IN WHICH I RUN AGAINST TRADITIONS
When we had delivered the mare to the coloured groom waiting on the
sidewalk, she turned to me for the first time since I had uttered my
daring word.
"You must come in to breakfast with us," she said, with a friendly and
careless smile, "Aunt Mitty will be disappointed if I return without
what she calls 'a cavalier.'"
The doubt occurred to me if Miss Mitty would consider me entitled to so
felicitous a phrase, but smothering it the next minute as best I could,
I followed Sally, not without trepidation, up the short flight of steps,
and into the wide hall, where the air was heavy with the perfume of
fading roses. Great silver bowls of them drooped now, with blighted
heads, amid the withered smilax, and the floor was strewn thickly with
petals, as if a strong wind had blown down the staircase. From the
dining room came a delicious aroma of coffee, and as we crossed the
threshold, I saw that the two ladies, in their lace morning caps, were
already seated at the round mahogany table. From behind the tall old
silver service, the grave oval face of Miss Mitty cast on me, as I
entered, a look in which a faint wonder was mingled with a pleasant
hereditary habit of welcome. A cover was already laid for the chance
comer, and as I took possession of it in response to her invitation, I
felt again that terrible shyness--that burning physical embarrassment of
the plain man in unfamiliar surroundings. So had I felt on the morning
when I had stood in the kitchen, with my basket on my arm, and declined
the plum cake for which my mouth watered. In the road with Sally I had
appeared to share, as she had said, something of the dignity of the
broomsedge and the open sky; here opposite to Miss Matoaca, with the
rich mahogany table and the vase of chrysanthemums between us, I seemed
ridiculously out of proportion to the surroundings amid which I sat,
speechless and awkward. Was it possible that any woman could look
beneath that mountain of shyness, and discern a self-confidence in large
matters that would some day make a greater man than the General?
"Cream and sugar?" enquired Miss Mitty, in a tone from which I knew she
had striven to banish the recognition that she addressed a social
inferior. Her pleasant smile seemed etched about her mouth, over the
expression of faint wonder which persisted beneath. I felt that her
racial breeding, like Miss Matoaca's, was battling against her
instinctive aversion, and at the same moment I knew that I ought to have
declined the invitation Sally had given. A sense of outrage--of
resentment--swelled hot and strong in my heart. What was this social
barrier--this aristocratic standard that could accept the General and
reject such men as I? If it had sprung back, strong and flexible as a
steel wire, before the man, would it still present its irresistible
strength against the power of money? In that instant I resolved that if
wealth alone could triumph over it, wealth should become the weapon of
my attack. Then my gaze met Sally's over the chrysanthemums, and the
thought in my brain shrank back suddenly abashed.
"Dolly got a stone in her foot, poor dear," she remarked to her aunts,
"and Ben Starr got it out. She limped all the way home."
At her playful use of my name, a glance flashed from Miss Mitty to Miss
Matoaca and back again across the high silver service.
"Then we are very grateful to Mr. Starr," replied Miss Mitty in a prim
voice. "Sister Matoaca and I were just agreeing that you ought not to be
allowed to ride alone outside the city."
"Perhaps we can arrange with Ben to go walking along the same road,"
responded Sally provokingly, "and I shouldn't be in need of a groom."
For the first time I raised my eyes. "I'll walk anywhere except along
the road-to-what-might-have-been," I said, and my voice was quite
steady.
Her glance dropped to her plate. Then she looked across the vase of
chrysanthemums into Miss Mitty's face.
"Ben and I used to play together, Aunt Mitty," she said, offering the
information as if it were the most pleasant fact in the world, "when I
lived on Church Hill."
A flush rose to Miss Mitty's cheeks, and passed the next instant, as if
by a wave of sympathy, into Miss Matoaca's.
"I hoped, Sally, that you had forgotten that part of your life,"
observed the elder lady stiffly.
"How can I forget it, Aunt Mitty? I was very happy over there."
"And are you not happy here, dear?" asked Miss Matoaca, hurt by the
words, and bending over, she smelt a spray of lilies-of-the-valley that
had lain beside her plate.
"Of course I am, Aunt Matoaca, but one doesn't forget. I met Ben first
when I was six years old. Mamma and I stopped at his house in a storm
one night on our way over to grandmama's. We were soaking wet, and they
were very kind and dried us and gave us hot things to drink, and his
mother wrapped me up in a shawl and sent me here with mamma. I shall
always remember how good they were, and how he broke off a red geranium
from his mother's plant and gave it to me."
As she told her story, Miss Mitty watched her attentively, the
expression of faint wonder in her eyes and her narrow eyebrows, and her
pleasant, rather pained smile etched delicately about her fine, thin
lips. Her long, oval face, suffused now by an unusual colour, rose above
the quaint old coffee urn, on which the Fairfax crest, belonging to her
mother's family, was engraved. If any passion could have been supposed
to rock that flat, virgin bosom, I should have said that it was moved by
a passion of wounded pride.
"Is your coffee right, Mr. Starr? Have you cream enough?" she enquired
politely. "Selim, give Mr. Starr a partridge."
My coffee was right, and I declined the bird, which would have stuck in
my throat. The united pride of the Blands and the Fairfaxes, I told
myself, could not equal that possessed by a single obscure son of a
stone-cutter.
"If you are as hungry as I am, you are famished," observed Sally, with a
gallant effort to make a semblance of gayety sport on a frozen
atmosphere. "Aunt Matoaca, have pity and give me a muffin."
Muffins were passed by Miss Matoaca; waffles were presented immediately
by Selim.
"Do take a hot one," urged Miss Matoaca anxiously, "yours is quite
cold."
I took a hot one, and after placing it on the small white and gold
plate, swore desperately to myself that I would not eat a mouthful in
that house until I could eat there as an equal. The faint wonder beneath
the pained fixed smile on Miss Mitty's face stabbed me like a knife. All
her anxious hospitality, all her offers of cream and partridges, could
not for a single minute efface it. Turning my head I discerned the same
expression, still fainter, still gentler, reflected on Miss Matoaca's
lips--as if some subtle bond of sympathy between them were asking
always, beneath the hereditary courtesy: "Can this be possible? Are we,
whose mother was a Fairfax, whose father was a Bland, sitting at our own
table with a man who is not a gentleman by birth?--who has even brought
a market basket to our kitchen door? What has become of the established
order if such a thing as this can happen to two unprotected Virginia
ladies?"
And it was quite characteristic of their race, of their class, that the
greater the wonder grew in their gentle minds, the more sedulously they
plied me with coffee and partridges and preserves--that the more their
souls abhorred me, the more lavish became their hands. Divided as they
were by their principles, something stronger than a principle now held
the sisters together, and this was a passionate belief in the integrity
of their race.
Again Selim handed the waffles in a frozen silence, and again Sally made
an unsuccessful attempt to produce an appearance of animation.
"Are you going to market, Aunt Matoaca?" she asked, "and will you
remember to buy seed for my canary?"
The flush in Miss Matoaca's cheek this time, I could not explain.
"Sister Mitty will go," she replied, in confusion, "I--I have another
engagement."
"She alludes to a meeting of one of her boards," observed Miss Mitty,
and turning to me she added, with what I felt to be an unfair thrust at
the shrinking bosom of Miss Matoaca, "My sister is a great reader, Mr.
Starr, and she has drawn many of her opinions out of books instead of
from life."
I looked up, my eyes met Miss Matoaca's, and I remembered her love
story.
"We all do that, I suppose," I answered. "Even when we get them from
life, haven't most of them had their beginning in books?"
"I am not a great reader myself," remarked Miss Mitty, a trifle primly.
"My father used to say that when a lady had read a chapter of her Bible
in the morning, and consulted her cook-book, she had done as much
literary work as was good for her. Too intimate an acquaintance with
books, he always said, was apt to unsettle the views, and the best
judgment a woman can have, I am sure, is the opinion of the gentlemen of
her family."
"That may be true," I admitted, and my self-possession returned to me,
until a certain masculine assurance sounded in my voice, "but I'm quite
sure I shouldn't like anybody else's opinion to decide mine."
"You are a man," rejoined Miss Mitty, and I felt that she had not been
able to bring her truthful lips to utter the word "gentleman." "It is
natural that you should have independent ideas, but, as far as I am
concerned, I am perfectly content to think as my grandmother and my
great-grandmother have thought before me. Indeed, it seems to me almost
disrespectful to differ from them."
"And it was dear great-grandmama," laughed Sally, "who when the doctor
once enquired if her tooth ached, turned to great-grandpapa and asked,
'Does it ache, Bolivar?'"
She had tossed her riding hat aside, and a single loosened wave of her
hair had fallen low on her forehead above her arched black eyebrows.
Beneath it her eyes, very wide and bright, held a puzzled yet resolute
look, as if they were fixed upon an obstacle which frightened her, and
which she was determined to overcome.
"You are speaking of my grandmama, Sally," observed Miss Mitty, and I
could see that the levity of the girl had wounded her.
"I'm sorry, dear Aunt Mitty, she was my great-grandmama, too, but that
doesn't keep me from thinking her a very silly person."
"A silly person? Your own great-grandmama, Sally!" Her mind, long and
narrow, like her face, had never diverged, I felt, from the straight
line of descent.
"My sister and I unfortunately do not agree in our principles, Mr.
Starr," said Miss Matoaca, breaking her strained silence suddenly in a
high voice, and with an energy that left tremors in her thin, delicate
figure. "Indeed, I believe that I hold views which are opposed generally
by Virginia ladies--but I feel it to be a point of honour that I should
let them be known." She paused breathlessly, having delivered herself
of the heresy that worked in her bosom, and a moment later she sat
trembling from head to foot with her eyes on her plate. Poor little
gallant lady, I thought, did she remember the time when at the call of
that same word "honour," she had thrown away, not only her peace, but
her happiness?
"Whatever your opinions may be, Miss Matoaca, I respect your honest and
loyal support of them," I said.
The embarrassment that had overwhelmed me five minutes before had
vanished utterly. At the first chance to declare myself--to contend, not
merely with a manner, but with a situation, I felt the full strength of
my manhood. The General himself could not have uttered his piquant
pleasantries in a blither tone than I did my impulsive defence of the
right of private judgment. Miss Mitty raised her eyes to mine, and Miss
Matoaca did likewise. Over me their looks clashed, and I saw at once
that it was the relentless warfare between individual temperament and
racial instinct. In spite of the obscurity of my birth, I knew that in
Miss Matoaca, at that instant, I had won a friend.
"Surely Aunt Matoaca is right to express what she thinks," said Sally,
loyally following my lead.
"No woman of our family has ever thought such things, Sally, or has ever
felt called upon to express her views in the presence of men."
"Well, I suppose, some woman has got to begin some day, and it may as
well be Aunt Matoaca."
"There is no reason why any woman should begin. Your great-grandmama did
not."
"But my great-grandmama couldn't tell when her tooth ached, and you can,
I've heard you do it. It was very disrespectful of you, dear Auntie."
"If you cannot be serious, Sally, I refuse to discuss the subject."
"But how can anybody be serious, Aunt Mitty, about a person who didn't
know when her own tooth ached?"
"Dear sister," remarked Miss Matoaca, in a voice of gentle obstinacy, "I
do not wish to be the cause of a disagreement between Sally and
yourself. Any question that was not one of principle I should gladly
give up. I know you are not much of a reader, but if you would only
glance at an article in the last _Fortnightly Review_ on the
Emancipation of Women--"
"I should have thought, sister Matoaca, that Dr. Peterson's last sermon
in St. Paul's on the feminine sphere would have been a far safer guide
for you. His text, Mr. Starr," she added, turning to me, "was, 'She
looketh well to the ways of her household.'"
"At least you can't accuse Aunt Matoaca of neglecting the ways of her
household," said Sally, merrily, "even the General rises up after dinner
and praises her mince pies. Do you like mince pies, Ben?"
I replied that I was sure that I should like Miss Matoaca's, for I had
heard them lauded by General Bolingbroke; at which the poor lady blushed
until her cheeks looked like withered rose leaves. She was one of those
unhappy women, I had learned during breakfast, who suffered from a
greater mental activity than was usually allotted to the females of
their generation. Behind that long and narrow face, with its pencilled
eyebrows, its fine, straight nose, and restlessly shining eyes, what
battles of conviction against tradition must have waged. Was the final
triumph of intellect due, in reality, to the accident of an unhappy
love? Had the General's frailties driven this shy little lady, with her
devotion to law and order, and her excellent mince pies, into a martyr
for the rights of sex?
"I am told that Mrs. Clay prides herself upon her pies," she remarked.
"I have never eaten them, but Dr. Theophilus tells me that he prefers
mine because I use less suet."
"I am sure nobody's could compare with yours, sister Matoaca," observed
Miss Mitty in an affable tone, "and I happen to know that Mrs. Clay
resorts to Mrs. Camberwell's cook-book. _We_ prefer Mrs. Randolph's,"
she added, turning to me.
"Well, we'll ask Ben to dinner some day, and he may judge," said Sally.
Instantly I felt that her words were a challenge, and the shining
mahogany table, with its delicate lace mats, its silver and its
chrysanthemums, became a battle-field for opposing spirits. I saw Miss
Mitty stiffen and the corners of her mouth grow rigid under her
pleasant, fixed smile.
"Will you have some marmalade, Mr. Starr?" she asked, and I knew that
with the phrase, she had flung down her gauntlet on the table. Her very
politeness veiled a purpose, not of iron, but finely tempered and
resistless as a blade. Had she said to me: "Sir, you are an upstart, and
I, sitting quietly at the same table with you, and inviting you to eat
of the same dish of marmalade, am a descendant of the Blands and the
Fairfaxes,"--her words would have stabbed me less deeply than did the
pathetic "Can this be possible?" of her smiling features.
A canary, swinging in a gilt cage between the curtains at the window,
broke suddenly into a jubilant fluting; and rising from the table, we
stood for a minute, as if petrified, with our eyes on the bird, and on
the box of blossoming sweet alyssum upon the sill. A little later, when
I left with the plea that the General expected me at nine o'clock, the
two elder ladies gave me their small, transparent hands, while their
polite farewell sounded as final as if it had been uttered on the edge
of an open grave. Only Sally, smiling up at me, with that puzzled yet
determined look still in her eyes, said gayly, "When you go walking at
sunrise, Ben, choose the road-to-what-might-have-been!"