve hours,
as they left the plain and its vapors and damp mists, and ascended the
high table-land, surrounded by snowy mountains, invigorated all the
party. Mordaunt declared his aunt was the youngest of the trio when
they alighted at the station, where Mrs. Caldwell's carriage awaited
them. The beauty and strangeness of the scene--as they drove up a
winding road, between rugged peaks of sandstone, some nearly blood-red,
others milk-white, others again like amethyst, projected against the
clear blue sky, and simulating the pinnacles, turrets, and spires of
a castellated city--recalled the wild creations of Gustave Doré. It
seemed too fantastic to be real. The very pine-trees looked tormented,
springing from clefts in the rock, some erect, some twisted by the
winds, but all with arms flung out over wide-mouthed chasms, where the
eagles had their nests. The house stood high up on a shelf of rock,
protected from the north and east winds, but open to the south. A slope
of terraced garden lay below it, ending in a brook, which fell, with
the noise of tumbling waters, down a cañon at the back of the house.
The "Falcon's Nest," as it was called, built by the late Mr. Caldwell,
was of wood, unpretentious, and in perfect taste, for its position,
and the lives its inhabitants were meant to, and did actually, live.
Labor and repose for some; comfort and hospitality for all who entered
its broad portals, and found a pleasantly diffused but not oppressive
warmth reigning through the suite of rooms panelled with pine, where
plenty of books, sofas, and rocking-chairs invited the inmates to rest
and be thankful.
Mrs. Caldwell and Doreen met their guests in the hall, to which the
horns of buffalo and elk and some magnificent bear-skins lent a
pleasant touch of savagery. Pierce Caldwell was at his office, and
would not return till the evening. Alan Brown and another young man
staying there were gone to skate, and after luncheon, Mordaunt, under
Doreen's guidance, set off in a sleigh to join them. It was very cold,
that still, dry cold of which one does not realize the intensity
until one consults the thermometer; but here, with a blazing wood
fire to warm one spiritually, and hot-water pipes to perform the work
practically, Mrs. Frampton declared the temperature was delightful; and
her critical nature was pleased with her hostess's manner.
"That is a nice woman," she said to her niece, when they were alone,
later in the day. "She doesn't 'protest too much.' She is sensible,
well-bred, and knows just how much to say, and what to leave unsaid.
All Americans have not that tact."
"Nor all English people either. I like that little Doreen so much--she
is a sweet little thing; and the son--I am sure you will fall in love
with the son, aunt."
Mrs. Frampton's unspoken reply was, "I almost wish _you_ would. Not
seriously, of course, but just to distract your thoughts."
Pierce Caldwell returned at dusk, and found the ladies at tea. His
frank charm of manner, even more than his good looks, won Mrs. Frampton
at once; and knowing how energetic he was in the work he was carrying
on, she began questioning him about it. Her capacity for taking a vivid
interest in the details of other people's affairs always distinguished
her. It is not a common gift, that power of throwing one's self
heartily into matters that do not personally concern one.
"Your mother tells me you have had a hard fight with your mine, Mr.
Caldwell; but you have triumphed over all your difficulties?"
"Oh! mother exaggerates the difficulties. It only wanted a little
patience. The mine when father died, you see, was a mere prospect. I
had to develop it. It turned out much better than even father ever
expected, but I had to go on with the exploration for two years before
I thought it prudent to erect a mill."
"Well? And now," she continued, with eagerness, "it is proving a great
success? Everything has prospered with you?"
"Yes," he said, quietly. "Everything, up to the present, has prospered,
I am glad to say. I am now going to turn it into a company. We have
to erect other works, and it is too great an undertaking for one man,
alone. Of course I shall retain a very large interest in, and the chief
management of, the company, but I can't work it all by myself."
"Humph!" said Mrs. Frampton, reflectively. "I suppose you want to get
away occasionally, and amuse yourself in New York, like other young men
of your age?"
"Well, no; I _do_ go away, now and again, when business takes me to
New York or Washington, but I don't stay much longer than I can help. I
always feel as if things couldn't get on without me at the mine, and I
love this place. I believe I am never so happy anywhere as here."
The skaters, with Mordaunt and Doreen, now entered. Alan Brown did
not look happy. Doreen had driven the Englishman in her sleigh to
and from the skating-grounds; and Alan's proclivities for all that
was English did not extend to a baronet, six feet high, who was
notorious as a flirt, and who seemed inclined to try his hand, just
to keep it in, upon the object of the young American's affections. In
this he was quite mistaken; Mordaunt had the same manner with every
woman under--and some over--fifty, which accounted for his being so
popular. The unsophisticated Doreen thought him charming, and he was
quite willing to be thought so. It gave him but little trouble to be
nice to this bread-and-butter miss, whom he found really not so dull
as he had anticipated. Alan only saw the effect, however--the young
girl's increased animation and volubility, and he was proportionately
depressed.
The other man, Bloxsome by name, was a Californian. He was not
attractive, either in appearance or manner, to our friends, and, as he
only stayed one day at the "Falcon's Nest," it would be unnecessary,
but for subsequent events, to name him here. How did he come to be a
friend of the family? His manner and the tone of his mind contrasted
so strongly with Pierce Caldwell's that it was difficult to account
for their apparent intimacy. He was coarse and loud, with a grating
voice and accent, and his "spread-eagleism" was especially offensive to
Mordaunt. To the ladies this was simply amusing. They did not in the
least object to his thinking everything in his own country, beginning
with himself, nobler, greater, and better than the rest of the
universe. It was a failing with which they were not wholly unacquainted
in England. But foibles, which may be pardoned when allied with good
manners, are more trying when accentuated with ill-breeding.
He sat on one side of Grace at dinner that first evening, and in
the course of it--apparently accidentally--Miss Planter's name was
mentioned. When Grace thought afterwards over what had passed, she felt
sure that the accident was only apparent. Mr. Bloxsome had adroitly led
the conversation up to the point when Grace's hand was forced, so to
speak, and the "belle's" name dropped from her. He seized it.
"Clare Planter? Why, I know her quite well. I heard your brother was
_vurry_ intimate with her. Is that so?"
"My brother and I stayed at a country-house with her. That is the way
of becoming intimate--if people like each other. And we both of us like
Miss Planter."
"I reckon that's because she thinks such a heap of England and English
people."
"Not entirely," replied Grace, coolly. "Of course we should not like
her if she hated us."
"_We_ find her ever so much spoiled since she crossed the ocean."
"Then she must have been very charming before."
"But Mrs. Planter is worse. She _is_ a regular Anglomaniac. Won't call
on any one in Pittsburgh now, I'm told. They are coming to Frisco in
quite a few days. I guess you know that?"
"They spoke of the likelihood of going to California."
"Sir Mordaunt knows it is more than a 'likelihood,' I reckon. He will
find Mr. Planter a stiff customer--not ready to come down with the oof,
and not half as rich as he is supposed to be. Your brother is hunting
around, I hear, for an Amurican heiress? Wull, you can just tell him
this--no Amurican girl knows how rich she is till she can say, 'Our
Father, which art in Heaven.'"
Grace looked at him with a flashing eye, and there was ineffable scorn
in her voice as she said,
"My brother is not a fortune-hunter, nor did he feel impelled to ask
Miss Planter to say her prayers."
Then she turned and addressed Pierce Caldwell on her other side.
She avoided Mr. Bloxsome as far as possible during the remainder of the
evening.