"Those who honestly make their own way without the aid of fortunate
circumstances and by the force of their own intelligence. This
includes the great multitude of Americans."
--GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
"He is a good fellow, spoiled. Whether he can be unspoiled, is
doubtful. It might be accomplished by the Blessing we call Sorrow."
When the two travellers arrived at Caryl's, Helen was gone. Another
telegraphic dispatch had again summoned her to her frequently dying
grandfather.
"You are disappointed," said Miss Vanhorn.
"Yes, grandaunt."
"You will have all the more time to devote to me," said the old woman,
with her dry little laugh.
Caryl's was a summer resort of an especial kind. Persons who dislike
crowds, persons who seek novelty, and, above all, persons who spend
their lives in carefully avoiding every thing and place which can even
remotely be called popular, combine to make such nooks, and give them a
brief fame--a fame which by its very nature must die as suddenly as it
is born. Caryl's was originally a stage inn, or "tarvern," in the
dialect of the district. But the stage ran no longer, and as the railway
was several miles distant, the house had become as isolated as the old
road before its door, which went literally nowhere, the bridge which had
once spanned the river having fallen into ruin. Some young men belonging
to those New York families designated by Tante as "Neeker-bokers"
discovered Caryl's by chance, and established themselves there as a
place free from new people, with some shooting, and a few trout. The
next summer they brought their friends, and from this beginning had
swiftly grown the present state of things, namely, two hundred persons
occupying the old building and hastily erected cottages, in rooms which
their city servants would have refused with scorn.
The crowd of summer travellers could not find Caryl's; Caryl's was not
advertised. It was not on the road to anywhere. It was a mysterious
spot. The vogue of such places changes as fantastically as it is
created; the people who make it take flight suddenly, and never return.
If it exist at all, it falls into the hands of another class; and there
is a great deal of wondering (deservedly) over what was ever found
attractive in it. The nobler ocean beaches, grand mountains, and
bounteous springs will always be, must always be, popular; it is
Nature's ironical method, perhaps, of forcing the would-be exclusives to
content themselves with her second best, after all.
Caryl's, now at the height of its transient fame, was merely a quiet
nook in the green country, with no more attractions than a hundred
others; but the old piazza was paced by the little high-heeled shoes of
fashionable women, the uneven floors swept by their trailing skirts.
French maids and little bare-legged children sported in the
old-fashioned garden, and young men made up their shooting parties in
the bare office, and danced in the evening--yes, really danced, not
leaving it superciliously to the boys--in the rackety bowling-alley,
which, refloored, did duty as a ball-room. There was a certain woody,
uncloying flavor about Caryl's (so it was asserted), which could not
exist amid the gilding of Saratoga. All this Miss Vanhorn related to her
niece on the day of their arrival. "I do not expect you to understand
it," she said; "but pray make no comment; ask no question. Accept
everything, and then you will pass."
Aunt and niece had spent a few days in New York, _en route_. The old
lady was eccentric about her own attire; she knew that she could afford
to be eccentric. But for her niece she purchased a sufficient although
simple supply of summer costumes, so that the young girl made her
appearance among the others without attracting especial attention.
Helen was not there; no one identified Miss Douglas as the _rara avis_
of her fantastic narrations. And there was no surface sparkle about
Anne, none of the usual girlish wish to attract attention, which makes
the eyes brighten, the color rise, and the breath quicken when entering
a new circle.
That old woman of the world, Katharine Vanhorn, took no step to attract
notice to her niece. She knew that Anne's beauty was of the kind that
could afford to wait; people would discover it for themselves. Anne
remained, therefore, quietly by her side through several days, while
she, not unwilling at heart to have so fresh a listener, talked on and
instructed her. Miss Vanhorn was not naturally brilliant, but she was
one of those society women who, in the course of years of fashionable
life, have selected and retained for their own use excellent bits of
phrasing not original with themselves, idiomatic epithets, a way of
neatly describing a person in a word or two as though you had ticketed
him, until the listener really takes for brilliancy what is no more than
a thread-and-needle shop of other people's wares.
"Any man," she said, as they sat in the transformed bowling-alley--"any
man, no matter how insignificant and unattractive, can be made to
believe that any woman, no matter how beautiful or brilliant, is in love
with him, at the expense of two looks and one sigh."
"But who cares to make him believe?" said Anne, with the unaffected,
cheerful indifference which belonged to her, and which had already
quieted Miss Vanhorn's fears as to any awkward self-consciousness.
"Most women."
"Why?"
"To swell their trains," replied the old woman. "Isabel Varce, over
there in blue, and Rachel Bannert, the one in black, care for nothing
else."
"Mrs. Bannert is very ugly," said Anne, with the calm certainty of
girlhood.
"Oh, is she?" said Miss Vanhorn, laughing shortly. "You will change your
mind, my Phyllis; you will learn that a dark skin and half-open eyes are
superb."
"If _Helen_ was here, people would see real beauty," answered Anne, with
some scorn.
"They are a contrast, I admit; opposite types. But we must not be
narrow, Phyllis; you will find that people continue to look at Mrs.
Bannert, no matter who is by. Here is some one who seems to know you."
"Mr. Dexter," said Anne, as the tall form drew near. "He is a friend of
Helen's."
"Helen has a great many friends. However, I happen to have heard of this
Mr. Dexter. You may present him to me--I hope you know how."
All Madame Moreau's pupils knew how. Anne performed her task properly,
and Dexter, bringing forward one of the old broken-backed chairs (which
formed part of the "woody and uncloying flavor" of Caryl's), sat down
beside them.
"I am surprised that you remembered me, Mr. Dexter," said the girl. "You
saw me but once, and on New-Year's Day too, among so many."
"But you remembered me, Miss Douglas."
"That is different. You were kind to me--about the singing. It is
natural that I should remember."
"And why not as natural that I should remember the singing?"
"Because it was not good enough to have made any especial impression,"
replied Anne, looking at him calmly with her clear violet eyes.
"It was at least new--I mean the simplicity of the little ballad," said
Dexter, ceasing to compliment, and speaking only the truth.
"Simplicity!" said Miss Vanhorn: "I am tired of it. I hope, Anne, you
will not sing any simplicity songs here; those ridiculous things about
bringing an ivy leaf, only an ivy leaf, and that it was but a little
faded flower. They show an extremely miserly spirit, I think. If you can
not give your friends a whole blossom or a fresh one, you had better not
give them any at all."
"Who was it who said that he was sated with poetry about flowers, and
that if the Muses must come in everywhere, he wished they would not
always come as green-grocers?" said Dexter, who knew perfectly the home
of this as of every other quotation, but always placed it in that way to
give people an opportunity of saying, "Charles Lamb, wasn't it?" or
"Sheridan?" It made conversation flowing.
"The flowers do not need the Muses," said Miss Vanhorn--"slatternly
creatures, with no fit to their gowns. And that reminds me of what Anne
was saying as you came up, Mr. Dexter; she was calmly and decisively
observing that Mrs. Bannert was very ugly."
A smile crossed Dexter's face in answer to the old woman's short dry
laugh.
"I added that if Mrs. Lorrington was here, people would see real
beauty," said Anne, distressed by this betrayal, but standing by her
guns.
Miss Vanhorn laughed again. "Mr. Dexter particularly admires Mrs.
Bannert, child," she said, cheerfully, having had the unexpected
amusement of two good laughs in an evening.
But Anne, instead of showing embarrassment, turned her eyes toward
Dexter, as if in honest inquiry.
"Mrs. Bannert represents the Oriental type of beauty," he answered,
smiling, as he perceived her frank want of agreement.
"Say creole," said Miss Vanhorn. "It is a novelty, child, which has made
its appearance lately; a reaction after the narrow-chested type which
has so long in America held undisputed sway. We absolutely take a
quadroon to get away from the consumptive, blue-eyed saint, of whom we
are all desperately tired."
"New York city is now developing a type of its own, I think," said
Dexter. "You can tell a New York girl at a glance when you meet her in
the West or the South. Women walk more in the city than they do
elsewhere, and that has given them a firm step and bearing, which are
noticeable."
"To think of comparisons between different parts of this raw land of
ours, as though they had especial characteristics of their own!" said
Miss Vanhorn, looking for a seed.
"You have not traveled much in this country, I presume," said Dexter.
"No, man, no. When I travel, I go abroad."
"I have never been abroad," answered Dexter, quietly. "But I can see a
difference between the people of Massachusetts and the people of South
Carolina, the people of Philadelphia and the people of San Francisco,
which is marked and of the soil. I even think that I can tell a
Baltimore, Buffalo, Chicago, Louisville, or St. Louis family at sight."
"You go to all those places?" said Miss Vanhorn, half closing her eyes,
and speaking in a languid voice, as if the subject was too remote for
close attention.
"Yes. You are not aware that I am a business man."
"Ah? What is it you do?" said the old woman, who knew perfectly Dexter's
entire history, but wanted to hear his own account of himself.
"I am interested in iron; that is, I have iron mills, and--other
things."
"Exactly; as you say--other things. Does that mean politics?"
"Partly," said Dexter, smiling.
"And oil?"
"No. I have never had any opportunity to coin gold with the Aladdin's
lamp found in Pennsylvania. There is no magic in any of my occupations;
they are all regular and commonplace."
"Are you in Congress now?"
"No; I was only there one term."
"A bore, isn't it?"
"Not to me."
"Congress is always a riot," said Miss Vanhorn, still with her eyes
closed.
"I can not agree with you," said Dexter, his face taking on one of its
resolute expressions. "I have small patience with those Americans who
affect to be above any interest in the government of the country in
which they live. It _is_ their country, and they can no more alter that
fact than they can change their plain grandfathers into foreign
noblemen."
"Dear me! dear me!" said Miss Vanborn, carelessly. "You talk to me as if
I were a mass-meeting."
"I beg your pardon," said Dexter, his former manner returning. "I forgot
for the moment that no one is in earnest at Caryl's."
"By-the-way, how did _you_ ever get in here?" said Miss Vanhorn, with
frank impertinence.
"I came because I like to see all sides of society," he replied, smiling
down upon her with amused eyes.
"Give me your arm. You amount to something," said the old woman, rising.
"We will walk up and down for a few moments; and, Anne, you can come
too."
"I am almost sure that he is Helen's Knight-errant," thought Anne. "And
I like him _very_ much."
A niece of Miss Vanhorn's could not of course be slighted. The next day
Isabel Varce came up and talked a while; later, Mrs. Bannert and the
others followed. Gregory Dexter was with aunt and niece frequently; and
Miss Vanhorn was pleased to be very gracious. She talked to him herself
most of the time, while Anne watched the current of the new life round
her. Other men had been presented to her; and among them she thought she
recognized the Chanting Tenor and the Poet of Helen's narratives. She
could not write to Helen; the eccentric grandfather objected to letters.
"Fools and women clog the mails," was one of his favorite assertions.
But although Anne could not write, Helen could smuggle letters
occasionally into the outgoing mail-bags, and when she learned that Anne
was at Caryl's, she wrote immediately. "Have you seen Isabel Varce yet?"
ran the letter. "And Rachel Bannert? The former is my dearest rival, the
latter my deadliest friend. Use your eyes, I beg. What amusement I shall
have hearing your descriptions when I come! For of course you will make
the blindest mistakes. However, a blind man has been known to see
sometimes what other people have never discovered. How is the Grand
Llama? I conquered her at last, as I told you I should. With a high
pressure of magnanimity. But it was all for my own sake; and now,
behold, I am here! But you can study the Bishop, the Poet, the Tenor,
and the Knight-errant in the flesh; how do you like the Knight?"
"This place is a prison," wrote Helen, again; "and I am in the mean time
consumed with curiosity to know _what_ is going on at Caryl's. Please
answer my letters, and put the answers away until I come; it is the only
method I can think of by which I can get the aroma of each day. Or,
rather, not the aroma, but the facts; you do not know much of aromas. If
facts were 'a divine thing' to Frederick the Great (Mr. Dexter told me
that, of course), they are certainly extremely solemn to you. Tell me,
then, what everybody is doing. And particularly the Bishop and the
Knight-errant."
And Anne answered the letters faithfully, telling everything she
noticed, especially as to Dexter. Who the Bishop was she had not been
able to decide.
In addition to the others, Ward Heathcote had now arrived at Caryl's,
also Mr. Blum.
In the mean time Miss Vanhorn had tested without delay her niece's new
knowledge of botany. Her face was flushed and her hand fairly trembled
with eagerness as she gave Anne her first wild flower, and ordered her
to analyze it. Would she blunder, or show herself dull and incompetent?
One thing was certain: no pretended zeal could deceive old
Katharine--she knew the reality too well.
But there was no pretense. Anne, honest as usual, analyzed the flower
with some mistakes, but with real interest; and the keen black eyes
recognized the genuine hue of the feeling, as far as it went. After that
initiation, every morning they drove to the woods, and Anne searched in
all directions, coming back loaded down with spoil. Every afternoon
there followed analyzing, pressing, drying, and labelling, for hours.
"Pray leave the foundations of our bridge intact," called Isabel Varce,
passing on horseback, accompanied by Ward Heathcote, and looking down at
Anne digging up something on the bank below, while at a little distance
Miss Vanhorn's coupé was waiting, with the old lady's hard face looking
out through the closed window.
Anne laughed, and turned her face, glowing with rose-color, upward to
look at them.
"Do you like that sort of thing?" said Isabel, pausing, having noted at
a glance that the young girl was attired in old clothes, and appeared in
every way at a disadvantage. She had no especial malice toward Anne in
this; she merely acted on general principles as applied to all of her
own sex. But even the most acute feminine minds make mistakes on one
subject, namely, they forget that to a man dress is not the woman. Anne,
in her faded gown, down on the muddy bank, with her hat off, her boots
begrimed, and her zeal for the root she was digging up, seemed to Ward
Heathcote a new and striking creature. The wind ruffled her thick brown
hair and blew it into little rings and curls about her face, her eyes,
unflinching in the brilliant sunshine, laughed back at them as they
looked over the railing; the lines of her shoulder and extended arms
were of noble beauty. To a woman's eyes a perfect sleeve is of the
highest importance; it did not occur to Isabel that through the ugly,
baggy, out-of-date sleeve down there on the bank, the wind, sturdily
blowing, was revealing an arm whose outline silk and lace could never
rival. Satisfied with her manœuvre, she rode on: Anne certainly looked
what all women would have called "a fright."
Yet that very evening Heathcote approached, recalled himself to Miss
Vanhorn's short memory, and, after a few moments of conversation, sat
down beside Anne, who received him with the same frank predisposition to
be pleased which she gave to all alike. Heathcote was not a talker like
Dexter; he seemed to have little to say at any time. He was one of a
small and unimportant class in the United States, which would be very
offensive to citizens at large if it came in contact with them; but it
seldom does. To this class there is no city in America save New York,
and New York itself is only partially endurable. National reputations
are nothing, politics nothing. Money is necessary, and ought to be
provided in some way; and generally it is, since without it this class
could not exist in a purely democratic land. But it is inherited, not
made. It may be said that simply the large landed estates acquired at an
early date in the vicinity of the city, and immensely increased in value
by the growth of the metropolis, have produced this class, which,
however, having no barriers, can never be permanent, or make to itself
laws. Heathcote's great-grandfather was a landed proprietor in
Westchester County; he had lived well, and died at a good old age, to be
succeeded by his son, who also lived well, and died not so well, and
poorer than his father. The grandson increased the ratio in both cases,
leaving to his little boy, Ward, but a small portion of the original
fortune, and departing from the custom of the house in that he died
early. The boy, without father, mother, brother, or sister, grew up
under the care of guardians, and, upon coming of age, took possession of
the remnant left to him. A good portion of this he himself had lost, not
so much from extravagance, however, as carelessness. He had been abroad,
of course, and had adopted English ways, but not with any violence. He
left that to others. He passed for good-natured in the main; he was not
restless. He was quite willing that other men should have more luxuries
than he had--a yacht, for instance, or fine horses; he felt no
irritation on the subject. On the other hand, he would have been much
surprised to learn that any one longed to take him out and knock him
down, simply as an insufferable object. Yet Gregory Dexter had that
longing at times so strongly that his hand fairly quivered.
Heathcote was slightly above middle height, and well built, but his gait
was indolent and careless. Good features unlighted by animation, a brown
skin, brown eyes ordinarily rather lethargic, thick brown hair and
mustache, and heavy eyebrows standing out prominently from the face in
profile view, were the items ordinarily given in a general description.
He had a low-toned voice and slow manner, in which, however, there was
no affectation. What was the use of doing anything with any particular
effort? He had no antipathy for persons of other habits; the world was
large. It was noticed, however (or rather it was _not_ noticed), that he
generally got away from them as soon as he quietly could. He had lived
to be thirty-two years old, and had on the whole enjoyed life so far,
although he was neither especially important, handsome, nor rich. The
secret of this lay in one fact: women liked him.
What was it that they found to like in him? This was the question asked
often in irritation by his brother man. And naturally. For the women
themselves could not give a reasonable reason. The corresponding side of
life is not the same, since men admire with a reason; the woman is
plainly beautiful, or brilliant, or fascinating round whom they gather.
At Caryl's seven or eight men were handsomer than Heathcote; a number
were more brilliant; many were richer. Yet almost all of these had
discovered, at one time or another, that the eyes they were talking to
were following Heathcote furtively; and they had seen attempts that made
them tingle with anger--all the more so because they were so
infinitesimally delicate and fine, as became the actions of well-bred
women. One or two, who had married, had had explained to them
elaborately by their wives what it was they (in their free days, of
course) had liked in Heathcote--elaborately, if not clearly. The
husbands gathered generally that it was only a way he had, a manner; the
liking was half imaginative, after all. Now Heathcote was not in the
least imaginative. But the women were.
Manly qualities, good hearts, handsome faces, and greater wealth held
their own in fact against him. Marriages took place in his circle,
wedding chimes pealed, and brides were happy under their veils in spite
of him. Yet, as histories of lives go, there was a decided balance in
his favor of feminine regard, and no one could deny it.
He had now but a small income, and had been obliged to come down to a
very simple manner of life. Those who disliked him said that of course
he would marry money. As yet, however, he had shown no signs of
fulfilling his destiny in this respect. He seldom took the trouble to
express his opinions, and therefore passed as having none; but those who
were clear-sighted knew better. Dexter was one of these, and this
entire absence of self-assertion in Ward Heathcote stung him. For Dexter
always asserted himself; he could not help it. He came in at this
moment, and noted Heathcote's position near Anne. Obeying an impulse, he
crossed the room immediately, and began a counter-conversation with Miss
Vanhorn, the chaperon.
"Trying to interest that child," he thought, as he listened to the
grandaunt with the air of deferential attention she liked so well. With
eyes that apparently never once glanced in their direction, he kept
close watch of the two beyond. "She is no match for him," he thought,
with indignation; "she has had no experience. It ought not to be
allowed."
But Dexter always mistook Heathcote; he gave him credit for plans and
theories of which Heathcote never dreamed. In fact, he judged him by
himself. Heathcote was merely talking to Anne now in the absence of
other entertainment, having felt some slight curiosity about her because
she had looked so bright and contented on the mud-bank under the bridge.
He tried to recall his impression of her on New-Year's Day, and
determined to refresh his memory by Blum; but, in the mean time,
outwardly, his manner was as though, silently of course, but none the
less deeply, he had dwelt upon her image ever since. It was this
impalpable manner which made Dexter indignant. He knew it so well! He
said to himself that it was a lie. And, generally speaking, it was. But
possibly in this case (as in others) it was not so much the falsity of
the manner as its success which annoyed the other man.
He could not hear what was said; and the words, in truth, were not many
or brilliant. But he knew the sort of quiet glance with which they were
being accompanied. Yet Dexter, quick and suspicious as he was, would
never have discovered that glance unaided. He had learned it from
another, and that other, of course, a woman. For once in a while it
happens that a woman, when roused to fury, will pour out the whole story
of her wrongs to some man who happens to be near. No man does this. He
has not the same need of expression; and, besides, he will never show
himself at such a disadvantage voluntarily, even for the sake of
comfort. He would rather remain uncomforted. But women of strong
feelings often, when excited, cast wisdom to the winds, and even seem to
find a desperate satisfaction in the most hazardous imprudences, which
can injure only themselves. In a mood of this kind, some one had poured
out to Gregory Dexter bitter testimony against Heathcote, one-sided,
perhaps, but photographically accurate in all the details, which are so
much to women. Dexter had listened with inward anger and contempt; but
he had listened. And he had recognized, besides, the accent of truth in
every word. The narrator was now in Austria with a new and foreign
husband, apparently as happy as the day is long. But the listener had
never forgotten or forgiven her account of Heathcote's method and
manner. He said to himself that he despised it, and he did despise it.
Still, in some occult way, one may be jealous of results attained even
by ways and means for which one feels a righteous contempt; and the more
so when one has a firm confidence in his own abilities, which have not
yet, however, been openly recognized in that field. In all other fields
Gregory Dexter was a marked type of American success.
As the days moved slowly on, he kept watch of Heathcote. It was more a
determination to foil him than interest in Anne which made him add
himself as a third whenever he could unobtrusively; which was not often,
since Miss Vanhorn liked to talk to him herself, and Anne knew no more
how to aid him than a nun. After a while Heathcote became conscious of
this watchfulness, and it amused him. His idea of Dexter was "a clever
sort of fellow, who has made money, and is ambitious. Goes in for
politics, and that sort of thing. Talks well, but too much. Tiresome."
He began to devote himself to Anne now in a different way; hitherto he
had been only entertaining himself (and rather languidly) by a study of
her fresh naïve truthfulness. He had drawn out her history; he, too,
knew of the island, the fort, and the dog trains. Poor Anne was always
eloquent on these subjects. Her color rose, her words came quickly.
"You are fond of the island," he said, one evening, as they sat on the
piazza in the moonlight, Dexter within three feet of them, but unable to
hear their murmured words. For Heathcote had a way of interposing his
shoulder between listeners and the person to whom he was talking, which
made the breadth of woollen cloth as much a barrier as a stone wall; he
did this more frequently now that he had discovered Dexter's
watchfulness.
"Yes," said Anne, in as low a voice as his own. Then suddenly, plainly
visible to him in the moonlight, tears welled up and dropped upon her
cheeks.
She had been homesick all day. Sometimes Miss Vanhorn was hard and cold
as a bronze statue in winter; sometimes she was as quick and fiery as if
charged with electricity. Sometimes she veered between the two. To-day
had been one of the veering days, and Anne had worked over the dried
plants five hours in a close room, now a mark for sarcastic darts of
ridicule, now enduring an icy silence, until her lot seemed too heavy to
bear. She had learned to understand the old woman's moods, but
understanding pain does not make it lighter. Released at last, a great
wave of homesickness had swept over her, which did not, however, break
bounds until Heathcote's words touched the spring; then the gates opened
and the tears came.
They had no sooner dropped upon her cheeks, one, two, three, than she
was overwhelmed with hot shame at having allowed them to fall, and with
fear lest any one should notice them. Mr. Heathcote had seen them, that
was hopelessly certain; but if only she could keep them from her
grandaunt! Yet she did not dare to lift her handkerchief lest its white
should attract attention.
But Heathcote knew what to do.
As soon as he saw the tears (to him, of course, totally unexpected; but
girls are so), he raised his straw hat, which lay on his knee, and,
holding it by the crown, began elaborately to explain some peculiarity
in the lining (he called it South American) invented for the occasion,
at the same time, by the motion, screening her face completely from
observation on the other side. But Anne could not check herself; the
very shelter brought thicker drops. He could not hold his hat in that
position forever, even to look at Brazilian linings. He rose suddenly,
and standing in front so as to screen her, he cried, "A bat! a bat!" at
the same time making a pass with his hat as though he saw it in the air.
Every one on the piazza rose, darted aside hither and thither, the
ladies covering their heads with their fans and handkerchiefs, the men
making passes with their hats, as usual on bat occasions; every one was
sure the noxious creature flew by. For a number of minutes confusion
reigned. When it was over, Anne's cheeks were dry, and a little cobweb
tie had been formed between herself and Heathcote. It was too slight to
be noticed, but it was there.