If such a thing could be mercifully ordered, the order of this event had
certainly been merciful; but it was a cruel wrench that tore Kenton from
the home where he had struck such deep root. When he actually came to
leave the place his going had a ghastly unreality, which was heightened
by his sense of the common reluctance. No one wanted to go, so far as
he could make out, not even Ellen herself, when he tried to make her say
she wished it. Lottie was in open revolt, and animated her young men to
a share in the insurrection. Her older brother was kindly and helpfully
acquiescent, but he was so far from advising the move that Kenton had
regularly to convince himself that Richard approved it, by making him
say that it was only for the winter and that it was the best way of
helping Ellen get rid of that fellow. All this did not enable Kenton to
meet the problems of his younger son, who required him to tell what he
was to do with his dog and his pigeons, and to declare at once how he
was to dispose of the cocoons he had amassed so as not to endanger the
future of the moths and butterflies involved in them. The boy was so
fertile in difficulties and so importunate for their solution, that he
had to be crushed into silence by his father, who ached in a helpless
sympathy with his reluctance.
Kenton came heavily upon the courage of his wife, who was urging forward
their departure with so much energy that he obscurely accused her of
being the cause of it, and could only be convinced of her innocence when
she offered to give the whole thing up if he said so. When he would not
say so, she carried the affair through to the bitter end, and she did
not spare him some, pangs which she perhaps need not have shared with
him. But people are seldom man and wife for half their lives without
wishing to impart their sufferings as well as their pleasures to each
other; and Mrs. Kenton, if she was no worse, was no better than other
wives in pressing to her husband’s lips the cup that was not altogether
sweet to her own. She went about the house the night before closing it,
to see that everything was in a state to be left, and then she came to
Kenton in his library, where he had been burning some papers and getting
others ready to give in charge to his son, and sat down by his cold
hearth with him, and wrung his soul with the tale of the last things she
had been doing. When she had made him bear it all, she began to turn the
bright side of the affair to him. She praised the sense and strength of
Ellen, in the course the girl had taken with herself, and asked him
if he, really thought they could have done less for her than they were
doing. She reminded him that they were not running away from the fellow,
as she had once thought they must, but Ellen was renouncing him, and
putting him out of her sight till she could put him out of her mind. She
did not pretend that the girl had done this yet; but it was everything
that she wished to do it, and saw that it was best. Then she kissed
him on his gray head, and left him alone to the first ecstasy of his
homesickness.
It was better when they once got to New York, and were settled in an
apartment of an old-fashioned down-town hotel. They thought themselves
very cramped in it, and they were but little easier when they found that
the apartments over and under them were apparently thought spacious for
families of twice their numbers. It was the very quietest place in the
whole city, but Kenton was used to the stillness of Tuskingum, where,
since people no longer kept hens, the nights were stiller than in the
country itself; and for a week he slept badly. Otherwise, as soon as
they got used to living in six rooms instead of seventeen, they were
really very comfortable.
He could see that his wife was glad of the release from housekeeping,
and she was growing gayer and seemed to be growing younger in the
inspiration of the great, good-natured town. They had first come to New
York on their wedding journey, but since that visit she had always let
him go alone on his business errands to the East; these had grown less
and less frequent, and he had not seen New York for ten or twelve years.
He could have waited as much longer, but he liked her pleasure in the
place, and with the homesickness always lurking at his heart he went
about with her to the amusements which she frequented, as she said, to
help Ellen take her mind off herself. At the play and the opera he
sat thinking of the silent, lonely house at Tuakingum, dark among its
leafless maples, and the life that was no more in it than if they had
all died out of it; and he could not keep down a certain resentment,
senseless and cruel, as if the poor girl were somehow to blame for their
exile. When he betrayed this feeling to his wife, as he sometimes must,
she scolded him for it, and then offered, if he really thought anything
like that, to go back to Tuskingum at once; and it ended in his having
to own himself wrong, and humbly promise that he never would let the
child dream how he felt, unless he really wished to kill her. He was
obliged to carry his self-punishment so far as to take Lottie very
sharply to task when she broke out in hot rebellion, and declared that
it was all Ellen’s fault; she was not afraid of killing her sister; and
though she did not say it to her, she said it of her, that anybody else
could have got rid of that fellow without turning the whole family out
of house and home.
Lottie, in fact, was not having a bit good time in New York, which she
did not find equal in any way to Tuskingum for fun. She hated the dull
propriety of the hotel, where nobody got acquainted, and every one was
as afraid as death of every one else; and in her desolation she was
thrown back upon the society of her brother Boyne. They became friends
in their common dislike of New York; and pending some chance of bringing
each other under condemnation they lamented their banishment from
Tuskingum together. But even Boyne contrived to make the heavy time
pass more lightly than she in the lessons he had with a tutor, and the
studies of the city which he carried on. When the skating was not good
in Central Park he spent most of his afternoons and evenings at the
vaudeville theatres. None of the dime museums escaped his research,
and he conversed with freaks and monsters of all sorts upon terms of
friendly confidence. He reported their different theories of themselves
to his family with the same simple-hearted interest that he criticised
the song and dance artists of the vaudeville theatres. He became an
innocent but by no means uncritical connoisseur of their attractions,
and he surprised with the constancy and variety of his experience in
them a gentleman who sat next him one night. Boyne thought him a person
of cultivation, and consulted him upon the opinion he had formed that
there was not so much harm in such places as people said. The gentleman
distinguished in saying that he thought you would not find more harm in
them, if you did not bring it with you, than you would in the legitimate
theatres; and in the hope of further wisdom from him, Boyne followed him
out of the theatre and helped him on with his overcoat. The gentleman
walked home to his hotel with him, and professed a pleasure in his
acquaintance which he said he trusted they might sometime renew.
All at once the Kentons began to be acquainted in the hotel, as often
happens with people after they have long ridden up and down in the
elevator together in bonds of apparently perpetual strangeness. From
one friendly family their acquaintance spread to others until they were,
almost without knowing it, suddenly and simultaneously on smiling and
then on speaking terms with the people of every permanent table in the
dining-room. Lottie and Boyne burst the chains of the unnatural kindness
which bound them, and resumed their old relations of reciprocal censure.
He found a fellow of his own age in the apartment below, who had the
same country traditions and was engaged in a like inspection of the
city; and she discovered two girls on another floor, who said they
received on Saturdays and wanted her to receive with them. They made
a tea for her, and asked some real New Yorkers; and such a round of
pleasant little events began for her that Boyne was forced to call his
mother’s attention to the way Charlotte was going on with the young men
whom she met and frankly asked to call upon her without knowing anything
about them; you could not do that in New York, he said.
But by this time New York had gone to Mrs. Kenton’s head, too, and
she was less fitted to deal with Lottie than at home. Whether she had
succeeded or not in helping Ellen take her mind off herself, she had
certainly freed her own from introspection in a dream of things which
had seemed impossible before. She was in that moment of a woman’s life
which has a certain pathos for the intelligent witness, when, having
reared her children and outgrown the more incessant cares of her
motherhood, she sometimes reverts to her girlish impulses and ideals,
and confronts the remaining opportunities of life with a joyful hope
unknown to our heavier and sullener sex in its later years. It is this
peculiar power of rejuvenescence which perhaps makes so many women
outlive their husbands, who at the same age regard this world as an
accomplished fact. Mrs. Kenton had kept up their reading long after
Kenton found himself too busy or too tired for it; and when he came
from his office at night and fell asleep over the book she wished him to
hear, she continued it herself, and told him about it. When Ellen began
to show the same taste, they read together, and the mother was not
jealous when the father betrayed that he was much prouder of his
daughter’s culture than his wife’s. She had her own misgivings that she
was not so modern as Ellen, and she accepted her judgment in the case of
some authors whom she did not like so well.
She now went about not only to all the places where she could make
Ellen’s amusement serve as an excuse, but to others when she could not
coax or compel the melancholy girl. She was as constant at matinees
of one kind as Boyne at another sort; she went to the exhibitions of
pictures, and got herself up in schools of painting; she frequented
galleries, public and private, and got asked to studio teas; she went to
meetings and conferences of aesthetic interest, and she paid an easy
way to parlor lectures expressive of the vague but profound ferment
in women’s souls; from these her presence in intellectual clubs was
a simple and natural transition. She met and talked with interesting
people, and now and then she got introduced to literary people. Once,
in a book-store, she stood next to a gentleman leaning over the same
counter, whom a salesman addressed by the name of a popular author, and
she remained staring at him breathless till he left the place. When she
bragged of the prodigious experience at home, her husband defied her to
say how it differed from meeting the lecturers who had been their guests
in Tuskingum, and she answered that none of them compared with this
author; and, besides, a lion in his own haunts was very different from
a lion going round the country on exhibition. Kenton thought that was
pretty good, and owned that she had got him there.
He laughed at her, to the children, but all the same she believed that
she was living in an atmosphere of culture, and with every breath she
was sensible of an intellectual expansion. She found herself in the
enjoyment of so wide and varied a sympathy with interests hitherto
strange to her experience that she could not easily make people believe
she had never been to Europe. Nearly every one she met had been several
times, and took it for granted that she knew the Continent as well as
they themselves.
She denied it with increasing shame; she tried to make Kenton understand
how she felt, and she might have gone further if she had not seen how
homesick he was for Tuskingum. She did her best to coax him and scold
him into a share of the pleasure they were all beginning to have in New
York. She made him own that Ellen herself was beginning to be gayer;
she convinced him that his business was not suffering in his absence and
that he was the better from the complete rest he was having. She defied
him, to say, then, what was the matter with him, and she bitterly
reproached herself, in the event, for not having known that it was not
homesickness alone that was the trouble. When he was not going about
with her, or doing something to amuse the children, he went upon long,
lonely walks, and came home silent and fagged. He had given up smoking,
and he did not care to sit about in the office of the hotel where other
old fellows passed the time over their papers and cigars, in the heat of
the glowing grates. They looked too much like himself, with their air of
unrecognized consequence, and of personal loss in an alien environment.
He knew from their dress and bearing that they were country people,
and it wounded him in a tender place to realize that they had each left
behind him in his own town an authority and a respect which they could
not enjoy in New York. Nobody called them judge, or general, or doctor,
or squire; nobody cared who they were, or what they thought; Kenton did
not care himself; but when he missed one of them he envied him, for
then he knew that he had gone back to the soft, warm keeping of his own
neighborhood, and resumed the intelligent regard of a community he had
grown up with. There were men in New York whom Kenton had met in former
years, and whom he had sometimes fancied looking up; but he did not let
them know he was in town, and then he was hurt that they ignored him. He
kept away from places where he was likely to meet them; he thought that
it must have come to them that he was spending the winter in New York,
and as bitterly as his nature would suffer he resented the indifference
of the Ohio Society to the presence of an Ohio man of his local
distinction. He had not the habit of clubs, and when one of the pleasant
younger fellows whom he met in the hotel offered to put him up at one,
he shrank from the courtesy shyly and almost dryly. He had outlived the
period of active curiosity, and he did not explore the city as he world
once have done. He had no resorts out of the hotel, except the basements
of the secondhand book-dealers. He haunted these, and picked up copies
of war histories and biographies, which, as fast as he read them, he
sent off to his son at Tuskingum, and had him put them away with
the documents for the life of his regiment. His wife could see, with
compassion if not sympathy, that he was fondly strengthening by these
means the ties that bound him to his home, and she silently proposed to
go back to it with him whenever he should say the word.
He had a mechanical fidelity, however, to their agreement that they
should stay till spring, and he made no sign of going, as the
winter wore away to its end, except to write out to Tuskingum minute
instructions for getting the garden ready. He varied his visits to the
book-stalls by conferences with seedsmen at their stores; and his wife
could see that he had as keen a satisfaction in despatching a rare find
from one as from the other.
She forbore to make him realize that the situation had not changed, and
that they would be taking their daughter back to the trouble the girl
herself had wished to escape. She was trusting, with no definite hope,
for some chance of making him feel this, while Kenton was waiting with
a kind of passionate patience for the term of his exile, when he came in
one day in April from one of his long walks, and said he had been up to
the Park to see the blackbirds. But he complained of being tired, and he
lay down on his bed. He did not get up for dinner, and then it was six
weeks before he left his room.
He could not remember that he had ever been sick so long before, and
he was so awed by his suffering, which was severe but not serious, that
when his doctor said he thought a voyage to Europe would be good for
him he submitted too meekly for Mrs. Kenton. Her heart smote her for
her guilty joy in his sentence, and she punished herself by asking if it
would not do him more good to get back to the comfort and quiet of their
own house. She went to the length of saying that she believed his attack
had been brought on more by homesickness than anything else. But the
doctor agreed rather with her wish than her word, and held out that his
melancholy was not the cause but the effect of his disorder. Then she
took courage and began getting ready to go. She did not flag even in the
dark hours when Kenton got back his courage with his returning strength,
and scoffed at the notion of Europe, and insisted that as soon as they
were in Tuskingum he should be all right again.
She felt the ingratitude, not to say the perfidy, of his behavior,
and she fortified herself indignantly against it; but it was not her
constant purpose, or the doctor’s inflexible opinion, that prevailed
with Kenton at last a letter came one day for Ellen which she showed to
her mother, and which her mother, with her distress obscurely relieved
by a sense of its powerful instrumentality, brought to the girl’s
father. It was from that fellow, as they always called him, and it asked
of the girl a hearing upon a certain point in which, it had just come
to his knowledge, she had misjudged him. He made no claim upon her, and
only urged his wish to right himself with her because she was the one
person in the whole world, after his mother, for whose good opinion he
cared. With some tawdriness of sentiment, the letter was well worded;
it was professedly written for the sole purpose of knowing whether, when
she came back to Tuskingum, she would see him, and let him prove to her
that he was not wholly unworthy of the kindness she had shown him when
he was without other friends.
“What does she say?” the judge demanded.
“What do you suppose?” his wife retorted. “She thinks she ought to see
him.”
“Very well, then. We will go to Europe.”
“Not on my account!” Mrs. Kenton consciously protested.
“No; not on your account, or mine, either. On Nelly’s account. Where is
she? I want to talk with her.”
“And I want to talk with you. She’s out, with Lottie; and when she comes
back I will tell her what you say. But I want to know what you think,
first.”