KITTY FARNUM TAKES THE PRIZE.
John Haviland was in town that summer. Many things kept him there; he
had his own business, and he had his schools, and he had his workmen’s
clubs. And just now he had, more than all, the new young men’s club he
was founding on the Bowery. He would usually dine at his own club; and
there the men he most commonly met were Derwent and Lucie Gower. There
seemed to be a certain bond of sympathy between these men. Gower also
was kept in town by his business; for Gower had his duties in life,
and performed them punctiliously, too. Derwent--well, Derwent was kept
there by much the same reasons that kept John at home; the reader may
know them later. Furthermore, these men, not being pleasure-seekers,
were all three unhappy--for the moment, only, let us hope.
Haviland lived most of the time on his little sloop, which he kept
moored at Bay Ridge, and he took little cruises in her when the wind
served. Derwent was apt to be with him on these; he was an enthusiast
in everything, and just now was much interested in John’s work in New
York. Then there was politics; the primaries were already beginning,
and John was at work over these; a most fascinating subject for
Derwent, who was fond of saying that the most noticeable industries in
all “property-democracies” had been plied by those who made a trade of
patriotism; but John was not a trader. It was Derwent who called ours
an age of coal; but “machine civilization” was his favorite term for
the nineteenth century, and just now his notion was that property was
the pasturage that gave life to the monster that he fought.
Certainly, it had been an evil year for those who thought and hoped.
That showed itself even in the primaries, where now the local leaders
found it hard to keep their rank and file content. Still less could
John get on, with his abstract talk of pure government and simple laws.
Sovereign voters were showing a strange tendency to go in directly for
abstract benefits, or what they conceived to be such. Even city workers
were discontented; and there was said to be much misery in the mining
districts. The coal magnates--Tamms, Duval, and Remington--finding
that that ichor of our civilization was growing too plentiful, had
laid their heads together and were “diminishing the output;” that is,
they forbade that more than a certain number of tons should be mined
per week. Thus did they not only cut off that draught of life from the
general social fabric, but about one-third of the cupbearers thereof
were thrown out of work. Upon this, many of the rest had struck. Their
places in the mines had promptly been filled by other human energy in
the shape of so many head of human beings, male and female, shipped
from Poland; while the strikers and even some of the Poles, who had
escaped and could read and write, were making trouble. But these themes
are too heavy for our slight pen; except such outcome of it as even all
the world might see--and Mrs. Flossie Gower may feel.
And, if politics had thus all gone askew, John was just a shade
discouraged with his social work as well. Many a talk did he and
Derwent have about it, lying becalmed off the sullen Jersey coast,
smoking their midnight cigars beneath the sky. “They will come to the
club fast enough,” he would say, “and read a newspaper or two, and
smoke a pipe--when they have not money enough to pay for drinks at the
bar-room. They will listen to what we tell them, politely enough. But
what I find is the hardest thing to cope with is a sort of scoffing
humor: as if we were all muffs, and they knew it, and only put up with
it so long as it suited their convenience.”
“A curious thing this jeering habit in your democracy,” muttered
Derwent. “They have caught the trick of Voltaire’s cynicism and turned
it upwards. They are incredulous of excellence and of benevolence
in high places--even of yours, old fellow, I am afraid,” he added.
“I never could see how there could be class-hatred in America; but
class-hatred there certainly is.”
“I talk to these boys of books and pictures, and the joys of art, and
the delights of nature; and I fear, if they do not cry ‘Oh, chestnuts’
at me, or some other current slang, it is out of mere good-nature and
because they like me. Their delight in nature is limited to the nearest
base-ball field, the newspapers they take up are generally those
printed on pink paper, and as for books--I doubt if many of them ever
opened one, except he knew it was obscene.”
“All literature has had but two sources--religious hymns and merry
stories,” said Derwent, gravely. “These boys must naturally begin with
that one which is left them.”
“Ah, they are such finished positivists! As for fearing the Roman
Church, it is but an old wives’ tale to them.”
“How much did our friends at _La Lisière_ care for this higher side of
life?” said Derwent. “It is true they substitute wine for whiskey, and
straight-limbed horses for bow-legged bull-pups, and steeple-chases for
sparring, and French novels for the pink newspaper. I fancy our two
sets of friends would understand one another, Tony Duval and Birmingham
and your boys, much better than you do after all. As for Mr. Van Kull,
he would be a hero with either lot, and Caryl Wemyss a muff.”
“There are plenty of rich people who are not like Mrs. Gower’s set.”
“True, but they do not advertise themselves, they do not make a show,
they do not ‘lead society’--suggestive phrase. And probably you are the
first rich man of that class whom your Bowery friends have ever seen.
No wonder that they set you down for a muff!”
“Of course a poor boy covets his neighbor’s goods, if he sees that his
goods are the only thing the neighbor values,” sighed John.
Thus did these two hold converse, and often Lucie Gower with them.
Indeed Lucie Gower had got quite interested in John’s plans, and if he
did not feel that his personal assistance would be of much value, he
helped John out with money, which was almost as much to the point. The
simple fellow was not happy, and he did not quite know why; surely his
wife, the admired leader of all their world, was all that he desired?
At times he would seem on the point of confiding with John, and would
turn his eyes to him with the troubled look of some not healthy animal;
a look, alas! which John saw no way to answer.
But if John made little progress with his missionary work, James
Starbuck made greatly more with his. The discontent on the line of
the Allegheny Central Railroad and in the coal-mines was certainly
spreading; and Starbuck, in his capacity of travelling inspector, had
much opportunity to see this and to work upon it. Now and then he would
enter Haviland’s club-room; he had had himself inscribed as a member
thereof; and each time it was noticeable that he would take many of the
young men away to some secret meeting of his own. John at first had
welcomed him as an ally; he was much better educated than most of the
young men, and his influence was certainly for sobriety, at least. But
of late he had begun to doubt.
Meantime Tamms, the man who ruled the Allegheny Central, was
continually at the office; for he was not without anxiety about all
this. His clever manœuvres of the previous summer had had one result
of doubtful benefit; it had left him saddled with all the Starbuck
Oil Works stock, and nearly all the Allegheny Central. A time of
extreme prosperity had been expected by him that year; he had just
made one great monopoly of all the neighboring coal interests; but the
one thing even clever Tamms could not see and provide against was a
general revolt among the men and women whose lives, as he thought, he
had bought and paid for. Mrs. Tamms and the daughters had come back
from Europe, loaded with rich laces and new gowns, and paying a pretty
figure therefor at the custom-house; but without any offers of marriage
as yet, or at least without sufficiently brilliant ones.
Charlie, too, was at the office frequently, and when he was there,
looked into things pretty closely; though Arthur was still revelling in
the new delights of Newport. Old Mr. Townley would come in regularly
once a month, and cut the coupons off the bonds of his trusts. Thence
he would drive up to his club--he was the oldest member now--and wag
his white head sagely among his friends, financiers _emeriti_ like
himself, and tell them what a treasure he had in his clever young man
Tamms.
Gracie came back to her aunt’s house early in October; but she came
back alone. Mamie had been quite taken up by Mrs. Gower; why it should
be esteemed an honor by young girls to be taken up by Mrs. Gower,
I leave unsaid; but such it was. She translated them to that higher
sphere which she had so completely made her own. Before such promotion
a maiden was simply a pretty girl, nothing more; after it she became
“the thing,” for married men to flirt with, for young men to pay
attention to, and perhaps, finally, for one of them to marry. So Mamie
Livingstone was staying with her at _La Lisière_.
It is needless to say that Charlie Townley was there too. If Flossie
was somewhat sceptical of other worlds, she was quick to recognize
an eternal fitness of things in this. And what more fit than that
fashion should wed wealth, and a young man who had so well proved his
taste in spending money should be given a pretty helpmeet and with
her the wherewithal to shine? Mrs. Gower had a good-natured custom of
pensioning off, in this pleasant manner, her old adorers; for all her
loves, so far, had been platonic affairs of fashion and make-believe,
like the Bronx hounds’ fox-hunting. For Flossie had never been in love
in her life; I question if she could be; though hoping always much to
be the cause that love should be in others.
Charlie, then, found a strong ally in his old friend, and we may be
sure he pushed his advantage to the utmost. Caryl Wemyss was happy too
to have him there; for Charlie’s pursuit was obvious, and the pack of
tongues will often follow only one such scent at a time. And though
ready enough to startle the world when the proper time came, Wemyss did
not wish to diminish the effect of his _coup_ by anticipation. Moreover
he had not quite made up his mind.
As for old Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, they only knew that Mamie was off
enjoying herself; which our parents now have learned to be also part
of pre-established harmony. Gracie was their comfort now; they were
fonder of her than of their own daughter, I think. But Gracie was more
troubled. She had taken pretty little Mamie to her heart. Down-stairs,
with the old people, she was a sweet presence, like still sunlight
after rain; she read to them, and talked, and smiled, and helped.
But up-stairs, I wonder, in the temple of her maiden’s chamber? What
shall we do for Gracie, I beseech you, reader? We can find all their
happinesses, in this world, for Charlie, for Flossie Gower and Mr.
Tamms, and even, through his vanity, for Wemyss--but how for her? And
Gracie was--she was very lovely and contented, and she had the sunniest
of smiles; she was one for some of us to love perhaps--but she was not
exactly happy, you see. But what can we do? We cannot go with her to
her own room, when she is alone; we may not dare to console her; we may
not venture in, but stand awe-struck, hand upon the door. I wonder what
happens there, when the light figure is bent down, and the face forgets
to smile, and the dark eyes look out, unrestrained by other’s presence,
on the four mute walls?
Why did Haviland--yes, and Derwent too--go to the house so often? When
Mamie came home, Charlie Townley came often, too; and Gracie, beginning
her winter work, would have left them all to her, but that they rather
sought herself. And, as if by some strange chemistry, she began to
feel that these two had some understanding with her, of things both
human and divine.
See, there she is, standing in the shadow; John is talking to her. At a
distance sits Derwent, pulling his tawny long moustache, his blue eyes
fixed simply on her like a young child’s. Here is Mamie Livingstone,
prettier, some would say, than Gracie, with her nameless touch of
style, and girlish distinction; she ripples and flashes like a summer
brook, as Charlie bends over her, so that the rosebud in his coat is
just beneath her eyes, and he says something to her about it.
But Mamie was not the only girl who gave trouble to her friends that
autumn. In another street--the Fifty-Somethingeth--sits the Beauty,
Kitty Farnum, lounging back lazily in her chair, her perfect arms
clasped behind her head, a sort of democratic Cleopatra, looking, with
her silent idle scorn, at her mother, who is chiding her. Her mother
is carefully dressed, well educated, worldly enough in all conscience
sake; and yet there is something about her, about her or about her
voice, that makes the haughty beauty sicken with a consciousness of
difference between them. Kitty has the pride of a coronet, if not the
taste for one.
“I heard you positively discouraged him at Lenox.” The mother is
speaking of Lord Birmingham; and the daughter is thinking that, when
a girl, her mother must have been admired of “gentlemen friends” and
have worn gold ornaments about her neck. For Kitty has that intense
appreciation of small differences of social habit that a clever child
inherits when parents are acutely conscious of their lack of social
position. If the factory and railroads and exchanges be the all-in-all
of life, these things are trifles; but our economists who ignore them
forget how much of life is left besides mere work, how great a part in
life is played by self-esteem. Your baron of the middle ages scorned
them, for he had his horse and battle-axe and coat-of-mail; and,
perhaps, had you given these to his hind, the churl might have made as
good a baron, and the baron would have been like any other soldier,
in his eating and his thinking and his lying down. But to-day you put
these two together, and they speak two words, and each knows--and
much more their wives and daughters--that they “move in different
spheres.” But why then, in this democracy, does the one sphere, in
successive stages as you ascend, hate, envy, imitate, and seek to enter
the other? Alas! if they were better men, even as our mediæval baron
was the better man than his churl, the folly of the imitation would
be gone. But _amour-propre_ still rules humanity, although democracy
apportion out its goods, and when _amour-propre_ shall turn from show
of affluence to proof of excellence, we shall see great things. And
love it may be yet that makes the world go round; but, alas! in so many
marriages, both sides love themselves.
“It was reported even in the _Herald_, that it was to be a match,” said
Mrs. Farnum, plaintively. “And now, he has gone off on his yacht, and
they will say that he has jilted you.”
“Mother, I will marry whom I like--and when I like,” said Kitty.
“But tell me, my darling--you do not like anyone else?” said Mrs.
Farnum, coaxingly.
“My dear mother----”
“I do wish you would say ‘mamma,’ and not insist on calling me mother.”
And she thought hastily over the men she knew her child had seen that
summer. “I hope it is not Van Kull--or that young Holyoke,” she added,
in increasing terror.
Kitty turned her back and intimated so plainly a dismissal that the
obedient mother felt constrained to go.
“It _is_ young Holyoke,” she thought, with a sigh that was meant to
soften her obdurate daughter’s heart.
She poured her troubles in her tired husband’s ear that night: “Kate
shall marry whom she likes,” said that unimaginative person. “I guess
her half million will be worth any beggarly marquis of them all. You
weren’t a countess, when I married you.” And Mrs. Farnum had to cry in
silence.
Poor humanity! How much trouble do you give yourselves. As for Kitty
Farnum, she had been asked in marriage by the Earl already; and had
refused him twice.