HAMBLETON OF LYNN
The Hambletons of Lynn had not distinguished themselves, in late
generations at least, by remarkable deeds, though their deportment was
such as to imply that they could if they would. They frankly regarded
themselves as the elect of earth, if not of Heaven, always, however, with
a becoming modesty. Since 1636 the family had pieced out its existence
in the New World, tenaciously clinging to many of its old-country habits.
It had kept the _b_ in the family name, for instance; it had kept the
name itself out of trade, and it had indulged its love of country life at
the expense of more than one Hambleton fortune.
A daughter-in-law was once reported as saying that it would have been a
good thing if some Hambleton had embarked in trade, since in that case
they might have been saved from devoting themselves exclusively to an
illustration of polite poverty. She was never forgiven, and died without
being reconciled to the family. As to the spelling of the name, the
family claimed ancestral authority as far back as King Fergus the First.
Mrs. Van Camp, a relative by marriage--a woman considered by the best
Hambletons as far too frank and worldly-minded--informed the family that
King Fergus was as much a myth as Dido, and innocently brought forth
printed facts to corroborate her statement. One of the ladies Hambleton
crushed Mrs. Van Camp by stating, in a tone of deep personal conviction,
with her cap awry, "So much the worse for Dido!"
A salient strength persisted in the Hambletons--a strength which retained
its character in spite of cross-currents. The Hambleton tone and the
Hambleton ideas retained their family color, and became, whether worthily
or not, a part of the Hambleton pride. More than one son had lost his
health or entire fortune, which was apt not to be large, in attempts to
carry on a country place. "A Hambleton trait!" they chuckled, with as
much satisfaction as they considered it good form to exhibit. In Lynn,
where family pride did not bring in large returns, this phrase became
almost synonymous with genteel foolishness.
The Van Camp fortune, which came near but never actually into the family,
was generally understood to have been made in shoes, though in reality it
was drugs.
"People say 'shoes' the minute they hear the word Lynn, and I'm tired of
explaining," Mrs. Van Camp put it. She was third in line from the
successful druggist, and could afford, if anybody could, to be
supercilious toward trade. But she wasn't, even after twenty years of
somewhat restless submission to the Hambleton yoke. And it was she who,
during her last visit to the family stronghold, held up before the young
James the advantages of a commercial career.
"You're a nice boy, Jimsy, and I can't see you turned into a poor lawyer.
You're not hard-headed enough to be a good one. As for being a minister,
well--no. Go into business, dear boy, something substantial, and you'll
live to thank your stars."
Jimsy received this advice at the time with small enthusiasm, and a
reservation of criticism that was a credit to his manners, at least. But
the time came when he leaned on it.
Her own child, however, Mrs. Van Camp encouraged to a profession from the
first. "Aleck isn't smart enough for business, but he may do something
as a student," was Mrs. Van Camp's somewhat trying explanation; and Aleck
did do something as a student. Extremely impatient with any exhibition
of laziness, the mother demanded a good accounting of her son's time.
Aleck and Jim, who were born in the same year, ran more or less side by
side until the end of college. They struggled together in sports and in
arguments, "rushed" the same girl in turn or simultaneously, and spent
their long vacations cruising up and down the Maine coast in a
thirty-foot sail-boat. Once they made a more ambitious journey all the
way to Yarmouth and the Bay of Fundy in a good-sized fishing-smack.
But when college was done, their ways separated. Mrs. Van Camp, in the
prime of her unusual faculties, died, having decorated the Hambleton
'scutcheon like a gay cockade stuck airily up into the breeze. She had
no part nor lot in the family pride, but understood it, perhaps, better
than the Hambletons themselves. Her crime was that she played with it.
Aleck, a full-fledged biologist, went to the Little Hebrides to work out
his fresh and salad theory concerning the nerve system of the clam.
James, third son of John and Edith Hambleton of Lynn, had his eyes
thoroughly opened in the three months after Commencement by a
consideration of the family situation. It seemed to him that from
babyhood he had been burningly conscious of the pinching and skimping
necessary to maintain the family pride. The two older brothers were
exempt from the scorching process, the eldest being the family darling
and the second a genius. Neither one could rationally be expected, "just
at present," to take up the family accounts and make the income square up
with even a decently generous outgo. And there were the girls yet to be
educated. Jim had no special talent to bless himself with, either in art
or science. He was inordinately fond of the sea, but that did not help
him in choosing a career. He had good taste in books and some little
skill in music. He was, indeed, thrall to the human voice, especially to
the low voice in woman, and he was that best of all critics, a good
listener. His greatest riches, as well as his greatest charm, lay in a
spirit of invincible youth; but he was no genius, no one perceived that
more clearly than himself.
So he remembered Clara Van Camp's advice, wrote the whole story to Aleck,
and cast about for the one successful business chance in the four
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine bad ones--as the statistics have it.
He actually found it in shoes. Foot-ball muscle and grit went into the
job of putting a superior shoe on an inferior foot, if necessary--at
least on some foot. He got a chance to try his powers in the home branch
of a manufacturing house, and made good. When he came to fill a position
where there was opportunity to try new ideas, he tried them. He
inspected tanneries and stockyards, he got composite measurements of all
the feet in all the women's colleges in the year ninety-seven, he drilled
salesmen and opened a night school for the buttonhole-makers, he made a
scientific study of heels, and he invented an aristocratic arch and put
it on the market.
The family joked about his doings as the harmless experiments of a lively
boy, but presently they began to enjoy his income. Through it all they
were affectionate and kind, with the matter-of-course fondness which a
family gives to the member that takes the part of useful drudge. John,
the pet of the parents, married, and had his own eyes opened, it is to be
supposed. Donald, the genius, had just arrived, after a dozen years or
so, at the stage where he was mentioned now and then in the literary
journals. But Jim stuck to shoes and kept the family on a fair tide of
modest prosperity.
Once, in the years of Jim's apprenticeship to life, there came over him a
fit of soul-sickness that nearly proved his ruin.
"I can't stand this," he wrote Aleck Van Camp; "It's too hard and dry and
sordid for any man that's got a soul. It isn't the grind I mind, though
that is bad enough; it is the 'Commercial Idea' that eats into a man's
innards. He forgets there are things that money can't buy, and in his
heart he grows contemptuous of anything to be had 'without money and
without price.' He can't help it. If he is thinking of trade
nine-tenths of the time, his mind gets set that way. I'm ready any
minute to jump the fence, like father's old colt up on the farm. I'm not
a snob, but I recognize now that there was some reason for all our old
Hambleton ancestors being so finicky about trade.
"Do you remember how we used to talk, when we were kiddies, about keeping
our ideals? Well, I believe I'm bankrupt, Aleck, in my account with
ideals. I don't want to howl, and these remarks don't go with anybody
else, but I can say, to you, I want them back again."
Aleck did as a kiddie should do, writing much advice on long sheets of
paper, and illustrating his points richly, like a good Scotchman, with
scientific instances. A month or two later he contrived to have work to
do in Boston, so that he could go out to Lynn and look up Jimmy's case.
He even devised a cure by creating, in his mind, an office in the
biological world which was to be offered to James on the ground that
science needed just his abilities and training. But when Aleck arrived
in Lynn he found that Jim, in some fashion or other, had found a cure for
himself. He was deeper than ever in the business, and yet, in some
spiritual sense, he had found himself. He had captured his ideal again
and yoked it to duty--which is a great feat.
After twelve years of ferocious labor, with no vacations to speak of,
James's mind took a turn for the worse. Physically he was as sound as a
bell, though of a lath-like thinness; but an effervescing in his blood
lured his mind away from the study of lasts and accounts and Parisian
models and sent it careering, like Satan, up and down the earth.
Romance, which had been drugged during the transition from youth to
manhood, awoke and coaxed for its rights, and whispered temptingly in an
ear not yet dulled to its voice. Freedom, open spaces, laughter, the
fresh sweep of the wind, the high bucaneering piracy of life and
joy--these things beglamoured his senses.
So one day he locked his desk with a final click. The business was in
good shape. It is but justice to say that if it had not been, Romance
had dangled her luring wisp o' light in vain. Several of his new schemes
had worked out well, his subordinates were of one mind with him, trade
was flourishing. He felt he could afford a little spin.
Jimsy's radiating fancies focussed themselves, at last, on the vision of
a trig little sail-boat, "a jug of wine, a loaf of bread" in the cabin,
with possibly the book of verses underneath the bow, or more suitably, in
the shadow of the sail; and Aleck Van Camp and himself astir in the
rigging or plunging together from the gunwale for an early swim. "And
before I get off, I'll hear a singer that can sing," he declared.
He telegraphed Aleck, who was by this time running down the eyelid of the
squid, to meet him at his club in New York. Then he made short work with
the family. Experience had taught him that an attack from ambush was
most successful.
"Look here, Edith,"--this was at the breakfast-table the very morning of
his departure. Edith was sixteen, the tallest girl in the academy,
almost ready for college and reckoned quite a queen in her world--"You be
good and do my chores for me while I'm away, and I'll bring you home a
duke. Take care of mother's bronchitis, and keep the house straight.
I'm going on a cruise."
"All right, Jim"--Edith could always be counted on to catch the ball--"go
ahead and have a bully time and don't drown yourself. I'll drive the
team straight to water, mother and dad and the whole outfit, trust me!"
Considering the occasion and the correctness of the sentiments, Jim
forbore, for once, from making the daily suggestion that she chasten her
language. By the time the family appeared, Jim had laid out a rigid
course of action for Miss Edith, who rose to the occasion like a soldier.
"Mother'll miss you, of course, but Jack and Harold"--two of Edith's
admirers--"Jack and Harold can come around every day--stout arm to lean
upon, that sort of thing. You know mother can't be a bit jolly without
plenty of men about, and since Sue became engaged she really doesn't
count. The boys will think _they_ are running things, of course, but
they'll see my iron hand in the velvet glove--you can throw a blue chip
on that, Jimsy. And don't kiss me, Jim, for Dorothy Snell and I vowed,
when we wished each other's rings on--Oh, well, brothers don't count."
And so, amid the farewells of a tender, protesting family, he got off,
leaving Edith in the midst of one of her monologues.
There was a telegram in New York saying that Aleck Van Camp would join
him in three days, at the latest. Hambleton disliked the club and left
it, although his first intention had been to put up there. He picked out
a modest, up-town hotel, new to him, for no other reason than that it had
a pretty name, The Larue. Then he began to consider details.
The day after his arrival was occupied in making arrangements for his
boat. He put into this matter the same painstaking buoyancy that he had
put into a dull business for twelve years. He changed his plans half a
dozen times, and exceeded them wholly in the size and equipment of the
little vessel, and in the consequent expense; but he justified himself,
as men will, by a dozen good reasons. The trig little sail-boat turned
out to be a respectable yacht, steam, at that. She was called the _Sea
Gull_. Neat in the beam, stanch in the bows, rigged for coasting and
provided with a decent living outfit, she was "good enough for any
gentleman," in the opinion of the agent who rented her. Jim was half
ashamed at giving up the more robust scheme of sailing his own boat, with
Aleck; but some vague and expansive spirit moved him "to see," as he
said, "what it would be like to go as far and as fast as we please."
While they were about it, they would call on some cousins at Bar Harbor
and get good fun out of it.
The idea of his holiday grew as he played with it. As his spin took on a
more complicated character, his zest rose. He went forth on Sunday
feeling as if some vital change was impending. His little cruise loomed
up large, important, epochal. He laughed at himself and thought, with
his customary optimism, that a vacation was worth waiting twelve years
for, if waiting endowed it with such a flavor. Jim knew that Aleck would
relish the spin, too. Aleck's nature was that of a grind tempered with
sportiness. Jim sat down Sunday morning and wrote out the whole program
for Aleck's endorsement, sent the letter by special delivery and went out
to reconnoiter.
The era of Sunday orchestral concerts had begun, but that day, to Jim's
regret, the singer was not a contralto. "Dramatic Soprano" was on the
program; a new name, quite unknown to Jim. His interest in the soloist
waned, but the orchestra was enough. He thanked Heaven that he was past
the primitive stage of thinking any single voice more interesting than
the assemblage of instruments known as orchestra.
Hambleton found a place in the dim vastness of the hall, and sank into
his seat in a mood of vivid anticipation. The instruments twanged, the
audience gathered, and at last the music began. Its first effect was to
rouse Hambleton to a sharp attention to details--the director, the people
in the orchestra, the people in the boxes; and then he settled down,
thinking his thoughts. The past, the future, life and its meaning, love
and its power, the long, long thoughts of youth and ambition and desire
came flocking to his brain. The noble confluence of sound that is music
worked upon him its immemorial miracle; his heart softened, his
imagination glowed, his spirit stirred. Time was lost to him--and earth.
The orchestra ceased, but Hambleton did not heed the commotion about him.
The pause and the fresh beginning of the strings scarcely disturbed his
ecstatic reverie. A deep hush lay upon the vast assemblage, broken only
by the voices of the violins. And then, in the zone of silence that lay
over the listening people--silence that vibrated to the memory of the
strings--there rose a little song. To Hambleton, sitting absorbed, it
was as if the circuit which galvanized him into life had suddenly been
completed. He sat up. The singer's lips were slightly parted, and her
voice at first was no more than the half-voice of a flute, sweet, gentle,
beguiling. It was borne upward on the crest of the melody, fuller and
fuller, as on a flooding tide.
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
At last I shall see thee--"
There was freedom in the voice, and the sense of space, of wind on the
waters, of life and the love of life.
Jimsy was a soft-hearted fellow. He never knew what happened to him; but
after uncounted minutes he seemed to be choking, while the orchestra and
the people in boxes and the singer herself swam in a hazy distance. He
shook himself, called somebody he knew very well an idiot, and laughed
aloud in his joy; but his laugh did not matter, for it was drowned in the
roar of applause that reached the roof.
Jim did not applaud. He went outdoors to think about it; and after a
time he found, to his surprise, that he could recall not only the song,
but the singer, quite distinctly. It was a tall, womanly figure, and a
fair, bright face framed abundantly with dark hair, and the least little
humorous twitch to her lips. And her name was Agatha Redmond.
"Of course, she can sing; but it isn't like having the real
thing--'tisn't an alto," said Jimsy ungratefully and just from habit.
The day's experience filled his thoughts and quieted his restlessness.
He awaited Aleck with entire patience. Monday morning he spent in small
necessary business affairs, securing, among other things, several hundred
dollars, which he put in his money-belt. About the middle of the
afternoon he left his hotel, engaged a taxicab and started for Riverside.
The late summer day was fine, with the afternoon haze settling over river
and town. He watched the procession of carriages, the horse-back riders,
the people afoot, the children playing on the grass, with a feeling of
comradeship. Was he not also tasting freedom--a lord of the earth? His
gaze traveled out to the river, with the glimmer here and there of a
tug-boat, a little steamer, or the white sail of a pleasure craft. The
blood of some seagoing ancestor stirred in his veins, and he thrilled at
the thought of the days to come when his prow should be headed offshore.
The taxicab had its limitations, and Hambleton suddenly became impatient
of its monotonous slithering along the firm road. Telling the driver to
follow him, he descended and crossed to where Cathedral Parkway switches
off. He walked briskly, feeling the tonic of the sea air, and circled
the cathedral, where workmen were lounging away after their day's toil.
The unfinished edifice loomed up like a giant skeleton of some
prehistoric era, and through its mighty open arches and buttresses Jim
saw fleecy clouds scudding across the western sky, A stone saint, muffled
in burlap, had just been swung up into his windy niche, but had not yet
discarded his robes of the world. Hambleton was regarding the shapeless
figure with mild interest, wondering which saint of the calendar could
look so grotesque, when a sound drew his attention sharply to earth. It
was a small sound, but there was something strange about it. It was
startling as a flash in a summer sky.
Besides the workmen, there was no living thing in sight on the hillside
except his own taxicab, swinging slowly into the avenue at that moment,
and a covered motor-car getting up speed a square away. Even as the car
approached, Hambleton decided that the strange sound had proceeded from
its ambushed tonneau; and it was, surely, a human voice of distress. He
stepped forward to the curb. The car was upon him, then lumbered heavily
and swiftly past. But on the instant of its passing there appeared,
beneath the lifted curtain and quite near his own face, the face of the
singer of yesterday; and from pale, agonized lips, as if with, dying
breath, she cried, "Help, help!"
Hambleton knew her instantly, although the dark abundance of her hair was
almost lost beneath hat and flowing veil, and the bright, humorous
expression was blotted out by fear. He stood for a moment rooted to the
curb, watching the dark mass of the car as it swayed down the hill. Then
he beckoned sharply to his driver, met the taxicab half way, and pointed
to the disappearing machine.
"Quick! Can you overtake it?"
"I'd like nothing better than to run down one o' them Dook machines!"
said the driver.