Of course Philip wrote to Celia about his vacation intimacy with the
Mavicks. It was no news to her that the Mavicks were spending the
summer there; all the world knew that, and society wondered what whim of
Carmen's had taken her out of the regular summer occupations and immured
her in the country. Not that it gave much thought to her, but, when her
name was mentioned, society resented the closing of the Newport house
and the loss of her vivacity in the autumn at Lenox. She is such a hand
to set things going, don't you know? Mr. Mavick never made a flying
visit to his family--and he was in Rivervale twice during the
season--that the newspapers did not chronicle his every movement, and
attribute other motives than family affection to these excursions
into New England. Was the Central system or the Pennsylvania system
contemplating another raid? It could not be denied that the big
operator's connection with any great interest raised suspicion and often
caused anxiety.
Naturally, thought Celia, in such a little village, Philip would fall
in with the only strangers there, so that he was giving her no news
in saying so. But there was a new tone in his letters; she detected an
unusual reserve that was in itself suspicious. Why did he say so much
about Mrs. Mavick and the governess, and so little about the girl?
“You don't tell me,” she wrote, “anything about the Infant Phenomenon.
And you know I am dying to know.”
This Philip resented. Phenomenon! The little brown girl, with eyes that
saw so much and were so impenetrably deep, and the mobile face, so alert
and responsive. If ever there was a natural person, it was Evelyn. So he
wrote:
“There is nothing to tell; she is not an infant and she is not a
phenomenon. Only this: she has less rubbish in her mind than any person
you ever saw. And I guess the things she does not know about life are
not worth knowing.”
“I see,” replied Celia; “poor boy! it's the moth and the star. [That's
just like her, muttered Philip, she always assumed to be the older.]
But don't mind. I've come to the conclusion that I am a moth myself, and
some of the lights I used to think stars have fallen. And, seriously,
dear friend, I am glad there is a person who does not know the things
not worth knowing. It is a step in the right direction. I have been this
summer up in the hills, meditating. And I am not so sure of things as
I was. I used to think that all women needed was what is called
education--science, history, literature--and you could safely turn them
loose on the world. It certainly is not safe to turn them loose without
education--but I begin to wonder what we are all coming to. I don't mind
telling you that I have got into a pretty psychological muddle, and I
don't see much to hold on to.
“I suppose that Scotch governess is pious; I mean she has a backbone
of what they call dogma; things are right or wrong in her mind--no
haziness. Now, I am going to make a confession. I've been thinking of
religion. Don't mock. You know I was brought up religious, and I am
religious. I go to church--well, you know how I feel and especially the
things I don't believe. I go to church to be entertained. I read the
other day that Cardinal Manning said: 'The three greatest evils in
the world today are French devotional books, theatrical music, and the
pulpit orator. And the last is the worst.' I wonder. I often feel as
if I had been to a performance. No. It is not about sin that I am
especially thinking, but the sinner. One ought to do something.
Sometimes I think I ought to go to the city. You know I was in a College
Settlement for a while. Now I mean something permanent, devoted to the
poor as a life occupation, like a nun or something of that sort. You
think this is a mood? Perhaps. There have always been so many things
before me to do, and I wanted to do them all. And I do not stick to
anything? You must not presume to say that, because I confide to you all
my errant thoughts. You have not confided in me--I don't insinuate that
you have anything to confide but I cannot help saying that if you have
found a pure and clear-minded girl--Heaven knows what she will be when
she is a woman I--I am sorry she is not poor.”
But if Philip did not pour out his heart to his old friend, he did open
a lively and frequent correspondence with Alice. Not about the person
who was always in his thoughts--oh, no--but about himself, and all he
was doing, in the not unreasonable expectation that the news would go
where he could not send it directly--so many ingenious ways has love of
attaining its object. And if Alice, no doubt, understood all this, she
was nevertheless delighted, and took great pleasure in chronicling the
news of the village and giving all the details that came in her way
about the millionaire family. This connection with the world, if only by
correspondence, was an outlet to her reserved and secluded life. And
her letters recorded more of her character, of her feeling, than he had
known in all his boyhood. When Alice mentioned, as it were by chance,
that Evelyn had asked, more than once, when she had spoken of receiving
letters, if her cousin was going on with his story, Philip felt that the
connection was not broken.
Going on with his story he was, and with good heart. The thought that
“she” might some day read it was inspiration enough. Any real creation,
by pen or brush or chisel, must express the artist and be made in
independence of the demands of a vague public. Art is vitiated when
the commercial demand, which may be a needed stimulus, presides at the
creation. But it is doubtful if any artist in letters, or in form
or color, ever did anything well without having in mind some special
person, whose approval was desired or whose criticism was feared. Such
is the universal need of human sympathy. It is, at any rate, true that
Philip's story, recast and reinspired, was thenceforth written under the
spell of the pure divining eyes of Evelyn Mavick. Unconsciously this was
so. For at this time Philip had not come to know that the reason why so
many degraded and degrading stories and sketches are written is because
the writers' standard is the approval of one or two or a group of
persons of vitiated tastes and low ideals.
The Mavicks did not return to town till late in the autumn. By this time
Philip's novel had been submitted to a publisher, or, rather, to state
the exact truth, it had begun to go the rounds of the publishers. Mr.
Brad, to whose nineteenth-century and newspaper eye Philip had shrunk
from confiding his modest creation, but who was consulted in the
business, consoled him with the suggestion that this was a sure way
of getting his production read. There was already in the city a
considerable body of professional “readers,” mostly young men and women,
to whom manuscripts were submitted by the publishers, so that the
author could be sure, if he kept at it long enough, to get a pretty fair
circulation for his story. They were selected because they were good
judges of literature and because they had a keen appreciation of what
the public wanted at the moment. Many of them are overworked, naturally
so, in the mass of manuscripts turned over to their inspection day after
day, and are compelled often to adopt the method of tea-tasters, who
sip but do not swallow, for to drink a cup or two of the decoction would
spoil their taste and impair their judgment, especially on new brands.
Philip liked to imagine, as the weeks passed away--the story is old and
need not be retold here--that at any given hour somebody was reading
him. He did not, however, dwell with much delight upon this process, for
the idea that some unknown Rhadamanthus was sitting in judgment upon
him much more wounded his 'amour propre', and seemed much more like an
invading of his inner, secret life and feeling, than would be an instant
appeal to the general public. Why, he thought, it is just as if I had
shown it to Brad himself--apiece of confidence that he could not
bring himself to. He did not know that Brad himself was a reader for
a well-known house--which had employed him on the strength of his
newspaper notoriety--and that very likely he had already praised the
quality of the work and damned it as lacking “snap.”
It was, however, weary waiting, and would have been intolerable if his
duties in the law office had not excluded other thoughts from his mind
a good part of the time. There were days when he almost resolved to
confine himself to the solid and remunerative business of law, and give
up the vague aspirations of authorship. But those vague aspirations
were in the end more enticing than the courts. Common-sense is not an
antidote to the virus of the literary infection when once a young soul
has taken it. In his long walks it was not on the law that Philip
was ruminating, nor was the fame of success in it occupying his mind.
Suppose he could write one book that should touch the heart of the
world. Would he exchange the sweetness of that for the fleeting
reputation of the most brilliant lawyer? In short, he magnified beyond
all reason the career and reputation of the author, and mistook the
consideration he occupies in the great world. And what a world it would
be if there had not been a continuous line of such mistaken fools as he!
That it was not literature alone that inflated his dreams was evidenced
by the direction his walks took. Whatever their original destination or
purpose, he was sure to pass through upper Fifth Avenue, and walk by the
Mavick mansion. And never without a lift in his spirits. What comfort
there is to a lover in gazing at the blank and empty house once occupied
by his mistress has never been explained; but Philip would have counted
the day lost in which he did not see it.
After he heard from Alice that the Mavicks had returned, the house had
still stronger attractions for him, for there was added the chance of
a glimpse of Evelyn or one of the family. Many a day passed, however,
before he mustered up courage to mount the steps and touch the button.
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, “the family is returned, but they is
h'out.”
Philip left his card. But nothing came of it, and he did not try again.
In fact, he was a little depressed as the days went by. How much doubt
and anxiety, even suffering, might have been spared him if the historian
at that moment could have informed him of a little shopping incident at
Tiffany's a few days after the Mavicks' return.
A middle-aged lady and a young girl were inspecting some antiques. The
girl, indeed, had been asking for ancient coins, and they were shown two
superb gold staters with the heads of Alexander and Philip.
“Aren't they beautiful?” said the younger. “How lovely one would be for
a brooch!”
“Yes, indeed,” replied the elder, “and quite in the line of our Greek
reading.”
The girl held them in her hand and looked at one and the other with a
student's discrimination.
“Which would you choose?”
“Oh, both are fine. Philip of Macedon has a certain youthful freshness,
in the curling hair and uncovered head. But, of course, Alexander the
Great is more important, and then there is the classic casque. I should
take the Alexander.” The girl still hesitated, weighing the choice in
her mind from the classic point of view.
“Doubtless you are right. But”--and she held up the lovely head--“this
is not quite so common, and--and--I think I'll take the Macedon one.
Yes, you may set that for me,” turning to the salesman.
“Diamonds or pearls?” asked the jeweler.
“Oh, dear, no!” exclaimed the girl; “just the head.”
Evelyn's education was advancing. For the first time in her life she had
something to conceal. The privilege of this sort of secret is, however,
an inheritance of Eve. The first morning she wore it at breakfast Mrs.
Mavick asked her what it was.
“It's a coin, antique Greek,” Evelyn replied, passing it across the
table.
“How pretty it is; it is very pretty. Ought to have pearls around it.
Seems to be an inscription on it.”
“Yes, it is real old. McDonald says it is a stater, about the same as a
Persian daric-something like the value of a sovereign.”
“Oh, indeed; very interesting.”
To give Evelyn her due, it must be confessed that she blushed at this
equivocation about the inscription, and she got quite hot with shame
thinking what would become of her if Philip should ever know that she
was regarding him as a stater and wearing his name on her breast.
One can fancy what philosophical deductions as to the education of women
Celia Howard would have drawn out of this coin incident; one of them
doubtless being that a classical education is no protection against
love.
But for Philip's connection with the thriving firm of Hunt, Sharp &
Tweedle, it is safe to say that he would have known little of the world
of affairs in Wall Street, and might never have gained entrance into
that other world, for which Wall Street exists, that society where its
wealth and ambitious vulgarity are displayed. Thomas Mavick was a client
of the firm. At first they had been only associated with his lawyer, and
consulted occasionally. But as time went on Mr. Mavick opened to
them his affairs more and more, as he found the advantage of being
represented to the public by a firm that combined the highest social
and professional standing with all the acumen and adroitness that his
complicated affairs required.
It was a time of great financial feverishness and uncertainty, and of
opportunity for the most reckless adventurers. Houses the most solid
were shaken and crippled, and those which were much extended in a
variety of adventures were put to their wits' ends to escape shipwreck.
Financial operations are perpetual war. It is easy to calculate about
the regular forces, but the danger is from the unexpected “raids”
and the bushwhackers and guerrillas. And since politics has become
inextricably involved in financial speculations (as it has in real war),
the excitement and danger of business on a large scale increase.
Philip as a trusted clerk, without being admitted into interior secrets,
came to know a good deal about Mavick's affairs, and to be more than
ever impressed with his enormous wealth and the magnitude of his
operations. From time to time he was sent on errands to Mavick's office,
and gradually, as Mavick became accustomed to him as a representative of
the firm, they came on a somewhat familiar footing, and talked of
other things than business. And Mavick, who was not a bad judge of the
capacities of men, conceived a high idea of Philip's single-mindedness,
of his integrity and general culture, and, as well, of his agreeableness
(for Philip had a certain charm where he felt at ease), while at the
same time he discovered that his mind was more upon something else
than law, and that, if his success in his profession depended upon his
adoption of the business methods of the Street, he could not go very
far. Consequently he did not venture upon the same confidences with him
that he habitually did with Mr. Sharp. Yet, business aside, he had an
intellectual pleasure in exchanging views with Philip which Mr. Sharp's
conversation did not offer him.
When, therefore, Mrs. Mavick came to consult her husband about the list
for the coming-out reception of Evelyn, Philip found a friend at court.
“It is all plain enough,” said Carmen, as she sat down with book and
pencil in hand, “till you come to the young men, the unattached young
men. Here is my visiting-list, that of course. But for the young ladies
we must have more young men. Can't you suggest any?”
“Perhaps. I know a lot of young fellows.”
“But I mean available young men, those that count socially. I don't want
a broker's board or a Chamber of Commerce here.”
Mr. Mavick named half a dozen, and Carmen looked for their names in the
social register. “Any more?”
“Why, you forgot young Burnett, who was with you last summer at
Rivervale. I thought you liked him.”
“So I did in Rivervale. Plain farmer people. Yes, he was very nice to
us. I've been thinking if I couldn't send him something Christmas and
pay off the debt.”
“He'd think a great deal more of an invitation to your reception.”
“But you don't understand. You never think of Evelyn's future. We are
asking people that we think she ought to know.”
“Well, Burnett is a very agreeable fellow.”
“Fiddlesticks! He is nothing but a law clerk. Worse than that, he is a
magazine writer.”
“I thought you liked his essays and stories.”
“So I do. But you don't want to associate with everybody you like that
way. I am talking about society. You must draw the line somewhere. Oh, I
forgot Fogg--Dr. LeRoy Fogg, from Pittsburg.” And down went the name of
Fogg.
“You mean that young swell whose business it is to drive a four-in-hand
to Yonkers and back, and toot on a horn?”
“Well, what of that? Everybody who is anybody, I mean all the girls,
want to go on his coach.”
“Oh, Lord! I'd rather go on the Elevated.” And Mavick laughed very
heartily, for him. “Well, I'll make a compromise. You take Fogg and I'll
take Burnett. He is in a good firm, he belongs to a first-rate club,
he goes to the Hunts' and the Scammels', I hear of him in good places.
Come.”
“Well, if you make a point of it. I've nothing against him. But if you
knew the feelings of a mother about her only daughter you would know,
that you cannot be too careful.”
When, several days after this conversation, Philip received his big
invitation, gorgeously engraved on what he took to be a sublimated
sort of wrapping-paper, he felt ashamed that he had doubted the sincere
friendship and the goodness of heart of Mrs. Mavick.