The Entire Project Gutenberg Works of Charles Dudley Warner

C >> Charles Dudley Warner >> The Entire Project Gutenberg Works of Charles Dudley Warner


Whatever may be said about the power of the press, it is undeniable
that it can set the entire public thinking and talking about any topic,
however insignificant in itself, that it may elect to make the
sensation of the day--a wedding, a murder, a political scandal, a
divorce, a social event, a defalcation, a lost child, an unidentified
victim of accident or crime, an election, or--that undefined quickener of
patriotism called a casus belli. It can impose any topic it pleases upon
the public mind. In case there is no topic, it is necessary to make one,
for it is an indefeasible right of the public to have news.

These reports of the Mavick ball had a peculiar interest for at least two
people in New York. Murad Ault read them with a sardonic smile and an
enjoyment that would not have been called altruistic. Philip
searched them with the feverish eagerness of a maiden who scans the
report of a battle in which her lover has been engaged.

All summer long he had lived upon stray bits of news in the society
columns of the newspapers. To see Evelyn's name mentioned, and only
rarely, as a guest at some entertainment, and often in connection with
that of Lord Montague, did not convey much information, nor was that
little encouraging. Was she well? Was she absorbed in the life of the
season? Did she think of him in surroundings so brilliant? Was she,
perhaps, unhappy and persecuted? No tidings came that could tell him the
things that he ached to know.

Only recently intelligence had come to him that at the same time wrung
his heart with pity and buoyed him up with hope. He had not seen Miss
McDonald since her dismissal, for she had been only one night in the
city, but she had written to him. Relieved by her discharge of all
obligations of silence, she had written him frankly about the whole
affair, and, indeed, put him in possession of unrecorded details and
indications that filled him with anxiety, to be sure, but raised his
courage and strengthened his determination. If Evelyn loved him, he had
faith that no manoeuvres or compulsion could shake her loyalty. And yet
she was but a girl; she was now practically alone, and could she resist
the family and the social pressure? Few women could, few women do,
effectively resist under such circumstances. With one of a tender heart,
duty often takes the most specious and deceiving forms. In yielding to
the impulses of her heart, which in her inexperience may be mistaken, has
a girl the right--from a purely rational point of view--to set herself
against, nay, to destroy, the long-cherished ambitions of her parents for
a brilliant social career for her, founded upon social traditions of
success? For what had Mr. Mavick toiled? For what had Mrs. Mavick
schemed all these years? Could the girl throw herself away? Such
disobedience, such disregard for social law, would seem impossible to her
mother.

Some of the events that preceded the Mavick ball throw light upon that
interesting function. After the departure of Miss McDonald, Mrs. Mavick,
in one of her confidential talks with her proposed son-in-law, confessed
that she experienced much relief. An obstacle seemed to be removed.

In fact, Evelyn rather surprised her mother by what seemed a calm
acceptance of the situation. There was no further outburst. If the girl
was often preoccupied and seemed listless, that was to be expected, on
the sudden removal of the companion of her lifetime.

But she did not complain. She ceased after a while to speak of McDonald.
If she showed little enthusiasm in what was going on around her, she was
compliant, she fell in at once with her mother's suggestions, and went
and came in an attitude of entire obedience.

"It isn't best for you to keep up a correspondence, my dear, now that you
know that McDonald is nicely settled--all reminiscent correspondence is
very wearing--and, really, I am more than delighted to see that you are
quite capable of walking alone. Do you know, Evelyn, that I am more and
more proud of you every day, as my daughter. I don't dare to tell you
half the nice things that are said of you. It would make you vain." And
the proud mother kissed her affectionately. The letters ceased. If the
governess wrote, Evelyn did not see the letters.

As the days went by, Lord Montague, in high and confident spirits, became
more and more a familiar inmate of the house. Daily he sent flowers to
Evelyn; he contrived little excursions and suppers; he was marked in his
attentions wherever they went. "He is such a dear fellow," said Mrs.
Mavick to one of her friends; "I don't know how we should get on without
him."

Only, in the house, owing to some unnatural perversity of circumstances,
he did not see much of Evelyn, never alone for more than a moment. It is
wonderful what efficient, though invisible, defenses most women, when
they will, can throw about themselves.

That the affair was "arranged" Lord Montague had no doubt. It was not
conceivable that the daughter of an American stock-broker would refuse
the offer of a position so transcendent and so evidently coveted in a
democratic society. Not that the single-minded young man reasoned about
it this way. He was born with a most comfortable belief in himself and
the knowledge that when he decided to become a domestic man he had
simply, as the phrase is, to throw his handkerchief.

At home, where such qualities as distinguished him from the common were
appreciated without the need of personal exertion, this might be true;
but in America it did seem to be somehow different. American women, at
least some of them, did need to be personally wooed; and many of them had
a sort of independence in the bestowal of their affections or, what they
understood to be the same thing, themselves that must be taken into
account. And it gradually dawned upon the mind of this inheritor of
privilege that in this case the approval of the family, even the pressure
of the mother, was not sufficient; he must have also Evelyn's consent.
If she were a mature woman who knew and appreciated the world, she would
perceive the advantages offered to her without argument. But a girl,
just released from the care of her governess, unaccustomed to society,
might have notions, or, in the vernacular of the scion, might be
skittish.

And then, again, to do the wooer entire justice, the dark little girl, so
much mistress of herself, so evidently spirited, with such an air of
distinction, began to separate herself in his mind as a good goer against
the field, and he had a real desire to win her affection. The more
indifferent she was to him, the keener was his desire to possess her.
His unsuccessful wooing had passed through several stages, first
astonishment, then pique, and finally something very like passion, or a
fair semblance of devotion, backed, of course, since all natures are more
or less mixed, by the fact that this attractive figure of the woman was
thrown into high relief by the colossal fortune behind her.

And Evelyn herself? Neither her mother nor her suitor appreciated the
uncommon circumstances that her education, her whole training in
familiarity with pure and lofty ideals, had rendered her measurably
insensible to the social considerations that seemed paramount to them, or
that there could be any real obstacle to the bestowal of her person.
where her heart was not engaged. Yet she perfectly understood her
situation, and, at times, deprived of her lifelong support, she felt
powerless in it, and she suffered as only the pure and the noble can
suffer. Day after day she fought her battle alone, now and then, as the
situation confronted her, assailed by a shudder of fear, as of one
awakening in the night from a dream of peril, the clutch of an assassin,
or the walking on an icy precipice. If McDonald were only with her! If
she could only hear from Philip! Perhaps he had lost hope and was
submitting to the inevitable.

The opportunity which Lord Montague had long sought came one day
unexpectedly, or perhaps it was contrived. They were waiting in the
drawing-room for an afternoon drive. The carriage was delayed, and Mrs.
Mavick excused herself to ascertain the cause of the delay. Evelyn and
her suitor were left alone. She was standing by a window looking out,
and he was standing by the fireplace watching the swing of the figure on
the pendulum of the tall mantelpiece clock. He was the first to break
the silence.

"Your clock, Miss Mavick, is a little fast." No reply. "Or else I am
slow." Still no reply. "They say, you know, that I am a little slow,
over here." No reply. "I am not, really, you know. I know my mind.
And there was something, Miss Mavick, something particular, that I wanted
to say to you."

"Yes?" without turning round. "The carriage will be here in a minute."

"Never mind that," and Lord Montague moved away from the fireplace and
approached the girl; "take care of the minutes and the hours will take
care of themselves, as the saying is." At this unexpected stroke of
brilliancy Evelyn did turn round, and stood in an expectant attitude.
The moment had evidently come, and she would not meet it like a coward.

"We have been friends a long time; not so very long, but it seems to me
the best part of my life," he was looking down and speaking slowly, with
the modest deference of a gentleman, "and you must have seen, that is, I
wanted you to see, you know well, that is--er--what I was staying on here
for."

"Because you like America, I suppose," said Evelyn, coolly.

"Because I like some things in America--that is just the fact," continued
the little lord, with more confidence. "And that is why I stayed. You
see I couldn't go away and leave what was best in the world to me."

There was an air of simplicity and sincerity about this that was
unexpected, and could not but be respected by any woman. But Evelyn
waited, still immovable.

"It wasn't reasonable that you should like a stranger right off," he went
on, "just at first, and I waited till you got to know me better. Ways
are different here and over there, I know that, but if you came to know
me, Miss Mavick, you would see that I am not such a bad sort of a
fellow." And a deprecatory smile lighted up his face that was almost
pathetic. To Evelyn this humility seemed genuine, and perhaps it was,
for the moment. Certainly the eyes she bent on, the odd little figure
were less severe.

"All this is painful to me, Lord Montague."

"I'm sorry," he continued, in the same tone. "I cannot help it.
I must say it. I--you must know that I love you." And then, not heeding
the nervous start the girl gave in stepping backward, "And--and, will you
be my wife?"

"You do me too much honor, Lord Montague," said Evelyn, summoning up all
her courage.

"No, no, not a bit of it."

"I am obliged to you for your good opinion, but you know I am almost a
school-girl. My governess has just left me. I have never thought of
such a thing. And, Lord Montague, I cannot return your feeling. That is
all. You must see how painful this is to me."

"I wouldn't give you pain, Miss Mavick, not for the world. Perhaps when
you think it over it will seem different to you. I am sure it will.
Don't answer now, for good."

"No, no, it cannot be," said Evelyn, with something of alarm in her tone,
for the full meaning of it all came over her as she thought of her
mother.

"You are not offended?"

"No," said Evelyn.

"I couldn't bear to offend you. You cannot think I would. And you will
not be hard-hearted. You know me, Miss Mavick, just where I am. I'm
just as I said."

"The carriage is coming," said Mrs. Mavick, who returned at this moment.

The group for an instant was silent, and then Evelyn said:

"We have waited so long; mamma, that I am a little tired, and you will
excuse me from the drive this afternoon?"

"Certainly, my dear."

When the two were seated in the carriage, Mrs. Mavick turned to Lord
Montague:

"Well?"

"No go," replied my lord, as sententiously, and in evident bad humor.

"What? And you made a direct proposal?"

"Showed her my whole hand. Made a square offer. Damme, I am not used to
this sort of thing."

"You don't mean that she refused you?"

"Don't know what you call it. Wouldn't start."

"She couldn't have understood you. What did she say?"

"Said it was too much honor, and that rot. By Jove, she didn't look it.
I rather liked her pluck. She didn't flinch."

"Oh, is that all?" And Mrs. Mavick spoke as if her mind were relieved.
"What could you expect from such a sudden proposal to a young girl,
almost a child, wholly unused to the world? I should have done the same
thing at her age. It will look different to her when she reflects, and
understands what the position is that is offered her. Leave that to me."

Lord Montague shook his head and screwed up his keen little eyes.
His mind was in full play. "I know women, Mrs. Mavick, and I tell you
there is something behind this. Somebody has been in the stable." The
noble lord usually dropped into slang when he was excited.

"I don't understand your language," said Mrs. Mavick, straightening
herself up in her seat.

"I beg pardon. It is just a way of speaking on the turf. When a
favorite goes lame the morning of the race, we know some one has been
tampering with him. I tell you there is some one else. She has some one
else in her mind. That's the reason of it."

"Nonsense." cried Mrs. Mavick, with the energy of conviction.
"It's impossible. There is nobody, couldn't be anybody. She has led a
secluded life till this hour. She hasn't a fancy, I know."

"I hope you are right," he replied, in the tone of a man wishing to take
a cheerful view. "Perhaps I don't understand American girls."

"I think I do," she said, smiling. "They are generally amenable to
reason. Evelyn now has something definite before her. I am glad you
proposed."

And this was the truth. Mrs. Mavick was elated. So far her scheme was
completely successful. As to Evelyn, she trusted to various influences
she could bring to bear. Ultimate disobedience of her own wishes she did
not admit as a possible thing.

A part of her tactics was the pressure of public opinion, so far as
society represents it--that is, what society expects. And therefore it
happened in a few days that a strong suspicion got about that Lord
Montague had proposed formally to the heiress. The suspicion was
strengthened by appearances. Mrs. Mavick did not deny the rumor. That
there was an engagement was not affirmed, but that the honor had been or
would be declined was hardly supposable.

In the painful interview between mother and daughter concerning this
proposal, Evelyn had no reason to give for her opposition, except that
she did not love him. This point Mrs. Mavick skillfully evaded and
minimized. Of course she would love him in time. The happiest marriages
were founded on social fitness and the judgment of parents, and not on
the inexperienced fancies of young girls. And in this case things had
gone too far to retreat. Lord Montague's attentions had been too open
and undisguised. He had been treated almost as a son by the house.
Society looked upon the affair as already settled. Had Evelyn reflected
on the mortification that would fall upon her mother if she persisted in
her unreasonable attitude? And Mrs. Mavick shed actual tears in thinking
upon her own humiliation.

The ball which followed these private events was also a part of Mrs.
Mavick's superb tactics. It would be in a way a verification of the
public rumors and a definite form of pressure which public expectation
would exercise upon the lonely girl.

The splendor of this function is still remembered. There were, however,
features in the glowing descriptions of it which need to be mentioned.
It was assumed that it was for a purpose, that it was in fact, if not a
proclamation, at least an intimation of a new and brilliant Anglo-Saxon
alliance. No one asserted that an engagement existed. But the prominent
figures in the spectacle were the English lord and the young and
beautiful American heiress. There were portraits of both in half-tone.
The full names and titles expectant of Lord Montague were given, a
history of the dukedom of Tewkesbury and its ancient glory, with the long
line of noble names allied to the young lord, who was a social star of
the first magnitude, a great traveler, a sportsman of the stalwart race
that has the world for its field. ("Poor little Monte," said the
managing editor as he passed along these embellishments with his
approval.)

On the other hand, the proposed alliance was no fall in dignity or family
to the English house. The heiress was the direct descendant of the
Eschelles, an old French family, distinguished in camp and court in the
glorious days of the Grand Monarch.




XXIII

Probably no man ever wrote and published a book, a magazine story, or a
bit of verse without an instant decision to repeat the experiment. The
inclination once indulged becomes insatiable. It is not altogether the
gratified vanity of seeing one's self in print, for, before printing was,
the composers and reciters of romances and songs were driven along the
same path of unrest and anxiety, when once they had the least recognition
of their individual distinction. The impulse is more subtle than the
desire for wealth or the craving for political place. In some cases it
is in simple obedience to the longing to create; in others it is a lower
ambition for notoriety, for praise.

In any case the experiment of authorship, in however humble, a way, has
an analogy to that other tempting occupation of making "investments" in
the stock-market: the first trial is certain to lead to another. If the
author succeeds in any degree, his spirit rises to another attempt in the
hope of a wider recognition. If he fails, that is a reason why he should
convince his fellows that the failure was not inherent in himself, but in
ill-luck or a misdirection of his powers. And the experiment has another
analogy to the noble occupation of levying toll upon the change of
values--a first brilliant success is often a misfortune, inducing an
overestimate of capacity, while a very moderate success, recognized
indeed only as a trial, steadies a man, and sets him upon that serious
diligence upon which alone, either in art or business, any solid fortune
is built.

Philip was fortunate in that his first novel won him a few friends and a
little recognition, but no popularity. It excited neither envy nor
hostility. In the perfunctory and somewhat commercial good words it
received, he recognized the good-nature of the world. In the few short
reviews that dealt seriously with his work, he was able, when the
excitement of seeing himself discussed had subsided, to read between the
lines why The Puritan Nun had failed to make a larger appeal. It was
idyllic and poetic, but it lacked virility; it lacked also simplicity in
dealing with the simple and profound facts of life. He had been too
solicitous to express himself, to write beautifully, instead of letting
the human emotions with which he had to deal show themselves. One notice
had said that it was too "literary"; by which, of course, the critic
meant that he did not follow the solid traditions, the essential elements
in all the great masterpieces of literature that have been created. And
yet he had shown a quality, a facility, a promise, that had gained him a
foothold and a support in the world of books and of the making of books.
And though he had declined Mr. Ault's tempting offer to illuminate his
transcontinental road with a literary torch, he none the less was pleased
with this recognition of his capacity and the value of his name.

To say that Philip lived on hope during this summer of heat, suspensions,
and business derangement would be to allow him a too substantial
subsistence. Evelyn, indeed, seemed, at the distance of Newport, more
unattainable than ever, and the scant news he had of the drama enacted
there was a perpetual notice to him of the social gulf that lay between
them. And yet his dream was sustained by occasional assurances from Miss
McDonald of her confidence in Evelyn's belief in him, nay, of her trust,
and she even went so far as to say affection. So he went on building
castles in the air, which melted and were renewed day after day, like the
transient but unfailing splendor of the sunset.

There was a certain exaltation in this indulgence of his passion that
stimulated his creative faculties, and, while his daily tasks kept him
from being morbid, his imagination was free to play with the construction
of a new story, to which his recent experience would give a certain
solidity and a knowledge of the human struggle as it is.

He found himself observing character more closely than before, looking
for it not so much in books as in the people he met. There was Murad
Ault, for instance. How he would like to put him into a book!
Of course it would not do to copy a model, raw, like' that, but he fell
to studying his traits, trying to see the common humanity exhibited in
him. Was he a type or was he a freak? This was, however, too dangerous
ground until he knew more of life.

The week's vacation allowed him by his house was passed in Rivervale.
There, in the calmness of country life, and in the domestic atmosphere of
affection which believed in him, he was far enough removed from the scene
of the spectres of his imagination to see them in proper perspective, and
there the lines of his new venture were laid down, to be worked out
later on, he well knew, in the anxiety and the toil which should endue
the skeleton with life. Rivervale, to be sure, was haunted by the
remembrance of Evelyn; very often the familiar scenes filled him with an
intolerable longing to see again the eyes that had inspired him, to hear
the voice that was like no other in the world, to take the little hand
that had often been so frankly placed in his, and to draw to him the form
in which was embodied all the grace and tender witchery of womanhood.
But the knowledge of what she expected of him was an inspiration,
always present in his visions of her.

Something of his hopes and fears Alice divined, and he felt her sympathy,
although she did not intrude upon his reticence by any questions. They
talked about Evelyn, but it was Evelyn in Rivervale, not in Newport. In
fact, the sensible girl could regard her cousin's passion as nothing more
than a romance in a young author's life, and to her it was a sign of his
security that he had projected a new story.

With instinctive perception of his need, she was ever turning his
thoughts upon his literary career. Of course she and all the household
seemed in a conspiracy to flatter and encourage the vanity of authorship.
Was not all the village talking about the reputation he had conferred on
it? Was it not proud of him? Indeed, it did imagine that the world
outside of Rivervale was very much interested in him, and that he was
already an author of distinction. The county Gazette had announced, as
an important piece of news, that the author of The Puritan Nun was on a
visit to his relatives, the Maitlands. This paragraph seemed to stand
out in the paper as an almost immodest exposure of family life, read
furtively at first, and not talked of, and yet every member of the family
was conscious of an increase in the family importance. Aunt Patience
discovered, from her outlook on the road, that summer visitors had a
habit of driving or walking past the house and then turning back to look
at it again.

So Philip was not only distinguished, but he had the power of conferring
distinction. No one can envy a young author this first taste of fame,
this home recognition. Whatever he may do hereafter, how much more
substantial rewards he may attain, this first sweetness of incense to his
ambition will never come to him again.

When Philip returned to town, the city was still a social desert,
and he plunged into the work piled up on his desk, the never-ceasing
accumulation of manuscripts, most of them shells which the workers have
dredged up from the mud of the literary ocean, in which the eager
publisher is always expecting to find pearls. Even Celia was still in
the country, and Philip's hours spared from drudgery were given to the
new story. His days, therefore, passed without incident, but not without
pleasure. For whatever annoyances the great city may have usually, it is
in the dull season--that is, the season of its summer out-of-doors
animation--a most attractive and, even stimulating place for the man who
has an absorbing pursuit, say a work in creative fiction. Undisturbed by
social claims or public interests, the very noise and whirl of the gay
metropolis seem to hem him in and protect the world of his own
imagination.

The first disturbing event in this serenity was the report of the Mavick
ball, already referred to, and the interpretation put upon it by the
newspapers. In this light his plans seemed the merest moonshine. What
became of his fallacious hope of waiting when events were driving on at
this rate? What chance had he in such a social current? Would Evelyn be
strong enough to stem it and to wait also? And to wait for what? For
the indefinite and improbable event of a poor author, hardly yet
recognized as an author, coming into position, into an income (for that
was the weak point in his aspirations) that would not be laughed at by
the millionaire. When he coolly considered it, was it reasonable to
expect that Mr. and Mrs. Mavick would ever permit Evelyn to throw away
the brilliant opportunity for their daughter which was to be the crowning
end of their social ambition? The mere statement of the proposition was
enough to overwhelm him.