"WHEN DUNCAN GRAY CAME HOME TO WOO."
Most people go away for change of air in the month of August, but this
was by no means the fashion in the remote, little old-world town of
Northbury. In November people left home if they could, for it was dull,
very dull at Northbury in November, but August was the prime month of
the year.
It was then the real salt from the broad Atlantic came into the limpid
waters of the little harbor. August was the month for bathing, for
yachting, for trawling. Some denizens of the outside world even came to
Northbury in August; the few lodging-houses were crammed to overflowing;
people put up with any accommodation for the sake of the crisp air, and
the lovely deep blue water of the bay. For in August this same water was
often at night alight with phosphorescent substances, which gave it the
appearance in the moonlight of liquid golden fire. It was then the girls
sang their best, and the young men said soft nothings, and hearts beat a
little more quickly than ordinary, and in short the mischievous,
teasing, fascinating god of love was abroad.
In preparation for these August days Perry the draper did a roaring
trade, for all the Northbury girls had fresh ribbons put on their sailor
hats, and fresh frills in their blue serge dresses, and their tan
leather gloves had to be neat and new, and their walking shoes trim and
whole, for the entire little world would be abroad all day and half the
night, in company with the harvest moon and the glittering golden waves,
and all the other gay, bright things of summer.
This was therefore just the most fitting season for Captain Bertram to
come back to Northbury, on wooing intent. More than one girl in the
place rejoiced at his arrival, and Mrs. Bertram so far relaxed her rigid
hold over Catherine and Mabel as to allow them to partake, in company
with their brother and Beatrice Meadowsweet, of a certain portion of the
general merry-making.
Northbury was a remarkably light-hearted little place, but it never had
entered into quite so gay a season as this memorable August when Captain
Bertram came to woo.
It somehow got into the air that this gay young officer had taken his
leave for the express purpose of getting himself a wife. Nobody quite
knew how the little gossiping whisper arose, but arise it did, and great
was the commotion put into the atmosphere, and severe the flutterings it
caused to arise in more than one gentle girl heart.
Catherine and Mabel Bertram were in the highest possible spirits during
this same month of August. Their mother seemed well once more, well, and
gay, and happy. The hard rule of economy, always a depressing
_régime_, had also for the time disappeared. The meals were almost
plentiful, the girls had new dresses, and as they went out a little it
was essential for them in their turn to entertain.
Mrs. Bertram went to some small expense to complete the tennis courts,
and she even endured the sight of the Bells and Jenkinses as they
struggled with the intricacies of the popular game.
She herself took refuge in Mr. Ingram's society. He applauded her
efforts at being sociable, and told her frankly that he was glad she was
changing her mind with regard to the Northbury folk.
"Any society is better than none," he said. "And they really are such
good creatures. Not of course in the matter of finish and outward manner
to compare with the people you are accustomed to, Mrs. Bertram, but--"
"Ah, I know," interrupted Mrs. Bertram in a gay voice. "Rough diamonds
you would call them. But you are mistaken, my dear friend; there is, I
assure you, not a diamond in this motley herd, unless I except Miss
Beatrice."
"I never class Beatrice with the other Northbury people," replied Mr.
Ingram; "there is something about her which enables her to take a stand
of her own. I think if she had been born in any rank, she would have
kept her individuality. She is uncommon, so for that matter is Miss
Catherine."
The two girls were standing together as Mr. Ingram spoke. They were
resting after a spirited game, and they made a pretty picture as they
stood under the shelter of the old oak tree. Both were in white, and
both wore large drooping hats. These hats cast picturesque shadows on
their young faces.
Mrs. Bertram looked at them with a queer half-jealous pang. Beatrice was
the child of a lowly tradesman, Catherine the daughter of a man of
family and some pretension; and yet Mrs. Bertram had to own that in any
society this tall, upright, frank, young Beatrice could hold her own,
that even Catherine whose dark face was patrician, who bore the
refinement of race in every point, could scarcely outshine this country
girl.
"It is marvellous," said Mrs. Bertram after a pause; "Beatrice is one of
nature's ladies. There are a few such, they come now and then, and no
circumstances can spoil them. To think of that girl's mother!"
"One of the dearest old ladies of my acquaintance," replied Mr. Ingram.
"Beatrice owes a great deal of her nobleness of heart and singleness of
purpose to her mother. Mrs. Bertram, I have never heard that woman say
an unkind word. I have heard calumny of her, but never from her. Then,
of course, Meadowsweet was quite a gentleman."
"My dear friend! A draper a gentleman?"
"I grant the anomaly is not common," said the Rector. "But in
Meadowsweet's case I make a correct statement. He was a perfect
gentleman after the type of some of those who are mentioned in the
Sacred Writings. He was honest, courteous, self-forgetful. His manners
were delightful, because his object ever was to put the person he was
speaking to completely at his ease. He had the natural advantage of a
refined appearance, and his accent was pure, and not marred by any
provincialisms. He could not help speaking in the best English because
he was a scholar, and he spent all his leisure studying the classics.
Therefore, although he kept a draper's shop, he was a gentleman. By the
way, Mrs. Bertram, do you know anything of the young girl who has been
staying at your lodge? You--you are tired, my dear lady?"
"A little. I will sit on this bench. There is room for you too, Rector.
Sit near me, what about the girl at my lodge?"
"She is no longer at your lodge. She has left. Do you happen to know
anything about her?"
"Nothing."
"Ah, that seems a pity. She is the sort of young creature to excite
one's sympathy. I called to see her a week ago, and she talked prettily
to me and looked sorrowful. Her name, she says, is Hart."
"Really? I--I confess I am not interested."
"But you ought to be, my dear friend, you ought to be. The girl seems
alone and defenceless. She is reserved with regard to her history, won't
make confidences, although I begged of her to confide in me, and assured
her that I, in my position, would receive what she chose to tell under
the seal of secrecy. Her eyes filled with tears, poor little soul, but
her lips were dumb."
"Oh, she has nothing to confide."
"Do you think so? I can't agree with you. Although my lot has been cast
in this remote out-of-the-world town, I have had my experiences, Mrs.
Bertram, and I never yet saw a face like Miss Hart's which did not
conceal a history."
"May I ask you, Mr. Ingram, if you ever before saw a face like Miss
Hart's?"
"Well, no, now that you put it to me, I don't think that I ever have. It
is beautiful."
"Ugly, you mean."
"No, no, Mrs. Bertram. With all due deference to your superior taste I
cannot agree with you. The features are classical, the eyes a little
wild and defiant, but capable of much expression. The hair of the
admired Rossetti type."
"Oh, spare me, Rector, spare me. I don't mean this low girl's outward
appearance. It is that which I feel is within which makes her altogether
ugly to me."
"Ah, poor child--women have intuitions, and you may be right. It would
of course not be judicious for your daughters to associate with Miss
Hart. But you, Mrs. Bertram, you, as a mother, might get at this poor
child's past, and counsel her as to her future."
"She has gone away, has she not?" asked Mrs. Bertram.
"I regret to say she has, but she may return. She promised me faithfully
to come to church on Sunday, and I called at the lodge on my way up to
leave her a little basket of fruit and flowers, and to remind her of her
promise. Mrs. Tester said she had left her, but might return again. I
hope so, and that I may be the means of helping her, for the poor
child's face disturbs me."
"I trust your wish may never be realized," murmured Mrs. Bertram, under
her breath. Aloud she said cheerfully, "I must show you my bed of
pansies, Rector. They are really quite superb."