CHAINED TO AN ICEBERG
Hillaton, the suburban city in which the Arnots resided, was not very
distant from New York, and drew much of its prosperity from its
relations with the metropolis. It prided itself much on being a
university town, but more because many old families of extremely blue
blood and large wealth gave tone and color to its society. It is true
that this highest social circle was very exclusive, and formed but a
small fraction of the population; but the people in general had come to
speak of "our society," as being "unusually good," just as they
commended to strangers the architecture of "our college buildings,"
though they had little to do with either.
Mrs. Arnot's blood, however, was as blue as that of the most ancient and
aristocratic of her neighbors, while in character and culture she had
few equals. But with the majority of those most cerulean in their vital
fluid the fact that she possessed large wealth in her own name, and was
the wife of a man engaged in a colossal business, weighed more than all
her graces and ancestral honors.
Young Haldane's employer, Mr. Arnot, was, indeed, a man of business and
method, for the one absorbed his very soul, and the other divided his
life into cubes and right angles of manner and habit. It could scarcely
be said that he had settled down into ruts, for this would presuppose
the passiveness of a nature controlled largely by circumstances. People
who travel in ruts drop more often into those made by others than such
as are worn by themselves. Mr. Arnot moved rather in his own
well-defined grooves, which he had deliberately furrowed out with his
own steely will. In these he went through the day with the same strong,
relentless precision which characterized the machinery in his several
manufacturing establishments.
He was a man, too, who had always had his own way, and, as is usually
true in such instances, the forces of his life had become wholly
centripetal.
The cosmos of the selfish man or woman is practically this--Myself the
centre of the universe, and all things else are near or remote, of value
or otherwise, in accordance with their value and interest to me.
Measuring by this scale of distances (which was the only correct one in
the case of Mr. Arnot) the wife of his bosom was quite a remote object.
She formed no part of his business, and he, in his hard, narrow
worldliness, could not even understand the principles and motives of her
action. She was a true and dutiful wife, and presided over his household
with elegance and refinement; but he regarded all this as a matter of
course. He could not conceive of anything else in _his_ wife. All
his "subordinates" in their several spheres, "must" perform their duties
with becoming propriety. Everything "must be regular and systematic" in
his house, as truly as in his factories and counting-room.
Mrs. Arnot endeavored to conform to his peculiarities in this respect,
and kept open the domestic grooves in which it was necessary to his
peace that he should move regularly and methodically. He had his meals
at the hour he chose, to the moment, and when he retired to his
library--or, rather, the business office at his house--not the
throne-room of King Ahasuerus was more sacred from intrusion; and seldom
to his wife, even, was the sceptre of favor and welcome held out, should
she venture to enter.
For a long time she had tried to be an affectionate as well as a
faithful wife, for she had married this man from love. She had mistaken
his cool self-poise for the calmness and steadiness of strength; and
women are captivated by strength, and sometimes by its semblance. He was
strong; but so also are the driving-wheels of an engine.
There is an undefined, half-recognized force in nature which leads many
to seek to balance themselves by marrying their opposites in
temperament. While the general working of this tendency is, no doubt,
beneficent, it not unfrequently brings together those who are so
radically different, that they cannot supplement each other, but must
ever remain two distinct, unblended lives, that are in duty bound to
obey the letter of the law of marriage, but who cannot fulfil its
spirit.
For years Mrs. Arnot had sought with all a woman's tact to consummate
their marriage, so that the mystical words of God, "And they twain shall
be one flesh," should describe their union; but as time passed she had
seen her task grow more and more hopeless. The controlling principles of
each life were utterly different. He was hardening into stone, while the
dross and materiality of her nature were being daily refined away. A
strong but wholly selfish character cannot blend by giving and taking,
and thus becoming modified into something different and better. It can
only absorb, and thus drag down to its own condition. Before there can
be unity the weaker one must give up and yield personal will and
independence to such a degree that it is almost equivalent to being
devoured and assimilated.
But Mr. Arnot seemed to grow too narrow and self-sufficient in his
nature for such spiritual cannibalism, even had his wife been a weak,
neutral character, with no decided and persistent individuality of her
own. He was not slow in exacting outward and mechanical service, but he
had no time to "bother" with her thoughts, feelings, and opinions; nor
did he think it worth while, to any extent, to lead her to reflect only
his feelings and opinions. Neither she nor any one else was very
essential to him. His business _was_ necessary, and he valued it even
more than the wealth which resulted from it. He grew somewhat like his
machinery, which needed attention, but which cherished no sentiments
toward those who waited on it during its hours of motion.
Thus, though not deliberately intending it, his manner toward his wife
had come to be more and more the equivalent of a steady black frost, and
she at last feared that the man had congealed or petrified to his very
heart's core.
While the only love in Mr. Arnot's heart was self-love, even in this
there existed no trace of weak indulgence and tenderness. His life
consisted in making his vast and complicated business go forward
steadily, systematically, and successfully; and he would not permit that
entity known as Thomas Arnot to thwart him any more than he would brook
opposition or neglect in his office-boy. All things, even himself, must
bend to the furtherance of his cherished objects.
But, whatever else was lacking, Mr. Arnot had a profound respect for his
wife. First and chiefly, she was wealthy, and he, having control of her
property, made it subservient to his business. He had chafed at first
against what he termed her "sentimental ways of doing good" and her
"ridiculous theories," but in these matters he had ever found her as
gentle as a woman, but as unyielding as granite. She told him plainly
that her religious life and its expression were matters between herself
and God--that it was a province into which his cast-iron system and
material philosophy could not enter. He grumbled at her large charities,
and declared that she "turned their dwelling into a club-house for young
men"; but she followed her conscience with such a quiet, unswerving
dignity that he found no pretext for interference. The money she gave
away was her own, and fortunately, the house to which it was her delight
to draw young men from questionable and disreputable places of resort
had been left to her by her father. Though she did not continually
remind her husband of these facts, as an under-bred woman might have
done, her manner was so assured and unhesitating that he was compelled
to recognize her rights, and to see that she was fully aware of them
also. Since she yielded so gracefully and considerately all and more
than he could justly claim, he finally concluded to ignore what he
regarded as her "peculiarities." As for himself, he had no
peculiarities. He was a "practical, sensible man, with no nonsense about
him."
Mrs. Haldane had been in such sore straits and perplexity about her son
that she overcame her habitual reserve upon family and personal matters,
and wrote to her friend a long and confidential letter, in which she
fully described the "mysterious providence" which was clouding her life.
Mrs. Arnot had long been aware of her friend's infirmity, and more than
once had sought with delicacy and yet with faithfulness to open her eyes
to the consequences of her indulgence. But Mrs. Haldane, unfortunately,
was incapable of taking a broad, and therefore correct, view of
anything. She was governed far more by her prejudices and feelings than
by reason or experience, and the emotion or prejudice uppermost absorbed
her mind so completely as to exclude all other considerations. Her
friendship for Mrs. Arnot had commenced at school, but the two ladies
had developed so differently that the relation had become more a
cherished memory of the happy past than a congenial intimacy of their
maturer life.
The "mysterious providence" of which Mrs. Haldane wrote was to Mrs.
Arnot a legitimate and almost inevitable result. But, now that the
mischief had been accomplished, she was the last one in the world to say
to her friend, "I told you so." To her mind the providential feature in
the matter was the chance that had come to her of counteracting the evil
which the mother had unconsciously developed. This opportunity was in
the line of her most cherished plan and hope of usefulness, as will be
hereafter seen, and she had lost no time in persuading her husband to
give Haldane employment in his counting-room. She also secured his
consent that the youth should become a member of the family, for a time
at least. Mr. Arnot yielded these points reluctantly, for it was a part
of his policy to have no more personal relations with his _employes_
than with his machinery. He wished them to feel that they were merely a
part of his system, and that the moment any one did not work regularly
and accurately he must be cast aside as certainly as a broken or
defective wheel. But as his wife's health made her practically a silent
partner in his vast business, he yielded--though with rather ill grace,
and with a prediction that it "would not work well."
Haldane was aware that his mother had written a long letter to Mrs.
Arnot, and he supposed that his employer and his wife had thus become
acquainted with all his misdeeds. He, therefore, rather dreaded to meet
those who must, from the first, regard him as a graceless and difficult
subject, that could not be managed at home. But, with the characteristic
recklessness of young men who have wealth to fall back upon, he had
fortified himself by thoughts like the following:
"If they do not treat me well, or try to put me into a straight-jacket,
or if I find the counting-house too dull, I can bid them good-morning
whenever I choose."
But Mrs. Arnot's frank and cordial reception was an agreeable surprise.
He arrived quite late in the evening, and she had a delightful little
lunch brought to him in her private parlor. By the time it was eaten her
graceful tact had banished all stiffness and sense of strangeness, and
he found himself warming into friendliness toward one whom he had
especially dreaded as a "remarkably pious lady"--for thus his mother had
always spoken of her.
It was scarcely strange that he should be rapidly disarmed by this lady,
who cannot be described in a paragraph. Though her face was rather
plain, it was so expressive of herself that it seldom failed to
fascinate. Nature can do much to render a countenance attractive, but
character accomplishes far more. The beauty which is of feature merely
catches the careless, wandering eye. The beauty which is the reflex of
character _holds_ the eye, and eventually wins the heart. Those who
knew Mrs. Arnot best declared that, instead of growing old and homely,
she was growing more lovely every year. Her dark hair had turned gray
early, and was fast becoming snowy white. For some years after her
marriage she had grown old very fast. She had dwelt, as it were, on the
northern side of an iceberg, and in her vain attempt to melt and
humanize it, had almost perished herself. As the earthly streams and
rills that fed her life congealed, she was led to accept of the love of
God, and the long arctic winter of her despair passed gradually away.
She was now growing young again. A faint bloom was dawning in her
cheeks, and her form was gaming that fulness which is associated with
the maturity of middle age. Her bright black eyes were the most
attractive and expressive feature which she possessed, and they often
seemed gifted with peculiar powers.
As they beamed upon the young man they had much the same effect as the
anthracite coals which glowed in the grate, and he began to be conscious
of some disposition to give her his confidence.
Having dismissed the servant with the lunch tray, she caused him to draw
his chair sociably up to the fire, and said, without any circumlocution:
"Mr. Haldane, perhaps this is the best time for us to have a frank talk
in regard to the future."
The young man thought that this was the preface for some decided
criticism of the past, and his face became a little hard and defiant.
But in this he was mistaken, for the lady made no reference to his
faults, of which she had been informed by his mother. She spoke in a
kindly but almost in a business-like way of his duties in the
counting-room, and of the domestic rules of the household, to which he
would be expected to conform. She also spoke plainly of her husband's
inexorable requirement of system, regularity, and order, and dwelt upon
the fact that all in his employ conformed to this demand, and that it
was the business-like and manly thing to do.
"This is your first venture out into the world, I understand," she said,
rising to intimate that their interview was over, "and I greatly wish
that it may lead toward a useful and successful career. I have spoken
plainly because I wished you to realize just what you have undertaken,
and thus meet with no unpleasant surprises or unexpected experiences.
When one enters upon a course with his eyes open, he in a certain sense
pledges himself to do the best he can in that line of duty, and our
acquaintance, though so brief, has convinced me that you _can_ do very
well indeed."
"I was under the impression," said the young man, coloring deeply, "that
my mother's letter had led you to suppose--to expect just the contrary."
"Mr. Haldane," said Mrs. Arnot, giving him her hand with graceful tact,
"I shall form my opinion of you solely on the ground of your own action,
and I wish you to think of me as a friend who takes a genuine interest
in your success. Good-night."
He went to his room in quite a heroic and virtuous mood.
"She does not treat me a bit like a 'bad boy,' as I supposed she would,"
he thought; "but appears to take it for granted that I shall be a
gentleman in this her house, and a sensible fellow in her husband's
office. Blow me if I disappoint her!"
Nor did he for several weeks. Even Mr. Arnot was compelled to admit that
it did "work rather better than he expected," and that he "supposed the
young fellow did as well as he could."
As the novelty of Haldane's new relations wore off, however, and as his
duties became so familiar as to be chiefly a matter of routine, the
grave defects of his character and training began to show themselves.
The restraint of the counting-room grew irksome. Associations were
formed in the city which tended toward his old evil habits. As a piece
of Mr. Arnot's machinery he did not move with the increasing precision
that his employer required and expected on his becoming better
acquainted with his duties.
Mrs. Arnot had expected this, and knew that her husband would tolerate
carelessness and friction only up to a certain point. She had gained
more influence over the young man than any one else had ever possessed,
and by means of it kept him within bounds for some time; but she saw
from her husband's manner that things were fast approaching a crisis.
One evening she kindly, but frankly, told him of the danger in which he
stood of an abrupt, stern dismissal.
He was more angry than alarmed, and during the following day about
concluded that he would save himself any such mortification by leaving
of his own accord. He quite persuaded himself that he had a soul above
plodding business, and that, after enjoying himself at home for a time,
he could enter upon some other career, that promised more congeniality
and renown.
In order that his employer might not anticipate him, he performed his
duties very accurately that day, but left the office with the
expectation of never returning.
He had very decided compunctions in thus requiting Mrs. Arnot's
kindness, but muttered recklessly:
"I'm tired of this humdrum, treadmill life, and believe I'm destined to
better things. If I could only get a good position in the army or navy,
the world would hear from me. They say money opens every door, and
mother must open some good wide door for me."
Regardless now of his employer's good or bad opinion, he came down late
to supper; but, instead of observing with careless defiance the frown
which he knew lowered toward him, his eyes were drawn to a fair young
face on the opposite side of the table.
Mrs. Arnot, in her pleasant, cordial voice, which made the simplest
thing she said seem real and hearty, rather than conventional,
introduced him:
"Mr. Haldane, my niece, Miss Laura Romeyn. Laura, no doubt, can do far
more than an old lady to make your evenings pass brightly."
After a second glance of scrutiny, Haldane was so ungratefully forgetful
of all Mrs. Arnot's kindness as to be inclined to agree with her remark.