She was feeling better now. As I may have said on some previous
occasion, a little judicious management will do great things for a
woman. I must keep this up if I can, and make appropriate responses to
all her remarks. I have been too hard on Jane in the past. After all,
the tie between brother and sister is a peculiar one--few more so; and,
except for the Princess, who is such only by adoption, each of us is all
the other has got in that line. Perhaps I ought to have thought of this
earlier.
"Clarice appreciates my virtues better now, as I hope you will. But I
was going to tell you: I am of one mind and heart with you about this,
dear. I have always meant to see Hartman this fall, of course; but it
was better that the suggestion should come from Mabel, you see."
"You do tangle things up so unnecessarily, Robert. Mabel would have
approved of anything you proposed, as a matter of course."
"Well, my dear, I have no desire to be a dictator in the house, like
some men. You all have interests and rights to be respected, and I want
you to have your say."
"We would have it more cheerfully if you would take yours--out plainly,
in a man's way, you know. Have you written Mr. Hartman?"
"Certainly: that same night, and asked if he wanted me next week. That
was simple enough. I'm not afraid of _him_."
"I can't see why you should be so afraid of Clarice. You've known her
all her life, and she is only ten years younger than you. If she were
but seventeen, now, and a new acquaintance, I might understand it. You
_must_ have it out with her, Robert. If I adopt her style, perhaps you
will do as I wish. Remember, we are to work together in this thing, and
you are of one mind and heart with me about it; so you must let me
direct you. Mind, now!"
I stared: it was an imitation, gentle and subdued indeed, of the
Princess as she was in her days of glory--not so long ago, alas!--before
the rains descended and the winds blew and the storm beat upon her house
of life: the tones were there, and a hint of the arch looks. Where did
Jane learn these tricks? And what has come over her? A maiden, even of
her years, is hardly warmed to life by a few compliments and caresses
from her own mother's son. Can Hartman have waked her up too? She
laughed in my face.
"If our plot succeeds, you may be thrown on my society again; and as you
are going to be so affectionate, I must fill Clarice's place as well as
I can. Meantime, you had better let me guide you; indeed you had."
"That may be; only don't drive me too hard, please. I'm not what I once
was: all these emotions are too many for me. Where do you propose to
guide me to?"
"To Clarice. Will you come now?"
"Scarcely: a nice reception we should get. This is not a case where two
are better far than one. And then it would be three presently, which
never answers--when she is one of them. I would rather go alone, and
much rather not at all. Guide me somewhere else, sweet sister: or you
can go yourself, if you like. But I don't see why she should stand on
ceremony with me."
"Not with you, but with her own heart--a more recent acquaintance, and
much more formidable."
"But that is there all the same, whether I go to her or she comes to
me."
"Yes, but--can't you see? She dislikes to take the initiative."
"So do I. According to you, she has taken it already."
"Yes, and once is enough. You are so slow, Robert: you require so much
teaching."
"I know. But don't despair: Hartman says you have improved me a heap,
between you. You see, the cases are different. None of you are the least
afraid of me--I should be sorry if you were. But I am afraid of you: you
are such superior beings. You know you are: you look on my masculine
dulness with contempt; and so do I. It is my deep and loyal respect for
a woman--which you said I would never learn. Jane, you hurt me then; you
have hurt me often. I would have been fonder of you--showed it more, I
mean; but affection, repulsed, shrank into the shell of indifference. Be
kind, now, and I will do anything you say. You see, I _am_ getting on."
"I wish you would get on toward the business in hand. A nice time
Clarice must have had with you. I can see now why she had to keep so
tight a rein on you, and to rule you by fear. Will you speak to her, or
will you not?"
"Of course I will, before I go. We can't hear from Jim for several days
yet. She will probably come to me before that. If not, I'll have to go
to her. Jane, there are some things that you don't understand, and I
can't explain."
"Queer things they must be, then. I wonder that a man should be such a
coward."
"If you were a man, you wouldn't. I don't care to display my courage at
home, sister. You are harder than Clarice. You want me to be all around
the circle at once, and whatever I do, you find fault. My dear, ever
since you spoke, I have been hanging about, to give her a chance to say
what she wants. How can I stride up to her and shout, 'Here, tell me
what to say to your runaway lover'? She knows all about it, if you
don't. I'll wait to-morrow after breakfast; tell her so, if you will.
She has only to look at me, and I'll ask her, if she wishes. Then you
can scold me to your heart's content for making a mess of it, and being
rough and brutal and stupid. Jane, I am doing the best I can. If I could
put myself absolutely into your hands, and be but a voice and body to
your mind, it might be an improvement; but unhappily that is not
feasible at present. Will what I propose answer?"
"Perhaps: I will see. I may have been unjust to you, Robert: you are
different from most men, and not easy to understand: you like to let
part of you pass for the whole. Whether you are so easy to rule as you
pretend to be, I am not sure yet. Well, there is time to find out. If
you live by your professions, well and good. Kiss me, dear; good-night."
Since Jane has panned out in this unexpected way, I wish I could tell
her the Secret: she might give me some points. But that is
impossible--unthinkable, as they say at Concord. Clarice would never
forgive me: that would be bad, but not the worst. It would be disloyal
to her--distinctly so. That I've never been yet, and I'm too old to
begin now. There may be cases in which the end justifies the means, but
this is not one of them. No: I must dree this weird (if that is the
expression), and hoe this row, all by myself. If I had been bred in the
east, I should be tempted to say it was a contumelious responsibility.
The next time you want to get into difficulties with a lady, James
Hartman, you must do it on some other premises than mine.
XXII.
AN ORDEAL.
Next morning I was nosing about in the library, pretending to be looking
for a book, when Clarice came to me and said, "I don't think what you
want is here. Leave business this afternoon, and take me to the Park."
If she were to say, "Leave business this year, and take me to Europe, or
to Madagascar," I should do it: she would have to arrange the matter
with Mabel, but that she could do without difficulty, I have not the
least doubt. It would be a loss to Water Street, and my departure would
be felt in business circles generally; but they would have to stand it
as they might. In this case, however, no heavy sacrifice was involved:
for a few hours, or days, or weeks, Pipeline, as Mabel says, can conduct
the old stand well enough. What it needs is the feeling that a master
mind presides over its destinies, though from such a distance as Newport
or the Wayback woods.
We agreed on an hour--that is, she told me to be at the door at two--and
I went down town, feeling relieved. It is much better for Clarice to
take the responsibility of opening communications, and I wish she would
conduct the whole interview, like a major-general with his aid-de-camp
or a master plumber sending out his apprentices to mend the
pipes--leaving me only to take notes of instructions. But that is too
much to expect. It is a delicate task before me, and my talents for such
(according to the ladies), are not so eminent that I should be anxious
to overwork them. I can manage a man, and some women perhaps; but to
catechize and cross-examine her on a subject as to which pride, and
honor, and modesty lock a girl's lips--I don't see how I can do it,
even with her consent. I would rather smoke my pipe through a powder
mill than hurt you, my poor Princess: my clumsy fingers were never made
to play about your heartstrings.
I dropped in at Trinity on my way, and put up a prayer; it was that she
might make it easy for herself, and for me, though that is a minor
matter--keep the game in her own hands, and tell enough to serve her
ambassador's need, without his questioning.
She did not keep me waiting: she never had that vice. The change in her
is not for casual eyes to see. Outwardly, I have fallen off more than
she has; in fact, I have lost three pounds in these last two months.
Many a hat was raised, many an envious glance turned toward me, as we
spun up the avenue. The fellows at the club, and elsewhere, used to
pester me to introduce them, and I gratified them for a while, till she
told me she could not have all my acquaintances coming to call, and made
Mabel say I must leave off bringing men home to dinner. She never was a
coquette; but what is a girl so endowed to do? They would force
themselves on her, by dozens, by scores, by hundreds: they overflowed
the house and took up all her time; they crowded her life, until she
could stand it no longer and stopped it. That is why we live so quietly
of late: it is a great improvement. Now, they gaze on her from afar: yet
she never had difficulty with any of them--till August, alas. That was
my fault, for bringing in a wild man from the woods, who could not be
counted on or ruled like the rest, but would flop around in his
uncircumcised way and break things. I should never forgive myself for
that, if I did not hope to get matters right--and more so than they ever
were, for her.
For a time we drove on silently. Then of a sudden, without looking at
me, she said very quietly, "Jane told me you wanted to see me, Robert."
O Lord, is this to be the shape of it after all? Well, what must be
must, and I will do my stint as a man may. "Did she say nothing else?"
"That you were afraid to come to me. Have I been so harsh with you, or
so terrible of late?" Her tone was half arch, half reproachful.
"No, no; far from it. But you know how it is, Clarice. Your trouble is
ours, and I am a poor surgeon. How can I put a knife into the wound? I
wish it were mine, and mine only."
"I have brought trouble on you all, brother. I ought to have gone away."
"Never; do you think Mabel and Jane would allow that, any more than I?
We would all rather break our hearts together, if that need be, than
have you among strangers now: it would be worse for us, no less than for
you. When you are happy you may leave us; not till then."
"I know. You love me, here, and bear with me, and for me--though I don't
deserve it."
"Don't say that--anything but that. My Princess deserves everything--and
by Jove, she shall have it. If I knew exactly what she wanted, now--"
All this time we had to be smiling and bowing right and left. You can't
make pretty speeches under such circumstances, or do delicate work. I
had turned from the main drive, but it was only a little better.
"Let us get out of this, Robert. There are too many people: we can't
talk here."
We went by streets which you must know, if you are accustomed to have
this kind of business on hand. I trust you are not: a little of it goes
a long way. At last we got into a quieter, semi-rural region. Find it
out for yourself, if you can: I am not going to tell you the exact spots
made sacred by these confidences. Meantime I had been thinking what to
say, and it came out with a rush. It is a little easier when you put the
third person for the second--yes, that is a good idea.
"If I were sure just what she wanted, she should have that thing, if
there is any power in the human will. But I am clumsy, and thick-headed,
and make blunders--you have often said so, Clarice, and so has Jane, and
even Mabel. She I speak of is of finer clay than others. Her nature has
its own laws, which I can understand only very imperfectly. Yes, you
know it is so: you have told me that too. O, she need not mind me, nor
consider me in the least. I am afraid only of offending or hurting her:
I only want to help and serve her, if I can. If she could look on me
just as a tool to be used, an instrument in case she desired to produce
certain sounds--I wish I were more capable of harmony--as a medium
possibly--. But she will not speak--perhaps she cannot. And how can I
question her, as if from vulgar curiosity? What right have I?"
Her eyes were wet now, under her veil: I could see it, though nobody
else could; and we were on a country road.
"Robert, you are the best and dearest man in the world."
"Hardly that. But I am proud of your approval, and will try to earn it.
I have not earned it yet, you know."
"Brother, you rate me too high, and--and her you speak of. What if she
had what she wanted within reach, and rudely thrust it away?"
"But she did not do that, dear: she could not. I am sure it is there
yet, if she would deign to take it."
"If that were certain, she would have others than herself to think of.
So long as it was or might be merely herself, what could she do?"
I began to see light now. "There _are_ others; and though they are of
less consequence, her generous heart would not let them suffer. Suppose
to one of them this meant life or death, hope or despair, use or
uselessness. Suppose one not like most of us, but simple, sincere, and
noble, unversed in the world's ways and little loving them, with a great
heart early clouded and a strong mind warped thereby, had begun to pin
his faith to her I speak of, and in her eyes to see reconciliation to
earth and heaven; and then for one rash word, one casual misconception
such as comes between any of us, had fancied the cup of promise snatched
away, and in his misjudging innocence gone back to his cave of gloom,
thinking himself doomed to a state worse than that from which he had
been nearly rescued. Would she let him stay there forever?"
"I suppose she ought not--if she could help it. It is well he has better
friends than she has proved. But I cannot talk of this: indeed I cannot.
It may be weak and foolish, but I cannot. You must do what you have to
do in your own way.--No, I will not be such a coward, and so basely
ungrateful. O, I understand your position, Robert. You will have to
question me: I am sorry, but it is the only way. Ask what you absolutely
need to know for your own guidance--I know you will ask no more--and I
will try to answer."
I groaned; and then I could have choked myself. Must my despicable
selfishness add to her burdens? What are my feelings, my petty
reluctance, to her interests? Have I not set myself aside? Are you not
man enough, Robert T., to put a few civil queries to a lady, when she
has just given you express permission, and even directed you to do so?
The less you sneer at cads after this, the better.--I was so long making
up my mind to it that the poor girl had to speak again.
"I am very sorry, brother. It is too bad to burden you so. If I could
save you the trouble, I would, indeed. O, I appreciate your motives, and
your delicacy, and all your efforts to shield and spare me--never fancy
that I did not, I have made more trouble than I am worth. If I could
only die, and end it all!"
This, as you may imagine, put a speedy end to my shilly-shallying. "That
would end it all, with a vengeance. Some other people of my acquaintance
would want to die then too--or before. Dearest Clarice, don't talk so.
Two things I can't bear--your lowering yourself like this, and your
exalting me. I am a hound: if I were half a man, I'd have made it easier
for you. It is only that I distrust my own ability, my own penetration,
my own judgment. I ought not to need any more instructions--but this
business is so important, and I'm afraid of making a mess of it."
"Dear Robert, you lay too much stress on the opinion I pretended to have
of you, in days when I only half knew you and thought far too much of
myself and too little of others. I know better now. You have the insight
of sympathy: your heart will help your head. You will not need to ask me
many questions; you can read between the lines."
"I will try. You need not answer in words when you don't want to: just
move your head a little, and let me see your eyes. You see, in view of
my stupidity, the less risks we take the better: I must have some things
down in black and white. Well then: you said something to Mabel about my
health, and the fall fishing?"
"Yes. You do need a change; I have had you on my conscience all this
while. It is all my doing; and you love me so." Her hand stole into
mine.
"That is certainly so. Do you know where I would go if left to
myself--if these last months were blotted from the calendar?"
"Of course. Is it necessary to go through all these formalities?"
"I think so: forgive me, dear. I must not trust my intuitions too far:
they are not as fine as yours.--You know what construction might be put
on my going there now?--Not by the outside world; it has nothing to do
with this business, happily. But by any of us; and more especially
by--ah--by him?"
Her face was set now, her lips closed tight; but she nodded.
"You have no word to send, I suppose?--No, of course not: how could you?
Then if he asks, or if it is necessary to tell him about you, as of
course it will be, I am to say merely what I think, so that you are
nowise responsible?--Yes, I see. But the main thing to do there is to
make observations, and bring my report to you?--Certainly: he must put
himself on record before you do, if this is to go on. _If?_ Of course it
will: it shall be all right, my dear child. Then it follows that I can't
bring him back with me?--Why no: he must bide his time, and fulfil his
penance. That is all, I believe: the examination--or the operation, I
had nearly said--is over, and you have borne it well. Thank you,
Princess; and forgive me for troubling you. You won't hate me, will you,
for having to be so horrid, and making you go through all this?--Thank
you again. Shall we turn homeward now?--Yes, we'll be there by dark."
She sat very still, and paler than I like to see her. As for me, great
beads of perspiration were on my forehead, though it was a cool day. I
drove as fast now as the law allows. At last she spoke, and her voice
trembled. "Brother, how shockingly we have all misjudged you!"
"No, dear: you did not misjudge me at all. But you have been educating
me, and it is fit the best there is in me should come to the front for
your service--if it never put its head up before, nor should again. Wait
till I come back: I've done nothing yet."
"You have done everything. The rest will be easy for you, compared with
this."
"By Jove, you are right there: I'm glad we're through this part of
it.--One thing more; about Jane. She loves you as I do; she has been
berating me for indifference and slackness in the cause. O, she is a
trump: she was crying bitterly last night because she could do nothing
to help you, and because I was too lazy and cowardly to move; she has
egged me on to this. May I tell her what we have agreed on?"
"O yes, tell her anything you like, and Mabel too. I have made you all
such a poor return: any other woman in my place would have trusted you
long ago, and been the better for it. But I am so strangely made,
Robert: my lips are like a seal to my heart. Excuse me at dinner, won't
you? And promise me one thing--that always, after this, you will come to
me at once, without scruple, when you want me, on my account or on your
own. As if I could be reluctant to talk with you! Tell me when you hear
from him, and when you are going, and--anything else. You won't mind my
silence, or wait for me to speak? And you must never be afraid of me
again."
XXIII.
PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.
The Princess was seen no more that night, and I got away till dinner
time. Then I said that she was not coming down, and anxious looks were
exchanged, and dark ones cast on me. In return I winked at Jane, and
frowned severely on Herbert, who intercepted the signal and began to
grin. Mabel, who had seen it too, reproved me for setting the boy a bad
example; and thus a diversion was effected. While she was seeing after
the children, my sister carried me off to the library: I made her kiss
me before I would tell her anything.
"Jane, you may scold me as much as you like after this, and I will never
say a cross word to you again. Hartman was right: he said you had more
penetration than any of us, and all sorts of virtues. O, you needn't
mind about blushing; we are alone. It's true, and I shall hold you in
honor accordingly."
"Brother, I hope you have not spoiled your work with careless handling.
I always distrust you when you begin your fine speeches."
"That was in the past, which we have put behind us: they come now from
the abundance of the heart. We are one, you know, and I am to tell you
everything. Jane, I've done exactly as you told me, and given you all
credit. She knows it was your move; and it's all right."
"Then you found that your imagination had created, or greatly magnified,
the difficulties, and that your fears were unnecessary?"
"Far from it. It was a terrible job for both of us: the mere
recollection of it is harrowing. Clarice is laid up, and only my
superior physical strength and fortitude, with an hour's recuperation,
enabled me to face you all at table."
"Then you must have been rough with her. Brother, how could you?"
"What did I tell you? You drive me, with all your sharp-pointed feminine
weapons, to a painful task, and then you blame me because you fancy I've
not discharged it as neatly as the angel Gabriel might. She thinks I
did, however. Was I rough with you last night? Is it my habit to go
around trampling on the finer feelings of our nature? In the hour of
woe, when your heartstrings are torn asunder, you will find me a
first-class comforter. I thought you knew that already."
"I doubt if Clarice knows it, if you took this tone with her. Can you
never be serious, Robert?"
"Good heavens, Jane, what would you have? Have I not been serious
through two weary months, and eminently so all this afternoon? I had to
be. Let the overstrung bow be relaxed a little now. You remember the
Prime Minister, who after an exciting debate used to go home and play
with his children?
"As exciting debates are usually conducted in the small hours, it was
cruel to disturb their infant slumbers. If you want to do that here you
will have to get Mabel's consent; it is out of my province. Best play
with your children before they go to bed."
"Children of a larger growth will serve. Bear with me, sister. My
faculties have been sorely tasked: I am spent and weary--"
"And you must have somebody to play with. Was that why you were so fond
of Clarice, because she sometimes humored you? She could hardly serve
your turn now: the poor child is in no jesting mood. Nor am I; nor ought
you to be."
"Sister, you wrong me. It is my warmth of heart, my fraternal affection,
which you have so oft-repulsed. Mine is a poet's nature. You stare, but
it is so: it is only lately that I discovered the fact myself. Like the
elder Bulwer, I pine for appreciation, for sympathy--"
"You will continue to pine if you go on like this. I never saw such a
man for beating about the bush and talking nonsense. What have you
accomplished?--I don't want to pry into her secrets, or ask her to share
her confidences, but--"
"Now, Jane, if you have any heart left, I will bring the tear of
contrition to your eye. I asked and obtained her permission to tell you
all I know, and all we have just arranged."
"Don't be so long about it, then. What are the arrangements?"
So I imparted them with but little modification or reservation; and
Mabel coming in presently, I went over the main outlines again. It is
not every man who could thus communicate state secrets to his family;
but mine never talk about home affairs to outsiders. One point is, they
do not attend the Sewing Society: if they did, I should feel less safe.
They approved in the main.
"It hardly seems fair to Mr. Hartman," said Jane; "but no doubt it's as
much as you can expect from her."
"I should say it was: why, she is acting nobly. If it were any other
man, he should, and would, have all the making up to do, instead of
putting it on us. You see, you--that is, we--don't exactly know what the
quarrel was. He must have been in the wrong, of course."
"O yes, because you are a man. Now suppose I, being a woman, say, 'She
must have been in the wrong, of course.'"