With the other news that Halleck's mother gave him on his return, she told
him of the chance that had brought his old college comrade to them again,
and of how Bartley was now married, and was just settled in the little
house she had helped his wife to find. “He has married a very pretty girl,”
she said.
“Oh, I dare say!” answered her son. “He isn't the fellow to have married a
plain girl.”
“Your father and I have been to call upon them in their new house, and they
seem very happy together. Mr. Hubbard wants you should come to see them. He
talks a great deal about you.”
“I'll look them up in good time,” said the young man. “Hubbard's ardor to
see me will keep.”
That evening Mr. Atherton came to tea, and Halleck walked home with him to
his lodgings, which were over the hill, and beyond the Public Garden. “Yes,
it's very pleasant, getting back,” he said, as they sauntered down the
Common side of Beacon Street, “and the old town is picturesque after the
best they can do across the water.” He halted his friend, and brought
himself to a rest on his cane, for a look over the hollow of the Common and
the level of the Garden where the late September dark was keenly spangled
with lamps. “'My heart leaps up,' and so forth, when I see that. Now that
Athens and Florence and Edinburgh are past, I don't think there is any
place quite so well worth being born in as Boston.” He moved forward again,
gently surging with his limp, in a way that had its charm for those that
loved him. “It's more authentic and individual, more municipal, after
the old pattern, than any other modern city. It gives its stamp, it
characterizes. The Boston Irishman, the Boston Jew, is a quite different
Irishman or Jew from those of other places. Even Boston provinciality is
a precious testimony to the authoritative personality of the city.
Cosmopolitanism is a modern vice, and we're antique, we're classic, in the
other thing. Yes, I'd rather be a Bostonian, at odds with Boston, than one
of the curled darlings of any other community.”
A friend knows how to allow for mere quantity in your talk, and only
replies to the quality, separates your earnest from your whimsicality, and
accounts for some whimsicality in your earnest. “I didn't know but you
might have got that bee out of your bonnet, on the other side,” said
Atherton.
“No, sir; we change our skies, but not our bees. What should I amount to
without my grievance? You wouldn't have known me. This talk to-night about
Hubbard has set my bee to buzzing with uncommon liveliness; and the thought
of the Law School next week does nothing to allay him. The Law School isn't
Harvard; I realize that more and more, though I have tried to fancy that it
was. No, sir, my wrongs are irreparable. I had the making of a real Harvard
man in me, and of a Unitarian, nicely balanced between radicalism and
amateur episcopacy. Now, I am an orthodox ruin, and the undutiful stepson
of a Down East _alma mater_. I belong nowhere; I'm at odds.--Is Hubbard's
wife really handsome, or is she only country-pretty?”
“She's beautiful,--I assure you she's beautiful,” said Atherton with such
earnestness that Halleck laughed.
“Well, that's right! as my father says. How's she beautiful?”
“That's difficult to tell. It's rather a superb sort of style; and--What
did you really use to think of your friend?” Atherton broke off to ask.
“Who? Hubbard?”
“Yes.”
“He was a poor, cheap sort of a creature. Deplorably smart, and regrettably
handsome. A fellow that assimilated everything to a certain extent, and
nothing thoroughly. A fellow with no more moral nature than a base-ball The
sort of chap you'd expect to find, the next time you met him, in Congress
or the house of correction.”
“Yes, that accounts for it,” said Atherton, thoughtfully.
“Accounts for what?”
“The sort of look she had. A look as if she were naturally above him, and
had somehow fascinated herself with him, and were worshipping him in some
sort of illusion.”
“Doesn't that sound a little like refining upon the facts? Recollect: I've
never seen her, and I don't say you're wrong.”
“I'm not sure I'm not, though. I talked with her, and found her nothing
more than honest and sensible and good; simple in her traditions, of
course, and countrified yet, in her ideas, with a tendency to the intensely
practical. I don't see why she mightn't very well be his wife. I suppose
every woman hoodwinks herself about her husband in some degree.”
“Yes; and we always like to fancy something pathetic in the fate of pretty
girls that other fellows marry. I notice that we don't sorrow much over the
plain ones. How's the divine Clara?”
“I believe she's well,” said Atherton. “I haven't seen her, all summer.
She's been at Beverley.”
“Why, I should have supposed she would have come up and surf-bathed those
indigent children with her own hand. She's equal to it. What made her
falter in well-doing?”
“I don't know that we can properly call it faltering. There was a deficit
in the appropriation necessary, and she made it up herself. After that,
she consulted me seriously as to whether she ought not to stay in town
and superintend the execution of the plan. But I told her she might fitly
delegate that. She was all the more anxious to perform her whole duty,
because she confessed that indigent children were personally unpleasant to
her.”
Halleck burst out laughing. “That's like Clara! How charming women are!
They're charming even in their goodness! I wonder the novelists don't take
a hint from that fact, and stop giving us those scaly heroines they've been
running lately. Why, a real woman can make righteousness delicious and
virtue piquant. I like them for that!”
“Do you?” asked Atherton, laughing in his turn at the single-minded
confession. He was some years older than his friend.
They had got down to Charles Street, and Halleck took out his watch at the
corner lamp. “It isn't at all late yet,--only half-past eight. The days are
getting shorter.”
“Well?”
“Suppose we go and call on Hubbard now? He's right up here on Clover
Street!”
“I don't know,” said Atherton. “It would do for you; you're an old friend.
But for me,--wouldn't it be rather unceremonious?”
“Oh, come along! They'll not be punctilious. They'll like our dropping in,
and I shall have Hubbard off my conscience. I must go to see him sooner or
later, for decency's sake.”
Atherton suffered himself to be led away. “I suppose you won't stay long?”
“Oh, no; I shall cut it very short,” said Halleck; and they climbed
the narrow little street where Marcia had at last found a house, after
searching the South End quite to the Highlands, and ransacking Charlestown
and Carnbridgeport. These points all seemed to her terribly remote from
where Bartley must be at work during the day, and she must be alone without
the sight of him from morning till night. The accessibility of Canary
Place had spoiled her for distances; she wanted Bartley at home for their
one-o'clock dinner; she wanted to have him within easy call at all times;
and she was glad when none of those far-off places yielded quite what they
desired in a house. They took the house on Clover Street, though it was a
little dearer than they expected, for two years, and they furnished it, as
far as they could, out of the three or four hundred dollars they had saved,
including the remaining hundred from the colt and cutter, kept sacredly
intact by Marcia. When you entered, the narrow staircase cramped you into
the little parlor opening out of the hall; and back of the parlor was
the dining-room. Overhead were two chambers, and overhead again were two
chambers more; in the basement was the kitchen. The house seemed absurdly
large to people who had been living for the last seven months in one room,
and the view of the Back Bay from the little bow-window of the front
chamber added all outdoors to their superfluous space.
Bartley came himself to answer Halleck's ring, and they met at once with
such a “Why, Halleck!” and “How do you do, Hubbard?” as restored something
of their old college comradery. Bartley welcomed Mr. Atherton under the
gas-light he had turned up, and then they huddled into the little parlor,
where Bartley introduced his old friend to his wife. Marcia wore a sort of
dark robe, trimmed with bows of crimson ribbon, which she had made
herself, and in which she looked a Roman patrician in an avatar of Boston
domesticity; and Bartley was rather proud to see his friend so visibly
dazzled by her beauty. It quite abashed Halleck, who limped helplessly
about, after his cane had been taken from him, before he sat down, while
Marcia, from the vantage of the sofa and the covert of her talk with
Atherton, was content that Halleck should be plain and awkward, with
close-cut drab hair and a dull complexion; she would not have liked even a
man who knew Bartley before she did to be very handsome.
Halleck and Bartley had some talk about college days, from which their eyes
wandered at times; and then Marcia excused herself to Atherton, and went
out, reappearing after an interval at the sliding doors, which she rolled
open between the parlor and dining-room. A table set for supper stood
behind her, and as she leaned a little forward with her hands each on
a leaf of the door, she said, with shy pride, “Bartley, I thought the
gentlemen would like to join you,” and he answered, “Of course they would,”
and led the way out, refusing to hear any demur. His heart swelled with
satisfaction in Marcia; it was something like: having fellows drop in upon
you, and be asked out to supper in this easy way; it made Bartley feel
good, and he would have liked to give Marcia a hug on the spot. He could
not help pressing her foot, under the table, and exchanging a quiver of the
eyelashes with her, as he lifted the lid of the white tureen, and looked
at her across the glitter of their new crockery and cutlery. They made the
jokes of the season about the oyster being promptly on hand for the first
of the R months, and Bartley explained that he was sometimes kept at the
Events office rather late, and that then Marcia waited supper for him, and
always gave him an oyster stew, which she made herself. She could not
stop him, and the guests praised the oysters, and then they praised the
dining-room and the parlor; and when they rose from the table Bartley said,
“Now, we must show you the house,” and persisted against her deprecations
in making her lead the way. She was in fact willing enough to show it; her
taste had made their money go to the utmost in furnishing it; and though
most people were then still in the period of green reps and tan terry, and
of dull black-walnut movables, she had everywhere bestowed little touches
that told. She had covered the marble parlor-mantel with cloth, and fringed
it; and she had set on it two vases in the Pompeiian colors then liked; her
carpet was of wood color and a moss pattern; she had done what could be
done with folding carpet chairs to give the little room a specious air
of luxury; the centre-table was heaped with her sewing and Bartley's
newspapers.
“We've just moved in, and we haven't furnished _all_ the rooms yet,” she
said of two empty ones which Bartley perversely flung open.
“And I don't know that we shall. The house is much too big for us; but
we thought we'd better take it,” he added, as if it were a castle for
vastness.
Halleck and Atherton were silent for some moments after they came away, and
then, “_I_ don't believe he whips her,” suggested the latter.
“No, I guess he's fond of her,” said Halleck, gravely.
“Did you see how careful he was of her, coming up and down stairs? That was
very pretty; and it was pretty to see them both so ready to show off their
young housekeeping to us.”
“Yes, it improves a man to get married,” said Halleck, with a long, stifled
sigh. “It's improved the most selfish hound I ever knew.”