that Mrs. T. was in attendance on Master Herbert, who had fallen over
the banisters and injured his nasal organ. I rushed upstairs: Mabel met
me with no demonstrations of grief or anxiety. "I see by your face that
it is all right--as I always said it would be. Go to Clarice; she is in
the library. O, Herbert? He fell on his nose, of course; he always does.
It is not at all serious. The dear child has been feeling better since
we heard from you, and taking more exercise. Clarice has the first right
to your news."
I found her, and dropped on my knees. She looked at me, not so sweetly
as of late. "Get up, Robert, I thought I had cured you of your bad habit
of untimely jesting."
"You have. I realize the solemnity of the occasion, if you do not. My
name is James--no, that's not it. I am a representative, an envoy. You
see before you a banished man who has justly incurred his sovereign's
displeasure, and has repented day and night. This posture, perhaps
unseemly in the father of a family, expresses the other fellow's state
of mind. He's afraid to come himself, and so he sent me."
She looked at me again, and saw that I was serious. You see, these
delicate matters have to be managed delicately. I can't do the
unmitigated tragedy business as well as Hartman might, and yet I had to
meet the requirements of the situation, and the Princess' expectations,
which are always high. People who have their own affairs of this kind to
conduct might sometimes avoid painful failures by taking a leaf out of
my book, and mixing the difficult passages with a little--a very
little--chastened and judicious humor; then they would avoid overdoing
it, and sending the lady off disgusted.
"Does he take all the blame?"
"Absolutely: he did from the first moment. He can't come here to say so
till he's allowed, and he can't get up till you give him a token of
forgiveness."
She gave it: it was inexpensive to her, and soothing to the penitent--or
would have been if he had been there to get it in person. I took it
simply on his account.
"Keep still now, and let me think."
I kept still. The attitude of prayer, while well suited to the lighter
forms of ladies, is inconvenient to a man of my size, and deeply
distressing when I am obliged to maintain it for more than five minutes;
for that reason I don't go to church as much as I might. But I had to
keep quiet while she did her thinking. May it be recorded to my credit!
I would bear a good deal for Clarice, and sometimes I have to.
At last she finished her cogitations. "O, get up, Robert; I forgot. What
else have you to tell me? But don't you want some supper?"
I was as hungry as a bison, but that was a secondary consideration.
"The supper can wait while I have your work to do. I'll tell you
anything you care to know: he wants to have no secrets from you. But it
has all been graphically summed up already. A famous orator of old told
a young fellow who went to him to learn how to speak a piece, 'Act it.'
That's what I've been doing the last half hour: I didn't think it would
take so long."
I rubbed my knees, which were still sore: the library carpet is
reasonably thick, but it was not built for devotional uses, "I suppose
Hartman would be glad to stay down there all night if he had the chance.
But he'd be awkward about it--infernally awkward. You see, he has had no
practice in this kind of thing; he doesn't know your ways as I do. I
wonder if you will ever get him into as good training as you have me."
I put in this light badinage to relieve any embarrassment she might
feel--not that she could show any such if she tried, but for what you
and I know even she might feel it--and to let her get used to the
situation. But she did not seem to care for it. "That's enough for now,
Robert. Go and get your supper." She said this in a weary tone. My heart
sank.
"Princess dear, have I offended you? I meant it all right. Have I done
anything wrong, and made a mess of this as usual?"
She gave me her hand. "O no, Bob. But go now. I'll talk more to you
to-morrow."
Now I thought I had done this up in the most superior style, and that
she would be pleased for once. But the ways of women are past man's
understanding.
Jane awaited me in the dining-room with viands and an anxious brow, and
would scarcely let me appease the cravings of exhausted nature. She sent
the servant out, and ministered to my wants herself.
"Brother, you look downcast. Have you returned with empty hands?"
"I have brought some of the finest trout you ever saw--not in mere size
perhaps, but in flavor, colors, and gaminess. You didn't expect me to
carry 'em on a string over my shoulder, did you? And I would have
brought some venison, but you don't care for it. You told me once that
their eyes were so pretty and plaintive, it was a shame to kill them. I
always try to please you, so I thought I would let them live.--Yes,
thank you, I have brought back more health than I took away: I may be
able now to stand the fatigues of business till Thanksgiving.--O,
Hartman? I couldn't bring him along, you know: where is your sense of
propriety? I advised him to stay up there where he is safe, and not
tempt the shafts and arrows any more. What, I 'haven't done anything
then, after all?' O, haven't I! Jane, you are worse than a serpent's
tooth: if Lear had been in my place, he would have talked about a
thankless sister. It has been a weary, toilsome, painful task, and few
men could have carried it through to so happy an end. And when I come
back hungering for sympathy--I told you what my nature was--you meet me
with cold words and suspicious looks. It is enough to make one weep, and
long for the silent grave. If it were Hartman, you would do the weeping,
no doubt. Yet that man, whom you thus unnaturally set above your
brother--you have no idea of his harshness, his violence, his embittered
prejudice and obstinacy; nor of the patience and gentleness and
persuasive force with which I expelled the demons that possessed him,
and brought him to his right mind. O, he has had an overhauling; he will
take care how he does it again. But he is all right now."
"I wonder at that, after his being in your hands for a week. Your tender
mercies were cruel, I fear. What does Clarice say to this? Is she
satisfied?"
"She ought to be, but she says nothing at all; couldn't take in the
magnitude of my news at once, most likely. Yet I took pains to break it
to her delicately, and with light touches of humor, to relieve any
strain there might be."
"Yes, soothed her nerves as with a nutmeg-grater, no doubt. You will
serenade her next with tin pans and fish-horns, and think that a
delicate attention. Brother, Clarice does not share your peculiar view
of humor, nor do I. Mabel tries to comprehend it and to catch your tone,
as is her melancholy duty; but it is hard work for her. Well, what does
Mr. Hartman say?--Don't tell me anything that is private, or belongs to
Clarice alone."
"O, you may hear most of it. He says all sorts of things--anything you
like. You see he can't be trusted, or trust himself, any longer, so I
have full power to represent him."
"That is definite, and convenient for you, whatever it may be to others.
Of course a man will promise anything when he has an object to gain. I
suppose you left him in the depths of despair and on a pinnacle of
ecstasy at once."
"That is about it. Let us be thankful that you and I are well beyond
these follies.--My dear, I wasn't alluding to your age; upon my honor
I wasn't. I only meant that your elevation of mind and dignity of
character lift you far above such idiotic transports, and give you a
right to despise weak creatures like Jim, and in some degree even
myself. No man is worthy of you, Jane: you know you never would look at
any of them. What did I tell you about your looks? Except Clarice, and
perhaps I ought to say Mabel, and a few on the cars, you are by far the
handsomest woman I've seen since I left home."
"After your week among the belles of Wayback, that compliment seems
strained. O, I see: Clarice was not in the right mood just now, and your
tide of geniality rolled back upon itself, so that it has to break loose
on some one else: or you are to see her again to-morrow, and must
practice smooth things meantime to say then.--Ah, it is both, is it?"
"Sister, you are an external conscience--except that you won't approve
when I have done the right thing, and done it well. You would be
invaluable to Jim. I doubt whether he and Clarice will get on; and he
thinks a heap of you. If he don't suit her on further inspection, or
makes any more blunders, you might take him in hand and make a man of
him."
"So as to keep him in reach as material for you? Robert, if you want me
to comfort you when Clarice is gone, you will have to make your light
humor much lighter yet, and let me select subjects for its exercise."
"Now, now--do you think I would offer you secondhand goods? If I had
known him then as I do to-day, I would have let her go off in June as
she proposed, and fixed it the other way. It would have saved no end of
bother."
"And deprived you of a source of huge amusement, and an unprecedented
field for the display of your peculiar talents. Do you think men and
women are mere puppets for you to play with? You would make but a poor
tenth-rate Providence--though you may have succeeded in this case. Tell
me how you did it."
"I showed him that he was all wrong. He knew that already, but thought
she didn't care. I told him she did."
"Robert! You have not betrayed her? Is this your diplomacy?"
"Of course not: how you talk, Jane. I said her interest in him was
philanthropic, and he had behaved with brutal ingratitude--like a
charity patient in the hospital, or a bad boy at Sunday School; so he
ought to yearn to come back--if she will kindly allow--and give her a
chance to go on reforming him or not, just as she pleases. I admitted
the purely speculative possibility that it might be otherwise--of a more
personal and commonplace description--just to encourage him a little;
but as he had said at the start that this chance was practically
nonexistent, I let him think so and dwelt on the other view, which was
new to him, and impressive. O, I preserved her dignity; that was the
first necessity. If he is cherishing any hopes of the vulgar, everyday
sort, he did not get them from me."
"And did he believe all that? If so, I must have been mistaken in the
man."
"He had to believe it. It was the simple truth: I merely arranged the
colors properly on his mental canvas. He thinks I am Solon and
Rhadamanthus and Nehemiah in one. How would you have done it perhaps,
when you had to hook your fish without letting him get the bait--induce
him to commit himself, and yet not commit her at all?"
"I don't know, brother. You could not have thrown her on his generosity,
of course; she would have killed herself and him and all of us, rather
than take happiness at such a price--and I can't blame her. Yet she
despises a subterfuge. I would not tell her the details if I were you;
she will not ask for them, nor want to hear them. It is a queer world:
when such things have to be done--sacrificing your best friend to insure
his welfare, deceiving him in the interest of one who abhors
deception--your eccentricities may be of more use than I had hitherto
supposed possible."
I pretended to be deeply pained at this; but in my heart I knew it was
high praise, coming from Jane. She is not like Clarice; she asked all
manner of questions, and kept me answering them three mortal hours.
Fortunately Mabel has less curiosity, or I should not have got much
sleep that night, after all my ill-appreciated labors. But I don't
regret what I did for Hartman; _he_ believes what you tell him.
XXXII.
CONFESSION.
Clarice was not at breakfast next day; but as I was going out, she met
me in the hall. "Robert, can you come back at four?"
"At any hour you wish, Princess; or I will stay now."
"No, that will be early enough. I will be in the library."
Now that is Clarice all over: she is herself again. No eagerness, no
petty curiosity, but a grand indifference, a statuesque calm, a
goddess-like withdrawal from the affairs and atmosphere of common
mortals. Indeed it is not she who will ask for details that any other
woman would burn to know: a single question as to the vital point, and
then "what else have you to tell me?" The rest might keep a day, a week,
a month. Her taste was always for large outlines, her mind has breadth
and grasp and comprehension; when she seemed to care for little things,
she was at play. In a matter like this, her secret thoughts are the main
element; what others may think or say or do need be noticed only as
contributing material for them to work with. What has vexed her all this
time has been that the sacrilege of events had put one factor in the
problem out of reach, beyond her control: she has been used to having
all she wanted of the earth, and deigning to want but little of it and
to value that little but lightly. Now that she cares for something at
last, and it is at her call again, she will weigh and measure the
situation, and all its aspects and possibilities, in the silent council
chamber of her soul, and the decision will go forth before any one
ventures to ask what it may be. Stay in your cave, hermit of Wayback,
and say your _Ave Clarissa_ as patiently as you can: when the edict
calls you to court, your part will be cast for you, and you will have
nothing to do but say the lines. If you break bounds again and stray
from your proper posture before the throne, or put in any more of your
irreverent gags, I am done with you.
I have wrought your will, my Princess, and brought back your pretty toy,
for you to mend or break: you hardly mean to break it. Yet it is a pity
to see you descend to common uses, to ordering a house and taking care
of poor old Jim; you were born to shine apart in solitary state, and
have men gaze at you wistfully from far below. No man can rate more
highly than I the domestic relations, affections, virtues; but I don't
like to see you put yourself in the category of mere human beings, as if
marriage and a man were good enough for you. You will have your way, now
as always, and use me at your will: it is you who have the ordering of
this funeral, not I.
As she did not seem to like my style last night, I had better be sober
and plain this afternoon; sort of Quaker thee and thou, without artistic
embellishments. Yes, by Jove, I'll have to be, for there's the guilty
secret to be unloaded. There is no excuse for keeping it to myself any
longer, now Jim has it; sooner or later she must know that I've known
all along what was not meant for me, and it may as well be done now,
whatever the result. It will not please her, but I can't help that. I
will not break my word and keep a thing from her, except as there is
reason; to tell it can do no great harm now, unless to me--and that is a
minor matter.
At the hour appointed I was on deck: no one ever interrupts the
Princess, and we were undisturbed. "Robert, I had better hear your
report. Cut it short, please; give me a condensed outline merely."
What did I tell you? This was said with an air as if she were
discharging an unwelcome duty, so that I might not feel neglected. She
evidently resents the impertinence of circumstances in forcing her to
allow me to have a hand in her private matters: it will be as much as I
can expect if she forgives me for meddling. Obeying orders, I endeavored
to be brief and business-like.
"He has had a bad time of it, Clarice. He was a changed man when I got
there--rough and morose and unmanageable; kept hinting at some
mysterious crime he had committed. It was a day or two before I could
bring him to book, by methods on which I need not dwell. Detective work
is not a nice business; the means has to take its justification from the
end. He made his confession as if it were another's; said how superior
you were, and how basely he had repaid your condescension. He thought
that ended the affair, except for his lifelong remorse; hoped he might
die soon; impossible to be forgiven, or regarded by you in any light but
that of a loathsome object--regular stage part, you know, but perfectly
sincere: if you like innocence, he can supply a first-class article. I
put a head on him by saying his behavior had been much more flagrant
than he realized, and the worst part of it was interfering with your
plans and going off in such a hurry; that ladies like to be consulted in
such cases, and sometimes to administer divine forgiveness, or at least
punish the transgressor in their own way, and not leave it all to
him.--You need not look at me like that, Princess. I know nothing of
your feelings, and told him so. Of course I maintained your dignity:
what else was I there for? And so, to do him justice, did he, as far as
he knows how. He is just where you like to have them--or would if you
cared enough about them. After I had enlightened him as to his duty, it
was all simple. I gave him just sufficient hope--of pardon, I mean--to
keep him alive, and turn his despair to active penitence. The game is
entirely in your hands now. He was on fire to come back with me, or to
write at once. I said he must take no more liberties, but wait for
permission. If I may venture a suggestion, you might let me tell him to
write you; then you can graciously allow him to come when you are ready
for him."
That I may call a succinct and lucid narrative. She listened to it with
clear eyes like Portia, as if she were a judge and had to hear such
cases every day. Now for questions: I bet odds there will not be more
than three, and those straight to the heart of my discourse--nothing
irrelevant, or secondary, or sentimental.
"Did he say what had been his offence?"
"Presumption. He insulted you--though of course he didn't mean to--and
you very properly resented it and withered him with contempt. He never
understood, till I made him see it, that what he did next was worse than
this, as emphasizing the wrong and making it--for a while--irrevocable."
Her eyes were like judgment lightnings now, that might burn through the
darkness and bring out all hidden things. Luckily I had nothing to hide;
or rather I was about to make a clean breast of it.
"How were you able to speak so positively?"
"That is what he asked me, and therein lay such power as I had to master
him; at least it was the chief weapon in my arsenal. I answer you as I
answered him: By knowing more about the matter than he did. Princess, I
have deceived you all along, and broken my promise to tell you
everything. I saw and overheard the quarrel." And then I told her all
about it.
She looked at me silently, with an expression I never saw before. I
turned away, as one turns from the sun in his strength. I was sitting on
a stool beside her, and I suppose my head went down. Suddenly a hand was
on my forehead, pushing it back. "Robert, look at me. What was your
motive in keeping this from me?"
"O, the motives were mixed; they always are. There was my dread of
offending you; that was selfish. And more than that, I did not want to
hurt you, if it could be avoided. And most, I was not willing to
complicate the trouble, and all but certainly make it worse. It seemed
to me that you would be shocked, and disgusted, and enraged to know that
a third person had intruded on so private a scene, and surprised a
secret that belonged to you. Don't fancy that I was blaming you; that
was my rough guess at how any woman would feel, most of all you: perhaps
I was wrong. I thought that for you to know might widen the breach, and
destroy all chance of reconciliation. I had to think of him, as well as
of you. Not as well, no; not as much--you know that; but of him too. I
could not tell you till I had told him, and made the matter right--if
you will have it so. You will not let it turn you against him now--this
fact that I was there? It was not his fault: it was an accident, and I
am the only one to blame. I did the best I could, after such lights as I
had."
Still the great eyes kept burning into mine; but they did not hurt so
much as I had expected. "Did you tell Mabel and Jane of this?"
"How could I? It was your secret. What do you take me for, Clarice? I
never breathed a word of it, of course, until I had it out with Jim a
week ago, and brought him to his senses: after that I thought you ought
to know. Mabel and Jane never dreamed that I knew anything beyond what
little you might have told me, or let me see."
Her arms were round my neck now. There was a minute or two of silence: I
really did not know what to say next. Then she looked up, tears in her
eyes, a tone I never could describe in her voice.
"And you have done all this for me, Robert!"
I made a feeble attempt to unloose her hands and draw myself up. "Don't
talk that way, Clarice; it hurts me. You make too much of this; it was a
matter of course, and there is nothing new in it. I thought you knew I
was always ready to do anything I could for you: that is an old story,
as you used to say."
The effort at dignity was not successful, for her head drooped again.
Soon she raised it, a smile chasing the tears away.
"You can triumph over Jane now. She used to say you never could keep a
secret. Did you enjoy keeping this one, Bob?"
"Not exactly. I will keep some more if you insist on it, but it would be
more enjoyable if they were of another sort. No more like this, if it is
the same to you."
"You said you used this as a weapon to master him with. Why didn't you
use it on me? It might have been good for me to be mastered and
overruled."
I had to laugh now. "Jim can try that by and by--if he dares. Other men
may overrule other women, perhaps; I know my place too well. Clarice, it
is not like you to talk nonsense. If I could have consulted you about
this--how to keep the secret, and what to do with it--it would have made
things easier for me, but unhappily that was not feasible. You don't
mean it would have done good instead of harm if I had told you earlier?"
"I doubt it. No, you were right. Brother, there is so much more of you
than any of us thought!"
"So Hartman has found. But I don't want to be unduly exalted. Love is
better than pride, and this trouble of yours has brought us all closer
together, I believe. There is only one thing to be done yet."
"No; two at least. Robert, you deserve to know everything. I will tell
you what we were talking about that wretched day, so that you may see
what excuse there was for him, and how wrong I was. And then you can
tell Jane and Mabel."
"I don't want to know, my dear, nor is there any need to tell them
anything. None of us desire to pry into your affairs, but only to see
them set right. It was plain that something led up to poor Jim's
blunder, and that is enough. You can tell Mabel and Jane what you like
before he comes back,--though they won't ask it.--I will overrule you
for once, as you insist. You want to put a force upon yourself for my
sake, and I will not have it; not another word of that. But--and in this
case I am not overruling, but only suggesting--Jim is waiting all this
time. May I tell him that he can write to you?"
"Not just yet. You have opened my eyes as well as his, Bob; you've
revealed so many masculine virtues that I must take them in by degrees.
You've been keeping yourself in the background and putting him forward,
as if I could be interested in one person only. Now let him wait a day
or two, while I think about you."
There may have been more of these exchanges, which I do not care to
repeat. What goes on in the domestic circle is essentially of a private
nature, too intimate and sacred to be whispered into the general ear.
There are persons who will violate these holy confidences, and tell you
what he said and she said when the doors were shut. I am not like them.
If I appear at times to break my own rule and treat you as a member of
the household, it is merely for your improvement, that you may see (as I
told Jim last summer) how things are arranged in a christian family: and
especially that, when any trouble of this kind invades your own humble
roof, you may know how to slay the lion and extract strength and
sweetness from his carcass, as I have done. Should these pages instruct
but a single brother, whether by nature or adoption, how to unwind his
sister's tangled affairs and bring them to a prosperous conclusion, I
shall not have penned them in vain.
XXXIII.
A FAMILY CONCLAVE.