Mr. Wyllys was careful not to repeat his visit within a week. He
could trust to the natural growth of the seed he had sown, and he
was too politic to appear solicitous, on his own account, for the
resumption of cousinly intercourse between the houses of Baxter and
Kirke. He did not overrate his influence with the would-be leader of
Hamilton society. Four days after his party call, he had a note from
Jessie.
"DEAR COUSIN ORRIN:
"I enclose a letter received last night from Mrs. Baxter, wife
of the President of Marion College. She is, I have learned from
this, my nearest living relative, outside my immediate family
circle, being my mother's first cousin. I never heard of her
until the arrival of this communication. My father knew her,
years ago, but did not remember whom she had married. I little
imagined when I listened to Roy's praises of his friend, Dr.
Baxter, that I had any personal interest in, or connection
with his family. Mrs. Baxter writes, you see, in an
affectionate strain, and is urgent in her request that I should
pass the winter with her. My father and sister agree with me
that you are the proper person to consult with regard to my
answer to the invitation. You are, doubtless, acquainted with
Mrs. Baxter, and are certainly more _au fait_ to the usages of
Hamilton polite society than we are.
"Tell me freely what you think I ought to do--freely as if I
were in blood, as I am in heart,
"Your Kinswoman,
"JESSIE KIRKE."
"Here is an example of hereditary transmission that would stagger
Wendell Holmes himself!" thought Orrin, scanning the epistle, letter
by letter. "The chirography of the girl, who could not write at the
time of her mother's death, is precisely similar to hers--as similar
as it is unlike that of the sister by whom she was educated. It is a
nut to crack for those who carp at the idea that the handwriting is
a criterion of character, who attribute variety of penmanship to
educational influences entirely. What has my fair 'kinswoman'
inherited from her matronal progenitor besides her features and
carriage, and these sloping, slender Italian characters, I wonder?
It may be worth my while to investigate the question as a
psychological phenomenon."
To secure the facilities for doing this, he resolved to run down to
Dundee the next day.
The early train he had condemned in the spring, started now before
daylight, and he called himself a fool, as he took his place in the
cold, smoky car, for making the journey at all. Being mortal, he
was liable to these spasms of prudence and faltering of purpose,
during which he held serious questioning with Common-sense--leaving
feeling out of the discussion--whether he were not squandering time
and thought in prosecuting his favorite pastime of winning and
wasting hearts. He knew that, viewed in the dead white light of
sober judgment, tested by commercial rates, his ambition to stand
chief victor in Cupid's lists, would be ignoble and unremunerative.
He felt that he would himself thus rate it, had he no other aim in
life. Aware, as he was, that he kept step with his fellows in
business pursuits, that he was intellectually the peer of those the
crowd called masters, he did not let the thought of adverse
criticism of his _affaires du coeur_ weigh too heavily with him.
It was easy to persuade himself that since the world's conquerors
and prophets, sages, warriors, and saints, had, each in his time,
esteemed the love of woman the worthiest meed of valor, learning,
and piety; had fought, gone mad, and made shipwreck of faith, to
gain and wear the prize, leaving upon record the aspiration "to
waste life upon her perfect lips," alongside of heroic epics and
religious meditations,--his researches and successes in this field
of art,--the mining and delving and polishing that attended his
explorations among the curiosities of woman's affections and
follies--were lawful and dignified, and should entitle him to an
honorable grade in the school of philosophers.
Apart from these cold-blooded considerations (a man flirt is always
more cold-blooded than a woman--coquetry and the desire to conquer
hearts being oftener a passion with the latter than a deliberate
plan)--apart from these I say, Orrin Wyllys was, as he would have
said of himself, "not a bad fellow." He liked to give pleasure, to
be useful to his kind, to be thanked and praised for his
benefactions.
Finding myself, once upon a time, in the actual presence and in
social converse with one of the brightest of modern (American)
stars--a man I had reverenced afar off, as a mental and moral
monarch among mortals, I was disenchanted and appalled at hearing
him say something like this:
"I have no patience with this talk about finding one's truest
happiness in promoting that of others. I believe that man is best
employed who makes the most and best of HIMSELF! My business in life
is to improve Myself by every means at my command--to make Myself,
spiritually and intellectually, 'round and perfect as a star,'
without diverting my energies and wasting my sympathies with
projects for the good of my race. This is my idea of true
philanthropy."
"And the rest of mankind may go hang!" said a plain-spoken auditor.
The Star shrugged his broad shoulders.
"_Ce n'est pas mon affaire!_"
This was, substantially, Orrin's creed, but he had his own notions
as to the manner in which the cultivation of Self was to be
conducted, and being still some degrees below the exalted plane of
observation occupied by the aforesaid Star, was not superior to the
weakness of talking about philanthropy, even believing himself that
he did good for good's sake, and that his satisfaction in seeing
others made happy through his instrumentality, was pure benevolence.
His charities were many--and open. Indeed, Lady Patronesses shook
their heads, smilingly, at him while deprecating his "soft-hearted
credulity" and lauding his generosity, and his name was a synonym
among men for good-nature and lenient judgment.
Therefore, when he muttered--"Just like my confounded amiability,
this taking so much pains to benefit those who may never appreciate
my motives, nor be grateful for what I have done!" as he buttoned
his overcoat up to his chin and pulled on his fur-lined gloves, he
half believed that he spoke sincerely--went systematically to work
to arrange his projects with the best side toward him; found
substantial comfort in so doing.
Roy had left his affianced to his guardianship, and her action at
this juncture might be fraught with important consequences to her
and to Roy himself. He could allay Mr. Kirke's scruples, if he had
any, relative to his daughter's acceptance of Mrs. Baxter's pressing
offer of hospitality and chaperonage, better in five minutes' talk
than by twenty written pages. He was anxious that Jessie should pay
the visit. She had taken a strong hold of his fancy, and he could
study her to advantage while she was her cousin's guest; be her
cavalier wherever she went, by virtue of the authority vested in him
by her absent betrothed. Hamilton was dull this season. There was
not a woman in it whom he had not read from preface to "Finis"--and
his energies were chafing for lack of exercise in his noble
vocation. The prospect of Jessie's coming--the high-spirited child
of nature, lively and loving, was very tempting.
But this was, he perceived, a digression, and he hastened to regain
the original line of thought. His scheme--which Mrs. Baxter must be
suffered to believe was her's, instead--of giving the country
clergyman's daughter a season in town, was a golden opportunity of
improvement of her mind and manners that should not be lightly cast
aside. She had, more than once, confidentially bemoaned her
inability to procure in Dundee the tuition in music and German she
fancied she needed to qualify her to fill worthily the station to
which Roy had elected her.
The reader of human nature smiled a little just here.
"When, if the truth were known, the practical Professor would be
better pleased--aye! and better served in the long run, were his
Jessamine to confine her ambition to the realms of cake, and bread,
and butter making. I have seen other women as mistakenly risk
complexions and eyes in poring over books, under the fond impression
that they were 'qualifying' themselves to be their husband's
'help-meets'! What an age of shams is this!"
Since, however, this was Jessie's delusion, it might as well be
indulged. She could have excellent music and language masters in
Hamilton. He would, himself, snatch a few hours, weekly, that he
might read German with her. The readings would prevent him from
rusting in a language once familiar to him, as his own, and he would
find further compensation for his trouble in the enjoyment he
foresaw in guiding her eager mind through the rich storehouses of
literature a knowledge of German would unlock for her. Waxing more
complacently benevolent, he dwelt upon the comfort and pleasure Mrs.
Baxter--a worthy, though ridiculous, creature--would derive from the
companionship of her young friend. The Lady President was a born
Patroness. The introduction of the sparkling luminary he was sure
Jessie would become in the Hamiltonian firmament, would be with her
a work of pride and love. She would spare no pains to make the
novice's sojourn in her abode delightful to all parties interested
in it.
Notwithstanding which irrefragable reasoning--such was the effect
of atmospheric and other extraneous influences upon one in the
undisputed possession of a sound body, sane mind, and serenely
approving conscience--Mr. Wyllys relapsed into discouragement
several times in the earlier stages of his journey; wrote himself
down an ass for taking the trouble of a ten hours' ride into the
country at this gloomy season to accomplish that, which, after all,
might have been settled by letter. Breakfast by gas-light, a hard
run through muddy streets to catch the train; a seat in a damp,
close-smelling car, which was chilled, rather than warmed, by a
stove-full of green wood, were sorry tonics for preparing
spirits and temper for the duties of a new day. It annoyed the
philanthropist that he could not put from his mind the vision of Roy
Fordham's happy face as it shone upon his waking sight one July
morning--the first of the summer vacation. Valise in hand, he had
burst into his cousin's sleeping-room to say "Good-by," for he was
off, by peep of dawn, to Dundee and Jessie. Orrin remembered every
word that had been spoken; how he had forborne to remind the
rapturous lover that this was the last visit he could pay his
promised bride before his departure for Europe in August, and the
calm surprise he had felt at seeing "prudent," far-seeing Roy
apparently oblivious of all save present delight. Oddly, enough, it
would have been more agreeable to his trusty relative to think of
the absentee as a staid, studious personage, whose affections were
always subservient to duty and judgment.
Few of earthly mould--such are the freaks of imagination and the
complications of nervous irritation--are, at all times, superior to
like vicissitudes of purpose and temper. I trust, then, that my hero
will not suffer materially in the opinion of the exceptional
minority when I state that it was near noon ere he finally and
stably reassured his dubious mind that in this flying visit to the
parsonage, he was acting wisely for himself, and, as secondary,
third and fourth rate considerations, for Jessie, Roy, and Mrs.
Baxter. The lever that completed the task of elevating his
self-esteem from the slough of doubt, was not the anticipation of
Jessie's personal and mental improvement, or Mrs. Baxter's gratified
maternal longings. It was the thought how the light imprisoned in
Eunice Kirke's berylline eyes, would break up to the surface in the
golden glints he had seen, at infrequent intervals, dash their
placid darkness; how her slow, bright smile would greet his
unexpected appearance, and applaud his vivacious sallies; the sweet
monotone, many a queen of fashion would give her costliest jewels to
imitate successfully, reply to his questioning. For he would have
many questions to put. This was a studious autumn with the sisters.
While Roy had laughed at Jessie's lamentations over her lack of
learning, protesting that she "knew more already of books and men
than any professor's wife he had ever met," he had, in compliance
with her desire, and believing that active employment would be
wholesome discipline for her in the weary months of their
separation, arranged a schedule of history, ancient and modern,
French, German, and general reading for her. Orrin had also visited
Dundee in the August vacation, accompanying Roy back to town, and
not quitting him until he waved his farewell from the pier to the
slowly-moving steamship "outward bound." During those sad, precious
"last days," the disengaged pair were, of necessity, often left to
entertain one another for hours together, and their decorous
friendship had matured naturally and gracefully into an equally
decorous intimacy. Orrin had marked passages for Eunice's
consideration in divers books they had glanced over in company; sent
to her after his return to Hamilton, Carlyle, Emerson, and Macaulay;
besides running down for a day in October, to bring a thick roll of
duets, sonatas and _etudes_, and the whole of Mozart's Twelfth Mass
for Miss Kirke's practice in the lengthening evenings.
He had taken extraordinary pains to ascertain her tastes, and
displayed his customary tact in ministering to these.
"We are almost relations-in-law, you know!" had been his only
apology for attentions and gifts, and Eunice had accepted all in
simple good faith.
Her interest in his talk and her manifest liking for him, were a
more flattering tribute to his vanity than was Jessie's frank
cousinliness. I think it is always thus with the tokens of favor
vouchsafed to friend and admirer by reserved, self-concentrated
women. While Jessie was his especial study (or quarry) just now, he
did not disdain the goods the gods offered him in the esteem and
preference of the handsome elder sister. He had found her eminently
convenient when his motive was to pique and mystify his cousin's
betrothed by a feint of haughty indifference, and he was too wise an
economist to cast aside what he had gained. He would be a clumsy
diplomatist, indeed, were he to prove himself incompetent to the
management of two affairs at the same time.
If my attempted analyzation of a "fascinating man's" principles and
intentions has seemed prolix to the surface-reader, he will bear in
mind that it is but a meagre abstract of what Mr. Wyllys thought,
felt, and reasoned through the dreary November day, that did not see
the sun until a break in the clouds low upon the western hills let
out his light upon a sodden, wretched earth.
The late rays burnished Windbeam's coronal of cedars into
golden-green, but curling fleeces of mist clung about his mighty
chest and flanks, making him look grimmer and blacker by contrast;
the valley was full of shadows, purple and gray; the old church was
lightless save for the one dazzling arrow which was shivered against
the slender tip of the spire, when Orrin undid the latch of the
parsonage-gate. Provencal warmth and roses were things that belonged
to the dead summer. Eunice's evergreens hardly redeemed the garden
from desolation. A trim arbor-vitae hedge kept warm the southern
border, that would be gay in March with crocuses and tulips; the
box-trees were the only leafy shrubs in the alley down which Jessie
had crept, to faint in his arms at the other end. A thrifty holly,
beaded with scarlet, mounted guard at the left of the front steps,
as did a cedar, covered with bluish-white berries, at the right. A
stately young pine he remembered as a favorite of Jessie's, filled
the air with its solemn sighing, while he awaited the answer to his
knock.
"So, Winter comes even to the Happy Valley!" he moralized. "I ought
to have known it, of course, only I had not thought of it."
Patsey, the good-humored servant-girl, opened the door, and welcomed
Mr. Wyllys with the broadest of smiles.
"Mr. Kirke and Miss Eunice is not at home, sir. They're a-visiting
some place in the village. Miss Jessie is in, though. Be pleased to
walk into the parlor, and I'll tell her you're here."
He heard swift feet skim the floor overhead as his name was
repeated, and Jessie was in the room before he could take off his
gloves. With a wild, scared face, lips that moved without sound, and
eyes that demanded confirmation or denial of the dread that was
strangling her heart, she caught his hands and looked up dumbly at
him. His smile broke the spell sooner and more effectually than
words could have done. She wrested her fingers from his, with a
laugh so burdened with shame and happiness as to be more like a sob,
testifying what had been the pressure and what was the release.
"I was sure"--
"That I was the bearer of bad news from abroad. I understand," Orrin
took up the broken sentence. "You were never more mistaken. Your
letter, enclosing Mrs. Baxter's, brought me. Your fears must take
counsel of hope and faith another time. Roy was well when last heard
from--well and happy, and, you may be sure, very busy. But what is
this?" leading her to the window and scrutinizing her with fond
solicitude. "What have you been doing with yourself? I am afraid he
keeps his pledge of health, and resignation to the Inevitable better
than you do yours to him. Are you not well? You have been sick, and
I was not told of it!"
Her complexion was dead to sallowness; her eyes were leaden, the
lids drooping wearily, and she was thinner in face and figure than
when he had parted from her six weeks ago. Her dress, of dark,
"navy" blue serge, made plainly, the long skirt heavy and still
while she stood, and unrelieved save by narrow linen collar and
cuffs, looked like a mourning garb.
"The _Mater Dolorosa_ to the life!" said the quick-eyed lover of the
fine arts to himself. "A blue hood drawn well forward would make the
likeness perfect. Who would have thought that a morbidly love-sick
girl could, by dreaming and fretting, stamp her features with the
imprint of that divine sorrow! Marvellous are the tricks of Nature!"
All this while he held Jessie's hand; his eyes seemed as if they
could not leave the countenance whose change had so pained him. The
girl's faint smile was very grateful.
"I am not sick! I have no physical ailment beyond a sensation of
general good-for-nothingness. I ought to be ashamed to confess it,
but I imagine I have a touch of what fine ladies call the 'blues.'
Papa would have in Dr. Winters a month ago, in spite of all I could
do and say. He laughed at me a little, scolded me a great deal, and
pronounced my malady dyspepsia, or low fever, or nervous
debility--he was not certain which. In any case, his prescription
was quinine, dumb-bells, and porter, ale, lager beer, or a decoction
of gentian-root and chamomile flowers. Think of it!" with a grimace.
"Could my cup of existence be more effectually embittered? I take
quinine, and swing the bells a thousand times each day, but I do not
see that the regimen increases my appetite or makes me sleep better.
There is nothing the matter with me that will not yield to
resolution and common-sense and--and--time! I shall be all right
when I get used to things as they are," she continued, with feverish
rapidity, marking his doubtful look. "I need discipline, hardening,
tempering. If papa and Euna would rate me soundly for my folly and
childishness, the counter-irritant would brace my system. I should
need no other medicine. But they won't, unfortunately!"
She was laughing now, but not with her native glee. Orrin's
scrutiny--serious and tender--was prolonged until her eyes sank and
a blush of the lost color tinged her temples. A sigh escaped him as
he relinquished her hand, and walked twice through the apartment to
collect thoughts and words.
"My coming was timely," he said, drawing a chair to her side. "Dear
child! your life is too precious to be wasted in unavailing regrets.
Your peace of mind is dear to too many to be wrecked by morbid
nursings. Don't think me harsh! You should have something to engage
your time and thoughts beyond the routine of occupation and
recreation appointed to you here; should see more of the world than
that portion of it which is bounded by these mountains. You would
starve upon what satisfies your sister. Duty to be performed--duty
done--a straight course and strength to walk therein--these fill the
measure of her earthly desires. Your temperament and your intellect
demand a larger sphere--wider range for your mind and more food for
your heart. You are dying of inanition, and you do not know it. You
are a caged wild bird who is trying to learn to sing by note."
She shook her head wilfully.
"You are altogether wrong. I have been pampered, housed, petted,
until nerve and muscle, mental and spiritual, are gone. I need a
stimulant, but a moral one."
Orrin changed his ground.
"What if I supply it in the guise of a German course, seasoned with
unsparing admonition whenever you are indolent or unreasonable?" he
said, lightly.