THE PROGRESS OF ACQUAINTANCE
Judith, before she met Ellis for this second time, had been bored.
Chebasset was so dull that it was dreary; in the country-houses were
given little teas, slow whist-parties, or stupid luncheons. Of the young
people of her age some had married, others had gone into business, and
the self-content of the first of these was not to be disturbed, nor the
fatigue of the others to be increased, for the sake of giving Judith a
good time. She became a little impatient with her surroundings,
therefore, and as the sizzling summer brought physical discomfort, she
was inclined to lay the blame where it could scarcely with justice be
said to belong. Yet while her acquaintances were not responsible for the
heat, Judith, with her abundant energies unused, was right in feeling
that society was sunk in sloth, and that instead of giving itself to
petty diversions it had better do something worth while. She was
discontented with herself, her idleness, her uselessness; she felt that
she would rather face even the heat of the city, and be doing, than stay
longer on her piazza and keep cool. Therefore she had sought the dusty
road as a sort of penance, and meeting Ellis, had been reminded of what
he stood for: the world of working men and women.
She had thought of him many times since their first meeting, making his
achievements a standard to which only Pease and Fenno approximated, and
of which Mather fell far short. She had continued to read of Ellis in
the newspapers, to watch his slow course of uninterrupted success, and
had come to accept the popular idea of his irresistible genius. Feeling
this natural admiration of his immense energy and skill, in her heart
she made little of the two obstacles which were said to lie in his path.
For it was claimed, first, that some day the street-railway would prove
too much for him, bringing him as it did in contact with the organised
mass of labourers, and with the public which Mather had accustomed to an
excellent standard of service. Could Ellis always maintain the present
delicate balance between dividends, wages, and efficiency? Again it was
said that some day he would come in conflict with Judith's own class,
which, when it chose to exert its power, would rise and hurl him down.
Judith put no belief in either of these prophesies, considering Ellis
able to avoid all difficulties, her caste too flabby to oppose him. So
she thought of him as destined always to conquer; he would win his way
even among the elect, and might become a friend of hers. For she could
help him; they were alike in their loneliness, and their outlook upon
life was the same. Therefore when she met him she welcomed him.
A fillip to the wheel of her fate was given as she and Ellis went up the
hill. They met Miss Fenno coming down. Now Miss Fenno was the extreme
type of the society-bred person, knowing nothing but the one thing. Her
interests were so small that they included less than the proverbial
four-hundred people; her prejudices were so large that they formed a
sort of Chinese wall to exclude any real humanity of soul. And all she
did at this juncture was to gaze very superciliously at Ellis, and then
to give the coldest of nods to Judith as she passed.
"The Fenno manner," grumbled Ellis to himself.
But Judith flamed with resentment. She brought Ellis up to her own
piazza, a few minutes later, with that in her bearing which her father
recognised as her panoply of war: quietness, erectness, something of
hauteur. The Colonel rose hastily.
"I have brought Mr. Ellis," she said.
"Glad to see him!" exclaimed the Colonel as if he had been spurred. "Mr.
Ellis is a stranger in Chebasset."
Ellis had the wisdom to attempt no manner. "I come here seldom," he
responded. "You are very kind to welcome me, Colonel."
He wondered if the use of the title were proper in the upper circle, and
if he should have answered differently. Moments such as this made the
game seem scarcely worth the candle; the nerve and fiber used up were
more than a day of business would require. But his qualities asserted
themselves. Here he was where he most wanted to be; he meant to win the
right to come again.
"What do you think of our view?" the Colonel asked, leading his guest to
the edge of the piazza. The hill fell away steeply, the town lay below,
and scattered on the farther hillsides were the villas of the
well-to-do. The Colonel began pointing out the residences. "Alfred Fenno
over there--Alfred, not William, you know; richer than his brother, but
not so prominent. And down there is Branderson; he overlooks the river,
but he also sees the new chimney, which we miss." The Colonel added, "A
good deal of money he has spent there."
"I should think so," agreed Ellis.
"The Dents are over there," Blanchard proceeded. "Rather pretentious the
house is, in my opinion, like--" his voice faded away; he had had in
mind Ellis's own house in the city. "----Er, gingerbready, don't you
think?"
"The elms don't let me see it very well," Ellis was glad to answer. For
what was gingerbready? Sticky?
"But much money in it," said the Colonel. "Dent has made a good thing of
his mills."
"Very good thing," murmured Ellis. He was interested to hear these
comments of an insider.
"Kingston's place is over there," continued the Colonel. "Now, I like,
do you know, Mr. Ellis, what Kingston has done with that house. Small,
but a gem, sir--a gem! Money has not been spared--and there's lots of
money there!" quoth the Colonel, wagging his head.
Ellis began to perceive the monotony of these descriptions. Money,
riches; riches, money. And there was an unction to each utterance which
might betray the inner man. Judith perceived this also.
"Let us have tea," she said, and going where the tea-table stood, she
rang for the maid. But the Colonel continued:
"And William Fenno is over there--a fine house, Mr. Ellis; pure
Georgian, a hundred years old if it's a day. A very old family, and a
very old family fortune. The West India trade did it, before our
shipping declined."
"Long ago," murmured Ellis. He knew very little of those old days. The
present and the immediate future concerned him, and as for the causes of
industrial changes, he was one himself.
"Come," insisted Judith, "come and sit down, and let us leave off
talking of people's possessions."
"Judith! My dear!" remonstrated the Colonel. But the maid was bringing
out the steaming kettle, and he took his seat by the table. "My
daughter," he said to Ellis, half playfully, "does not concern herself
with things which you and I must consider."
Judith raised her eyebrows. "Do you take sugar, Mr. Ellis?" she asked.
"Sugar, if you please," he answered. He was divided in his interest as
he sat there, for he had taken from the chair, and now held in his hand,
the newspaper which the Colonel had been reading as they arrived. Ellis
saw pencillings beside the stock-exchange reports, but though he wished
to read them he did not dare, and so laid the paper aside to watch
Judith make the tea. This was new to him. Mrs. Harmon had never taken
the trouble to offer him tea, though the gaudy outfit stood always in
her parlour. He knew that the "proper thing" was his at last, in this
detail, but how to take the cup, how hold it, drink from it? Confound
the schoolboy feeling!
"It was hot in the city to-day?" asked the Colonel.
"Uncomfortable," answered Ellis. "You are fortunate, Miss Blanchard, not
to have to go to the city every day, as some girls do."
"I'm not so sure," she responded. "It's dull here, doing nothing. I
sometimes wish I were a stenographer."
"Judith!" exclaimed her father.
"To earn your own living?" asked Ellis.
"I should not be afraid to try," she replied.
"You'd make a good stenographer, I do believe," he exclaimed.
"Thank you," she answered.
His enthusiasm mounted. "I have a situation open!" he cried.
"You wouldn't find her spelling perfect," commented the Colonel grimly.
He laughed with immense enjoyment at his joke, and at the moment Beth
Blanchard came out of the house and joined them.
Ellis did not see her at first; he was watching the Colonel, and divined
that no great barrier separated him from the aristocrat; there had been
in Blanchard's manner nothing that expressed repulsion--nothing like
Fenno's coolness, for instance, or the constant scrutiny which was so
uncomfortable. Blanchard had seemed willing to fill up his idle hours by
speech with any one; he was a new specimen, therefore, and Ellis was
studying him, when of a sudden he heard Judith speak his name, and
looked up to meet the gaze of a pair of quiet eyes. With a little start
he scrambled to his feet.
"My sister," Judith was saying.
He bowed and endeavoured to speak, but he felt that the beginning was
wrong. Beth was in turn dissecting him; she was something entirely
different from Judith, more thoughtful, less headstrong. The idea that
here was an adverse influence came into his mind, as he stammered that
he was pleased to meet her.
"Thank you, Mr. Ellis," she answered. Judith noticed that Beth on her
part expressed no pleasure. The little sister had individuality, with a
persistence in her own opinion which sometimes contrasted strongly with
her usual softness. But the incident was brief, for Beth's eye lighted
as she saw a visitor at the corner of the piazza, hesitating with hat in
hand.
"Mr. Pease!" she exclaimed.
The little conventionalities of this new welcome also passed. Mr. Pease
had met Mr. Ellis; he was delighted to find the family at home; the
others were equally pleased that he had come. But when the pause came it
was awkward, for Judith and Ellis were clearly uncongenial with Beth and
Pease; it required the Colonel's intervention to prevent a hopeless
attempt at general conversation. He drew Ellis away; Judith followed,
and Beth sat down to serve Pease with tea.
Then the Colonel himself withdrew, on pretext of the need to catch the
mail. He went into the library to write, and Judith turned to Ellis.
"Can we go from here to see the land you spoke of?"
"The old Welton place," he said. "Do you know the way?"
"Certainly," answered Judith. They excused themselves to the others.
As they prepared to go, the Colonel looked at them from his desk; then
turned his eyes on Beth and Pease. A thrill of wonder, then a sense of
exultation seized him. Attractive girls they both were, and the men were
the two richest in the city.
Judith conducted Ellis through shrubbery and across fields, up the
hillside to a spot where little trees were growing in an old cellar,
while charred timbers lying half buried spoke of the catastrophe which
had destroyed the house. "I remember the fire," Judith said. "I was a
child then, but I stood at the window in the night, mother holding me,
and watched the house burn down. Mr. Welton would neither build again
nor sell. But the place is on the market now?"
"He's to marry again, I understand," answered Ellis. They both accepted
the fact as explaining any and all departures from previous lines of
conduct.
"Would you build on this spot?" she asked him.
"What would you advise?" he returned. She swept the situation with her
gaze.
"There are sites higher up, or lower down," she said. "Lower is too low.
Higher--you might see the chimney."
Ellis noted with satisfaction the prejudice against Mather's landmark,
but he passed the remark by. "Don't you like," he said, "a house placed
at the highest possible point? It is so striking."
"Couldn't it be too much so?" she inquired.
He turned his sharp look on her, willing to take a lesson and at the
same time make it evident that he welcomed the instruction. "That is a
new idea," he said. "It explains why that chimney, for instance, is
unpleasant."
"It is so tall and--stupid," explained Judith; "and you never can get
rid of it."
"I understand," he said. "Then perhaps this is the best place to build.
I could get it roofed in before winter, easily, and have the whole thing
ready by next summer. Stables where the barn stands, I suppose. My
architect could get out the plans in a fortnight."
"The same architect," queried Judith, "that built your city house?"
There was that in her voice which seized Ellis's attention.
"You don't like his work?" he demanded.
"Why," she hesitated, caught, "I--you wouldn't put a city house here,
would you?"
"I like the kind," he said. "Stone, you know; turrets, carvings, imps,
and that sort of thing. All hand-work, but they get them out quickly.
Kind of a tall house. Wouldn't that do here?"
"No, no, Mr. Ellis," she answered quickly, almost shuddering at his
description. "Think how out of place--here. On a hill a low house, but a
long one if you need it, is proper."
"Oh," he said slowly, thinking. "Seems reasonable. But tall is the kind
Smithson always builds."
"I know," answered Judith. Smithson was responsible for a good deal, in
the city.
Again Ellis searched her face. "You don't care for my city house?"
She had to tell the truth. "For my taste," she acknowledged, "it's a
little--ornate."
"That's ornamental?" he asked. "But that's what I like about it. Don't
the rest of my neighbours care for it any more than you do?"
"Some do not," she admitted.
"I guess that most of you don't, then," he decided. "Well, well, how a
fellow makes mistakes! One of those quiet buildings with columns, now,
such as I tore down, I suppose would have been just the thing?"
"Yes," she said. "But Mr. Ellis, you mustn't think----"
He smiled. "Never mind, Miss Blanchard. You would say something nice,
I'm sure, but the mischief's done; the building's there, ain't it?"
"I wish----" she began.
"And really I'm obliged to you," he went on. "Because I might have built
a house here just like the other. Now we'll have it right--if I decide
to build here at all."
"Then you've not made up your mind?"
"Almost," he said. "The bargain's all but closed. Only it seems so
useless, for a bachelor." He looked at her a moment. "Give me your
advice," he begged. "Sometimes I think I'm doing the foolish thing."
"Why, Mr. Ellis, what can I--and it's not my affair."
"Make it your affair!" he urged. "This is very important to me. I don't
want to sicken these people by crowding in; you saw what Miss Fenno
thought of me this afternoon. But if there is any chance for me--what do
you say?"
It was the mention of Miss Fenno that did it. She sprang up in Judith's
consciousness, clothed in her armour of correctness--proper, prim, and
stupid. And in Judith was roused wrath against this type of her life,
against her class and its narrowness. She obeyed her impulse, and turned
a quickening glance on him.
"Would you turn back now?" she asked.
"That is enough!" he cried, with sudden vehemence.
For a while they stood and said no more. Judith saw that he looked
around him on the level space where his house was to stand; then he cast
his glance down toward those estates which he would overlook. His eye
almost flashed--was there more of the hawk or the eagle in his gaze?
Judith thought it was the eagle; she knew she had stirred him anew to
the struggle, and was exhilarated. Unmarked at the moment, she had taken
a step important to them both. She had swayed him to an important
decision, and had become in a sense an adviser.
Yet aside from that, she had stimulated him strangely. Her enthusiasm
was communicable--not through its loftiness, for from that he shrank
with mistrust, but through its energy and daring. She drew him in spite
of her ignorance and misconceptions: dangerous as these might be to him
if she should come to learn the truth about his practices, he thought
that in her love of action lay an offset to them, while her restlessness
and curiosity were two strong motives in his favour. She was fearless,
even bold, and that high spirit of hers had more charm for him than all
her beauty. He did not see, and it was long before he understood, that
something entirely new in him had been roused by contact with her; the
most that he felt was that he was satisfied as never before, that she
had strengthened his impulse to work and to achieve, and that with her
to help him he would be irresistible. Yes, he had chosen well!