COUNTING UP THE COST
Jim failed miserably. What was the matter? He couldn't seem to remember
the simplest thing. Did it make any difference to him whom she married?
Well--if it _had_ been Weir; but that imperious, pretentious,
half-dissipated Williamson, who report said had run though with one
fortune, and two years ago had fallen heir to another! Why were some
people so lucky! Grandmother Van Kortlandt had some money; but Hanny was
named for her, and Joe was a great favourite. Then Jim flushed hotly.
The idea of counting on any one's money!
Still he had a boyish, chivalric idea that he would like to snatch Lily
from this awful peril, as it seemed to him. Could it be really true? The
older men said Williamson was a braggart. There might be no truth in it.
He would ask Lily.
Several days passed before Jim achieved his desire. Then, as he loitered
around one afternoon, he saw Williamson leave the house. After a few
moments he knocked.
"Miss Lily is indisposed, and cannot see any one," announced the maid.
"She will see me," returned Jim, with an air of dignity; and he walked
into the parlour that had an atmosphere of twilight, quite determined to
remain until she came down.
She seemed in no hurry, and Jim's temper began to loose its serenity.
The maid came and lighted the gas jet in the hall. Then there was a
rustle of silken garments on the stair.
"Oh, Jim dear," the entreating voice said, "I've had such a horrid
headache all the afternoon. I've been in the bed. I really did not feel
fit to see any one," with a languid, indifferent air.
And Williamson had just gone away!
"So you will excuse me, if I'm stupid--"
"Is the story true about your--your engagement?" asked the young fellow,
abruptly.
"My engagement? Well, I've had an offer of marriage,--two of them.
Wouldn't you advise me to take the best one?" rather archly.
The tone rang flippantly. Jim felt she was evading.
"You see I can't be young always. And Aunt Nicoll may go without a
moment's warning. She had a bad spell yesterday; and she does get in
such horrid tantrums! Mother is awfully tired of staying with her. And
most girls get married--those who have a chance." She ended with a
forced little laugh.
"Is it Williamson? You don't know the sort of man he is," and Jim's
voice was husky with emotion.
"Oh, everybody gets talked about sooner or later! He has been rather
wild; but he wants to settle down now. And I'm not a sentimental girl.
Yes, I do think I'll take him," hesitatingly.
"Lily!"
"Oh, Jim, you are very young and inexperienced! If you were ten years
older, there wouldn't be a man on the whole earth I'd marry as soon. But
you know I said we could only be friends; and I hope you haven't been
cherishing any silly romances about me," tossing her head coquettishly.
"I shall always like you, and I want us to keep friends. But you can't
understand all the reasons. Some girls might drag you into an
engagement, and waste all your young years; but I could not be so mean
to any friend I cared about. We have settled all this matter."
Her tone took on a rather sharp business accent. It was almost curt.
Yes, it had been settled. Yet she had demanded a lover-like devotion,
and allowed him to speculate on what might have been if she were rich or
he older. And though Jim's sturdy common-sense had kept him from going
very deep, he felt wretched and jealous that any other man should have
the supreme right; and yet he had a conviction that the friendship or
flirtation ought to end.
"He thinks you are Mrs. Nicoll's heiress."
She gave a light laugh. "Oh, that will do to talk about; and she may
leave me a little. If I was her heiress--"
The glance roused Jim's anger. He rose suddenly.
"I hope you love Williamson," he said, in a tone that he meant to sound
bitterly cutting. "A girl who sells herself for money to such a man--"
"Nonsense, Jim!" She rose also. "You'll find most of the world will
consider it a good marriage; and anyhow, I have to look out for myself.
It's too bad to break up the pleasant times we've had this winter; but
you must not be angry. You will understand it better presently. I
wouldn't let you go off in this way if I hadn't such a wretched
headache; but you will come in again."
Jim said good-evening with superb dignity. What a stylish fellow he was.
Of course he felt a little "huffy" now; but next winter, when she had a
home of her own, she would give attractive parties, and invite Jim among
the very first. By that time he would be over his boyish folly. And now,
what must she wear to the theatre to-night? She must look her prettiest.
Her wretched headache was gone.
James Underhill felt as he had sometimes in the old school days, that he
had been duped. He was angry with her, with himself. He had brought his
friends to the house; and he knew Weir was really in love with her, yet
she had laughed daintily about some of his peculiarities. What if she
had laughed with Gaynor about him? She did satirise people. It was
strange how many faults he saw in her! Yet he did hate to have her
marry Williamson.
He heard of her being at the theatre that evening with an array of
diamonds, which young girls seldom wore. In a week or so the marriage
was discussed with a little wonder. Mrs. Nicoll was one of the old New
Yorkers, a Ludlow herself. It was fortunate for Lily's prestige that her
plain, unambitious father was dead, and her mother kept well in the
background. No one quite knew about the fortune.
Richard Weir was certainly hard hit. He made a pretence of devoting
himself to his studies to keep away from Gaynor's raillery. But one day
he said to Jim,--
"Something ought to be done to save Miss Ludlow from such an awful
sacrifice; don't you think so, Underhill? That old aunt has egged her
on, and she's doing this for her mother's sake. If I was in a position
to marry, I know I could persuade her to throw it up. What shall I do,
Jim? I know she really loves me. She is heroic about it. She thinks it
would spoil my life in the very beginning. I don't know how father would
take it; and there's such a family of us to provide for."
"Let her alone," returned Jim, gruffly. So she had played with this
honest-hearted young fellow as well; and the saddest of all was that he
really believed in her.
"She will marry Williamson, no matter what comes. Weir, I'm sorry enough
I introduced you, if you are going to take it that way. Lily Ludlow is
a flirt, pure and simple. I've never believed it until now. There is no
use in our wasting our sympathies upon her."
"You don't half do her justice, Jim; if you could hear her side--"
"I have heard it," laconically. "Weir, I'm awful sorry," and he wrung
the young fellow's hand.
There was another aspect to Jim beside the mortification. He had dropped
behind in his standing. Late hours and planning all sorts of amusements
had distracted his attention. And there was another fact to face. He had
been spending money with a lavishness that he wondered at now. He had
borrowed of Weir, of Gaynor, of Ben. When he counted up the total he was
dismayed. His father had been generous. They had all been very proud of
him. How could he confess the miserable fiasco to any one? Perhaps,
after he had taken his degree--
But he had to study hard for that. No more frolicking about! He had a
good deal of resolution, when it was put to the test. He would ask
sober-going Ben to lend him a hundred dollars, which he would pay back
by degrees. No girl should ever win a smile out of him again. He would
never borrow when he was once out of this difficulty.
He knew Dick Weir really needed his money, and this emboldened him to
apply to Ben. Alas!
"I'd do it in a minute Jim; but I've been trying a sort of experiment.
I had a chance to buy some capital stock, five hundred dollars' worth,
and I just scraped up everything I had, and borrowed, so I'm behind, and
must catch up. You've been pretty gay, haven't you, Jim?"
"I have been an idiot," replied Jim, sturdily. "But I have learned a
lesson."
"You just go to Joe. He's the best fellow in all the world. Don't worry
father about it; he takes such pride in his young collegian," and Ben
smiled with generous kindliness upon his younger brother.
That was the best thing certainly; yet it was days before Jim could
summon sufficient courage. And then he found, as he blundered a little
over the matter, that Joe thought it worse than it really was.
"Have you been gambling?" the elder asked gravely.
"No, not that, Joe. It's all been a silly sort of extravagance. I am mad
at myself when I think of it." He wouldn't say he had been tempted by a
girl into much unwise expenditure. How could he have been so weak!
"It will be all right," returned Joe. "I am glad it is not gambling
debts; though a hundred dollars wouldn't cover much. I hope you are
coming through in good shape."
"You may be sure of that. Oh, Joe, how kind you are!"
"What is brotherhood for, if not that?" said Joe gravely.
He would not put himself in the way of meeting Miss Ludlow, though she
did send him two rather plaintive notes. Early in June, the marriage
took place; and the bride's trousseau was quite magnificent, if it was
not made in Paris. Mrs. Nicoll was delighted with what she termed her
grandniece's good sense, and gave her a handsome set of rubies, beside
having her diamonds reset for her. And when she died, some two months
later, it was found she had made a new will on Lily's wedding day, in
which she bequeathed the bride all her personal effects and some
valuable bank-stock, if the amount was not very large. The next winter,
Mrs. Williamson took her place in society, and was quite a married
belle, managing her husband as adroitly as she had managed her lovers.
Jim studied day and almost night to make up for the dissipation of the
winter, and passed with honour, though Joe had hoped he would have one
of the orations. He went immediately into the law office of a friend of
Stephen's as clerk and copyist while he was waiting for the new term of
the law school.
Charles Reed did distinguish himself, and was one of the heroes of the
occasion. He was a fine, manly fellow now, and Mrs. Dean loved him like
a son. Indeed, it seemed as if he might be her son, the young people
were so much to each other. Josie would graduate the next year at the
high school.
Ben and Delia had gone along through the winter with very little
change, except to learn how much they loved each other. The young men
did not have quite such rollicking good times, though Nora was
developing into a very attractive young girl and enchanted them with her
singing. Delia was very busy trying her best to come up to some high
standards of literary work. Everybody was not a genius in those days.
Colleges had not begun to turn them out by the score, and the elder
people were very often helpful to the younger ones.
There was, it is true, a certain kind of Bohemianism among the men that
proved dangerous to more than one fine, promising mind. Ben liked the
bright wit and keen encounters, and the talk that ran through centuries
of intellectual activity as if it was only yesterday. He was taking a
curious interest in politics as well, for some great questions were
coming to the fore.
Mrs. Underhill had preserved a cautious silence respecting Delia,
indeed, ignored the whole matter. Dolly was cordial when they met. Jim
had been so taken up with his engrossing experience that he rarely went
to Beach Street; and the two sets of society were widely apart. Delia
had supposed everything would come around straight; it generally did in
her happy-go-lucky fashion.
But on Commencement day, when she was all smiles and gladness, Mrs.
Underhill's coolness and Mrs. Hoffman's stately distance quite amazed
her.
"Ben," she said, "something has happened with your people. Your mother
hardly spoke to me, and Margaret was icy. And now that I come to think
of it, Hanny hasn't been near us since Nora's birthday--February that
was. Are they offended because--don't they like our engagement? And I
love them all so, from least to greatest; only Margaret is rather high
up."
"Hanny's had such lots of lessons, and her music, and she's
corresponding with Daisy Jasper in French. Grandmother takes her time,
too. You don't have so much leisure out of childhood."
"What jolly times we had back there in First Street! Oh, Ben, I did like
you all so much! And I can't bear to have the good feeling die out."
There were tears in Delia's brown eyes. Ben was moved immeasurably.
"May be I ought to have said something to mother; Joe counselled me to
wait."
"Then it has been talked about!" Delia stood up very straight, and
looked like a spirited picture. "What is their objection to me? Your
family are all prospering. Stephen is really a man of mark; Of course
Dr. Hoffman was rich to begin with. And John's wife had quite a fortune
when her parents died. Joe is up among the important people; and Jim
will make a smart lawyer, every one says. You _are_ a splendid lot!" and
her honest admiration touched him.
"I don't know. I've never felt very splendid."
"You are solid, and strong, and sensible. What a pity that alliteration
won't do in a poem!" and she laughed in her joyous manner. "I don't
care if you never are rich, so long as we have good times. And as you
can't write a bit of verse, you dear, lovely old Ben, nor a story, I do
not believe our tastes will clash. Why shouldn't we agree just as well
when we are married as we do now? Even that tremendous, gloomy, erratic
Edgar Allan Poe adored not only his wife, but his mother-in-law. To be
sure, there was Milton and Byron, and Mrs. Hemans and Bulwer, and a host
of them; but Mr. and Mrs. Browning are going on serenely. And 'The
Scarlet Letter' hasn't made trouble in Hawthorne's family yet. I think
it is temper, rather than genius. And I have a good temper, Ben,"
looking up out of honest, convincing eyes.
"You just have," returned Ben, with emphasis, kissing her fondly.
"Ben, I love you too well to make you unhappy."
"You will never make me unhappy."
"May be I'm not careful enough in little things."
"I don't fret about the little things," said Ben. "We both like
easy-chairs, and evenings at home, and reading about famous people, or
queer people, and wonderful places. We both like a fire, and a cat; I
adore a nice cat, it is such a comfortable thing. And we like to go out
where people are bright and vivacious, and know something. We're fond of
music, and pictures, and like a good play. Oh, there are things enough
to agree upon all our lives; so what would be the use of hunting round
to find a few things to dispute about."
"Why, there wouldn't be. But I want your mother to like me, and to feel
sure I shall do my best to make you happy. Of course, we may not get
rich."
"Bother riches! But I'm not going to give you up for anybody in
Christendom."
"You are very sweet, Ben." There was a sound of tears in Delia's voice.
"I'll see what it is," subjoined Ben. "Oh, it will all come straight, I
know."
"I shall not marry you for the next seven years, no, not for twenty,
until everybody is willing," said Delia, decisively.
Why couldn't people be kindly affectioned one toward another, as the
Apostle enjoined, when there was nothing very objectionable in the
other? It puzzled Ben. He was passionately fond of his mother, too; but
the issue had to be met. And the very next evening when Mrs. Underhill
was out watering her garden, that had in it all manner of sweet herbs
and the old-time flowers dear to her heart, Ben came wandering down the
clean-cut path.
"Mother," when they had both stood silently several minutes,--"mother, I
want to tell you--Delia Whitney and I are engaged."
"I supposed as much," said his mother, tartly. Then she turned to come
up the path.
"Mother, you have welcomed Dolly and Cleanthe; and we have all been like
brothers and sisters. Haven't you a tender word for Delia? You used to
like her."
"Delia Whitney was well enough for a neighbour. You have run and run
there, Ben, and really never taken the trouble to look about. You are
young, and hardly know what is best for you. You could have looked
higher. But you've gotten in with those newspaper people; and they do
drink, and are not very choice in their company."
"And lawyers drink; yet we are going to make a lawyer out of Jim. And we
have known country farmers addicted to the habit. Newspaper-men are
quite up to the average. But that has nothing to do with Delia."
"No, women don't so often take to drinking. But she is in it all; and I
don't like such public business for a woman. A wife's place is at home;
and Mrs. Whitney is a very poor housekeeper. Ben, a great deal of a
man's happiness depends on the way his house is kept."
"But their house is always bright and pleasant. And think how Delia used
to work in First Street. She can keep house good enough for me."
"You have always had things so neat and orderly, Ben, that you don't
know how trying that sort of helter-skelter housekeeping can be. A woman
can't run hither and yon, and write stories and what not; and now they
are beginning to lecture and talk, and make themselves as mannish as
possible! No, I don't like it. And I pity the man who has to live in
that sort of neglected home. And then, Ben, come disputes and
separations."
He had heard the narrow reasoning before. Mrs. Reed came into his mind.
With her passion for cleanliness and order, she certainly knew nothing
about a happy, comfortable home. His mother still scouted a
sewing-machine. Delia had hired one with a good operator, and declared
that in a week they had done up all the summer sewing. He knew his
mother would say it was only half-done. To be sure, Delia's mother was a
great novel-reader and had neglected her household many a time for an
interesting book. But _she_ wrote neither stories nor verses.
"Of course, you will do as you like. And you think you are the only one
that will suffer. But a mother has many sorrowful hours over a son's
unhappiness and discomfort."
Then she passed him, and went into the house. And, after the fashion of
unreasoning women, she hurried up to her own room and cried a few bitter
tears. Ben had been such a good, upright, pleasant son. He ought to have
the best wife in the world, for he was easy-going and would put up with
almost anything. She _was_ disappointed.
She would have scouted the idea of being aristocratic or mercenary; yet
she did want him to look higher. There had been such an attractive
Hoffman cousin spending a month with Margaret, who thought Ben
delightful. There were two or three girls in the neighbourhood. In fact,
a young man might as well marry some one of distinction and character;
Dolly and Cleanthe were none the worse for their money.
"I don't know what I can do," Ben said to Dolly, with a sigh. "Delia has
a suspicion that mother is against her. I'm not in a hurry to marry;
but Delia won't marry me until everybody is ready to welcome her."
"Yes, you are young; and a good many things come around straight if you
give them time, just like a northeast wind. Ask Delia to come up to tea,
whenever she and you are at liberty."
Dolly kissed Ben. In some respects he was still boyish.
Margaret was vexed over the certainty. It was said Nora Whitney had a
chance to go abroad with a Madame Somebody who used to sing in operas.
She would be educated for a professional. Of course a Jenny Lind or a
Parodi or Malibran was different; but just an ordinary singer!--or one
could admire an acknowledged woman of genius who had a position, or any
social prestige!
Ben said nothing to Delia; but she guessed his announcement had not been
satisfactory. She had not been to the Underhills for six months or more.
But, in her generous fashion, she made no comment.
Late that summer a wonderful thing happened that filled everybody with
elation, and for twenty-four hours set the city wild. Every show-window
had a picture of a trim, spirited yacht that seemed to have triumph
written all over her; and men and boys crowded around to look at it, and
cheered it with an enthusiasm seldom inspired nowadays. We were all
going wild over our great triumph; for we had distanced England on the
seas and in British waters. The gallant "America" had borne off the
"Queen's Cup," the prize offered for the fleetest yacht in the great
race.
We had been very proud of our fleet "clippers" that were scudding about
to different ports. Then the Steers brothers had built the "America" for
Mr. Stevens, of the New York Yacht Club; and he decided to take her over
to the great contest that was to be a race around the Isle of Wight. She
met with a little mishap in the beginning; but, nothing daunted, her
courageous captain kept on to the end, eighty-one miles, and distanced
all competitors. Other yachts of all nations were entered; and it must
have been a magnificent sight when she had eight minutes to spare, and
could glance back at her really splendid rivals. The pretty story of
Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort was told over many times. The
Queen asked the captain of the royal yacht who was first.
"The 'America,' your Majesty."
"And who is second?"
"There is no second, your Majesty," returned the Captain, gallantly
admitting the defeat.
So the brave "America," after being flattered and feted, brought home
her trophy; and thousands rushed to see that and the beautiful yacht.
But the English Club did not mean to resign honours so easily, and
announced that efforts would be made to win back the famous cup. And
to-day the cup is still ours, after many challenges and trials.
But the enthusiasm then knew no bounds. There were little flags with a
miniature yacht and the American colours; and the patriotic boys wore
them in their jackets. Jim put up a handsome engraving in his room.
He had been working like a Trojan all summer, except a brief fortnight,
and had begun to pay back his debt.
Nora Whitney was to go abroad under the care of a well-known musician
and his wife, who was a fine concert-singer. It seemed such an excellent
opportunity; and Nora had an ambition to reach a high standard. The
Professor and Madame had visited the Whitneys, and both parties were
mutually satisfied.
"I could never let a child of mine go away among strangers in that
manner," declared Mrs. Underhill. "No one can tell what will happen to
her. I shouldn't have thought it of Mr. Theodore. The women, of course,
are not overweighted with common sense, and the poor child has no
mother."
"Oh, dear," sighed Hanny, "all the little girls are dropping out; and we
used to have such nice times. I do wonder if Daisy means ever to come
back. And Josie Dean is a young lady with long dresses, and does up her
hair."
"Elenora Whitney is not worth worrying about," subjoined Mrs. Underhill,
tartly; "and Josie Dean is a very nice, modest girl."
Charles Reed and Josie had dropped into a fashion of making frequent
calls during the summer. The young fellow made a confidant of Doctor
Joe, as young people were very apt to do, he was so sympathetic and
kindly.
Mr. Reed had quite a fancy at first that he should study medicine.
"It is a fine profession, when one's heart is in it," said Doctor Joe.
"And there are so many new discoveries and methods all the time. Still,
I can't quite fancy Charlie taking up the disagreeable side."
"He could be a professor, I suppose," commented his father, rather
reluctantly. "He loves study and books, and he ought to turn his
education to some account. I would do anything for him; he knows that.
He is all I have; and he is a fine boy."
It was odd; but Charlie talked his desire over with Josie first of all,
and she approved of it enthusiastically. Then he rather timidly
confessed it to his father.
"I used to believe that I never wanted to be a clergyman; but, after
mother died, I began to think it over. She was so sort of sweet and
changed that last year, almost as if she had a presentiment; and though
she took such an interest in my studies, she never spoke of that, though
I know it was her heart's desire. All the time I seem to have had a
leaning towards it. It is a grand life, when one's heart and soul are in
it; and I am sure now mine would be. I should feel as if I was keeping
near to her, and doing something for her happiness. And if you would not
feel disappointed--"
"My boy, I should be gratified," said his father, warmly. "I should not
have tried to influence your choice; but I do think, in certain ways,
you are especially fitted for this profession. I can trust you never to
bring discredit on so sacred a calling; and I think you are alive to
the true responsibility of it. Yes; it is what she would like, if she
were here."
Jim declared he had felt sure of this decision all the last year. They
all decided Charles Reed would make a fine conscientious clergyman.