by Grant Allen
That night I thought about many things, and slept very little. It came home to me somewhat vividly that if Ida was really married I should probably feel more grieved and disappointed than a good pessimist philosopher ought ever to feel at the ordinary vexatiousness of the universe. Next morning, however, I rose early, and breakfasted, not without a most unpoetical appetite, on white fish, buckwheat pancakes, and excellent watermelon. After breakfast, refreshed by the meal, I sallied forth, like a true knight-errant, under the shade of a white cotton sun-umbrella instead of a shield, to search for the lady of my choice. Naturally, I turned my steps first towards the Springs; and at the very second of them all, I luckily came upon Ida and the man in the tweed suit, lounging as before, and drinking the waters lazily.
Ida stepped up as if she had fully expected to meet me, extended her daintily-gloved hand with the gold bracelet, and said as unconcernedly as possible, “You have come two days late, Mr. Payne.”
“So it seems,” I answered. “C’est monsieur votre mari?” And I waved my hand interrogatively towards the stranger, for I hardly knew how to word the question in English.
“À Dieu ne plaise!” she cried heartily, in an undertone, and I felt my vascular system once more the theatre of a most unacademical though more pleasing palpitation. “Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Payne of Oxford; my cousin, Mr. Jefferson Hitchcock.”
I charitably inferred that Mr. Hitchcock’s early education in modern languages had been unfortunately neglected, or else his companion’s energetic mode of denying her supposed conjugal relation with him could hardly have appeared flattering to his vanity.
“My cousin has spoken of you to me, sir,” said Mr. Hitchcock solemnly. “I understand that you are one of the most distinguished luminaries of Oxford College, and I am proud to welcome you as such to our country.”
I bowed and laughed — I never feel capable of making any other reply than a bow and a laugh to the style of oratory peculiar to American gentlemen — and then I turned to Ida. She was looking as pretty, as piquante, and as fresh as ever; but what her dress could mean was a complete puzzle to me. As she stood, diamonds and all, a jeweller’s assistant couldn’t have valued her at a penny less than six hundred pounds. In England such a display in morning dress would have been out of taste; but in Saratoga it seemed to be the height of the fashion.
We walked along towards the Grand Union Hotel, where Ida and her cousin were staying, and my astonishment grew upon me at every step. However, we had so much to say to one another about everything in general, and Ida was so unaffectedly pleased at my keeping my engagement, made half in joke, that I found no time to unravel the mystery. When we reached the great doorway, Ida took leave of me for the time, but made me promise to call for her again early the next morning. “Unhappily,” she said, “I have to go this afternoon to a most tedious party — a set of Boston people; you know the style; the best European culture, bottled and corked as imported, and let out again by driblets with about as much spontaneousness as champagne the second day. But I must fulfil my social duties here; no canoeing on the Isis at Saratoga. However, we must see a great deal of you now that you’ve come; so I expect you to call, and drive me down to the lake at ten o’clock to-morrow.”
“Is that proceeding within the expansive limits of American proprieties?” I asked dubiously.
“Sir,” said Mr. Hitchcock, answering for her, “this is a land of freedom, and every lady can go where she chooses, unmolested by those frivolous bonds of conventionality which bind the feet of your European women as closely as the cramped shoes of the Chinese bind the feet of the celestial females.”
Ida smiled at me with a peculiar smile, waved her hand graciously, and ran lightly up the stairs. I was left on the piazza with Mr. Jefferson Hitchcock. His conversation scarcely struck me as in itself enticing, but I was anxious to find out the meaning of Ida’s sudden accession to wealth, and so I determined to make the best of his companionship for half an hour. As a sure high road to the American bosom and safe recommendation to the American confidence, I ordered a couple of delectable summer beverages (Mr. Hitchcock advised an “eye-opener,” which proved worthy of the commendation he bestowed upon it); and we sat down on the piazza in two convenient rocking-chairs, under the shade of the elms, smoking our havanas and sipping our iced drink. After a little preliminary talk, I struck out upon the subject of Ida.
“When I met Miss Van Rensselaer at Nice,” I said, “she was stopping at a very quiet little pension. It is quite a different thing living in a palace like this.”
“We are a republican nation, sir,” answered Mr. Hitchcock, “and we expect to be all treated on the equal level of a sovereign people. The splendour that you in Europe restrict to princes, we in our country lavish upon the humblest American citizen. Miss Van Rensselaer’s wealth, however, entitles her to mix in the highest circles of even your most polished society.”
“Indeed?” I said; “I had no idea that she was wealthy.”
“No, sir, probably not. Miss Van Rensselaer is a woman of that striking originality only to be met with in our emancipated country. She has shaken off the trammels of female servitude, and prefers to travel in all the simplicity of a humble income. She went to Europe, if I may so speak, incognita, and desired to hide her opulence from the prying gaze of your aristocracy. She did not wish your penniless peers to buzz about her fortune. But she is in reality one of our richest heiresses. The man who secures that woman as a property, sir, will find himself in possession of an income worth as much as one hundred thousand dollars.”
Twenty thousand sterling a year! The idea took my breath away, and reduced me once more to a state of helpless incapacity. I couldn’t talk much more small-talk to Mr. Hitchcock, so I managed to make some small excuse and returned listlessly to Congress Hall. There, over a luncheon of Saddle-Rock oysters (you see I never allow my feelings to interfere with my appetite), I decided that I must give up all idea of Ida Van Rensselaer.
I have no abstract objection to an income of £20,000 a year; but I could not consent to take it from any woman, or to endure the chance of her supposing that I had been fortune-hunting. It may be and doubtless is a plebeian feeling, which, as Mr. Hitchcock justly hinted, is never shared by the younger sons of our old nobility; but I hate the notion of living off somebody else’s money, especially if that somebody were my own wife. So I came to the reluctant conclusion that I must give up the idea for ever; and as it would not be fair to stop any longer at Saratoga under the circumstances, I made up my mind to start for Niagara on the next day but one, after fulfilling my driving engagement with Ida the following morning.
Punctually at ten o’clock the next day I found myself in a handsome carriage waiting at the doors of the Grand Union. Ida came down to meet me splendidly dressed, and looked like a queen as she sat by my side. “We will drive to the lake,” she said, as she took her seat, “and you will take me for a row as you did on the Isis at Oxford.” So we whirled along comfortably enough over the six miles of splendid avenue leading to the lake; and then we took our places in one of the canopied boats which wait for hire at the little quay.
I rowed out into the middle of the lake, admiring the pretty wooded banks and sandstone cliffs, talking of Saratoga and American society, but keeping to my determination in steering clear of all allusions to my Oxford proposal. Ida was as charming as ever — more provokingly charming, indeed, than even of old, now that I had decided she could not be mine. But I stood by my resolution like a man. Clearly Ida was surprised at my reticence; and when I told her that my time in America being limited, I must start almost at once for Niagara, she was obviously astonished. “It is possible to be even too original,” she observed shortly. I turned the boat and rowed back toward the shore.
As I had nearly reached the bank, Ida jumped up from her seat, and asked me suddenly to let her pull for a dozen strokes. I changed places and gave her the oars. To my surprise, she headed the boat around, and pulled once more for the midd
le of the lake. When we had reached a point at some distance from the shore, she dropped the oars on the thole-pins (they use no rowlocks on American lake or river craft), and looked for a moment full in my face. Then she said abruptly: —
“If you are really going to leave for Niagara to-morrow, Mr. Payne, hadn’t we better finish this bit of business out of hand?”
“I was not aware,” I answered, “that we had any business transactions to settle.”
“Why,” she said, “I mean this matter of proposing.”
I gazed back at her as straight as I dared. “Ida,” I said, with an attempt at firmness, “I don’t mean to propose to you again at all. At least, I didn’t mean to when I started this morning. I think I thought I had decided not.”
“Then why did you come to Saratoga?” she asked quickly. “You oughtn’t to have come if you meant nothing by it.”
“When I left England I did mean something,” I answered, “but I learned a fact yesterday which has altered my intentions.” And then I told her about Mr. Hitchcock’s revelations, and the reflections to which they had given rise.
Ida listened patiently to all my faint arguments, for I felt my courage quailing under her pretty sympathetic glance, and then she said decisively, “You are quite right and yet quite wrong.”
“Explain yourself, O Sphinx,” I answered, much relieved by her words.
“Why,” she said, “you are quite right to hesitate, quite wrong to decide. I know you don’t want my money; I know you don’t like it, even: but I ask you to take me in spite of it. Of course that is dreadfully unwomanly and unconventional, and so forth, but it is what I ought to do.... Listen to me, Cyril (may I call you Cyril?). I will tell you why I want you to marry me. Before I went to Europe, I was dissatisfied with all these rich American young men. I hated their wealth, and their selfishness, and their cheap cynicism, and their trotting horses, and their narrow views, and their monotonous tall-talk, all cast in a stereotyped American mould, so that whenever I said A, I knew every one of them would answer B.
“I went to Europe and I met your English young men, with their drawls, and their pigeon-shooting, and their shaggy ulsters, and their conventional wit, and their commonplace chaff, and their utter contempt for women, as though we were all a herd of marketable animals from whom they could pick and choose whichever pleased them best, according to their lordly fancy. I would no more give myself up to one of them than I would marry my cousin, Jefferson Hitchcock. But when I met you first at Nice, I saw you were a different sort of person. You could think and act for yourself, and you could appreciate a real living woman who could think and act too. You taught me what Europe was like. I only knew the outside, you showed me how to get within the husk. You made me admire Eza, and Roccabrunna, and Iffley Church. You roused something within me that I never felt before — a wish to be a different being, a longing for something more worth living for than diamonds and Saratoga. I know I am not good enough for you: I don’t know enough or read enough or feel enough; but I don’t want to fall back and sink to the level of New York society. So I have a right to ask you to marry me if you will. I don’t want to be a blue; but I want not to feel myself a social doll. You know yourself — I see you know it — that I oughtn’t to throw away my chance of making the best of what nature I may have in me. I am only a beginner. I scarcely half understand your world yet. I can’t properly admire your Botticellis and your Pinturiccios, I know; but I want to admire, I should like to, and I will try. I want you to take me, because I know you understand me and would help me forward instead of letting me sink down to the petty interests of this American desert. You liked me at Nice, you did more than like me at Oxford; but I wouldn’t take you then, though I longed to say yes, because I wasn’t quite sure whether you really meant it. I knew you liked me for myself, not my money, but I left you to come to Saratoga for two things. I wanted to make sure you were in earnest, not to take you at a moment of weakness. I said, ‘If he really cares for me, if he thinks I might become worthy of him, he will come and look for me; if not, I must let the dream go.’ And then I wanted to know what effect my fortune would have upon you. Now you know my whole reasons. Why should my money stand in our way? Why should we both make ourselves unhappy on account of it? You would have married me if I was poor: what good reason have you for rejecting me only because I am rich? Whatever my money may do for you (and you have enough of your own), it will be nothing to what you can do for me. Will you tell me to go and make myself an animated peg for hanging jewellery upon, with such a conscious automaton as Jefferson Hitchcock to keep me company through life?”
As she finished, flushed, proud, ashamed, but every inch a woman, I caught her hand in mine. The utter meanness and selfishness of my life burst upon me like a thunderbolt. “Oh, Ida,” I cried, “how terribly you make me feel my own pettiness and egotism. You are cutting me to the heart like a knife. I cannot marry you; I dare not marry you; I must not marry you. I am not worthy of such a wife as you. How had I ever the audacity to ask you? My life has been too narrow and egoistic and self-indulgent to deserve such confidence as yours. I am not good enough for you. I really dare not accept it.”
“No,” she said, a little more calmly, “I hope we are just good enough for one another, and that is why we ought to marry. And as for the hundred thousand dollars, perhaps we might manage to be happy in spite of them.”
We had drifted into a little bay, under shelter of a high rocky point. I felt a sudden access of insane boldness, and taking both Ida’s hands in mine, I ventured to kiss her open forehead. She took the kiss quietly, but with a certain queenly sense of homage due. “And now,” she said, shaking off my hands and smiling archly, “let us row back toward Saratoga, for you know you have to pack up for Niagara.”
“No,” I answered, “I may as well put off my visit to the Falls till you can accompany me.”
“Very well,” said Ida quietly, “and then we shall go back to England and live near Oxford. I don’t want you to give up the dear old University. I want you to teach me the way you look at things, and show me how to look at them myself. I’m not going to learn any Latin or Greek or stupid nonsense of that sort; and I’m not going to join the Women’s Suffrage Association; but I like your English culture, and I should love to live in its midst.”
“So you shall, Ida,” I answered; “and you shall teach me, too, how to be a little less narrow and self-centred than we Oxford bachelors are apt to become in our foolish isolation.”
So we expect to spend our honeymoon at Niagara.
THE CHILD OF THE PHALANSTERY.
“Poor little thing,” said my strong-minded friend compassionately. “Just look at her! Clubfooted. What a misery to herself and others! In a well-organized state of society, you know, such poor wee cripples as that would be quietly put out of their misery while they were still babies.”
“Let me think,” said I, “how that would work out in actual practice. I’m not so sure, after all, that we should be altogether the better or the happier for it.”
I.
They sat together in a corner of the beautiful phalanstery garden, Olive and Clarence, on the marble seat that overhung the mossy dell where the streamlet danced and bickered among its pebbly stickles; they sat there, hand in hand, in lovers’ guise, and felt their two bosoms beating and thrilling in some strange, sweet fashion, just like two foolish unregenerate young people of the old antisocial prephalansteric days. Perhaps it was the leaven of their unenlightened ancestors still leavening by heredity the whole lump; perhaps it was the inspiration of the calm soft August evening and the delicate afterglow of the setting sun; perhaps it was the deep heart of man and woman vibrating still as of yore in human sympathy, and stirred to its innermost recesses by the unutterable breath of human emotion. But at any rate there they sat, the beautiful strong man in his shapely chiton, and the dainty fair girl in her long white robe with the dark green embroidered border, looking far into the fathomless depths of one another’s ey
es, in silence sweeter and more eloquent than many words. It was Olive’s tenth-day holiday from her share in the maidens’ household duty of the community; and Clarence, by arrangement with his friend Germain, had made exchange from his own decade (which fell on Plato) to this quiet Milton evening, that he might wander through the park and gardens with his chosen love, and speak his full mind to her now without reserve.
“If only the phalanstery will give its consent, Clarence,” Olive said at last with a little sigh, releasing her hand from his, and gathering up the folds of her stole from the marble flooring of the seat; “if only the phalanstery will give its consent! but I have my doubts about it. Is it quite right? Have we chosen quite wisely? Will the hierarch and the elder brothers think I am strong enough and fit enough for the duties of the task? It is no light matter, we know, to enter into bonds with one another for the responsibilities of fatherhood and motherhood. I sometimes feel — forgive me, Clarence — but I sometimes feel as if I were allowing my own heart and my own wishes to guide me too exclusively in this solemn question: thinking too much about you and me, about ourselves (which is only an enlarged form of selfishness, after all), and too little about the future good of the community and — and—” blushing a little, for women will be women even in a phalanstery— “and of the precious lives we may be the means of adding to it. You remember, Clarence, what the hierarch said, that we ought to think least and last of our own feelings, first and foremost of the progressive evolution of universal humanity.”
