A DINNER PARTY.
Having assumed the payment of Mr. Blessing's note, as the first
instalment upon his stock, Joseph was compelled to prepare himself for
future emergencies. A year must still elapse before the term of the
mortgage upon his farm would expire, but the sums he had invested for
the purpose of meeting it when due must be held ready for use. The
assurance of great and certain profit in the mean time rendered this
step easy; and, even at the worst, he reflected, there would be no
difficulty in procuring a new mortgage whereby to liquidate the old. A
notice which he received at this time, that a second assessment of ten
per cent. on the Amaranth stock had been made, was both unexpected and
disquieting. Mr. Blessing, however, accompanied it with a letter, making
clear not only the necessity, but the admirable wisdom of a greater
present outlay than had been anticipated. So the first of April—the
usual business anniversary of the neighborhood—went smoothly by. Money
was plenty, the Asten credit had always been sound, and Joseph tasted
for the first time a pleasant sense of power in so easily receiving and
transferring considerable sums.
One result of the venture was the development of a new phase in Julia's
nature. She not only accepted the future profit as certain, but she had
apparently calculated its exact amount and framed her plans accordingly.
If she had been humiliated by the character of Joseph's first business
transaction with her father, she now made amends for it. "Pa" was their
good genius. "Pa" was the agency whereby they should achieve wealth and
social importance. Joseph now had the clearest evidence of the
difference between a man who knew the world and was of value in it, and
their slow, dull-headed country neighbors. Indeed, Julia seemed to
consider the Asten property as rather contemptible beside the splendor
of the Blessing scheme. Her gratitude for a quiet home, her love of
country life, her disparagement of the shams and exactions of "society,"
were given up as suddenly and coolly as if she had never affected them.
She gave herself no pains to make the transition gradual, and thus
lessen its shock. Perhaps she supposed that Joseph's fresh, unsuspicious
nature was so plastic that it had already sufficiently taken her
impress, and that he would easily forget the mask she had worn. If so,
she was seriously mistaken.
He saw, with a deadly chill of the heart, the change in her manner,—a
change so complete that another face confronted him at the table, even
as another heart beat beside his on the dishallowed marriage-bed. He saw
the gentle droop vanish from the eyelids, leaving the cold, flinty
pupils unshaded; the soft appeal of the half-opened lips was lost in the
rigid, almost cruel compression which now seemed habitual to them; all
the slight dependent gestures, the tender airs of reference to his will
or pleasure, had rapidly transformed themselves into expressions of
command or obstinate resistance. But the patience of a loving man is
equal to that of a loving woman: he was silent, although his silence
covered an ever-increasing sense of outrage.
Once it happened, that after Julia had been unusually eloquent
concerning "what pa is doing for us," and what use they should make of
"pa's money, as I call it," Joseph quietly remarked:—
"You seem to forget, Julia, that without my money not much could have
been done."
An angry color came into her face; but, on second thought, she bent her
head, and murmured in an offended voice: "It is very mean and ungenerous
in you to refer to our temporary poverty. You might forget, by this
time, the help pa was compelled to ask of you."
"I did not think of that!" he exclaimed. "Besides, you did not seem
entirely satisfied with my help, at the time."
"O, how you misunderstand me!" she groaned. "I only wished to know the
extent of his need. He is so generous, so considerate towards us, that
we only guess his misfortune at the last moment."
The possibility of being unjust silenced Joseph. There were tears in
Julia's voice, and he imagined they would soon rise to her eyes. After a
long, uncomfortable pause, he said, for the sake of changing the
subject: "What can have become of Elwood Withers? I have not seen him
for months."
"I don't think you need care to know," she remarked. "He's a rough,
vulgar fellow: it's just as well if he keeps away from us."
"Julia! he is my friend, and must always be welcome to me. You were
friendly enough towards him, and towards all the neighborhood, last
summer: how is it that you have not a good word to say now?"
He spoke warmly and indignantly. Julia, however, looked at him with a
calm, smiling face. "It is very simple," she said. "You will agree with
me, in another year. A guest, as I was, must try to see only the
pleasant side of people: that's our duty; and so I enjoyed—as much as I
could—the rusticity, the awkwardness, the ignorance, the (now, don't be
vexed, dear!)—the vulgarity of your friend. As one of the society of the
neighborhood, as a resident, I am not bound by any such delicacy. I take
the same right to judge and select as I should take anywhere. Unless I
am to be hypocritical, I cannot—towards you, at least—conceal my real
feelings. How shall I ever get you to see the difference between
yourself and these people, unless I continually point it out? You are
modest, and don't like to acknowledge your own superiority."
She rose from the table, laughing, and went out of the room humming a
lively air, leaving Joseph to make the best of her words.
A few days after this the work on the branch railway, extending down the
valley, reached a point where it could be seen from the Asten farm.
Joseph, on riding over to inspect the operations, was surprised to find
Elwood, who had left his father's place and become a sub-contractor. The
latter showed his hearty delight at their meeting.
"I've been meaning to come up," he said, "but this is a busy time for
me. It's a chance I couldn't let slip, and now that I've taken hold I
must hold on. I begin to think this is the thing I was made for,
Joseph."
"I never thought of it before," Joseph answered, "and yet I'm sure you
are right. How did you hit upon it?"
"_I_ didn't; it was Mr. Held."
"Philip?"
"Him. You know I've been hauling for the Forge, and so it turned up by
degrees, as I may say. He's at home, and, I expect, looking for you. But
how are you now, really?"
Elwood's question meant a great deal more than he knew how to say.
Suddenly, in a flash of memory, their talk of the previous year returned
to Joseph's mind; he saw his friend's true instincts and his own
blindness as never before. But he must dissemble, if possible, with that
strong, rough, kindly face before him.
"O," he said, attempting a cheerful air, "I am one of the old folks now.
You must come up—"
The recollection of Julia's words cut short the invitation upon his
lips. A sharp pang went through his heart, and the treacherous blood
crowded to his face all the more that he tried to hold it back.
"Come, and I'll show you where we're going to make the cutting," Elwood
quietly said, taking him by the arm. Joseph fancied, thenceforth, that
there was a special kindness in his manner, and the suspicion seemed to
rankle in his mind as if he had been slighted by his friend.
As before, to vary the tedium of his empty life, so now, to escape from
the knowledge which he found himself more and more powerless to resist,
he busied himself beyond all need with the work of the farm. Philip had
returned with his sister, he knew, but after the meeting with Elwood he
shrank with a painful dread from Philip's heart-deep, intimate eye.
Julia, however, all the more made use of the soft spring weather to
survey the social ground, and choose where to take her stand. Joseph
scarcely knew, indeed, how extensive her operations had been, until she
announced an invitation to dine with the Hopetons, who were now in
possession of the renovated Calvert place. She enlarged, more than was
necessary, on the distinguished city position of the family, and the
importance of "cultivating" its country members. Joseph's single brief
meeting with Mr. Hopeton—who was a short, solid man, in ripe middle age,
of a thoroughly cosmopolitan, though not a remarkably intellectual
stamp—had been agreeable, and he recognized the obligation to be
neighborly. Therefore he readily accepted the invitation on his own
grounds.
When the day arrived, Julia, after spending the morning over her toilet,
came forth resplendent in rosy silk, bright and dazzling in complexion,
and with all her former grace of languid eyelids and parted lips. The
void in Joseph's heart grew wider at the sight of her; for he perceived,
as never before, her consummate skill in assuming a false character. It
seemed incredible that he should have been so deluded. For the first
time a feeling of repulsion, which was almost disgust, came upon him as
he listened to her prattle of delight in the soft weather, and the
fragrant woods, and the blossoming orchards. Was not, also, this delight
assumed? he asked himself: false in one thing, false in all, was the
fatal logic which then and there began its torment.
The most that was possible in such a short time had been achieved on the
Calvert place. The house had been brightened, surrounded by light, airy
verandas, and the lawn and garden, thrown into one and given into the
hands of a skilful gardener, were scarcely to be recognized. A broad,
solid gravel-walk replaced the old tan-covered path; a pretty fountain
tinkled before the door; thick beds of geranium in flower studded the
turf, and veritable thickets of rose-trees were waiting for June. Within
the house, some rooms had been thrown together, the walls richly yet
harmoniously colored, and the sumptuous furniture thus received a proper
setting. In contrast to the houses of even the wealthiest farmers, which
expressed a nicely reckoned sufficiency of comfort, the place had an air
of joyous profusion, of a wealth which delighted in itself.
Mr. Hopeton met them with the frank, offhand manner of a man of
business. His wife followed, and the two guests made a rapid inspection
of her as she came down the hall. Julia noticed that her crocus-colored
dress was high in the neck, and plainly trimmed; that she wore no
ornaments, and that the natural pallor of her complexion had not been
corrected by art. Joseph remarked the simple grace of her movement, the
large, dark, inscrutable eyes, the smooth bands of her black hair, and
the pure though somewhat lengthened oval of her face. The gentle dignity
of her manner more than refreshed, it soothed him. She was so much
younger than her husband that Joseph involuntarily wondered how they
should have come together.
The greetings were scarcely over before Philip and Madeline Held
arrived. Julia, with the least little gush of tenderness, kissed the
latter, whom Philip then presented to Joseph for the first time. She had
the same wavy hair as her brother, but the golden hue was deepened
nearly into brown, and her eyes were a clear hazel. It was also the same
frank, firm face, but her woman's smile was so much the sweeter as her
lips were lovelier than the man's. Joseph seemed to clasp an instant
friendship in her offered hand.
There was but one other guest, who, somewhat to his surprise, was Lucy
Henderson. Julia concealed whatever she might have felt, and made so
much reference to their former meetings as might satisfy Lucy without
conveying to Mrs. Hopeton the impression of any special intimacy. Lucy
looked thin and worn, and her black silk dress was not of the latest
fashion: she seemed to be the poor relation of the company. Joseph
learned that she had taken one of the schools in the valley, for the
summer. Her manner to him was as simple and friendly as ever, but he
felt the presence of some new element of strength and self-reliance in
her nature.
His place at dinner was beside Mrs. Hopeton, while Lucy—apparently by
accident—sat upon the other side of the hostess. Philip and the host led
the conversation, confining it too exclusively to the railroad and iron
interests; but those finally languished, and gave way to other topics in
which all could take part. Joseph felt that while the others, except
Lucy and himself, were fashioned under different aspects of life, some
of which they shared in common, yet that their seeming ease and freedom
of communication touched, here and there, some invisible limit, which
they were careful not to pass. Even Philip appeared to be beyond his
reach, for the time.
The country and the people, being comparatively new to them, naturally
came to be discussed.
"Mr. Held, or Mr. Asten,—either of you know both,"—Mr. Hopeton asked,
"what are the principal points of difference between society in the city
and in the country?"
"Indeed, I know too little of the city," said Joseph.
"And I know too little of the country,—here, at least," Philip added.
"Of course the same passions and prejudices come into play everywhere.
There are circles, there are jealousies, ups and downs, scandals,
suppressions, and rehabilitations: it can't be otherwise."
"Are they not a little worse in the country," said Julia, "because—I may
ask the question here, among _us_—there is less refinement of manner?"
"If the external forms are ruder," Philip resumed, "it may be an
advantage, in one sense. Hypocrisy cannot be developed into an art."
Julia bit her lip, and was silent.
"But are the country people, hereabouts, so rough?" Mrs. Hopeton asked.
"I confess that they don't seem so to me. What do you say, Miss
Henderson?"
"Perhaps I am not an impartial witness," Lucy answered. "We care less
about what is called 'manners' than the city people. We have no fixed
rules for dress and behavior,—only we don't like any one to differ too
much from the rest of us."
"That's it!" Mr. Hopeton cried; "the tyrannical levelling sentiment of
an imperfectly developed community! Fortunately, I am beyond its reach."
Julia's eyes sparkled: she looked across the table at Joseph, with a
triumphant air.
Philip suddenly raised his head. "How would you correct it? Simply by
resistance?" he asked.
Mr. Hopeton laughed. "I should no doubt get myself into a hornet's-nest.
No; by indifference!"
Then Madeline Held spoke. "Excuse me," she said; "but is indifference
possible, even if it were right? You seem to take the levelling spirit
for granted, without looking into its character and causes; there must
be some natural sense of justice, no matter how imperfectly society is
developed. We are members of this community,—at least, Philip and I
certainly consider ourselves so,—and I am determined not to judge it
without knowledge, or to offend what may be only mechanical habits of
thought, unless I can see a sure advantage in doing so."
Lucy Henderson looked at the speaker with a bright, grateful face.
Joseph's eyes wandered from her to Julia, who was silent and watchful.
"But I have no time for such conscientious studies," Mr. Hopeton
resumed. "One can be satisfied with half a dozen neighbors, and let the
mass go. Indifference, after all, is the best philosophy. What do you
say, Mr. Held?"
"Indifference!" Philip echoed. A dark flush came into his face, and he
was silent a moment. "Yes: our hearts are inconvenient appendages. We
suffer a deal from unnecessary sympathies, and from imagining, I
suppose, that others feel them as we do. These uneasy features of
society are simply the effort of nature to find some occupation for
brains otherwise idle—or empty. Teach the people to think, and they will
disappear."
Joseph stared at Philip, feeling that a secret bitterness was hidden
under his careless, mocking air. Mrs. Hopeton rose, and the company left
the table. Madeline Held had a troubled expression, but there was an
eager, singular brightness in Julia's eyes.
"Emily, let us have coffee on the veranda," said Mr. Hopeton, leading
the way. He had already half forgotten the subject of conversation: his
own expressions, in fact, had been made very much at random, for the
sole purpose of keeping up the flow of talk. He had no very fixed views
of any kind, beyond the sphere of his business activity.
Philip, noticing the impression he had made on Joseph, drew him to one
side. "Don't seriously remember my words against me," he said; "you were
sorry to hear them, I know. All I meant was, that an over-sensitive
tenderness towards everybody is a fault. Besides, I was provoked to
answer him in his own vein."
"But, Philip!" Joseph whispered, "such words tempt me! What if they were
true?"
Philip grasped his arm with a painful force. "They never can be true to
you, Joseph," he said.
Gay and pleasant as the company seemed to be, each one felt a secret
sense of relief when it came to an end. As Joseph drove homewards,
silently recalling what had been said, Julia interrupted his reflections
with: "Well, what do you think of the Hopetons?"
"She is an interesting woman," he answered.
"But reserved; and she shows very little taste in dress. However, I
suppose you hardly noticed anything of the kind. She kept Lucy Henderson
beside her as a foil: Madeline Held would have been damaging."
Joseph only partly guessed her meaning; it was repugnant, and he
determined to avoid its further discussion.
"Hopeton is a shrewd business man," Julia continued, "but he cannot
compare with her for shrewdness—either with her or—Philip Held!"
"What do you mean?"
"I made a discovery before the dinner was over, which you—innocent,
unsuspecting man that you are—might have before your eyes for years,
without seeing it. Tell me now, honestly, did you notice nothing?"
"What should I notice, beyond what was said?" he asked.
"That was the least!" she cried; "but, of course, I knew you couldn't.
And perhaps you won't believe me, when I tell you that Philip Held,—your
particular friend, your hero, for aught I know your pattern of virtue
and character, and all that is manly and noble,—that Philip Held, I say,
is furiously in love with Mrs. Hopeton!"
Joseph started as if he had been shot, and turned around with an angry
red on his brow. "Julia!" he said, "how dare you speak so of Philip!"
She laughed. "Because I dare to speak the truth, when I see it. I
thought I should surprise you. I remembered a certain rumor I had heard
before she was married,—while she was Emily Marrable,—and I watched them
closer than they guessed. I'm certain of Philip: as for her, she's a
deep creature, and she was on her guard; but they are near neighbors."
Joseph was thoroughly aroused and indignant. "It is your own fancy!" he
exclaimed. "You hate Philip on account of that affair with Clementina;
but you ought to have some respect for the woman whose hospitality you
have accepted!"
"Bless me! I have any quantity of respect both for her and her
furniture. By the by, Joseph, our parlor would furnish better than hers;
I have been thinking of a few changes we might make, which would
wonderfully improve the house. As for Philip, Clementina was a fool.
She'd be glad enough to have him now, but in these matters, once gone is
gone for good. Somehow, people who marry for love very often get rich
afterwards,—ourselves, for instance."
It was some time before Joseph's excitement subsided. He had resented
Julia's suspicion as dishonorable to Philip, yet he could not banish the
conjecture of its possible truth. If Philip's affected cynicism had
tempted him, Julia's unblushing assumption of the existence of a passion
which was forbidden, and therefore positively guilty, seemed to stain
the pure texture of his nature. The lightness with which she spoke of
the matter was even more abhorrent to him than the assertion itself; the
malicious satisfaction in the tones of her voice had not escaped his
ear.
"Julia," he said, just before they reached home, "do not mention your
fancy to another soul than me. It would reflect discredit on you."
"You _are_ innocent," she answered. "And you are not complimentary. If I
have any remarkable quality, it is tact. Whenever I speak, I shall know
the effect before-hand; even pa, with all his official experience, is no
match for me in this line. I see what the Hopetons are after, and I mean
to show them that we were first in the field. Don't be concerned, you
good, excitable creature, you are no match for such well-drilled people.
Let me alone, and before the summer is over _we_ will give the law to
the neighborhood!"
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