Mr. Prentiss continued his monologue on his way to the drawing-room.
He imagined himself saying to Mrs. Wilson, "You know that I believe in
toleration, and that I would not set or preach an ascetic standard of
life. I believe--my church believes--that it is not profitable to the
human soul to mortify the flesh in every-day life or refuse to enjoy
the comforts of civilization. But the set of people to which this
young man belongs are cumberers of the soil and a menace to society.
It is not merely a question of taste, but of Christian morals. We have
nothing to do with other nations; our concern is with the social life
of this nation and whether we are to foster and encourage a
pleasure-loving, self-indulgent, and purposeless leisure class."
Yet though his thoughts thus shaped themselves in fervent words, he was
conscious that in the absence of a cue his lips must remain sealed.
There was a limit imposed by society on the priestly office which he
could not overstep without appearing officious, and thus weakening his
influence. Were it a case of notorious dissipation or some palpable
fault or blemish, it would be his duty to speak. But he had no such
data at his command. Clarence Waldo was simply a fastidious idler,
pretentious, and indifferent to the vital interests of life. It could
not even be charged that he was marrying Lucille for her money, as he
had a competency of his own. They would be able to buy all the dogs
and horses in the country if they saw fit. But his own tongue was
tied. To all appearances Mrs. Wilson was content. At the time she had
announced her daughter's engagement to him, she had said, in response
to his earnest inquiry if she were satisfied--said it with a blithe
smile, as though, on the whole, the best had happened--"I should have
been glad of course, if Lucille had chosen a man of conspicuous talent,
a future United States Senator or successful artist or author. If she
had loved her lord, I should not have objected to a title, because,
after all, even to a free-born American, there is a certain
compensation in becoming the mother of dukes and regenerating an
ancient line. But Clarence is well connected, and the child is in love
with him. So long as she is happy, that is the essential thing."
Since then he had become better informed as to the young man's
tendencies. But if Lucille was in love with him and her mother
acquiescent, what was there to do? The church could not interfere
beyond a certain point without giving offence.
Mrs. Wilson was not in the drawing-room, but Mr. Prentiss caught a
glimpse of her at her desk in a smaller room which led out of it. She
called to him that she was answering a note and would join him
presently. The clergyman seated himself and picking up from a low teak
table beside him a paper-cutter fashioned on a Japanese sword hilt he
compressed his fingers on the handle as an outlet to his perplexity.
Had he been walking in the fields, he would have cut off the heads of
the dandelions with his cane. Marriage was a sacrament, the most
solemn undertaking in life, yet how impossible it was to regulate
matrimony for others. He glanced around the room admiringly. Already
the musical notes of his hostess's voice had served to dissipate
partially the miasma of doubt which had been assailing him. This main
apartment was one of a series of drawing-rooms, each furnished with an
exquisite magnificence suggestive of the salons of France in the days
of Louis XIV, save that there was a superabundance of artistic
furnishings; hence the sight was confused by the array of costly
tapestries, marbles, bronzes, china, and gilt or otherwise illuminated
ornaments which almost contended for space with one another, though the
rooms were of large proportions. One feature of Benham's renaissance
was the ambition to outdo the past in size and gorgeousness, but Mrs.
Wilson's advisers had been animated also by the desire for artistic
success, and it was only in its wealth of material that their and
her--for she had been the leading spirit after all--performance was
open to criticism. Here in Benham, where twenty years before the
horse-hair sofa was still an object of admiring regard in the homes of
the well-to-do, the desert had blossomed with the rose, and a veritable
palace had been established. And, as Mr. Prentiss reflected, joining
his finger-tips across his waist-band, all this lavish expenditure
meant the return by the rich of accumulated wealth into circulation for
the benefit of those who labored for their bread, which was another of
Mr. Carleton Howard's telling truths.
The swift, animated, but noiseless glide of Mrs. Wilson into the room
and onto a sofa, from which she flashed at him a gracious, electric
look of attention with the words, "And now, my friend, I am entirely at
your disposal. It was a note which had to be answered at
once"--restored Mr. Prentiss's serenity. She was one of those pleasant
persons in whose presence the world seems justified. When she entered
a room people were apt to pay tribute by a pause in whatever they were
doing, and she became the focus of attention. The effect of her
graceful energy was largely responsible for this, suggesting the
forceful but silent sweep of a ship. She had lost the figure and the
countenance of youth, but though her abundant crinkly hair was grizzled
no one ever thought of her age except to observe that she was handsomer
than as a younger woman. She had never been a beauty; she was now a
distinguished looking, comely, and effective matron. She was tall and
rather willowy, but not thin, with a proud, resolutely carried head, an
agreeable straight nose, short rather than long (her best feature) a
spirited, sympathetic smile, eyes fundamentally gray, which changed as
her thoughts changed, and ingratiating but elegant manners. Her face,
notably the cheeks and lips, was a trifle full, suggesting dimples, and
possibly to the critical a too-manifest desire to please. Her obvious
pose--which, though deliberate was entirely genuine--was to be
exquisite, sympathetic, and intellectual, and for the expression of
this range of qualities she had serviceable allies in her musical
voice, a bewitching way of showing just enough of her teeth, when she
became vivacious, and her ornamental clothes, which always suited her.
On this evening she wore an old-gold gown with jet and lace
accompaniments, an aigrette of crimson gauze with which the plumage of
her fan was in harmony, a band of magnificent pearls around her neck,
and on her breast, though such ornaments were not strictly in fashion,
a large brooch of fine workmanship containing a miniature of two
children of tender age. Of these children one had died shortly after
the miniature was painted, the other was her daughter Lucille. Her
soul was dedicated to two interests, her joy and ambition as a mother,
and to the cause of social human progress.
Mrs. Wilson had been for fifteen years a widow, and, though her husband
held a hallowed place in her heart, even she was conscious that the
broad scope of her present life dated from the period when, seeking a
refuge from her own grief and loneliness, she had welcomed diverse
social employment. Her husband, Randolph, a hero and a colonel of the
Civil War, had claimed her on his return as a bride. They were ardent
lovers, and they had never ceased to be so, certainly not in theory.
Some of Mrs. Wilson's knowing friends were fond of insinuating, when
the humor for gossip prevailed, that he had died just in time, which
was their way of intimating that she had outgrown him. But these
dissectors of hearts did not perhaps sufficiently remember that her own
blossoming forth into the woman she now was had been subsequent to her
husband's death. Nor did they take sufficiently into account the
bewildering course of events which had attended her progress. Colonel
Wilson, a man of small means at the time of their marriage, had become
her brother's partner. The properties in which he was interested at
the time of his death had subsequently proved so valuable that she had
found herself presently the possessor of a million, a sum which had
quadrupled in the keeping of her brother, Carleton Howard, one of the
most powerful financiers in the country. Opportunity surely had waited
on her widening aspirations, enabling her finally to establish herself
in this magnificent home surrounded by all the æsthetic attractions and
many of the treasures of modern civilization.
Probably Mrs. Wilson herself had never sought to analyze the past by
the light of the present, realizing, as we all do, that life unbeknown
to us has halting-places which become, as we look back, the dividing
lines between what are almost separate existences. Though at her
husband's death she had made no resolutions regarding the future, she
had never felt the impulse to marry again, so engrossing were the
concerns of motherhood and social responsibility.
"You spoke at dinner of wishing my assistance in some case in which you
are interested. Will you tell me about it now before we look at the
presents?" Mrs. Wilson continued with smiling interest.
"Ah, yes." Mr. Prentiss was glad to have this recalled to his mind.
There was no chance here for doubt or perplexity. "It is rather out of
the usual run of charity cases. The personality of the woman, I mean.
The circumstance that her husband has run away and left her penniless,
with two young children to support is, alas! only too common."
"Poor thing! How can I be of service?"
"The woman--her name is Mrs. Stuart--notwithstanding her disastrous
marriage, seems to me distinctly superior. She came to Benham some six
or seven years ago, and I knew her a little at St. Stephen's before she
was a wife. Indeed, I married them, and made some inquiries at the
time concerning the husband's circumstances, but learned nothing to his
discredit. She has found him to be a godless, unscrupulous person with
drinking habits, and recently he has deserted her on the grandiose plea
that they would be happier apart. She will be happier; I am sure of
that; but I have been exercised as to how to enable her to become
self-supporting. She is called to higher usefulness than scrubbing or
plain sewing, but though I have discerned in her capabilities and
refinement, she is not at present equipped for any active employment."
"Which only tends to show, my friend, that every woman"--Mrs. Wilson
paused an instant--"every woman who has not independent means of her
own, I mean, should be educated to be self-supporting--should have some
definite bread-winning occupation which would render her independent of
the man she marries in case he dies or misbehaves. I was thinking the
other day that a society formed to advocate this doctrine before clubs
of girls as a condition of marriage would prove efficacious."
Mr. Prentiss nodded. "It is certainly the duty of Christian society to
provide additional safeguards against the consequences of improvident
wedlock. In this particular instance, the young woman plighted her
troth while she was studying to become a kindergarten teacher. She was
a country doctor's daughter, and is gentle and refined, as well as
intelligent in appearance--one of those lithe, tense American
personalities in which the spirit appears to burn at the expense of the
body, but which, like the willow, bend but do not break under the
stress of life."
"She sounds interesting, and I do not see that she has been to blame.
We must raise a fund for her. With how large a subscription shall I
head the list?" Though Mrs. Wilson gave freely on merely charitable
grounds, she gave with more enthusiasm when the objects of her bounty
had not offended her sense of the social fitness of things.
The clergyman put out his hand. "That wouldn't do exactly, I think.
She is not too proud to let us help her for a few weeks with coal and
groceries until she can earn for herself. She realizes that she must
be sensible, if only for the children's sake. She has an independent
simplicity of nature and clearness of perception which would stand in
the way, I fear, of her accepting a donation such as you have in mind;
though I should dearly love to allow you to pay off the encumbrances on
their house, which, owing to her husband's rascalities have eaten up
her little home--her patrimony. But I am sure she would refuse."
"I see. We should think less of her if she allowed herself to be
pauperized, much as I should enjoy giving her a deed of her home free
and clear--the mere thought of it causes me a thrill of pleasure. But
the worst of such tragedies is that we are most powerless to aid those
who are most deserving." Mrs. Wilson leaned back among her cushions,
and, drawing a pale pink rose from a bunch in a vase at her elbow, laid
it along her cheek and inhaled its fragrance. "If she were an
undiscerning, common spirit with workaday sensibilities, as so many of
them are, she would not refuse, but--half the pleasure of giving would
be lost. It is a privilege and the fashion to be charitable, but so
much of our charity consists in filling the mouths and clothing the
bodies of the wretched who will never be appreciably different or
strive to be different from what they are."
"The poor we have always with us," murmured the clergyman.
"Always. The shiftless, dirty, unaspiring, unæsthetic poor. The dregs
and lees of human endeavor. We must feed and clothe them, of course,
and help them to help themselves, but sometimes I forget the pathos of
it all in the ugliness and squalor. Consequently, when the chance to
do real good comes, it is a pity not to be able to lift the burden
completely. What, then, can I do for this young person?"
"I have thought over her case for the last forty-eight hours, and have
come to the conclusion that, as she has no special training, her best
chance for employment is to learn short-hand and to use the typewriter.
I understand that women proficient in this vocation can usually secure
steady work at a fair wage. Though Mrs. Stuart would be unwilling to
accept a direct gift of money, I feel confident that she would not
refuse to let us put her in the position to become
self-supporting--that is, defray the cost of the lessons necessary to
make her a competent stenographer or office clerk. And I thought you
might be glad to pay for these lessons--a matter of six months or so."
Mr. Prentiss had taken up the paper-cutter again, and he passed the
flat of the metal blade across his palm as though he were smoothing out
his plan as well as the creases.
"Gladly," she responded. "For as long as you desire. And, perhaps,
when she has learned what is necessary, my brother may know of some
opening for her down-town."
"Very likely," answered Mr. Prentiss, with resonant acquiescence. "The
same thought had occurred to me."
"And, in the meantime, since you tell me that she is competent and
refined, my secretary, who will have her hands full with the details of
the wedding, may be able to give her occasional errands to do. You may
tell her to call when her plans are adjusted and to ask for me."
"Excellent. And we shall both be your debtors."
Mrs. Wilson smiled graciously, showing the dimples in her cheeks. The
demands made upon her for pecuniary aid were of daily, it might be said
hourly, occurrence. Whoever in Benham was in search of money applied
to her, and the post brought her solicitations from all sorts of
people, among whom were the undeserving or importunate, as well as the
needy or humanitarian. As lady bountiful, she purposed to exercise
intelligent discrimination in her charities, and she accepted thanks as
a tribute to that quality.
"Come," she said, rising, "I will show you the presents. Only think,
four hundred of them, and so many beautiful things! People have been
so kind. Several of my brother's friends in New York have sent most
exquisite tokens--a necklace of diamonds and pearls from Mr. Fenton the
banker, a gold dessert service from his railroad ally, Mr. Kennard."
She led the way from the drawing-room suite into the hall, where
electricity in artistic guises illuminated the broad panellings, a
splendid Terriers and three or four bronze or marble statuaries of rare
merit, and up the stair-case to the next floor into what was known as
the morning-room--an apartment where Mrs. Wilson conducted her affairs
and did her reading and thinking. This was a combination of study and
æsthetic boudoir. There were seductive sofas and quaint capacious
chairs supplied with brightly colored cushions, and dainty draperies,
all in silken stuffs of patterns reminiscent of the Orient. Art, in
its most delicate and spiritual forms, breathed from every object of
furniture or decoration; from the small pictures--some in oils, some in
water-colors--which merited and often demanded the closest scrutiny;
from the few vases of entrancing shape and hue, from the interesting
photographs in beautiful frames, from the curious and rare memorials of
travel and wise choice of what cunning fingers had wrought with
infinite labor. As in the rest of the house, there was still too much
wealth of material, too much scintillation and conglomeration of color,
but the intent had been--and not without success--to produce a more
subtle atmosphere than prevailed outside, as of an inner temple.
Prominent in one angle stood Mrs. Wilson's desk, rose-wood, inlaid with
poetic gilt tracery, and littered with the correspondence of a busy
woman. Books and other articles of daily use lying here and there
without effort at order gave to the room the air of being the intimate
abode of a human soul. Opening out of this was a private music-room,
which was used by Mrs. Wilson and her daughter in preference to the
large music-room on the street floor intended for musical parties and
dances. Here were the wedding presents, a dazzling array of gold,
silver, jewels, glass, china, and ornamental knick-knacks, tastefully
arranged on tables introduced for the purpose. As they entered an
attendant withdrew into the hall.
"We have thought it more prudent to have a watchman on guard by night
and day," explained Mrs. Wilson; "for I suppose it is true, as one of
those ridiculous newspaper items asserts, that these gifts represent at
least one hundred thousand dollars. By the way," she continued, with a
gentle sigh, "it is so difficult to know what attitude to adopt with
the newspaper people. If one refuses them the house, their
sensibilities are hurt and they are liable to invent falsehoods or
write disagreeable paragraphs. If they are allowed to inspect
everything, they publish details which make one's heart sick, and make
one appear a vain fool. How is a person in my position to be courteous
toward the power of the press and yet to maintain the right to privacy?
Is not this superb?" she added, holding up a crest of diamonds in the
form of a tiara. "My brother's present to Lucille."
"Beautiful--beautiful, indeed," murmured the clergyman. The sight of
all these costly things was bewildering to his mind as well as to his
eyes. "Ah, the press--the press, it is a problem, indeed. We would
seem to have the right to individual privacy, would we not? And yet in
this age of ours, pressure is so often used upon us to thrust our wares
into the shop-windows--as in my case, sermons for newspapers of the
most sensational class--on the plea of a wider usefulness, a closer
touch with the wilderness of souls, that it is difficult to know where
the rights of the public end as to what one has. What would seem to be
vanity may often be only another form of philanthropy. And yet----"
"And yet," interposed Mrs. Wilson, as she singled out an enchanting fan
of gold and ivory and the most exquisite lace and spread it for his
inspection, "why should I pander to the vulgar curiosity of the public?
It is none of their business."
"In a matter of this kind I quite agree with you. If they could see
all these beautiful things, there might be some sense in it; but that
would be out of the question, of course."
"That will be the next step; our houses thrown open to the madding
crowd. Six newspapers--two from New York--applied recently for leave
to see the presents. I intended to refuse firmly, but to my
astonishment Lucille seemed disappointed. It never occurred to me that
she would not hate the publicity. She gave a little shriek and said,
'Mamma, how dreadful!' and then added in the next breath, 'Everybody
does it, and, as something is sure to be printed, might it not be
better to make certain that it's correct?' A day or two later she was
photographed in her tiara, and from what has transpired since I fear
that the idea of publicity was not foreign to her thought. My child,
Mr. Prentiss! Only think of it! One can never quite understand the
point of view of the rising generation. I consulted Carleton, and he
grew successively irate, contemplative, philosophical, and weak-kneed.
In short, a week ago a reportorial woman, with the social appetite of a
hyena and the keen-eyed industry of a ferret, passed the forenoon in
the house and went away with a photograph of Lucille in the tiara. And
what is worst of all, in spite of my humiliation at the whole
proceeding, I am decidedly curious to see what she has written."
The sound of voices in the morning-room broke in upon this confession.
"Ah, here you are, Aunt Miriam! I have brought you an artistic
masterpiece with a felicitous biography of the distinguished heroine.
Behold and admire!"
The speaker was Paul Howard, Mrs. Wilson's nephew. He advanced from
the doorway with radiant, teasing face, holding out a newspaper at
which he pointed delightedly. At his heels followed Lucille and
Clarence Waldo, she protesting, yet betraying by her laughing confusion
that her indignation was half-hearted; he stalking with self-important
gravity save for a thin smile, the limit of his deliberate
contributions to the gayety of nations unless under the influence of
alcoholic conviviality. At men's gatherings there was a stage in the
proceedings when Clarence Waldo became decorously mellow and
condescended--indeed, expected to be asked--to sing one of three or
four quasi-humorous ditties at his command, a function which he seemed
to regard as an important social contribution and for which he
practised in secret. Also, after luncheon or dinner, he was liable to
lay down the law in loud tones in regard to current sporting affairs.
But his habitual manner was languid and his expression cold, as though
he feared to compromise himself by interest or enthusiasm. He was very
tall. In the centre of his crown was a bald spot. He stooped
slightly, and, except among his intimates, looked straight before him
lest he might see someone whom he did not wish to know. In the rear of
this family party came Carleton Howard, stepping firmly yet
deliberately, as he always did, as though he walked abreast of Time,
not tagging at her skirts like so many of his contemporaries--a fine
figure of a man approaching sixty, with a large body, but not
corpulent, a broad brow, a strong, defiant nose, iron-gray hair and a
closely cut iron-gray mustache, clear, fearless, yet reflective eyes,
and a mouth the pleasant tension of which indicated both determination
and tact. He was smoking a cigar, and had come in from his own library
to enjoy the bearding of his sister by the young people.