cousin, and your own adopted sister! Don't believe a word of it, Mr.
Hartman. She is sweet girl, though reserved with strangers: I am sorry
you have seen so little of her. A high-minded, pure-hearted, dear,
sweet, lovely girl; she is, and you know it, Robert." Well, perhaps I
do; but there is no need of my saying so just now. Jane has to put in
her oar again, of course.
"Yes, Mr. Hartman, and that is a sample of his hypocrisy. He thinks as
highly of Clarice as we do, and is almost as fond of her; and yet he
pretends to criticize her, just to draw away attention from his own
shortcomings."
"Well, let's drop Clarice then, and go on discussing the present
company, if you insist. We'll take them up one by one: I've had my
turn, and my native modesty shrinks from further praise. You see Mrs.
T., Hartman? She sits there looking so calm and placid, like a mother in
Israel; you would think her a model spouse. Yet no one knows what I
suffer. Mabel, I had not been with him ten minutes last May when he
noticed my premature baldness, and general fagged-out and jaded look;
and to hide the secrets of my prison-house, I had to pretend that I had
been working too hard in Water Street. You all know how painful
deception is to my candid nature; but I did it for your sake, Mabel.
When did I ever return aught but good for evil? Yet O, the curtain
lectures, the manifold ways in which the iron has entered into my soul!
But we brought Hartman here to reconcile him to civilized and domestic
life, and I will say no more. Now there is Jane. She naturally puts her
best foot foremost in company; you think she is all she seems: but I
could a tale unfold. Now mark my magnanimity: I won't do it. She is my
sister, and with all her faults I love her still. Well, if you are tired
you'd better go to bed: Hartman wants to smoke."
XIV.
OVER TWO CIGARS.
When we got out under the pure breezes of heaven, Hartman turned to me
and said, "So you call this reconciling me to domestic life, do you?"
"Well, I want you to see things as they are. They are not as bad as your
fancy used to paint them, or as a duller man might suppose from recent
appearances. Women haven't our sense of humor, Jim: their humble
efforts at jocosity are apt to be exaggerated, or flat--generally both;
but they mean no harm."
"Well, Bob, your preparations to instruct my ignorance are highly
successful. All this is as good as a play. You see you are found out,
old humbug; everybody sees through you. You can't delude any of us any
more."
"I don't quite see what you're driving at, my christian friend; but I'm
glad you like us, and I hope you'll like us better before you are done
with us." When he talks like this, I am content to see the hand of Fate
snatch at his scalp, as it will before long. Gibe on, ungrateful mocker:
retribution will soon overtake you in your mad career. Where then will
be your gibes, your quips, your quiddities? You'll want my sympathy by
and by, and I'll see about giving it.
"You needn't be so much cast down, Bob. Perhaps you are building me up
better than you know. Your struggles with your womankind give a flavor
to what I used to suppose must be insipid. You are pretty well satisfied
with each other, or you wouldn't pretend to quarrel so. What I saw of
you before did something toward reconciling me to human nature at large,
and your quaint efforts at shrewdness and finesse set off your real
character. You might take in outsiders, but not me."
"This is too much, my friend--a blanked sight too much. Crushed to earth
by such unmerited compliments, I can only repeat my gratification that
we meet with your approval. You settle down, and you'll see how insipid
it is: then you'll be making some quaint efforts at shrewdness and
finesse yourself. Invite me then, and I'll get even with you, old man.
But I say, what did you mean about my being a cub at college?"
"Well, you were, you know. Barmaids and ballet-dancers, and that sort of
thing."
"Confound you, Hartman, what do you go bringing them up for? There was
only one of each, or thereabouts, and they were generally old enough to
be my mothers. I was but a child, Jim--a guileless, merry, high-hearted
boy, and innocent as the lamb unshorn."
"You were that, and the shearing did you a lot of good. O, you can be
easy; I'll not bring up the sins of your youth."
"They were no sins, only follies. I had my early Pendennis stage, of
course, and invested every woman I met with the hues of imagination. But
Mabel and the girls might not understand that."
"I don't think they would. Happily, it is not necessary they should try
to, since you have returned to the path of rectitude. Do you think you
belonged to Our Society in those days, Bob?"
"Yes, sir: I did, in embryo. I had it in me to develop into the ornament
of our species you behold at present. That's all a boy is good for,
anyway. He thinks he's somebody, but he isn't. He doesn't amount to
anything, except in the fond hopes of his anxious parents. He knows
nothing, and he can do nothing, except learn by his blunders; and some
of 'em can't do that. But if he has any stuff in him, he grows and
ripens with time, as you and I did. What bosh, to put the prime of life
at twenty-five. They ought to move it on a bit; about our age, now, a
man ought to be at his best."
"I don't know, Bob. I was an egregious ass at twenty-five, and I'm not
sure I'm any better now."
"Then there's hope of you, my boy. But one must go on getting
experience. You shut the door too soon and too tight, Jim."
"When I had it open, such an infernal stench and dust came in, that it
seemed best to close it. But it's open again now, partly, and this seems
a healthier and cleaner atmosphere."
"You'll come out all right, Jim; and when you do, you won't seem to have
been altogether wrong all these years. You've kept yourself unspotted
from the world, more than most of us; and when you come to know a girl
like Clarice, you'll want the most and best of you, to be fit for her
society. If only one could get the general ripening without some of the
dashed details of the process! She makes you wish you could have been
brought up in a bandbox, if only you could have come out of it a man and
not a mollycoddle."
"Only 'men-maidens in their purity' are worthy to approach her, no
doubt. Apparently I am not. I'll have to be content with your account of
Miss Elliston's perfections, Robert. She seems to have no more use for
me than the Texans for the Sheriff. But I am doing very nicely, thanks
to your sister. I doubt if you appreciate Miss Jane, Bob. She sees
further into things than you do. She impresses me as a sound-hearted
woman, wise, kind, and gracious."
"Yes, and so sisterly and appreciative. O yes, such a superior person as
she is! But see here, Jim; that's not what you're here for. Jane is all
very well in her way, but----"
He turned on me suddenly. "What the deuce do you mean now?"
By Jove, now I've done it: he's got me in a corner.--You just wait and
see me get out of it. "O well, Jim, I speak only by general analogy, of
course. I am not in the Princess's confidence, as I told you. I might be
if any one were, but nobody can see into her mind further than she
chooses to let them, and that is but a very little way. It would be a
fine sight, no doubt; but she has the reticence of a--well, of an angel
probably; exceptionally delicate and sensitive nature, and all that, you
know. It's not her way to let a good thing go by unnoticed, and she is
quite able to appreciate you. Your time is not up yet: you're likely to
see more of her before you go--at least, I should suppose so."
"Well, I am here to see things, as you say, and I may as well see
whatever is to be shown me. I am in your hands, old man; make as good a
job of it as you can before you send me back to the woods."
It is all very well for him to talk lightly on solemn subjects; he'll
change his tone by and by. I have prepared his mind now, as I prepared
the others before he came. Perhaps I ought to have done it sooner;
perhaps the Princess has been waiting for that. She'll know, without my
telling her; she'll see it in his eye.--Nonsense, Robert T.; your zeal
outruns your discretion. What does she want of your help in a thing like
this? Anyway, he's ready to be operated on, and it seems about time she
began to put in her work.
XV.
THE CATASTROPHE.
This miscellaneous entertainment, as I have remarked, lasted for about a
week: then suddenly the situation changed. I can't tell you how it was
done, though I was looking on all the time; but one evening I found
myself with Jane, and Hartman had gone off with the Princess. We were
all ready to play to her lead, no doubt; but it would have made no
difference if it had been otherwise: when she ordains a thing, that
thing is done, and without her taking any pains about it either, so far
as you can see. I think the predestined victim was pleased and flattered
to have the sacrificial chapter placed upon his head, so to speak; he
ought to have been, at any rate.
"Jane," I said, "what do you suppose Clarice is up to now?"
"Robert," said she, "I thought I had given you a lesson about practising
your absurd hypocrisies on me. Who should know what her plans are, if
not you? If you really are not in her confidence--and it would not be
far, certainly--surely you know Clarice well enough not to interfere.
Let them alone, and keep quiet." That is the way they always talk to me:
I wish they would find something new to say.
Things went on in this fashion for another week or more. It was all very
quiet: there was really nothing to see. What they talked about I don't
know; when the rest of us were by, their conversation was not notable. I
can make more original and forcible remarks myself; in fact, I do, every
day. But I have no doubt she catechized and cross-examined him in
private. It is not Hartman's way to air his theories before ladies, or
to obtrude himself as a topic of discussion; but the Princess, when she
condescends to notice a man at all, likes to see a good deal further
into his soul than he ever gets to see into hers. That is all right in
this case; the doctor has to be acquainted with the symptoms before he
can cure the patient. When Hartman and I were together at the end of the
evenings and at odd hours, he had very little to say: he seemed rather
preoccupied and introspective. He is another of your plaguedly reserved
people, who when they have anything on hand wrap it up in Egyptian
darkness and Cimmerian gloom. That is the correct thing in a woman--in
Clarice at least: in a man I don't like it. My soul, now, is as open as
the day, and when I have struck any new ideas or discoveries, I would
willingly stand on a house-top--if it were flat--and proclaim them for
the benefit of the world. Even my uncompleted processes of thought are
at the service of any one who can appreciate them; but you can't expect
everybody to be like me. Most men are selfish, narrowly engrossed in
their small private concerns--no generous public spirit about them. But
then Hartman is not used to this kind of thing, and I suppose it knocks
the wind out of him.
One evening I was by myself in the shrubbery; it was just dark, but
there was a tidy young moon. I wanted to smoke a pipe for a change, and
so had gone to the most secluded place I could find, for if Mabel were
to hear of this, Hartman might not get reconciled to domestic life. I
sat there, meditating on the uncertainty of human affairs: it would do
you more good than a little to know what thoughts passed through my
mind, but there is no time to go into that. Suddenly two forms came in
sight. One was of manly dignity, the other of willowy grace. His frame
towered like the noble oak on the hilltop, while hers--but we have had
the oak and the vine before, and worked them for all they are worth.
Perhaps I ought to have given you a more particular account of the
appearance of these two young persons: but you don't care to know their
exact height and fighting weight, the color of their hair and eyes, and
so forth; what you want is the stature and complexion of their souls.
They were a handsome pair, and whene'er they took their walks and drives
abroad like Dr. Watts, they attracted much attention. Just now there was
nobody but myself to admire them, and I was in ambush. They strolled
about in what there was of the moonlight, seeming much absorbed, and I
sat still in the shade, and put down my pipe: I couldn't hear their
talk, and didn't want to disturb them. Suddenly he raised his voice:
matters between them must have come to an interesting stage. "But,
Clarice, if you care for me--"
He was too quick. The madness which urged him on can easily be
understood and--except by the one concerned--pardoned; but what devil
possessed her, who shall say? She drew herself up with superb scorn.
"You are beginning at the wrong end, Sir. 'If I care for you!' Why
should I?"
"Very good," he said at once. "I was mistaken. I beg your pardon most
humbly."
There was as little humility as possible in his look and tone. He stood
like a gladiator--and not a wounded one either--with his head thrown
back and his chest out. I could fancy, rather than see, the flashing of
his eyes.
The flashes were all on his side now; Clarice's brief exhibition of
fireworks seemed to be over, and she was drooping. "Mr. Hartman," she
began, and could get no further.
In the act to go, he turned and faced her again.
"Miss Elliston, my presumption was doubtless unpardonable; I shall not
know how to forgive myself. Do me the undeserved honor, if you can, to
forget it--and me. I can only renew my apologies, and relieve you of my
presence."
He bowed, and was gone. The proper thing for Clarice to do next was to
swoon or shriek; but I knew her too well to expect anything of that
sort. Nor did she tear her hair, or beat her breast, or offer to the
solitary spectator any performance worth noting. I thought it best to
keep remarkably quiet in my corner till she too had gone. In fact, I
staid there for an hour or two after, though I did not enjoy that pipe
at all; the tobacco was not right, or something. You see, after all the
lectures I had had, I did not want to spoil things by mixing myself up
with them; the situation looked picturesque enough without me in it.
When I went back to the house I found that Jim had caught the boat and
gone. "He came to me," said Mabel, "and told me that he had overstaid
his time and found it best to go to-night. He was very friendly, but his
tone did not encourage questioning or remonstrance. His parting with
Jane was almost affectionate, and he left kind regards for you. But not
a word for Clarice."
"Great Jackson! what is the matter with them?" I often use what my wife
considers profane language when I have something to hide.
It had its effect this time. "Robert, be quiet. It is all right. When
there is anything for you to know, you shall know it."
She sometimes appears to mistake me for our eldest boy. But I was glad
to get off with the secret. Yes, there is something to know, my lady,
and I know it, though you don't. But I fear it is a long way from all
right.
XVI.
FEMININE COUNSELS.
After this there was general gloom about the place, and I preferred to
spend much of the time in New York. But whenever I got there, this
confounded business would drive me back: Clarice might want me. Nobody
dared question her, till one day at lunch Herbert spoke up. "Mamma, why
doesn't Mr. Hartman come back? Cousin Clarice, what have you done to
him?" He was promptly suppressed, and the Princess froze his infant
veins with a stony stare, while Jane and I looked hard at our plates.
But later that day I came upon Clarice and the child together: he was
locked in her arms, and begging her not to cry. They did not see me, and
I retired in good order.
Within a week came a short note from Jim: apologies for leaving without
saying good-bye to me, appreciation of our kindness, regards to my wife
and sister--and not a word of Clarice. I took it to Mabel, of course.
"Be very careful how you answer this now, Robert."
"How will this do? 'Dear Jim, sorry you went off in such a hurry; but
after my performance in May I have no right to find fault. We all miss
you, I think: the house has grown dull. Herbert continues to fall over
the banisters, and at intervals over the rocks: at all hours, but
especially when laid up for repairs, he howls for you and bear-stories.
Our kindest regards. Keep us posted.' That's about it, eh?"
"Ye-es: you can't ask him to come back, and you can't mention Clarice;
so you can say no more, and I don't like you to say any less. That is
very well--for you, Robert; though you need not be so unfeeling about
your own son."
It is well occasionally to consult your womankind in such cases,
because, though they may not know as much of the facts as you do, still
they can sometimes give you an inner light on points you would not have
thought of. Besides, it compliments and encourages them; whereas, if you
appeared to pay no regard to their opinions, they would naturally feel
neglected. A little judicious indirect flattery is of great use in
managing one's household. So I put on my best air of injured innocence.
"Mabel, I wish you could tell me what is the matter. Here my guest
leaves my house suddenly, without a word of explanation. Herbert must be
right: what has Clarice done to him?"
"Robert, I told you that all was well; at least I trust it will be,
though it may not seem so now. The leaven is working; leave it to Time.
Above all, don't meddle; ask no questions; leave the matter to those who
understand it."
Now does she mean herself and Jane by that, or only Clarice and Hartman?
I wonder if she thinks that I think that she knows anything about it.
If she did, I should catch some sign of it. I tried my sister.
"Jane, don't fly at me now, please. I am in trouble."
"So are we all, brother. Trouble not of our own making--most of us."
"Well then, what does all this secrecy mean? Has Clarice spoken to you?
What does Mabel know?"
"She knows no more than you and I, brother. Something has happened: any
one may suspect what it is, but Clarice will not tell. I love and
respect her too much to ask: so does Mabel; and so, I hope, do you."
"Well, it's confounded hard lines, Jane, to have these things happening
in your own house, and such a mystery made of it." I had to grumble to
somebody, you see, if only to keep up appearances and help hide my
guilty secret; and then I _was_ bored, and worse, with the way things
had gone.
"You took that risk, Robert, when you brought them together here. Did
you expect that two such persons as they would agree easily and at once?
I think they love each other, or were in a way to it when this occurred,
whatever it was."
"Well, I am awfully sorry. Clarice can take care of herself, I suppose;
but as for Hartman, he had load enough to carry before. I love that man,
Jane."
"So do I, Robert."
"Eh? O, the devil you do!" This came out before I could stop it. It did
not please her.
"Brother, you are simply scandalous. Will you never learn a decent
respect for women--you with a wife of your own, and boys growing up?
Where have you been to acquire such ideas and such manners? You might
have lived in the woods instead of Mr. Hartman, and he might have been
bred in courts, compared with you.--I mean, of course, that I am
interested in him, and sorry for him, as we all are. He is your friend,
and he has excellent qualities."
I was somewhat cast down by all this browbeating. Where shall a man go
for gentle sympathy and that sort of thing, if not to his own sister? I
suppose she thought of this, for she went on more kindly. "I would say
nothing to Clarice if I were you. When she is ready, she will speak--to
you."
"To me, eh? What would she do that for?" I put this in as part of the
narrative, but I am not proud of it. I had not quite recovered yet from
the effect of Jane's previous violence; and then my intellect is not
equal to all these feminine convolutions.
"Brother, your head is not as good as your heart. Don't you understand
that in some cases a woman goes to a man, if there is one of the right
kind at hand, much as a man goes to a woman? You are a man, and Mr.
Hartman's nearest friend. After all her recent confidences with you, or
intimacy at any rate--of course I don't know what she talked with you
about, so many hours--is it surprising that Clarice should turn to you
in her trouble, when she can bring herself to break silence at all? When
she is ready, she will speak to you, and to no one else. Till she is
ready, not all of us together, nor all the world, could draw a word from
her. Must I explain all this to you, as if you were Herbert? And when
she does speak, brother, I do hope that you will listen with due respect
and sympathy, and not disgust and repel her by any more coarse ideas and
base interpretations."
I paid no attention to these last remarks, which seemed to me wholly
unworthy of Jane. Strange, that one who at times displays so much
intelligence and even, as Hartman calls it, discernment, can in other
things be so unappreciative and almost low-minded. Coarse ideas,
indeed! Well, never mind that now: let me meditate on this prospect
which she has opened to my view. So Clarice is coming to me: she knows I
am her best friend after all. Little Clarice, how often have I dandled
her on my knee in the years that have gone by! Dear little
Clarice----BOSH! What an infernal fool a man can make of himself over a
pretty woman in trouble! I am sometimes almost tempted to think that, as
she delicately hinted, there must be an uncommon soft spot in my upper
story. It is bad enough to show it when the girl is by; let me preserve
my balance till then. When she wants to talk to me, I will hear what she
has to say.
XVII.
CONSOLATION.
Sure enough about a week after this Clarice came to me as I was smoking
a surreptitious cigar on the rocks, away from the house, after sundown.
She came and sat down close by me, but I pretended not to notice.
"Robert," said she. "Well," said I. There is no use in meeting them half
way when they are willing to come the whole distance: mostly you have to
do it all yourself, and turn about is fair play.
"Robert, are you angry with me?"
I couldn't help looking at her now, and she shot one of her great
glances into my face. I melted right down, and so would you have done.
"Clarice, you know I never could be angry with you five minutes
together--nor five seconds, if you chose to stop it. What have I got to
be angry about now?"
"Well, Bob, it wasn't your fault this time."
"No, I trust not. Whose fault was it?"
"Mine, mine. Bob, will you be my friend?" And she put her hand in mine.
"What have I ever been but your friend? Don't you do as you like with
me--and with all of us? Clarice, you know it hurts me to see you like
this. And there's poor Hartman."
She pulled away from me. "What has Mr. Hartman to do with it? Who was
talking of him?"
"Miss Elliston," I said with dignity, "the First of April is past some
time ago. What do you want to be playing these games on me for?"
"O, don't 'Miss Elliston' me, Bob. Don't you understand women yet?"
"No, I'll be shot if I do; and I never expect to. That will do for young
beginners, who think they know everything. I've seen too much of you to
pretend to understand you. Why don't you speak out and come straight to
the point?"
"Why, you goose, that's not our nature. Speaking out and going straight
to the point will do for great clumsy things like you and Mr. Hartman."
"Well, I am a great clumsy thing, as you justly observe. It's very
pleasant to have you come to me like this, Princess, and I wish you
would do it oftener; it's mighty little I've seen of you of late. But
though it would meet my views to prolong this session indefinitely, I
suppose you want something of me, or you wouldn't be so sweet. It may
seem an improbable statement, but I would rather help you out of this
scrape than enjoy your society even--that's saying a good deal, but it's
true. Yes, I'm fool enough for that."
"I know you are, dear," she said, very low and sweetly. Now what was it
she knew? You can take that two ways. All the compliments I get are so
ambiguous. But this did not occur to me till afterwards. So I went on
with my usual manly simplicity.
"Then you know there's no need of circumlocution and feminine wiles when
you want anything of me, Princess. You have but to speak, and, as the
Frenchman said, 'If it is possible, it shall be done: if it is
impossible, I can only regret that I can't do it.' What do you want me
to do now?"
"Nothing, Bob; nothing but to listen to me and be good."
"I am listening, Clarice: I've been listening all this time." This was
not quite true, for I had done most of the talking; but then what I said
was not of much account. When I am with her I often talk just to fill
the gaps.