The Arbuser cottage at Lenox was really a magnificent villa. Richardson
had built it. At a distance it had the appearance of a mediaeval
structure, with its low doorways, picturesque gables, and steep roofs,
and in its situation on a gentle swell of green turf backed by native
forest-trees it imparted to the landscape an ancestral tone which is much
valued in these days. But near to, it was seen to be mediaevalism adapted
to the sunny hospitality of our summer climate, with generous verandas
and projecting balconies shaded by gay awnings, and within spacious, open
to the breezes, and from its broad windows offering views of lawns and
flower-beds and ornamental trees, of a great sweep of pastures and
forests and miniature lakes, with graceful and reposeful hills on the
horizon.
It was, in short, the modern idea of country simplicity. The passion for
country life, which has been in decadence for nearly half a century, has
again become the fashion. Nature, which, left to itself, is a little
ragged, not to say monotonous and tiresome, is discovered to be a
valuable ally for aid in passing the time when art is able to make
portions of it exclusive. What the Arbusers wanted was a simple home in
the country, and in obtaining it they were indulging a sentiment of
returning to the primitive life of their father, who had come to the city
from a hill farm, and had been too busy all his life to recur to the
tastes of his boyhood. At least that was the theory of his daughters; but
the old gentleman had a horror of his early life, and could scarcely be
dragged away from the city even in the summer. He would no doubt have
been astonished at the lofty and substantial stone stables, the long
range of greenhouses, and at a farm which produced nothing except lawns
and flower-beds, ornamental fields of clover, avenues of trees,
lawn-tennis grounds, and a few Alderneys tethered to feed among the
trees, where their beauty would heighten the rural and domestic aspect of
the scene. The Arbusers liked to come to this place as early as possible
to escape the society exactions of the city. That was another theory of
theirs. All their set in the city met there for the same purpose.
Margaret was welcomed with open arms.
"We have been counting the days," said the elder of the sisters. "Your
luggage has come, your rooms are all ready, and your coachman, who has
been here some days, says that the horses need exercise. Everybody is
here, and we need you for a hundred things."
"You are very kind. It is so charming here. I knew it would be, but I
couldn't bear to shorten my visit in Brandon."
"Your aunt must miss you very much. Is she well?"
"Perfectly."
"Wouldn't she have come with you? I've a mind to telegraph."
"I think not. She is wedded to quiet, and goes away from her little
neighborhood with reluctance."
"So Brandon was a little dull?" said Miss Arbuser, with a shrewd guess at
the truth.
"Oh no," quickly replied Margaret, shrinking a little from what was in
her own mind; "it was restful and delightful; but you know that we New
England people take life rather seriously, and inquire into the reason of
things, and want an object in life."
"A very good thing to have," answered this sweet woman of the world,
whose object was to go along pleasantly and enjoy it.
"But to have it all the time!" Margaret suggested, lightly, as she ran
up-stairs. But even in this suggestion she was conscious of a twinge of
disloyalty to her former self. Deep down in her heart, coming to the
atmosphere of Lenox was a relief from questionings that a little
disturbed her at her old home, and she was indignant at herself that it
should be so, and then indignant at the suggestions that put her out of
humor with herself. Was it a sin, she said, to be happy and prosperous?
On her dressing-table was a letter from her husband. He was detained in
the city by a matter of importance. He scratched only a line, to catch
the mail, during a business interview. It was really only a business
interview, and had no sort of relation to Lenox or the summer gayety
there.
Henderson was in his private office. The clerks in the outer offices, in
the neglige of summer costumes, winked to each other as they saw old
Jerry Hollowell enter and make his way to the inner room unannounced.
Something was in the wind.
"Well, old man," said Uncle Jerry, in the cheeriest manner, coming in,
depositing his hat on the table, and taking a seat opposite Henderson,
"we seem to have stirred up the animals."
"Only a little flurry," replied Henderson, laying down his pen and
folding a note he had just finished; "they'll come to reason."
"They've got to." Mr. Hollowell drew out a big bandanna and mopped his
heated face. "I've just got a letter from Jorkins. There's the
certificates that make up the two-thirds-more than we need, anyway. No
flaw about that, is there?"
"No. I'll put these with the balance in the safe. It's all right, if
Jorkins has been discreet. It may make a newspaper scandal if they get
hold of his operations."
"Oh, Jorkins is close. But he is a little overworked. I don't know but it
would do him good to have a little nervous prostration and go abroad for
a while."
"I guess it would do Jorkins good to take a turn in Europe for a year or
so."
"Well, you write to him. Give him a sort of commission to see the English
bondholders, and explain the situation. They will appreciate that half a
loaf is better than no bread. What bothers me is the way the American
bondholders take it. They kick."
"Let 'em kick. The public don't care for a few soreheads and
impracticables in an operation that is going to open up the whole
Southwest. I've an appointment with one of them this morning. He ought to
be here now."
At the moment Henderson's private secretary entered and laid on the table
the card of Mr. John Hopper, who was invited to come in at once. Mr.
Hopper was a man of fifty, with iron-gray hair, a heavy mustache, and a
smooth-shaven chin that showed resolution. In dress and manner his
appearance was that of the shrewd city capitalist--quiet and determined,
who is neither to be deceived nor bullied. With a courteous greeting to
both the men, whom he knew well, he took a seat and stated his business.
"I have called to see you, Mr. Henderson, about the bonds of the A. and
B., and I am glad to find Mr. Hollowell here also."
"What amount do you represent, Mr. Hopper?" asked Henderson.
"With my own and my friends', altogether, rising a million. What do you
propose?"
"You got our circular?"
"Yes, and we don't accept the terms."
"I'm sorry. It is the best that we could do."
"That is, the best you would do!"
"Pardon me, Mr. Hopper, the best we could do under the circumstances. We
gave you your option, to scale down on a fair estimate of the earnings of
the short line (the A. and B.), or to surrender your local bonds and take
new ones covering the whole consolidation, or, as is of course in your
discretion, to hold on and take the chances."
"Which your operations have practically destroyed."
"Not at all, Mr. Hopper. We offer you a much better security on the whole
system instead of a local road."
"And you mean to tell me, Mr. Henderson, that it is for our advantage to
exchange a seven per cent. bond on a road that has always paid its
interest promptly, for a four and a half on a system that is manipulated
nobody knows how? I tell you, gentlemen, that it looks to outsiders as if
there was crookedness somewhere."
"That is a rather rough charge, Mr. Hopper," said Henderson, with a
smile.
"But we are to understand that if we do not accept your terms, it's a
freeze-out?"
"You are to understand that we want to make the best arrangement possible
for all parties in interest."
"How some of those interests were acquired may be a question for the
courts," replied Mr. Hopper, resolutely. "When we put our money in good
seven per cent. bonds, we propose to inquire into the right of anybody to
demand that we shall exchange them for four and a half per cents. on
other security."
"Perfectly right, Mr. Hopper," said Henderson, with imperturbable
good-humor; "the transfer books are open to your inspection."
"Well, we prefer to hold on to our bonds."
"And wait for your interest," interposed Hollowell.
Mr. Hopper turned to the speaker. "And while we are waiting we propose to
inquire what has become of the surplus of the A. and B. The bondholders
had the first claim on the entire property."
"And we propose to protect it. See here, Mr. Hopper," continued Uncle
Jerry, with a most benevolent expression, "I needn't tell you that
investments fluctuate--the Lord knows mine do! The A. and B. was a good
road. I know that. But it was going to be paralleled. We'd got to
parallel it to make our Southwest connections. If we had, you'd have
waited till the Gulf of Mexico freezes over before you got any coupons
paid. Instead of that, we took it into our system, and it's being put on
a permanent basis. It's a little inconvenient for holders, and they have
got to stand a little shrinkage, but in the long-run it will be better
for everybody. The little road couldn't stand alone, and the day of big
interest is about over."
"That explanation may satisfy you, Mr. Hollowell, but it don't give us
our money, and I notify you that we shall carry the matter into the
courts. Good-morning."
When Mr. Hopper had gone, the two developers looked at each other a
moment seriously.
"Hopper 'll fight," Hollowell said at last.
"And we have got the surplus to fight him with," replied Henderson.
"That's so," and Uncle Jerry chuckled to himself. "The rats that are on
the inside of the crib are a good deal better off than the rats on the
outside."
"The reporter of The Planet wants five minutes," announced the secretary,
opening the door. Henderson told him to let him in.
The reporter was a spruce young gentleman, in a loud summer suit, with a
rose in his button-hole, and the air of assurance which befits the
commissioner of the public curiosity.
"I am sent by The Planet," said the young man, "to show you this and ask
you if you have anything to say to it."
"What is it?" asked Henderson.
"It's about the A. and B."
"Very well. There is the president, Mr. Hollowell. Show it to him."
The reporter produced a long printed slip and handed it to Uncle Jerry,
who took it and began to read. As his eye ran down the column he was
apparently more and more interested, and he let it be shown on his face
that he was surprised, and even a little astonished. When he had
finished, he said:
"Well, my young friend, how did you get hold of this?"
"Oh, we have a way," said the reporter, twirling his straw hat by the
elastic, and looking more knowing than old Jerry himself.
"So I see," replied Jerry, with an admiring smile; "there is nothing that
you newspaper folks don't find out. It beats the devil!"
"Is it true, sir?" said the young gentleman, elated with this recognition
of his own shrewdness.
"It is so true that there is no fun in it. I don't see how the devil you
got hold of it."
"Have you any explanations?"
"No, I guess not," said Uncle Jerry, musingly. "If it is to come out, I'd
rather The Planet would have it than any, other paper. It's got some
sense. No; print it. It'll be a big beat for your paper. While you are
about it--I s'pose you'll print it anyway?" (the reporter nodded)--"you
might as well have the whole story."
"Certainly. We'd like to have it right. What is wrong about it?"
"Oh, nothing but some details. You have got it substantially. There's a
word or two and a date you are out on, naturally enough, and there are
two or three little things that would be exactly true if they were
differently stated."
"Would you mind telling me what they are?"
"No," said Jerry, with a little reluctance; "might as well have it all
out--eh, Henderson?"
And the old man took his pencil and changed some dates and a name or two,
and gave to some of the sentences a turn that seemed to the reporter only
another way of saying the same thing.
"There, that is all I know. Give my respects to Mr. Goss."
When the commissioner had withdrawn, Uncle Jerry gave vent to a long
whistle. Then he rose suddenly and called to the secretary, "Tell that
reporter to come back." The reporter reappeared.
"I was just thinking, and you can tell Mr. Goss, that now you have got
onto this thing, you might as well keep the lead on it. The public is
interested in what we are doing in the Southwest, and if you, or some
other bright fellow who has got eyes in his head, will go down there, he
will see something that will astonish him. I'm going tomorrow in my
private car, and if you could go along, I assure you a good time. I want
you to see for yourself, and I guess you would. Don't take my word. I
can't give you any passes, and I know you don't want any, but you can
just get into my private car and no expense to anybody, and see all there
is to be seen. Ask Goss, and let me know tonight."
The young fellow went off feeling several inches higher than when he came
in. Such is the power of a good address, and such is the omnipotence of
the great organ. Mr. Jerry Hollowell sat down and began to fan himself.
It was very hot in the office.
"Seems to me it's lunch-time. Great Scott! what a lot of time I used to
waste fighting the newspapers! That thing would have played the devil as
it stood. It will be comparatively harmless now. It will make a little
talk, but there is nothing to get hold of. Queer, about the difference of
a word or two. Come, old man, I'm thirsty."
"Uncle Jerry," said Henderson, taking his arm as they went out, "you
ought to be President of the United States."
"The salary is too small," said Uncle Jerry.
Of all this there was nothing to write to Margaret, who was passing her
time agreeably in the Berkshire hills, a little impatient for her
husband's arrival, postponed from day to day, and full of sympathy for
him, condemned to the hot city and the harassment of a business the
magnitude of which gave him the obligations and the character of a public
man. Henderson sent her instead a column from The Planet devoted to a
description of his private library. Mr. Goss, the editor, who was college
bred, had been round to talk with Henderson about the Southwest trip, and
the conversation drifting into other matters, Henderson had taken from
his desk and shown him a rare old book which he had picked up the day
before in a second-hand shop. This led to further talk about Henderson's
hobby, and the editor had asked permission to send a reporter down to
make a note of Henderson's collection. It would make a good midsummer
item, "The Stock-Broker in Literature," "The Private Tastes of a
Millionaire," etc. The column got condensed into a portable paragraph,
and went the rounds of the press, and changed the opinions of a good many
people about the great operator--he wasn't altogether devoted to vulgar
moneymaking. Uncle Jerry himself read the column with appreciation of its
value. "It diverts the public mind," he said. He himself had recently
diverted the public mind by the gift of a bell to the Norembega
Theological (colored) Institute, and the paragraph announcing the fact
conveyed the impression that while Uncle Jerry was a canny old customer,
his heart was on the right side. "There are worse men than Uncle Jerry
who are not worth a cent," was one of the humorous paragraphs tacked on
to the item.
Margaret was not alone in finding the social atmosphere of Lenox as
congenial as its natural beauties. Mrs. Laflamme declared that it was the
perfection of existence for a couple of months, one in early summer and
another in the golden autumn with its pathetic note of the falling
curtain dropping upon the dream of youth. Mrs. Laflamme was not a
sentimental person, but she was capable of drifting for a moment into a
poetic mood--a great charm in a woman of her vivacity and air of the
world. Margaret remembered her very distinctly, although she had only
exchanged a word with her at the memorable dinner in New York when
Henderson had revealed her feelings to herself. Mrs. Laflamme had the
immense advantage--it seemed so to her after five years of widowhood of
being a widow on the sunny side of thirty-five. If she had lost some
illusions she had gained a great deal of knowledge, and she had no
feverish anxiety about what life would bring her. Although she would not
put it in this way to herself, she could look about her deliberately,
enjoying the prospect, and please herself. Her position had two
advantages--experience and opportunity. A young woman unmarried, she
said, always has the uneasy sense of the possibility--well, it is
impossible to escape slang, and she said it with the merriest laugh--the
possibility of being left. A day or two after Margaret's arrival she had
driven around to call in her dog-cart, looking as fresh as a daisy in her
sunhat. She held the reins, but her seat was shared by Mr. Fox
McNaughton, the most useful man in the village, indispensable indeed; a
bachelor, with no intentions, no occupation, no ambition (except to lead
the german), who could mix a salad, brew a punch, organize a picnic, and
chaperon anything in petticoats with entire propriety, without regard to
age. And he had a position of social authority. This eminence Mr. Fox
McNaughton had attained by always doing the correct thing. The obligation
of society to such men is never enough acknowledged. While they are
trusted and used, and worked to death, one is apt to hear them spoken of
in a deprecatory tone.
"You hold the reins a moment, please. No, I don't want any help," she
said, as she jumped down with an elastic spring, and introduced him to
Margaret. "I've got Mr. McNaughton in training, and am thinking of
bringing him out."
She walked in with Margaret, chatting about the view and the house and
the divine weather.
"And your husband has not come yet?"
"He may come any day. I think business might suspend in the summer."
"So do I. But then, what would become of Lenox? It is rather hard on the
men, only I dare say they like it. Don't you think Mr. Henderson would
like a place here?"
"He cannot help being pleased with Lenox."
"I'm sure he would if you are. I have hardly seen him since that evening
at the Stotts'. Can I tell you?--I almost had five minutes of envy that
evening. You won't mind it in such an old woman?"
"I should rather trust your heart than your age, Mrs. Laflamme," said
Margaret, with a laugh.
"Yes, my heart is as old as my face. But I had a feeling, seeing you walk
away that evening into the conservatory. I knew what was coming. I think
I have discovered a great secret, Mrs. Henderson to be able to live over
again in other people. By-the-way, what has become of that quiet
Englishman, Mr. Lyon?"
"He has come into his title. He is the Earl of Chisholm."
"Dear me, how stupid in us not to have taken a sense of that! And the
Eschelles--do you know anything of the Eschelles?"
"Yes; they are at their house in Newport."
"Do you think there was anything between Miss Eschelle and Mr. Lyon? I
saw her afterwards several times."
"Not that I ever heard. Miss Eschelle says that she is thoroughly
American in her tastes."
"Then her tastes are not quite conformed to her style. That girl might be
anything--Queen of Spain, or coryphee in the opera ballet. She is clever
as clever. One always expects to hear of her as the heroine of an
adventure."
"Didn't you say you knew her in Europe?"
"No. We heard of her and her mother everywhere. She was very independent.
She had the sort of reputation to excite curiosity. But I noticed that
the men in New York were a little afraid of her. She is a woman who likes
to drive very near the edge."
Mrs. Laflamme rose. "I must not keep Mr. McNaughton waiting for any more
of my gossip. We expect you and the Misses Arbuser this afternoon. I warn
you it will be dull. I should like to hear of some summer resort where
the men are over sixteen and under sixty."
Mrs. Laflamme liked to drive near the edge as much as Carmen did, and
this piquancy was undeniably an attraction in her case. But there was
this difference between the two: there was a confidence that Mrs.
Laflamme would never drive over the edge, whereas no one could tell what
sheer Carmen might not suddenly take. A woman's reputation is almost as
much affected by the expectation of what she may do as by anything she
has done. It was Fox McNaughton who set up the dictum that a woman may do
almost anything if it is known that she draws a line somewhere.
The lawn party was not at all dull to Margaret. In the first place, she
received a great deal of attention. Henderson's name was becoming very
well known, and it was natural that the splendor of his advancing fortune
should be reflected in the person of his young wife, whose loveliness was
enhanced by her simple enjoyment of the passing hour. Then the toilets of
the women were so fresh and charming, the colors grouped so prettily on
the greensward, the figures of the slender girls playing at tennis or
lounging on the benches under the trees, recalled scenes from the classic
poets. It was all so rich and refined. Nor did she miss the men of
military age, whose absence Mrs. Laflamme had deplored, for she thought
of her husband. And, besides, she found even the college boys (who are
always spoken of as men) amusing, and the elderly gentlemen--upon whom
watering-place society throws much responsibility--gallant, facetious,
complimentary, and active in whatever was afoot. Their boyishness,
indeed, contrasted with--the gravity of the undergraduates, who took
themselves very seriously, were civil to the young ladies,--confidential
with the married women, and had generally a certain reserve and dignity
which belong to persons upon whom such heavy responsibility rests.
There were, to be sure, men who looked bored, and women who were
listless, missing the stimulus of any personal interest; but the scene
was so animated, the weather so propitious, that, on the whole, a person
must be very cynical not to find the occasion delightful.
There was a young novelist present whose first story, "The Girl I Left
Behind Me," had made a hit the last season. It was thought to take a
profound hold upon life, because it was a book that could not be read
aloud in a mixed company. Margaret was very much interested in him,
although Mr. Summers Bass was not her idea of an imaginative writer. He
was a stout young gentleman, with very black hair and small black eyes,
to which it was difficult to give a melancholy cast even by an habitual
frown. Mr. Bass dressed himself scrupulously in the fashion, was very
exact in his pronunciation, careful about his manner, and had the air of
a little weariness, of the responsibility of one looking at life. It was
only at rare moments that his face expressed intensity of feeling.
"It is a very pretty scene. I suppose, Mr. Bass, that you are making
studies," said Margaret, by way of opening a conversation.
"No; hardly that. One must always observe. It gets to be a habit. The
thing is to see reality under appearances."
"Then you would call yourself a realist?"
Mr. Bass smiled. "That is a slang term, Mrs. Henderson. What you want is
nature, color, passion--to pierce the artificialities."
"But you must describe appearance."
"Certainly, to an extent--form, action, talk as it is, even trivialities
--especially the trivialities, for life is made up of the trivial."
"But suppose that does not interest me?"
"Pardon me, Mrs. Henderson, that is because you are used to the
conventional, the selected. Nature is always interesting."
"I do not find it so."
"No? Nature has been covered up; it has been idealized. Look yonder," and
Mr. Bass pointed across the lawn. "See that young woman upon whom the
sunlight falls standing waiting her turn. See the quivering of the
eyelids, the heaving of the chest, the opening lips; note the curve of
her waist from the shoulder, and the line rounding into the fall of the
folds of the Austrian cashmere. I try to saturate myself with that form,
to impress myself with her every attitude and gesture, her color, her
movement, and then I shall imagine the form under the influence of
passion. Every detail will tell. I do not find unimportant the tie of her
shoe. The picture will be life."
"But suppose, Mr. Bass, when you come to speak with her, you find that
she has no ideas, and talks slang."
"All the better. It shows what we are, what our society is. And besides,
Mrs. Henderson, nearly everybody has the capacity of being wicked; that
is to say, of expressing emotion."
"You take a gloomy view, Mr. Bass."
"I take no view, Mrs. Henderson. My ambition is to record. It will not
help matters by pretending that people are better than they are."
"Well, Mr. Bass, you may be quite right, but I am not going to let you
spoil my enjoyment of this lovely scene," said Margaret, moving away. Mr.
Bass watched her until she disappeared, and then entered in his notebook
a phrase for future use, "The prosperous propriety of a pretty
plutocrat." He was gathering materials for his forthcoming book, "The
Last Sigh of the Prude."
The whole world knows how delightful Lenox is. It even has a club where
the men can take refuge from the exactions of society, as in the city.
The town is old enough to have "histories"; there is a romance attached
to nearly every estate, a tragedy of beauty, and money, and
disappointment; great writers have lived here, families whose names were
connected with our early politics and diplomacy; there is a tradition of
a society of wit and letters, of women whose charms were enhanced by a
spice of adventure, of men whose social brilliancy ended in misanthropy.
All this gave a background of distinction to the present gayety, luxury,
and adaptation of the unsurpassed loveliness of nature to the refined
fashion of the age.
Here, if anywhere, one could be above worry, above the passion of envy;
for did not every new "improvement" and every new refinement in living
add to the importance of every member of this favored community? For
Margaret it was all a pageant of beauty. The Misses Arbuser talked about
the quality of the air, the variety of the scenery, the exhilaration of
the drives, the freedom from noise and dust, the country quiet. There
were the morning calls, the intellectual life of the reading clubs, the
tennis parties, the afternoon teas, combined with charming drives from
one elegant place to another; the siestas, the idle swinging in hammocks,
with the latest magazine from which to get a topic for dinner, the mild
excitement of a tete-a-tete which might discover congenial tastes or run
on into an interesting attachment. Half the charm of life, says a
philosopher, is in these personal experiments.
When Henderson came, as he did several times for a few days, Margaret's
happiness was complete. She basked in the sun of his easy enjoyment of
life. She liked to take him about with her, and see the welcome in all
companies of a man so handsome, so natural and cordial, as her husband.
Especially aid she like the consideration in which he was evidently held
at the club, where the members gathered about him to listen to his racy
talk and catch points about the market. She liked to think that he was
not a woman's man. He gave her his version of some recent transactions
that had been commented on in the newspapers, and she was indignant over
the insinuations about him. It was the price, he said, that everybody had
to pay for success. Why shouldn't he, she reflected, make money?
Everybody would if they could, and no one knew how generous he was. If
she had been told that the family of Jerry Hollowell thought of him in
the same way, she would have said that there was a world-wide difference
in the two men. Insensibly she was losing the old standards she used to
apply to success. Here in Lenox, in this prosperous, agreeable world,
there was nothing to remind her of them.
In her enjoyment of this existence without care, I do not suppose it
occurred to her to examine if her ideals had been lowered. Sometimes
Henderson had a cynical, mocking tone about the world, which she reproved
with a caress, but he was always tolerant and good-natured. If he had
told her that he acted upon the maxim that every man and woman has his
and her price she would have been shocked, but she was getting to make
allowances that she would not have made before she learned to look at the
world through his eyes. She could see that the Brandon circle was
over-scrupulous. Her feeling of this would have been confirmed if she had
known that when her aunt read the letter announcing a month's visit to
the Eschelles in Newport, she laid it down with a sigh.