“I thought you were not at home in bed because you couldn’t sleep.”
“I know it. And you’ve no idea how horrible a bed is that you can’t sleep in.” The old man’s voice broke in a tremor. “Ah, it’s a bed of torture! I spend many a wicked hour in mine, envying St. Lawrence his gridiron. But what do you think of my theory?”
“It’s a very pretty theory. My only objection to it is that it’s too flattering. You know I rather prefer to abuse my sex; and to be set up as a natural aristocracy — I don’t know that I can quite agree to that, even to account satisfactorily for being at your sister-in-law’s reception.”
“You’re too modest, Mrs. Brinkley.”
“No, really. There ought to be some men among us — men without morrows. Now, why don’t you and my husband set an example to your sex? Why don’t you relax your severe sense of duty? Why need you insist upon being at your offices every morning at nine? Why don’t you fling off these habits of lifelong industry, and be gracefully indolent in the interest of the higher civilisation?”
Bromfield Corey looked round at her with a smile of relish for her satire. Her husband was a notoriously lazy man, who had chosen to live restrictedly upon an inherited property rather than increase it by the smallest exertion.
“Do you think we could get Andy Pasmer to join us?”
“No, I can’t encourage you with that idea. You must get on without Mr. Pasmer; he’s going back to Europe with his son-in-law.”
“Do you mean that their girl’s married?”
“No-engaged. It’s just out.”
“Well, I must say Mrs. Pasmer has made use of her time.” He too liked to imply that it was all an effect of her manoeuvring, and that the young people had nothing to do with it; this survival from European fiction dies hard. “Who is the young man?”
Mrs. Brinkley gave him an account of Dan Mavering as she had seen him at Campobello, and of his family as she just heard of them. “Mr. Munt was telling me about them as you came up.”
“Why, was that John Munt?”
“Yes; didn’t you know him?”
“No,” said Corey sadly. “I don’t know anybody nowadays. I seem to be going to pieces every way. I don’t call sixty-nine such a very great age.”
“Not at all!” cried Mrs. Brinkley. “I’m fifty-four myself, and Brinkley’s sixty.”
“But I feel a thousand years old. I don’t see people, and when I do I don’t know ‘em. My head’s in a cloud.” He let it hang heavily; then he lifted it, and said: “He’s a nice, comfortable fellow, Munt is. Why didn’t he stop and talk a bit?”
“Well, Munt’s modest, you know; and I suppose he thought he might be the third that makes company a crowd. Besides, nobody stops and talks a bit at these things. They’re afraid of boring or being bored.”
“Yes, they’re all in as unnatural a mood as if they were posing for a photograph. I wonder who invented this sort of thing? Do you know,” said the old man, “that I think it’s rather worse with us than with any other people? We’re a simple, sincere folk, domestic in our instincts, not gregarious or frivolous in any way; and when we’re wrenched away from our firesides, and packed in our best clothes into Jane’s gilded saloons, we feel vindictive; we feel wicked. When the Boston being abandons himself — or herself — to fashion, she suffers a depravation into something quite lurid. She has a bad conscience, and she hardens her heart with talk that’s tremendously cynical. It’s amusing,” said Corey, staring round him purblindly at the groups and files of people surging and eddying past the corner where he sat with Mrs. Brinkley.
“No; it’s shocking,” said his companion. “At any rate, you mustn’t say such things, even if you think them. I can’t let you go too far, you know. These young people think it heavenly, here.”
She took with him the tone that elderly people use with those older than themselves who have begun to break; there were authority and patronage in it. At the bottom of her heart she thought that Bromfield Corey should not have been allowed to come; but she determined to keep him safe and harmless as far as she could.
From time to time the crowd was a stationary mass in front of them; then it dissolved and flowed away, to gather anew; there were moments when the floor near them was quite vacant; then it was inundated again with silken trains. From another part of the house came the sound of music, and most of the young people who passed went two and two, as if they were partners in the dance, and had come out of the ball-room between dances. There was a good deal of nervous talk, politely subdued among them; but it was not the note of unearthly rapture which Mrs. Brinkley’s conventional claim had implied; it was self-interested, eager, anxious; and was probably not different from the voice of good society anywhere.
XXXVI.
“Why, there’s Dan Mavering now!” said Mrs. Brinkley, rather to herself than to her companion. “And alone!”
Dan’s face showed above most of the heads and shoulders about him; it was flushed, and looked troubled and excited. He caught sight of Mrs. Brinkley, and his eyes brightened joyfully. He slipped quickly through the crowd, and bowed over her hand, while he stammered out, without giving her a chance for reply till the end: “O Mrs. Brinkley, I’m so glad to see you! I’m going — I want to ask a great favour of you, Mrs. Brinkley. I want to bring — I want to introduce some friends of mine to you — some ladies, Mrs. Brinkley; very nice people I met last summer at Portland. Their father — General Wrayne — has been building some railroads down East, and they’re very nice people; but they don’t know any one — any ladies — and they’ve been looking at the pictures ever since they came. They’re very good pictures; but it isn’t an exhibition!” He broke down with a laugh.
“Why, of course, Mr. Mavering; I shall be delighted,” said Mrs. Brinkley, with a hospitality rendered reckless by her sympathy with the young fellow. “By all means!”
“Oh; thanks! — thank you aver so much!” said Dan. “I’ll bring them to you — they’ll understand!” He slipped into the crowd again.
Corey made an offer of going. Mrs. Brinkley stopped him with her fan. “No — stay, Mr. Corey. Unless you wish to go. I fancy it’s the people you were talking about, and you must help me through with them.”
“I ask nothing better,” said the old man, unresentful of Dan’s having not even seemed to see him, in his generous preoccupation. “I should like to see how you’ll get on, and perhaps I can be of use.”
“Of course you can — the greatest.”
“But why hasn’t he introduced them to his Pasmers? What? Eh? Oh!” Corey made these utterances in response to a sharper pressure of Mrs. Brinkley’s fan on his arm.
Dan was opening a way through the crowd before them for two ladies, whom he now introduced. “Mrs. Frobisher, Mrs. Brinkley; and Miss Wrayne.”
Mrs. Brinkley cordially gave her hand to the ladies, and said, “May I introduce Mr. Corey? Mr. Mavering, let me introduce you to Mr. Corey.” The old man rose and stood with the little group.
Dan’s face shone with flattered pride and joyous triumph. He bubbled out some happy incoherencies about the honour and pleasure, while at the same time he beamed with tender gratitude upon Mrs. Brinkley, who was behaving with a gracious, humorous kindliness to the aliens cast upon her mercies. Mrs. Frobisher, after a half-hour of Boston society, was not that presence of easy gaiety which crossed Dan’s path on the Portland pavement the morning of his arrival from Campobello; but she was still a handsome, effective woman, of whom you would have hesitated to say whether she was showy or distinguished. Perhaps she was a little of both, with an air of command bred of supremacy in frontier garrisons; her sister was like her in the way that a young girl may be like a young matron. They blossomed alike in the genial atmosphere of Mrs. Brinkley and of Mr. Corey. He began at once to make bantering speeches with them both. The friendliness of an old man and a stout elderly woman might not have been their ideal of success at an evening party, used as they were to the unstinted homage of young captains a
nd lieutenants, but a brief experience of Mrs. Bellingham’s hospitality must have taught them humility; and when a stout, elderly gentleman, whose baldness was still trying to be blond, joined the group, the spectacle was not without its points of resemblance to a social ovation. Perhaps it was a Boston social ovation.
“Hallo, Corey!” said this stout gentleman, whom Mrs. Brinkley at once introduced as Mr. Bellingham, and whose salutation Corey returned with “Hallo, Charles!” of equal intimacy.
Mr. Bellingham caught at the name of Frobisher. “Mrs. Major Dick Frobisher?”
“Mrs. Colonel now, but Dick always,” said the lady, with immediate comradery. “Do you know my husband?”
“I should think so!” said Bellingham; and a talk of common interest and mutual reminiscence sprang up between them. Bellingham graphically depicted his meeting with Colonel Frobisher the last time he was out on the Plains, and Mrs. Frobisher and Miss Wrayne discovered to their great satisfaction that he was the brother of Mrs. Stephen Blake, of Omaba, who had come out to the fort once with her husband, and captured the garrison, as they said. Mrs. Frobisher accounted for her present separation from her husband, and said she had come on for a while to be with her father and sister, who both needed more looking after than the Indians. Her father had left the army, and was building railroads.
Miss Wrayne, when she was not appealed to for confirmation or recollection by her sister, was having a lively talk with Corey and Mrs. Brinkley; she seemed to enter into their humour; and no one paid much attention to Dan Mavering. He hung upon the outskirts of the little group; proffering unrequited sympathy and applause; and at last he murmured something about having to go back to some friends, and took himself off. Mrs. Frobisher and Miss Wrayne let him go with a certain shade — the lightest, and yet evident — of not wholly satisfied pique: women know how to accept a reparation on account, and without giving a receipt in full.
Mrs. Brinkley gave him her hand with an effect of compassionate intelligence and appreciation of the sacrifice he must have made in leaving Alice. “May I congratulate you?” she murmured.
“Oh yes, indeed; thank you, Mrs. Brinkley,” he gushed tremulously; and he pressed her hand hard, and clung to it, as if he would like to take her with him.
Neither of the older men noticed his going. They were both taken in their elderly way with these two handsome young women, and they professed regret — Bellingham that his mother was not there, and Corey that neither his wife nor daughters had come, whom they might otherwise have introduced. They did not offer to share their acquaintance with any one else, but they made the most of it themselves, as if knowing a good thing when they had it. Their devotion to Mrs. Frobisher and her sister heightened the curiosity of such people as noticed it, but it would be wrong to say that it moved any in that self-limited company with a strong wish to know the ladies. The time comes to every man, no matter how great a power he may be in society, when the general social opinion retires him for senility, and this time had come for Bromfield Corey. He could no longer make or mar any success; and Charles Bellingham was so notoriously amiable, so deeply compromised by his inveterate habit of liking nearly every one, that his notice could not distinguish or advantage a newcomer.
He and Corey took the ladies down to supper. Mrs. Brinkley saw them there together, and a little later she saw old Corey wander off; forgetful of Miss Wrayne. She saw Dan Mavering, but not the Pasmers, and then, when Corey forgot Miss Wrayne, she saw Dan, forlorn and bewildered looking, approach the girl, and offer her his arm for the return to the drawing-room; she took it with a bright, cold smile, making white rings of ironical deprecation around the pupils of her eyes.
“What is that poor boy doing, I wonder?” said Mrs. Brinkley to herself.
XXXVII.
The next morning Dan Mavering knocked at Boardman’s door before the reporter was up. This might have been any time before one o’clock, but it was really at half-past nine. Boardman wanted to know who was there, and when Mavering had said it was he, Boardman seemed to ponder the fact awhile before Mavering heard him getting out of bed and coming barefooted to the door. He unlocked it, and got back into bed; then he called out, “Come in,” and Mavering pushed the door open impatiently. But he stood blank and silent, looking helplessly at his friend. A strong glare of winter light came in through the naked sash — for Boardman apparently not only did not close his window-blinds, but did not pull down his curtains, when he went to bed — and shone upon his gay, shrewd face where he lay, showing his pop-corn teeth in a smile at Mavering.
“Prefer to stand?” he asked by and by, after Mavering had remained standing in silence, with no signs of proposing to sit down or speak. Mavering glanced at the only chair in the room: Boardman’s clothes dripped and dangled over it. “Throw ’em on the bed,” he said, following Mavering’s glance.
“I’ll take the bed myself,” said Mavering; and he sat down on the side of it, and was again suggestively silent.
Boardman moved his head on the pillow, as he watched Mavering’s face, with the agreeable sense of personal security which we all feel in viewing trouble from the outside: “You seem balled up about something.”
Mavering sighed heavily. “Balled up? It’s no word for it. Boardman, I’m done for. Yesterday I was the happiest fellow in the world, and now — Yes, it’s all over with me, and it’s my own fault, as usual. Look; at that!” He jerked Boardman a note which he had been holding fast in his band, and got up and went to look himself at the wide range of chimney-pots and slated roofs which Boardman’s dormer-window commanded.
“Want me to read it?” Boardman asked; and Mavering nodded without glancing round. It dispersed through the air of Boardman’s room, as he unfolded it, a thin, elect perfume, like a feminine presence, refined and strict; and Boardman involuntarily passed his hand over his rumpled hair, as if to make himself a little more personable before reading the letter.
“DEAR MR. MAVERING, — I enclose the ring you gave me the other day, and I release you from the promise you gave with it. I am convinced that you wronged yourself in offering either without your whole heart, and I care too much for your happiness to let you persist in your sacrifice.
“In begging that you will not uselessly attempt to see me, but that you will consider this note final, I know you will do me the justice not to attribute an ungenerous motive to me. I shall rejoice to hear of any good that may befall you; and I shall try not to envy any one through whom it comes. — Yours sincerely,”
“ALICE PASMER.
“P.S. — I say nothing of circumstances or of persons; I feel that any comment of mine upon them would be idle.”
Mavering looked up at the sound Boardman made in refolding the letter. Boardman grinned, with sparkling eyes. “Pretty neat,” he said.
“Pretty infernally neat,” roared Mavering.
“Do you suppose she means business?”
“Of course she means business. Why shouldn’t she?”
“I don’t know. Why should she?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Boardman. I suppose I shall have to tell you if I’m going to get any good out of you; but it’s a dose.” He came away from the window, and swept Boardman’s clothes off the chair preparatory to taking it.
Boardman lifted his head nervously from the pillow.
“Oh; I’ll put them on the bed, if you’re so punctilious!” cried Mavering.
“I don’t mind the clothes,” said Boardman. “I thought I heard my watch knock on the floor in my vest pocket. Just take it out, will you, and see if you’ve stopped it?”
“Oh, confound your old Waterbury! All the world’s stopped; why shouldn’t your watch stop too?” Mavering tugged it out of the pocket, and then shoved it back disdainfully. “You couldn’t stop that thing with anything short of a sledgehammer; it’s rattling away like a mowing-machine. You know those Portland women — those ladies I spent the day with when you were down there at the regatta — the day I came from Campobello — Mrs. Frobisher a
nd her sister?” He agglutinated one query to another till he saw a light of intelligence dawn in Boardman’s eye. “Well, they’re at the bottom of it, I suppose. I was introduced to them on Class Day, and I ought to have shown them some attention there; but the moment I saw Alice — Miss Pasmer — I forgot all about ‘em. But they didn’t seem to have noticed it much, and I made it all right with ’em that day at Portland; and they came up in the fall, and I made an appointment with them to drive out to Cambridge and show them the place. They were to take me up at the Art Museum; but that was the day I met Miss Pasmer, and I — I forgot about those women again.”
Boardman was one of those who seldom laugh; but his grin expressed all the malicious enjoyment he felt. He said nothing in the impressive silence which Mavering let follow at this point.
“Oh, you think it was funny?” cried Mavering. “I thought it was funny too; but Alice herself opened my eyes to what I’d done, and I always intended to make it all right with them when I got the chance. I supposed she wished me too.”
Boardman grinned afresh.
“She told me I must; though she seemed to dislike my having been with them the day after she’d thrown me over. But if” — Mavering interrupted himself to say, as the grin widened on Boardman’s face— “if you think it was any case of vulgar jealousy, you’re very much mistaken, Boardman. She isn’t capable of it, and she was so magnanimous about it that I made up my mind to do all I could to retrieve myself. I felt that it was my duty to her. Well, last night at Mrs. Jim Bellingham’s reception—”
A look of professional interest replaced the derision in Boardman’s eyes. “Any particular occasion for the reception? Given in honour of anybody?”
“I’ll contribute to your society notes some other time, Boardman,” said Mavering haughtily. “I’m speaking to a friend, not an interviewer. Well, whom should I see after the first waltz — I’d been dancing with Alice, and we were taking a turn through the drawing-room, and she hanging on my arm, and I knew everybody saw how it was, and I was feeling well — whom should I see but these women. They were in a corner by themselves, looking at a picture, and trying to look as if they were doing it voluntarily. But I could see at a glance that they didn’t know anybody; and I knew they had better be in the heart of the Sahara without acquaintances than where they were; and when they bowed forlornly across the room to me, my heart was in my mouth, I felt so sorry for them; and I told Alice who they were; and I supposed she’d want to rush right over to them with me—”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 370
