THE DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.
Another year has passed—a busy and prosperous year for the firm of
“Dykes & Delano, Florists.” Miss Galway, the modiste, still continued to
dispose of the small bouquets, and for two years, finding the supply
constant and the demand certain, she had devoted one of her windows
exclusively to them, furnished it with a little fountain, and given it
into the hands of the little girl, her sister, who sold a part of
Susie’s first installment on the Common. On the promise of Miss Galway
to devote the whole proceeds of this window to the education of the
little girl, our florists had agreed to continue the supply two years
more, though they now had their own showroom and order department in the
city, conducted by Annie, now Mrs. Storrs, assisted by another woman as
book-keeper; for the firm of Dykes & Delano were “sworn,” as the doctor
declared, to never employ a man when a woman could be found to do the
work required. The conservatory had been extended and supplied with new
heating apparatus. The wedding of Annie and George had taken place as
the doctor predicted, and Min had a lion’s share of the wedding-cake,
having munched it at intervals for a month after the event. She was now
nearly five and a half years old, for it was April, and somewhat more
than a year since Annie found her new and better world through the good
and great heart of Dr. Forest. George had kept his promise to the
doctor, to enter the lists as the champion of women, and under the
influence of his reading and the society of Annie’s friends, he had
greatly improved. His secret ambition was to become an author; and
though he continued to gain his bread as a compositor, and was expert in
the art, he spent all his spare time writing or studying. Annie proved
in every way a treasure to him, and had implicit faith in his success.
She wrote every week to “Madame Susie,” as she called her, or to Clara,
giving the most careful and minute account of the progress of her wing
of the business. Orders came in constantly, after the first six months;
and although the firm had opened business relations with a great English
nursery establishment in another part of the State, which supplied them
with young shade-trees, shrubs, and evergreens from rare foreign
invoices, they could hardly supply the demand. Ten acres of Minnie’s
legacy from Mrs. Buzzell had been put in order as a nursery, and the
propagation of shrubs and trees was progressing finely. Clara and Susie
became more and more enterprising and ambitious. The taste in Oakdale
and neighboring towns for lawn and park cultivation, was rapidly
increasing, and the young firm looked forward to getting their supplies
directly from England, instead of receiving them at second hand. One man
was now constantly employed in the nursery, and other help indoors and
out, when the busier part of the season demanded more hands.
One morning, as Clara was busy in the conservatory, Susie brought her
the card of a gentleman who was waiting in the sitting-room.
“Frauenstein?” said Clara, looking at the card, on which was written, in
pencil underneath the name, “sends his compliments to Mrs. Delano and
her partner, and would esteem it a favor to be admitted into her
conservatories.”
“Bring him in, Susie. I cannot present myself in the drawing-room in
this rig. Don’t you think I shall make an impression on his countship?”
she asked, glancing at her looped-up dress and bibbed apron.
“Why not? You are beautiful in any dress.”
“You wicked little flatterer! Well, send in his Exalted Highness, the
Count Von Frauenstein.”
Before Clara had scarcely glanced at the face of the count, she was
strongly impressed with the distinguished air of the man. He wore a
dark-blue circular, reaching nearly to the knee, and as he stepped
through the folding-doors into the broad, central passage in the
conservatory, he removed a very elegant shaped hat of soft felt, and
seeing Clara, bowed silently, with a simple, courtly air, seldom
attained except by men of the Continent. Clara returned the salute, but
remembering the European custom, did not offer him her hand.
“Madam,” he said, “I have had several glimpses of your flowers from the
outside, and I greatly desire to have a better view, if you will pardon
my presumption.”
“I am very glad to see you, sir,” Clara replied. “My father has often
spoken of you, for he is one of your ardent admirers.”
“He flatters me greatly. I am proud of his good opinion, for it is worth
more than that of other men.”
After passing, in a few minutes, those meaningless and unremembered
preliminaries, inevitable between those meeting for the first time, and
conscious of affecting each other and of being affected by a new and
strange power, the count said: “To-night I hope to meet Dr. Forest at
the Kendrick reception. You, madam, do not patronize the society here
much, I think, or I should have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
Clara’s perfect lips curled slightly, as she said, “No; I am nearly
always at home since I returned to Oakdale.”
The count had called for no other purpose than to delight his senses
with the sight of flowers, of which he was excessively fond; but
standing there among the magnificent array of colors, and breathing the
delicious breath of jasmines and heliotropes, he saw nothing, was
conscious of nothing, but the presence of a charming woman, whose every
movement, every outline, was a study, from the poise of her regal head
to the step of her beautiful feet. As the conversation continued, his
wonder increased that there should be found in an out-of-the-way,
unknown niche of the world like this Oakdale, a woman of such rare
intelligence, such grace of bearing, and that clear and concise
expression of thoughts, found very seldom among women, and not often
among men, except a choice few. Then there was a modesty surrounding her
like an atmosphere—not the modesty that is supposed to belong only to
refined women, but the modesty of the philosopher, and which is as
charming in men as in women, and equally rare in both. Yet she was
self-poised, sure of herself, and when she raised her long, dark lashes,
and flashed her splendid frank eyes upon him, he felt a diffidence in
her presence, arising from his keen desire to please her, and which was
as new to him as it was charming.
While they were talking, Min came to the door and stopped, watching the
count. As soon as he saw her, she made him a courtesy—a thing she seldom
did impromptu, though she practiced it often before Clara and with her,
Clara considering it an art, like musical execution, not to be attained
except by commencing early. Min somewhat overdid it on this occasion,
but the count returned the salutation very gravely and impressively. Min
laughed. This just suited her, for she was, as the doctor said, a born
courtier. “This is your brother’s child,” said the count, addressing
Clara. “Why, she is wonderfully beautiful!”
Minnie opened a conversation with the count, which soon developed so
many purely family matters, that Clara suggested her going away.
“Oh, do let me stay, auntie dear. I won’t talk so much any more.” After
a little silence on her part, during which Min watched the count as a
cat would a mouse, she asked, “Do you know what my name is?”
“I do. It is Minnie.”
“What is your name? please.”
“It is Paul.”
“Oh, that is a nice name. Paul, are you going to stay to dinner?” she
asked, insinuating her hand into his.
Both smiled at this outrageous freedom in the child; but Clara said,
“Minnie, you must know——”
“Now, auntie dear, _please_!” and she pressed her dimpled fingers
tightly over her lips, as much as to say, “Not one more word shall they
utter.”
“My child, auntie does not wish you to keep as silent as a statue, only
you must not do all the talking; that is impolite.” The count pressed
the little hand still resting in his, and the little hand returned the
pressure with interest, but fearing to be sent away, she maintained her
silence, evidently by a most gigantic effort, and the conversation
continued until Min, hearing the doctor’s gig drive up, flew out of the
conservatory like a streak. When she returned, it was in the doctor’s
arms. He set her down, and greeted the count with more deep heartiness
than Clara had ever seen her father manifest to any man, and this
cordiality was fully reciprocated by the count. “It does me good to see
you again,” said the doctor. “I was going to bring you to see my
daughter. You must know it has been a long-cherished desire on my part
that you two should meet. Knowing the opinions and tastes of both, I
could predict that you would find much to like in each other.”
“Permit me to say,” said the count, “that you do me great honor. I have
passed a more delightful hour than I ever expected to in Oakdale.”
“That is good!” said the doctor, delighted to discover an unmistakable
sincerity in the count’s face, and he looked towards Clara.
“I see you expect me to be effusive, also,” she said, blushing. “Well,
then, I am too embarrassed to be original. I can only echo the sentiment
of your friend, papa.”
“My doctor,” said Min, who could not keep silent any longer, “Paul won’t
stay to dinner; and we are going to have caper-sauce, and ’sparagus, and
pudding.”
“How can he resist such a _ménu_?” said the doctor, smiling, “but are
you not rather presumptive in calling the gentleman Paul?”
“No,” said Min, decidedly. “He calls me Minnie.”
“Indeed!” replied the doctor, amused at Min’s justification.
“We shall be very glad to have you dine with us,” said Clara, “if you
will do us that honor; and papa can stay also, perhaps.” But Von
Frauenstein, knowing his invitation was more or less due to Min’s
unofficial cordiality, declined, saying he was expected to dine with the
Kendricks, which was the case, though he would willingly have forgotten
that fact, had he felt perfectly free to obey his inclination. He added:
“But if you will permit me, I will call again to see your flowers. You
must know I have thus far given them no attention whatever.” The look
that accompanied these last words could not fail to flatter Clara. The
count had the most charming voice imaginable, perfectly modulated, and
in its low tones as indescribable as music itself.
Clara knew well, and every woman understands how, though it can no more
be expressed by words than can the sensation experienced at the sound of
delicious music, that this was not the last time she was to see the
Count Paul Von Frauenstein, and the certainty was a deep satisfaction to
her. As for him, as he walked away, breathing the delicate perfume of a
little bouquet in his button-hole that he had begged from Clara, he
wondered simply that there was such a woman in the world; but he, a man
of the world, acquainted with men and women of the best rank in many
countries—he knew well the secret of the charm that invested her: it was
her freedom—a quality found very seldom in women, and for the best
reasons. He met her as an equal on his own plane, and knew by instinct
that no wealth, no social rank might win her hand, much less her heart.
There were no outposts raised by feminine coquetry, to be taken by
storm, or by strategy. If she could love a man, she would turn to him as
naturally as the flowers turn to the sun. During the rest of the day,
the count’s thoughts continually kept wandering back to that pleasant
hour among the flowers; to the beautiful child, whose liking for him was
so quick and frank in its expression; and especially to Clara, a worthy
daughter, he thought, of one of the most admirable men he had ever met.
And he thought of her, and saw her mentally, in other lights than simply
as the noble daughter of an honest and clear-thinking man;—but of that
hereafter.
That evening the parlors of the Kendrick mansion were brilliantly
lighted. A pleasant wood fire burned in the open grates, and everywhere
there was a rich odor of flowers pervading the air. Mrs. Kendrick, still
young in appearance, wearing a black velvet dress with a train, and her
thin, white hands sparkling with jewels, received the guests in a rather
solemn manner that said, “Man delights me not, nor woman either;” but
the guests were in no way troubled, for they did not expect any
manifestation of exuberant cordiality on the part of any of the
Kendricks. There were but very few invited, all being “solid” men and
their wives, with the exception of the Forests. It was a special
gathering, having a special object—that of bringing Frauenstein and the
solid men together for a special purpose: namely, the springing of a
trap to catch the count’s money for a grand life and fire insurance
company, of which he was to be president. The count had often talked as
if he would some day settle in Oakdale, though the suave, impressible
cosmopolitan had talked the same thing from the Atlantic to the Pacific
coast, whenever he had been pleased with the enterprise, industrial
advantages, or location of places; but Kendrick did not know this; and
as the count’s only relatives in America were the Kendricks, except the
Delanos in Boston—and Boston the count hated—and as it was certain that
Prussia was no _vaterland_ to him, the chances did look rather bright.
But the idea of tempting Frauenstein with the presidency of a great
joint-stock insurance company, showed that Kendrick knew as little of
the man as Satan did of the One he took up “into an exceeding high
mountain.” Whoever is acquainted with the Mephistophelian penetration of
Satan, must wonder at the shallow device. How could temporal power
flatter One who said, “Blessed are the poor,” and taught that we should
take no heed of the morrow?
The count was apparently without any ordinary ambition. He had made his
immense wealth by what proved to be shrewd investments during and before
the war. He had bought and sold cotton, turned over gold in Wall Street,
bought stock in many enterprises, and instead of commanding two
millions, as Kendrick believed, he had actually at his control five
times that amount and more. Society, especially fashionable society, was
duller to him than a twice-told tale. He saw too well its miserable want
of high purpose, its petty jealousies and rivalries, its instinctive
worship of idols that to him were a vanity and vexation of spirit. One
thing his wealth gave him, and that he enjoyed—the power to utter
frankly his opinions on all subjects. No one criticised _his_
radicalism; in him, it was only charming eccentricity, at the very
worst. The only exception was Miss Charlotte, whom he had always highly
esteemed. They had been fast friends for many years.
When Mrs. Forest entered the Kendrick drawing-rooms, the first thing she
saw was Miss Charlotte Delano talking with Von Frauenstein. The latter
she expected to see; but Miss Delano’s presence was a surprise that gave
her great uneasiness. This, however, was of short duration. Both came
forward and greeted her; the count, with an easy courtesy, and
Charlotte, much to Mrs. Forest’s astonishment, rather more cordially
than ever before. The three talked together for a few minutes, until
Miss Louise Kendrick carried off the count to the piano. Then Mrs.
Forest sought to relieve her over-burdened spirit. Seeing that Charlotte
was not likely to broach the subject, she said:
“I have not seen you, Miss Delano, since the unfortunate separation of
Dr. Delano and my daughter. I can assure you it was as terrible a shock
to my family as it must have been to yours.”
“It is to be regretted, certainly,” answered Charlotte; “but I trust it
will prove for the best. I don’t think Clara is to be blamed in the
least.”
Now Mrs. Forest had counted on a right dismal, mutual howl over the
disgrace to the two families, and the sympathy she expected, from the
moment she saw that Miss Charlotte was not disposed to avoid her, was
totally wanting. Mrs. Forest began to fear that the whole world was
lapsing into loose and latitudinarian sentiments. Pretty soon the fact
was revealed that Clara had visited Charlotte in Boston since the
separation. By great effort Mrs. Forest concealed her annoyance. Clearly
there was a secret kept from her by the doctor, for, of course, whatever
Clara did he would know. To vex Mrs. Forest still more, Charlotte said
that she had never really been acquainted with Clara until the
separation, and that it was owing to the trial Clara had gone through
that they had been drawn together. Here then was an anomaly; the very
thing that had alienated her own mother from Clara had cemented the
friendship between Clara and Dr. Delano’s only sister! Mrs. Forest was
at loggerheads with herself and the world generally.
While the count played an accompaniment for a duet by the twins, the
solid men were talking in the further parlor, hidden from the piano by
one of the folding-doors. The principal one, after Kendrick, was Mr.
Burnham, one of the bank directors—a bald, clean-shaven, oldish
gentleman, whose whole air suggested stocks, bonds, investments, and
high rates of interest. He sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed
chair, for lounging or ease was something he had never cultivated. Like
Kendrick, making money was the only interest he had in life; not so much
from any miserly feeling perhaps, as from long habit of thinking and
scheming in that one narrow field. As many women grow by habit into
household drudges, until they come to feel uneasy in pretty dresses and
momentary release from the housekeeping treadmill, so these men felt
uneasy, and almost out of place any where but in the counting-room.
After a while the solid Burnham said: “I don’t see, Kendrick, that we
are to get a chance at the count to-night.”
“Upon my word,” said another, “he is as fond of woman’s talk as a
sophomore.”
“A wise fool, eh?” said Kendrick. “Yes, these foreigners are funny dogs;
but Frauenstein has a remarkably clear head, financially, though he’s
all wrong in politics—believes in female suffrage, for example. All the
women like him, that’s certain.”
“H’m! Not difficult to find a man agreeable who is a count and a
millionaire. Singular there should be so much attraction in a title in
this democratic country.”
“Frauenstein maintains that we are not a democratic country,” said
Kendrick; “that there never has been a democratic government in the
world’s history, because never one where all citizens have the ballot.”
“Haven’t they in this country? I should like to know,” said Mr. Burnham.
“Why, women have not, and they constitute more than half of the adult
citizens. I tell you, Burnham, you can’t argue that question with the
count. He’s armed at all points.”
“I’ve no desire to; but I don’t feel like waiting much longer for him to
get through his opera squalling and dawdling with the women.”
Now it was a part of Kendrick’s plan to broach the insurance scheme, not
in a set business way, but to spring it suddenly upon the count in a
general conversation when the ladies were present. He knew that many
men, ladies’ men especially, would be more vulnerable under such
circumstances—less apt to manifest any closeness where money was
concerned. The opportunity was soon found.
With the collation, or after it, coffee was brought in—a thing never
dreamed of at night, except when the count was present; then, indeed, it
was available at almost any hour, for he was, like most Europeans, very
fond of it. The solid men joined the group of three or four around a
table, where the count was sipping his _café noir_.
“Wouldn’t you like some cognac in your coffee, Frauenstein?” asked Mr.
Kendrick; and a glance at the waiter caused an elegant decanter to
appear. The count measured out two tea-spoonfuls. Kendrick and the other
gentlemen drank a tiny glass clear, and while Frauenstein was talking to
Mrs. Burnham and Mrs. Kendrick about the beauties and merits generally
of Oakdale, the solid men added valuable information about the increase
of population and the enterprise of the town. This led up to the subject
neatly, and Kendrick introduced the insurance scheme, and hoped the
count would examine it. “We ought to start,” he said, “with a capital of
half a million—say a hundred shares, at five thousand dollars each. The
truth is, everything is ripe for a heavy insurance business and the
capital can easily be doubled in a short time. The heaviest buyer would
be the president, of course.”
“That should be you, count,” said Burnham, rolling the tiny stem of his
glass, and looking boldly at a point between the count’s eyes. The
golden bait was not snapped at. On the contrary, Frauenstein threw cold
water on the project. He said he did not believe in private insurance
companies. The government should insure all its citizens. “Now this
scheme,” he said, “will benefit a few at the expense of the many. Make
it a mutual affair between all the house-owners in your town, and I will
‘go in,’ as you say.”
“How?” asked Kendrick, not liking to discourage any advance on the part
of the count, whom he had just pronounced sound on questions of finance.
“Give us your plan.”
“Well, issue for a month, in your daily paper, a call to the citizens to
prepare for taking steps to form a mutual banking and insurance company,
and announce a meeting at the end of that time, when they will have
discussed the matter very generally. Let the president and board of
directors be chosen by the popular voice. Trust the majority for knowing
who the honest men are. Let the shares be sold at one dollar, and
limited to ten for each buyer, until a certain capital is raised. Above
this amount, let any citizen deposit as much as he chooses, at the legal
rate of interest, for the banking business. I will take all the stock of
this part of the interest, if you like; for I am pretty nearly ready to
set on foot a grand enterprise here in your midst—or just over the
river, on the fifty acres of land I’ve bought there.”
By this time all were eager to know what the count’s proposition was;
but he did not show his hand at once. He was, in fact, waiting for Dr.
Forest, who, from the nature of his professional demands, was excused
for coming at any hour. Mrs. Forest and her daughters had already
retired.
Kendrick did not ask directly what the count’s enterprise was. He only
remarked upon the nature of the land, its soil and so forth, and while
he was talking, Miss Delano, who was seated next the count, pulled back
the little bouquet that was falling forward from his button-hole, and
said:
“How fragrant these are still! Where did you get them, Paul?”
“At your florists’ here—the firm of Dykes & Delano. I was in their
conservatory an hour or so, this morning, and had a very interesting
conversation with Mrs. Delano. Why, she is a very cultivated, very
charming woman. Why is it, Mrs. Kendrick,” he asked, looking squarely at
that lady, “that I have never met her at your receptions?”
Mercy! What a graveyard silence met this fatal question. Kendrick was
fidgety; Burnham annoyed that the conversation had drifted away from
business. Mrs. Kendrick, out of respect to Charlotte’s presence, could
not answer as she wished, so she looked into her coffeecup, and the
silence grew more and more oppressive. Charlotte did not consider
herself called upon to speak. At length Mrs. Burnham said, smiling: “You
ask, sir, for information, and I do not see why you should not be
answered. Since Mrs. Delano came back to Oakdale, she has not been
received in society.”
“Indeed!” replied the count, sucking the coffee-drops from his long,
silky moustache, and using his napkin. “Indeed! then all I can say is,
so much the worse for your Oakdale society. Madame, that lady’s presence
would grace any society, however distinguished.”
Mrs. Kendrick saw clearly, by the attitude and expression of her
husband, that he was expecting her tact to guide the conversation into a
smoother current; so she said quickly, and with some embarrassment, that
it was not so much the fault of Oakdale society as of Mrs. Delano
herself, who evidently wished for seclusion, and therefore her motives
should be respected.
This did not satisfy the count. He saw clearly the same spirit that he
hated and had fought all his life—the sacrifice of honest fraternal
feeling to conventional forms. He knew, without a word of explanation,
that this Mrs. Delano had offended society, and had been unforgiven; and
further, that this offence could hardly be her separation from her
husband alone, since such separations are of common occurrence. He knew
Dr. Delano, and after meeting Clara, he was at no loss to understand the
cause of the discord between them. He gave his opinions, therefore, very
concisely and pointedly, upon the folly and short-sightedness of
society, in refusing fellowship with any honest citizens whose education
and refinement gave them a natural right to admiration and respect; and
then he gave his opinion upon the special claim these women florists had
upon the community, because of their brave effort towards gaining an
independence through means which added much to the refinement and
education of the people.
“You are a true friend of our sex, Paul,” said Miss Delano; and
addressing Louise Kendrick, she added, “You know Frauenstein means
‘ladies’ rock,’ so he is rightly named.”
“And on such rocks,” said Kendrick, “I suppose they would build their
church.”
“There are not enough, unfortunately,” replied Miss Delano, “for a grand
cathedral, so we must build little altars here and there, wherever we
can find a Frauenstein.”
“You do me a very gracious honor,” said the count, “but one I am far
from deserving. I believe, though, I am always on the side of women as
against men. I see very few really happy women; and they never can be
happy, until they are pecuniarily independent. All fields should be
freely opened to them. They are quite as capable of enterprise as men
are, and of filling offices of trust. They should have the same
education that men have. Men should give their daughters money, as they
do their sons, and send them abroad to continue their education. Every
man knows how culture and experience adds to the attractiveness of a
woman.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Burnham, petulantly, “I don’t see the use of
bringing up our daughters to be modest and home-loving, if just the
opposite qualities are to be most admired.”
“My dear madam,” replied the count, “do you suppose a woman is less a
true woman and a devoted wife because of her culture and experience?”
This led Mrs. Burnham to say that every one was aware that Clara Forest
was well educated, and “considered” very superior, intellectually, but
that she had not certainly been a model wife.
“You are wrong,” said Miss Delano. “I find it very distasteful to me to
discuss such a subject, but it is my duty to say that my brother, and
not his wife, is at fault. The plain truth is, he did not show that he
could appreciate her devotion.”
“Why can’t they make it up, then?” asked Burnham. “It looks bad to see
wives cutting out in that way.”
“If women were independent, as I desire to see them,” said Von
Frauenstein, “there would be much more ‘cutting out,’ as you call it,
than you have any idea of. But, by the same token, it would make men
more careful to carry the illusions of love into matrimony.”
Here Dr. Forest was announced, and the conversation took a different
turn.