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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of That Fortune, by Charles Dudley Warner
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: That Fortune
+
+Author: Charles Dudley Warner
+
+Release Date: August 20, 2016 [EBook #3105]
+Last Updated: February 24, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT FORTUNE ***
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+THAT FORTUNE
+
+By Charles Dudley Warner
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+On a summer day, long gone among the summer days that come but to go,
+a lad of twelve years was idly and recklessly swinging in the top of a
+tall hickory, the advance picket of a mountain forest. The tree was on
+the edge of a steep declivity of rocky pasture-land that fell rapidly
+down to the stately chestnuts, to the orchard, to the cornfields in
+the narrow valley, and the maples on the bank of the amber river, whose
+loud, unceasing murmur came to the lad on his aerial perch like the
+voice of some tradition of nature that he could not understand.
+
+He had climbed to the topmost branch of the lithe and tough tree in
+order to take the full swing of this free creature in its sport with the
+western wind. There was something exhilarating in this elemental battle
+of the forces that urge and the forces that resist, and the harder
+the wind blew, and the wider circles he took in the free air, the more
+stirred the boy was in the spring of his life. Nature was taking him
+by the hand, and it might be that in that moment ambition was born to
+achieve for himself, to conquer.
+
+If you had asked him why he was there, he would very likely have said,
+“To see the world.” It was a world worth seeing. The prospect might
+be limited to a dull eye, but not to this lad, who loved to climb this
+height, in order to be with himself and indulge the dreams of youth. Any
+pretense would suffice for taking this hour of freedom: to hunt for
+the spicy checker-berries and the pungent sassafras; to aggravate the
+woodchucks, who made their homes in mysterious passages in this gravelly
+hillside; to get a nosegay of columbine for the girl who spelled against
+him in school and was his gentle comrade morning and evening along
+the river road where grew the sweet-flag and the snap-dragon and the
+barberry bush; to make friends with the elegant gray squirrel and the
+lively red squirrel and the comical chipmunk, who were not much afraid
+of this unarmed naturalist. They may have recognized their kinship to
+him, for he could climb like any squirrel, and not one of them could
+have clung more securely to this bough where he was swinging, rejoicing
+in the strength of his lithe, compact little body. When he shouted in
+pure enjoyment of life, they chattered in reply, and eyed him with a
+primeval curiosity that had no fear in it. This lad in short trousers,
+torn shirt, and a frayed straw hat above his mobile and cheerful face,
+might be only another sort of animal, a lover like themselves of the
+beech-nut and the hickory-nut.
+
+It was a gay world up here among the tossing branches. Across the river,
+on the first terrace of the hill, were weather-beaten farmhouses, amid
+apple orchards and cornfields. Above these rose the wooded dome of Mount
+Peak, a thousand feet above the river, and beyond that to the left
+the road wound up, through the scriptural land of Bozrah, to high and
+lonesome towns on a plateau stretching to unknown regions in the south.
+There was no bar to the imagination in that direction. What a gracious
+valley, what graceful slopes, what a mass of color bathing this lovely
+summer landscape! Down from the west, through hills that crowded on
+either side to divert it from its course, ran the sparkling Deerfield,
+from among the springs and trout streams of the Hoosac, merrily going on
+to the great Connecticut. Along the stream was the ancient highway, or
+lowway, where in days before the railway came the stage-coach and the
+big transport-wagons used to sway and rattle along on their adventurous
+voyage from the gate of the Sea at Boston to the gate of the West at
+Albany.
+
+Below, where the river spread wide among the rocks in shallows, or
+eddies in deep, dark pools, was the ancient, long, covered, wooden
+bridge, striding diagonally from rock to rock on stone columns, a
+dusky tunnel through the air, a passage of gloom flecked with glints of
+sunlight, that struggled in crosscurrents through the interstices of
+the boards, and set dancing the motes and the dust in a golden haze, a
+stuffy passage with odors a century old--who does not know the pungent
+smell of an old bridge?--a structure that groaned in all its big timbers
+when a wagon invaded it. And then below the bridge the lad could see the
+historic meadow, which was a cornfield in the eighteenth century, where
+Captain Moses Rice and Phineas Arms came suddenly one summer day to
+the end of their planting and hoeing. The house at the foot of the hill
+where the boy was cultivating his imagination had been built by Captain
+Rice, and in the family burying-ground in the orchard above it lay the
+body of this mighty militia-man, and beside him that of Phineas Arms,
+and on the headstone of each the legend familiar at that period of our
+national life, “Killed by the Indians.” Happy Phineas Arms, at the age
+of seventeen to exchange in a moment the tedium of the cornfield for
+immortality.
+
+There was a tradition that years after, when the Indians had disappeared
+through a gradual process of intoxication and pauperism, a red man had
+been seen skulking along the brow of this very hill and peering down
+through the bushes where the boy was now perched on a tree, shaking his
+fist at the hated civilization, and vengefully, some said pathetically,
+looking down into this valley where his race had been so happy in the
+natural pursuits of fishing, hunting, and war. On the opposite side of
+the river was still to be traced an Indian trail, running to the western
+mountains, which the boy intended some time to follow; for this highway
+of warlike forays, of messengers of defiance, along which white maidens
+had been led captive to Canada, appealed greatly to his imagination.
+
+The boy lived in these traditions quite as much as in those of the
+Revolutionary War into which they invariably glided in his perspective
+of history, the redskins and the redcoats being both enemies of his
+ancestors. There was the grave of the envied Phineas Arms--that ancient
+boy not much older than he--and there were hanging in the kitchen the
+musket and powder-horn that his great-grandfather had carried at Bunker
+Hill, and did he not know by heart the story of his great-grandmother,
+who used to tell his father that she heard when she was a slip of a
+girl in Plymouth the cannonading on that awful day when Gage met his
+victorious defeat?
+
+In fact, according to his history-book there had been little but wars
+in this peaceful nation: the War of 1812, the Mexican War, the incessant
+frontier wars with the Indians, the Kansas War, the Mormon War, the War
+for the Union. The echoes of the latter had not yet died away. What a
+career he might have had if he had not been born so late in the world!
+Swinging in this tree-top, with a vivid consciousness of life, of his
+own capacity for action, it seemed a pity that he could not follow the
+drum and the flag into such contests as he read about so eagerly.
+
+And yet this was only a corner of the boy's imagination. He had many
+worlds and he lived in each by turn. There was the world of the Old
+Testament, of David and Samson, and of those dim figures in the dawn of
+history, called the Patriarchs. There was the world of Julius Caesar and
+the Latin grammar, though this was scarcely as real to him as the Old
+Testament, which was brought to his notice every Sunday as a necessity
+of his life, while Caesar and AEneas and the fourth declension were made
+to be a task, for some mysterious reason, a part of his education. He
+had not been told that they were really a part of the other world which
+occupied his mind so much of the time, the world of the Arabian Nights
+and Robinson Crusoe, and Coleridge and Shelley and Longfellow, and
+Washington Irving and Scott and Thackeray, and Pope's Iliad and
+Plutarch's Lives. That this was a living world to the boy was scarcely
+his fault, for it must be confessed that those were very antiquated
+book-shelves in the old farmhouse to which he had access, and the news
+had not been apprehended in this remote valley that the classics of
+literature were all as good as dead and buried, and that the human mind
+had not really created anything worth modern notice before about the
+middle of the nineteenth century. It was not exactly an ignorant valley,
+for the daily newspapers were there, and the monthly magazine, and the
+fashion-plate of Paris, and the illuminating sunshine of new science,
+and enough of the uneasy throb of modern life. Yet somehow the books
+that were still books had not been sent to the garret, to make room for
+the illustrated papers and the profound physiological studies of sin and
+suffering that were produced by touching a scientific button. No, the
+boy was conscious in a way of the mighty pulsation of American life,
+and he had also a dim notion that his dreams in his various worlds would
+come to a brilliant fulfillment when he was big enough to go out and win
+a name and fame. But somehow the old books, and the family life, and the
+sedate ways of the community he knew, had given him a fundamental and
+not unarmed faith in the things that were and had been.
+
+Every Sunday the preacher denounced the glitter and frivolity and
+corruption of what he called Society, until the boy longed to see this
+splendid panorama of cities and hasting populations, the seekers of
+pleasure and money and fame, this gay world which was as fascinating as
+it was wicked. The preacher said the world was wicked and vain. It did
+not seem so to the boy this summer day, not at least the world he knew.
+Of course the boy had no experience. He had never heard of Juvenal nor
+of Max Nordau. He had no philosophy of life. He did not even know
+that when he became very old the world would seem to him good or bad
+according to the degree in which he had become a good or a bad man.
+
+In fact, he was not thinking much about being good or being bad, but
+of trying his powers in a world which seemed to offer to him infinite
+opportunities. His name--Philip Burnett--with which the world, at least
+the American world, is now tolerably familiar, and which he liked to
+write with ornamental flourishes on the fly-leaves of his schoolbooks,
+did not mean much to him, for he had never seen it in print, nor been
+confronted with it as something apart from himself. But the Philip that
+he was he felt sure would do something in the world. What that something
+should be varied from day to day according to the book, the poem, the
+history or biography that he was last reading. It would not be difficult
+to write a poem like “Thanatopsis” if he took time enough, building up a
+line a day. And yet it would be better to be a soldier, a man who could
+use the sword as well as the pen, a poet in uniform. This was a pleasing
+imagination. Surely his aunt and his cousins in the farmhouse would
+have more respect for him if he wore a uniform, and treat him with more
+consideration, and perhaps they would be very anxious about him when
+he was away in battles, and very proud of him when he came home between
+battles, and went quite modestly with the family into the village
+church, and felt rather than saw the slight flutter in the pews as he
+walked down the aisle, and knew that the young ladies, the girl comrades
+of the district school, were watching him from the organ gallery,
+curious to see Phil, who had gone into the army. Perhaps the preacher
+would have a sermon against war, and the preacher should see how
+soldierlike he would take this attack on him. Alas! is such vanity at
+the bottom of even a reasonable ambition? Perhaps his town would be
+proud of him if he were a lawyer, a Representative in Congress, come
+back to deliver the annual oration at the Agricultural Fair. He could
+see the audience of familiar faces, and hear the applause at his witty
+satires and his praise of the nobility of the farmer's life, and it
+would be sweet indeed to have the country people grasp him by the hand
+and call him Phil, just as they used to before he was famous. What he
+would say, he was not thinking of, but the position he would occupy
+before the audience. There were no misgivings in any of these dreams of
+youth.
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+The musings of this dreamer in a tree-top were interrupted by the
+peremptory notes of a tin horn from the farmhouse below. The boy
+recognized this not only as a signal of declining day and the
+withdrawal of the sun behind the mountains, but as a personal and urgent
+notification to him that a certain amount of disenchanting drudgery
+called chores lay between him and supper and the lamp-illumined pages of
+The Last of the Mohicans. It was difficult, even in his own estimation,
+to continue to be a hero at the summons of a tin horn--a silver clarion
+and castle walls would have been so different--and Phil slid swiftly
+down from his perch, envying the squirrels who were under no such
+bondage of duty.
+
+Recalled to the world that now is, the lad hastily gathered a bouquet
+of columbine and a bunch of the tender leaves and the red berries of the
+wintergreen, called to “Turk,” who had been all these hours watching a
+woodchuck hole, and ran down the hill by leaps and circuits as fast as
+his little legs could carry him, and, with every appearance of a lad who
+puts duty before pleasure, arrived breathless at the kitchen door, where
+Alice stood waiting for him. Alice, the somewhat feeble performer on the
+horn, who had been watching for the boy with her hand shading her eyes,
+called out upon his approach:
+
+“Why, Phil, what in the world--”
+
+“Oh, Alice!” cried the boy, eagerly, having in a moment changed in
+his mind the destination of the flowers; “I've found a place where the
+checker-berries are thick as spatter.” And Phil put the flowers and the
+berries in his cousin's hand. Alice looked very much pleased with this
+simple tribute, but, as she admired it, unfortunately asked--women
+always ask such questions:
+
+“And you picked them for me?”
+
+This was a cruel dilemma. Phil was more devoted to his sweet cousin than
+to any one else in the world, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings,
+and he hated to tell a lie. So he only looked a lie, out of his
+affectionate, truthful eyes, and said:
+
+“I love to bring you flowers. Has uncle come home yet?”
+
+“Yes, long ago. He called and looked all around for you to unharness the
+horse, and he wanted you to go an errand over the river to Gibson's. I
+guess he was put out.”
+
+“Did he say anything?”
+
+“He asked if you had weeded the beets. And he said that you were the
+master boy to dream and moon around he ever saw.” And she added, with
+a confidential and mischievous smile: “I think you'd better brought a
+switch along; it would save time.”
+
+Phil had a great respect for his uncle Maitland, but he feared him
+almost more than he feared the remote God of Abraham and Isaac. Mr.
+Maitland was not only the most prosperous man in all that region, but
+the man of the finest appearance, and a bearing that was equity itself.
+He was the first selectman of the town, and a deacon in the church, and
+however much he prized mercy in the next world he did not intend to have
+that quality interfere with justice in this world. Phil knew indeed that
+he was a man of God, that fact was impressed upon him at least twice a
+day, but he sometimes used to think it must be a severe God to have
+that sort of man. And he didn't like the curt way he pronounced the holy
+name--he might as well have called Job “job.”
+
+Alice was as unlike her father, except in certain race qualities of
+integrity and common-sense, as if she were of different blood. She was
+the youngest of five maiden sisters, and had arrived at the mature age
+of eighteen. Slender in figure, with a grace that was half shyness, soft
+brown hair, gray eyes that changed color and could as easily be sad
+as merry, a face marked with a moving dimple that every one said was
+lovely, retiring in manner and yet not lacking spirit nor a sly wit of
+her own. Now and then, yes, very often, out of some paradise, no doubt,
+strays into New England conditions of reticence and self-denial such a
+sweet spirit, to diffuse a breath of heaven in its atmosphere, and
+to wither like a rose ungathered. These are the New England nuns, not
+taking any vows, not self-consciously virtuous, apparently untouched by
+the vanities of the world. Marriage? It is not in any girl's nature not
+to think of that, not to be in a flutter of pleasure or apprehension
+at the attentions of the other sex. Who has been able truly to read
+the thoughts of a shrinking maiden in the passing days of her youth and
+beauty? In this harmonious and unselfish household, each with decided
+individual character, no one ever intruded upon the inner life of the
+other. No confidences were given in the deep matters of the heart,
+no sign except a blush over a sly allusion to some one who had been
+“attentive.” If you had stolen a look into the workbasket or the secret
+bureau-drawer, you might have found a treasured note, a bit of ribbon, a
+rosebud, some token of tenderness or of friendship that was growing
+old with the priestess who cherished it. Did they not love flowers, and
+pets, and had they not a passion for children? Were there not moonlight
+evenings when they sat silent and musing on the stone steps, watching
+the shadows and the dancing gleams on the swift river, when the air
+was fragrant with the pink and the lilac? Not melancholy this, nor
+poignantly sad, but having in it nevertheless something of the pathos
+of life unfulfilled. And was there not sometimes, not yet habitually,
+coming upon these faces, faces plain and faces attractive, the shade of
+renunciation?
+
+Phil loved Alice devotedly. She was his confidante, his defender, but
+he feared more the disapproval of her sweet eyes when he had done wrong
+than the threatened punishment of his uncle.
+
+“I only meant to be gone just a little while,” Phil went on to say.
+
+“And you were away the whole afternoon. It is a pity the days are so
+short. And you don't know what you lost.”
+
+“No great, I guess.”
+
+“Celia and her mother were here. They stayed all the afternoon.”
+
+“Celia Howard? Did she wonder where I was?”
+
+“I don't know. She didn't say anything about it. What a dear little
+thing she is!”
+
+“And she can say pretty cutting things.”
+
+“Oh, can she? Perhaps you'd better run down to the village before dark
+and take her these flowers.”
+
+“I'm not going. I'd rather you should have the flowers.” And Phil spoke
+the truth this time.
+
+Celia, who was altogether too young to occupy seriously the mind of a
+lad of twelve, had nevertheless gained an ascendancy over him because of
+her willful, perverse, and sometimes scornful ways, and because she was
+different from the other girls of the school. She had read many more
+books than Phil, for she had access to a library, and she could tell
+him much of a world that he only heard of through books and newspapers,
+which latter he had no habit of reading. He liked, therefore, to be
+with Celia, not withstanding her little airs of superiority, and if she
+patronized him, as she certainly did, probably the simple-minded young
+gentleman, who was unconsciously bred in the belief that he and his
+own kin had no superiors anywhere, never noticed it. To be sure they
+quarreled a good deal, but truth to say Phil was never more fascinated
+with the little witch, whom he felt himself strong enough to protect,
+than when she showed a pretty temper. He rather liked to be ordered
+about by the little tyrant. And sometimes he wished that Murad Ault,
+the big boy of the school, would be rude to the small damsel, so that
+he could show her how a knight would act under such circumstances. Murad
+Ault stood to Phil for the satanic element in his peaceful world. He
+was not only big and strong of limb and broad of chest, but he was very
+swarthy, and had closely curled black hair. He feared nothing, not even
+the teacher, and was always doing some dare-devil thing to frighten
+the children. And because he was dark, morose, and made no friends, and
+wished none, but went solitary his own dark way, Phil fancied that he
+must have Spanish blood in his veins, and would no doubt grow up to be
+a pirate. No other boy in the winter could skate like Murad Ault, with
+such strength and grace and recklessness--thin ice and thick ice were
+all one to him, but he skated along, dashing in and out, and sweeping
+away up and down the river in a whirl of vigor and daring, like a black
+marauder. Yet he was best and most awesome in the swimming pond in
+summer--though it was believed that he dared go in in the bitter winter,
+either by breaking the ice or through an air-hole, and there was a story
+that he had ventured under the ice as fearless as a cold fish. No one
+could dive from such a height as he, or stay so long under water; he
+liked to stay under long enough to scare the spectators, and then appear
+at a distance, thrashing about in the water as if he were rescuing
+himself from drowning, sputtering out at the same time the most
+diabolical noises--curses, no doubt, for he had been heard to swear.
+But as he skated alone he swam alone, appearing and disappearing at the
+swimming-place silently, with never a salutation to any one. And he was
+as skillful a fisher as he was a swimmer. No one knew much about him.
+He lived with his mother in a little cabin up among the hills, that had
+about it scant patches of potatoes and corn and beans, a garden fenced
+in by stumproots, as ill-cared for as the shanty. Where they came from
+no one knew. How they lived was a matter of conjecture, though the
+mother gathered herbs and berries and bartered them at the village
+store, and Murad occasionally took a hand in some neighbor's hay-field,
+or got a job of chopping wood in the winter. The mother was old and
+small and withered, and they said evil-eyed. Probably she was no more
+evil-eyed than any old woman who had such a hard struggle for existence
+as she had. An old widow with an only son who looked like a Spaniard and
+acted like an imp! Here was another sort of exotic in the New England
+life.
+
+Celia had been brought to Rivervale by her mother about a year before
+this time, and the two occupied a neat little cottage in the village,
+distinguished only by its neatness and a plot of syringas, and pinks,
+and marigolds, and roses, and bachelor's-buttons, and boxes of the
+tough little exotics, called “hen-and-chickens,” in the door-yard, and
+a vigorous fragrant honeysuckle over the front porch. She only dimly
+remembered her father, who had been a merchant in a small way in
+the city, and dying left to his widow and only child a very moderate
+fortune. The girl showed early an active and ingenious mind, and an
+equal love for books and for having her own way; but she was delicate,
+and Mrs. Howard wisely judged that a few years in a country village
+would improve her health and broaden her view of life beyond that of
+cockney provincialism. For, though Mrs. Howard had more refinement
+than strength of mind, and passed generally for a sweet and inoffensive
+little woman, she did not lack a certain true perception of values, due
+doubtless to the fact that she had been a New England girl, and, before
+her marriage and emigration to the great city, had passed her life among
+unexciting realities, and among people who had leisure to think out
+things in a slow way. But the girl's energy and self-confidence had no
+doubt been acquired from her father, who was cut off in mid-career of
+his struggle for place in the metropolis, or from some remote ancestor.
+Before she was eleven years old her mother had listened with some wonder
+and more apprehension to the eager forecast of what this child intended
+to do when she became a woman, and already shrank from a vision of Celia
+on a public platform, or the leader of some metempsychosis club. Through
+her affections only was the child manageable, but in opposition to her
+spirit her mother was practically powerless. Indeed, this little sprout
+of the New Age always spoke of her to Philip and to the Maitlands as
+“little mother.”
+
+The epithet seemed peculiarly tender to Philip, who had lost his father
+before he was six years old, and he was more attracted to the timid and
+gentle little widow than to his equable but more robust Aunt Eusebia,
+Mrs. Maitland, his father's elder sister, whom Philip fancied not a bit
+like his father except in sincerity, a quality common to the Maitlands
+and Burnetts. Yet there was a family likeness between his aunt and a
+portrait of his father, painted by a Boston artist of some celebrity,
+which his mother, who survived her husband only three years, had
+saved for her boy. His father was a farmer, but a man of considerable
+cultivation, though not college-bred--his last request on his death-bed
+was that Phil should be sent to college--a man who made experiments in
+improving agriculture and the breed of cattle and horses, read papers
+now and then on topics of social and political reform, and was the only
+farmer in all the hill towns who had what might be called a library.
+
+It was all scattered at the time of the winding up of the farm estate,
+and the only jetsam that Philip inherited out of it was an annotated
+copy of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Young's Travels in France, a
+copy of The Newcomes, and the first American edition of Childe
+Harold. Probably these odd volumes had not been considered worth any
+considerable bid at the auction. From his mother, who was fond of books,
+and had on more than one occasion, of the failure of teachers, taught
+in the village school in her native town before her marriage, Philip
+inherited his love of poetry, and he well remembered how she used to try
+to inspire him with patriotism by reading the orations of Daniel Webster
+(she was very fond of orations), and telling him war stories about
+Grant and Sherman and Sheridan and Farragut and Lincoln. He distinctly
+remembered also standing at her knees and trying, at intervals, to
+commit to memory the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. He had learned it all
+since, because he thought it would please his mother, and because there
+was something in it that appealed to his coming sense of the mystery
+of life. When he repeated it to Celia, who had never heard of it, and
+remarked that it was all made up, and that she never tried to learn a
+long thing like that that wasn't so, Philip could see that her respect
+for him increased a little. He did not know that the child got it out
+of the library the next day and never rested till she knew it by heart.
+Philip could repeat also the books of the Bible in order, just as glibly
+as the multiplication-table, and the little minx, who could not brook
+that a country boy should be superior to her in anything, had surprised
+her mother by rattling them all off to her one Sunday evening, just as
+if she had been born in New England instead of in New York. As to the
+other fine things his mother read him, out of Ruskin and the like;
+Philip chiefly remembered what a pretty glow there was in his mother's
+face when she read them, and that recollection was a valuable part of
+the boy's education.
+
+Another valuable part of his education was the gracious influence in
+his aunt's household, the spirit of candor, of affection, and the sane
+common-sense with which life was regarded, the simplicity of its faith
+and the patience with which trials were borne. The lessons he learned in
+it had more practical influence in his life than all the books he read.
+Nor were his opportunities for the study of character so meagre as
+the limit of one family would imply. As often happens in New England
+households, individualities were very marked, and from his stern uncle
+and his placid aunt down to the sweet and nimble-witted Alice, the
+family had developed traits and even eccentricities enough to make it a
+sort of microcosm of life. There, for instance, was Patience, the maiden
+aunt, his father's sister, the news-monger of the fireside, whose
+powers of ratiocination first gave Philip the Greek idea and method of
+reasoning to a point and arriving at truth by the process of exclusion.
+It did not excite his wonder at the time, but afterwards it appeared to
+him as one of the New England eccentricities of which the novelists make
+so much. Patience was a home-keeping body and rarely left the premises
+except to go to church on Sunday, although her cheerfulness and social
+helpfulness were tinged by nothing morbid. The story was--Philip learned
+it long afterwards--that in her very young and frisky days Patience had
+one evening remained out at some merry-making very late, and in fact had
+been escorted home in the moonlight by a young gentleman when the
+tall, awful-faced clock, whose face her mother was watching, was on the
+dreadful stroke of eleven. For this delinquency her mother had reproved
+her, the girl thought unreasonably, and she had quickly replied,
+“Mother, I will never go out again.” And she never did. It was in fact a
+renunciation of the world, made apparently without rage, and adhered to
+with cheerful obstinacy.
+
+But although for many years Patience rarely left her home, until the
+habit of seclusion had become as fixed as that of a nun who had
+taken the vows, no one knew so well as she the news and gossip of
+the neighborhood, and her power of learning or divining it seemed to
+increase with her years. She had a habit of sitting, when her household
+duties permitted, at a front window, which commanded a long view of the
+river road, and gathering the news by a process peculiar to herself.
+From this peep-hole she studied the character and destination of all the
+passers-by that came within range of her vision, and made her comments
+and deductions, partly to herself, but for the benefit of those who
+might be listening.
+
+“Why, there goes Thomas Henry,” she would say (she always called people
+by their first and middle names). “Now, wherever can he be going this
+morning in the very midst of getting in his hay? He can't be going
+to the Browns' for vegetables, for they set great store by their own
+raising this year; and they don't get their provisions up this way
+either, because Mary Ellen quarreled with Simmons's people last year.
+No!” she would exclaim, rising to a climax of certainty on this point,
+“I'll be bound he is not going after anything in the eating line!”
+
+Meantime Thomas Henry's wagon would be disappearing slowly up the
+sandy road, giving Patience a chance to get all she could out of it, by
+eliminating all the errands Thomas Henry could not possibly be going to
+do in order to arrive at the one he must certainly be bound on.
+
+“They do say he's courting Eliza Merritt,” she continued, “but Eliza
+never was a girl to make any man leave his haying. No, he's never going
+to see Eliza, and if it isn't provisions or love it's nothing short
+of sickness. Now, whoever is sick down there? It can't be Mary Ellen,
+because she takes after her father's family and they are all hearty. It
+must be Mary Ellen's little girls, and the measles are going the rounds.
+It must be they've all got the measles.”
+
+If the listeners suggested that possibly one of the little girls might
+have escaped, the suggestion was decisively put aside.
+
+“No; if one of them had been well, Mary Ellen would have sent her for
+the doctor.”
+
+Presently Thomas Henry's cart was heard rumbling back, and sure enough
+he was returning with the doctor, and Patience hailed him from the gate
+and demanded news of Mary Ellen.
+
+“Why, all her little girls have the measles,” replied Thomas Henry, “and
+I had to leave my haying to fetch the doctor.”
+
+“I want to know,” said Patience.
+
+Being the eldest born, Patience had appropriated to herself two rooms
+in the rambling old farmhouse before her brother's marriage, from which
+later comers had never dislodged her, and with that innate respect
+for the rights and peculiarities of others which was common in the
+household, she was left to express her secluded life in her own way. As
+the habit of retirement grew upon her she created a world of her own,
+almost as curious and more individually striking than the museum of
+Cluny. There was not a square foot in her tiny apartment that did not
+exhibit her handiwork. She was very fond of reading, and had a passion
+for the little prints and engravings of “foreign views,” which she wove
+into her realm of natural history. There was no flower or leaf or fruit
+that she had seen that she could not imitate exactly in wax or paper.
+All over the walls hung the little prints and engravings, framed in
+wreaths of moss and artificial flowers, or in elaborate square frames
+made of pasteboard. The pasteboard was cut out to fit the picture, and
+the margins, daubed with paste, were then strewn with seeds of corn and
+acorns and hazelnuts, and then the whole was gilded so that the effect
+was almost as rich as it was novel. All about the rooms, in nooks and on
+tables, stood baskets and dishes of fruit-apples and plums and peaches
+and grapes-set in proper foliage of most natural appearance, like enough
+to deceive a bird or the Sunday-school scholars, when on rare occasions
+they were admitted into this holy of holies. Out of boxes, apparently
+filled with earth in the corners of the rooms, grew what seemed to be
+vines trained to run all about the cornices and to festoon the pictures,
+but which were really strings, colored in imitation of the real vine,
+and spreading out into paper foliage. To complete the naturalistic
+character of these everlasting vines, which no scale-bugs could assail,
+there were bunches of wonderful grapes depending here and there to
+excite the cupidity of both bird and child. There was no cruelty in
+the nature of Patience, and she made prisoners of neither birds
+nor squirrels, but cunning cages here and there held most lifelike
+counterfeits of their willing captives. There was nothing in the room
+that was alive, except the dainty owner, but it seemed to be a museum
+of natural history. The rugs on the floor were of her own devising and
+sewing together, and rivaled in color and ingenuity those of Bokhara.
+
+But Patience was a student of the heavens as well as of the earth, and
+it was upon the ceiling that her imagination expanded. There one could
+see in their order the constellations of the heavens, represented by
+paper-gilt stars, of all magnitudes, most wonderful to behold. This part
+of her decorations was the most difficult of all. The constellations
+were not made from any geography of the heavens, but from actual nightly
+observation of the positions of the heavenly bodies. Patience confessed
+that the getting exactly right of the Great Dipper had caused her most
+trouble. On the night that was constructed she sat up till three o'clock
+in the morning, going out and studying it and coming in and putting up
+one star at a time. How could she reach the high ceiling? Oh, she took
+a bean-pole, stuck the gilt star on the end of it, having paste on the
+reverse side, and fixed it in its place. That was easy, only it was
+difficult to remember when she came into the house the correct positions
+of the stars in the heavens. What the astronomer and the botanist and
+the naturalist would have said of this little kingdom is unknown, but
+Patience herself lived among the glories of the heavens and the beauties
+of the earth which she had created. Probably she may have had a humorous
+conception of this, for she was not lacking in a sense of humor. The
+stone step that led to her private door she had skillfully painted with
+faint brown spots, so that when visitors made their exit from this part
+of the house they would say, “Why, it rains!” but Patience would laugh
+and say, “I guess it is over by now.”
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+“I'm not going to follow you about any more through the brush and
+brambles, Phil Burnett,” and Celia, emerging from the thicket into a
+clearing, flung herself down on a knoll under a beech-tree.
+
+Celia was cross. They were out for a Saturday holiday on the hillside,
+where Phil said there were oceans of raspberries and blueberries,
+beginning to get ripe, and where you could hear the partridges drumming
+in the woods, and see the squirrels.
+
+“Why, I'm not a bit tired,” said Phil; “a boy wouldn't be.” And he threw
+himself down on the green moss, with his heels in the air, much more
+intent on the chatter of a gray squirrel in the tree above him than on
+the complaints of his comrade.
+
+“Why don't you go with a boy, then?” asked Celia, in a tone intended to
+be severe and dignified.
+
+“A boy isn't so nice,” said Philip, with the air of stating a general
+proposition, but not looking at her.
+
+
+“Oh,” said Celia, only half appeased, “I quite agree with you.” And
+she pulled down some beech leaves from a low, hanging limb and began to
+plait a wreath.
+
+“Who are you making that for?” asked Philip, who began to be aware that
+a cloud had come over his holiday sky.
+
+“Nobody in particular; it's just a wreath.” And then there was silence,
+till Philip made another attempt.
+
+“Celia, I don't mind staying here if you are tired. Tell me something
+about New York City. I wish we were there.”
+
+“Much you know about it,” said Celia, but with some relaxation of
+her severity, for as she looked at the boy in his country clothes and
+glanced at her own old frock and abraded shoes, she thought what a funny
+appearance the pair would make on a fashionable city street.
+
+“Would you rather be there?” asked Philip. “I thought you liked living
+here.”
+
+“Would I rather? What a question! Everybody would. The country is a good
+place to go to when you are tired, as mamma is. But the city! The big
+fine houses, and the people all going about in a hurry; the streets all
+lighted up at night, so that you can see miles and miles of lights; and
+the horses and carriages, and the lovely dresses, and the churches full
+of nice people, and such beautiful music! And once mamma took me to
+the theatre. Oh, Phil, you ought to see a play, and the actors, all
+be-a-u-ti-fully dressed, and talking just like a party in a house, and
+dancing, and being funny, and some of it so sad as to make you cry, and
+some of it so droll that you had to laugh--just such a world as you read
+of in books and in poetry. I was so excited that I saw the stage all
+night and could hardly sleep.” The girl paused and looked away to
+the river as if she saw it all again, and then added in a burst of
+confidence:
+
+“Do you know, I mean to be an actress some day, when mamma will let me.”
+
+“Play-actors are wicked,” said Phil, in a tone of decision; “our
+minister says so, and my uncle says so.”
+
+“Fudge!” returned Celia. “Much they know about it. Did Alice say so?”
+
+“I never asked her, but she said once that she supposed it was wrong,
+but she would like to see a play.”
+
+“There, everybody would. Mamma says the people from the country go to
+the theatre always, a good deal more than the people in the city go.
+I should like to see your aunt Patience in a theatre and hear what she
+said about it. She's an actress if ever there was one.”
+
+Philip opened his eyes in protest.
+
+“Mamma says it is as good as a play to hear her go on about people, and
+what they are like, and what they are going to do, and then her little
+rooms are just like a scene on a stage. If they were in New York
+everybody would go to see them and to hear her talk.”
+
+This was such a new view of his home life to Philip that he could
+neither combat it nor assent to it, further than to say, that his aunt
+was just like everybody else, though she did have some peculiar ways.
+
+“Well, she acts,” Celia insisted, “and most people act. Our minister
+acts all the time, mamma says.” Celia had plenty of opinions of her own,
+but when she ventured a startling statement she had the habit of going
+under the shelter of “little mother,” whose casual and unconsidered
+remarks the girl turned to her own uses. Perhaps she would not have
+understood that her mother merely meant that the minister's sacerdotal
+character was not exactly his own character. Just as Philip noticed
+without being able to explain it that his uncle was one sort of a man in
+his religious exercises and observances and another sort of man in his
+dealings with him. Children often have recondite thoughts that do not
+get expression until their minds are more mature; they even accept
+contradictory facts in their experience. There was one of the deacons
+who was as kind as possible, and Philip believed was a good and
+pious man, who had the reputation of being sharp and even tricky in a
+horse-trade. And Philip used to think how lucky it was for him that he
+had been converted and was saved!
+
+“Are you going to stay here always?” asked Philip, pursuing his own
+train of thought about the city.
+
+“Here? I should think not. If I were a boy I wouldn't stay here, I can
+tell you. What are you going to do, Phil, what are you going to be?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know,” said Philip, turning over on his back and looking
+up into the blue world through the leaves; “go to college, I suppose.”
+ Children are even more reticent than adults about revealing their inner
+lives, and Philip would not, even to Celia, have confessed the splendid
+dreams about his career that came to him that day in the hickory-tree,
+and that occupied him a great deal.
+
+“Of course,” said this wise child, “but that's nothing. I mean, what
+are you going to do? My cousin Jim has been all through college, and he
+doesn't do a thing except wear nice clothes and hang around and talk. He
+says I'm a little chatter-box. I hate the sight of him.”
+
+“If he doesn't like you, then I don't like him,” said Philip, as if he
+were making a general and not a personal assertion. “Oh, I should like
+to travel.”
+
+“So should I, and see things and find things. Jim says he's going to be
+an explorer. He never will. He wouldn't find anything. He twits me,
+and wants to know what is the good of my reading about Africa and such
+things. Phil, don't you love to read about Africa, and the desert, and
+the lions and the snakes, and bananas growing, and palm-trees, and the
+queerest black men and women, real dwarfs some of them? I just love it.”
+
+“So do I,” said Philip, “as far as I have read. Alice says it's awful
+dangerous--fevers and wild beasts and savages and all that. But I
+shouldn't mind.”
+
+“Of course you wouldn't. But it costs like everything to go to Africa,
+or anywhere.”
+
+“I'd make a book about it, and give lectures, and make lots of money.”
+
+“I guess,” said Celia, reflecting upon this proposition, “I'd be an
+engineer or a railroad man, or something like that, and make a heap of
+money, and then I could go anywhere I liked. I just hate to be poor.
+There!”
+
+“Is Jim poor?”
+
+“No; he can do what he pleases. I asked him, then, why he didn't go to
+Africa, and he wanted to know what was the good of finding Livingstone,
+anyway. I'll bet Murad Ault would go to Africa.”
+
+“I wish he would,” said Philip; and then, having moved so that he could
+see Celia's face, “Do you like Murad Ault?”
+
+“No,” replied Celia, promptly; “he's horrid, but he isn't afraid of
+anything.”
+
+“Well, I don't care,” said Philip, who was nettled by this implication.
+And Celia, who had shown her power of irritating, took another tack.
+
+“You don't think I'd be seen going around with him? Aren't we having a
+good time up here?”
+
+“Bully!” replied Philip. And not seeing the way to expand this topic any
+further, he suddenly said:
+
+“Celia, the next time I go on our hill I'll get you lots of sassafras.”
+
+“Oh, I love sassafras, and sweet-flag!”
+
+“We can get that on the way home. I know a place.” And then there was a
+pause. “Celia, you didn't tell me what you are going to do when you grow
+up.”
+
+“Go to college.”
+
+“You? Why, girls do, don't they? I never thought of that.”
+
+“Of course they do. I don't know whether I'll write or be a doctor. I
+know one thing--I won't teach school. It's the hatefulest thing there
+is! It's nice to be a doctor and have your own horse, and go round like
+a man. If it wasn't for seeing so many sick people! I guess I'll write
+stories and things.”
+
+“So would I,” Philip confessed, “if I knew any.”
+
+“Why, you make 'em up. Mamma says they are all made up. I can make 'em
+in my head any time when I'm alone.”
+
+“I don't know,” Philip said, reflectively, “but I could make up a story
+about Murad Ault, and how he got to be a pirate and got in jail and was
+hanged.”
+
+“Oh, that wouldn't be a real story. You have got to have different
+people in it, and have 'em talk, just as they do in books; and somebody
+is in love and somebody dies, and the like of that.”
+
+“Well, there are such stories in The Pirate's Own Book, and it's awful
+interesting.”
+
+“I'd be ashamed, Philip Burnett, to read such a cruel thing, all about
+robbers and murders.”
+
+“I didn't read it through; Alice said she was going to burn it up. I
+shouldn't wonder if she did.”
+
+“Boys make me tired!” exclaimed this little piece of presumption; and
+this attitude of superiority exasperated Philip more than anything else
+his mentor had said or done, and he asserted his years of seniority by
+jumping up and saying, decidedly, “It's time to go home. Shall I carry
+your wreath?”
+
+“No, I thank you!” replied Celia, with frigid politeness.
+
+“Down in the meadow,” said Philip, making one more effort at
+conciliation, “we can get some tigerlilies, and weave them in and make a
+beautiful wreath for your mother.”
+
+“She doesn't like things fussed up,” was the gracious reply. And then
+the children trudged along homeward, each with a distinct sense of
+injury.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+Traits that make a child disagreeable are apt to be perpetuated in the
+adult. The bumptious, impudent, selfish, “hateful” boy may become a
+man of force, of learning, of decided capacity, even of polish and
+good manners, and score success, so that those who know him say how
+remarkable it is that such a “knurly” lad should have turned out
+so well. But some exigency in his career, it may be extraordinary
+prosperity or bitter defeat, may at any moment reveal the radical traits
+of the boy, the original ignoble nature. The world says that it is
+a “throwing back”; it is probably only a persistence of the original
+meanness under all the overlaid cultivation and restraint.
+
+Without bothering itself about the recondite problems of heredity or
+the influence of environment, the world wisely makes great account of
+“stock.” The peasant nature, which may be a very different thing from
+the peasant condition, persists, and shows itself in business affairs,
+in literature, even in the artist. No marriage is wisely contracted
+without consideration of “stock.” The admirable qualities which make a
+union one of mutual respect and enduring affection--the generosities,
+the magnanimities, the courage of soul, the crystalline truthfulness,
+the endurance of ill fortune and of prosperity--are commonly the
+persistence of the character of the stock.
+
+We can get on with surface weaknesses and eccentricities, and even
+disagreeable peculiarities, if the substratum of character is sound.
+There is no woman or man so difficult--to get on with, whatever his
+or her graces or accomplishments, as the one “you don't know where to
+find,” as the phrase is. Indeed, it has come to pass that the highest
+and final eulogy ever given to a man, either in public or private life,
+is that he is one “you can tie to.” And when you find a woman of that
+sort you do not need to explain to the cynical the wisdom of the Creator
+in making the most attractive and fascinating sex.
+
+The traits, good and bad, persist; they may be veneered or restrained,
+they are seldom eradicated. All the traits that made the great Napoleon
+worshiped, hated, and feared existed in the little Bonaparte, as
+perfectly as the pea-pod in the flower. The whole of the First Empire
+was smirched with Corsican vulgarity. The world always reckons with
+these radical influences that go to make up a family. One of the first
+questions asked by an old politician, who knew his world thoroughly,
+about any man becoming prominent, when there was a discussion of his
+probable action, was, “Whom did he marry?”
+
+There are exceptions to this general rule, and they are always
+noticeable when they occur--this deviation from the traits of the
+earliest years--and offer material fox some of the subtlest and most
+interesting studies of the novelist.
+
+It was impossible for those who met Philip Burnett after he had left
+college, and taken his degree in the law-school, and spent a year, more
+or less studiously, in Europe, to really know him if they had not known
+the dreaming boy in his early home, with all the limitations as well as
+the vitalizing influences of his start in life. And on the contrary, the
+error of the neighbors of a lad in forecasting his career comes from the
+fact that they do not know him. The verdict about Philip would probably
+have been that he was a very nice sort of a boy, but that he would never
+“set the North River on fire.” There was a headstrong, selfish, pushing
+sort of boy, one of Philip's older schoolmates, who had become one of
+the foremost merchants and operators in New York, and was already talked
+of for mayor. This success was the sort that fulfilled the rural idea of
+getting on in the world, whereas Philip's accomplishments, seen through
+the veneer of conceit which they had occasioned him to take on, did not
+commend themselves as anything worth while. Accomplishments rarely do
+unless they are translated into visible position or into the currency
+of the realm. How else can they be judged? Does not the great public
+involuntarily respect the author rather for the sale of his books than
+for the books themselves?
+
+The period of Philip's novitiate--those most important years from his
+acquaintance with Celia Howard to the attainment of his professional
+degree--was most interesting to him, but the story of it would not
+detain the reader of exciting fiction. He had elected to use his little
+patrimony in making himself instead of in making money--if merely
+following his inclination could be called an election. If he had
+reasoned about it he would have known that the few thousands of dollars
+left to him from his father's estate, if judiciously invested in
+business, would have grown to a good sum when he came of age, and he
+would by that time have come into business habits, so that all he would
+need to do would be to go on and make more money. If he had reasoned
+more deeply he would have seen that by this process he would become
+a man of comparatively few resources for the enjoyment of life, and a
+person of very little interest to himself or to anybody else. So perhaps
+it was just as well that he followed his instincts and postponed the
+making of money until he had made himself, though he was to have a good
+many bitter days when the possession of money seemed to him about the
+one thing desirable.
+
+It was Celia, who had been his constant counselor and tormentor, about
+the time when she was beginning to feel a little shy and long-legged,
+in her short skirts, who had, in a romantic sympathy with his tastes,
+opposed his going into a “store” as a clerk, which seemed to the boy at
+one time an ideal situation for a young man.
+
+“A store, indeed!” cried the young lady; “pomatum on your hair, and a
+grin on your face; snip, snip, snip, calico, ribbons, yard-stick; 'It's
+very becoming, miss, that color; this is only a sample, only a remnant,
+but I shall have a new stock in by Friday; anything else, ma'am, today?'
+Sho! Philip, for a man!”
+
+Fortunately for Philip there lived in the village an old waif, a
+scholarly oddity, uncommunicative, whose coming to dwell there had
+excited much gossip before the inhabitants got used to his odd ways.
+
+Usually reticent and rough of speech--the children thought he was an old
+bear--he was nevertheless discovered to be kindly and even charitable
+in neighborhood emergencies, and the minister said he was about the most
+learned man he ever knew. His history does not concern us, but he was
+doubtless one of the men whose talents have failed to connect with
+success in anything, who had had his bout with the world, and retired
+into peaceful seclusion in an indulgence of a mild pessimism about the
+world generally.
+
+He lived alone, except for the rather neutral presence of Aunt Hepsy,
+who had formerly been a village tailoress, and whose cottage he had
+bought with the proviso that the old woman should continue in it as
+“help.” With Aunt Hepsy he was no more communicative than with anybody
+else. “He was always readin', when he wasn't goin' fishin' or off in the
+woods with his gun, and never made no trouble, and was about the easiest
+man to get along with she ever see. You mind your business and he'll
+mind his'n.” That was the sum of Aunt Hepsy's delivery about the
+recluse, though no doubt her old age was enriched by constant “study”
+ over his probable history and character. But Aunt Hepsy, since she had
+given up tailoring, was something of a recluse herself.
+
+The house was full of books, mostly queer books, “in languages nobody
+knows what,” as Aunt Hepsy said, which made Philip open his eyes when he
+went there one day to take to the old man a memorandum-book which he had
+found on Mill Brook. The recluse took a fancy to the ingenuous lad when
+he saw he was interested in books, and perhaps had a mind not much more
+practical than his own; the result was an acquaintance, and finally an
+intimacy--at which the village wondered until it transpired that Philip
+was studying with the old fellow, who was no doubt a poor shack of a
+school-teacher in disguise.
+
+It was from this gruff friend that Philip learned Greek and Latin enough
+to enable him to enter college, not enough drill and exact training in
+either to give him a high stand, but an appreciation of the literatures
+about which the old scholar was always enthusiastic. Philip regretted
+all his life that he had not been severely drilled in the classics and
+mathematics, for he never could become a specialist in anything. But
+perhaps, even in this, fate was dealing with him according to his
+capacities. And, indeed, he had a greater respect for the scholarship of
+his wayside tutor than for the pedantic acquirements of many men he came
+to know afterwards. It was from him that Philip learned about books
+and how to look for what he wanted to know, and it was he who directed
+Philip's taste to the best. When he went off to college the lad had not
+a good preparation, but he knew a great deal that would not count in the
+entrance examinations.
+
+“You will need all the tools you can get the use of, my boy, in the
+struggle,” was the advice of his mentor, “and the things you will need
+most may be those you have thought least of. I never go fishing without
+both fly and bait.”
+
+Philip was always grateful that before he entered college he had a fine
+reading knowledge of French, and that he knew enough German to read and
+enjoy Heine's poems and prose, and that he had read, or read in, pretty
+much all the English classics.
+
+He used to recall the remark of a lad about his own age, who was on a
+vacation visit to Rivervale, and had just been prepared for college
+at one of the famous schools. The boys liked each other and were much
+together in the summer, and talked about what interested them during
+their rambles, carrying the rod or the fowling-piece. Philip naturally
+had most to say about the world he knew, which was the world of
+books--that is to say, the stored information that had accumulated in
+the world. This more and more impressed the trained student, who one day
+exclaimed:
+
+“By George! I might have known something if I hadn't been kept at school
+all my life.”
+
+Philip's career in college could not have been called notable. He was
+not one of the dozen stars in the class-room, but he had a reputation
+of another sort. His classmates had a habit of resorting to him if they
+wanted to “know anything” outside the text-books, for the range of his
+information seemed to them encyclopaedic. On the other hand, he escaped
+the reputation of what is called “a good fellow.” He was not so much
+unpopular as he was unknown in the college generally, but those who did
+know him were tolerant of the fact that he cared more for reading than
+for college sports or college politics. It must be confessed that he
+added little to the reputation of the university, since his name was
+never once mentioned in the public prints--search has been made since
+the public came to know him as a writer--as a hero in any crew or team
+on any game field. Perhaps it was a little selfish that his muscle
+developed in the gymnasium was not put into advertising use for the
+university. The excuse was that he had not time to become an athlete,
+any more than he had time to spend three years in the discipline of the
+regular army, which was in itself an excellent thing.
+
+Celia, in one of her letters--it was during her first year at a woman's
+college, when the development of muscle in gymnastics, running, and
+the vigorous game of ball was largely engaging the attention of this
+enthusiastic young lady--took him to task for his inactivity. “This is
+the age of muscle,” she wrote; “the brain is useless in a flabby body,
+and probably the brain itself is nothing but concentrated intelligent
+muscle. I don't know how men are coming out, but women will never get
+the position they have the right to occupy until they are physically the
+equals of men.”
+
+Philip had replied, banteringly, that if that were so he had no desire
+to enter in a physical competition with women, and that men had better
+look out for another field.
+
+But later on, when Celia had got into the swing of the classics, and was
+training for a part in the play of “Antigone,” she wrote in a different
+strain, though she would have denied that the change had any relation to
+the fact that she had strained her back in a rowing-match. She did not
+apologize for her former advice, but she was all aglow about the Greek
+drama, and made reference to Aspasia as an intellectual type of what
+women might become. “I didn't ever tell you how envious I used to be
+when you were studying Greek with that old codger in Rivervale, and
+could talk about Athens and all that. Next time we meet, I can tell
+you, it will be Greek meets Greek. I do hope you have not dropped the
+classics and gone in for the modern notion of being real and practical.
+If I ever hear of your writing 'real' poetry--it is supposed to be real
+if it is in dialect or misspelled! never will write you again, much less
+speak to you.”
+
+Whatever this decided young woman was doing at the time she was sure was
+the best for everybody to do, and especially for Master Phil.
+
+Now that the days of preparation were over, and Philip found himself
+in New York, face to face with the fact that he had nowhere to look for
+money to meet the expense of rent, board, and clothes except to his own
+daily labor, and that there was another economy besides that which he
+had practiced as to luxuries, there were doubtless hours when his faith
+wavered a little in the wisdom of the decision that had invested all his
+patrimony in himself. He had been fortunate, to be sure, in securing a
+clerk's desk in the great law-office of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle, and he
+had the kindly encouragement of the firm that, with close application to
+business, he would make his way. But even in this he had his misgivings,
+for a great part of his acquirements, and those he most valued, did not
+seem to be of any use in his office-work. He had a lofty conception of
+his chosen profession, as the right arm in the administration of justice
+between man and man. In practice, however, it seemed to him that
+the object was to win a case rather than to do justice in a case.
+Unfortunately, also, he had cultivated his imagination to the extent
+that he could see both sides of a case. To see both sides is indeed the
+requisite of a great lawyer, but to see the opposite side only in order
+to win, as in looking over an opponent's hand in a game of cards. It
+seemed to Philip that this clear perception would paralyze his efforts
+for one side if he knew it was the wrong side. The argument was that
+every cause a man's claim or his defense--ought to be presented in
+its fullness and urged with all the advocate's ingenuity, and that the
+decision was in the bosom of an immaculate justice on the bench and
+the unbiased intelligence in the jury-box. This might be so. But Philip
+wondered what would be the effect on his own character and on his
+intellect if he indulged much in the habit of making the worse appear
+the better cause, and taking up indifferently any side that paid. For
+himself, he was inclined always to advise clients to “settle,” and he
+fancied that if the occupation of the lawyer was to explain the case
+to people ignorant of it, and to champion only the right side, as
+it appeared to an unprejudiced, legally trained mind, and to compose
+instead of encouraging differences, the law would indeed be a noble
+profession, and the natural misunderstandings, ignorance, and different
+points of view would make business enough.
+
+“Stuff!” said Mr. Sharp. “If you begin by declining causes you
+disapprove of, the public will end by letting you alone in your
+self-conceited squeamishness. It's human nature you've got to deal with,
+not theories about law and justice. I tell you that men like litigation.
+They want to have it out with somebody. And it is better than
+fisticuffs.”
+
+From Mr. Hunt, who moved in the serener upper currents of the law,
+Philip got more satisfaction.
+
+“Of course, Mr. Burnett, there are miserable squabbles in the law
+practice, and contemptible pettifoggers and knaves, and men who will
+sell themselves for any dirty work, as there are in most professions and
+occupations, but the profession could not exist for a day if it was not
+on the whole on the side of law and order and justice.
+
+“No doubt it needs from time to time criticism and reformation. So does
+the church. You look at the characters of the really great lawyers! And
+there is another thing. In dealing with the cases of our complex life,
+there is no accomplishment, no learning in science, art, or literature,
+that the successful practitioner will not find it very advantageous to
+possess. And a lawyer will never be eminent who has not imagination.”
+
+Philip thought he had a very good chance of exercising his imagination
+in the sky chamber where he slept--a capital situation from which to
+observe the world. There could not have been an uglier view created--a
+shapeless mass of brick and stone and painted wood, a collected,
+towering monstrosity of rectangular and inharmonious lines, a realized
+dream of hideousness--but for the splendid sky, always changing and
+doing all that was possible in the gleams and shadows and the glowing
+colors of morning and evening to soften the ambitious work of man; but
+for the wide horizon, with patches of green shores and verdant flats
+washed by the kindly tide; but for the Highlands and Staten Island,
+the gateway to the ocean; but for the great river and the mighty bay
+shimmering and twinkling and often iridescent, and the animated life
+of sails and steamers, the leviathans of commerce and the playthings of
+pleasure, and the beetle-like, monstrous ferry-boats that pushed
+their noses through all the confusion, like intelligent, business-like
+saurians that knew how to keep an appointed line by a clumsy courtesy
+of apparent yielding. Yes, there was life enough in all this, and
+inspiration, if one only knew what to be inspired about.
+
+When Philip came home from the office at sunset, through the bustling
+streets, and climbed up to his perch, he insensibly brought with him
+something of the restless energy and strife of the city, and in this
+mood the prospect before him took on a certain significance of
+great things accomplished, of the highest form of human energy and
+achievement; he was a part of this exuberant, abundant life, to succeed
+in the struggle seemed easy, and for the moment he possessed what he
+saw.
+
+The little room had space enough for a cot bed, a toilet-stand, a couple
+of easy-chairs--an easy-chair is the one article of furniture absolutely
+necessary to a reflecting student--some well-filled book-shelves, a
+small writing-desk, and a tiny closet quite large enough for a wardrobe
+which seemed to have no disposition to grow. Except for the books and
+the writing-desk, with its heterogeneous manuscripts, unfinished or
+rejected, there was not much in the room to indicate the taste of its
+occupant, unless you knew that his taste was exhibited rather by what he
+excluded from the room than by what it contained. It must be confessed
+that, when Philip was alone with his books and his manuscripts, his
+imagination did not expand in the directions that would have seemed
+profitable to the head of his firm. That life of the town which was
+roaring in his ears, that panorama of prosperity spread before him,
+related themselves in his mind not so much as incitements to engage
+in the quarrels of his profession as something demanding study and
+interpretation, something much more human than processes and briefs
+and arguments. And it was a dark omen for his success that the world
+interested him much more for itself than for what he could make out
+of it. Make something to be sure he must--so long as he was only a law
+clerk on a meagre salary--and it was this necessity that had much to do
+with the production of the manuscripts. It was a joke on Philip in his
+club--by-the-way, the half-yearly dues were not far off--that he was
+doing splendidly in the law; he already had an extensive practice in
+chambers!
+
+The law is said to be a jealous mistress, but literature is a young lady
+who likes to be loved for herself alone, and thinks permission to adore
+is sufficient reward for her votary. Common-sense told Philip that the
+jealous mistress would flout him and land him in failure if he gave
+her a half-hearted service; but the other young lady, the Helen of
+the professions, was always beckoning him and alluring him by the most
+subtle arts, occupying all his hours with meditations on her grace and
+beauty, till it seemed the world were well lost for her smile. And the
+fascinating jade never hinted that devotion to her brought more drudgery
+and harassment and pain than any other service in the world. It would
+not have mattered if she had been frank, and told him that her promise
+of eternal life was illusory and her rewards commonly but a flattering
+of vanity. There was no resisting her enchantments, and he would rather
+follow her through a world of sin and suffering, pursuing her radiant
+form over bog and moor, in penury and heartache, for one sunrise smile
+and one glimpse of her sunset heaven, than to walk at ease with a
+commonplace maiden on any illumined and well-trod highway.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+It is the desire of every ambitious soul to, enter Literature by the
+front door, and the few who have patience and money enough to live
+without the aid of the beckoning Helen may enter there. But a side
+entrance is the destiny of most aspirants, even those with the golden
+key of genius, and they are a long time in working their way to be seen
+coming out, of the front entrance. It is true that a man can attract
+considerable and immediate attention by trying to effect an entrance
+through the sewer, but he seldom gains the respect of the public whom he
+interests, any more than an exhibitor of fireworks gains the reputation
+of an artist that is accorded to the painter of a good picture.
+
+Philip was waiting at the front door, with his essays and his prose
+symphonies and his satirical novel--the satire of a young man is apt to
+be very bitter--but it was as tightly shut against him as if a publisher
+and not the muse of literature kept the door.
+
+There was a fellow-boarder with Philip, whose acquaintance he had made
+at the common table in the basement, who appeared to be free of the
+world of letters and art. He was an alert, compact, neatly dressed
+little fellow, who had apparently improved every one of his twenty-eight
+years in the study of life, in gaining assurance and confidence in
+himself, and also presented himself as one who knew the nether world
+completely but was not of it. He would have said of himself that he knew
+it profoundly, that he frequented it for “material,” but that his home
+was in another sphere. The impression was that he belonged among those
+brilliant guerrillas of both sexes, in the border-land of art and
+society, who lived daintily and talked about life with unconventional
+freedom. Slight in figure, with very black hair, and eyes of cloudy
+gray, an olive complexion, and features trained to an immobility proof
+against emotion or surprise, the whole poised as we would say in the
+act of being gentlemanly, it is needless to say that he took himself
+seriously. His readiness, self-confidence, cocksureness, Philip thought
+all expressed in his name--Olin Brad.
+
+Mr. Brad was not a Bohemian--that is, not at all a Bohemian of the
+recognized type. His fashionable dress, closely trimmed hair, and dainty
+boots took him out of that class. He belonged to the new order, which
+seems to have come in with modern journalism--that is, Bohemian in
+principle, but of the manners and apparel of the favored of fortune. Mr.
+Brad was undoubtedly clever, and was down as a bright young man in the
+list of those who employed talent which was not dulled by conscientious
+scruples. He had stood well in college, during three years in Europe
+he had picked up two or three languages, dissipated his remaining small
+fortune, acquired expensive tastes, and knowledge, both esoteric and
+exoteric, that was valuable to him in his present occupation. Returning
+home fully equipped for a modern literary career, and finding after some
+bitter experience that his accomplishments were not taken or paid for
+at their real value by the caterers for intellectual New York, he had
+dropped into congenial society on the staff of the Daily Spectrum, a
+mighty engine of public opinion, which scattered about the city and
+adjacent territory a million of copies, as prodigally as if they had
+been auctioneers' announcements. Fastidious people who did not read it
+gave it a bad name, not recognizing the classic and heroic attitude of
+those engaged in pitchforking up and turning over the muck of the Augean
+stables under the pretense of cleaning them.
+
+Mr. Brad had a Socratic contempt for this sort of fault-finding. It was
+answer enough to say, “It pays. The people like it or they wouldn't buy
+it. It commands the best talent in the market and can afford to pay
+for it; even clergymen like to appear in its columns--they say it's
+a providential chance to reach the masses. And look at the 'Morning
+GooGoo' (this was his nickname for one of the older dailies), it
+couldn't pay its paper bills if it hadn't such a small circulation.”
+
+Mr. Brad, however, was not one of the editors, though the acceptance
+of an occasional short editorial, sufficiently piquant and impudent and
+vivid in language--to suit, had given him hopes. He was salaried, but
+under orders for special service, and was always in the hope that the
+execution of each new assignment would bring him into popular notice,
+which would mean an advance of position and pay.
+
+Philip was impressed with the ready talent, the adaptable talent, and
+the facility of this accomplished journalist, and as their acquaintance
+improved he was let into many of the secrets of success in the
+profession.
+
+“It isn't an easy thing,” said Mr. Brad, “to cater to a public that gets
+tired of anything in about three days. But it is just as well satisfied
+with a contradiction as with the original statement. It calls both news.
+You have to watch out and see what the people want, and give it to
+'em. It is something like the purveying of the manufacturers and the
+dry-goods jobber for the changing trade in fashions; only the newspaper
+has the advantage that it can turn a somersault every day and not have
+any useless stock left on hand.
+
+“The public hasn't any memory, or, if it has, this whirligig process
+destroys it. What it will not submit to is the lack of a daily surprise.
+Keep that in your mind and you can make a popular newspaper. Only,”
+ continued Mr. Brad, reflectively, “you've got to hit a lot of different
+tastes.”
+
+“You'd laugh,” this artist in emotions went on, after a little pause,
+“at some of my assignments. There was a run awhile ago on elopements,
+and my assignment was to have one every Monday morning. The girl must
+always be lovely and refined and moving in the best society; elopement
+with the coachman preferred, varied with a teacher in a Sunday-school.
+Invented? Not always. It was surprising how many you could find ready
+made, if you were on the watch. I got into the habit of locating them in
+the interior of Pennsylvania as the safest place, though Jersey seemed
+equally probable to the public. Did I never get caught? That made it
+all the more lively and interesting. Denials, affidavits, elaborate
+explanations, two sides to any question; if it was too hot, I could
+change the name and shift the scene to a still more obscure town. Or it
+could be laid to the zeal of a local reporter, who could give the most
+ingenious reasons for his story. Once I worked one of those imaginary
+reporters up into such prominence for his clever astuteness that my boss
+was taken in, and asked me to send for him and give him a show on the
+paper.
+
+“Oh, yes, we have to keep up the domestic side. A paper will not go
+unless the women like it. One of the assignments I liked was 'Sayings of
+Our Little Ones.' This was for every Tuesday morning. Not more than
+half a column. These always got copied by the country press solid. It is
+really surprising how many bright things you can make children of five
+and six years say if you give your mind to it. The boss said that I
+overdid it sometimes and made them too bright instead of 'just cunning.'
+
+“'Psychological Study of Children' had a great run. This is the age of
+science. Same with animals, astronomy--anything. If the public wants
+science, the papers will give it science.
+
+“After all, the best hold for a lasting sensation is an attack upon
+some charity or public institution; show up the abuses, and get all
+the sentimentalists on your side. The paper gets sympathy for its
+fearlessness in serving the public interests. It is always easy to find
+plenty of testimony from ill-used convicts and grumbling pensioners.”
+
+Undoubtedly Olin Brad was a clever fellow, uncommonly well read in the
+surface literatures of foreign origin, and had a keen interest in what
+he called the metaphysics of his own time. He had many good qualities,
+among them friendliness towards men and women struggling like himself to
+get up the ladder, and he laid aside all jealousy when he advised Philip
+to try his hand at some practical work on the Spectrum. What puzzled
+Philip was that this fabricator of “stories” for the newspaper should
+call himself a “realist.” The “story,” it need hardly be explained, is
+newspaper slang for any incident, true or invented, that is worked up
+for dramatic effect. To state the plain facts as they occurred, or
+might have occurred, and as they could actually be seen by a competent
+observer, would not make a story. The writer must put in color, and
+idealize the scene and the people engaged in it, he must invent dramatic
+circumstances and positions and language, so as to produce a “picture.”
+ And this picture, embroidered on a commonplace incident, has got the
+name of “news.” The thread of fact in this glittering web the reader
+must pick out by his own wits, assisted by his memory of what things
+usually are. And the public likes these stories much better than the
+unadorned report of facts. It is accustomed to this view of life, so
+much so that it fancies it never knew what war was, or what a battle
+was, until the novelists began to report them.
+
+Mr. Brad was in the story stage of his evolution as a writer. His light
+facility in it had its attraction for Philip, but down deep in his
+nature he felt and the impression was deepened by watching the career of
+several bright young men and women on the press--that indulgence in it
+would result in such intellectual dishonesty as to destroy the power of
+producing fiction that should be true to life. He was so impressed by
+the ability and manifold accomplishments of Mr. Brad that he thought it
+a pity for him to travel that road, and one day he asked him why he did
+not go in for literature.
+
+“Literature!” exclaimed Mr. Brad, with some irritation; “I starved on
+literature for a year. Who does live on it, till he gets beyond the
+necessity of depending on it? There is a lot of humbug talked about it.
+You can't do anything till you get your name up. Some day I will make
+a hit, and everybody will ask, 'Who is this daring, clever Olin Brad?'
+Then I can get readers for anything I choose to write. Look at
+Champ Lawson. He can't write correct English, he never will, he uses
+picturesque words in a connection that makes you doubt if he knows what
+they mean. But he did a dare-devil thing picturesquely, and now the
+publishers are at his feet. When I met him the other day he affected
+to be bored with so much attention, and wished he had stuck to the
+livery-stable. He began at seventeen by reporting a runaway from the
+point of view of the hostler.”
+
+“Well,” said Philip, “isn't it quite in the line of the new movement
+that we should have an introspective hostler, who perhaps obeys Sir
+Philip Sidney's advice, 'Look into your heart and write'? I chanced
+the other night in a company of the unconventional and illuminated, the
+'poster' set in literature and art, wild-eyed and anaemic young women
+and intensely languid, 'nil admirari' young men, the most advanced
+products of the studios and of journalism. It was a very interesting
+conclave. Its declared motto was, 'We don't read, we write.' And
+the members were on a constant strain to say something brilliant,
+epigrammatic, original. The person who produced the most outre sentiment
+was called 'strong.' The women especially liked no writing that was not
+'strong.' The strongest man in the company, and adored by the women, was
+the poet-artist Courci Cleves, who always seems to have walked straight
+out of a fashion-plate, much deferred to in this set, which affects
+to defer to nothing, and a thing of beauty in the theatre lobbies. Mr.
+Cleves gained much applause for his well-considered wish that all
+that has been written in the world, all books and libraries, could be
+destroyed, so as to give a chance to the new men and the fresh ideas of
+the new era.”
+
+“My dear sir,” said Brad, who did not like this caricature of his
+friends, “you don't make any allowance for the eccentricities of
+genius.”
+
+“You would hit it nearer if you said I didn't make allowance for the
+eccentricities without genius,” retorted Philip.
+
+“Well,” replied Mr. Brad, taking his leave, “you don't understand your
+world. You go your own way and see where you will come out.”
+
+And when Philip reflected on it, he wondered if it were not rash to
+offend those who had the public ear, and did up the personals and minor
+criticisms for the current prints. He was evidently out of view.
+No magazine paper of his had gained the slightest notice from these
+sublimated beings, who discovered a new genius every month.
+
+A few nights after this conversation Mr. Brad was in uncommon spirits at
+dinner.
+
+“Anything special turned up?” asked Philip.
+
+“Oh, nothing much. I've thrown away the chance of the biggest kind of a
+novel of American life. Only it wouldn't keep. You look in the Spectrum
+tomorrow morning. You'll see something interesting.”
+
+“Is it a--” and Philip's incredulous expression supplied the word.
+
+“No, not a bit. And the public is going to be deceived this time, sure,
+expecting a fake. You know Mavick?”
+
+“I've heard of him--the operator, a millionaire.”
+
+“A good many times. Used to be minister or consul or something at Rome.
+A great swell. It's about his daughter, Evelyn, a stunning girl about
+sixteen or seventeen--not out yet.”
+
+“I hope it's no scandal.”
+
+“No, no; she's all right. It's the way she's brought up--shows what
+we've come to. They say she's the biggest heiress in America and
+a raving beauty, the only child. She has been brought up like the
+Kohinoor, never out of somebody's sight. She has never been alone one
+minute since she was born. Had three nurses, and it was the business of
+one of them, in turn, to keep an eye on her. Just think of that. Never
+was out of the sight of somebody in her life. Has two maids now--always
+one in the room, night and day.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Why, the parents are afraid she'll be kidnapped, and held for a big
+ransom. No, I never saw her, but I've got the thing down to a dot.
+Wouldn't I like to interview her, though, get her story, how the world
+looks to her. Under surveillance for sixteen years! The 'Prisoner of
+Chillon' is nothing to it for romance.”
+
+“Just the facts are enough, I should say.”
+
+“Yes, facts make a good basis, sometimes. I've got 'em all in, but of
+course I've worked the thing up for all it is worth. You'll see. I kept
+it one day to try and get a photograph. We've got the house and Mavick,
+but the girl's can't be found, and it isn't safe to wait. We are going
+to blow it out tomorrow morning.”
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+The Mavick mansion was on Fifth Avenue in the neighborhood of Central
+Park. It was one of the buildings in the city that strangers were always
+taken to see. In fact, this was a palace not one kind of a palace, but
+all kinds of a palace. The clever and ambitious architect of the house
+had grouped all the styles of architecture he had ever seen, or of which
+he had seen pictures. Here was not an architectural conception, like a
+sonnet or a well-constructed novel, but if all the work could have been
+spread out in line, in all its variety, there would have been produced
+a panorama. The sight of the mansion always caused wonder and generally
+ignorant admiration. Its vastness and splendor were felt to be somehow
+typical of the New World and of the cosmopolitan city.
+
+The cost, in the eyes of the spectators, was a great part of its merits.
+No doubt this was a fabulous sum. “You can form a little idea of it,”
+ said a gentleman to his country friend, “when I tell you that that
+little bit there, that little corner of carving and decoration, cost two
+hundred thousand dollars! I had this from the architect himself.”
+
+“My!”
+
+The interior was as fully representative of wealth and of the ambition
+to put under one roof all the notable effects of all the palaces in the
+world. But it had, what most palaces have not, all the requisites for
+luxurious living. The variety of styles in the rooms was bewildering.
+Artists of distinction, both foreign and native, had vied with each
+other in the decoration of the rooms given over to the display of
+their genius. All paganism and all Christianity, history, myth, and the
+beauties of nature were spread upon the walls and ceilings. Rare woods,
+rare marbles, splendid textures, the product of ancient handiwork and
+modern looms, added a certain dignity to the more airy creations of the
+artists. Many of the rooms were named from the nations whose styles
+of decoration and furnishing were imitated in them, but others had the
+simple designation of the gold room, the silver room, the lapis-lazuli
+room, and so on. It was not only the show-rooms, the halls, passages,
+stairways, and galleries (both of pictures and of curios) that were thus
+enriched, but the boudoirs, retiring-rooms, and more private apartments
+as well. It was not simply a house of luxury, but of all the comfort
+that modern invention can furnish. It was said that the money lavished
+upon one or two of the noble apartments would have built a State-house
+(though not at Albany), and that the fireplace in the great hall cost
+as much as an imitation mediaeval church. These were the things talked
+about, and yet the portions of this noble edifice, rich as they were,
+habitually occupied by the family had another character--the attractions
+and conveniences of what we call a home. Mrs. Mavick used to say that
+in her apartments she found refuge in a sublimated domesticity. Mavick's
+own quarters--not the study off the library where he received visitors
+whom it was necessary to impress--had an executive appearance, and were,
+in the necessary appliances, more like the interior bureau of a board
+of trade. In fact, the witty brokers who were admitted to its mysteries
+called it the bucket-shop.
+
+Mr. Brad's article on “A Prisoned Millionaire” more than equaled
+Philip's expectations. No such “story” had appeared in the city press
+in a long time. It was what was called, in the language of the period, a
+work of art--that is, a sensation, heightened by all the words of color
+in the language, applied not only to material things, but to states and
+qualities of mind, such as “purple emotions” and “scarlet intrepidity.”
+ It was also exceedingly complimentary. Mavick himself was one of the
+powers and pillars of American society, and the girl was an exquisite
+exhibition of woodland bloom in the first flush of spring-time. As he
+read it over, Philip thought what a fine advertisement it is to every
+impecunious noble in Europe.
+
+That morning, before going to his office, Philip strolled up Fifth
+Avenue to look at that now doubly, famous mansion. Many others, it
+appeared, were moved by the same curiosity. There was already a crowd
+assembled. A couple of policemen, on special duty, patrolled the
+sidewalk in front in order to keep a passage open, and perhaps to
+prevent a too impudent inspection. Opposite the house, on the sidewalk
+and on door-steps, was a motley throng, largely made up of toughs and
+roughs from the East Side, good-natured spectators who merely wanted to
+see this splendid prison, and a moving line of gentlemen and ladies who
+simply happened to be passing that way at this time. The curbstone was
+lined with a score of reporters of the city journals, each with his
+note-book. Every window and entrance was eagerly watched. It was hoped
+that one of the family might be seen, or that some servant might appear
+who could be interviewed. Upon the windows supposed by the reporters
+to be those from which the heiress looked, a strict watch was kept. The
+number, form, and location of these windows were accurately noted, the
+stuff of the curtains described in the phrase of the upholsterer, and
+much good language was devoted to the view from these windows. The
+shrewdest of the reporters had already sought information as to the
+interior from the flower dealers, from upholsterers, from artists who
+had been employed in the decorations, and had even assailed, in the name
+of the rights of the public whom they represented, the architects of the
+building; but their chief reliance was upon the waiters furnished by the
+leading caterers on occasions of special receptions and great dinners,
+and milliners and dress-makers, who had penetrated the more domestic
+apartments. By reason of this extraordinary article in the newspaper,
+the public had acquired the right to know all about the private life of
+the Mavick family.
+
+This right was not acknowledged by Mr. Mavick and his family. Of course
+the object of the excitement was wholly ignorant of the cause of it,
+as no daily newspaper was ever seen by her that had not been carefully
+inspected by the trusted and intelligent governess. The crowd in front
+of the mansion was accounted for by the statement that a picture of
+it had appeared in one of the low journals, and there was naturally
+a curiosity to see it. And Evelyn was told that this was one of the
+penalties a man paid for being popular.
+
+Mrs. Mavick, who seldom lost her head, was thoroughly frightened and
+upset, and it was a rare occasion that could upset the equanimity of
+the late widow, Mrs. Carmen Henderson. She gave way to her passion and
+demanded that the offending editor should be pursued with the utmost
+rigor of the law. Mr. Mavick was not less annoyed and angry, but he
+smiled when his wife talked of pursuing the press with the utmost rigor
+of the law, and said that he would give the matter prompt attention.
+That day he had an interview with the editor of the Daily Spectrum;
+which was satisfactory to both parties. The editor would have said that
+Mavick behaved like a gentleman. The result of the interview appeared in
+the newspaper of the following morning.
+
+Mr. Mavick had requested that the offending reporter should be
+cautioned; he was too wise to have further attention called to the
+matter by demanding his dismissal. Accordingly the reporter was severely
+reprimanded, and then promoted.
+
+The editorial, which was written by Mr. Olin Brad, and was in his best
+Macaulay style, began somewhat humorously by alluding to the curious
+interest of the public in ancient history, citing Mr. Froude and
+Mr. Carlyle, and the legend of Casper Hauser. It was true, gradually
+approaching the case in point, that uncommon precautions had been taken
+in the early years of the American heiress, and it was the romance of
+the situation that had been laid before the readers of the Spectrum.
+But there had been really no danger in our chivalrous, free American
+society, and all these precautions were long a thing of the past (which
+was not true). In short, with elaboration and great skill, and some
+humor, the exaggerations of the former article were minimized, and put
+in an airy and unsubstantial light. And then this friend of the people,
+this exposer of abuses and champion of virtue, turned and justly scored
+the sensational press for prying into the present life of one of the
+first families in the country.
+
+Incidentally, it was mentioned that the ladies of the family had before
+this incident bespoken their passage for their annual visit to Europe,
+and that this affair had not disturbed their arrangements (which also
+was not true). This casual announcement was intended to draw away
+attention from the Fifth Avenue house, and to notify the roughs that it
+would be useless to lay any plans.
+
+The country press, which had far and wide printed the interesting
+story, softened it in accordance with the later development. Possibly
+no intelligent person was deceived, but in the estimation of the mass
+of the people the Spectrum increased its reputation for enterprise and
+smartness and gave also an impression of its fairness. The manager,
+told Mr. Brad that the increased sales of the two days permitted the
+establishment to give him a vacation of two weeks on full pay, and
+during these weeks the manager himself set up a neat and modest
+brougham.
+
+All of which events, only partially understood, Mr. Philip Burnett
+revolved in his mind, and wondered if what was called success was worth
+the price paid for it.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+The name of Thomas Mavick has lost the prominence and significance it
+had at the time the events recorded in this history were taking place.
+It seems incredible that the public should so soon have lost interest in
+him. His position in the country was most conspicuous. No name was more
+frequently in the newspapers. No other person not in official life was
+so often interviewed. The reporters instinctively turned to him for
+information in matters financial, concerning deals, and commercial,
+which were so commonly connected with political, enterprises. No loan
+was negotiated without consulting him, no operation was considered safe
+without knowing how he was affected towards it, and to ascertain what
+Mavick was doing or thinking was a constant anxiety in the Street. Of
+course the opinion of a man so powerful was very important in politics,
+and any church or sect would be glad to have his support. The fact that
+he and his family worshiped regularly at St. Agnes's was a guarantee of
+the stability of that church, and incidentally marked the success of the
+Christian religion in the metropolis.
+
+But the condition of the presence in the public mind of the name of a
+great operator and accumulator of money who is merely that is either
+that he go on accumulating, so that the magnitude of his wealth has few
+if any rivals, or that his name become synonymous with some gigantic
+cleverness, if not rascality, so that it is used as an adjective after
+he and his wealth have disappeared from the public view. It is different
+with the reputation of an equally great financier who has used his
+ability for the service of his country. There is no Valhalla for the
+mere accumulators of money. They are fortunate if their names are
+forgotten, and not remembered as illustrations of colossal selfishness.
+
+Mavick may have been the ideal of many a self-made man, but he did
+not make his fortune--he married it. And it was suspected that the
+circumstances attending that marriage put him in complete control of it.
+He came into possession, however, with cultivated shrewdness and tact
+and large knowledge of the world, the world of diplomacy as well as of
+business. And under his manipulation the vast fortune so acquired was
+reported to have been doubled. It was at any rate almost fabulous in the
+public estimation.
+
+When the charming widow of the late Rodney Henderson, then sojourning in
+Rome, placed her attractive self and her still more attractive fortune
+in the hands of Mr. Thomas Mavick, United States Minister to the Court
+of Italy, she attained a position in the social world which was in
+accord with her ambition, and Mavick acquired the means of making the
+mission, in point of comparison with the missions of the other powers
+at the Italian capital, a credit to the Great Republic. The match was
+therefore a brilliant one, and had a sort of national importance.
+
+Those who knew Mrs. Mavick in the remote past, when she was the
+fascinating and not definitely placed Carmen Eschelle, and who also knew
+Mr. Mavick when he was the confidential agent of Rodney Henderson, knew
+that their union was a convenient and material alliance, in which the
+desire of each party to enjoy in freedom all the pleasures of the world
+could be gratified while retaining the social consideration of the
+world. Both had always been circumspect. And it may be added, for the
+information of strangers, that they thoroughly knew each other, and were
+participants in a knowledge that put each at disadvantage, so that their
+wedded life was a permanent truce. This bond of union was not ideal, and
+not the best for the creation of individual character, but it avoided an
+exhibition of those public antagonisms which so grieve and disturb the
+even flow of the current of society, and give occasion to so much witty
+comment on the institution of marriage itself.
+
+When, some two years after Mr. Mavick relinquished the mission to Italy
+to another statesman who had done some service to the opposite party,
+an heiress was born to the house of Mavick, her appearance in the
+world occasioned some disappointment to those who had caused it.
+Mavick naturally wished a son to inherit his name and enlarge the gold
+foundation upon which its perpetuity must rest; and Mrs. Mavick as
+naturally shrank from a responsibility that promised to curtail freedom
+of action in the life she loved. Carmen--it was an old saying of the
+danglers in the time of Henderson--was a domestic woman except in her
+own home.
+
+However, it is one of the privileges of wealth to lighten the cares
+and duties of maternity, and the enlarged household was arranged upon a
+basis that did not interfere with the life of fashion and the charitable
+engagements of the mother. Indeed, this adaptable woman soon found that
+she had become an object of more than usual interest, by her latest
+exploit, in the circles in which she moved, and her softened manner and
+edifying conversation showed that she appreciated her position. Even
+the McTavishes, who were inclined to be skeptical, said that Carmen was
+delightful in her new role. This showed that the information Mrs. Mavick
+got from the women who took care of her baby was of a kind to touch the
+hearts of mothers and spinsters.
+
+Moreover, the child was very pretty, and early had winning ways. The
+nurse, before the baby was a year old, discovered in her the cleverness
+of the father and the grace and fascination of the mother. And it must
+be said that, if she did not excite passionate affection at first, she
+enlisted paternal and maternal pride in her career. It dawned upon both
+parents that a daughter might give less cause for anxiety than a son,
+and that in an heiress there were possibilities of an alliance that
+would give great social distinction. Considering, therefore, all that
+she represented, and the settled conviction of Mrs. Mavick that she
+would be the sole inheritor of the fortune, her safety and education
+became objects of the greatest anxiety and precaution.
+
+It happened that about the time Evelyn was christened there was a
+sort of epidemic of stealing children, and of attempts to rob tombs of
+occupants who had died rich or distinguished, in the expectation of
+a ransom. The newspapers often chronicled mysterious disappearances;
+parents whose names were conspicuous suffered great anxiety, and
+extraordinary precautions were taken in regard to the tombs of public
+men. And this was the reason that the heiress of the house of Mavick
+became the object of a watchful vigilance that was probably never before
+exercised in a republic, and that could only be paralleled in the case
+of a sole heir-apparent of royalty.
+
+These circumstances resulted in an interference with the laws of nature
+which it must be confessed destroyed one of the most interesting studies
+in heredity that was ever offered to an historian of social life. What
+sort of a child had we a right to expect from Thomas Mavick, diplomatist
+and operator, successor to the rights and wrongs of Rodney Henderson,
+and Carmen Mavick, with the past of Carmen Eschelle and Mrs. Henderson?
+Those who adhered to the strictest application of heredity, in
+considering the natural development of Evelyn Mavick, sought refuge
+in the physiological problem of the influence of Rodney Henderson, and
+declared that something of his New England sturdiness and fundamental
+veracity had been imparted to the inheritor of his great fortune.
+
+But the visible interference took the form of Ann McDonald, a Scotch
+spinster, to whom was intrusted the care of Evelyn as soon as she was
+christened. It was merely a piece of good fortune that brought a person
+of the qualifications of Ann McDonald into the family, for it is not to
+be supposed that Mrs. Mavick had given any thought to the truth that
+the important education of a child begins in its cradle, or that in
+selecting a care-taker and companion who should later on be a governess
+she was consulting her own desire of freedom from the duties of a
+mother. It was enough for her that the applicant for the position had
+the highest recommendations, that she was prepossessing in appearance,
+and it was soon perceived that the guardian was truthful, faithful,
+vigilant, and of an affectionate disposition and an innate refinement.
+
+Ann McDonald was the only daughter of a clergyman of the Scotch Church,
+and brought up in the literary atmosphere common in the most cultivated
+Edinburgh homes. She had been accurately educated, and always with the
+knowledge that her education might be her capital in life. After the
+death of her mother, when she was nineteen, she had been her father's
+housekeeper, and when in her twenty-fourth year her father relinquished
+his life and his salary, she decided, under the advice of influential
+friends, to try her fortune in America. And she never doubted that it
+was a providential guidance that brought her into intimate relations
+with the infant heiress. It seemed probable that a woman so attractive
+and so solidly accomplished would not very long remain a governess, but
+in fact her career was chosen from the moment she became interested in
+the development of the mind and character of the child intrusted to her
+care. It is difficult to see how our modern life would go on as well as
+it does if there were not in our homes a good many such faithful souls.
+It sometimes seems, in this shifting world, that about the best any of
+us can do is to prepare some one else for doing something well.
+
+Miss McDonald had a pretty comprehensive knowledge of English literature
+and history, and, better perhaps than mere knowledge, a discriminating
+and cultivated taste. If her religious education had twisted her view
+of the fine arts, she had nevertheless a natural sympathy for the
+beautiful, and she would not have been a Scotchwoman if she had not
+had a love for the romances of her native land and at heart a “ballad”
+ sentiment for the cavaliers. If Evelyn had been educated by her in
+Edinburgh, she might have been in sentiment a young Jacobite. She had
+through translations a sufficient knowledge of the classics to give her
+the necessary literary background, and her study of Latin had led her
+into the more useful acquisition of French.
+
+If she had been free to indulge her own taste, she would have gone far
+in natural history, as was evident from her mastery of botany and her
+interest in birds.
+
+She inspired so much confidence by her good sense, clear-headedness, and
+discretion, that almost from the first Evelyn was confided to her sole
+care, with only the direction that the baby was never for an instant,
+night or day, to be left out of the sight of a trusty attendant. The
+nurse was absolutely under her orders, she selected the two maids, and
+no person except the parents and the governess could admit visitors to
+the nursery. This perfect organization was maintained for many years,
+and though it came to be relaxed in details, it was literally true that
+the heiress was never alone, and never out of the sight of some
+trusted person responsible for her safety. But whatever the changes or
+relaxation, in holidays, amusements, travel, or education, the person
+who formed her mind was the one who had taught her to obey, to put words
+together into language, and to speak the truth, from infancy.
+
+It is not necessary to consider Ann McDonald as a paragon. She was
+simply an intelligent, disciplined woman, with a strong sense of duty.
+If she had married and gone about the ordinary duties of life at the
+age of twenty-four, she would probably have been in no marked way
+distinguished among women. Her own development was largely due to the
+responsibility that was put upon her in the training of another person.
+In this sense it was true that she had learned as much as she had
+imparted. And in nothing was this more evident than in the range of her
+literary taste and judgment. Whatever risks, whatever latitude she might
+have been disposed to take with regard to her own mind, she would not
+take as to the mind of another, and as a consequence her own standards
+rose to meet the situation. That is to say, in a conscientious selection
+of only the best for Evelyn, she became more fastidious as to the food
+for her own mind. Or, to put it in still another way, in regard to
+character and culture generally, the growth of Miss McDonald could be
+measured by that of Evelyn.
+
+When, from the time Evelyn was seven years old, it became necessary
+in her education to call in special tutors in the languages and
+in mathematics, and in certain arts that are generally called
+accomplishments, Miss McDonald was always present when the lessons were
+given, so that she maintained her ascendency and her influence in the
+girl's mind. It was this inseparable companionship, at least in all
+affairs of the mind, that gave to this educational experiment an
+exceptional interest to students of psychology. Nothing could be more
+interesting than to come into contact with a mind that from infancy
+onward had dwelt only upon what is noblest in literature, and from which
+had been excluded all that is enervating and degrading. A remarkable
+illustration of this is the familiar case of Helen Keller, whose
+acquisitions, by reason of her blindness and deafness, were limited to
+what was selected for her, and that mainly by one person, and she was
+therefore for a long time shielded from a knowledge of the evil side of
+life. Yet all vital literature is so close to life, and so full of its
+passion and peril, that it supplies all the necessary aliment for the
+growth of a sound, discriminating mind; and that knowledge of the world,
+as knowledge of evil is euphemistically called, can be safely left
+out of a good education. This may be admitted without going into the
+discussion whether good principles and standards in literature and
+morals are a sufficient equipment for the perils of life.
+
+This experiment, of course, was limited in Evelyn's case. She came
+in contact with a great deal of life. Her little world was fairly
+representative, for it contained her father, her mother, her governess,
+the maids and the servants, and occasional visitors, whom she saw freely
+as she grew older. The interesting fact was that she was obliged to
+judge this world according to the standards of literature, morals, and
+manners that had been implanted in her mainly by the influence of one
+person. The important part of this experiment of partial exclusion,
+in which she was never alone' an experiment undertaken solely for
+her safety and not for her training-was seen in her when she became
+conscious of its abnormal character, and perceived that she was always
+under surveillance. It might have made her exceedingly morbid,
+aside from its effect of paralyzing her self-confidence and power of
+initiation, had it not been for the exceptionally strong and cheerful
+nature of her companion. A position more hateful, even to a person not
+specially socially inclined, cannot be imagined than that of always
+being watched, and never having any assured privacy. And under such a
+tutelage and dependence, how in any event could she be able to take care
+of herself? What weapons had this heiress of a great fortune with
+which to defend herself? What sort of a girl had this treatment during
+seventeen years produced?
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+To the private apartment of Mr. Mavick, in the evening of the second
+eventful day, where, over his after-dinner cigar, he was amusing himself
+with a French novel, enters, after a little warning tap, the mistress of
+the house, for, what was a rare occurrence, a little family chat.
+
+“So you didn't horsewhip and you didn't prosecute. You preferred to
+wriggle out!”
+
+“Yes,” said Mavick, too much pleased with the result to be belligerent,
+“I let the newspaper do the wriggling.”
+
+“Oh, my dear, I can trust you for that. Have you any idea how it got
+hold of the details?”
+
+“No; you don't think McDonald--”
+
+“McDonald! I'd as soon suspect myself. So would you.”
+
+“Well, everybody knew it already, for that matter. I only wonder that
+some newspaper didn't get on to it before. What did Evelyn say?”
+
+“Nothing more than what you heard at dinner. She thought it amusing
+that there should be such a crowd to gaze at the house, simply because
+a picture of it had appeared in a newspaper. She thought her father must
+be a very important personage. I didn't undeceive her. At times, you
+know, dear, I think so myself.”
+
+“Yes, I've noticed that,” said Mavick, with a good-natured laugh, in
+which Carmen joined, “and those times usually coincide with the times
+that you want something specially.”
+
+“You ought to be ashamed to take me up that way. I just wanted to talk
+about the coming-out reception. You know I had come over to your opinion
+that seventeen was perhaps better than eighteen, considering Evelyn's
+maturity. When I was seventeen I was just as good as I am now.”
+
+“I don't doubt it,” said Mavick, with another laugh.
+
+“But don't you see this affair upsets all our arrangements? It's very
+vexatious.”
+
+“I don't see it exactly. By-the-way, what do you think of the escape
+suggested by the Spectrum, in the assertion that you and Evelyn had
+arranged to go to Europe? The steamer sails tomorrow.”
+
+“Think!” exclaimed Carmen. “Do you think I am going to be run, as you
+call it, by the newspapers? They run everything else. I'm not politics,
+I'm not an institution, I'm not even a revolution. No, I thank you. It
+answers my purpose for them to say we have gone.”
+
+“I suppose you can keep indoors a few days. As to the reception, I
+had arranged my business for it. I may be in Mexico or Honolulu the
+following winter.”
+
+“Well, we can't have it now. You see that.”
+
+“Carmen, I don't care a rap what the public thinks or says. The child's
+got to face the world some time, and look out for herself. I fancy she
+will not like it as much as you did.”
+
+“Very likely. Perhaps I liked it because I had to fight it. Evelyn never
+will do that.”
+
+“She hasn't the least idea what the world is like.”
+
+“Don't you be too sure of that, my dear; you don't understand yet what
+a woman feels and knows. You think she only sees and thinks what she is
+told. The conceit of men is most amusing about this. Evelyn is deeper
+than you think. The discrimination of that child sometimes positively
+frightens me--how she sees into things. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if
+she actually knew her father and mother!”
+
+“Then she beats me,” said Mavick, with another laugh, “and I've been at
+it a long time. Carmen, just for fun, tell me a little about your early
+life.”
+
+“Well”--there was a Madonna-like smile on her lips, and she put out the
+toe of her slender foot and appeared to study it for a moment--“I was
+intended to be a nun.”
+
+“Spanish or French?”
+
+“Just a plain nun. But mamma would not hear of it. Mamma was just a bit
+worldly.”
+
+“I never should have suspected it,” said Mavick, with equal gravity.
+“But how did you live in those early days, way back there?”
+
+“Oh!” and Carmen looked up with the most innocent, open-eyed expression,
+“we lived on our income.”
+
+“Naturally. We all try to do that.” The tone in Mavick's voice showed
+that he gave it up.
+
+“But, of course,” and Carmen was lively again, “it's much nicer to have
+a big income that's certain than a small one that is uncertain.”
+
+“It would seem so.”
+
+“Ah, deary me, it's such a world! Don't you think, dear, that we have
+had enough domestic notoriety for one year?”
+
+“Quite. It would do for several.”
+
+“And we will put it off a year?”
+
+“Arrange as you like.” And Mavick stretched up his arms, half yawned,
+and took up another cigar.
+
+“It will be such a relief to McDonald. She insisted it was too soon.”
+ And Carmen whirled out of her chair, went behind her husband, lifted
+with her delicate fingers a lock of grayish hair on his forehead,
+deposited the lightest kiss there--“Nobody in the world knows how good
+you are except me,” and was gone.
+
+And the rich man, who had gained everything he wanted in life except
+happiness, lighted his cigar and sought refuge in a tale of modern life,
+that was, however, too much like his own history to be consoling.
+
+It must not be supposed from what she said that Mrs. Mavick stood in
+fear of her daughter, but it was only natural that for a woman of the
+world the daily contact of a pure mind should be at times inconvenient.
+This pure mind was an awful touchstone of conduct, and there was a fear
+that Evelyn's ignorance of life would prevent her from making the proper
+allowances. In her affectionate and trusting nature, which suspected
+little evil anywhere, there was no doubt that her father and mother had
+her entire confidence and love. But the likelihood was that she would
+not be pliant. Under Miss McDonald's influence she had somewhat abstract
+notions of what is right and wrong, and she saw no reason why these
+should not be applied in all cases. What her mother would have called
+policy and reasonable concessions she would have given different names.
+For getting on in the world, this state of mind has its disadvantages,
+and in the opinion of practical men, like Mavick, it was necessary to
+know good and evil. But it was the girl's power of discernment that
+bothered her mother, who used often to wonder where the child came from.
+
+On the other hand, it must not be supposed that the singular training of
+Evelyn had absolutely destroyed her inherited tendencies, or made her as
+she was growing into womanhood anything but a very real woman, with the
+reserves, the weaknesses, the coquetries, the defenses which are the
+charm of her sex. Nor was she so ignorant of life as such a guarded
+personality might be thought. Her very wide range of reading had
+liberalized her mind, and given her a much wider outlook upon the
+struggles and passions and failures and misery of life than many another
+girl of her age had gained by her limited personal experience. Those who
+hold the theory that experience is the only guide are right as a matter
+of fact, since every soul seems determined to try for itself and not to
+accept the accumulated wisdom of literature or of experienced advisers;
+but those who come safely out of their experiences are generally sound
+by principle which has been instilled in youth. But it is useless to
+moralize. Only the event could show whether such an abnormal training as
+Evelyn had received was wise.
+
+When Mrs. Mavick went to her daughter's apartments she found Evelyn
+reading aloud and Miss McDonald at work on an elaborate piece of
+Bulgarian embroidery.
+
+“How industrious! What a rebuke to me!”
+
+“I don't see, mamma, how we could be doing less; I've only an audience
+of one, and she is wasting her time.”
+
+“Well, carissima, it is settled. It's off for a year.”
+
+“The reception? Why so?”
+
+“Your father cannot arrange it. He has too much on hand this season, and
+may be away.”
+
+“There, McDonald, we've got a reprieve,” and Evelyn gave a sigh of
+relief.
+
+The Scotch woman smiled, and only said, “Then I shall have time to
+finish this.”
+
+Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother's lap, and began to
+smooth her hair and pet her. “I'm awfully glad. I'd ever so much rather
+stay in than come out. Yes, dear little mother.”
+
+“Little?”
+
+“Yes.” And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her stand
+up to measure. “See, McDonald, almost an inch taller than mamma, and
+when I do my hair on top!”
+
+“And see, mamma”--the girl was pirouetting on the floor--“I can do those
+steps you do. Isn't it Spanish?”
+
+“Rather Spanish-American, I guess. This is the way.”
+
+Evelyn clapped her hands. “Isn't that lovely!”
+
+“You are only a little brownie, after all.” Her mother was holding her
+at arm's--length and studying her critically, wondering if she would
+ever be handsome.
+
+The girl was slender, but not tall. Her figure had her mother's grace,
+but not its suggestion of yielding suppleness. She was an undoubted
+brunette--complexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in the
+sunlight, and low on her forehead-chin a little strong, and nose piquant
+to say the least of it. Certainly features not regular nor classic. The
+mouth, larger than her mother's, had full lips, the upper one short, and
+admirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled. A
+face not handsome, but interesting. And the eyes made you hesitate
+to say she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel and
+changeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness under
+the long eyelashes; and it would not be safe to say that they could not
+blaze with indignation. Not a face to go wild about, but when you felt
+her character through it, a face very winning in its dark virgin purity.
+
+“I do wonder where she came from?” Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself,
+as she threw herself upon a couch in her own room and took up the latest
+Spanish novel.
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the
+days when they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field. And
+a fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a
+woman in whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if
+her advice was not always followed. In the years of student life
+and preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and
+painstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the running
+chronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations.
+Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most
+important part of his education. For, though in this way he might never
+hope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge of
+himself.
+
+As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhat
+uncertain. She kept before him a very high ideal; she expected him to be
+distinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time.
+Now she would have him take one path and now another. And Philip learned
+to read in this varying advice the changes in her own experience. There
+was a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar: there was no
+position so noble as that of a university professor or president. Then
+she turned short round and extolled the business life: get money, get a
+position, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like
+and be independent. Then came a time--this was her last year in
+college--when science seemed the only thing. That was really a benefit
+to mankind: create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.
+
+“Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, the
+necessity of pure air, you would deserve a monument. And, besides--this
+is an appeal to your lower nature--science is now the thing that pays.”
+ Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in its
+direction. Law she had finally approved; it was still respectable; it
+was a very good waiting-ground for many opportunities, and it did not
+absolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had a
+sneaking fondness.
+
+Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself. She
+had tried teaching, she had devoted herself for a time to work in a
+College Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked of
+learning telegraphy, she had been interested in women's clubs, in a
+civic club, in the political education of women, and was now a professor
+of economics in a girl's college.
+
+It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, in
+one of the old ruts, feeling his way, like a true American, into the
+career that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakened
+American woman, who does not know exactly what she wants. To be sure,
+she wants everything. She has recently come into an open place, and she
+is distracted by the many opportunities. She has no sooner taken up
+one than she sees another that seems better, or more important in the
+development of her sex, and she flies to that. But nothing, long, seems
+the best thing. Perhaps men are in the way, monopolizing all the best
+things. Celia had never made a suggestion of this kind, but Philip
+thought she was typical of the women who push individualism so far as
+never to take a dual view of life.
+
+“I have just been,” Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was
+an active club woman, “out West to a convention of the Federation of
+Women's Clubs. Such a striking collection of noble, independent women!
+Handsome, lots of them, and dressed--oh, my friend, dress is still a
+part of it! So different from a man's convention! Cranks? Yes, a few
+left over. It was a fine, inspiring meeting. But, honestly, I could not
+exactly make out what they were federating about, and what they were
+going to do when they got federated. It sort of came over me, I am such
+a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in this world with
+no object except the doing of it.”
+
+A more recent letter:--“Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep
+the little thread-and-needle and candy shop in Rivervale? Such a dear,
+sweet, contented old soul! Always a smile and a good word for every
+customer. I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy in
+the dish that she could afford to give for a little fellow's cent. It
+never came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in the
+world. I remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her. Well, I
+am getting into a frame of mind to want to be an Aunt Hepsy. There is
+so much sawdust in everything--No, I'm not low-spirited. I'm just
+philosophical--I've a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let the
+world see what a real useful life is.”
+
+And here is a passage from the latest:--“What an interesting story your
+friend--I hope he isn't you friend, for I don't half like him--has made
+out of that Mavick girl! If I were the girl's mother I should want to
+roast him over the coals. Is there any truth in it?
+
+“Of course I read it, as everybody did and read the crawl out, and
+looked for more. So it is partly our fault, but what a shame it is,
+the invasion of family life! Do tell me, if you happen to see her--the
+girl--driving in the Park or anywhere--of course you never will--what
+she looks like. I should like to see an unsophisticated millionaire-ess!
+But it is an awfully interesting problem, invented or not I'm pretty
+deep in psychology these days, and I'd give anything to come in contact
+with that girl. You would just see a woman, and you wouldn't know. I'd
+see a soul. Dear me, if I'd only had the chance of that Scotch woman!
+Don't you see, if we could only get to really know one mind and soul, we
+should know it all. I mean scientifically. I know what you are thinking,
+that all women have that chance. What you think is impertinent--to the
+subject.”
+
+Indeed, the story of Evelyn interested everybody. It was taken up
+seriously in the country regions. It absorbed New York gossip for two
+days, and then another topic took possession of the mercurial city; but
+it was the sort of event to take possession of the country mind. New
+York millionaires get more than their share of attention in the country
+press at all times, but this romance became the subject of household
+talk and church and sewing-circle gossip, and all the women were eager
+for more details, and speculated endlessly about the possible character
+and career of the girl.
+
+Alice wrote Philip from Rivervale that her aunt Patience was very much
+excited by it. “'The poor thing,' she said, 'always to have somebody
+poking round, seeing every blessed thing you do or don't do; it would
+drive me crazy. There is that comfort in not having anything much--you
+have yourself. You tell Philip that I hope he doesn't go there often.
+I've no objection to his being kind to the poor thing when they meet,
+and doing neighborly things, but I do hope he won't get mixed up with
+that set.' It is very amusing,” Alice continued, “to hear Patience
+soliloquize about it and construct the whole drama.
+
+“But you cannot say, Philip, that you are not warned (!) and you know
+that Patience is almost a prophet in the way she has of putting things
+together. Celia was here recently looking after the little house that
+has been rented ever since the death of her mother. I never saw her look
+so well and handsome, and yet there was a sort of air about her as if
+she had been in public a good deal and was quite capable of taking care
+of herself. But she was that way when she was little.
+
+“I think she is a good friend of yours. Well, Phil, if you do ever
+happen to see that Evelyn in the opera, or anywhere, tell me how she
+looks and what she has on--if you can.”
+
+The story had not specially interested Philip, except as it was
+connected with Brad's newspaper prospects, but letters, like those
+referred to, received from time to time, began to arouse a personal
+interest. Of course merely a psychological interest, though the talk
+here and there at dinner-tables stimulated his desire, at least, to see
+the subject of them. But in this respect he was to be gratified, in the
+usual way things desired happen in life--that is, by taking pains to
+bring them about.
+
+When Mr. Brad came back from his vacation his manner had somewhat
+changed. He had the air of a person who stands on firm ground. He felt
+that he was a personage. He betrayed this in a certain deliberation of
+speech, as if any remark from him now might be important. In a way he
+felt himself related to public affairs.
+
+In short, he had exchanged the curiosity of the reporter for the
+omniscience of the editor. And for a time Philip was restrained from
+intruding the subject of the Mavick sensation. However, one day after
+dinner he ventured:
+
+“I see, Mr. Brad, that your hit still attracts attention.” Mr. Brad
+looked inquiringly blank.
+
+“I mean about the millionaire heiress. It has excited a wide interest.”
+
+“Ah, that! Yes, it gave me a chance,” replied Brad, who was thinking
+only of himself.
+
+“I've had several letters about it from the country.”
+
+“Yes? Well, I suppose,” said Brad, modestly, “that a little country
+notoriety doesn't hurt a person.”
+
+Philip did not tell his interlocutor that, so far as he knew, nobody in
+the country had ever heard the name of Olin Brad, or knew there was such
+a person in existence. But he went on:
+
+“Certainly. And, besides, there is a great curiosity to know about the
+girl. Did you ever see her?”
+
+“Only in public. I don't know Mavick personally, and for reasons,” and
+Mr. Brad laughed in a superior manner. “It's easy enough to see her.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Watch out for a Wagner night, and go to the opera. You'll see where
+Mavick's box is in the bill. She is pretty sure to be there, and her
+mother. There is nothing special about her; but her mother is still
+a very fascinating woman, I can tell you. You'll find her sure on a
+'Carmen' night, but not so sure of the girl.”
+
+On this suggestion Philip promptly acted. The extra expense of an
+orchestra seat he put down to his duty to keep his family informed of
+anything that interested them in the city. It was a “Siegfried” night,
+and a full house. To describe it all would be very interesting to Alice.
+The Mavick box was empty until the overture was half through. Then
+appeared a gentleman who looked as if he were performing a public duty,
+a lady who looked as if she were receiving a public welcome, and seated
+between them a dark, slender girl, who looked as if she did not see the
+public at all, but only the orchestra.
+
+Behind them, in the shadow, a middle-aged woman in plainer attire. It
+must be the Scotch governess. Mrs. Mavick had her eyes everywhere about
+the house, and was graciously bowing to her friends. Mr. Mavick coolly
+and unsympathetically regarded the house, quite conscious of it, but
+as if he were a little bored. You could not see him without being aware
+that he was thinking of other things, probably of far-reaching schemes.
+People always used to say of Mavick, when he was young and a clerk in a
+Washington bureau, that he looked omniscient. At least the imagination
+of spectators invested him with a golden hue, and regarded him through
+the roseate atmosphere that surrounds a many-millioned man. The girl had
+her eyes always on the orchestra, and was waiting for the opening of
+the world that lay behind the drop-curtain. Philip noticed that all the
+evening Mrs. Mavick paid very little attention to the stage, except when
+the rest of the house was so dark that she could distinguish little in
+it.
+
+Fortunately for Philip, in his character of country reporter, the Mavick
+box was near the stage, and he could very well see what was going on
+in it, without wholly distracting his attention from Wagner's sometimes
+very dimly illuminated creation.
+
+There are faces and figures that compel universal attention and
+admiration. Commonly there is one woman in a theatre at whom all glances
+are leveled. It is a mystery why one face makes only an individual
+appeal, and an appeal much stronger than that of one universally
+admired. The house certainly concerned itself very little about the shy
+and dark heiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a
+moment's curiosity. But the face instantly took hold of Philip. He found
+it more interesting to read the play in her face than on the stage. He
+seemed instantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with
+her. So intense was his regard that it seemed as if she must, if there
+is anything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling,
+have been conscious of it. That she was, however, unconscious of any
+influence reaching her except from the stage was perfectly evident.
+She was absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost in
+darkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence that
+there was at least animal life responsive to the continual pleading,
+suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra. In the semi-gloom
+and groping of the under-world, it would seem that the girl felt that
+mystery of life which the instruments were trying to interpret.
+
+At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that other
+world of the past, to a practical unconsciousness of her immediate
+surroundings. Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her? Perhaps
+only the latter, for it is Wagner's gift to reach by his creations
+those who have little technical knowledge of music. At any rate, she was
+absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the drama repeated in her
+face that Philip, always with the help of the orchestra, could trace it
+there.
+
+But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student
+of her face. She was not merely discovering the poet's world, she was
+finding out herself. As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interested
+in this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation.
+To see her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow with enthusiasm during the
+sword-song was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried began
+his idyl, that nature and bird song of the awakening of the whole being
+to the passion of love. Then it was that Evelyn's face had a look
+of surprise, of pain, of profound disturbance; it was suffused with
+blushes, coming and going in passionate emotion; the eyes no longer
+blazed, but were softened in a melting tenderness of sympathy, and her
+whole person seemed to be carried into the stream of the great life
+passion. When it ceased she sank back in her seat, and blushed still
+more, as if in fear that some one had discovered her secret.
+
+Afterwards, when Philip had an opportunity of knowing Evelyn Mavick, and
+knowing her very well, and to some extent having her confidence, he used
+to say to himself that he had little to learn--the soul of the woman was
+perfectly revealed to him that night of “Siegfried.”
+
+As the curtain went down, Mrs. Mavick, whose attention had not been
+specially given to the artists before, was clapping her hands in a great
+state of excitement.
+
+“Why don't you applaud, child?”
+
+“Oh, mother,” was all the girl could say, with heaving breast and
+downcast eyes.
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+All winter long that face seemed to get between Philip and his work. It
+was an inspiration to his pen when it ran in the way of literature,
+but a distinct damage to progress in his profession. He had seen Evelyn
+again, more than once, at the opera, and twice been excited by a passing
+glimpse of her on a crisp, sunny afternoon in the Mavick carriage in
+the Park-always the same bright, eager face. So vividly personal was
+the influence upon him that it seemed impossible that she should not be
+aware of it--impossible that she could not know there was such a person
+in the world as Philip Burnett.
+
+Fortunately youth can create its own world. Between the secluded
+daughter of millions and the law clerk was a great gulf, but this did
+not prevent Evelyn's face, and, in moments of vanity, Evelyn herself,
+from belonging to Philip's world. He would have denied--we have a habit
+of lying to ourselves quite as much as to others--that he ever dreamed
+of possessing her, but nevertheless she entered into his thoughts and
+his future in a very curious way. If he saw himself a successful lawyer,
+her image appeared beside him. If his story should gain the public
+attention, and his occasional essays come to be talked of, it was
+Evelyn's interest and approval that he caught himself thinking about.
+And he had a conviction that she was one to be much more interested
+in him as a man of letters than as a lawyer. This might be true. In
+Philip's story, which was very slowly maturing, the heroine fell in love
+with a young man simply for himself, and regardless of the fact that he
+was poor and had his career to make. But he knew that if his novel ever
+got published the critics would call it a romance, and not a transcript
+of real life. Had not women ceased to be romantic and ceased to indulge
+in vagaries of affection?
+
+Was it that Philip was too irresolute to cut either law or literature,
+and go in, single-minded, for a fortune of some kind, and a place? Or
+was it merely that he had confidence in the winning character of his
+own qualities and was biding his time? If it was a question of making
+himself acceptable to a woman--say a woman like Evelyn--was it not
+belittling to his own nature to plan to win her by what he could make
+rather than by what he was?
+
+Probably the vision he had of Evelyn counted for very little in his
+halting decision. “Why don't you put her into a novel?” asked Mr. Brad
+one evening. The suggestion was a shock. Philip conveyed the idea pretty
+plainly that he hadn't got so low as that yet. “Ah, you fellows think
+you must make your own material. You are higher-toned than old Dante.”
+ The fact was that Philip was not really halting. Every day he was
+less and less in love with the law as it was practiced, and, courting
+reputation, he would much rather be a great author than a great lawyer.
+But he kept such thoughts to himself. He had inherited a very good stock
+of common-sense. Apparently he devoted himself to his office work, and
+about the occupation of his leisure hours no one was in his confidence
+except Celia, and now and then, when he got something into print, Alice.
+Professedly Celia was his critic, but really she was the necessary
+appreciator, for probably most writers would come to a standstill if
+there was no sympathetic soul to whom they could communicate, while they
+were fresh, the teeming fancies of their brains.
+
+The winter wore along without any incident worth recording, but still
+fruitful for the future, as Philip fondly hoped. And one day chance
+threw in his way another sensation. Late in the afternoon of a spring
+day he was sent from the office to Mavick's house with a bundle of
+papers to be examined and signed.
+
+“You will be pretty sure to find him,” said Mr. Sharp, “at home about
+six. Wait till you do see him. The papers must be signed and go to
+Washington by the night mail.”
+
+Mr. Mavick was in his study, and received Philip very civilly, as the
+messenger of his lawyers, and was soon busy in examining the documents,
+flinging now and then a short question to Philip, who sat at the table
+near him.
+
+Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and, not waiting for a summons, a
+young girl entered, and stopped after a couple of steps.
+
+“Oh, I didn't know--”
+
+“What is it, dear?” said Mr. Mavick, looking up a moment, and then down
+at the papers.
+
+“Why, about the coachman's baby. I thought perhaps--” She had a paper in
+her hand, and advanced towards the table, and then stopped, seeing that
+her father was not alone.
+
+Philip rose involuntarily. Mr. Mavick looked up quickly. “Yes,
+presently. I've just now got a little business with Mr. Burnett.”
+
+It was not an introduction. But for an instant the eyes of the young
+people met. It seemed to Philip that it was a recognition. Certainly the
+full, sweet eyes were bent on him for the second she stood there, before
+turning away and leaving the room. And she looked just as true and sweet
+as Philip dreamed she would look at home. He sat in a kind of maze
+for the quarter of an hour while Mavick was affixing his signature and
+giving some directions. He heard all the directions, and carried away
+the papers, but he also carried away something else unknown to the
+broker. After all, he found himself reflecting, as he walked down the
+avenue, the practice of the law has its good moments!
+
+What was there in this trivial incident that so magnified it in
+Philip's mind, day after day? Was it that he began to feel that he had
+established a personal relation with Evelyn because she had seen him?
+Nothing had really happened. Perhaps she had not heard his name, perhaps
+she did not carry the faintest image of him out of the room with her.
+Philip had read in romances of love at first sight, and he had personal
+experience of it. Commonly, in romances, the woman gives no sign of it,
+does not admit it to herself, denies it in her words and in her conduct,
+and never owns it until the final surrender. “When was the first moment
+you began to love me, dear?” “Why, the first moment, that day; didn't
+you know it then?” This we are led to believe is common experience with
+the shy and secretive sex. It is enough, in a thousand reported cases,
+that he passed her window on horseback, and happened to look her way.
+But with such a look! The mischief was done. But this foundation was too
+slight for Philip to build such a hope on.
+
+Looking back, we like to trace great results to insignificant, momentary
+incidents--a glance, a word, that turned the current of a life. There
+was a definite moment when the thought came to Alexander that he
+would conquer the world! Probably there was no such moment. The great
+Alexander was restless, and at no initial instant did he conceive his
+scheme of conquest. Nor was it one event that set him in motion. We
+confound events with causes. It happened on such a day. Yes, but it
+might have happened on another. But if Philip had not been sent on that
+errand to Mavick probably Evelyn would never have met him. What
+nonsense this is, and what an unheroic character it makes Philip! Is it
+supposable that, with such a romance as he had developed about the girl,
+he would not some time have come near her, even if she had been locked
+up with all the bars and bolts of a safety deposit?
+
+The incident of this momentary meeting was, however, of great
+consequence. There is no such feeder of love as the imagination. And
+fortunate it was for Philip that his romance was left to grow in the
+wonder-working process of his own mind. At first there had been merely
+a curiosity in regard to a person whose history and education had been
+peculiar. Then the sight of her had raised a strange tumult in his
+breast, and his fancy began to play about her image, seen only at a
+distance and not many times, until his imagination built up a being of
+surpassing loveliness, and endowed with all the attractions that the
+poets in all ages have given to the sex that inspires them. But this
+sort of creation in the mind becomes vague, and related to literature
+only, unless it is sustained by some reality. Even Petrarch must
+occasionally see Laura at the church door, and dwell upon the veiled
+dreamer that passed and perhaps paused a moment to regard him with sad
+eyes. Philip, no doubt, nursed a genuine passion, which grew into an
+exquisite ideal in the brooding of a poetic mind, but it might in
+time have evaporated into thin air, remaining only as an emotional and
+educational experience. But this moment in Mr. Mavick's library had
+given a solid body to his imaginations, and a more definite turn to his
+thought of her.
+
+If, in some ordinary social chance, Philip had encountered the heiress,
+without this previous wonderworking of his imagination in regard to
+her, the probability is that he would have seen nothing especially to
+distinguish her from the other girls of her age and newness in social
+experience. Certainly the thought that she was the possessor of
+uncounted millions would have been, on his side, an insuperable barrier
+to any advance. But the imagination works wonders truly, and Philip
+saw the woman and not the heiress. She had become now a distinct
+personality; to be desired above all things on earth, and that he should
+see her again he had no doubt.
+
+This thought filled his mind, and even when he was not conscious of
+it gave a sort of color to life, refined his perceptions, and gave him
+almost sensuous delight in the masterpieces of poetry which had formerly
+appealed only to his intellectual appreciation of beauty.
+
+He had not yet come to a desire to share his secret with any confidant,
+but preferred to be much alone and muse on it, creating a world which
+was without evil, without doubt, undisturbed by criticism. In this so
+real dream it was the daily office work that seemed unreal, and the
+company and gossip of his club a kind of vain show. He began to frequent
+the picture-galleries, where there was at least an attempt to express
+sentiment, and to take long walks to the confines of the city-confines
+fringed with all the tender suggestions of the opening spring. Even the
+monotonous streets which he walked were illumined in his eyes, glorified
+by the fullness of life and achievement. “Yes,” he said again and again,
+as he stood on the Heights, in view of the river, the green wall of
+Jersey and the great metropolis spread away to the ocean gate, “it is a
+beautiful city! And the critics say it is commonplace and vulgar.”
+ Dear dreamer, it is a beautiful city, and for one reason and another a
+million of people who have homes there think so. But take out of it one
+person, and it would have for you no more interest than any other
+huge assembly of ugly houses. How, in a lover's eyes, the woman can
+transfigure a city, a landscape, a country!
+
+Celia had come up to town for the spring exhibitions, and was lodging at
+the Woman's Club. Naturally Philip saw much of her, indeed gave her all
+his time that the office did not demand. Her company was always for him
+a keen delight, an excitement, and in its way a rest. For though
+she always criticised, she did not nag, and just because she made no
+demands, nor laid any claims on him, nor ever reproached him for want of
+devotion, her society was delightful and never dull. They dined together
+at the Woman's Club, they experimented on the theatres, they visited the
+galleries and the picture-shops, they took little excursions into
+the suburbs and came back impressed with the general cheapness and
+shabbiness, and they talked--talked about all they saw, all they had
+read, and something of what they thought. What was wanting to make this
+charming camaraderie perfect? Only one thing.
+
+It may have occurred to Philip that Celia had not sufficient respect for
+his opinions; she regarded them simply as opinions, not as his.
+
+One afternoon, in the Metropolitan Picture-Gallery, Philip had been
+expressing enthusiasm for some paintings that Celia thought more
+sentimental than artistic, and this reminded her that he was getting
+into a general way of admiring everything.
+
+“You didn't use, Philip, to care so much for pictures.”
+
+“Oh, I've been seeing more.”
+
+“But you don't say you like that? Look at the drawing.”
+
+“Well, it tells the story.”
+
+“A story is nothing; it's the way it's told. This is not well told.”
+
+“It pleases me. Look at that girl.”
+
+“Yes, she is domestic. I admit that. But I'm not sure I do not prefer
+an impressionistic girl, whom you can't half see, to such a thorough
+bread-and-butter miss as this.”
+
+“Which would you rather live with?”
+
+“I'm not obliged to live with either. In fact, I'd rather live with
+myself. If it's art, I want art; if it's cooking and sewing, I want
+cooking and sewing. If the artist knew enough, he'd paint a woman
+instead of a cook.”
+
+“Then you don't care for real life?”
+
+“Real life! There is no such thing. You are demonstrating that. You
+transform this uninteresting piece of domesticity into an ideal woman,
+ennobling her surroundings. She doesn't do it. She is level with them.”
+
+“It would be a dreary world if we didn't idealize things.”
+
+“So it would. And that is what I complain of in such 'art' as this. I
+don't know what has got into you, Phil. I never saw you so exuberant.
+You are pleased with everything. Have you had a rise in the office? Have
+you finished your novel?”
+
+“Neither. No rise. No novel. But Tweedle is getting friendly. Threw
+an extra job in my way the other day. Do you think I'd better offer my
+novel, when it is done, to Tweedle?”
+
+“Tweedle, indeed!”
+
+“Well, one of our clients is one of the great publishing firms, and
+Tweedle often dines with the publisher.”
+
+“For shame, Phil!”
+
+Philip laughed. “At any rate, that is no meaner than a suggestion of
+Brad's. He says if I will just weave into it a lot of line scenery, and
+set my people traveling on the great trunk, stopping off now and then at
+an attractive branch, the interested railroads would gladly print it and
+scatter it all over the country.”
+
+“No doubt,” said Celia, sinking down upon a convenient seat. “I begin to
+feel as if there were no protection for anything. And, Phil, that great
+monster of a Mavick, who is eating up the country, isn't he a client
+also?”
+
+“Occasionally only. A man like Mavick has his own lawyers and judges.”
+
+“Did you ever see him?”
+
+“Just glimpses.”
+
+“And that daughter of his, about whom such a fuss was made, I suppose
+you never met her?”
+
+“Oh, as I wrote you, at the opera; saw her in her box.”
+
+“And--?”
+
+“Oh, she's rather a little thing; rather dark, I told you that; seems
+devoted to music.”
+
+“And you didn't tell what she wore.”
+
+“Why, what they all wear. Something light and rather fluffy.”
+
+“Just like a man. Is she pretty?”
+
+“Ye-e-s; has that effect. You'd notice her eyes.” If Philip had been
+frank he would have answered,
+
+“I don't know. She's simply adorable,” and Celia would have understood
+all about it.
+
+“And probably doesn't know anything. Yes, highly educated? I heard that.
+But I'm getting tired of 'highly educated'; I see so many of them. I've
+been making them now for years. Perhaps I'm one of them. And where am
+I? Don't interrupt. I tell you it is a relief to come across a sweet,
+womanly ignoramus. What church does she go to?”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“That Mavick girl.”
+
+“St. Thomas', I believe.”
+
+“That's good--that's devotional. I suppose you go there too, being
+brought up a Congregationalist?”
+
+“At vespers, sometimes. But, Celia, what is the matter with you? I
+thought you didn't care--didn't care to belong to anything?”
+
+“I? I belong to everything. Didn't I write you reams about my studies in
+psychology? I've come to one conclusion. There are only two persons in
+the world who stand on a solid foundation, the Roman Catholic and the
+Agnostic. The Roman Catholic knows everything, the Agnostic doesn't know
+anything.”
+
+Philip was never certain when the girl was bantering him; nor, when she
+was in earnest, how long she would remain in that mind and mood. So he
+ventured, humorously:
+
+“The truth is, Celia, that you know too much to be either. You are what
+they call emancipated.”
+
+“Emancipated!” And Celia sat up energetically, as if she were now really
+interested in the conversation. “Become the slave of myself instead
+of the slave of somebody else! That's the most hateful thing to be,
+emancipated. I never knew a woman who said she was emancipated who
+wasn't in some ridiculous folly or another. Now, Phil, I'm going to tell
+you something. I can tell you. You know I've been striving to have a
+career, to get out of myself somehow, and have a career for myself.
+Well, today--mind, I don't say tomorrow”--(and there was a queer little
+smile on her lips)--“I think I will just try to be good to people and
+things in general, in a human way.”
+
+“And give up education?”
+
+“No, no. I get my living by education, just as you do, or hope to do, by
+law or by letters; it's all the same. But wait. I haven't finished what
+I was going to say. The more I go into psychology, trying to find out
+about my mind and mind generally, the more mysterious everything is. Do
+you know, Phil, that I'm getting into the supernatural? You can't help
+running into it. For me, I am not side-tracked by any of the nonsense
+about magnetism and telepathy and mind-reading and other psychic
+imponderabilities. Isn't it queer that the further we go into science
+the deeper we go into mystery?
+
+“Now, don't be shocked, I mean it reverently, just as an illustration.
+Do you think any one knows really anything more about the operation in
+the world of electricity than he does about the operation of the Holy
+Ghost? And yet people talk about science as if it were something they
+had made themselves.”
+
+“But, Celia--”
+
+“No, I've talked enough. We are in this world and not in some other, and
+I have to make my living. Let's go into the other room and see the
+old masters. They, at least, knew how to paint--to paint passion and
+character; some of them could paint soul. And then, Phil, I shall be
+hungry. Talking about the mind always makes me hungry.”
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+Philip was always welcome at his uncle's house in Rivervale. It was, of
+course, his home during his college life, and since then he was always
+expected for his yearly holiday. The women of the house made much of
+him, waited on him, deferred to him, petted him, with a flattering
+mingling of tenderness to a little boy and the respect due to a man who
+had gone into the world. Even Mr. Maitland condescended to a sort of
+equality in engaging Philip in conversation about the state of the
+country and the prospects of business in New York.
+
+It was July. When Philip went to sleep at night--he was in the front
+chamber reserved for guests--the loud murmur of the Deerfield was in his
+ears, like a current bearing him away into sweet sleep and dreams in a
+land of pleasant adventures. Only in youth come such dreams. Later on
+the sophisticated mind, left to its own guidance in the night, wanders
+amid the complexities of life, calling up in confusion scenes long
+forgotten or repented of, images only registered by a sub-conscious
+process, dreams to perplex, irritate, and excite.
+
+In the morning the same continuous murmur seemed to awake him into a
+peaceful world. Through the open window came in the scents of summer,
+the freshness of a new day. How sweet and light was the air! It was
+indeed the height of summer. The corn, not yet tasseled, stood in green
+flexible ranks, moved by the early breeze. In the river-meadows haying
+had just begun. Fields of timothy and clover, yellowing to ripeness,
+took on a fresh bloom from the dew, and there was an odor of new-mown
+grass from the sections where the scythes had been. He heard the call
+of the crow from the hill, the melody of the bobolink along the
+meadow-brook; indeed, the birds of all sorts were astir, skimming along
+the ground or rising to the sky, keeping watch especially over the
+garden and the fruit-trees, carrying food to their nests, or teaching
+their young broods to fly and to chirp the songs of summer. And from
+the woodshed the shrill note of the scythe under the action of the
+grindstone. No such vivid realization of summer as that.
+
+Philip stole out the unused front door without disturbing the family.
+Whither? Where would a boy be likely to go the first thing? To the
+barn, the great cavernous barn, its huge doors now wide open, the stalls
+vacant, the mows empty, the sunlight sifting in through the high shadowy
+spaces. How much his life had been in that barn! How he had stifled and
+scrambled mowing hay in those lofts! On the floor he had hulled heaps of
+corn, thrashed oats with a flail--a noble occupation--and many a rainy
+day had played there with girls and boys who could not now exactly
+describe the games or well recall what exciting fun they were. There
+were the racks where he put the fodder for cattle and horses, and there
+was the cutting-machine for the hay and straw and for slicing the frozen
+turnips on cold winter mornings.
+
+In the barn-yard were the hens, just as usual, walking with measured
+step, scratching and picking in the muck, darting suddenly to one side
+with an elevated wing, clucking, chattering, jabbering endlessly about
+nothing. They did not seem to mind him as he stood in the open door.
+But the rooster, in his oriental iridescent plumage, jumped upon a
+fence-post and crowed defiantly, in warning that this was his preserve.
+They seemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers;
+all the hens and flaunting roosters he knew had long ago gone to
+Thanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made a
+pet. It forms no attachments. Man is no better acquainted with the hen,
+as a being, than he was when the first chicken was hatched. Its business
+is to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this reminded
+Philip that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he
+did, in the mows, in the stalls, under the floor-planks, in every hidden
+nook. The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded nest of
+her own, and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a
+wise hen who knows her own chicken. Nobody denies to the hen maternal
+instincts or domestic proclivities, but what an ill example is a hen
+community!
+
+And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grass-plot and the
+orchard, to the rocks and the forest edge, and the great view. It had
+more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was more beautiful.
+In a certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere in the world
+like it. Partly this was because his boyish impressions, the first fresh
+impressions of the visible world, came back to him; but surely it was
+very beautiful. More experienced travelers than Philip felt its unique
+charm.
+
+When he descended, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs.
+Maitland declared, with an approving smile on her placid, aging face,
+that he was the same good-for-nothing boy. But Alice said, as she sat
+down to the little table with Philip, “It is different, mother, with us
+city folks.” They were in the middle room, and the windows opened to the
+west upon the river-meadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through one
+a tall rose-bush was trying to thrust its fragrant bloom.
+
+What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good of
+him to come to them. Had he slept well? Did it seem like home at all?
+Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so.
+Such coffee-yes, a real aroma of the berry! Just a little more, would he
+have? And as Alice raised the silver pitcher, there was a deep dimple
+in her sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh and
+cool, and the delicious eggs--by the way, he had left a hatful in the
+kitchen as he came in. Alice explained that she did not make the eggs.
+And then there was the journey, the heat in the city, the grateful
+sight of the Deerfield, the splendid morning, the old barn, the
+watering-trough, the view from the hill everything just as it used to
+be.
+
+“Dear Phil, it is so nice to have you here,” and there were tears in
+Alice's eyes, she was so happy.
+
+After breakfast Philip strolled down the country road through the
+village. How familiar was every step of the way!--the old houses jutting
+out at the turns in the road; the glimpse of the river beyond the little
+meadow where Captain Rice was killed; the spring under the ledge over
+which the snap-dragon grew; the dilapidated ranks of fence smothered
+in vines and fireweeds; the cottages, with flower-pots in front; the
+stores, with low verandas ornamented with boxes and barrels; the academy
+in its green on the hill; the old bridge over which the circus elephant
+dared not walk; the new and the old churches, with rival steeples; and,
+not familiar, the new inn.
+
+And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways, in the fields or
+gardens, and had for every one a hail and a greeting. How he enjoyed it
+all, and his self-consciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung along
+in his well-fitting city clothes, broad-shouldered and erect--it is
+astonishing how much a tailor can do for a man who responds to his
+efforts. It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in real
+life, and not have to invent him, as the saying is, out of the whole
+cloth. Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because it was
+not quite his old self, the farmer's boy going on an errand. There must
+be knowledge all along the street that he was in the great law office of
+Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle. And, besides, Philip's name must be known to all
+the readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than
+one list of “contributors.” That was fame. Translated, however, into
+country comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heard
+the comments after he had passed by:
+
+“Yes, that's Phil Burnett, sure enough; but I'd hardly know him; spruced
+up mightily. I wonder what he's at?”
+
+“I heard he was down in New York trying to law it. I heard he's been
+writin' some for newspapers. Accordin' to his looks, must pay a durn
+sight better'n farmin'.”
+
+“Well, I always said that boy wa'n't no skeezics.”
+
+Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about the
+new inn, the Peacock Inn.
+
+“There seemed a good deal of stir about it as I passed.”
+
+“Why, I forgot to tell you about it. It's the great excitement.
+Rivervale is getting known. The Mavicks are there. I hear they've taken
+pretty much the whole of it.”
+
+“The Mavicks?
+
+“Yes, the New York Mavicks, that you wrote us about, that were in the
+paper.”
+
+“How long have they been there?”
+
+“A week. There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, and
+two maids, and a young fellow in uniform--yes, livery--and a coachman in
+the same, and a stableful of horses and carriages. It upset the village
+like a circus. And they say there's a French chef in white cap and
+apron, who comes to the side-door and jabbers to the small boys like
+fireworks.”
+
+“How did it come about?”
+
+“Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer in
+the country. But you will laugh. Patience first discovered it. One day,
+sitting at the window, she saw a two-horse buggy driven by the landlord
+of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side. 'Well, I wonder who that
+is-city man certainly. And wherever is he going? May be a railroad man.
+But there is nothing the matter with the railroad. Shouldn't wonder
+if he is going to see the tunnel. If it was just that, the landlord
+wouldn't drive him; he'd send a man. And they keep stopping and pointing
+and looking round. No, it isn't the railroad, it's scenery. And what can
+a man like that want with scenery?
+
+“He does look like a railroad man. It may be tunnel, but it isn't all
+tunnel. When the team came back in the afternoon, Patience was again
+at the window; she had heard meantime from Jabez that a city man was
+stopping at the Peacock. There he goes, and looking round more than
+ever. They've stopped by the bridge and the landlord is pointing out.
+It's not tunnel, it's scenery. I tell you, he is a city boarder. Not
+that he cares about scenery; it's for his family. City families are
+always trying to find a grand new place, and he has heard of Rivervale
+and the Peacock Inn. Maybe the tunnel had something to do with it.”
+
+“Why, it's like second sight.”
+
+“No, Patience says it's just judgment. And she generally hits it. At any
+rate, the family is here.”
+
+The explanation of their being there--it seemed to Philip
+providential--was very simple. Mr. Mavick had plans about the Hoosac
+Tunnel that required him to look at it. Mrs. Mavick took advantage of
+this to commission him to look at a little inn in a retired village of
+which she had heard, and to report on scenery and climate. Warm days and
+cool nights and simplicity was her idea. Mavick reported that the place
+seemed made for the family.
+
+Evelyn was not yet out, but she was very nearly out, and after the late
+notoriety Mrs. Mavick dreaded the regular Newport season. And, in the
+mood of the moment, she was tired of the Newport palace. She always said
+that she liked simplicity--a common failing among people who are not
+compelled to observe it. Perhaps she thought she was really fond of
+rural life and country ways. As she herself said,
+
+“If you have a summer cottage at Newport or Lenox, it is necessary to
+go off somewhere and rest.” And then it would be good for Evelyn to
+live out-of-doors and see the real country, and, as for herself, as she
+looked in the mirror, “I shall drink milk and go to bed early. Henderson
+used to say that a month in New Hampshire made another woman of me.”
+
+Oh, to find a spot where we could be undisturbed, alone and unknown.
+That was the program. But Carmen simply could not be anywhere content
+if she were unnoticed. It was not so easy to give up daily luxury, and
+habits of ease at the expense of attendants, or the ostentation which
+had become a second nature. Therefore the “establishment” went along
+with her to Rivervale, and the shy, modest little woman, who had dropped
+down into the country simplicity that she so dearly loved, greatly
+enjoyed the sensation that her coming produced. It needed no effort
+on her part to produce the sensation. The carriage, and coachman and
+footman in livery, would have been sufficient; and then the idea of one
+family being rich enough to take the whole hotel!
+
+The liveries, the foreign cook in his queer cap and apron, and all the
+goings-on at the Peacock were the inexhaustible topic of talk in every
+farmhouse for ten miles around. Rivervale was a self-respecting town,
+and principled against luxury and self-indulgence, and judged with
+a just and severe judgment the world of fashion and of the grasping,
+wicked millionaires. And now this world with all its vain show had
+plumped down in the midst of them. Those who had traveled and seen
+the ostentation of cities smiled a superior smile at the curiosity
+and wonder exhibited, but even those who had never seen the like were
+cautious about letting their surprise appear. Especially in the presence
+of fashion and wealth would the independent American citizen straighten
+his backbone, reassuring himself that he was as good as anybody. To be
+sure, people flew to windows when the elegant equipage dashed by, and
+everybody found frequent occasion to drive or walk past the Peacock Inn.
+It was only the novelty of it, in a place that rather lacked novelties.
+
+And yet there prevailed in the community a vague sense that millions
+were there, and a curious expectation of some individual benefit from
+them. All the young berry-pickers were unusually active, and poured
+berries into the kitchen door of the inn. There was not a housewife who
+was not a little more anxious about the product of her churning; not a
+farmer who did not think that perhaps cord-wood would rise, that
+there would be a better demand for garden “sass,” and more market for
+chickens, and who did not regard with more interest his promising colt.
+When he drove to the village his rig was less shabby and slovenly in
+appearance. The young fellows who prided themselves upon a neat buggy
+and a fast horse made their turnouts shine, and dashed past the inn with
+a self-conscious air. Even the stores began to “slick up” and arrange
+their miscellaneous notions more attractively, and one of them boldly
+put in a window a placard, “Latest New York Style.” When the family
+went to the Congregational church on Sunday not the slightest notice
+was taken of them--though every woman could have told to the last detail
+what the ladies wore--but some of the worshipers were for the first time
+a little nervous about the performance of the choir, and the deacons
+heard the sermon chiefly with reference to what a city visitor would
+think of it.
+
+Mrs. Mavick was quite equal to the situation. In the church she
+was devout, in the village she was affable and friendly. She made
+acquaintances right and left, and took a simple interest in everybody
+and everything. She was on easy terms with the landlord, who declared,
+“There is a woman with no nonsense in her.” She chatted with the farmers
+who stopped at the inn door, she bought things at the stores that she
+did not want, and she speedily discovered Aunt Hepsy, and loved to sit
+with her in the little shop and pick up the traditions and the gossip
+of the neighborhood. And she did not confine her angelic visits to
+the village. On one pretense and another she made her way into every
+farmhouse that took her fancy, penetrated the kitchens and dairies, and
+got, as she told McDonald, into the inner life of the people.
+
+She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice. And on this legitimate
+errand she one day carried her fluttering attractiveness and patchouly
+into the Maitland house. Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more. Alice
+was civil but reserved--a great many people, she said, came to see the
+graves in the old orchard. But Mrs. Mavick was not a bit abashed. She
+expressed herself delighted with everything. It was such a rest, such
+a perfectly lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable! And Aunt
+Hepsy had so interested her in the history of the region! But it was
+difficult to get her talk responded to.
+
+However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway. She had
+heard so much of Miss Maitland's apartments. She herself was interested
+in decorations. She had tried to do something in her New York home. But
+there were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be natural
+and artificial at the same time. She had no doubt she could get some
+new ideas from Miss Maitland. Would it be asking too much to see her
+apartments? She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale.
+Patience was only too delighted, and took her into her museum of natural
+history, art, religion, and vegetation.
+
+“She might have gone to the grave-yard without coming into the house,”
+ Alice remarked.
+
+“Oh, well,” said her mother, “I think she is very amusing. You shouldn't
+be so exclusive, Alice.”
+
+“Mother, I do believe she paints.”
+
+With Patience, Mrs. Mavick felt on surer ground.
+
+“How curious, how very curious and delightful it is! Such knowledge of
+nature, such art in arrangement.”
+
+“Oh, I just put them up,” said Patience, “as I thought they ought by
+rights to be put up.”
+
+“That's it. And you have combined everything here. You have given me
+an idea. In our house we have a Japan room, and an Indian room, and a
+Chinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don't know what--Egyptian, Greek,
+and not one American, not a really American. That is, according to
+American ideas, for you have everything in these two rooms. I shall
+write to Mr. Mavick.” (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)
+
+When she came away it was with a profusion of thanks, and repeated
+invitations to drop in at the inn. Alice accompanied her to the first
+stone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing her
+away, when Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the wood-shed, with a
+shot-gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left hand a gray squirrel
+by its bushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.
+
+“Ah!” involuntarily from Mrs. Mavick. An introduction was inevitable.
+
+“My cousin, Mr. Burnett, Mrs. Mavick.” Philip raised his cap and bowed.
+
+“A hunter, I see.”
+
+“Hardly, madam. In vacations I like to walk in the woods with a gun.”
+
+“Then you are not--”
+
+“No,” said Philip, smiling, “unfortunately I cannot do this all the
+time.”
+
+“You are of the city, then?”
+
+“With the firm of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle.”
+
+“Ah, my husband knows them, I believe.”
+
+“I have seen Mr. Mavick,” and Philip bowed again.
+
+“How lucky!”
+
+Mrs. Mavick had an eye for a fine young fellow--she never denied
+that--and Philip's manly figure and easy air were not lost on her.
+Presently she said:
+
+“We are here for a good part of the summer. Mr. Mavick's business keeps
+him in the city and we have to poke about a good deal alone. Now, Miss
+Alice, I am so glad I have met your cousin. Perhaps he will show us some
+of the interesting places and the beauties of the country he knows so
+well.” And she looked sideways at Philip.
+
+“Yes, he knows the country,” said Alice, without committing herself.
+
+“I am sure I shall be delighted to do what I can for you whenever you
+need my services,” said Philip, who had reasons for wishing to know the
+Mavicks which Alice did not share.
+
+“That's so good of you! Excursions, picnics oh, we will arrange. You
+must come and help me arrange. And I hope,” with a smile to Alice, “you
+can persuade your cousin to join us sometimes.”
+
+Alice bowed, they all bowed, and Mrs. Mavick said au revoir, and went
+swinging her parasol down the driveway. Then she turned and called
+back, “This is the first long walk I have taken.” And then she said to
+herself, “Rather stiff, except the young man and the queer old maid.
+But what a pretty girl the younger must have been ten years ago! These
+country flowers!”
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+Mrs. Mavick thought herself fortunate in finding, in the social
+wilderness of Rivervale, such a presentable young gentleman as
+Philip. She had persuaded herself that she greatly enjoyed her simple
+intercourse with the inhabitants, and she would have said that she was
+in deep sympathy with their lives. No doubt in New York she would relate
+her summer adventures as something very amusing, but for the moment this
+adaptable woman seemed to herself in a very ingenuous, receptive, and
+sympathetic state of mind. Still, there was a limit to the entertaining
+power of Aunt Hepsy, which was perceived when she began to repeat her
+annals of the neighborhood, and to bring forward again and again the
+little nuggets of wisdom which she had evolved in the small circle of
+her experience. And similarly Mrs. Mavick became aware that there was
+a monotony in the ideas brought forward by the farmers and the farmers'
+wives, whether in the kitchen or the best room, which she lighted up
+by her gracious presence, that it was possible to be tired of the most
+interesting “peculiarities” when once their novelty was exhausted,
+and that so-called “characters” in the country fail to satisfy the
+requirements of intimate or long companionship. Their world is too
+narrowly circumscribed.
+
+The fact that Philip was a native of the place, and so belonged to a
+world that was remote from her own, made her free to seek his aid in
+making the summer pass agreeably without incurring any risk of social
+obligations. Besides, when she had seen more of him, she experienced a
+good deal of pleasure in his company. His foreign travel, his reading,
+his life in the city, offered many points of mutual interest, and it
+was a relief to her to get out of the narrow range of topics in the
+provincial thought, and to have her allusions understood. Philip, on
+his part, was not slow to see this, or to perceive that in the higher
+intellectual ranges, the serious topics which occupied the attention of
+the few cultivated people in the neighborhood, Mrs. Mavick had little
+interest or understanding, though there was nothing she did not profess
+an interest in when occasion required. Philip was not of a suspicious
+nature, and it may not have occurred to him that Mrs. Mavick was simply
+amusing herself, as she would do with any agreeable man, young or old,
+who fell in her way, and would continue to do so if she reached the age
+of ninety.
+
+On the contrary, it never seemed to occur to Mrs. Mavick, who was
+generally suspicious, that Philip was making himself agreeable to
+the mother of Evelyn. In her thought Evelyn was still a child, in
+leading-strings, and would be till she was formally launched, and the
+social gulf between the great heiress and the law clerk and poor writer
+was simply impassable. All of which goes to show that the most astute
+women are not always the wisest.
+
+To one person in Rivervale the coming of Mrs. Mavick and her train of
+worldliness was unwelcome. It disturbed the peaceful simplicity of the
+village, and it was likely to cloud her pleasure in Philip's visit. She
+felt that Mrs. Mavick was taking him away from the sweet serenity of
+their life, and that in everything she said or did there was an element
+of unrest and excitement. She was careful, however, not to show any
+of this apprehension to Philip; she showed it only by an increased
+affectionate interest in him and his concerns, and in trying to make the
+old home more dear to him. Mrs. Mavick was loud in her praise of Alice
+to her cousin, and sought to win her confidence, but she was, after all,
+a little shy of her, and probably would have characterized her to a city
+friend as a sort of virgin in the Bible.
+
+It so happened that day after day went by without giving Philip anything
+more than passing glimpses of Evelyn, when she was driving with her
+mother or her governess. Yet Rivervale never seemed so ravishingly
+beautiful to all his senses. Surely it was possessed by a spirit of
+romance and poetry, which he had never perceived before, and he wasted
+a good deal of time in gazing on the river, on the gracious meadows, on
+the graceful contours of the hills. When he was a lad, in the tree-top,
+there had been something stimulating and almost heroic in the scene,
+which awakened his ambition. Now it was the idyllic beauty that took
+possession of him, transformed as it was by the presence of a woman,
+that supreme interpreter of nature to a youth. And yet scarcely
+a woman--rather a vision of a girl, impressible still to all the
+influences of such a scene and to the most delicate suggestions of
+unfolding life. Probably he did not analyze this feeling, but it was
+Evelyn he was thinking of when he admired the landscape, breathed with
+exhilaration the fresh air, and watched the white clouds sail along the
+blue vault; and he knew that if she were suddenly to leave the valley
+all the light would go out of it and the scene would be flat to his eyes
+and torturing to his memory.
+
+Mrs. Mavick he encountered continually in the village. He had taken many
+little strolls with her to this or that pretty point of view, they had
+exchanged reminiscences of foreign travel, and had dipped a little into
+current popular books, so that they had come to be on easy, friendly
+terms. Philip's courtesy and deference, and a certain wit and humor of
+suggestion applied to ordinary things, put him more and more on a good
+footing with her, so much so that she declared to McDonald that really
+young Burnett was a genuine “find” in the country.
+
+It seems a pity that the important events in our lives are so
+commonplace. Philip's meeting with Evelyn, so long thought of and
+dramatized in his mind, was not in the least as he had imagined it. When
+one morning he went to the Peacock Inn at the summons of Mrs. Mavick, in
+order to lay out a plan of campaign, he found Evelyn and her governess
+seated on the veranda, with their books. It was Evelyn who rose first
+and came forward, without, so far as Philip could see, the least
+embarrassment of recognition.
+
+“Mr. Burnett? Mamma will be here in a moment. This is our friend, Miss
+McDonald.”
+
+The girl's morning costume was very simple, and in her short
+walking-skirt she seemed younger even than in the city. She spoke and
+moved--Philip noticed that--without the least self-consciousness, and
+she had a way of looking her interlocutor frankly in the eyes, or, as
+Philip expressed it, “flashing” upon him.
+
+Philip bowed to the governess, and, still standing and waving his hand
+towards the river, hoped they liked Rivervale, and then added:
+
+“I see you can read in the country.”
+
+“We pretend to,” said Evelyn, who had resumed her seat and indicated a
+chair for Philip, “but the singing of that river, and the bobolinks in
+the meadow, and the light on the hills are almost too much for us. Don't
+you think, McDonald, it is like Scotland?”
+
+“It would be,” the governess replied, “if it rained when it didn't mist,
+and there were moors and heather, and--”
+
+“Oh, I didn't mean all that, but a feeling like that, sweet and retired
+and sort of lonesome?”
+
+“Perhaps Miss McDonald means,” said Philip, “that there isn't much to
+feel here except what you see.”
+
+Miss McDonald looked sharply around at Philip and remarked: “Yes, that's
+just it. It is very lovely, like almost any outdoors, if you will give
+yourself up to it. You remember, Evelyn, how fascinating the Arizona
+desert was? But there was a romantic addition to the colored desolation
+because the Spaniards and the Jesuits had been there. Now this place
+lacks traditions, legends, romance. You have to bring your romance with
+you.”
+
+“And that is the reason you read here?”
+
+“One reason. Especially romances. This charming scenery and the summer
+sounds of running water and birds make a nice accompaniment to the
+romance.”
+
+“But mamma says,” Evelyn interrupted, “there is plenty of legend here,
+and tradition and flavor, Indians and early settlers, and even Aunt
+Hepsy.”
+
+“Well, I confess they don't appeal to me. And as for Indians, Parkman's
+descriptions of those savages made me squirm. And I don't believe
+there was much more romance about the early settlers than about their
+descendants. Isn't it true, Mr. Burnett, that you must have a human
+element to make any country interesting?”
+
+Philip glanced at Evelyn, whose bright face was kindled with interest
+in the discussion, and thought, “Good heavens! if there is not human
+interest here, I don't know where to look for it,” but he only said:
+
+“Doubtless.”
+
+“And why don't you writers do something about it? It is literature that
+does it, either in Scotland or Judea.”
+
+“Well,” said Philip, stoutly, “they are doing something. I could name
+half a dozen localities, even sections of country, that travelers visit
+with curiosity just because authors have thrown that glamour over them.
+But it is hard to create something out of nothing. It needs time.”
+
+“And genius,” Miss McDonald interjected.
+
+“Of course, but it took time to transform a Highland sheep-stealer into
+a romantic personage.”
+
+Miss McDonald laughed. “That is true. Take a modern instance. Suppose
+Evangeline had lived in this valley! Or some simple Gretchen about whose
+simple story all the world is in sympathy!”
+
+“Or,” thought Philip, “some Evelyn.” But he replied, looking at Evelyn,
+“I believe that any American community usually resents being made the
+scene of a romance, especially if it is localized by any approach to
+reality.”
+
+“Isn't that the fault mostly of the writer, who vulgarizes his
+material?”
+
+“The realists say no. They say that people dislike to see themselves as
+they are.”
+
+“Very likely,” said Miss McDonald; “no one sees himself as others see
+him, and probably the poet who expressed the desire to do so was simply
+attitudinizing.--[Robert Burns: 'O wha gift the Giftie gie us; to see
+o'rselves as others see us.' Ed.]--By the way, Mr. Burnett, you know
+there is one place of sentiment, religious to be sure, not far from
+here. I hope we can go some day to see the home of the 'Mountain
+Miller.'”
+
+“Yes, I know the place. It is beyond the river, up that steep road
+running into the sky, in the next adjoining hill town. I doubt if you
+find any one there who lays it much to heart. But you can see the mill.”
+
+“What is the Mountain Miller?” asked Evelyn.
+
+“A tract that, when I was a girl,” answered Miss McDonald, “used to be
+bound up with 'The Dairyman's Daughter' and 'The Shepherd of Salisbury
+Plain.' It was the first thing that interested me in New England.”
+
+“Well,” said Philip, “it isn't much. Just a tract. But it was written by
+Parson Halleck, a great minister and a sort of Pope in this region
+for fifty years. It is, so far as I know, the only thing of his that
+remains.”
+
+This tractarian movement was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Mavick.
+
+“Good-morning, Mr. Burnett. I've been down to see Jenkins about his
+picnic wagon. Carries six, besides the driver and my man, and the
+hampers. So, you see, Miss Alice will have to go. We couldn't go
+rattling along half empty. I'll go up and see her this afternoon. So,
+that's settled. Now about the time and place. You are the director.
+Let's sit down and plan it out. It looks like good weather for a week.”
+
+“Miss McDonald says she wants to see the Mountain Miller,” said Philip,
+with a smile.
+
+“What's that? A monument like your Pulpit Rock?”
+
+“No, a tract about a miller.”
+
+“Ah, something religious. I never heard of it. Well, perhaps we had
+better begin with something secular, and work round to that.”
+
+So an excursion was arranged for the next day. And as Philip walked
+home, thinking how brilliant Evelyn had been in their little talk, he
+began to dramatize the excursion.
+
+All excursions are much alike, exhilarating in the outset, rarely up to
+expectation in the object, wearisome in the return; but, nevertheless,
+delightful in the memory, especially if attended with some hardship
+or slight disaster. To be free, in the open air, and for a day
+unconventional and irresponsible, is the sufficient justification of
+a country picnic; but its common attraction is in the opportunity for
+bringing young persons of the opposite sex into natural and unrestrained
+relations. To Philip it was the first time in his life that a picnic had
+ever seemed a defensible means of getting rid of a day.
+
+The two persons to whom this excursion was most novel and exciting
+were Evelyn and the elder maiden, Alice, who sat together and speedily
+developed a sympathy with each other in the enjoyment of the country,
+and in a similar poetic temperament, very shy on the part of Alice and
+very frank on the part of Evelyn. The whole wild scene along the river
+was quite as novel to Alice as to the city girl, because, although she
+was familiar with every mile of it and had driven through it a hundred
+times, she had never in all her life before, of purpose, gone to see
+it. No doubt she had felt its wildness and beauty, but now for the first
+time she looked at it as scenery, as she might have looked at a picture
+in a gallery. And in the contagion of Evelyn's outspoken enthusiasm she
+was no longer afraid to give timid expression to the latent poetry in
+her own soul. And daring to express this, she seemed to herself for the
+first time to realize vividly the nobility and grace of the landscape.
+And yet there was a difference in the appreciation of the two. More
+widely read and traveled, Evelyn's imagination took a wider range of
+comparison and of admiration, she was appealed to by the large features
+and the grandiose effects; while Alice noted more the tenderer aspects,
+the wayside flowers and bushes, the exotic-looking plants, which she
+longed to domesticate in what might be called the Sunday garden on the
+terraces in front of her house. For it is in these little cultivated
+places by the door-step, places of dreaming in the summer hours after
+meeting and at sunset, that the New England maiden experiences something
+of that tender religious sentiment which was not much fed in the
+barrenness of the Congregational meeting-house.
+
+The Pulpit Rock, in the rough pasture land of Zoar, was reached by a
+somewhat tedious climb from the lonely farmhouse, in a sheltered nook,
+through straggling woods and gray pastures. It was a vast exposed
+surface rising at a slight angle out of the grass and undergrowth. Along
+the upper side was a thin line of bushes, and, pushing these aside, the
+observer was always startled at the unexpected scene--as it were the
+raising of a curtain upon another world. He stood upon the edge of
+a sheer precipice of a thousand feet, and looked down upon a green
+amphitheatre through the bottom of which the brawling river, an amber
+thread in the summer foliage, seemed trying to get an outlet from this
+wilderness cul de sac. From the edge of this precipice the first impulse
+was to start back in surprise and dread, but presently the observer
+became reassured of its stability, and became fascinated by the lonesome
+wildness of the scene.
+
+“Why is it called Pulpit Rock?” asked Mrs. Mavick; “I see no pulpit.”
+
+“I suppose,” said Philip, “the name was naturally suggested to a
+religious community, whose poetic images are mainly Biblical, and who
+thought it an advantageous place for a preacher to stand, looking down
+upon a vast congregation in the amphitheatre.”
+
+“So it is,” exclaimed Evelyn. “I can see John the Baptist standing here
+now, and hear his voice crying in the wilderness.”
+
+“Very likely,” said Mrs. Mavick, persisting in her doubt, “of course in
+Zoar. Anywhere else in the world it would be called the Lover's Leap.”
+
+“That is odd,” said Alice; “there was a party of college girls came here
+two years ago and made up a story about it which was printed, how an
+Indian maiden pursued by a white man ran up this hill as if she had been
+a deer, disappeared from his sight through these bushes, and took the
+fatal leap. They called it the Indian Maiden's Rock. But it didn't take.
+It will always be Pulpit Rock.”
+
+“So you see, Miss McDonald,” said Philip, “that writers cannot graft
+legends on the old stock.”
+
+“That depends upon the writer,” returned the Scotch woman, shortly. “I
+didn't see the schoolgirl's essay.”
+
+When the luncheon was disposed of, with the usual adaptation to nomadic
+conditions, and the usual merriment and freedom of personal comment, and
+the wit that seems so brilliant in the open air and so flat in print,
+Mrs. Mavick declared that she was tired by the long climb and the
+unusual excitement.
+
+“Perhaps it is the Pulpit,” she said, “but I am sleepy; and if you young
+people will amuse yourselves, I will take a nap under that tree.”
+
+Presently, also, Alice and the governess withdrew to the edge of the
+precipice, and Evelyn and Philip were left to the burden of entertaining
+each other. It might have been an embarrassing situation but for the
+fact that all the rest of the party were in sight, that the girl had not
+the least self-consciousness, having had no experience to teach her
+that there was anything to be timid about in one situation more than in
+another, and that Philip was so absolutely content to be near Evelyn and
+hear her voice that there was room for nothing else in his thought. But
+rather to his surprise, Evelyn made no talk about the situation or
+the day, but began at once with something in her mind, a directness of
+mental operation that he found was characteristic of her.
+
+“It seems to me, Mr. Burnett, that there is something of what Miss
+McDonald regards as the lack of legend and romance in this region in our
+life generally.”
+
+“I fancy everybody feels that who travels much elsewhere. You mean life
+seems a little thin, as the critics say?”
+
+“Yes, lacks color and background. But, you see, I have no experience.
+Perhaps it's owing to Miss McDonald. I cannot get the plaids and tartans
+and Jacobins and castles and what-not out of my head. Our landscapes are
+just landscapes.”
+
+“But don't you think we are putting history and association into them
+pretty fast?”
+
+“Yes, I know, but that takes a long time. I mean now. Take this lovely
+valley and region, how easily it could be made romantic.”
+
+“Not so very easy, I fancy.”
+
+“Well, I was thinking about it last night.” And then, as if she saw
+a clear connection between this and what she was going to say, “Miss
+McDonald says, Mr. Burnett, that you are a writer.”
+
+“I? Why, I'm... I'm--a lawyer.”
+
+“Of course, that's business. That reminds me of what papa said once:
+'It's lucky there is so much law, or half the world, including the
+lawyers, wouldn't have anything to do, trying to get around it and evade
+it.' And you won't mind my repeating it--I was a mite of a girl--I said,
+'Isn't that rather sophistical, papa?' And mamma put me down'--It seems
+to me, child, you are using pretty big words.'”
+
+They both laughed. But suddenly Evelyn added:
+
+“Why don't you do it?”
+
+“Do what?”
+
+“Write a story about it--what Miss McDonald calls 'invest the region
+with romance.'”
+
+The appeal was very direct, and it was enforced by those wonderful eyes
+that seemed to Philip to discern his powers, as he felt them, and his
+ambitions, and to express absolute confidence in him. His vanity was
+touched in its most susceptible spot. Here seemed to be a woman, nay,
+a soul, who understood him, understood him even better than Celia, the
+lifelong confidante. It is a fatal moment for men and women, that in
+which they feel the subtle flattery of being understood by one of the
+opposite sex. Philip's estimation of himself rose 'pari passu' with his
+recognition of the discernment and intellectual quality of the frank and
+fascinating girl who seemed to believe in him. But he restrained himself
+and only asked, after a moment of apparent reflection upon the general
+proposition:
+
+“Well, Miss Mavick, you have been here some time. Have you discovered
+any material for such use?”
+
+“Why, perhaps not, and I might not know what to do with it if I had.
+But perhaps you don't mean what I mean. I mean something fitting the
+setting. Not the domestic novel. Miss McDonald says we are vulgarized in
+all our ideals by so much domesticity. She says that Jennie Deans would
+have been just an ordinary, commonplace girl but for Walter Scott.”
+
+“Then you want a romance?”
+
+“No. I don't know exactly what I do want. But I know it when I see it.”
+ And Evelyn looked down and appeared to be studying her delicate little
+hands, interlacing her taper, ivory fingers--but Philip knew she did not
+see them--and then looked up in his face again and said:
+
+“I'll tell you. This morning as we came up I was talking all the way
+with your cousin. It took some time to break the ice, but gradually she
+began to say things, half stories, half poetic, not out of books; things
+that, if said with assurance, in the city would be called wit. And
+then I began to see her emotional side, her pure imagination, such a
+refinement of appreciation and justice--I think there is an immovable
+basis of justice in her nature--and charity, and I think she'd be
+heroic, with all her gentleness, if occasion offered.”
+
+“I see,” said Philip, rather lightly, “that you improved your time in
+finding out what a rare creature Alice is. But,” and this more gravely,
+“it would surprise her that you have found it out.”
+
+“I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualities
+are, or her capacities of doing or of suffering, and the world will
+never know--that is the point-unless some genius comes along and reveals
+them.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out her
+whole self. Some act it out in society. She never will. Such sweetness
+and strength and passion--yes, I have no doubt, passion under all the
+reserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven't imagination to
+make you see what I feel.”
+
+“You come very near it,” said Philip, with a smile. And after a moment
+the girl broke out again:
+
+“Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just as
+painters do, fit for your genius.”
+
+“But don't you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, the
+thing close to you?”
+
+“I dare say. But you won't mind? It is just an illustration. I went the
+other day with mother to Alice's house. She was so sort of distant and
+reserved that I couldn't know her in the least as I know her now. And
+there was the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the Old Testament;
+and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the New Testament; and
+then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don't know what, maybe
+a blind attempt through nature and art to escape out of Puritanism; and
+the typical old frame farmhouse--why, here is material for the sweetest,
+most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. In another generation
+people would come long distances to see the valley where Alice lived,
+and her spirit would pervade it.”
+
+There could be but one end to such a burst of enthusiasm, and
+both laughed and felt a relief in a merriment that was, after all,
+sympathetic. But Evelyn was a persistent creature, and presently she
+turned to Philip, again with those appealing eyes.
+
+“Now, why don't you do it?”
+
+Philip hesitated a moment and betrayed some embarrassment under the
+questioning of the truthful eyes.
+
+“I've a good mind to tell you. I have--I am writing something.”
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“Not that exactly. I couldn't, don't you see, betray and use my own
+relatives in that way.”
+
+“Yes, I see that.”
+
+“It isn't much. I cannot tell how it will come out. I tell you--I don't
+mean that I have any right to ask you to keep it as a secret of mine,
+but it is this way: If a writer gives away his imagination, his idea,
+before it is fixed in form on paper, he seems to let the air of all the
+world upon it and it disappears, and isn't quite his as it was before to
+grow in his own mind.”
+
+“I can understand that,” Evelyn replied.
+
+“Well--” and Philip found himself launched. It is so easy to talk about
+one's self to a sympathetic listener. He told Evelyn a little about his
+life, and how the valley used to seem to him as a boy, and how it seemed
+now that he had had experience of other places and people, and how
+his studies and reading had enabled him to see things in their proper
+relations, and how, finally, gradually the idea for a story in this
+setting had developed in his mind. And then he sketched in outline
+the story as he had developed it, and left the misty outlines of its
+possibilities to the imagination.
+
+The girl listened with absorbing interest, and looked the approval which
+she did not put in words. Perhaps she knew that a bud will never come
+to flower if you pull it in pieces. When Philip had finished he had a
+momentary regret for this burst of confidence, which he had never
+given to any one else. But in the light of Evelyn's quick approval and
+understanding, it was only momentary. Perhaps neither of them thought
+what a dangerous game this is, for two young souls to thus unbosom
+themselves to each other.
+
+A call from Mrs. Mavick brought them to their feet. It was time to go.
+Evelyn simply said:
+
+“I think the valley, Mr. Burnett, looks a little different already.”
+
+As they drove home along the murmuring river through the golden sunset,
+the party were mostly silent. Only Mrs. Mavick and Philip, who sat
+together, kept up a lively chatter, lively because Philip was elated
+with the event of the day, and because the nap under the beech-tree
+in the open air had brightened the wits of one of the cleverest women
+Philip had ever met.
+
+If the valley did seem different to Evelyn, probably she did not think
+so far as to own to herself whether this was owing to the outline of the
+story, which ran in her mind, or to the presence of the young author.
+
+Alice and Philip were set down at the farmhouse, and the company parted
+with mutual enthusiasm over the success of the excursion.
+
+“She is a much more interesting girl than I thought,” Alice admitted.
+“Not a bit fashionable.”
+
+“And she likes you.”
+
+“Me?”
+
+“Yes, your ears would have burned.”
+
+“Well, I am glad, for I think she is sincere.”
+
+“And I can tell you another thing. I had a long talk while you were
+taking your siesta. She takes an abstract view of things, judging the
+right and wrong of them, without reference to conventionalities or
+the practical obstacles to carrying out her ideas, as if she had been
+educated by reading and not by society. It is very interesting.”
+
+“Philip,” and Alice laid her hand on his shoulder, “don't let it be too
+interesting.”
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+When Philip said that Evelyn was educated in the world of literature and
+not in the conflicts of life he had hit the key-note of her condition
+at the moment she was coming into the world and would have to act for
+herself. The more he saw of her the more was he impressed with the fact
+that her discrimination, it might almost be called divination, and her
+judgment were based upon the best and most vital products of the
+human mind. A selection had evidently been made for her, until she had
+acquired the taste, or the habit rather, of choosing only the best for
+herself. Very little of the trash of literature, or the ignoble--that is
+to say, the ignoble view of life--had come into her mind. Consequently
+she judged the world as she came to know it by high standards. And her
+mind was singularly pure and free from vulgar images.
+
+It might be supposed that this sort of education would have its
+disadvantages. The word is firmly fixed in the idea that both for its
+pleasure and profit it is necessary to know good and evil. Ignorance of
+the evil in the world is, however, not to be predicated of those who are
+familiar only with the great masterpieces of literature, for if they
+are masterpieces, little or great, they exhibit human nature in all its
+aspects. And, further than this, it ought to be demonstrable, a priori,
+that a mind fed on the best and not confused by the weak and diluted, or
+corrupted by images of the essentially vulgar and vile, would be morally
+healthy and best fitted to cope with the social problems of life. The
+Testaments reveal about everything that is known about human nature, but
+such is their clear, high spirit, and their quality, that no one ever
+traced mental degeneration or low taste in literature, or want of
+virility in judgment, to familiarity with them. On the contrary, the
+most vigorous intellects have acknowledged their supreme indebtedness to
+them.
+
+It is not likely that Philip made any such elaborate analysis of
+the girl with whom he was in love, or attempted, except by a general
+reference to the method of her training, to account for the purity of
+her mind and her vigorous discernment. He was in love with her more
+subtle and hidden personality, with the girl just becoming a woman, with
+the mysterious sex that is the inspiration of most of the poetry and a
+good part of the heroism in the world. And he would have been in love
+with her, let her education have been what it might. He was in love
+before he heard her speak. And whatever she would say was bound to have
+a quality of interest and attraction that could be exercised by no other
+lips. It might be argued--a priori again, for the world is bound to go
+on in its own way--that there would be fewer marriages if the illusion
+of the sex did not suffice for the time to hide intellectual poverty,
+and, what is worse, ignobleness of disposition.
+
+It was doubtless fortunate for this particular lovemaking, though it
+did not seem so to Philip, that it was very much obstructed by lack of
+opportunities, and that it was not impaired in its lustre by too much
+familiarity. In truth, Philip would have said that he saw very little
+of Evelyn, because he never saw her absolutely alone. To be sure he was
+much in her presence, a welcome member of the group that liked to idle
+on the veranda of the inn, and in the frequent excursions, in which
+Philip seemed to be the companion of Mrs. Mavick rather than of her
+daughter. But she was never absent from his thought, his imagination
+was wholly captive to her image, and the passion grew in these hours of
+absence until she became an indispensable associate in all that he was
+or could ever hope to be. Alice, who discerned very clearly Mrs. Mavick
+and her ambition, was troubled by Philip's absorption and the cruel
+disappointment in store for him. To her he was still the little boy, and
+all her tenderness for him was stirred to shield him from the suffering
+she feared.
+
+But what could she do? Philip liked to talk about Evelyn, to dwell upon
+her peculiarities and qualities, to hear her praised; to this extent
+he was confidential with his cousin, but never in regard to his own
+feeling. That was a secret concerning which he was at once too humble
+and too confident to share with any other. None knew better than he the
+absurd presumption of aspiring to the hand of such a great heiress, and
+yet he nursed the vanity that no other man could ever appreciate and
+love her as he did.
+
+Alice was still more distracted and in sympathy with Philip's evident
+aspirations by her own love for Evelyn and her growing admiration for
+the girl's character. It so happened that mutual sympathy--who can say
+how it was related to Philip?--had drawn them much together, and chance
+had given them many opportunities for knowing each other. Alice had so
+far come out of her shell, and broken the reserve of her life, as to
+make frequent visits at the inn, and Mrs. Mavick and Evelyn found it the
+most natural and agreeable stroll by the river-side to the farmhouse,
+where naturally, while the mother amused herself with the original
+eccentricities of Patience, her daughter grew into an intimacy with
+Alice.
+
+As for the feelings of Evelyn in these days--her first experience of
+something like freedom in the world--the historian has only universal
+experience to guide him. In her heart was working the consciousness that
+she had been singled out as worthy to share the confidence of a man in
+his most secret ambitions and aspirations, in the dreams of youth which
+seemed to her so noble. For these aspirations and dreams concerned the
+world in which she had lived most and felt most.
+
+If Philip had talked to her as he had to Celia about his plans for
+success in life she would have been less interested. But there was
+nothing to warn her personally in these unworldly confessions. Nor did
+Philip ever seem to ask anything of her except sympathy in his ideas.
+And then there was the friendship of Alice, which could not but
+influence the girl. In the shelter of that the intercourse of the summer
+took on natural relations. For some natures there is no nurture of love
+like the security of family protection, under cover of which there is so
+little to excite the alarm of a timid maiden.
+
+It was fortunate for Philip that Miss McDonald took a liking to him.
+They were thrown much together. They were both good walkers, and liked
+to climb the hills and explore the wild mountain streams. Philip would
+have confessed that he was fond of nature, and fancied there was a sort
+of superiority in his attitude towards it to that of his companion, who
+was merely interested in plants-just a botanist. This attitude, which
+she perceived, amused Miss McDonald.
+
+“If you American students,” she said one day when they were seated on a
+fallen tree in the forest, and she was expatiating on a rare plant she
+had found, “paid no more attention to the classics than to the world you
+live in, few of you would get a degree.”
+
+“Oh, some fellows go in for that sort of thing,” Philip replied. “But
+I have noticed that all English women have some sort of fad--plants,
+shells, birds, something special.”
+
+“Fad!” exclaimed the Scotchwoman. “Yes, I suppose it is, if reading is
+a fad. It is one way of finding out about things. You admire what
+the Americans call scenery; we, since you provoke me to say it, love
+nature--I mean its individual, almost personal manifestations. Every
+plant has a distinct character of its own. I saw the other day an
+American landscape picture with a wild, uncultivated foreground. There
+was not a botanical thing in it. The man who painted it didn't know a
+sweetbrier from a thistle.
+
+“Just a confused mass of rubbish. It was as if an animal painter should
+compose a group and you could not tell whether it was made up of sheep
+or rabbits or dogs or foxes or griffins.”
+
+“So you want things picked out like a photograph?”
+
+“I beg your pardon, I want nature. You cannot give character to a bit of
+ground in a landscape unless you know the characters of its details. A
+man is no more fit to paint a landscape than a cage of monkeys, unless
+he knows the language of the nature he is dealing with down to the
+alphabet. The Japanese know it so well that they are not bothered with
+minutia, but give you character.”
+
+“And you think that science is an aid to art?”
+
+“Yes, if there is genius to transform it into art. You must know the
+intimate habits of anything you paint or write about. You cannot even
+caricature without that. They talk now about Dickens being just a
+caricaturist. He couldn't have been that if he hadn't known the things
+he caricatured. That is the reason there is so little good caricature.”
+
+“Isn't your idea of painting rather anatomical?” Philip ventured to ask.
+
+“Do you think that if Raphael had known nothing of anatomy the world
+would have accepted his Sistine Madonna for the woman she is?” was the
+retort.
+
+“I see it is interesting,” said Philip, shifting his ground again, “but
+what is the real good of all these botanical names and classifications?”
+
+Miss McDonald gave a weary sigh. “Well, you must put things in order.
+You studied philology in Germany? The chief end of that is to trace the
+development, migration, civilization of the human race. To trace the
+distribution of plants is another way to find out about the race. But
+let that go. Don't you think that I get more pleasure in looking at all
+the growing things we see, as we sit here, than you do in seeing them
+and knowing as little about them as you pretend to?”
+
+Philip said that he could not analyze the degree of pleasure in
+such things, but he seemed to take his ignorance very lightly. What
+interested him in all this talk was that, in discovering the mind of the
+governess, he was getting nearer to the mind of her pupil. And finally
+he asked (and Miss McDonald smiled, for she knew what this conversation,
+like all others with him, must ultimately come to):
+
+“Does the Mavick family also take to botany?”
+
+“Oh yes. Mrs. Mavick is intimate with all the florists in New York. And
+Miss Evelyn, when I take home these specimens, will analyze them and
+tell all about them. She is very sharp about such things. You must have
+noticed that she likes to be accurate?”
+
+“But she is fond of poetry.”
+
+“Yes, of poetry that she understands. She has not much of the emotional
+vagueness of many young girls.”
+
+All this was very delightful for Philip, and for a long time, on one
+pretext or another, he kept the conversation revolving about this point.
+He fancied he was very deep in doing this. To his interlocutor he was,
+however, very transparent. And the young man would have been surprised
+and flattered if he had known how much her indulgence of him in this
+talk was due to her genuine liking for him.
+
+When they returned to the inn, Mrs. Mavick began to rally Philip about
+his feminine taste in woodsy things. He would gladly have thrown botany
+or anything else overboard to win the good opinion of Evelyn's mother,
+but botany now had a real significance and a new meaning for him.
+Therefore he put in a defense, by saying:
+
+“Botany, in the hands of Miss McDonald, cannot be called very feminine;
+it is a good deal more difficult to understand and master than law.”
+
+“Maybe that's the reason,” said Mrs. Mavick, “why so many more girls are
+eager to study law now than botany.”
+
+“Law?” cried Evelyn; “and to practice?”
+
+“Certainly. Don't you think that a bright, clever woman, especially if
+she were pretty, would have an advantage with judge and jury?”
+
+“Not if judge and jury were women,” Miss McDonald interposed.
+
+“And you remember Portia?” Mrs. Mavick continued.
+
+“Portia,” said Evelyn; “yes, but that is poetry; and, McDonald, wasn't
+it a kind of catch? How beautifully she talked about mercy, but she
+turned the sharp edge of it towards the Jew. I didn't like that.”
+
+“Yes,” Miss McDonald replied, “it was a kind of trick, a poet's law.
+What do you say, Mr. Burnett?”
+
+“Why,” said Philip, hesitating, “usually it is understood when a man
+buys or wins anything that the appurtenances necessary to give him full
+possession go with it. Only in this case another law against the Jew was
+understood. It was very clever, nothing short of woman's wit.”
+
+“Are there any women in your firm, Mr. Burnett?” asked Mrs. Mavick.
+
+“Not yet, but I think there are plenty of lawyers who would be willing
+to take Portia for a partner.”
+
+“Make her what you call a consulting partner. That is just the way
+with you men--as soon as you see women succeeding in doing anything
+independently, you head them off by matrimony.”
+
+“Not against their wills,” said the governess, with some decision.
+
+“Oh, the poor things are easily hypnotized. And I'm glad they are. The
+funniest thing is to hear the Woman's Rights women talk of it as a state
+of subjection,” and Mrs. Mavick laughed out of her deep experience.
+
+“Rights, what's that?” asked Evelyn.
+
+“Well, child, your education has been neglected. Thank McDonald for
+that.”
+
+“Don't you know, Evelyn,” the governess explained, “that we have always
+said that women had a right to have any employment, or do anything they
+were fitted to do?”
+
+“Oh, that, of course; I thought everybody said that. That is natural.
+But I mean all this fuss. I guess I don't understand what you all are
+talking about.” And her bright face broke out of its look of perplexity
+into a smile.
+
+“Why, poor thing,” said her mother, “you belong to the down-trodden sex.
+Only you haven't found it out.”
+
+“But, mamma,” and the girl seemed to be turning the thing over in her
+mind, as was her wont with any new proposition, “there seem to be in
+history a good many women who never found it out either.”
+
+“It is not so now. I tell you we are all in a wretched condition.”
+
+“You look it, mamma,” replied Evelyn, who perfectly understood when her
+mother was chaffing.
+
+“But I think I don't care so much for the lawyers,” Mrs. Mavick
+continued, with more air of conviction; “what I can't stand are the
+doctors, the female doctors. I'd rather have a female priest about me
+than a female doctor.”
+
+This was not altogether banter, for there had been times in Carmen's
+career when the externals of the Roman Church attracted her, and she
+wished she had an impersonal confidant, to whom she could confess--well,
+not everything-and get absolution. And she could make a kind of
+confidant of a sympathetic doctor. But she went on:
+
+“To have a sharp woman prying into all my conditions and affairs! No, I
+thank you. Don't you think so, McDonald?”
+
+“They do say,” the governess admitted, “that women doctors haven't as
+much consideration for women's whims as men.” And, after a moment, she
+continued:
+
+“But, for all that, women ought to understand about women better than
+men can, and be the best doctors for them.”
+
+“So it seems to me,” said Evelyn, appealing to her mother. “Don't you
+remember that day you took me down to the infirmary in which you are
+interested, and how nice it was, nobody but women for doctors and nurses
+and all that? Would you put that in charge of men?”
+
+“Oh, you child!” cried Mrs. Mavick, turning to her daughter and patting
+her on the head. “Of course there are exceptions. But I'm not going to
+be one of the exceptions. Ah, well, I suppose I am quite behind the age;
+but the conduct of my own sex does get on my nerves sometimes.”
+
+Evelyn was silent. She was often so when discussions arose. They were
+apt to plunge her into deep thought. To those who knew her history,
+guarded from close contact with anything but the world of ideas, it
+was very interesting to watch her mental attitude as she was day by
+day emerging into a knowledge of the actual world and encountering
+its crosscurrents. To Philip, who was getting a good idea of what her
+education had been, an understanding promoted by his knowledge of the
+character and attainments of her governess, her mental processes, it may
+be safely said, opened a new world of thought. Not that mental processes
+made much difference to a man in his condition, still, they had the
+effect of setting her personality still further apart from that of other
+women. One day when they happened to be tete-a-tete in one of their
+frequent excursions--a rare occasion--Evelyn had said:
+
+“How strange it is that so many things that are self-evident nobody
+seems to see, and that there are so many things that are right that
+can't be done.”
+
+“That is the way the world is made,” Philip had replied. She was
+frequently coming out with the sort of ideas and questions that are
+often proposed by bright children, whose thinking processes are not only
+fresh but undisturbed by the sophistries or concessions that experience
+has woven into the thinking of our race. “Perhaps it hasn't your faith
+in the abstract.”
+
+“Faith? I wonder. Do you mean that people do not dare go ahead and do
+things?”
+
+“Well, partly. You see, everybody is hedged in by circumstances.”
+
+“Yes. I do begin to see circumstances. I suppose I'm a sort of a
+goose--in the abstract, as you say.” And Evelyn laughed. It was the
+spontaneous, contagious laugh of a child. “You know that Miss McDonald
+says I'm nothing but a little idealist.”
+
+“Did you deny it?”
+
+“Oh, no. I said, so were the Apostles, all save one--he was a realist.”
+
+It was Philip's turn to laugh at this new definition, and upon this the
+talk had drifted into the commonplaces of the summer situation and about
+Rivervale and its people. Philip regretted that his vacation would
+so soon be over, and that he must say good-by to all this repose and
+beauty, and to the intercourse that had been so delightful to him.
+
+“But you will write,” Evelyn exclaimed.
+
+Philip was startled.
+
+“Write?”
+
+“Yes, your novel.”
+
+“Oh, I suppose so,” without any enthusiasm.
+
+“You must. I keep thinking of it. What a pleasure it must be to create a
+real drama of life.”
+
+So this day on the veranda of the inn when Philip spoke of his hateful
+departure next day, and there was a little chorus of protest, Evelyn
+was silent; but her silence was of more significance to him than the
+protests, for he knew her thoughts were on the work he had promised to
+go on with.
+
+“It is too bad,” Mrs. Mavick exclaimed; “we shall be like a lot of sheep
+without a shepherd.”
+
+“That we shall,” the governess joined in. “At any rate, you must make us
+out a memorandum of what is to be seen and done and how to do it.”
+
+“Yes,” said Philip, gayly, “I'll write tonight a complete guide to
+Rivervale.”
+
+“We are awfully obliged to you for what you have done.” Mrs. Mavick was
+no doubt sincere in this. And she added, “Well, we shall all be back in
+the city before long.”
+
+It was a natural thing to say, and Philip understood that there was no
+invitation in it, more than that of the most conventional acquaintance.
+For Mrs. Mavick the chapter was closed.
+
+There were the most cordial hand-shakings and good-bys, and Philip said
+good-by as lightly as anybody. But as he walked along the road he knew,
+or thought he was sure, that the thoughts of one of the party were going
+along with him into his future, and the peaceful scene, the murmuring
+river, the cat-birds and the blackbirds calling in the meadow, and the
+spirit of self-confident youth in him said not good-by, but au revoir.
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+Of course Philip wrote to Celia about his vacation intimacy with the
+Mavicks. It was no news to her that the Mavicks were spending the
+summer there; all the world knew that, and society wondered what whim of
+Carmen's had taken her out of the regular summer occupations and immured
+her in the country. Not that it gave much thought to her, but, when her
+name was mentioned, society resented the closing of the Newport house
+and the loss of her vivacity in the autumn at Lenox. She is such a hand
+to set things going, don't you know? Mr. Mavick never made a flying
+visit to his family--and he was in Rivervale twice during the
+season--that the newspapers did not chronicle his every movement, and
+attribute other motives than family affection to these excursions
+into New England. Was the Central system or the Pennsylvania system
+contemplating another raid? It could not be denied that the big
+operator's connection with any great interest raised suspicion and often
+caused anxiety.
+
+Naturally, thought Celia, in such a little village, Philip would fall
+in with the only strangers there, so that he was giving her no news
+in saying so. But there was a new tone in his letters; she detected an
+unusual reserve that was in itself suspicious. Why did he say so much
+about Mrs. Mavick and the governess, and so little about the girl?
+
+“You don't tell me,” she wrote, “anything about the Infant Phenomenon.
+And you know I am dying to know.”
+
+This Philip resented. Phenomenon! The little brown girl, with eyes that
+saw so much and were so impenetrably deep, and the mobile face, so alert
+and responsive. If ever there was a natural person, it was Evelyn. So he
+wrote:
+
+“There is nothing to tell; she is not an infant and she is not a
+phenomenon. Only this: she has less rubbish in her mind than any person
+you ever saw. And I guess the things she does not know about life are
+not worth knowing.”
+
+“I see,” replied Celia; “poor boy! it's the moth and the star. [That's
+just like her, muttered Philip, she always assumed to be the older.]
+But don't mind. I've come to the conclusion that I am a moth myself, and
+some of the lights I used to think stars have fallen. And, seriously,
+dear friend, I am glad there is a person who does not know the things
+not worth knowing. It is a step in the right direction. I have been this
+summer up in the hills, meditating. And I am not so sure of things as
+I was. I used to think that all women needed was what is called
+education--science, history, literature--and you could safely turn them
+loose on the world. It certainly is not safe to turn them loose without
+education--but I begin to wonder what we are all coming to. I don't mind
+telling you that I have got into a pretty psychological muddle, and I
+don't see much to hold on to.
+
+“I suppose that Scotch governess is pious; I mean she has a backbone
+of what they call dogma; things are right or wrong in her mind--no
+haziness. Now, I am going to make a confession. I've been thinking of
+religion. Don't mock. You know I was brought up religious, and I am
+religious. I go to church--well, you know how I feel and especially the
+things I don't believe. I go to church to be entertained. I read the
+other day that Cardinal Manning said: 'The three greatest evils in
+the world today are French devotional books, theatrical music, and the
+pulpit orator. And the last is the worst.' I wonder. I often feel as
+if I had been to a performance. No. It is not about sin that I am
+especially thinking, but the sinner. One ought to do something.
+Sometimes I think I ought to go to the city. You know I was in a College
+Settlement for a while. Now I mean something permanent, devoted to the
+poor as a life occupation, like a nun or something of that sort. You
+think this is a mood? Perhaps. There have always been so many things
+before me to do, and I wanted to do them all. And I do not stick to
+anything? You must not presume to say that, because I confide to you all
+my errant thoughts. You have not confided in me--I don't insinuate that
+you have anything to confide but I cannot help saying that if you have
+found a pure and clear-minded girl--Heaven knows what she will be when
+she is a woman I--I am sorry she is not poor.”
+
+But if Philip did not pour out his heart to his old friend, he did open
+a lively and frequent correspondence with Alice. Not about the person
+who was always in his thoughts--oh, no--but about himself, and all he
+was doing, in the not unreasonable expectation that the news would go
+where he could not send it directly--so many ingenious ways has love of
+attaining its object. And if Alice, no doubt, understood all this, she
+was nevertheless delighted, and took great pleasure in chronicling the
+news of the village and giving all the details that came in her way
+about the millionaire family. This connection with the world, if only by
+correspondence, was an outlet to her reserved and secluded life. And
+her letters recorded more of her character, of her feeling, than he had
+known in all his boyhood. When Alice mentioned, as it were by chance,
+that Evelyn had asked, more than once, when she had spoken of receiving
+letters, if her cousin was going on with his story, Philip felt that the
+connection was not broken.
+
+Going on with his story he was, and with good heart. The thought that
+“she” might some day read it was inspiration enough. Any real creation,
+by pen or brush or chisel, must express the artist and be made in
+independence of the demands of a vague public. Art is vitiated when
+the commercial demand, which may be a needed stimulus, presides at the
+creation. But it is doubtful if any artist in letters, or in form
+or color, ever did anything well without having in mind some special
+person, whose approval was desired or whose criticism was feared. Such
+is the universal need of human sympathy. It is, at any rate, true that
+Philip's story, recast and reinspired, was thenceforth written under the
+spell of the pure divining eyes of Evelyn Mavick. Unconsciously this was
+so. For at this time Philip had not come to know that the reason why so
+many degraded and degrading stories and sketches are written is because
+the writers' standard is the approval of one or two or a group of
+persons of vitiated tastes and low ideals.
+
+The Mavicks did not return to town till late in the autumn. By this time
+Philip's novel had been submitted to a publisher, or, rather, to state
+the exact truth, it had begun to go the rounds of the publishers. Mr.
+Brad, to whose nineteenth-century and newspaper eye Philip had shrunk
+from confiding his modest creation, but who was consulted in the
+business, consoled him with the suggestion that this was a sure way
+of getting his production read. There was already in the city a
+considerable body of professional “readers,” mostly young men and women,
+to whom manuscripts were submitted by the publishers, so that the
+author could be sure, if he kept at it long enough, to get a pretty fair
+circulation for his story. They were selected because they were good
+judges of literature and because they had a keen appreciation of what
+the public wanted at the moment. Many of them are overworked, naturally
+so, in the mass of manuscripts turned over to their inspection day after
+day, and are compelled often to adopt the method of tea-tasters, who
+sip but do not swallow, for to drink a cup or two of the decoction would
+spoil their taste and impair their judgment, especially on new brands.
+Philip liked to imagine, as the weeks passed away--the story is old and
+need not be retold here--that at any given hour somebody was reading
+him. He did not, however, dwell with much delight upon this process, for
+the idea that some unknown Rhadamanthus was sitting in judgment upon
+him much more wounded his 'amour propre', and seemed much more like an
+invading of his inner, secret life and feeling, than would be an instant
+appeal to the general public. Why, he thought, it is just as if I had
+shown it to Brad himself--apiece of confidence that he could not
+bring himself to. He did not know that Brad himself was a reader for
+a well-known house--which had employed him on the strength of his
+newspaper notoriety--and that very likely he had already praised the
+quality of the work and damned it as lacking “snap.”
+
+It was, however, weary waiting, and would have been intolerable if his
+duties in the law office had not excluded other thoughts from his mind
+a good part of the time. There were days when he almost resolved to
+confine himself to the solid and remunerative business of law, and give
+up the vague aspirations of authorship. But those vague aspirations
+were in the end more enticing than the courts. Common-sense is not an
+antidote to the virus of the literary infection when once a young soul
+has taken it. In his long walks it was not on the law that Philip
+was ruminating, nor was the fame of success in it occupying his mind.
+Suppose he could write one book that should touch the heart of the
+world. Would he exchange the sweetness of that for the fleeting
+reputation of the most brilliant lawyer? In short, he magnified beyond
+all reason the career and reputation of the author, and mistook the
+consideration he occupies in the great world. And what a world it would
+be if there had not been a continuous line of such mistaken fools as he!
+
+That it was not literature alone that inflated his dreams was evidenced
+by the direction his walks took. Whatever their original destination or
+purpose, he was sure to pass through upper Fifth Avenue, and walk by the
+Mavick mansion. And never without a lift in his spirits. What comfort
+there is to a lover in gazing at the blank and empty house once occupied
+by his mistress has never been explained; but Philip would have counted
+the day lost in which he did not see it.
+
+After he heard from Alice that the Mavicks had returned, the house had
+still stronger attractions for him, for there was added the chance of
+a glimpse of Evelyn or one of the family. Many a day passed, however,
+before he mustered up courage to mount the steps and touch the button.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the servant, “the family is returned, but they is
+h'out.”
+
+Philip left his card. But nothing came of it, and he did not try again.
+In fact, he was a little depressed as the days went by. How much doubt
+and anxiety, even suffering, might have been spared him if the historian
+at that moment could have informed him of a little shopping incident at
+Tiffany's a few days after the Mavicks' return.
+
+A middle-aged lady and a young girl were inspecting some antiques. The
+girl, indeed, had been asking for ancient coins, and they were shown two
+superb gold staters with the heads of Alexander and Philip.
+
+“Aren't they beautiful?” said the younger. “How lovely one would be for
+a brooch!”
+
+“Yes, indeed,” replied the elder, “and quite in the line of our Greek
+reading.”
+
+The girl held them in her hand and looked at one and the other with a
+student's discrimination.
+
+“Which would you choose?”
+
+“Oh, both are fine. Philip of Macedon has a certain youthful freshness,
+in the curling hair and uncovered head. But, of course, Alexander the
+Great is more important, and then there is the classic casque. I should
+take the Alexander.” The girl still hesitated, weighing the choice in
+her mind from the classic point of view.
+
+“Doubtless you are right. But”--and she held up the lovely head--“this
+is not quite so common, and--and--I think I'll take the Macedon one.
+Yes, you may set that for me,” turning to the salesman.
+
+“Diamonds or pearls?” asked the jeweler.
+
+“Oh, dear, no!” exclaimed the girl; “just the head.”
+
+Evelyn's education was advancing. For the first time in her life she had
+something to conceal. The privilege of this sort of secret is, however,
+an inheritance of Eve. The first morning she wore it at breakfast Mrs.
+Mavick asked her what it was.
+
+“It's a coin, antique Greek,” Evelyn replied, passing it across the
+table.
+
+“How pretty it is; it is very pretty. Ought to have pearls around it.
+Seems to be an inscription on it.”
+
+“Yes, it is real old. McDonald says it is a stater, about the same as a
+Persian daric-something like the value of a sovereign.”
+
+“Oh, indeed; very interesting.”
+
+To give Evelyn her due, it must be confessed that she blushed at this
+equivocation about the inscription, and she got quite hot with shame
+thinking what would become of her if Philip should ever know that she
+was regarding him as a stater and wearing his name on her breast.
+
+One can fancy what philosophical deductions as to the education of women
+Celia Howard would have drawn out of this coin incident; one of them
+doubtless being that a classical education is no protection against
+love.
+
+But for Philip's connection with the thriving firm of Hunt, Sharp &
+Tweedle, it is safe to say that he would have known little of the world
+of affairs in Wall Street, and might never have gained entrance into
+that other world, for which Wall Street exists, that society where its
+wealth and ambitious vulgarity are displayed. Thomas Mavick was a client
+of the firm. At first they had been only associated with his lawyer, and
+consulted occasionally. But as time went on Mr. Mavick opened to
+them his affairs more and more, as he found the advantage of being
+represented to the public by a firm that combined the highest social
+and professional standing with all the acumen and adroitness that his
+complicated affairs required.
+
+It was a time of great financial feverishness and uncertainty, and of
+opportunity for the most reckless adventurers. Houses the most solid
+were shaken and crippled, and those which were much extended in a
+variety of adventures were put to their wits' ends to escape shipwreck.
+Financial operations are perpetual war. It is easy to calculate about
+the regular forces, but the danger is from the unexpected “raids”
+ and the bushwhackers and guerrillas. And since politics has become
+inextricably involved in financial speculations (as it has in real war),
+the excitement and danger of business on a large scale increase.
+
+Philip as a trusted clerk, without being admitted into interior secrets,
+came to know a good deal about Mavick's affairs, and to be more than
+ever impressed with his enormous wealth and the magnitude of his
+operations. From time to time he was sent on errands to Mavick's office,
+and gradually, as Mavick became accustomed to him as a representative of
+the firm, they came on a somewhat familiar footing, and talked of
+other things than business. And Mavick, who was not a bad judge of the
+capacities of men, conceived a high idea of Philip's single-mindedness,
+of his integrity and general culture, and, as well, of his agreeableness
+(for Philip had a certain charm where he felt at ease), while at the
+same time he discovered that his mind was more upon something else
+than law, and that, if his success in his profession depended upon his
+adoption of the business methods of the Street, he could not go very
+far. Consequently he did not venture upon the same confidences with him
+that he habitually did with Mr. Sharp. Yet, business aside, he had an
+intellectual pleasure in exchanging views with Philip which Mr. Sharp's
+conversation did not offer him.
+
+When, therefore, Mrs. Mavick came to consult her husband about the list
+for the coming-out reception of Evelyn, Philip found a friend at court.
+
+“It is all plain enough,” said Carmen, as she sat down with book and
+pencil in hand, “till you come to the young men, the unattached young
+men. Here is my visiting-list, that of course. But for the young ladies
+we must have more young men. Can't you suggest any?”
+
+“Perhaps. I know a lot of young fellows.”
+
+“But I mean available young men, those that count socially. I don't want
+a broker's board or a Chamber of Commerce here.”
+
+Mr. Mavick named half a dozen, and Carmen looked for their names in the
+social register. “Any more?”
+
+“Why, you forgot young Burnett, who was with you last summer at
+Rivervale. I thought you liked him.”
+
+“So I did in Rivervale. Plain farmer people. Yes, he was very nice to
+us. I've been thinking if I couldn't send him something Christmas and
+pay off the debt.”
+
+“He'd think a great deal more of an invitation to your reception.”
+
+“But you don't understand. You never think of Evelyn's future. We are
+asking people that we think she ought to know.”
+
+“Well, Burnett is a very agreeable fellow.”
+
+“Fiddlesticks! He is nothing but a law clerk. Worse than that, he is a
+magazine writer.”
+
+“I thought you liked his essays and stories.”
+
+“So I do. But you don't want to associate with everybody you like that
+way. I am talking about society. You must draw the line somewhere. Oh, I
+forgot Fogg--Dr. LeRoy Fogg, from Pittsburg.” And down went the name of
+Fogg.
+
+“You mean that young swell whose business it is to drive a four-in-hand
+to Yonkers and back, and toot on a horn?”
+
+“Well, what of that? Everybody who is anybody, I mean all the girls,
+want to go on his coach.”
+
+“Oh, Lord! I'd rather go on the Elevated.” And Mavick laughed very
+heartily, for him. “Well, I'll make a compromise. You take Fogg and I'll
+take Burnett. He is in a good firm, he belongs to a first-rate club,
+he goes to the Hunts' and the Scammels', I hear of him in good places.
+Come.”
+
+“Well, if you make a point of it. I've nothing against him. But if you
+knew the feelings of a mother about her only daughter you would know,
+that you cannot be too careful.”
+
+When, several days after this conversation, Philip received his big
+invitation, gorgeously engraved on what he took to be a sublimated
+sort of wrapping-paper, he felt ashamed that he had doubted the sincere
+friendship and the goodness of heart of Mrs. Mavick.
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+One morning in December, Philip was sent down to Mr. Mavick's office
+with some important papers. He was kept waiting a considerable time
+in the outer room where the clerks were at work. A couple of clerks at
+desks near the chair he occupied were evidently discussing some one and
+he overheard fragments of sentences--“Yes, that's he.” “Well, I guess
+the old man's got his match this time.”
+
+When he was admitted to the private office, he encountered coming out in
+the anteroom a man of striking appearance. For an instant they were face
+to face, and then bowed and passed on. The instant seemed to awaken some
+memory in Philip which greatly puzzled him.
+
+The man had closely cropped black hair, black Whiskers, a little
+curling, but also closely trimmed, piercing black eyes, and the
+complexion of a Spaniard. The nose was large but regular, the mouth
+square-cut and firm, and the powerful jaw emphasized the decision of the
+mouth. The frame corresponded with the head. It was Herculean, and yet
+with no exaggerated developments. The man was over six feet in height,
+the shoulders were square, the chest deep, the hips and legs modeled for
+strength, and with no superfluous flesh. Philip noticed, as they fronted
+each other for an instant and the stranger raised his hat, that his
+hands and feet were smaller than usually accompany such a large frame.
+The impression was that of great physical energy, self-confidence, and
+determined will. The face was not bad, certainly not in detail, and
+even the penetrating eyes seemed at the moment capable of a humorous
+expression, but it was that of a man whom you would not like to have
+your enemy. He wore a business suit of rough material and fashionable
+cut, but he wore it like a man who did not give much thought to his
+clothes.
+
+“What a striking-looking man,” said Philip, motioning with his hand
+towards the anteroom as he greeted Mr. Mavick.
+
+“Who, Ault?” answered Mavick, indifferently.
+
+“Ault! What, Murad Ault?”
+
+“Nobody else.”
+
+“Is it possible? I thought I saw a resemblance. Several times I have
+wondered, but I fancied it only a coincidence of names. It seemed
+absurd. Why, I used to know Murad Ault when we were boys. And to think
+that he should be the great Murad Ault.”
+
+“He hasn't been that for more than a couple of years,” Mavick answered,
+with a smile at the other's astonishment, and then, with more interest,
+“What do you know about him?”
+
+“If this is the same person, he used to live at Rivervale. Came there,
+no one knew where from, and lived with his mother, a little withered old
+woman, on a little cleared patch up in the hills, in a comfortable sort
+of shanty. She used to come to the village with herbs and roots to sell.
+Nobody knew whether she was a gypsy or a decayed lady, she had such an
+air, and the children were half afraid of her, as a sort of witch. Murad
+went to school, and occasionally worked for some farmer, but nobody knew
+him; he rarely spoke to any one, and he had the reputation of being a
+perfect devil; his only delight seemed to be in doing some dare-devil
+feat to frighten the children. We used to say that Murad Ault would
+become either a pirate or--”
+
+“Broker,” suggested Mr. Mavick, with a smile.
+
+“I didn't know much about brokers at that time,” Philip hastened to say,
+and then laughed himself at his escape from actual rudeness.
+
+“What became of him?”
+
+“Oh, he just disappeared. After I went away to school I heard that his
+mother had died, and Murad had gone off--gone West it was said. Nothing
+was ever heard of him.”
+
+The advent and rise of Murad Ault in New York was the sort of phenomenon
+to which the metropolis, which picks up its great men as Napoleon did
+his marshals, is accustomed. The mystery of his origin, which was at
+first against him, became at length an element of his strength and of
+the fear he inspired, as a sort of elemental force of unknown power.
+Newspaper biographies of him constantly appeared, but he had evaded
+every attempt to include him and his portrait in the Lives of Successful
+Men. The publishers of these useful volumes for stimulating speculation
+and ambition did not dare to take the least liberties with Murad Ault.
+
+The man was like the boy whom Philip remembered. Doubtless he
+appreciated now as then the value of the mystery that surrounded his
+name and origin; and he very soon had a humorous conception of the
+situation that made him decline to be pilloried with others in one of
+those volumes, which won from a reviewer the confession that “lives
+of great men all remind us we may make our lives sublime.” One of the
+legends current about him was that he first appeared in New York as a
+“hand” on a canal-boat, that he got employment as a check-clerk on the
+dock, that he made the acquaintance of politicians in his ward, and went
+into politics far enough to get a city contract, which paid him very
+well and showed him how easily a resolute man could get money and use it
+in the city. He was first heard of in Wall Street as a curbstone broker,
+taking enormous risks and always lucky. Very soon he set up an office,
+with one clerk or errand-boy, and his growing reputation for sagacity
+and boldness began to attract customers; his ventures soon engaged the
+attention of guerrillas like himself, who were wont to consult him.
+They found that his advice was generally sound, and that he had not only
+sensitiveness but prescience about the state of the market. His office
+was presently enlarged, and displayed a modest sign of “Murad Ault,
+Banker and Broker.”
+
+Mr. Ault's operations constantly enlarged, his schemes went beyond the
+business of registering other people's bets and taking a commission on
+them; he was known as a daring but successful promoter, and he had a
+visible ownership in steamships and railways, and projected such vast
+operations as draining the Jersey marshes. If he had been a citizen
+of Italy he would have attacked the Roman Campagna with the same
+confidence. At any rate, he made himself so much felt and seemed to
+command so many resources that it was not long before he forced his way
+into the Stock Exchange and had a seat in the Board of Brokers. He
+was at first an odd figure there. There was something flash about his
+appearance, and his heavy double watch-chain and diamond shirt-studs
+gave him the look of an ephemeral adventurer. But he soon took his cue,
+the diamonds disappeared, and the dress was toned down. There seemed to
+be two models in the Board, the smart and neat, and the hayseed style
+adopted by some of the most wily old operators, who posed as honest
+dealers who retained their rural simplicity. Mr. Ault adopted a middle
+course, and took the respectable yet fashionable, solid dress of a man
+of affairs.
+
+There is no other place in the world where merit is so quickly
+recognized as in the Stock Exchange, especially if it is backed by brass
+and a good head. Ault's audacity made him feared; he was believed to
+be as unscrupulous as he was reckless, but this did not much injure his
+reputation when it was seen that he was marvelously successful. That
+Ault would wreck the market, if he could and it was to his advantage, no
+one doubted; but still he had a quality that begot confidence. He kept
+his word. Though men might be shy of entering into a contract with Ault,
+they learned that what he said he would do he would do literally. He was
+not a man of many words, but he was always decided and apparently open,
+and, as whatever he touched seemed to thrive, his associates got the
+habit of saying, “What Ault says goes.”
+
+Murad Ault had married, so it was said, the daughter of a boarding-house
+keeper on the dock. She was a pretty girl, had been educated in a
+convent (perhaps by his aid after he was engaged to marry her), and
+was a sweet mother to a little brood of charming children, and a devout
+member of her parish church. Those who had seen Mrs. Ault when her
+carriage took her occasionally to Ault's office in the city were much
+impressed by her graceful manner and sweet face, and her appearance gave
+Ault a sort of anchorage in the region of respectability. No one would
+have accused Ault of being devoted to any special kind of religious
+worship; but he was equally tolerant of all religions, and report said
+was liberal in his wife's church charities. Besides the fact that he
+owned a somewhat pretentious house in Sixtieth Street, society had very
+little knowledge of him.
+
+It was, however, undeniable that he was a power in the Street. No other
+man's name was oftener mentioned in the daily journals in connection
+with some bold and successful operation. He seemed to thrive on panics,
+and to grow strong and rich with every turn of the wheel. There is
+only one stock expression in America for a man who is very able and
+unscrupulous, and carries things successfully with a high hand--he is
+Napoleonic. It needed only a few brilliant operations, madly reckless in
+appearance but successful, to give Ault the newspaper sobriquet of the
+Young Napoleon.
+
+“Papa, what does he mean?” asked the eldest boy. “Jim Dustin says the
+papers call you Napoleon.”
+
+“It means, my boy,” said Ault, with a grim smile, “that I am devoted to
+your mother, St. Helena.”
+
+“Don't say that, Murad,” exclaimed his wife; “I'm far enough from a
+saint, and your destiny isn't the Island.”
+
+“What's the Island, mamma?”
+
+“It's a place people are sent to for their health.”
+
+“In a boat? Can I go?”
+
+“You ask too many questions, Sinclair,” said Mr. Ault; “it's time you
+were off to school.”
+
+There seems to have been not the least suspicion in this household that
+the head of it was a pirate.
+
+It must be said that Mavick still looked upon Ault as an adventurer,
+one of those erratic beings who appear from time to time in the
+Street, upset everything, and then disappear. They had been associated
+occasionally in small deals, and Ault had more than once appealed to
+Mavick, as a great capitalist, with some promising scheme. They had,
+indeed, co-operated in reorganizing a Western railway, but seemed to
+have come out of the operation without increased confidence in each
+other. What had occurred nobody knew, but thereafter there developed
+a slight antagonism between the two operators. Ault went no more to
+consult the elder man, and they had two or three little bouts, in which
+Mavick did not get the best of it. This was not an unusual thing in
+the Street. Mr. Ault never expressed his opinion of Mr. Mavick, but it
+became more and more apparent that their interests were opposed. Some
+one who knew both men, and said that the one was as cold and selfish as
+a pike, and the other was a most unscrupulous dare-devil, believed that
+Mavick had attempted some sort of a trick on Ault, and that it was
+the kind of thing that the Spaniard (his complexion had given him this
+nickname) never forgot.
+
+It is not intended to enter into a defense of the local pool known
+as the New York Stock Exchange. It needs none. Some regard it as a
+necessary standpipe to promote and equalize distribution, others consult
+it as a sort of Nilometer, to note the rise and fall of the waters and
+the probabilities of drought or flood. Everybody knows that it is full
+of the most gamy and beautiful fish in the world--namely, the speckled
+trout, whose honest occupation it is to devour whatever is thrown into
+the pool--a body governed by the strictest laws of political economy in
+guarding against over-population, by carrying out the Malthusian
+idea, in the habit the big ones have of eating the little ones. But
+occasionally this harmonious family, which is animated by one of the
+most conspicuous traits of human nature--to which we owe very much of
+our progress--namely, the desire to get hold of everything within
+reach, and is such a useful object-lesson of the universal law of upward
+struggle that results in the survival of the fittest, this harmonious
+family is disturbed by the advent of a pickerel, which makes a raid,
+introduces confusion into all the calculations of the pool, roils the
+water, and drives the trout into their holes.
+
+The presence in the pool of a slimy eel or a blundering bullhead or a
+lethargic sucker is bad enough, but the rush in of the pickerel is the
+advent of the devil himself. Until he is got rid of, all the delicate
+machinery for the calculation of chances is hopelessly disturbed; and no
+one could tell what would become of the business of the country if there
+were not a considerable number of devoted men engaged in registering
+its fluctuations and the change of values, and willing to back their
+opinions by investing their own capital or, more often, the capital of
+others.
+
+This somewhat mixed figure cannot be pursued further without losing its
+analogy, becoming fantastic, and violating natural law. For it is
+matter of observation that in this arena the pickerel, if he succeeds in
+clearing out the pool, suddenly becomes a trout, and is respected as the
+biggest and most useful fish in the pond.
+
+What is meant is simply that Murad Ault was fighting for position, and
+that for some reason, known to himself, Thomas Mavick stood in his way.
+Mr. Mavick had never been under the necessity of making such a contest.
+He stepped into a commanding position as the manager if not the owner of
+the great fortune of Rodney Henderson. His position was undisputed, for
+the Street believed with the world in the magnitude of that fortune,
+though there were shrewd operators who said that Mavick had more chicane
+but not a tenth part of the ability of Rodney Henderson. Mr. Ault had
+made the fortune the object of keen scrutiny, when his antagonism was
+aroused, and none knew better than he its assailable points. Henderson
+had died suddenly in the midst of vast schemes which needed his genius
+to perfect. Apparently the Mavick estate was second to only a few
+fortunes in the country. Mr. Ault had set himself to find out whether
+this vast structure stood upon rock foundations. The knowledge he
+acquired about it and his intentions he communicated to no one. But the
+drift of his mind might be gathered from a remark he made to his wife
+one day, when some social allusion was made to Mavick: “I'll bring down
+that snob.”
+
+The use of such men as Ault in the social structure is very doubtful, as
+doubtful as that of a summer tempest or local cyclone, which it is said
+clears the air and removes rubbish, but is a scourge that involves
+the innocent as often as the guilty. It is popularly supposed that the
+disintegration and distribution of a great fortune, especially if it has
+been accumulated by doubtful methods, is a benefit to mankind. Mr.
+Ault may have shared this impression, but it is unlikely that he
+philosophized on the subject. No one, except perhaps his own family, had
+ever discovered that he had any sensibilities that could be appealed to,
+and, if he had known the ideas beginning to take shape in the mind
+of the millionaire heiress in regard to this fortune, he would have
+approved or comprehended them as little as did her mother.
+
+Evelyn had lived hitherto with little comprehension of her peculiar
+position. That the world went well with her, and that no obstacle
+was opposed to the gratification of her reasonable desires, or to her
+impulses of charity and pity, was about all she knew of her power.
+But she was now eighteen and about to appear in the world. Her mother,
+therefore, had been enlightening her in regard to her expectations and
+the career that lay open to her. And Carmen thought the girl a little
+perverse, in that this prospect, instead of exciting her worldly
+ambition, seemed to affect her only seriously as a matter of
+responsibility.
+
+In their talks Mrs. Mavick was in fact becoming acquainted with the mind
+of her daughter, and learning, somewhat to her chagrin, the limitations
+of her education produced by the policy of isolation.
+
+To her dismay, she found that the girl did not care much for the
+things that she herself cared most for. The whole world of society, its
+strifes, ambitions, triumphs, defeats, rewards, did not seem to Evelyn
+so real or so important as that world in which she had lived with her
+governess and her tutors. And, worse than this, the estimate she placed
+upon the values of material things was shockingly inadequate to her
+position.
+
+That her father was a very great man was one of the earliest things
+Evelyn began to know, exterior to herself. This was impressed upon her
+by the deference paid to him not only at home but wherever they went,
+and by the deference shown to her as his daughter. And she was proud
+of this. He was not one of the great men whose careers she was familiar
+with in literature, not a general or a statesman or an orator or a
+scientist or a poet or a philanthropist she never thought of him in
+connection with these heroes of her imagination--but he was certainly
+a great power in the world. And she had for him a profound admiration,
+which might have become affection if Mavick had ever taken the pains
+to interest himself in the child's affairs. Her mother she loved, and
+believed there could be no one in the world more sweet and graceful
+and attractive, and as she grew up she yearned for more of the motherly
+companionship, for something more than the odd moments of petting that
+were given to her in the whirl of the life of a woman of the world. What
+that life was, however, she had only the dimmest comprehension, and it
+was only in the last two years, since she was sixteen, that she began to
+understand it, and that mainly in contrast to her own guarded life. And
+she was now able to see that her own secluded life had been unusual.
+
+Not till long after this did she speak to any one of her experience as
+a child, of the time when she became conscious that she was never alone,
+and that she was only free to act within certain limits.
+
+To McDonald, indeed, she had often shown her irritation, and it was only
+the strong good sense of the governess that kept her from revolt. It
+was not until very recently that it could be explained to her, without
+putting her in terror hourly, why she must always be watched and
+guarded.
+
+It had required all the tact and sophistry of her governess to make
+her acquiesce in a system of education--so it was called-that had been
+devised in order to give her the highest and purest development. That
+the education was mainly left to McDonald, and that her parents were
+simply anxious about her safety, she did not learn till long afterwards.
+In the first years Mrs. Mavick had been greatly relieved to be spared
+all the care of the baby, and as the years went on, the arrangement
+seemed more and more convenient, and she gave little thought to the
+character that was being formed. To Mr. Mavick, indeed, as to his wife,
+it was enough to see that she was uncommonly intelligent, and that she
+had a certain charm that made her attractive. Mrs. Mavick took it for
+granted that when it came time to introduce her into the world she would
+be like other girls, eager for its pleasures and susceptible to all its
+allurements. Of the direction of the undercurrents of the girl's life
+she had no conception, until she began to unfold to her the views of the
+world that prevailed in her circle, and what (in the Carmen scheme of
+life) ought to be a woman's ambition.
+
+That she was to be an heiress Evelyn had long known, that she would
+one day have a great fortune at her disposal had indeed come into her
+serious thought, but the brilliant use of it in relation to herself,
+at which her mother was always lately hinting, came to her as a
+disagreeable shock. For the moment the fortune seemed to her rather
+a fetter than an opportunity, if she was to fulfill her mother's
+expectations. These hints were conveyed with all the tact of which her
+mother was master, but the girl was nevertheless somewhat alarmed,
+and she began to regard the “coming out” as an entrance into servitude
+rather than an enlargement of liberty. One day she surprised Miss
+McDonald by asking her if she didn't think that rich people were the
+only ones not free to do as they pleased?
+
+“Why, my dear, it is not generally so considered. Most people fancy that
+if they had money enough they could do anything.”
+
+“Yes, of course,” said the girl, putting down her stitching and looking
+up; “that is not exactly what I mean. They can go in the current, they
+can do what they like with their money, but I mean with themselves.
+Aren't they in a condition that binds them half the time to do what they
+don't wish to do?”
+
+“It's a condition that all the world is trying to get into.”
+
+“I know. I've been talking with mamma about the world and about society,
+and what is expected and what you must live up to.”
+
+“But you have always known that you must one day go into the world and
+take your share in life.”
+
+“That, yes. But I would rather live up to myself. Mamma seems to think
+that society will do a great deal for me, that I will get a wider view
+of life, that I can do so much for society, and, with my position, mamma
+says, have such a career. McDonald, what is society for?”
+
+That was such a poser that the governess threw up her hands, and then
+laughed aloud, and then shook her head. “Wiser people than you have
+asked that question.”
+
+“I asked mamma that, for she is in it all the time. She didn't like it
+much, and asked, 'What is anything for?' You see, McDonald, I've been
+with mamma many a time when her friends came to see her, and they
+never have anything to say, never--what I call anything. I wonder if in
+society they go about saying that? What do they do it for?”
+
+Miss McDonald had her own opinion about what is called society and its
+occupations and functions, but she did not propose to encourage this
+girl, who would soon take her place in it, in such odd notions.
+
+“Don't you know, child, that there is society and society? That it is
+all sorts of a world, that it gets into groups and circles about, and
+that is the way the world is stirred up and kept from stagnation. And,
+my dear, you have just to do your duty where you are placed, and that is
+all there is about it.”
+
+“Don't be cross, McDonald. I suppose I can think my thoughts?”
+
+“Yes, you can think, and you can learn to keep a good deal that you
+think to yourself. Now, Evelyn, haven't you any curiosity to see what
+this world we are talking about is like?”
+
+“Indeed I have,” said Evelyn, coming out of her reflective mood into
+a girlish enthusiasm. “And I want to see what I shall be like in it.
+Only--well, how is that?” And she held out the handkerchief she had been
+plying her needle on.
+
+Miss McDonald looked at the stitches critically, at the letters T.M.
+enclosed in an oval.
+
+“That is very good, not too mechanical. It will please your father.
+The oval makes a pretty effect; but what are those signs between the
+letters?”
+
+“Don't you see? It is a cartouche, and those are hieroglyphics--his name
+in Egyptian. I got it out of Petrie's book.”
+
+“It certainly is odd.”
+
+“And every one of the twelve is going to be different. It is so
+interesting to hunt up the signs for qualities. If papa can read it he
+will find out a good deal that I think about him.”
+
+The governess only smiled for reply. It was so like Evelyn, so different
+from others even in the commonplace task of marking handkerchiefs, to
+work a little archaeology into her expression of family affection.
+
+Mrs. Mavick's talks with her daughter in which she attempted to give
+Evelyn some conception of her importance as the heiress of a great
+fortune, of her position in society, what would be expected of her,
+and of the brilliant social career her mother imagined for her, had an
+effect opposite to that intended. There had been nothing in her shielded
+life, provided for at every step without effort, that had given her any
+idea of the value and importance of money.
+
+To a girl in her position, educated in the ordinary way and mingling
+with school companions, one of the earliest lessons would be a
+comprehension of the power that wealth gave her; and by the time that
+she was of Evelyn's age her opinion of men would begin to be colored by
+the notion that they were polite or attentive to her on account of
+her fortune and not for any charm of hers, and so a cruel suspicion of
+selfishness would have entered her mind to poison the very thought of
+love.
+
+No such idea had entered Evelyn's mind. She would not readily have
+understood that love could have any sort of relation to riches or
+poverty. And if, deep down in her heart, not acknowledged, scarcely
+recognized, by herself, there had begun to grow an image about which she
+had sweet and tender thoughts, it certainly did not occur to her that
+her father's wealth could make any difference in the relations of
+friendship or even of affection. And as for the fortune, if she was, as
+her mother said, some day to be mistress of it, she began to turn over
+in her mind objects quite different from the display and the career
+suggested by her mother, and to think how she could use it.
+
+In her ignorance of practical life and of what the world generally
+values, of course the scheme that was rather hazy in her mind was simply
+Quixotic, as appeared in a conversation with her father one evening
+while he smoked his cigar. He had called Evelyn to the library, on the
+suggestion of Carmen that he should “have a little talk with the girl.”
+
+Mr. Mavick began, when Evelyn was seated beside him, and he had drawn
+her close to him and she had taken possession of his big hand with both
+her little hands, about the reception and about balls to come, and the
+opera, and what was going on in New York generally in the season, and
+suddenly asked:
+
+“My dear, if you had a lot of money, what would you do with it?”
+
+“What would you?” said the girl, looking up into his face. “What do
+people generally do?”
+
+“Why,” and Mavick hesitated, “they use it to add more to it.”
+
+“And then?” pursued the girl.
+
+“I suppose they leave it to somebody. Suppose it was left to you?”
+
+“Don't think me silly, papa; I've thought a lot about it, and I shall do
+something quite different.”
+
+“Different from what?”
+
+“You know mamma is in the Orthopedic Hospital, and in the Ragged
+Schools, and in the Infirmary, and I don't know what all.”
+
+“And wouldn't you help them?”
+
+“Of course, I would help. But everybody does those things, the practical
+things, the charities; I mean to do things for the higher life.”
+
+Mr. Mavick took his cigar from his mouth and looked puzzled. “You want
+to build a cathedral?”
+
+“No, I don't mean that sort of higher life, I mean civilization, the
+things at the top. I read an essay the other day that said it was easy
+to raise money for anything mechanical and practical in a school, but
+nobody wanted to give for anything ideal.”
+
+“Quite right,” said her father; “the world is full of cranks. You seem
+as vague as your essayist.”
+
+“Don't you remember, papa, when we were in Oxford how amused you were
+with the master, or professor, who grumbled because the college was full
+of students, and there wasn't a single college for research?
+
+“I asked McDonald afterwards what he meant; that is how I first got my
+idea, but I didn't see exactly what it was until recently. You've got
+to cultivate the high things--that essay says--the abstract, that
+which does not seem practically useful, or society will become low and
+material.”
+
+“By George!” cried Mavick, with a burst of laughter, “you've got the
+lingo. Go on, I want to see where you are going to light.”
+
+“Well, I'll tell you some more. You know my tutor is English. McDonald
+says she believes he is the most learned man in eighteenth-century
+literature living, and his dream is to write a history of it. He is
+poor, and engaged all the time teaching, and McDonald says he will die,
+no doubt, and leave nothing of his investigations to the world.”
+
+“And you want to endow him?”
+
+“He is only one. There is the tutor of history. Teach, teach, teach, and
+no time or strength left for investigation. You ought to hear him tell
+of the things just to be found out in American history. You see what I
+mean? It is plainer in the sciences. The scholars who could really
+make investigations, and do something for the world, have to earn their
+living and have no time or means for experiments. It seems foolish as I
+say it, but I do think, papa, there is something in it.”
+
+“And what would you do?”
+
+Evelyn saw that she was making no headway, and her ideas, exposed to
+so practical a man as her father, did seem rather ridiculous. But she
+struck out boldly with the scheme that she had been evolving.
+
+“I'd found Institutions of Research, where there should be no teaching,
+and students who had demonstrated that they had anything promising in
+them, in science, literature, languages, history, anything, should have
+the means and the opportunity to make investigations and do work. See
+what a hard time inventors and men of genius have; it is pitiful.”
+
+“And how much money do you want for this modest scheme of yours?”
+
+“I hadn't thought,” said Evelyn, patting her father's hand. And then, at
+a venture, “I guess about ten millions.”
+
+“Whew! Have you any idea how much ten millions are, or how much one
+million is?”
+
+“Why, ten millions, if you have a hundred, is no more than one million
+if you have only ten. Doesn't it depend?”
+
+“If it depends upon you, child, I don't think money has any value for
+you whatever. You are a born financier for getting rid of a surplus. You
+ought to be Secretary of the Treasury.”
+
+Mavick rose, lifted up his daughter, and, kissing her with more than
+usual tenderness, said, “You'll learn about the world in time,” and bade
+her goodnight.
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+Law and love go very well together as occupations, but, when literature
+is added, the trio is not harmonious. Either of the two might pull
+together, but the combination of the three is certainly disastrous.
+
+It would be difficult to conceive of a person more obviously up in
+the air than Philip at this moment. He went through his office duties
+intelligently and perfunctorily, but his heart was not in the work, and
+reason as he would his career did not seem to be that way. He was lured
+too strongly by that siren, the ever-alluring woman who sits upon the
+rocks and sings so deliciously to youth of the sweets of authorship.
+He who listens once to that song hears it always in his ears, through
+disappointment and success--and the success is often the greatest
+disappointment--through poverty and hope deferred and heart-sickness for
+recognition, through the hot time of youth and the creeping incapacity
+of old age. The song never ceases. Were the longing and the hunger it
+arouses ever satisfied with anything, money for instance, any more than
+with fame?
+
+And if the law had a feeble hold on him, how much more uncertain was his
+grasp on literature. He had thrown his line, he had been encouraged by
+nibbles, but publishers were too wary to take hold. It seemed to him
+that he had literally cast his bread upon the waters, and apparently at
+an ebb tide, and his venture had gone to the fathomless sea. He had put
+his heart into the story, and, more than that, his hope of something
+dearer than any public favor. As he went over the story in his mind,
+scene after scene, and dwelt upon the theme that held the whole in
+unity, he felt that Evelyn would be touched by the recognition of her
+part in the inspiration, and that the great public must give some heed
+to it. Perhaps not the great public--for its liking now ran in quite
+another direction, but a considerable number of people like Celia, who
+were struggling with problems of life, and the Alices in country homes
+who still preserved in their souls a belief in the power of a noble
+life, and perhaps some critics who had not rid themselves of the old
+traditions. If the publishers would only give him a chance!
+
+But if law and literature were to him little more than unsubstantial
+dreams, the love he cherished was, in the cool examination of reason,
+preposterous. What! the heiress of so many millions, brought up
+doubtless in the expectation of the most brilliant worldly alliance,
+the heiress with the world presently at her feet, would she look at a
+lawyer's clerk and an unsuccessful scribbler? Oh, the vanity of youth
+and the conceit of intellect!
+
+Down in his heart Philip thought that she might. And he went on nursing
+this vain passion, knowing as well as any one can know the social code,
+that Mr. Mavick and Mrs. Mavick would simply laugh in his face at such
+a preposterous idea. And yet he knew that he had her sympathy in his
+ambition, that to a certain extent she was interested in him. The girl
+was too guileless to conceal that. And then suppose he should become
+famous--well, not exactly famous, but an author who was talked about,
+and becoming known, and said to be promising? And then he could fancy
+Mavick weighing this sort of reputation in his office scales against
+money, and Mrs. Mavick weighing it in her boudoir against social
+position. He was a fool to think of it. And yet, suppose, suppose the
+girl should come to love him. It would not be lightly. He knew that,
+by looking into her deep, clear, beautiful eyes. There were in them
+determination and tenacity of purpose as well as the capability of
+passion. Heavens and earth, if that girl once loved, there was a force
+that no opposition could subdue! That was true. But what had he to offer
+to evoke such a love?
+
+In those days Philip saw much of Celia, who at length had given up
+teaching, and had come to the city to try her experiment, into which
+she was willing to embark her small income. She had taken a room in
+the midst of poverty and misery on the East Side, and was studying the
+situation.
+
+“I am not certain,” she said, “whether I or any one else can do
+anything, or whether any organization down there can effect much. But I
+will find out.”
+
+“Aren't you lonesome--and disgusted?” asked Philip.
+
+“Disgusted? You might as well be disgusted with one thing as another. I
+am generally disgusted with the way things go. But, lonely? No, there
+is too much to do and to learn. And do you know, Philip, that people are
+more interesting over there, more individual, have more queer sorts of
+character. I begin to believe, with a lovely philanthropist I know, who
+had charge of female criminals, that 'wicked women are more interesting
+than good women.'”
+
+“You have struck a rich mine of interest in New York, then.”
+
+“Don't be cynical, Phil. There are different kinds of interest. Stuff!
+But I won't explain.” And then, abruptly changing the subject, “Seems to
+me you have something on your mind lately. Is it the novel?”
+
+“Perhaps.”
+
+“The publishers haven't decided?”
+
+“I am afraid they have.”
+
+“Well, Philip, do you know that I think the best thing that could happen
+to you would be to have the story rejected.”
+
+“It has been rejected several times,” said Philip. “That didn't seem to
+do me any good.”
+
+“But finally, so that you would stop thinking about it, stop expecting
+anything that way, and take up your profession in earnest.”
+
+“You are a nice comforter!” retorted Philip, with a sort of smirking
+grin and a look of keen inspection, as if he saw something new in the
+character of his adviser. “What has come over you? Suppose I should give
+you that sort of sympathy in the projects you set your heart on?”
+
+“It does seem hard and mean, doesn't it? I knew you wouldn't like it.
+That is, not now. But it is for your lifetime. As for me, I've wanted so
+many things and I've tried so many things. And do you know, Phil, that
+I have about come to the conclusion that the best things for us in this
+world are the things we don't get.”
+
+“You are always coming to some new conclusion.”
+
+“Yes, I know. But just look at it rationally. Suppose your story is
+published, cast into the sea of new books, and has a very fair sale.
+What will you get out of it? You can reckon how many copies at ten cents
+a copy it will need to make as much as some writers get for a trivial
+magazine paper. Recognition? Yes, from a very few people. Notoriety? You
+would soon find what that is. Suppose you make what is called a 'hit.'
+If you did not better that with the next book, you would be called a
+failure. And you must keep at it, keep giving the public something new
+all the time, or you will drop out of sight. And then the anxiety and
+the strain of it, and the temptation, because you must live, to lower
+your ideal, and go down to what you conceive to be the buying public.
+And if your story does not take the popular fancy, where will you be
+then?”
+
+“Celia, you have become a perfect materialist. You don't allow anything
+for the joy of creation, for the impulse of a man's mind, for the
+delight in fighting for a place in the world of letters.”
+
+“So it seems to you now. If you have anything that must be said, of
+course you ought to say it, no matter what comes after. If you are
+looking round for something you can say in order to get the position you
+covet, that is another thing. People so deceive themselves about this.
+I know literary workers who lead a dog's life and are slaves to their
+pursuit, simply because they have deceived themselves in this. I want
+you to be free and independent, to live your own life and do what work
+you can in the world. There, I've said it, and of course you will go
+right on. I know you. And maybe I am all wrong. When I see the story I
+may take the other side and urge you to go on, even if you are as
+poor as a church-mouse, and have to be under the harrow of poverty for
+years.”
+
+“Then you have some curiosity to see the story?”
+
+“You know I have. And I know I shall like it. It isn't that, Phil; it is
+what is the happiest career for you.”
+
+“Well, I will send it to you when it comes back.”
+
+But the unexpected happened. It did not come back. One morning Philip
+received a letter from the publishers that set his head in a whirl. The
+story was accepted. The publisher wrote that the verdict of the readers
+was favorable, and he would venture on it, though he cautioned Mr.
+Burnett not to expect a great commercial success. And he added, as
+to terms, it being a new name, though he hoped one that would become
+famous, that the copyright of ten per cent. would not begin until after
+the sale of the first thousand copies.
+
+The latter part of the letter made no impression on Philip. So long as
+the book was published, and by a respectable firm, he was indifferent as
+a lord to the ignoble details of royalty. The publisher had recognized
+the value of the book, and it was accepted on its merits. That was
+enough. The first thing he did was to enclose the letter to Celia,
+with the simple remark that he would try to sympathize with her in her
+disappointment.
+
+Philip would have been a little less jubilant if he had known how the
+decision of the publishing house was arrived at. It was true that the
+readers had reported favorably, but had refused to express any opinion
+on the market value. The manuscript had therefore been put in the
+graveyard of manuscripts, from which there is commonly no resurrection
+except in the funeral progress of the manuscript back to the author.
+But the head of the house happened to dine at the house of Mr. Hunt, the
+senior of Philip's law firm. Some chance allusion was made by a lady to
+an article in a recent magazine which had pleased her more than anything
+she had seen lately. Mr. Hunt also had seen it, for his wife had
+insisted on reading it to him, and he was proud to say that the author
+was a clerk in his office--a fine fellow, who, he always fancied, had
+more taste for literature than for law, but he had the stuff in him to
+succeed in anything. The publisher pricked up his ears and asked some
+questions. He found that Mr. Burnett stood well in the most prominent
+law firm in the city, that ladies of social position recognized his
+talent, that he dined here and there in a good set, and that he belonged
+to one of the best clubs. When he went to his office the next morning he
+sent for the manuscript, looked it over critically, and then announced
+to his partners that he thought the thing was worth trying.
+
+In a day or two it was announced in the advertising lists as
+forthcoming. There it stared Philip in the face and seemed to be the
+only conspicuous thing in the journal. He had not paid much attention
+before to the advertisements, but now this department seemed the most
+interesting part of the paper, and he read every announcement, and then
+came back and read his over and over. There it stood:--“On Saturday, The
+Puritan Nun. An Idyl. By Philip Burnett.”
+
+The naming of the book had been almost as difficult as the creation.
+His first choice had been “The Lily of the Valley,” but Balzac had
+pre-empted that. And then he had thought of “The Enclosed Garden”
+ (Hortus Clausus), the title of a lovely picture he had seen. That was
+Biblical, but in the present ignorance of the old scriptures it would
+be thought either agricultural or sentimental. It is not uncommon that
+a book owes its notoriety and sale to its title, and it is not easy to
+find a title that will attract attention without being too sensational.
+The title chosen was paradoxical, for while a nun might be a puritan, it
+was unthinkable that a Puritan should be a nun.
+
+Mr. Brad said he liked it, because it looked well and did not mean
+anything; he liked all such titles, the “Pious Pirate,” the “Lucid
+Lunatic,” the “Sympathetic Siren,” the “Guileless Girl,” and so on.
+
+The announcement of publication had the effect of putting Philip in
+high spirits for the Mavick reception-spirits tempered, however, by
+the embarrassment natural to a modest man that he would be painfully
+conspicuous. This first placarding of one's name is a peculiar and
+mixed sensation. The letters seem shamefully naked, and the owner seems
+exposed and to have parted with a considerable portion of his innate
+privacy. His first fancy is that everybody will see it. But this fancy
+only comes once. With experience he comes to doubt if anybody except
+himself will see it.
+
+To those most concerned the Mavick reception was the event of a
+lifetime. To the town--that is, to a thousand or two persons occupying
+in their own eyes an exclusive position it was one of the events of
+the season, and, indeed, it was the sensation for a couple of days. The
+historian of social life formerly had put upon him the task of painfully
+describing all that went to make such an occasion brilliant--the house
+itself, the decorations, the notable company, men distinguished in the
+State or the Street, women as remarkable for their beauty as for their
+courage in its exhibition, the whole world of fashion and of splendid
+extravagance upon which the modiste and the tailor could look with as
+much pride as the gardener does upon a show of flowers which his genius
+has brought to perfection.
+
+The historian has no longer this responsibility. It is transferred to
+a kind of trust. A race of skillful artists has arisen, who, in
+combination with the caterers, the decorators, and the milliners,
+produce a composite piece of literature in which all details are woven
+into a splendid whole--a composition rhetorical, humorous, lyrical,
+a noble apotheosis of wealth and beauty which carefully satisfies
+individual vanity and raises in the mind a noble picture of modern
+civilization. The pen and the pencil contribute to this splendid result
+in the daily chronicle of our life. Those who are not present are really
+witnesses of the scene, and this pictorial and literary triumph is
+justified in the fact that no other effort of the genius of reproduction
+is so eagerly studied by the general public. Not only in the city, but
+in the remote villages, these accounts are perused with interest, and it
+must be taken as an evidence of the new conception of the duties of the
+favored of fortune to the public pleasure that the participants in these
+fetes overcome, though reluctantly, their objection to notoriety.
+
+No other people in the world are so hospitable as the Americans, and so
+willing to incur discomfort in showing hospitality. No greater proof of
+this can be needed than the effort to give princely entertainments in
+un-princely houses, where opposing streams of guests fight for progress
+in scant passages and on narrow stairways, and pack themselves in
+stifling rooms. The Mavick house, it should be said, was perfectly
+adapted to the throng that seemed to fill but did not crowd it. The
+spacious halls, the noble stairways, the ample drawing-rooms, the
+ballroom, the music-room, the library, the picture-gallery, the
+dining-room, the conservatory--into these the crowd flowed or lingered
+without confusion or annoyance and in a continual pleasure of surprise.
+“The best point of view,” said an artist of Philip's acquaintance, “is
+just here.” They were standing in the great hall looking up at that
+noble gallery from which flowed down on either hand a broad stairway.
+
+“I didn't know there was so much beauty in New York. It never before had
+such an opportunity to display itself. There is room for the exhibition
+of the most elaborate toilets, and the costumes really look regal in
+such a setting.”
+
+When Philip was shown to the dressing-room, conscious that the servant
+was weighing him lightly in the social scale on account of his early
+arrival, he found a few men who were waiting to make their appearance
+more seasonable. They were young men, who had the air of being bored
+by this sort of thing, and greeted each other with a look of courteous
+surprise, as much as to say, “Hello! you here?” One of them, whom Philip
+knew slightly, who had the reputation of being the distributer if not
+the fountain of social information, and had the power of attracting
+gossip as a magnet does iron filings, gave Philip much valuable
+information concerning the function.
+
+“Mrs. Mavick has done it this time. Everybody has tumbled in. Washington
+is drained of its foreign diplomats, the heavy part of the cabinet is
+moved over to represent the President, who sent a gracious letter, the
+select from Boston, the most ancient from Philadelphia, and I know that
+Chicago comes in a special train. Oh, it's the thing. I assure you
+there was a scramble for invitations in the city. Lots of visiting
+nobility--Count de l'Auney, I know, and that little snob, Lord
+Montague.”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“Lord Crewe Monmouth Fitzwilliam, the Marquis of Montague, eldest son of
+the Duke of Tewkesbury. He's a daisy.
+
+“They say he is over here looking for capital to carry on his peer
+business when he comes into it. Don't know who put up the money for the
+trip. These foreigners keep a sharp eye on our market, I can tell you.
+They say she is a nice little girl, rather a blue-stocking, face rather
+intelligent than pretty, but Montague won't care for that--excuse the
+old joke, but it is the figure Monte is after. He hasn't any manners,
+but he's not a bad sort of a fellow, generally good-natured, immensely
+pleased with New York, and an enthusiastic connoisseur in club drinks.”
+
+At the proper hour--the hour, it came into, his mind, when the dear ones
+at Rivervale had been long in sleep, lulled by the musical flow of
+the Deerfield--Philip made his way to the reception room, where there
+actually was some press of a crowd, in lines, to approach the attraction
+of the evening, and as he waited his turn he had leisure to observe the
+brilliant scene. There was scarcely a person in the room he knew. One or
+two ladies gave him a preoccupied nod, a plain little woman whom he
+had talked with about books at a recent dinner smiled upon him
+encouragingly. But what specially impressed him at the moment was the
+seriousness of the function, the intentness upon the presentation, and
+the look of worry on the faces of the women in arranging trains and
+avoiding catastrophes.
+
+As he approached he fancied that Mr. Mavick looked weary and bored, and
+that a shade of abstraction occasionally came over his face as if it
+were difficult to keep his thoughts on the changing line.
+
+But his face lighted up a little when he took Philip's hand and
+exchanged with him the commonplaces of the evening. But before this he
+had to wait a moment, for he was preceded by an important personage. A
+dapper little figure, trim, neat, at the moment drew himself up before
+Mrs. Mavick, brought his heels together with a click, and made a low
+bow. Doubtless this was the French count. Mrs. Mavick was radiant.
+Philip had never seen her in such spirits or so fascinating in manner.
+
+“It is a great honor, count.”
+
+“It ees to me,” said the count, with a marked accent; “I assure you
+it is like Paris in ze time of ze monarchy. Ah, ze Great Republic,
+madame--so it was in France in ze ancien regime. Ah, mademoiselle!
+Permit me,” and he raised her hand to his lips; “I salute--is it not”
+ (turning to Mrs. Mavick)--“ze princess of ze house?”
+
+The next man who shook hands with the host, and then stood in an easy
+attitude before the hostess, attracted Philip's attention strongly, for
+he fancied from the deference shown him it must be the lord of whom he
+had heard. He was a short, little man, with heavy limbs and a clumsy
+figure, reddish hair, very thin on the crown, small eyes that were not
+improved in expression by white eyebrows, a red face, smooth shaven and
+freckled. It might have been the face of a hostler or a billiard-marker.
+
+“I am delighted, my lord, that you could make room in your engagements
+to come.”
+
+“Ah, Mrs. Mavick, I wouldn't have missed it,” said my lord, with easy
+assurance; “I'd have thrown over anything to have come. And, do you
+know” (looking about him coolly), “it's quite English, 'pon my honor,
+quite English--St. James and that sort of thing.”
+
+“You flatter me, my lord,” replied the lady of the house, with a winning
+smile.
+
+“No, I do assure you, it's bang-up. Ah, Miss Mavick, delighted,
+delighted. Most charming. Lucky for me, wasn't it? I'm just in time.”
+
+“You've only recently come over, Lord Montague?” asked Evelyn.
+
+“Been here before--Rockies, shooting, all that. Just arrived
+now--beastly trip, beastly.”
+
+“And so you were glad to land?”
+
+“Glad to land anywhere. But New York suits me down to the ground. It
+goes, as you say over here. You know Paris?”
+
+“We have been in Paris. You prefer it?”
+
+“For some thing. Paris as it was in the Empire. For sport, no. For
+horses, no. And” (looking boldly into her face) “when you speak of
+American women, Paris ain't in it, as you say over here.”
+
+And the noble lord, instead of passing on, wheeled about and took a
+position near Evelyn, so that he could drop his valuable observations
+into her ear as occasion offered.
+
+To Philip Mrs. Mavick was civil, but she did not beam upon him, and
+she did not detain him longer than to say, “Glad to see you.” But
+Evelyn--could Philip be deceived?--she gave him her hand cordially and
+looked into his eyes trustfully, as she had the habit of doing in the
+country, and as if it were a momentary relief to her to encounter in all
+this parade a friend.
+
+“I need not say that I am glad you could come. And oh” (there was time
+only for a word), “I saw the announcement. Later, if you can, you will
+tell me more about it.”
+
+Lord Montague stared at him as if to say, “Who the deuce are you?” and
+as Philip met his gaze he thought, “No, he hasn't the manner of a stable
+boy; no one but a born nobleman could be so confident with women and so
+supercilious to men.”
+
+But my lord, was little in his thought. It was the face of Evelyn that
+he saw, and the dainty little figure; the warmth of the little hand
+still thrilled him. So simple, and only a bunch of violets in her
+corsage for all ornament! The clear, dark complexion, the sweet mouth,
+the wonderful eyes! What could Jenks mean by intimating that she was
+plain?
+
+Philip drifted along with the crowd. He was very much alone. And
+he enjoyed his solitude. A word and a smile now and then from an
+acquaintance did not tempt him to come out of his seclusion. The gay
+scene pleased him. He looked for a moment into the ballroom. At another
+time he would have tried his fortune in the whirl. But now he looked on
+as at a spectacle from which he was detached. He had had his moment and
+he waited for another. The voluptuous music, the fascinating toilets,
+the beautiful faces, the graceful forms that were woven together in this
+shifting kaleidoscope, were, indeed, a part of his beautiful dream.
+But how unreal they all were! There was no doubt that Evelyn's eyes had
+kindled for him as for no one else whom she had greeted. She singled
+him out in all this crush, her look, the cordial pressure of her hand,
+conveyed the feeling of comradeship and understanding. This was enough
+to fill his thought with foolish anticipations. Is there any being quite
+so happy, quite so stupid, as a lover? A lover, who hopes everything and
+fears everything, who goes in an instant from the heights of bliss to
+the depths of despair.
+
+When the “reception” was over and the company was breaking up into
+groups and moving about, Philip again sought Evelyn. But she was the
+centre of a somewhat noisy group, and it was not easy to join it.
+
+Yet it was something that he could feast his eyes on her and was
+rewarded by a look now and then that told him she was conscious of his
+presence. Encouraged by this, he was making his way to her, when there
+was a movement towards the supper-room, and Mrs. Mavick had taken the
+arm of the Count de l'Auney, and the little lord was jauntily leading
+away Evelyn. Philip had a pang of disgust and jealousy. Evelyn was
+actually chatting with him and seemed amused. Lord Montague was
+evidently laying himself out to please and exerting all the powers of
+his subtle humor and exploiting his newly acquired slang. That Philip
+could hear as they moved past him. “The brute!” Philip said to himself,
+with the injustice which always clouds the estimate of a lover of a
+rival whose accomplishments differ from his own.
+
+In the supper-room, however, in the confusion and crowding of it, Philip
+at length found his opportunity to get to the side of Evelyn, whose
+smile showed him that he was welcome. It was in that fortunate
+interval when Lord Montague was showing that devotion to women was not
+incompatible with careful attention to terrapin and champagne. Philip
+was at once inspired to say:
+
+“How lovely it is! Aren't you tired?”
+
+“Not at all. Everybody is very kind, and some are very amusing. I am
+learning a great deal,” and there was a quizzical look in her eyes,
+“about the world.”
+
+“Well,” said Philip, “t's all here.”
+
+“I suppose so. But do you know,” and there was quite an ingenuous blush
+in her cheeks as she said it, “it isn't half so nice, Mr. Burnett, as a
+picnic in Zoar.”
+
+“So you remember that?” Philip had not command of himself enough not to
+attempt the sentimental.
+
+“You must think I have a weak memory,” she replied, with a laugh. “And
+the story? When shall we have it?”
+
+“Soon, I hope. And, Miss Mavick, I owe so much of it to you that I hope
+you will let me send you the very first copy from the press.”
+
+“Will you? And do you Of course I shall be pleased and” (making him a
+little curtsy) “honored, as one ought to say in this company.”
+
+Lord Montague was evidently getting uneasy, for his attention was
+distracted from the occupation of feeding.
+
+“No, don't go Lord Montague, an old friend, Mr. Burnett.”
+
+“Much pleased,” said his lordship, looking round rather inquiringly
+at the intruder. “I can't say much for the champagne--ah, not bad, you
+know--but I always said that your terrapin isn't half so nasty as it
+looks.” And his lordship laughed most good-humoredly, as if he were
+paying the American nation a deserved compliment.
+
+“Yes,” said Philip, “we have to depend upon France for the champagne,
+but the terrapin is native.”
+
+“Quite so, and devilish good! That ain't bad, 'depend upon France for
+the champagne!' There is nothing like your American humor, Miss Mavick.”
+
+“It needs an Englishman to appreciate it,” replied Evelyn, with a
+twinkle in her eyes which was lost upon her guest.
+
+In the midst of these courtesies Philip bowed himself away. The party
+was over for him, though he wandered about for a while, was attracted
+again by the music to the ballroom, and did find there a dinner
+acquaintance with whom he took a turn. The lady must have thought him a
+very uninteresting or a very absent-minded companion.
+
+As for Lord Montague, after he had what he called a “go” in the
+dancing-room, he found his way back to the buffet in the supper-room,
+and the historian says that he greatly enjoyed himself, and was very
+amusing, and that he cultivated the friendship of an obliging waiter
+early in the morning, who conducted his lordship to his cab.
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+The morning after The Puritan Nun was out, as Philip sat at his office
+desk, conscious that the eyes of the world were on him, Mr. Mavick
+entered, bowed to him absent-mindedly, and was shown into Mr. Hunt's
+room.
+
+Philip had dreaded to come to the office that morning and encounter the
+inquisition and perhaps the compliments of his fellow-clerks. He had
+seen his name in staring capitals in the book-seller's window as he came
+down, and he felt that it was shamefully exposed to the public gaze, and
+that everybody had seen it. The clerks, however, gave no sign that the
+event had disturbed them. He had encountered many people he knew on the
+street, but there had been no recognition of his leap into notoriety.
+Not a fellow in the club, where he had stopped a moment, had treated him
+with any increased interest or deference. In the office only one person
+seemed aware of his extraordinary good fortune. Mr. Tweedle had come
+to the desk and offered his hand in his usual conciliatory and unctuous
+manner.
+
+“I see by the paper, Mr. Burnett, that we are an author. Let me
+congratulate you. Mrs. Tweedle told me not to come home without bringing
+your story. Who publishes it?”
+
+“I shall be much honored,” said Philip, blushing, “if Mrs. Tweedle will
+accept a copy from me.”
+
+“I didn't mean that, Mr. Burnett; but, of course, gift of the
+author--Mrs. Tweedle will be very much pleased.”
+
+In half an hour Mr. Mavick came out, passed him without recognition, and
+hurried from the office, and Philip was summoned to Mr. Hunt's room.
+
+“I want you to go to Washington immediately, Mr. Burnett. Return by the
+night train. You can do without your grip? Take these papers to Buckston
+Higgins--you see the address--who represents the British Argentine
+syndicate. Wait till he reads them and get his reply. Here is the money
+for the trip. Oh, after Mr. Higgins writes his answer, ask him if you
+can telegraph me 'yes' or 'no.' Good-morning.”
+
+While Philip was speeding to Washington, an important conference was
+taking place in Murad Ault's office. He was seated at his desk, and
+before him lay two despatches, one from Chicago and a cable from London.
+Opposite him, leaning forward in his chair, was a lean, hatchet-faced
+man, with keen eyes and aquiline nose, who watched his old curbstone
+confidant like a cat.
+
+“I tell you, Wheatstone,” said Mr. Ault, with an unmoved face, bringing
+his fist down on the table, “now is the time to sell these three
+stocks.”
+
+“Why,” said Mr. Wheatstone, with a look of wonder, “they are about the
+strongest on the list. Mavick controls them.”
+
+“Does he?” said Ault. “Then he can take care of them.”
+
+“Have you any news, Mr. Ault?”
+
+“Nothing to speak of,” replied Ault, grimly. “It just looks so to me.
+All you've got to do is to sell. Make a break this afternoon, about two
+or three points off.”
+
+“They are too strong,” protested Mr. Wheatstone.
+
+“That is just the reason. Everybody will think something must be the
+matter, or nobody would be fool enough to sell. You keep your eye on the
+Spectrum this afternoon and tomorrow morning. About Organization and one
+or two other matters.”
+
+“Ah, they do say that Mavick is in Argentine up to his neck,” said the
+broker, beginning to be enlightened.
+
+“Is he? Then you think he would rather sell than buy?”
+
+Mr. Wheatstone laughed and looked admiringly at his leader. “He may have
+to.”
+
+Mr. Ault took up the cable cipher and read it to himself again. If
+Mr. Hunt had known its contents he need not have waited for Philip to
+telegraph “no” from Washington.
+
+“It's all right, Wheatstone. It's the biggest thing you ever struck.
+Pitch 'em overboard in the morning. The Street is shaky about Argentine.
+There'll be h---to pay before half past twelve. I guess you can safely
+go ten points. Lower yet, if Mavick's brokers begin to unload. I guess
+he will have to unless he can borrow. Rumor is a big thing, especially
+in a panic, eh? Keep your eye peeled. And, oh, won't you ask Babcock to
+step round here?”
+
+Mr. Babcock came round, and had his instructions when to buy. He had the
+reputation of being a reckless broker, and not a safe man to follow.
+
+The panic next day, both in London and New York, was long remembered.
+In the unreasoning scare the best stocks were sacrificed. Small country
+“investors” lost their stakes. Some operators were ruined. Many men were
+poorer at the end of the scrimmage, and a few were richer. Murad Ault
+was one of the latter. Mavick pulled through, though at an enormous
+cost, and with some diminution of the notion of his solidity. The wise
+ones suspected that his resources had been overestimated, or that they
+were not so well at his command as had been supposed.
+
+When he went home that night he looked five years older, and was too
+worn and jaded to be civil to his family. The dinner passed mostly in
+silence. Carmen saw that something serious had happened. Lord Montague
+had called.
+
+“Eh, what did he want?” said Mavick, surlily.
+
+Carmen looked up surprised. “What does anybody after a reception call
+for?”
+
+“The Lord only knows.”
+
+“He is the funniest little man,” Evelyn ventured to say.
+
+“That is no way, child, to speak of the son of a duke,” said Mavick,
+relaxing a little.
+
+Carmen did not like the tone in which this was said, but she prudently
+kept silent. And presently Evelyn continued:
+
+“He asked for you, papa, and said he wanted to pay his respects.”
+
+“I am glad he wants to pay anything,” was the ungracious answer. Still
+Evelyn was not to be put down.
+
+“It was such a bright day in the Park. What were you doing all day,
+papa?”
+
+“Why, my dear, I was engaged in Research; you will be pleased to know.
+Looking after those ten millions.”
+
+When the dinner was over, Carmen followed Mr. Mavick to his study.
+
+“What is the matter, Tom?”
+
+“Nothing uncommon. It's a beastly hole down there. The Board used to
+be made up of gentlemen. Now there are such fellows as Ault, a
+black-hearted scoundrel.”
+
+“But he has no influence. He is nothing socially,” said Carmen.
+
+“Neither is a wolf or a cyclone. But I don't care to talk about him.
+Don't you see, I don't want to be bothered?”
+
+While these great events were taking place Philip was enjoying all the
+tremors and delights of expectation which attend callow authorship.
+He did not expect much, he said to himself, but deep down in his heart
+there was that sweet hope, which fortunately always attends young
+writers, that his would be an exceptional experience in the shoal of
+candidates for fame, and he was secretly preparing himself not to be
+surprised if he should “awake one morning and find himself famous.”
+
+The first response was from Celia. She wrote warm-heartedly. She wrote
+at length, analyzing the characters, recalling the striking scenes,
+and praising without stint the conception and the working out of
+the character of the heroine. She pointed out the little faults of
+construction and of language, and then minimized them in comparison with
+the noble motive and the unity and beauty of the whole. She told Philip
+that she was proud of him, and then insisted that, when his biography,
+life, and letters was published, it would appear, she hoped, that his
+dear friend had just a little to do with inspiring him. It was exactly
+the sort of letter an author likes to receive, critical, perfectly
+impartial, and with entire understanding of his purpose. All the author
+wants is to be understood.
+
+The letter from Alice was quite of another sort, a little shy in
+speaking of the story, but full of affection. “Perhaps, dear Phil,” she
+wrote, “I ought not to tell you how much I like it, how it quite makes
+me blush in its revelation of the secrets of a New England girl's heart.
+I read it through fast, and then I read it again slowly. It seemed
+better even the second time. I do think, Phil, it is a dear little book.
+Patience says she hopes it will not become common; it is too fine to be
+nosed about by the ordinary. I suppose you had to make it pathetic. Dear
+me! that is just the truth of it. Forgive me for writing so freely.
+I hope it will not be long before we see you. To think it is done by
+little Phil!”
+
+The most eagerly expected acknowledgment was, however, a disappointment.
+Philip knew Mrs. Mavick too well by this time to expect a letter from
+her daughter, but there might have been a line. But Mrs. Mavick wrote
+herself. Her daughter, she said, had asked her to acknowledge the
+receipt of his very charming story. When he had so many friends it was
+very thoughtful in him to remember the acquaintances of last summer. She
+hoped the book would have the success it deserved.
+
+This polite note was felt to be a slap in the face, but the effect of
+it was softened a little later by a cordial and appreciative letter from
+Miss McDonald, telling the author what great delight and satisfaction
+they had had in reading it, and thanking him for a prose idyl that
+showed in the old-fashioned way that common life was not necessarily
+vulgar.
+
+The critics seemed to Philip very slow in letting the public know of the
+birth of the book. Presently, however, the little notices, all very much
+alike, began to drop along, longer or shorter paragraphs, commonly in
+undiscriminating praise of the beauty of the story, the majority of them
+evidently written by reviewers who sat down to a pile of volumes to be
+turned off, and who had not more than five or ten minutes to be lost.
+Rarely, however, did any one condemn it, and that showed that it was
+harmless. Mr. Brad had given it quite a lift in the Spectrum. The notice
+was mainly personal--the first work of a brilliant young man at the bar
+who was destined to go high in his profession, unless literature should,
+fortunately for the public, have stronger attractions for him. That
+such a country idyl should be born amid law-books was sufficiently
+remarkable. It was an open secret that the scene of the story was the
+birthplace of the author--a lovely village that was brought into notice
+a summer ago as the chosen residence of Thomas Mavick and his family.
+
+Eagerly looked for at first, the newspaper notices soon palled upon
+Philip, the uniform tone of good-natured praise, unanimous in the
+extravagance of unmeaning adjectives. Now and then he welcomed one that
+was ill-natured and cruelly censorious. That was a relief. And yet there
+were some reviews of a different sort, half a dozen in all, and half
+of them from Western journals, which took the book seriously, saw
+its pathos, its artistic merit, its failure of construction through
+inexperience. A few commended it warmly to readers who loved ideal
+purity and could recognize the noble in common life. And some,
+whom Philip regarded as authorities, welcomed a writer who avoided
+sensationalism, and predicted for him an honorable career in letters,
+if he did not become self-conscious and remained true to his ideals. The
+book clearly had not made a hit, the publishers had sold one edition and
+ordered half another, and no longer regarded the author as a risk. But,
+better than this, the book had attracted the attention of many lovers of
+literature. Philip was surprised day after day by meeting people who had
+read it. His name began to be known in a small circle who are interested
+in the business, and it was not long before he had offers from editors,
+who were always on the lookout for new writers of promise, to send
+something for their magazines. And, perhaps more flattering than all, he
+began to have society invitations to dine, and professional invitations
+to those little breakfasts that publishers give to old writers and
+to young whose names are beginning to be spoken of. All this was very
+exhilarating and encouraging. And yet Philip was not allowed to be
+unduly elated by the attention of his fellow-craftsmen, for he soon
+found that a man's consequence in this circle, as well as with the great
+public, depended largely upon the amount of the sale of his book. How
+else should it be rated, when a very popular author, by whom Philip sat
+one day at luncheon, confessed that he never read books?
+
+“So,” said Mr. Sharp, one morning, “I see you have gone into literature,
+Mr. Burnett.”
+
+“Not very deep,” replied Philip with a smile, as he rose from his desk.
+
+“Going to drop law, eh?”
+
+“I haven't had occasion to drop much of anything yet,” said Philip,
+still smiling.
+
+“Oh well, two masters, you know,” and Mr. Sharp passed on to his room.
+
+It was not, however, Mr. Sharp's opinion that Philip was concerned
+about. The polite note from Mrs. Mavick stuck in his mind. It was a
+civil way of telling him that all summer debts were now paid, and that
+his relations with the house of Mavick were at an end. This conclusion
+was forced upon him when he left his card, a few days after the
+reception, and had the ill luck not to find the ladies at home. The
+situation had no element of tragedy in it, but Philip was powerless.
+He could not storm the house. He had no visible grievance. There was
+nothing to fight. He had simply run against one of the invisible social
+barriers that neither offer resistance nor yield. No one had shown him
+any discourtesy that society would recognize as a matter of offense.
+Nay, more than that, it could have no sympathy with him. It was only the
+case of a presumptuous and poor young man who was after a rich girl. The
+position itself was ignoble, if it were disclosed.
+
+Yet fortune, which sometimes likes to play the mischief with the best
+social arrangements, did give Philip an unlooked-for chance. At a dinner
+given by the lady who had been Philip's only partner at the Mavick
+reception, and who had read his story and had written to “her partner” a
+most kind little note regretting that she had not known she was dancing
+with an author, and saying that she and her husband would be delighted
+to make his acquaintance, Philip was surprised by the presence of
+the Mavicks in the drawing-room. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Mavick seemed
+especially pleased when they encountered him, and in fact his sole
+welcome from the family was in the eyes of Evelyn.
+
+The hostess had supposed that the Mavicks would be pleased to meet the
+rising author, and in still further carrying out her benevolent purpose,
+and with, no doubt, a sympathy in the feelings of the young, Mrs. Van
+Cortlandt had assigned Miss Mavick to Mr. Burnett. It was certainly a
+natural arrangement, and yet it called a blank look to Mrs. Mavick's
+face, that Philip saw, and put her in a bad humor which needed an effort
+for her to conceal it from Mr. Van Cortlandt. The dinner-party was
+large, and her ill-temper was not assuaged by the fact that the young
+people were seated at a distance from her and on the same side of the
+table.
+
+“How charming your daughter is looking, Mrs. Mavick!” Mr. Van Cortlandt
+began, by way of being agreeable. Mrs. Mavick inclined her head. “That
+young Burnett seems to be a nice sort of chap; Mrs. Van Cortlandt says
+he is very clever.”
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“I haven't read his book. They say he is a lawyer.”
+
+“Lawyer's clerk, I believe,” said Mrs. Mavick, indifferently.
+
+“Authors are pretty plenty nowadays.”
+
+“That's a fact. Everybody writes. I don't see how all the poor devils
+live.” Mr. Van Cortlandt had now caught the proper tone, and the
+conversation drifted away from personalities.
+
+It was a very brilliant dinner, but Philip could not have given much
+account of it. He made an effort to be civil to his left-hand neighbor,
+and he affected an ease in replying to cross-table remarks. He fancied
+that he carried himself very well, and so he did for a man unexpectedly
+elevated to the seventh heaven, seated for two hours beside the girl
+whose near presence filled him with indescribable happiness. Every look,
+every tone of her voice thrilled him. How dear she was! how adorable she
+was! How radiantly happy she seemed to be whenever she turned her face
+towards him to ask a question or to make a reply!
+
+At moments his passion seemed so overmastering that he could hardly
+restrain himself from whispering, “Evelyn, I love you.” In a hundred
+ways he was telling her so. And she must understand. She must know that
+this was not an affair of the moment, but that there was condensed in it
+all the constant devotion of months and months.
+
+A woman, even any girl with the least social experience, would have
+seen this. Was Evelyn's sympathetic attention, her evident enjoyment in
+talking with him, any evidence of a personal interest, or only a young
+girl's enjoyment of her new position in the world? That she liked him
+he was sure. Did she, was she beginning in any degree to return
+his passion? He could not tell, for guilelessness in a woman is as
+impenetrable as coquetry.
+
+Of what did they talk? A stenographer would have made a meagre report
+of it, for the most significant part of this conversation of two fresh,
+honest natures was not in words. One thing, however, Philip could bring
+away with him that was not a mere haze of delicious impressions. She had
+been longing, she said, to talk to him about his story. She told him how
+eagerly she had read it, and in talking about its meaning she revealed
+to him her inner thought more completely than she could have done in any
+other way, her sympathy with his mind, her interest in his work.
+
+“Have you begun another?” she asked, at last.
+
+“No, not on paper.”
+
+“But you must. It must be such a world to you. I can't imagine anything
+so fine as that. There is so much about life to be said. To make people
+see it as it is; yes, and as it ought to be. Will you?”
+
+“You forget that I am a lawyer.”
+
+“And you prefer to be that, a lawyer, rather than an author?”
+
+“It is not exactly what I prefer, Miss Mavick.”
+
+“Why not? Does anybody do anything well if his heart is not in it?”
+
+“But circumstances sometimes compel a man.”
+
+“I like better for men to compel circumstances,” the girl exclaimed,
+with that disposition to look at things in the abstract that Philip so
+well remembered.
+
+“Perhaps I do not make myself understood. One must have a career.”
+
+“A career?” And Evelyn looked puzzled for a moment. “You mean for
+himself, for his own self?” There is a lawyer who comes to see papa.
+I've been in the room sometimes, when they don't mind. Such talk about
+schemes, and how to do this and that, and twisting about. And not a word
+about anything any of the time. And one day when he was waiting for papa
+I talked with him. You would have been surprised.
+
+“I told papa that I could not find anything to interest him. Papa
+laughed and said it was my fault, he was one of the sharpest lawyers in
+the city. Would you rather be that than to write?”
+
+“Oh, all lawyers are not like that. And, don't you know, literature
+doesn't pay.”
+
+“Yes, I have heard that.” And then she thought a minute and with a
+quizzical look continued: “That is such a queer word, 'pay.' McDonald
+says that it pays to be good. Do you think, Mr. Burnett, that law would
+pay you?”
+
+Evidently the girl had a standard of judging people that was not much in
+use.
+
+Before they rose from the table, Philip asked, speaking low, “Miss
+Mavick, won't you give me a violet from your bunch in memory of this
+evening?”
+
+Evelyn hesitated an instant, and then, without looking up, disengaged
+three, and shyly laid them at her left hand. “I like the number three
+better.”
+
+Philip covered the flowers with his hand, and said, “I will keep them
+always.”
+
+“That is a long time,” Evelyn answered, but still without looking up.
+But when they rose the color mounted to her cheeks, and Philip thought
+that the glorious eyes turned upon him were full of trust.
+
+“It is all your doing,” said Carmen, snappishly, when Mavick joined her
+in the drawing-room.
+
+“What is?”
+
+“You insisted upon having him at the reception.”
+
+“Burnett? Oh, stuff, he isn't a fool!”
+
+There was not much said as the three drove home. Evelyn, flushed with
+pleasure and absorbed in her own thoughts, saw that something had gone
+wrong with her mother and kept silent. Mr. Mavick at length broke the
+silence with:
+
+“Did you have a good time, child?”
+
+“Oh, yes,” replied Evelyn, cheerfully, “and Mrs. Van Cortlandt was very
+sweet to me. Don't you think she is very hospitable, mamma?”
+
+“Tries to be,” Mrs. Mavick replied, in no cordial tone. “Good-natured
+and eccentric. She picks up the queerest lot of people. You can never
+know whom you will not meet at her house. Just now she goes in for being
+literary.”
+
+Evelyn was not so reticent with McDonald. While she was undressing she
+disclosed that she had had a beautiful evening, that she was taken out
+by Mr. Burnett, and talked about his story.
+
+“And, do you know, I think I almost persuaded him to write another.”
+
+“It's an awful responsibility,” dryly said the shrewd Scotch woman,
+“advising young men what to do.”
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+Upon the recollection of this dinner Philip maintained his hope
+and courage for a long time. The day after it, New York seemed more
+brilliant to him than it had ever been. In the afternoon he rode down
+to the Battery. It was a mild winter day, with a haze in the atmosphere
+that softened all outlines and gave an enchanting appearance to the
+harbor shores. The water was silvery, and he watched a long time the
+craft plying on it--the businesslike ferry-boats, the spiteful tugs, the
+great ocean steamers, boldly pushing out upon the Atlantic through the
+Narrows or cautiously drawing in as if weary with the buffeting of the
+waves. The scene kindled in him a vigorous sense of life, of prosperity,
+of longing for the activity of the great world.
+
+Clearly he must do something and not be moping in indecision.
+Uncertainty is harder to bear than disaster itself. When he thought of
+Evelyn, and he always thought of her, it seemed cowardly to hesitate.
+Celia, after her first outburst of enthusiasm, had returned to her
+cautious advice. The law was much surer. Literature was a mere chance.
+Why not be content with his little success and buckle down to his
+profession? Perhaps by-and-by he would have leisure to indulge his
+inclination. The advice seemed sound.
+
+But there was Evelyn, with her innocent question.
+
+“Would the law pay you?” Evelyn? Would he be more likely to win her by
+obeying the advice of Celia, or by trusting to Evelyn's inexperienced
+discernment? Indeed, what chance was there to win her at all? What had
+he to offer her?
+
+His spirits invariably fell when he thought of submitting his
+pretensions to the great man of Wall Street or to his worldly wife.
+Already it was the gossip of the clubs that Lord Montague was a frequent
+visitor at the Mavicks', that he was often seen in their box at the
+opera, and that Mrs. Mavick had said to Bob Shafter that it was a
+scandal to talk of Lord Montague as a fortune-hunter. He was a most
+kind-hearted, domestic man. She should not join in the newspaper talk
+about him. He belonged to an old English family, and she should be civil
+to him. Generally she did not fancy Englishmen, and this one she liked
+neither better nor worse because he had a title. And when you came to
+that, why shouldn't any American girl marry her equal?
+
+As to Montague, he was her friend, and she knew that he had not
+the least intention at present of marrying anybody. And then the
+uncharitable gossip went on, that there was the Count de l'Auney, and
+that Mrs. Mavick was playing the one off against the other.
+
+As the days went on and spring began to appear in the light, fleeting
+clouds in the blue sky and in the greening foliage in the city squares,
+Philip became more and more restless. The situation was intolerable.
+Evelyn he could never see. Perhaps she wondered that he made no effort
+to see her. Perhaps she never thought of him at all, and simply, like an
+obedient child, accepted her mother's leading, and was getting to like
+that society life which was recorded in the daily journals. What did it
+matter to him whether he stuck to the law or launched himself into the
+Bohemia of literature, so long as doubt about Evelyn haunted him day and
+night? If she was indifferent to him, he would know the worst, and go
+about his business like a man. Who were the Mavicks, anyway?
+
+Alice had written him once that Evelyn was a dear girl, no one could
+help loving her; but she did not like the blood of father and mother.
+“And remember, Phil--you must let me say this--there is not a drop of
+mean blood in your ancestors.”
+
+Philip smiled at this. He was not in love with Mrs. Mavick nor with her
+husband. They were for him simply guardians of a treasure he very much
+coveted, and yet they were to a certain extent ennobled in his mind as
+the authors of the being he worshiped. If it should be true that his
+love for her was returned, it would not be possible even for them to
+insist upon a course that would make their daughter unhappy for life.
+They might reject him--no doubt he was a wholly unequal match for the
+heiress--but could they, to the very end, be cruel to her?
+
+Thus the ingenuous young man argued with himself, until it seemed plain
+to him that if Evelyn loved him, and the conviction grew that she did,
+all obstacles must give way to this overmastering passion of his life.
+If he were living in a fool's paradise he would know it, and he ventured
+to put his fortune to the test of experiment. The only manly course was
+to gain the consent of the parents to ask their daughter to marry him;
+if not that, then to be permitted to see her. He was nobly resolved to
+pledge himself to make no proposals to her without their approval.
+
+This seemed a very easy thing to do until he attempted it. He would
+simply happen into Mr. Mavick's office, and, as Mr. Mavick frequently
+talked familiarly with him, he would contrive to lead the conversation
+to Evelyn, and make his confession. He mapped out the whole
+conversation, and even to the manner in which he would represent his own
+prospects and ambitions and his hopes of happiness. Of course Mr. Mavick
+would evade, and say that it would be a long time before they should
+think of disposing of their daughter's hand, and that--well, he must
+see himself that he was in no position to support a wife accustomed to
+luxury; in short, that one could not create situations in real life as
+he could in novels, that personally he could give him no encouragement,
+but that he would consult his wife.
+
+This dream got no further than a private rehearsal. When he called at
+Mr. Mavick's office he learned that Mr. Mavick had gone to the Pacific
+coast, and that he would probably be absent several weeks. But Philip
+could not wait. He resolved to end his torture by a bold stroke. He
+wrote to Mrs. Mavick, saying that he had called at Mr. Mavick's office,
+and, not finding him at home, he begged that she would give him an
+interview concerning a matter of the deepest personal interest to
+himself.
+
+Mrs. Mavick understood in an instant what this meant. She had feared it.
+Her first impulse was to write him a curt note of a character that would
+end at once all intercourse. On second thought she determined to see
+him, to discover how far the affair had gone, and to have it out with
+him once for all. She accordingly wrote that she would have a few
+minutes at half past five the next day.
+
+As Philip went up the steps of the Mavick house at the appointed hour,
+he met coming out of the door--and it seemed a bad omen--Lord Montague,
+who seemed in high spirits, stared at Philip without recognition,
+whistled for his cab, and drove away.
+
+Mrs. Mavick received him politely, and, without offering her hand, asked
+him to be seated. Philip was horribly embarrassed. The woman was so
+cool, so civil, so perfectly indifferent. He stammered out something
+about the weather and the coming spring, and made an allusion to the
+dinner at Mrs. Van Cortlandt's. Mrs. Mavick was not in the mood to help
+him with any general conversation, and presently said, looking at her
+watch:
+
+“You wrote me that you wanted to consult me. Is there anything I can do
+for you?”
+
+“It was a personal matter,” said Philip, getting control of himself.
+
+“So you wrote. Mr. Mavick is away, and if it is in regard to anything in
+your office, any promotion, you know, I don't understand anything about
+business.” And Mrs. Mavick smiled graciously.
+
+“No, it is not about the office. I should not think of troubling my
+friends in that way. It is just that--”
+
+“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Mavick interrupted, with good-humor, “it's about
+the novel. I hear that it has sold very well. And you are not certain
+whether its success will warrant your giving up your clerkship. Now as
+for me,” and she leaned back in her chair, with the air of weighing the
+chances in her mind, “it doesn't seem to me that a writer--”
+
+“No, it is not that,” said Philip, leaning forward and looking her full
+in the face with all the courage he could summon, “it is your daughter.”
+
+“What!” cried Mrs. Mavick, in a tone of incredulous surprise.
+
+“I was afraid you would think me very presumptuous.”
+
+“Presumptuous! Why, she is a child. Do you know what you are talking
+about?”
+
+“My mother married at eighteen,” said Philip, gently.
+
+“That is an interesting piece of information, but I don't see its
+bearing. Will you tell me, Mr. Burnett, what nonsense you have got into
+your head?”
+
+“I want,” and Philip spoke very gently--“I want, Mrs. Mavick, permission
+to see your daughter.”
+
+“Ah! I thought in Rivervale, Mr. Burnett, that you were a gentleman. You
+presume upon my invitation to this house, in an underhand way, to--What
+right have you?”
+
+Mrs. Mavick was so beside herself that she could hardly speak. The
+lines in her face deepened into wrinkles and scowls. There was something
+malevolent and mean in it. Philip was astonished at the transformation.
+And she looked old and ugly in her passion.
+
+“You!” she repeated.
+
+“It is only this, Mrs. Mavick,” and Philip spoke calmly, though his
+blood was boiling at her insulting manner--“it is only this--I love your
+daughter.”
+
+“And you have told her this?”
+
+“No, never, never a word.”
+
+“Does she know anything of this absurd, this silly attempt?”
+
+“I am afraid not.”
+
+“Ah! Then you have spared yourself one humiliation. My daughter's
+affections are not likely to be placed where her parents do not approve.
+Her mother is her only confidante. I can tell you, Mr. Burnett, and when
+you are over this delusion you will thank me for being so plain with
+you, my daughter would laugh at the idea of such a proposal. But I will
+not have her annoyed by impecunious aspirants.”
+
+“Madam!” cried Philip, rising, with a flushed face, and then he
+remembered that he was talking to Evelyn's mother, and uttered no other
+word.
+
+“This is ended.” And then, with a slight change of manner, she went on:
+“You must see how impossible it is. You are a man of honor.
+
+“I should like to think well of you. I shall trust to your honor that
+you will never try, by letter or otherwise, to hold any communication
+with her.”
+
+“I shall obey you,” said Philip, quite stiffly, “because you are her
+mother. But I love her, and I shall always love her.”
+
+Mrs. Mavick did not condescend to any reply to this, but she made a cold
+bow of dismissal and turned away from him. He left the house and walked
+away, scarcely knowing in which direction he went, anger for a time
+being uppermost in his mind, chagrin and defeat following, and with it
+the confused feeling of a man who has passed through a cyclone and been
+landed somewhere amid the scattered remnants of his possessions.
+
+As he strode away he was intensely humiliated. He had been treated
+like an inferior. He had voluntarily put himself in a position to be
+insulted. Contempt had been poured upon him, his feelings had been
+outraged, and there was no way in which he could show his resentment.
+Presently, as his anger subsided, he began to look at the matter more
+sanely. What had happened? He had made an honorable proposal. But what
+right had he to expect that it would be favorably considered? He knew
+all along that it was most unlikely that Mrs. Mavick would entertain
+for a moment idea of such a match. He knew what would be the unanimous
+opinion of society about it. In the case of any other young man aspiring
+to the hand of a rich girl, he knew very well what he should have
+thought.
+
+Well, he had done nothing dishonorable. And as he reviewed the bitter
+interview he began to console himself with the thought that he had not
+lost his temper, that he had said nothing to be regretted, nothing that
+he should not have said to the mother of the girl he loved. There was an
+inner comfort in this, even if his life were ruined.
+
+Mrs. Mavick, on the contrary, had not so good reason to be satisfied
+with herself. It was a principle of her well-ordered life never to get
+into a passion, never to let herself go, never to reveal herself by
+intemperate speech, never to any one, except occasionally to her husband
+when his cold sarcasm became intolerable. She felt, as soon as the door
+closed on Philip, that she had made a blunder, and yet in her irritation
+she committed a worse one. She went at once to Evelyn's room, resolved
+to make it perfectly sure that the Philip episode was ended. She had had
+suspicions about her daughter ever since the Van Cortlandt dinner.
+She would find out if they were justified, and she would act decidedly
+before any further mischief was done. Evelyn was alone, and her
+mother kissed her fondly several times and then threw herself into an
+easy-chair and declared she was tired.
+
+“My dear, I have had such an unpleasant interview.”
+
+“I am sorry,” said Evelyn, seating herself on the arm of the chair and
+putting her arm round her mother's neck. “With whom, mamma?”
+
+“Oh, with that Mr. Burnett.” Mrs. Mavick felt a nervous start in the arm
+that caressed her.
+
+“Here?”
+
+“Yes, he came to see your father, I fancy, about some business. I think
+he is not getting on very well.”
+
+“Why, his book--”
+
+“I know, but that amounts to nothing. There is not much chance for a
+lawyer's clerk who gets bitten with the idea that he can write.”
+
+“If he was in trouble, mamma,” said Evelyn, softly, “then you were good
+to him.”
+
+“I tried to be,” Mrs. Mavick half sighed, “but you can't do anything
+with such people” (by 'such people' Mrs. Mavick meant those who have no
+money) “when they don't get on. They are never reasonable. And he was
+in such an awful bad temper. You cannot show any kindness to such people
+without exposing yourself. I think he presumes upon his acquaintance
+with your father. It was most disagreeable, and he was so rude” (a
+little thrill in the arm again)--“well, not exactly rude, but he was
+not a bit nice to me, and I am afraid I showed by my looks that I was
+irritated. He was just as disagreeable as he could be.
+
+“He met Lord Montague on the steps, and he had something spiteful to
+say about him. I had to tell him he was presuming a good deal on his
+acquaintance, and that I considered his manner insulting. He flung out
+of the house very high and mighty.”
+
+“That was not a bit like him, mamma.”
+
+“We didn't know him. That is all. Now we do, and I am thankful we do. He
+will never come here again.”
+
+Evelyn was very still for a moment, and then she said: “I'm very sorry
+for it all. It must be some misunderstanding.”
+
+“Of course, it is dreadful to be so disappointed in people. But we have
+to learn. I don't know anything about his misunderstanding, but I did
+not misunderstand what he said. At any rate, after such an exposition we
+can have no further intercourse with him. You will not care to see any
+one who treated your mother in this way? If you love me, you cannot be
+friendly with him. I know you would not like to be.”
+
+Evelyn did not reply for a moment. Her silence revealed the fact to the
+shrewd woman that she had not intervened a day too soon.
+
+“You promise me, dear, that you will put the whole thing out of your
+mind?” and she drew her daughter closer to her and kissed her.
+
+And then Evelyn said slowly: “I shall not have any friends whom you do
+not approve, but, mamma, I cannot be unjust in my mind.”
+
+And Mrs. Mavick had the good sense not to press the question further.
+She still regarded Evelyn as a child. Her naivete, her simplicity, her
+ignorance of social conventions and of the worldly wisdom which to Mrs.
+Mavick was the sum of all knowledge misled her mother as to her power of
+discernment and her strength of character. Indeed, Mrs. Mavick had only
+the slightest conception of that range of thought and feeling in which
+the girl habitually lived, and of the training which at the age of
+eighteen had given her discipline, and great maturity of judgment as
+well. She would be obedient, but she was incapable of duplicity, and
+therefore she had said as plainly as possible that whatever the trouble
+might be she would not be unjust to Philip.
+
+The interview with her mother left her in a very distressed state of
+mind. It is a horrible disillusion when a girl begins to suspect that
+her mother is not sincere, and that her ideals of life are mean. This
+knowledge may exist with the deepest affection--indeed, in a noble mind,
+with an inward tenderness and an almost divine pity. How many times
+have we seen a daughter loyal to a frivolous, worldly-minded, insincere
+mother, shielding her and exhibiting to the censorious world the utmost
+love and trust!
+
+Evelyn was far from suspecting the extent of her mother's duplicity,
+but her heart told her that an attempt had been made to mislead her, and
+that there must be some explanation of Philip's conduct that would be
+consistent with her knowledge of his character. And, as she endeavored
+to pierce this mystery, it dawned upon her that there had been a method
+in throwing her so much into the society of Lord Montague, and that
+it was unnatural that such a friend as Philip should be seen so
+seldom--only twice since the days in Rivervale. Naturally the very
+reverse of suspicious, she had been dreaming on things to come in the
+seclusion of her awakening womanhood, without the least notion that the
+freedom of her own soul was to be interfered with by any merely worldly
+demands. But now things that had occurred, and that her mother had
+said, came back to her with a new meaning, and her trustful spirit was
+overwhelmed. And there, in the silence of her chamber, began the fierce
+struggle between desire and what she called her duty--a duty imposed
+from without.
+
+She began to perceive that she was not free, that she was a part of a
+social machine, the power of which she had not at all apprehended, and
+that she was powerless in its clutch. She might resist, but peace
+was gone. She had heretofore found peace in obedience, but when she
+consulted her own heart she knew that she could not find peace in
+obedience now. To a girl differently reared, perhaps, subterfuge, or
+some manoeuvring justified by the situation, might have been resorted
+to. But such a thing never occurred to Evelyn. Everything looked dark
+before her, as she more clearly understood her mother's attitude,
+and for the first time in years she could do nothing but give way to
+emotions.
+
+“Why, Evelyn, you have been crying!” exclaimed the governess, who came
+to seek her. “What is the matter?”
+
+Evelyn arose and threw herself on her friend's neck for a moment, and
+then, brushing away the tears, said, with an attempt to smile, “Oh,
+nothing; I got thinking, thinking, thinking, and Don't you ever get
+blue, McDonald?”
+
+“Not often,” said the Scotchwoman, gravely. “But, dear, you have nothing
+in the world to make you so.”
+
+“No, no, nothing;” and then she broke down again, and threw herself upon
+McDonald's bosom in a passion of sobbing. “I can't help it. Mamma says
+Phil--Mr. Burnett--is never to come to this house again. What have I
+done? And he will think--he will think that I hate him.”
+
+McDonald drew the girl into her lap, and with uncommon gentleness
+comforted her with caresses.
+
+“Dear child,” she said, “crosses must come into our lives; we cannot
+help that. Your mother is no doubt doing what she thinks best for your
+own happiness. Nothing can really hurt us for long, you know that well,
+except what we do to ourselves. I never told you why I came to this
+country--I didn't want to sadden you with my troubles--but now I want
+you to understand me better. It is a long story.”
+
+But it was not very long in the telling, for the narrator found that
+what seemed to her so long in the suffering could be conveyed to another
+in only a few words. And the story was not in any of its features new,
+except to the auditor. There had been a long attachment, passionate love
+and perfect trust, long engagement, marriage postponed because both were
+poor, and the lover struggling into his profession, and then, it seemed
+sudden and unaccountable, his marriage with some one else. “It was not
+like him,” said the governess in conclusion; “it was his ambition to get
+on that blinded him.”
+
+“And he, was he happy?” asked Evelyn.
+
+“I heard that he was not” (and she spoke reluctantly); “I fear not. How
+could he be?” And the governess seemed overwhelmed in a flood of tender
+and painful memories. “That was over twenty years ago. And I have been
+happy, my darling, I have had such a happy life with you.
+
+“I never dreamed I could have such a blessing. And you, child, will be
+happy too; I know it.”
+
+And the two women, locked in each other's arms, found that consolation
+in sympathy which steals away half the grief of the world. Ah! who knows
+a woman's heart?
+
+
+For Philip there was in these days no such consolation. It was a
+man's way not to seek any, to roll himself up in his trouble like a
+hibernating bear. And yet there were times when he had an intolerable
+longing for a confidant, for some one to whom he could relieve himself
+of part of his burden by talking. To Celia he could say nothing.
+Instinct told him that he should not go to her. Of the sympathy of Alice
+he was sure, but why inflict his selfish grief on her tender heart?
+But he was writing to her often, he was talking to her freely about
+his perplexities, about leaving the office and trusting himself to the
+pursuit of literature in some way. And, in answer to direct questions,
+he told her that he had seen Evelyn only a few times, and, the fact
+was, that Mrs. Mavick had cut him dead. He could not give to his
+correspondent a very humorous turn to this situation, for Alice
+knew--had she not seen them often together, and did she not know the
+depths of Philip's passion? And she read between the lines the real
+state of the case. Alice was indignant, but she did not think it wise to
+make too much of the incident. Of Evelyn she wrote affectionately--she
+knew she was a noble and high-minded girl. As to her mother, she
+dismissed her with a country estimate. “You know, Phil, that I never
+thought she was a lady.”
+
+But the lover was not to be wholly without comfort. He met by chance one
+day on the Avenue Miss McDonald, and her greeting was so cordial that he
+knew that he had at least one friend in the house of Mavick.
+
+It was a warm spring day, a stray day sent in advance, as it were, to
+warn the nomads of the city that it was time to move on. The tramps
+in Washington Square felt the genial impulse, and, seeking the shaded
+benches, began to dream of the open country, the hospitable farmhouses,
+the nooning by wayside springs, and the charm of wandering at will
+among a tolerant and not too watchful people. Having the same abundant
+leisure, the dwellers up-town--also nomads--were casting in their minds
+how best to employ it, and the fortunate ones were already gathering
+together their flocks and herds and preparing to move on to their camps
+at Newport or among the feeding-hills of the New-England coast.
+
+The foliage of Central Park, already heavy, still preserved the
+freshness of its new birth, and invited the stroller on the Avenue to
+its protecting shade. At Miss McDonald's suggestion they turned in and
+found a secluded seat.
+
+“I often come here,” she said to Philip; “it is almost as peaceful as
+the wilderness itself.”
+
+To Philip also it seemed peaceful, but the soothing influence he found
+in it was that he was sitting with the woman who saw Evelyn hourly, who
+had been with her only an hour ago.
+
+“Yes,” she said, in reply to a question, “everybody is well. We are
+going to leave town earlier than usual this summer, as soon as Mr.
+Mavick returns. Mrs. Mavick is going to open her Newport house; she says
+she has had enough of the country. It is still very amusing to me to see
+how you Americans move about with the seasons, just like the barbarians
+of Turkestan, half the year in summer camps and half the year in winter
+camps.”
+
+“Perhaps,” said Philip, “it is because the social pasturage gets poor.”
+
+“Maybe,” replied the governess, continuing the conceit, “only the horde
+keeps pretty well together, wherever it is. I know we are to have a very
+gay season. Lots of distinguished foreigners and all that.”
+
+“But,” said Philip, “don't England and the Continent long for the
+presence of Americans in the season in the same way?”
+
+“Not exactly. It is the shop-keepers and hotels that sigh for the
+Americans. I don't think that American shop-keepers expect much of
+foreigners.”
+
+“And you are going soon? I suppose Miss Mavick is eager to go also,”
+ said Philip, trying to speak indifferently.
+
+Miss McDonald turned towards him with a look of perfect understanding,
+and then replied, “No, not eager; she hasn't been in her usual spirits
+lately--no, not ill--and probably the change will be good for her. It
+is her first season, you know, and that is always exciting to a girl.
+Perhaps it is only the spring weather.”
+
+It was some moments before either of them spoke again, and then Miss
+McDonald looked up--“Oh, Mr. Burnett, I have wanted to see you and have
+a talk with you about your novel. I could say so little in my note.
+We read it first together and then I read it alone, rather to sit in
+judgment on it, you know. I liked it better the second time, but I could
+see the faults of construction, and I could see, too, why it will be
+more popular with a few people than with the general public. You don't
+mind my saying--”
+
+“Go on, the words of a friend.”
+
+“Yes, I know, are sometimes hardest to bear. Well, it is lovely, ideal,
+but it seems to me you are still a little too afraid of human nature.
+You are afraid to say things that are common. And the deep things of
+life are pretty much all common. No, don't interrupt me. I love the
+story just as it is. I am glad you wrote it as you did. It was natural,
+in your state of experience, that you should do it. But in your next,
+having got rid of what was on top of your mind, so to speak, you will
+take a firmer, more confident hold of life. You are not offended?”
+
+“No, indeed,” cried Philip. “I am very grateful. No doubt you are right.
+It seems to me, now that I am detached from it, as if it were only a
+sort of prelude to something else.”
+
+“Well, you must not let my single opinion influence you too much, for I
+must in honesty tell you another thing. Evelyn will not have a word of
+criticism of it. She says it is like a piece of music, and the impudent
+thing declares that she does not expect a Scotchwoman to understand
+anything but ballad music.”
+
+Philip laughed at this, such a laugh as he had not indulged in for many
+days. “I hope you don't quarrel about such a little thing.”
+
+“Not seriously. She says I may pick away at the story--and I like to see
+her bristle up--but that she looks at the spirit.”
+
+“God bless her,” said Philip under his breath.
+
+Miss McDonald rose, and they walked out into the Avenue again. How
+delightful was the genial air, the light, the blue sky of spring! How
+the brilliant Avenue, now filling up with afternoon equipages, sparkled
+in the sunshine!
+
+When they parted, Miss McDonald gave him her hand and held his a moment,
+looking into his eyes. “Mr. Burnett, authors need some encouragement.
+When I left Evelyn she was going to her room with your book in her
+hand.”
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+Why should not Philip trust the future? He was a free man. He had given
+no hostages to fortune. Even if he did not succeed, no one else would
+be involved in his failure. Why not follow his inclination, the dream of
+his boyhood?
+
+He was at liberty to choose for himself. Everybody in America is; this
+is the proclamation of its blessed independence. Are we any better off
+for the privilege of following first one inclination and then another,
+which is called making a choice? Are they not as well off, and on the
+whole as likely to find their right place, who inherit their callings in
+life, whose careers are mapped out from the cradle by circumstance and
+convention? How much time do we waste in futile experiment? Freedom to
+try everything, which is before the young man, is commonly freedom to
+excel in nothing.
+
+There are, of course, exceptions. The blacksmith climbs into a city
+pulpit. The popular preacher becomes an excellent insurance agent. The
+saloon-keeper develops into the legislator, and wears the broadcloth and
+high hat of the politician. The brakeman becomes the railway magnate,
+and the college graduate a grocer's clerk, and the messenger-boy,
+picking up by chance one day the pen, and finding it run easier than
+his legs, becomes a power on a city journal, and advises society how to
+conduct itself and the government how to make war and peace. All this
+adds to the excitement and interest of life. On the whole, we say
+that people get shaken into their right places, and the predetermined
+vocation is often a mistake. There is the anecdote of a well-known
+clergyman who, being in a company with his father, an aged and
+distinguished doctor of divinity, raised his monitory finger and
+exclaimed, “Ah, you spoiled a first-rate carpenter when you made a poor
+minister of me.”
+
+Philip thought he was calmly arguing the matter with himself. How often
+do we deliberately weigh such a choice as we would that of another
+person, testing our inclination by solid reason? Perhaps no one could
+have told Philip what he ought to do, but every one who knew him, and
+the circumstances, knew what he would do. He was, in fact, already doing
+it while he was paltering with his ostensible profession. But he never
+would have confessed, probably he would then have been ashamed to
+confess, how much his decision to break with the pretense of law was
+influenced by the thought of what a certain dark little maiden, whose
+image was always in his mind, would wish him to do, and by the very
+remarkable fact that she was seen going to her room with his well-read
+story in her hand. Perhaps it was under her pillow at night!
+
+Good-luck seemed to follow his decision--as it often does when a man
+makes a questionable choice, as if the devil had taken an interest in
+his downward road to prosperity. But Philip really gained a permanent
+advantage. The novel had given him a limited reputation and very
+little money. Yet it was his stepping-stone, and when he applied to his
+publishers and told them of his decision, they gave him some work as a
+reader for the house. At first this was fitful and intermittent, but
+as he showed both literary discrimination and tact in judging of the
+market, his services were more in request, and slowly he acquired
+confidential relations with the house. Whatever he knew, his knowledge
+of languages and his experience abroad, came into play, and he began to
+have more confidence in himself, as he saw that his somewhat desultory
+education had, after all, a market value.
+
+The rather long period of his struggle, which is a common struggle, and
+often disheartening, need not be dwelt on here. We can anticipate
+by saying that he obtained in the house a permanent and responsible
+situation, with an income sufficient for a bachelor without habits of
+self-indulgence. It was not the crowning of a noble ambition, it was not
+in the least the career he had dreamed of, but it gave him support and
+a recognized position, and, above all, did not divert him from such
+creative work as he was competent to do. Nay, he found very soon that
+the feeling of security, without any sordid worry, gave freedom to his
+imagination. There was something stimulating in the atmosphere of books
+and manuscripts and in that world of letters which seems so large to
+those who live in it. Fortunately, also, having a support, he was not
+tempted to debase his talent by sensational ventures. What he wrote for
+this or that magazine he wrote to please himself, and, although he saw
+no fortune that way, the little he received was an encouragement as well
+as an appreciable addition to his income.
+
+There are two sorts of success in letters as in life generally. The one
+is achieved suddenly, by a dash, and it lasts as long as the author can
+keep the attention of the spectators upon his scintillating novelties.
+When the sparks fade there is darkness. How many such glittering
+spectacles this century has witnessed!
+
+There is another sort of success which does not startlingly or at
+once declare itself. Sometimes it comes with little observation. The
+reputation is slowly built up, as by a patient process of nature. It
+is curious, as Philip wrote once in an essay, to see this unfolding
+in Lowell's life. There was no one moment when he launched into great
+popularity--nay, in detail, he seemed to himself not to have made the
+strike that ambition is always expecting. But lo! the time came when, by
+universal public consent, which was in the nature of a surprise to him,
+he had a high and permanent place in the world of letters.
+
+In anticipating Philip's career, however, it must not be understood that
+he had attained any wide public recognition. He was simply enrolled in
+the great army of readers and was serving his apprenticeship. He was
+recognized as a capable man by those who purvey in letters to the
+entertainment of the world. Even this little foothold was not easily
+gained in a day, as the historian discovered in reading some bundles of
+old letters which Philip wrote in this time of his novitiate to Celia
+and to his cousin Alice.
+
+It was against Celia's most strenuous advice that he had trusted himself
+to a literary career. “I see, my dear friend,” she wrote, in reply to
+his announcement that he was going that day to Mr. Hunt to resign his
+position, “that you are not happy, but whatever your disappointment
+or disillusion, you will not better yourself by surrendering a regular
+occupation. You live too much in the imagination already.”
+
+Philip fancied, with that fatuity common to his sex, that he had worn an
+impenetrable mask in regard to his wild passion for Evelyn, and did not
+dream that, all along, Celia had read him like an open book. She judged
+Philip quite accurately. It was herself that she did not know, and she
+would have repelled as nonsense the suggestion that her own restlessness
+and her own changing experiments in occupation were due to the
+unsatisfied longings of a woman's heart.
+
+“You must not think,” the letter went on, “that I want to dictate, but
+I have noticed that men--it may be different with women--only succeed
+by taking one path and diligently walking in it. And literature is not a
+career, it is just a toss up, a lottery, and woe to you if you once draw
+a lucky number--you will always be expecting another... You say that I
+am a pretty one to give advice, for I am always chopping and changing
+myself. Well, from the time you were a little boy, did I ever give you
+but one sort of advice? I have been constant in that. And as to myself,
+you are unjust. I have always had one distinct object in life, and that
+I have pursued. I wanted to find out about life, to have experience, and
+then do what I could do best, and what needed most to be done. Why did
+I not stick to teaching in that woman's college? Well, I began to have
+doubts, I began to experiment on my pupils. You will laugh, but I will
+give you a specimen. One day I put a question to my literature class,
+and I found out that not one of them knew how to boil potatoes. They
+were all getting an education, and hardly one of them knew how much
+the happiness of a home depends upon having the potatoes mealy and not
+soggy. It was so in everything. How are we going to live when we are all
+educated, without knowing how to live? Then I found that the masses here
+in New York did not know any better than the classes how to live. Don't
+think it is just a matter of cooking. It is knowing how, generally, to
+make the most of yourself and of your opportunities, and have a nice
+world to live in, a thrifty, self-helpful, disciplined world. Is
+education giving us this? And then we think that organization will do
+it, organization instead of self-development. We think we can organize
+life, as they are trying to organize art. They have organized art as
+they have the production of cotton.
+
+“Did I tell you I was in that? No? I used to draw in school, and after
+I had worked in the Settlement here in New York, and while I was working
+down on the East Side, it came over me that maybe I had one talent
+wrapped in a napkin; and I have been taking lessons in Fifty-seventh
+Street with the thousand or two young women who do not know how to boil
+potatoes, but are pursuing the higher life of art. I did not tell you
+this because I knew you would say that I am just as inconsistent as you
+are. But I am not. I have demonstrated the fact that neither I nor one
+in a hundred of those charming devotees to art could ever earn a living
+by art, or do anything except to add to the mediocrity of the amazing
+art product of this free country.
+
+“And you will ask, what now? I am going on in the same way. I am going
+to be a doctor. In college I was very well up in physiology and anatomy,
+and I went quite a way in biology. So you see I have a good start. I am
+going to attend lectures and go into a hospital, as soon as there is an
+opening, and then I mean to practice. One essential for a young doctor
+I have in advance. That is patients. I can get all I want on the East
+Side, and I have already studied many of them. Law and medicine are what
+I call real professions.”
+
+However Celia might undervalue the calling that Philip had now entered
+on, he had about this time evidence of the growing appreciation of
+literature by practical business men. He was surprised one day by a
+brief note from Murad Ault, asking him to call at his office as soon as
+convenient.
+
+Mr. Ault received him in his private office at exactly the hour
+named. Evidently Mr. Ault's affairs were prospering. His establishment
+presented every appearance of a high-pressure business perfectly
+organized. The outer rooms were full of industrious clerks, messengers
+were constantly entering and departing in a feverish rapidity, servants
+moved silently about, conducting visitors to this or that waiting-room
+and answering questions, excited speculators in groups were
+gesticulating and vociferating, and in the anteroom were impatient
+clients awaiting their turn. In the inner chamber, however, was perfect
+calm. There at his table sat the dark, impenetrable operator, whose time
+was exactly apportioned, serene, saturnine, or genial, as the case might
+be, listening attentively, speaking deliberately, despatching the affair
+in hand without haste or the waste of a moment.
+
+Mr. Ault arose and shook hands cordially, and then went on, without
+delay for any conventional talk.
+
+“I sent for you, Mr. Burnett, because I wanted your help, and because I
+thought I might do you a good turn. You see” (with a grim smile) “I have
+not forgotten Rivervale days. My wife has been reading your story. I
+don't have much time for such things myself, but her constant talk about
+it has given me an idea. I want to suggest to you the scene of a novel,
+one that would be bound to be a good seller.
+
+“I could guarantee a big circulation. I have just become interested in
+one of the great transcontinental lines.” He named the most picturesque
+of them--one that he, in fact, absolutely controlled. “Well, I want a
+story, yes, I guess a good love-story--a romance of reality you might
+call it--strung on that line. You take the idea?”
+
+“Why,” said Philip, half amused at the conceit and yet complimented
+by the recognition of his talent, “I don't know anything about
+railroads--how they are run, cost of building, prospect of traffic,
+engineering difficulties, all that--nothing whatever.”
+
+“So much the better. It is a literary work I want, not a brag about the
+road or a description of its enterprise. You just take the line as your
+scene. Let the story run on that. The company, don't you see, must not
+in any way be suspected with having anything to do with it, no mention
+of its name as a company, no advertisement of the road on a fly-leaf or
+cover. Just your own story, pure and simple.”
+
+“But,” said Philip, more and more astonished at this unlooked-for
+expansion of the literary field, “I could not embark on an enterprise of
+such magnitude.”
+
+“Oh,” said Mr. Ault, complacently, “that will be all arranged. Just a
+pleasure trip, as far as that goes. You will have a private car,
+well stocked, a photographer will go along, and I think--don't you? a
+water-color artist. You can take your own time, stop when and where
+you choose--at the more stations the better. It ought to be profusely
+illustrated with scenes on the line--yes, have colored plates, all that
+would give life and character to your story. Love on a Special, some
+such title as that. It would run like oil. I will arrange to have it as
+a serial in one of the big magazines, and then the book would be bound
+to go. The company, of course, can have nothing to do with it, but I can
+tell you privately that it would rather distribute a hundred thousand
+copies of a book of good literature through the country than to
+encourage the railway truck that is going now.
+
+“I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Burnett, if the public would be interested in
+having the Puritan Nun take that kind of a trip.” And Mr. Ault ended his
+explanation with an interrogatory smile.
+
+Philip hesitated a moment, trying to grasp the conception of this
+business use of literature. Mr. Ault resumed:
+
+“It isn't anything in the nature of an advertisement. Literature is a
+power. Why, do you know--of course you did not intend it--your story has
+encouraged the Peacock Inn to double its accommodations, and half the
+farmhouses in Rivervale are expecting summer boarders. The landlord
+of the Peacock came to see me the other day, and he says everything is
+stirred up there, and he has already to enlarge or refuse application.”
+
+“It is very kind in you, Mr. Ault, to think of me in that connection,
+but I fear you have over-estimated my capacity. I could name half a
+dozen men who could do it much better than I could. They know how to do
+it, they have that kind of touch. I have been surprised at the literary
+ability engaged by the great corporations.”
+
+Mr. Ault made a gesture of impatience. “I wouldn't give a damn for
+that sort of thing. It is money thrown away. If I should get one of the
+popular writers you refer to, the public would know he was hired. If you
+lay your story out there, nobody will suspect anything of the sort. It
+will be a clean literary novel. Not travel, you understand, but a story,
+and the more love in it the better. It will be a novelty. You can run
+your car sixty miles an hour in exciting passages, everything will work
+into it. When people travel on the road the pictures will show them the
+scenes of the story. It is a big thing,” said Mr. Ault in conclusion.
+
+“I see it is,” said Philip, rising at the hint that his time had
+expired. “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Ault, for your confidence
+in me. But it is a new idea. I will have to think it over.”
+
+“Well, think it over. There is money in it. You would not start till
+about midsummer. Good-day.”
+
+A private car! Travel like a prince! Certainly literature was looking
+up in the commercial world. Philip walked back to his publishers with a
+certain elasticity of step, a new sense of power. Yes, the power of the
+pen. And why not? No doubt it would bring him money and spread his name
+very widely. There was nothing that a friendly corporation could not
+do for a favorite. He would then really be a part of the great, active,
+enterprising world. Was there anything illegitimate in taking advantage
+of such an opportunity? Surely, he should remain his own master, and
+write nothing except what his own conscience approved. But would he not
+feel, even if no one else knew it, that he was the poet-laureate of a
+corporation?
+
+And suddenly, as he thought how the clear vision of Evelyn would plunge
+to the bottom of such a temptation, he felt humiliated that such a
+proposition should have been made to him. Was there nothing, nobody,
+that commercialism did not think for sale and to be trafficked in?
+
+Nevertheless, he wrote to Alice about it, describing the proposal as it
+was made to him, without making any comment on it.
+
+Alice replied speedily. “Isn't it funny,” she wrote, “and isn't it
+preposterous? I wonder what such people think? And that horrid young
+pirate, Ault, a patron of literature! My dear, I cannot conceive of you
+as the Pirate's Own. Dear Phil, I want you to succeed. I do want you to
+make money, a lot of it. I like to think you are wanted and appreciated,
+and that you can get paid better and better for what you do. Sell your
+manuscripts for as good a price as you can get. Yes, dear, sell your
+manuscripts, but don't sell your soul.”
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+Did Miss McDonald tell Evelyn of her meeting with Philip in Central
+Park? The Scotch loyalty to her service would throw a doubt upon this.
+At the same time, the Scotch affection, the Scotch sympathy with a true
+and romantic passion, and, above all, the Scotch shrewdness, could be
+trusted to do what was best under the circumstances. That she gave the
+least hint of what she said to Mr. Burnett concerning Evelyn is not to
+be supposed for a moment. Certainly she did not tell Mrs. Mavick. Was
+she a person to run about with idle gossip? But it is certain that
+Evelyn knew that Philip had given up his situation in the office, that
+he had become a reader for a publishing house, that he had definitely
+decided to take up a literary career. And somehow it came into her mind
+that Philip knew that this decision would be pleasing to her.
+
+According to the analogy of other things in nature, it would seem that
+love must have something to feed on to sustain it. But it is remarkable
+upon how little it can exist, can even thrive and become strong, and
+develop a power of resistance to hostile influences. Once it gets a
+lodgment in a woman's heart, it is an exclusive force that transforms
+her into a heroine of courage and endurance. No arguments, no reason, no
+considerations of family, of position, of worldly fortune, no prospect
+of immortal life, nothing but doubt of faith in the object can dislodge
+it. The woman may yield to overwhelming circumstances, she may even by
+her own consent be false to herself, but the love lives, however hidden
+and smothered, so long as the vital force is capable of responding to
+a true emotion. Perhaps nothing in human life is so pathetic as this
+survival in old age of a youthful, unsatisfied love. It may cease to be
+a passion, it may cease to be a misery, it may have become only a placid
+sentiment, yet the heart must be quite cold before this sentiment can
+cease to stir it on occasion--for the faded flower is still in the
+memory the bloom of young love.
+
+They say that in the New Education for women love is not taken into
+account in the regular course; it is an elective study. But the immortal
+principle of life does not care much for organization, and says, as of
+old, they reckon ill who leave me out.
+
+In the early season at Newport there was little to distract the
+attention and much to calm the spirit. Mrs. Mavick was busy in her
+preparation for the coming campaign, and Evelyn and her governess were
+left much alone, to drive along the softly lapping sea, to search among
+the dells of the rocky promontory for wild flowers, or to sit on the
+cliffs in front of the gardens of bloom and watch the idle play of the
+waves, that chased each other to the foaming beach and in good-nature
+tossed about the cat-boats and schooners and set the white sails
+shimmering and dipping in the changing lights. And Evelyn, drinking in
+the beauty and the peace of it, no doubt, was more pensive than joyous.
+Within the last few months life had opened to her with a suddenness that
+half frightened her.
+
+It was a woman who sat on the cliffs now, watching the ocean of life, no
+longer a girl into whose fresh soul the sea and the waves and the air,
+and the whole beauty of the world, were simply responsive to her own
+gayety and enjoyment of living. It was not the charming scene that held
+her thought, but the city with its human struggle, and in that struggle
+one figure was conspicuous. In such moments this one figure of youth
+outweighed for her all that the world held besides. It was strange.
+Would she have admitted this? Not in the least, not even to herself, in
+her virgin musings; nevertheless, the world was changed for her, it was
+more serious, more doubtful, richer, and more to be feared.
+
+It was not too much to say that one season had much transformed her. She
+had been so ignorant of the world a year ago. She had taken for granted
+all that was abstractly right. Now she saw that the conventions of life
+were like sand-dunes and barriers in the path she was expected to walk.
+She had learned for one thing what money was. Wealth had been such
+an accepted part of her life, since she could remember, that she
+had attached no importance to it, and had only just come to see what
+distinctions it made, and how it built a barrier round about her.
+She had come to know what it was that gave her father position and
+distinction; and the knowledge had been forced upon her by all the
+obsequious flattery of society that she was, as a great heiress,
+something apart from others. This position, so much envied, may be to a
+sensitive soul an awful isolation.
+
+It was only recently that Evelyn had begun to be keenly aware of the
+circumstances that hedged her in. They were speaking one day as they sat
+upon the cliffs of the season about to begin. In it Evelyn had always
+had unalloyed, childish delight. Now it seemed to her something to be
+borne.
+
+“McDonald,” the girl said, abruptly, but evidently continuing her line
+of thought, “mamma says that Lord Montague is coming next week.”
+
+“To be with us?”
+
+“Oh, no. He is to stay with the Danforth-Sibbs. Mamma says that as he is
+a stranger here we must be very polite to him, and that his being here
+will give distinction to the season. Do you like him?” There was in
+Evelyn still, with the penetration of the woman, the naivete of the
+child.
+
+“I cannot say that he is personally very fascinating, but then I have
+never talked with him.”
+
+“Mamma says he is very interesting about his family, and their place in
+England, and about his travels. He has been in the South Sea Islands. I
+asked him about them. He said that the natives were awfully jolly, and
+that the climate was jolly hot. Do you know, McDonald, that you can't
+get anything out of him but exclamations and slang. I suppose he talks
+to other people differently. I tried him. At the reception I asked him
+who was going to take Tennyson's place. He looked blank, and then said,
+'Er--I must have missed that. What place? Is he out?'”
+
+Miss McDonald laughed, and then said, “You don't understand the classes
+in English life. Poetry is not in his line. You see, dear, you couldn't
+talk to him about politics. He is a born legislator, and when he is in
+the House of Lords he will know right well who is in and who is out.
+You mustn't be unjust because he seems odd to you and of limited
+intelligence. Just that sort of youth is liable to turn up some day in
+India or somewhere and do a mighty plucky thing, and become a hero. I
+dare say he is a great sportsman.”
+
+“Yes, he quite warmed up about shooting. He told me about going for yak
+in the snow mountains south of Thibet. Bloody cold it was. Nasty beast,
+if you didn't bring him down first shot. No, I don't doubt his courage
+nor his impudence. He looks at me so, that I can't help blushing. I wish
+mamma wouldn't ask him.”
+
+“But, my dear, we must live in the world as it is. You are not
+responsible for Lord Montague.”
+
+“And I know he will come,” the girl persisted in her line of thought.
+
+“When he called the day before we came away, he asked a lot of questions
+about Newport, about horses and polo and golf, and all that, and were
+the roads good. And then, 'Do you bike, Miss Mavick?'
+
+“I pretended not to understand, and said I was still studying with my
+governess and I hadn't got all the irregular verbs yet. For once, he
+looked quite blank, and after a minute he said, 'That's very good, you
+know!' McDonald, I just hate him. He makes me so uneasy.”
+
+“But don't you know, child,” said Miss McDonald, laughing, “that we are
+required to love our enemies?”
+
+“So I would,” replied the girl, quickly, “if he were an enemy and would
+keep away. Ah, me! McDonald, I want to ask you something. Do you suppose
+he would hang around a girl who was poor, such a sweet, pretty, dear
+creature as Alice Maitland, who is a hundred times nicer than I am?”
+
+“He might,” said Miss McDonald, still quizzically. “They say that like
+goes to like, and it is reported that the Duke of Tewkesbury is as good
+as ruined.”
+
+“Do be serious, McDonald.” The girl nestled up closer to her and took
+her hand. “I want to ask you one question more. Do you think--no, don't
+look at me, look away off at that sail do you-think that, if I had been
+poor, Mr. Burnett would have seen me only twice, just twice, all last
+season?”
+
+Miss McDonald put her arm around Evelyn and clasped the little figure
+tight. “You must not give way to fancies. We cannot, as life is
+arranged, be perfectly happy, but we can be true to ourselves, and there
+is scarcely anything that resolution and patience cannot overcome. I
+ought not to talk to you about this, Evelyn. But I must say one thing: I
+think I can read Philip Burnett. Oh, he has plenty of self-esteem, but,
+unless I mistake him, nothing could so mortify him as to have it said
+that he was pursuing a girl for the sake of her fortune.”
+
+“And he wouldn't!” cried the girl, looking up and speaking in an
+unsteady voice.
+
+“Let me finish. He is, so I think, the sort of man that would not let
+any fortune, or anything else, stand in the way when his heart was
+concerned. I somehow feel that he could not change--faithfulness, that
+is his notion. If he only knew--”
+
+“He never shall! he never shall!” cried the girl in alarm--“never!”
+
+“And you think, child, that he doesn't know? Come! That sail has been
+coming straight towards us ever since we sat here, never tacked once.
+That is omen enough for one day. See how the light strikes it. Come!”
+
+The Newport season was not, after all, very gay. Society has become so
+complex that it takes more than one Englishman to make a season. Were
+it the business of the chronicler to study the evolution of this lovely
+watering-place from its simple, unconventional, animated days of
+natural hospitality and enjoyment, to its present splendid and palatial
+isolation of a society--during the season--which finds its chief
+satisfaction in the rivalry of costly luxury and in an atmosphere
+of what is deemed aristocratic exclusiveness, he would have a theme
+attractive to the sociologist. But such a noble study is not for him.
+His is the humble task of following the fortunes of certain individuals,
+more or less conspicuous in this astonishing flowering of a democratic
+society, who have become dear to him by long acquaintance.
+
+It was not the fault of Mrs. Mavick that the season was so frigid, its
+glacial stateliness only now and then breaking out in an illuminating
+burst of festivity, like the lighting-up of a Montreal ice-palace. Her
+spacious house was always open, and her efforts, in charity enterprises
+and novel entertainments, were untiring to stimulate a circulation in
+the languid body of society.
+
+This clever woman never showed more courage or more tact than in this
+campaign, and was never more agreeable and fascinating. She was even
+popular. If she was not accepted as a leader, she had a certain standing
+with the leaders, as a person of vivacity and social influence. Any
+company was eager for her presence. Her activity, spirit, and affability
+quite won the regard of the society reporters, and those who know
+Newport only through the newspapers would have concluded that the
+Mavicks were on the top of the wave. She, however, perfectly understood
+her position, and knew that the sweet friends, who exchanged with her,
+whenever they met, the conventional phrases of affection commented
+sarcastically upon her ambitions for her daughter. It was, at the same
+time, an ambition that they perfectly understood, and did not condemn on
+any ethical grounds. Evelyn was certainly a sweet girl, rather queerly
+educated, and never likely to make much of a dash, but she was an
+heiress, and why should not her money be put to the patriotic use of
+increasing the growing Anglo-American cordiality?
+
+Lord Montague was, of course, a favorite, in demand for all functions,
+and in request for the private and intimate entertainments. He was an
+authority in the stables and the kennels, and an eager comrade in
+all the sports of the island. His easy manner, his self-possession
+everywhere, even his slangy talk, were accepted as evidence that he was
+above conventionalities. “The little man isn't a beauty,” said Sally
+McTabb, “but he shows 'race.'” He might be eccentric, but when you came
+to know him you couldn't help liking the embryo duke in him.
+
+In fact, things were going very well with Mrs. Mavick, except in her own
+household. There was something there that did not yield, that did not
+flow with her plans. With Lord Montague she was on the most intimate
+and confidential relations. He was almost daily at the house. Often she
+drove with him; frequently Evelyn was with them. Indeed, the three came
+to be associated in the public mind. There could be no doubt of the
+intentions of the young nobleman. That he could meet any opposition was
+not conceived.
+
+The noble lord, since they had been in Newport, had freely opened his
+mind to Mrs. Mavick, and on a fit occasion had formally requested her
+daughter's hand. Needless to say that he was accepted. Nay, more, he
+felt that he was trusted like a son. He was given every opportunity to
+press his suit. Somewhat to his surprise, he did not appear to make much
+headway. He was rarely able to see her alone, even for a moment. Such
+evasiveness in a young girl to a man of his rank astonished him. There
+could be no reason for it in himself; there must be some influence at
+work unknown to his social experience.
+
+He did not reproach Mrs. Mavick with this, but he let her see that he
+was very much annoyed.
+
+“If I had not your assurance to the contrary, Mrs. Mavick,” he said one
+day in a pet, “I should think she shunned me.”
+
+“Oh, no, Lord Montague, that could not be. I told you that she had had a
+peculiar education; she is perfectly ignorant of the world, she is shy,
+and--well, for a girl in her position, she is unconventional. She is so
+young that she does not yet understand what life is.”
+
+“You mean she does not know what I offer her?”
+
+“Why, my dear Lord Montague, did you ever offer her anything?”
+
+“Not flat, no,” said my lord, hesitating. “Every time I approach her she
+shies off like a young filly. There is something I don't understand.”
+
+“Evelyn,” and Mrs. Mavick spoke with feeling, “is an affectionate and
+dutiful child. She has never thought of marriage. The prospect is all
+new to her. But I am sure she would learn to love you if she knew you
+and her mind were once turned upon such a union. My lord, why not say
+to her what you feel, and make the offer you intend? You cannot expect a
+young girl to show her inclination before she is asked.” And Mrs. Mavick
+laughed a little to dispel the seriousness.
+
+“By Jove! that's so, good enough. I'll do it straight out. I'll tell her
+to take it or leave it. No, I don't mean that, of course. I'll tell
+her that I can't live without her--that sort of thing, you know. And I
+can't, that's just the fact.”
+
+“You can leave it confidently to her good judgment and to the friendship
+of the family for you.”
+
+Lord Montague was silent for a moment, and seemed to be looking at a
+problem in his shrewd mind. For he had a shrewd mind, which took in the
+whole situation, Mrs. Mavick and all, with a perspicacity that would
+have astonished that woman of the world.
+
+“There is one thing, perhaps I ought not to say it, but I have seen it,
+and it is in my head that it is that--I beg your pardon, madam--that
+damned governess.”
+
+The shot went home. The suggestion, put into language that could be more
+easily comprehended than defended, illuminated Mrs. Mavick's mind in a
+flash, seeming to disclose the source of an opposition to her purposes
+which secretly irritated her. Doubtless it was the governess. It was her
+influence that made Evelyn less pliable and amenable to reason than a
+young girl with such social prospects as she had would naturally be.
+Besides, how absurd it was that a young lady in society should still
+have a governess. A companion? The proper companion for a girl on the
+edge of matrimony was her mother!
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+This idea, once implanted in Mrs. Mavick's mind, bore speedy fruit. No
+one would have accused her of being one of those uncomfortable persons
+who are always guided by an inflexible sense of justice, nor could it be
+said that she was unintelligently unjust. Facile as she was, in all her
+successful life she had never acted upon impulse, but from a conscience
+keenly alive to what was just to herself. Miss McDonald was in the way.
+And Mrs. Mavick had one quality of good generalship--she acted promptly
+on her convictions.
+
+When Mr. Mavick came over next day to spend Sunday in what was called in
+print the bosom of his family, he looked very much worn and haggard
+and was in an irritated mood. He had been very little in Newport that
+summer, the disturbed state of business confining him to the city. And
+to a man of his age, New York in midsummer in a panicky season is not a
+recreation.
+
+The moment Mrs. Mavick got her husband alone she showed a lively
+solicitude about his health.
+
+“I suppose it has been dreadfully hot in the city?”
+
+“Hot enough. Everything makes it hot.”
+
+“Has anything gone wrong? Has that odious Ault turned up again?”
+
+“Turned up is the word. Half the time that man is a mole, half the time
+a bull in a china-shop. He sails up to you bearing your own flag, and
+when he gets aboard he shows the skull and cross-bones.”
+
+“Is it so bad as that?”
+
+“As bad as what? He is a bad lot, but he is just an adventurer--a
+Napoleon who will get his Waterloo before fall. Don't bother about
+things you don't understand. How are things down here?”
+
+“Going swimmingly.” “So I judged by the bills. How is the lord?”
+
+“Now don't be vulgar, Tom. You must keep up your end. Lord Montague is
+very nice; he is a great favorite here.”
+
+“Does Evelyn like him?”
+
+“Yes, she likes him; she likes him very much.”
+
+“She didn't show it to me.”
+
+“No, she is awfully shy. And she is rather afraid of him, the big title
+and all that. And then she has never been accustomed to act for herself.
+She is old enough to be independent and to take her place in the world.
+At her age I was not in leading-strings.”
+
+“I should say not,” said Mavick.
+
+“Except in obedience to my mother,” continued Carmen, not deigning to
+notice the sarcasm. “And I've been thinking that McDonald--”
+
+“So you want to get rid of her?”
+
+“What a brutal way of putting it! No. But if Evelyn is ever to be
+self-reliant it is time she should depend more on herself. You know I
+am devoted to McDonald. And, what is more, I am used to her. I wasn't
+thinking of her. You don't realize that Evelyn is a young lady in
+society, and it has become ridiculous for her to still have a governess.
+Everybody would say so.”
+
+“Well, call her a companion.”
+
+“Ah, don't you see it would be the same? She would still be under her
+influence and not able to act for herself.”
+
+“What are you going to do? Turn her adrift after eighteen--what is it,
+seventeen?--years of faithful service?”
+
+“How brutally you put it. I'm going to tell McDonald just how it is. She
+is a sensible woman, and she will see that it is for Evelyn's good. And
+then it happens very luckily. Mrs. Van Cortlandt asked me last winter
+if I wouldn't let her have McDonald for her little girl when we were
+through with her. She knew, of course, that we couldn't keep a governess
+much longer for Evelyn. I am going to write to her. She will jump at the
+chance.”
+
+“And McDonald?”
+
+“Oh, she likes Mrs. Van Cortlandt. It will just suit her.”
+
+“And Evelyn? That will be another wrench.” Men are so foolishly
+tender-hearted about women.
+
+“Of course, I know it seems hard, and will be for a little. But it is
+for Evelyn's good, I am perfectly sure.”
+
+Mr. Mavick was meditating. It was a mighty unpleasant business. But he
+was getting tired of conflict. There was an undercurrent in the lives of
+both that made him shrink from going deep into any domestic difference.
+It was best to yield.
+
+“Well, Carmen, I couldn't have the heart to do it. She has been Evelyn's
+constant companion all the child's life. Ah, well, it's your own affair.
+Only don't stir it up till after I am gone. I must go to the city early
+Monday morning.”
+
+Because Mavick, amid all the demands of business and society, and his
+ambitions for power in the world of finance and politics, had not had
+much time to devote to his daughter, it must not be supposed that he did
+not love her. In the odd moments at her service she had always been a
+delight to him; and, in truth, many of his ambitions had centred in the
+intelligent, affectionate, responsive child. But there had been no time
+for much real comradeship.
+
+This Sunday, however, and it was partly because of pity for the shock
+he felt was in store for her, he devoted himself to her. They had a long
+walk on the cliff, and he talked to her of his life, of his travels, and
+his political experience. She was a most appreciative listener, and
+in the warmth of his confidence she opened her mind to him, and rather
+surprised him by her range of intelligence and the singular uprightness
+of her opinions, and more still by her ready wit and playfulness. It was
+the first time she had felt really free with her father, and he for the
+first time seemed to know her as she was in her inner life. When
+they returned to the house, and she was thanking him with a glow of
+enthusiasm for such a lovely day, he lifted her up and kissed her, with
+an emotion of affection that brought tears to her eyes.
+
+A couple of days elapsed before Mrs. Mavick was ready for action. During
+this time she had satisfied herself, by apparently casual conversation
+with her daughter and Miss McDonald, that the latter would be wholly out
+of sympathy with her intentions in regard to Evelyn. Left to herself she
+judged that her daughter would look with more favor upon the brilliant
+career offered to her by Lord Montague. When, therefore, one morning
+the governess was summoned to her room, her course was decided on. She
+received Miss McDonald with more than usual cordiality. She had in her
+hand a telegram, and beamed upon her as the bearer of good news.
+
+“I have an excellent offer for you, Miss McDonald.”
+
+“An offer for me?”
+
+“Yes, from Mrs. Van Cortlandt, to be the governess of her daughter, a
+sweet little girl of six. She has often spoken about it, and now I have
+an urgent despatch from her. She is in need of some one at once, and she
+greatly prefers you.”
+
+“Do you mean, Mrs. Mavick, that--you--want--that I am to leave Evelyn,
+and you?” The room seemed to whirl around her.
+
+“It is not what we want, McDonald,” said Mrs. Mavick calmly and still
+beaming, “but what is best. Your service as governess has continued much
+longer than could have been anticipated, and of course it must come to
+an end some time. You understand how hard this separation is for all of
+us. Mr. Mavick wanted me to express to you his infinite obligation, and
+I am sure he will take a substantial way of showing it. Evelyn is now
+a young lady in society, and of course it is absurd for her to continue
+under pupilage. It will be best for her, for her character, to be
+independent and learn to act for herself in the world.”
+
+“Did she--has Evelyn--”
+
+“No, I have said nothing to her of this offer, which is a most
+advantageous one. Of course she will feel as we do, at first.”
+
+“Why, all these years, all her life, since she was a baby, not a day,
+not a night, Evelyn, and now--so sweet, so dear--why Mrs. Mavick!” And
+the Scotch woman, dazed, with a piteous appeal in her eyes, trying in
+vain to control her face, looked at her mistress.
+
+“My dear McDonald, you must not take it that way. It is only a change.
+You are not going away really, we shall all be in the same city. I am
+sure you will--like your new home. Shall I tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt?”
+
+“Tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt? Yes, tell her, thanks. I will go--soon--at
+once. In a little time, to get-ready. Thanks.” The governess rose and
+stood a moment to steady herself. All her life was in ruins. The blow
+crushed her. And she had been so happy. In such great peace. It seemed
+impossible. To leave Evelyn! She put out her hand as if to speak. Did
+Mrs. Mavick understand what she was doing? That it was the same as
+dragging a mother away from her child? But she said nothing. Words would
+not come. Everything seemed confused and blank. She sank into her chair.
+
+“Excuse me, Mrs. Mavick, I think I am not very strong this morning.” And
+presently she stood on her feet again and steadied herself. “You will
+please tell Evelyn before--before I see her.” And she walked out of the
+room as one in a trance.
+
+The news was communicated to Evelyn, quite incidentally, in the manner
+that all who knew Mrs. Mavick admired in her. Evelyn had just been in
+and out of her mother's room, on one errand and another, and was going
+out again, when her mother said:
+
+“Oh, by-the-way, Evelyn, at last we have got a splendid place for
+McDonald.”
+
+Evelyn turned, not exactly comprehending. “A place for McDonald? For
+what?”
+
+“As governess, of course. With Mrs. Van Cortlandt.”
+
+“What! to leave us?” The girl walked back to her mother's chair and
+stood before her in an attitude of wonder and doubt. “You don't mean,
+mamma, that she is going away for good?”
+
+“It is a great chance for her. I have been anxious for some time about
+employment for her, now that you do not need a governess--haven't really
+for a year or two.”
+
+“But, mamma, it can't be. She is part of us. She belongs to the family;
+she has been in it almost as long as I have. Why, I have been with her
+every day of my life. To go away? To give her up? Does she know?”
+
+“Does she know? What a child! She has accepted Mrs. Van Cortlandt's
+offer. I telegraphed for her this morning. Tomorrow she goes to town to
+get her belongings together. Mrs. Van Cortlandt needs her at once. I am
+sorry to see, my dear, that you are thinking only of yourself.”
+
+“Of myself?” The girl had been at first confused, and, as the idea
+forced itself upon her mind, she felt weak, and trembled, and was deadly
+pale. But when the certainty came, the enormity and cruelty of the
+dismissal aroused her indignation. “Myself!” she exclaimed again. Her
+eyes blazed with a wrath new to their tenderness, and, stepping back and
+stamping her foot; she cried out: “She shall not go! It is unjust! It is
+cruel!”
+
+Her mother had never seen her child like that. She was revealing a
+spirit of resistance, a temper, an independence quite unexpected. And
+yet it was not altogether displeasing. Mrs. Mavick's respect for her
+involuntarily rose. And after an instant, instead of responding with
+severity, as was her first impulse, she said, very calmly:
+
+“Naturally, Evelyn, you do not like to part with her. None of us do. But
+go to your room and think it over reasonably. The relations of childhood
+cannot last forever.”
+
+Evelyn stood for a moment undecided. Her mother's calm self-control had
+not deceived her. She was no longer a child. It was a woman reading a
+woman. All her lifetime came back to her to interpret this moment. In
+the reaction of the second, the deepest pain was no longer for herself,
+nor even for Miss McDonald, but for a woman who showed herself so
+insensible to noble feeling. Protest was useless. But why was the
+separation desired? She did not fully see, but her instinct told her
+that it had a relation to her mother's plans for her; and as life
+rose before her in the society, in the world, into which she was newly
+launched, she felt that she was alone, absolutely alone. She tried to
+speak, but before she could collect her thoughts her mother said:
+
+“There, go now. It is useless to discuss the matter. We all have to
+learn to bear things.”
+
+Evelyn went away, in a tumult of passion and of shame, and obeyed her
+impulse to go where she had always found comfort.
+
+Miss McDonald was in her own room. Her trunk was opened. She had taken
+her clothes from the closet. She was opening the drawers and laying one
+article here and another there. She was going from closet to bureau,
+opening this door and shutting that in her sitting-room and bedroom, in
+an aimless, distracted way. Out of her efforts nothing had so far come
+but confusion. It seemed an impossible dream that she was actually
+packing up to go away forever.
+
+Evelyn entered in a haste that could not wait for permission.
+
+“Is it true?” she cried.
+
+McDonald turned. She could not speak. Her faithful face was gray with
+suffering. Her eyes were swollen with weeping. For an instant she seemed
+not to comprehend, and then a flood of motherly feeling overcame her.
+She stretched out her arms and caught the girl to her breast in a
+passionate embrace, burying her face in her neck in a vain effort to
+subdue her sobbing.
+
+What was there to say? Evelyn had come to her refuge for comfort, and
+to Evelyn the comforter it was she herself who must be the comforter.
+Presently she disengaged herself and forced the governess into an easy
+chair. She sat down on the arm of the chair and smoothed her hair and
+kissed her again and again.
+
+“There. I'm going to help you. You'll see you have not taught me for
+nothing.” She jumped up and began to bustle about. “You don't know what
+a packer I am.”
+
+“I knew it must come some time,” she was saying, with a weary air, as
+she followed with her eyes the light step of the graceful girl, who
+was beginning to sort things and to bring order out of the confusion,
+holding up one article after another and asking questions with an
+enforced cheerfulness that was more pathetic than any burst of grief.
+
+“Yes, I know. There, that is laid in smooth.” She pretended to be
+thinking what to put in next, and suddenly she threw herself into
+McDonald's lap and began to talk gayly. “It is all my fault, dear; I
+should have stayed little. And it doesn't make any difference. I know
+you love me, and oh, McDonald, I love you more, a hundred times more,
+than ever. If you did not love me! Think how dreadful that would be. And
+we shall not be separated-only by streets, don't you know. They can't
+separate us. I know you want me to be brave. And some day, perhaps” (and
+she whispered in her ear--how many hundred times had she told her girl
+secrets in that way!), “if I do have a home of my own, then--”
+
+It was not very cheerful talk, however it seemed to be, but it was
+better than silence, and in the midst of it, with many interruptions,
+the packing was over, and some sort of serenity was attained even by
+Miss McDonald. “Yes, dear heart, we have love and trust and hope.” But
+when the preparations were all made, and Evelyn went to her own room,
+there did not seem to be so much hope, nor any brightness in the midst
+of this first great catastrophe of her life.
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+The great Mavick ball at Newport, in the summer long remembered for its
+financial disasters, was very much talked about at the time. Long after,
+in any city club, a man was sure to have attentive listeners if he,
+began his story or his gossip with the remark that he was at the Mavick
+ball.
+
+It attracted great attention, both on account of the circumstances that
+preceded it and the events which speedily followed, and threw a light
+upon it that gave it a spectacular importance. The city journals made
+a feature of it. They summoned their best artists to illustrate it,
+and illuminate it in pen-and-ink, half-tones, startling colors, and
+photographic reproductions, sketches theatrical, humorous, and poetic,
+caricatures, pictures of tropical luxury and aristocratic pretension; in
+short, all the bewildering affluence of modern art which is brought to
+bear upon the aesthetic cultivation of the lowest popular taste. They
+summoned their best novelists to throw themselves recklessly upon the
+English language, and extort from it its highest expression in color
+and lyrical beauty, the novelists whose mission it is, in the newspaper
+campaign against realism, to adorn and dramatize the commonest events
+of life, creating in place of the old-fashioned “news” the highly spiced
+“story,” which is the ideal aspiration of the reporter.
+
+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.
+
+That this would be the opinion of the world he could not doubt. He
+felt very much alone. It was not, however, in any resolve to make a
+confidante of Celia, but in an absolute need of companionship, that he
+went to see if she had returned. That he had any personal interest in
+this ball he did not intend to let Celia know, but talk with somebody he
+must. Of his deep affection for this friend of his boyhood, there was no
+doubt, nor of his knowledge of her devotion to his interests. Why, then,
+was he reserved with her upon the absorbing interest of his life?
+
+Celia had returned, before the opening of the medical college, full of a
+new idea. This was nothing new in her restless nature; but if Philip
+had not been blinded by the common selfishness of his sex, he might
+have seen in the gladness of her welcome of him something more than mere
+sisterly affection.
+
+“Are you real glad to see me, Phil? I thought you might be lonesome by
+this time in the deserted city.”
+
+“I was, horribly.” He was still holding her hand. “Without a chance to
+talk with you or Alice, I am quite an orphan.”
+
+“Ah! You or Alice!” A shade of disappointment came over her face as she
+dropped his hand. But she rallied in a moment.
+
+“Poor boy! You ought to have a guardian. What heroine of romance are you
+running after now?”
+
+“In my new story?”
+
+“Of course.”
+
+“She isn't very well defined in my mind yet. But a lovely girl, without
+anything peculiar, no education to speak of, or career, fascinating in
+her womanhood, such as might walk out of the Bible. Don't you think that
+would be a novelty? But it is the most difficult to do.”
+
+“Negative. That sort has gone out. Philip, why don't you take the
+heroine of the Mavick ball? There is a theme.” She was watching him
+shrewdly, and saw the flush in his face as he hurriedly asked,
+
+“Did you ever see her?”
+
+“Only at a distance. But you must know her well enough for a literary
+purpose. The reports of the ball give you the setting of the drama.”
+
+“Did you read them?”
+
+“I should say I did. Most amusing.”
+
+“Celia, don't you think it would be an ungentlemanly thing to take a
+social event like that?”
+
+“Why, you must take life as it is. Of course you would change the
+details. You could lay the scene in Philadelphia. Nobody would suspect
+you then.”
+
+Philip shook his head. The conversation was not taking the turn that was
+congenial to him. The ball seemed to him a kind of maelstrom in which
+all his hopes were likely to be wrecked. And here was his old friend,
+the keenest-sighted woman he knew, looking upon it simply as literary
+material--a ridiculous social event. He had better change the subject.
+
+“So the college is not open yet?”
+
+“No, I came back because I had a new idea, and wanted time to look
+around. We haven't got quite the right idea in our city missions. They
+have another side. We need country missions.”
+
+“Aren't they that now?”
+
+“No, I mean for the country. I've been about a good deal all this
+vacation, and my ideas are confirmed. The country towns and villages
+are full of young hoodlums and toughs, and all sorts of wickedness.
+They could be improved by sending city boys up there--yes, and girls of
+tender age. I don't mean the worst ones, not altogether. The young of a
+certain low class growing up in the country are even worse than the same
+class in the city, and they lack a civility of manner which is pretty
+sure to exist in a city-bred person.”
+
+“If the country is so bad, why send any more unregenerates into it?”
+
+“How do you know that anybody is always to be unregenerate? But I
+wouldn't send thieves and imbeciles. I would select children of some
+capacity, whose circumstances are against them where they are, and I
+am sure they would make better material than a good deal of the young
+generation in country villages now. This is what I mean by a mission for
+the country. We have been bending all our efforts to the reformation of
+the cities. What we need to go at now is the reforming of the country.”
+
+“You have taken a big contract,” said Philip, smiling at her enthusiasm.
+“Don't you intend to go on with medicine?”
+
+“Certainly. At least far enough to be of some use in breaking up
+people's ignorance about their own bodies. Half the physical as well as
+moral misery comes from ignorance. Didn't I always tell you that I want
+to know? A good many of my associates pretend to be agnostics, neither
+believe or disbelieve in anything. The further I go the more I am
+convinced that there is a positive basis for things. They talk about the
+religion of humanity. I tell you, Philip, that humanity is pretty poor
+stuff to build a religion on.”
+
+The talk was wandering far away from what was in Philip's mind, and
+presently Celia perceived his want of interest.
+
+“There, that is enough about myself. I want to know all about you, your
+visit to Rivervale, how the publishing house suits you, how the story is
+growing.”
+
+And Philip talked about himself, and the rumors in Wall Street, and Mr.
+Ault and his offer, and at last about the Mavicks--he could not help
+that--until he felt that Celia was what she had always been to him, and
+when he went away he held her hand and said what a dear, sweet friend
+she was.
+
+And when he had gone, Celia sat a long time by the window, not seeing
+much of the hot street into which she looked, until there were tears in
+her eyes.
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+There was one man in New York who thoroughly enjoyed the summer. Murad
+Ault was, as we say of a man who is free to indulge his natural powers,
+in his element. There are ingenious people who think that if the
+ordering of nature had been left to them, they could maintain moral
+conditions, or at least restore a disturbed equilibrium, without
+violence, without calling in the aid of cyclones and of uncontrollable
+electric displays, in order to clear the air. There are people also
+who hold that the moral atmosphere of the world does not require the
+occasional intervention of Murad Ault.
+
+The conceit is flattering to human nature, but it is not borne out by
+the performance of human nature in what is called the business world,
+which is in such intimate alliance with the social world in such
+great centres of conflict as London, New York, or Chicago. Mr. Ault is
+everywhere an integral and necessary part of the prevailing system--that
+is, the system by which the moral law is applied to business. The
+system, perhaps, cannot be defended, but it cannot be explained without
+Mr. Ault. We may argue that such a man is a disturber of trade, of
+legitimate operations, of the fairest speculations, but when we see
+how uniform he is as a phenomenon, we begin to be convinced that he is
+somehow indispensable to the system itself. We cannot exactly understand
+why a cyclone should pick up a peaceful village in Nebraska and deposit
+it in Kansas, where there, is already enough of that sort, but we cannot
+conceive of Wall Street continuing to be Wall Street unless it were now
+and then visited by a powerful adjuster like Mr. Ault.
+
+The advent, then, of Murad Ault in New York was not a novelty, but a
+continuation of like phenomena in the Street, ever since the day when
+ingenious men discovered that the ability to guess correctly which of
+two sparrows, sold for a farthing, lighting on the spire of Trinity
+Church, will fly first, is an element in a successful and distinguished
+career. There was nothing peculiar in kind in his career, only in the
+force exhibited which lifted him among the few whose destructive energy
+the world condones and admires as Napoleonic. He may have been an
+instrument of Providence. When we do not know exactly what to do with
+an exceptional man who is disagreeable, we call him an Instrument of
+Providence.
+
+It is not, then, in anything exceptional that we are interested in
+the operations of Murad Ault, but simply on account of his fortuitous
+connection with a great fortune which had its origin in very much the
+same cyclonic conditions that Mr. Ault reveled in. Those who know Wall
+Street best, by reason of sad experience, say that the presiding deity
+there is not the Chinese god, Luck, but the awful pagan deity, Nemesis.
+Alas! how many innocent persons suffer in order to get justice done in
+this world.
+
+Those who have unimpaired memories may recollect the fortune amassed,
+many years previous to this history, by one Rodney Henderson, gathered
+and enlarged by means not indictable, but which illustrate the wide
+divergence between the criminal code and the moral law. This fortune,
+upon the sudden death of its creator, had been largely diverted from
+its charitable destination by fraud, by a crime that would have fallen
+within the code if it had been known. This fortune had been enjoyed by
+those who seized it for many years of great social success, rising into
+acknowledged respectability and distinction; and had become the basis of
+the chance of social elevation, which is dear to the hearts of so many
+excellent people, who are compelled to wander about in a chaotic society
+that has no hereditary titles. It was this fortune, the stake in such an
+ambition, or perhaps destined in a new possessor to a nobler one, that
+came in the way of Mr. Ault's extensive schemes.
+
+It is not necessary to infer that Mr. Ault was originally actuated by
+any greed as to this special accumulation of property, or that he had
+any malevolence towards Mr. Mavick; but the eagerness of his personal
+pursuit led him into collisions. There were certain possessions of Mr.
+Mavick that were desirable for the rounding-out of his plans--these
+graspings were many of them understood by the public as necessary to the
+“development of a system”--and in this collision of interests and fierce
+strength a vindictive feeling was engendered, a feeling born, as has
+been hinted, by Mr. Mavick's attempt to trick his temporary ally in a
+certain operation, so that Mr. Ault's main purpose was to “down Mavick.”
+ This was no doubt an exaggeration concerning a man with so many domestic
+virtues as Mr. Ault, meaning by domestic virtues indulgence of his
+family; but a fight for place or property in politics or in the Street
+is pretty certain to take on a personal character.
+
+We can understand now why Mr. Ault read the accounts of the Mavick ball
+with a grim smile. In speaking of it he used the vulgar term “splurge,”
+ a word especially offensive to the refined society in which the Mavicks
+had gained a foothold. And yet the word was on the lips of a great many
+men on the Street. The shifting application of sympathy is a very queer
+thing in this world. Mr. Ault was not a snob. Whatever else he was, he
+made few pretensions. In his first advent he had been resisted as an
+intruder and shunned as a vulgarian; but in time respect for his force
+and luck mingled with fear of his reckless talent, and in the course of
+events it began to be admitted that the rough diamond was being polished
+into one of the corner-stones of the great business edifice. At the time
+of this writing he did not altogether lack the sympathy of the Street,
+and an increasing number of people were not sorry to see Mr. Mavick get
+the worst of it in repeated trials of strength. And in each of these
+trials it became increasingly difficult for Mr. Mavick to obtain the
+assistance and the credit which are often indispensable to the strongest
+men in a panic.
+
+The truth was that there were many men in the Street who were not sorry
+to see Mr. Mavick worried. They remembered perfectly well the omniscient
+snobbishness of Thomas Mavick when he held a position in the State
+Department at Washington and was at the same time a secret agent of
+Rodney Henderson. They did not change their opinion of him when, by his
+alliance with Mrs. Henderson, he stepped into control of Mr. Henderson's
+property and obtained the mission to Rome; but later on he had been
+accepted as one of the powers in the financial world. There were a few
+of the old stagers who never trusted him. Uncle Jerry Hollowell, for
+instance, used to say, “Mavick is smart, smart as lightnin'; I guess
+he'll make ducks and drakes of the Henderson property.” They are very
+superficial observers of Wall Street who think that character does not
+tell there. Mr. Mavick may have realized that when in his straits he
+looked around for assistance.
+
+The history of this panic summer in New York would not be worthy the
+reader's attention were not the fortunes of some of his acquaintances
+involved in it. It was not more intense than the usual panics, but it
+lasted longer on account of the complications with uncertain government
+policy, and it produced stagnation in social as well as business
+circles. So quiet a place as Rivervale felt it in the diminution of city
+visitors, and the great resorts showed it in increased civility to the
+small number of guests.
+
+The summer at Newport, which had not been distinguished by many great
+events, was drawing to a close--that is, it was in the period when those
+who really loved the charming promenade which is so loved of the sea
+began to enjoy themselves, and those who indulge in the pleasures of
+hope, based upon a comfortable matrimonial establishment, are reckoning
+up the results of the campaign.
+
+Mrs. Mavick, according to her own assertion, was one of those who enjoy
+nature. “Nature and a few friends, not too many, only those whom one
+trusts and who are companionable,” she had said to Lord Montague.
+
+This young gentleman had found the pursuit of courtship in America
+attended by a good many incidental social luxuries. It had been a wise
+policy to impress him with the charm of a society which has unlimited
+millions to make it attractive. Even to an impecunious noble there is
+a charm in this, although the society itself has some of the lingering
+conditions of its money origin. But since the great display of the
+ball, and the legitimate inferences drawn from it by the press and the
+fashionable world, Mrs. Mavick had endeavored to surround her intended
+son-in-law with the toils of domestic peace.
+
+He must be made to feel at home. And this she did. Mrs. Mavick was as
+admirable in the role of a domestic woman as of a woman of the world.
+The simple pleasures, the confidences, the intimacies of home life
+surrounded him. His own mother, the aged duchess, could not have looked
+upon him with more affection, and possibly not have pampered him with
+so many luxuries. There was only one thing wanting to make this home
+complete. In conventional Europe the contracting parties are not the
+signers of the marriage contract. In the United States the parties most
+interested take the initiative in making the contract.
+
+Here lay the difficulty of the situation, a situation that puzzled Lord
+Montague and enraged Mrs. Mavick. Evelyn maintained as much indifference
+to the domestic as to the worldly situation. Her mother thought her
+lifeless and insensible; she even went so far as to call her unwomanly
+in her indifference to what any other woman would regard as an
+opportunity for a brilliant career.
+
+Lifeless indeed she was, poor child; physically languid and scarcely
+able to drag herself through the daily demands upon her strength.
+Her mother made it a reproach that she was so pale and unresponsive.
+Apparently she did not resist, she did everything she was told to do.
+She passed, indeed, hours with Lord Montague, occasions contrived when
+she was left alone in the house with him, and she made heroic efforts to
+be interested, to find something in his mind that was in sympathy with
+her own thoughts. With a woman's ready instinct she avoided committing
+herself to his renewed proposals, sometimes covert, sometimes direct,
+but the struggle tired her. At the end of all such interviews she had
+to meet her mother, who, with a smile of hope and encouragement, always
+said, “Well, I suppose you and Lord Montague have made it up,” and then
+to encounter the contempt expressed for her as a “goose.”
+
+She was helpless in such toils. At times she felt actually abandoned of
+any human aid, and in moods of despondency almost resolved to give up
+the struggle. In the eyes of the world it was a good match, it would
+make her mother happy, no doubt her father also; and was it not her duty
+to put aside her repugnance, and go with the current of the social and
+family forces that seemed irresistible?
+
+Few people can resist doing what is universally expected of them. This
+invisible pressure is more difficult to stand against than individual
+tyranny. There are no tragedies in our modern life so pathetic as the
+ossification of women's hearts when love is crushed under the compulsion
+of social and caste requirements. Everybody expected that Evelyn would
+accept Lord Montague. It could be said that for her own reputation the
+situation required this consummation of the intimacy of the season. And
+the mother did not hesitate to put this interpretation upon the events
+which were her own creation.
+
+But with such a character as Evelyn, who was a constant puzzle to her
+mother, this argument had very little weight compared with her own
+sense of duty to her parents. Her somewhat ideal education made worldly
+advantages of little force in her mind, and love the one priceless
+possession of a woman's heart which could not be bartered. And yet might
+there not be an element of selfishness in this--might not its sacrifice
+be a family duty? Mrs. Mavick having found this weak spot in her
+daughter's armor, played upon it with all her sweet persuasive skill and
+show of tenderness.
+
+“Of course, dear,” she said, “you know what would make me happy. But
+I do not want you to yield to my selfishness or even to your father's
+ambition to see his only child in an exalted position in life. I can
+bear the disappointment. I have had to bear many. But it is your own
+happiness I am thinking of. And I think also of the cruel blow your
+refusal will inflict upon a man whose heart is bound up in you.”
+
+“But I don't love him.” The girl was very pale, and she spoke with an
+air of weariness, but still with a sort of dogged persistence.
+
+“You will in time. A young girl never knows her own heart, any more than
+she knows the world.”
+
+“Mother, that isn't all. It would be a sin to him to pretend to give him
+a heart that was not his. I can't; I can't.”
+
+“My dear child, that is his affair. He is willing to trust you, and to
+win your love. When we act from a sense of duty the way is apt to open
+to us. I have never told you of my own earlier experience. I was not
+so young as you are when I married Mr. Henderson, but I had not been
+without the fancies and experiences of a young girl. I might have
+yielded to one of them but for family reasons. My father had lost his
+fortune and had died, disappointed and broken down. My mother, a lovely
+woman, was not strong, was not capable of fighting the world alone,
+and she depended upon me, for in those days I had plenty of courage and
+spirit. Mr. Henderson was a widower whom we had known as a friend before
+the death of his accomplished wife. In his lonesomeness he turned to me.
+In our friendlessness I turned to him. Did I love him? I esteemed him,
+I respected him, I trusted him, that was all. He did not ask more than
+that. And what a happy life we had! I shared in all his great plans. And
+when in the midst of his career, with such large ideas of public service
+and philanthropy, he was stricken down, he left to me, in the confidence
+of his love, all that fortune which is some day to be yours.” Mrs.
+Mavick put her handkerchief to her eyes. “Ah, well, our destiny is not
+in our hands. Heaven raised up for me another protector, another friend.
+Perhaps some of my youthful illusions have vanished, but should I have
+been happier if I had indulged them? I know your dear father does not
+think so.”
+
+“Mother,” cried Evelyn, deeply moved by this unprecedented confidence,
+“I cannot bear to see you suffer on my account. But must not every one
+decide for herself what is right before God?”
+
+At this inopportune appeal to a higher power Mrs. Mavick had some
+difficulty in restraining her surprise and indignation at what she
+considered her child's stubbornness. But she conquered the inclination,
+and simply looked sad and appealing when she said:
+
+“Yes, yes, you must decide for yourself. You must not consider your
+mother as I did mine.”
+
+This cruel remark cut the girl to the heart. The world seemed to whirl
+around her, right and wrong and duty in a confused maze. Was she, then,
+such a monster of ingratitude? She half rose to throw herself at her
+mother's feet, upon her mother's mercy. And at the moment it was not
+her reason but her heart that saved her. In the moral confusion rose the
+image of Philip. Suppose she should gain the whole world and lose
+him! And it was love, simple, trusting love, that put courage into her
+sinking heart.
+
+“Mother, it is very hard. I love you; I could die for you. I am so
+forlorn. But I cannot, I dare not, do such a thing, such a dreadful
+thing!”
+
+She spoke brokenly, excitedly, she shuddered as she said the last words,
+and her eyes were full of tears as she bent down and kissed her mother.
+
+When she had gone, Mrs. Mavick sat long in her chair, motionless between
+bewilderment and rage. In her heart she was saying, “The obstinate,
+foolish girl must be brought to reason!”
+
+A servant entered with a telegram. Mrs. Mavick took it, and held it
+listlessly while the servant waited. “You can sign.” After the door
+closed--she was still thinking of Evelyn--she waited a moment before she
+tore the envelope, and with no eagerness unfolded the official yellow
+paper. And then she read:
+
+     “I have made an assignment. T. M.”
+
+A half-hour afterwards when a maid entered the room she found Mrs.
+Mavick still seated in the armchair, her hands powerless at her side,
+her eyes staring into space, her face haggard and old.
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+The action of Thomas Mavick in giving up the fight was as unexpected
+in New York as it was in Newport. It was a shock even to those familiar
+with the Street. It was known that he was in trouble, but he had been in
+trouble before. It was known that there had been sacrifices, efforts at
+extension, efforts at compromise, but the general public fancied that
+the Mavick fortune had a core too solid to be washed away by any storm.
+Only a very few people knew--such old hands as Uncle Jerry Hollowell,
+and such inquisitive bandits as Murad Ault--that the house of Mavick
+was a house of cards, and that it might go down when the belief was
+destroyed that it was of granite.
+
+The failure was not an ordinary sensation, and, according to the
+excellent practices and differing humors of the daily newspapers, it was
+made the most of, until the time came for the heavy weeklies to handle
+it in its moral aspects as an illustration of modern civilization.
+On the first morning there was substantial unanimity in assuming the
+totality of the disaster, and the most ingenious artists in headlines
+vied with each other in startling effects: “Crash in Wall Street.”
+ “Mavick Runs Up the White Flag.” “King of Wall Street Called Down.”
+ “Ault Takes the Pot.” “Dangerous to Dukes.” “Mavick Bankrupt.” “The
+House of Mavick a Ruin.” “Dukes and Drakes.” “The Sea Goes Over Him.”
+
+This, however, was only the beginning. The sensation must be prolonged.
+The next day there were attenuating circumstances.
+
+It might be only a temporary embarrassment. The assets were vastly
+greater than the liabilities. There was talk in financial circles of an
+adjustment. With time the house could go on. The next day it was made
+a reproach to the house that such deceptive hopes were put upon the
+public. Journalistic enterprise had discovered that the extent of the
+liabilities had been concealed. This attempt to deceive the public,
+these defenders of the public interest would expose. The next day
+the wind blew from another direction. The alarmists were rebuked. The
+creditors were disposed to be lenient. Doubtful securities were likely
+to realize more than was expected. The assignees were sharply scored for
+not taking the newspapers into their confidence.
+
+And so for ten days the failure went on in the newspapers, backward and
+forward, now hopeless, now relieved, now sunk in endless complications,
+and fallen into the hands of the lawyers who could be trusted with the
+most equitable distribution of the property involved, until the reading
+public were glad to turn, with the same eager zest, to the case of the
+actress who was found dead in a hotel in Jersey City. She was attended
+only by her pet poodle, in whose collar was embedded a jewel of great
+price. This jewel was traced to a New York establishment, whence it had
+disappeared under circumstances that pointed to the criminality of a
+scion of a well-known family--an exposure which would shake society to
+its foundations.
+
+Meantime affairs took their usual course. The downfall of Mavick is too
+well known in the Street to need explanation here. For a time it was
+hoped that sacrifices of great interests would leave a modest little
+fortune, but under the pressure of liquidation these hopes melted away.
+If anything could be saved it would be only comparatively valueless
+securities and embarrassed bits of property that usually are only
+a delusion and a source of infinite worry to a bankrupt. It seemed
+incredible that such a vast fortune should so disappear; but there were
+wise men who, so they declared, had always predicted this disaster. For
+some years after Henderson's death the fortune had appeared to expand
+marvelously. It was, however, expanded, and not solidified. It had been
+risked in many gigantic speculations (such as the Argentine), and it had
+been liable to collapse at any time if its central credit was doubted.
+Mavick's combinations were splendidly conceived, but he lacked the power
+of coordination. And great as were his admitted abilities, he had never
+inspired confidence.
+
+“And, besides,” said Uncle Jerry, philosophizing about it in his homely
+way, “there's that little devil of a Carmen, the most fascinating woman
+I ever knew--it would take the Bank of England to run her. Why, when
+I see that Golden House going up, I said I'd give 'em five years to
+balloon in it. I was mistaken. They've floated it about eighteen. Some
+folks are lucky--up to a certain point.”
+
+Grave history gives but a paragraph to a personal celebrity of this
+sort. When a ship goes down in a tempest off the New England coast,
+there is a brief period of public shock and sympathy, and then the world
+passes on to other accidents and pleasures; but for months relics of the
+great vessel float ashore on lonely headlands or are cast up on sandy
+beaches, and for years, in many a home made forlorn by the shipwreck,
+are aching hearts and an ever-present calamity.
+
+The disaster of the house of Mavick was not accepted without a struggle,
+lasting long after the public interest in the spectacle had abated--a
+struggle to save the ship and then to pick up some debris from the
+great wreck. The most pathetic sight in the business world is that of a
+bankrupt, old and broken, pursuing with always deluded expectations the
+remnants of his fortune, striving to make new combinations, involved in
+lawsuits, alternately despairing, alternately hopeful in the chaos of
+his affairs. This was the fate of Thomas Mavick.
+
+The news was all over Newport in a few hours after it had stricken down
+Mrs. Mavick. The newspaper details the morning after were read with that
+eager interest that the misfortunes of neighbors always excite. After
+her first stupor, Mrs. Mavick refused to believe it. It could not be,
+and her spirit of resistance rose with the frantic messages she sent to
+her husband. Alas, the cold fact of the assignment remained. Still
+her courage was not quite beaten down. The suspension could only be
+temporary. She would not have it otherwise. Two days she showed herself
+as usual in Newport, and carried herself bravely. The sympathy looked or
+expressed was wormwood to her, but she met it with a reassuring smile.
+To be sure it was very hard to bear such a blow, the result of a
+stock intrigue, but it would soon pass over--it was a temporary
+embarrassment--that she said everywhere.
+
+She had not, however, told the news to Evelyn with any such smiling
+confidence. There was still rage in her heart against her daughter, as
+if her obstinacy had some connection with this blow of fate, and she
+did not soften the announcement. She expected to sting her, and she did
+astonish and she did grieve her, for the breaking-up of her world could
+not do otherwise; but it was for her mother and not for herself that
+Evelyn showed emotion. If their fortune was gone, then the obstacle
+was removed that separated her from Philip. The world well lost! This
+flashed through her mind before she had fairly grasped the extent of the
+fatality, and it blunted her appreciation of it as an unmixed ruin.
+
+“Poor mamma!” was what she said.
+
+“Poor me!” cried Mrs. Mavick, looking with amazement at her daughter,
+“don't you understand that our life is all ruined?”
+
+“Yes, that part of it, but we are left. It might have been so much
+worse.”
+
+“Worse? You have no more feeling than a chip. You are a beggar! That is
+all. What do you mean by worse?”
+
+“If father had done anything dishonorable!” suggested the girl, timidly,
+a little scared by her mother's outburst.
+
+“Evelyn, you are a fool!”
+
+And perhaps she was, with such preposterous notions of what is really
+valuable in life. There could be no doubt of it from Mrs. Mavick's point
+of view.
+
+If Evelyn's conduct exasperated her, the non-appearance of Lord Montague
+after the publication of the news seriously alarmed her. No doubt he was
+shocked, but she could explain it to him, and perhaps he was too much
+interested in Evelyn to be thrown off by this misfortune. The third day
+she wrote him a note, a familiar, almost affectionate note, chiding him
+for deserting them in their trouble. She assured him that the news was
+greatly exaggerated, the embarrassment was only temporary, such things
+were always happening in the Street. “You know,” she said, playfully,
+“it is our American way to be up in a minute when we seem to be down.”
+ She asked him to call, for she had something that was important to tell
+him, and, besides, she needed his counsel as a friend of the house. The
+note was despatched by a messenger.
+
+In an hour it was returned, unopened, with a verbal message from his
+host, saying that Lord Montague had received important news from London,
+and that he had left town the day before.
+
+“Coward!” muttered the enraged woman, with closed teeth. “Men are all
+cowards, put them to the test.”
+
+The energetic woman judged from a too narrow basis. Because Mavick was
+weak--and she had always secretly despised him for yielding to her--weak
+as compared with her own indomitable spirit, she generalized wildly. Her
+opinion of men would have been modified if she had come in contact with
+Murad Ault.
+
+To one man in New York besides Mr. Ault the failure did not seem a
+personal calamity. When Philip saw in the steamer departures the name of
+Lord Montague, his spirits rose in spite of the thought that the heiress
+was no longer an heiress. The sky lifted, there was a promise of fair
+weather, the storm, for him, had indeed cleared the air.
+
+“Dear Philip,” wrote Miss McDonald, “it is really dreadful news, but I
+cannot be so very downhearted. It is the least of calamities that could
+happen to my dear child. Didn't I tell you that it is always darkest
+just before the dawn?”
+
+And Philip needed the hope of the dawn. Trial is good for any one, but
+hopeless suffering for none. Philip had not been without hope, but it
+was a visionary indulgence, against all evidence. It was the hope of
+youth, not of reason. He stuck to his business doggedly, he stuck to his
+writing doggedly, but over all his mind was a cloud, an oppression not
+favorable to creative effort--that is, creative effort sweet and not
+cynical, sunny and not morbid.
+
+And yet, who shall say that this very experience, this oppression of
+circumstance, was not the thing needed for the development of the best
+that was in him? Thrown back upon himself and denied an airy soaring in
+the heights of a prosperous fancy, he had come to know himself and his
+limitations. And in the year he had learned a great deal about his art.
+For one thing he had come to the ground. He was looking more at life
+as it is. His experience at the publishers had taught him one important
+truth, and that is that a big subject does not make a big writer, that
+all that any mind can contribute to the general thought of the world in
+literature is what is in itself, and if there is nothing in himself it
+is vain for the writer to go far afield for a theme. He had seen the
+young artists, fretting for want of subjects, wandering the world over
+in search of an object fitted to their genius, setting up their easels
+in front of the marvels of nature and of art, in the expectation that
+genius would descend upon them.
+
+If they could find something big enough to paint! And he had seen,
+in exhibition after exhibition, that the artist who cannot paint a
+rail-fence cannot paint a pyramid. A man does not become a good rider by
+mounting an elephant; ten to one a donkey would suit him better. Philip
+had begun to see that the life around him had elements enough of the
+comic and the tragic to give full play to all his powers.
+
+He began to observe human beings as he had never done before. There
+were only two questions, and they are at the bottom of all creative
+literature--could he see them, could he make others see them?
+
+This was all as true before the Mavick failure as after; but, before,
+what was the use of effort? Now there was every inducement to effort.
+Ambition to succeed had taken on him the hold of necessity. And with a
+free mind as to the obstacles that lay between him and the realization
+of the great dream of his life, the winning of the one woman who could
+make his life complete, Philip set to work with an earnestness and a
+clearness of vision that had never been given him before.
+
+In the wreck of the Mavick estate, in its distribution, there are one or
+two things of interest to the general reader. One of these was the fate
+of the Golden House, as it was called. Mrs. Mavick had hurried back to
+her town house, determined to save it at all hazard. The impossibility
+of this was, however, soon apparent even to her intrepid spirit. She
+would either sacrifice all else to save it, or--dark thoughts of ending
+it in a conflagration entered her mind. This was only her first temper.
+But to keep the house without a vast fortune to sustain it was an
+impossibility, and, as it was the most conspicuous of Mavick's visible
+possessions, perhaps the surrender of it, which she could not prevent,
+would save certain odds and ends here and there. Whether she liked it or
+not, the woman learned for once that her will had little to do with the
+course of events.
+
+Its destination was gall and wormwood both to Carmen and her husband.
+For it fell into the hands of Murad Ault. He coveted it as the most
+striking symbol of the position he had conquered in the metropolis. Its
+semi-barbaric splendor appealed also to his passion for display. And it
+was notable that the taste of the rude lad of poverty--this uncultivated
+offspring of a wandering gypsy and herb--collector--perhaps she had
+ancient and noble blood in her veins--should be the same for material
+ostentation and luxury as that of the cultivated, fastidious Mavick and
+his worldly-minded wife. So persistent is the instinct of barbarism in
+our modern civilization.
+
+When Ault told his wife what he had done, that sweet, domestic, and
+sensible woman was very far from being elated.
+
+“I am almost sorry,” she said.
+
+“Sorry for what?” asked Mr. Ault, gently, but greatly surprised.
+
+“For the Mavicks. I don't mean for Mrs. Mavick--I hear she is a worldly
+and revengeful woman--but for the girl. It must be dreadful to turn her
+out of all the surroundings of her happy life. And I hear she is as good
+as she is lovely. Think what it would be for our own girls.”
+
+“But it can't be helped,” said Ault, persuasively. “The house had to
+be sold, and it makes no difference who has it, so far as the girl is
+concerned.”
+
+“And don't you fear a little for our own girls, launching out that way?”
+
+“You are afraid they will get lost in that big house?” And Mr. Ault
+laughed. “It isn't a bit too big or too good for them. At any rate,
+my dear, in they go, and you must get ready to move. The house will be
+empty in a week.”
+
+“Murad,” and Mrs. Ault spoke as if she were not thinking of the change
+for herself, “there is one thing I wish you would do for me, dear.”
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“Go to Mr. Mavick, or to Mrs. Mavick, or the assignees or whoever, and
+have the daughter--yes, and her mother--free to take away anything they
+want, anything dear to them by long association. Will you?”
+
+“I don't see how. Mavick wouldn't do it for us, and I guess he is too
+proud to accept anything from me. I don't owe him anything. And then
+the property is in the assignment. Whatever is there I bought with the
+house.”
+
+“I should be so much happier if you could do something about it.”
+
+“Well, it don't matter much. I guess the assignees can make Mrs. Mavick
+believe easy enough that certain things belong to her. But I would not
+do it for any other living being but you.”
+
+“By-the-way,” he added, “there is another bit of property that I didn't
+take, the Newport palace.”
+
+“I should have dreaded that more than the other.”
+
+“So I thought. And I have another plan. It's long been in my mind, and
+we will carry it out next summer. There is a little plateau on the side
+of the East Mountain in Rivervale, where there used to stand a shack of
+a cabin, with a wild sort of garden-patch about it, a tumble-down root
+fence, all in the midst of brush and briers. Lord, what a habitation it
+was! But such a view--rivers, mountains, meadows, and orchards in the
+distance! That is where I lived with my mother. What a life! I hated
+everything, everybody but her.”
+
+Mr. Ault paused, his strong, dark face working with passion, as the
+memory of his outlawed boyhood revived. Is it possible that this pirate
+of the Street had a bit of sentiment at the bottom of his heart? After a
+moment he continued:
+
+“That was the spot to which my mother took me when I was knee-high. I've
+bought it, bought the whole hillside. Next summer we will put up a
+house there, not a very big house, just a long, low sort of a Moorish
+pavilion, the architect calls it. I wish she could see it.”
+
+Mrs. Ault rose, with tears in her gentle eyes, stood by her husband's
+chair a moment, ran her fingers through his heavy black locks, bent down
+and kissed him, and went away without a word.
+
+There was another bit of property that was not included in the wreck.
+It belonged to Mrs. Mavick. This was a little house in Irving Place,
+in which Carmen Eschelle lived with her mother, in the days before the
+death of Henderson's first wife, not very happy days for that wife.
+Carmen had a fancy for keeping it after her marriage. Not from any
+sentiment, she told Mr. Mavick on the occasion of her second marriage,
+oh, no, but somehow it seemed to her, in all her vast possessions left
+to her by Henderson, the only real estate she had. It was the only thing
+that had not passed into the absolute possession and control of Mavick.
+The great town house, with all the rest, stood in Mavick's name. What
+secret influence had he over her that made her submit to such a foolish
+surrender?
+
+It was in this little house that the reduced family stowed itself after
+the downfall. The little house, had it been sentient, would have been
+astonished at the entrance into it of the furniture and the remnants
+of luxurious living that Mrs. Mavick was persuaded belonged to her
+personally. These reminders of former days were, after all, a mockery
+in the narrow quarters and the pinched economy of the bankrupt. Yet
+they were, for a time useful in preserving to Mrs. Mavick a measure of
+self-respect, her self-respect having always been based upon what she
+had and not what she was. In truth, the change of lot was harder for
+Mrs. Mavick than for Evelyn, since the world in which the latter lived
+had not been destroyed. She still had her books, she still had a great
+love in her heart, and hope, almost now a sure hope, that her love would
+blossom into a great happiness.
+
+But where was Philip? In all this time why did he make no sign? At
+moments a great fear came over her. She was so ignorant of life. Could
+he know what misery she was in, the daily witness of her father's broken
+condition, of her mother's uncertain temper?
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+Is justice done in this world only by a succession of injustices? Is
+there any law that a wrong must right a wrong? Did it rebuke the means
+by which the vast fortune of Henderson was accumulated, that it was
+defeated of any good use by the fraud of his wife? Was her action
+punished by the same unscrupulous tactics of the Street that originally
+made the fortune? And Ault? Would a stronger pirate arise in time to
+despoil him, and so act as the Nemesis of all violation of the law of
+honest relations between men?
+
+The comfort is, in all this struggle of the evil powers, masked as
+justice, that the Almighty Ruler of the world does not forget his own,
+and shows them a smiling face in the midst of disaster. There is no
+mystery in this. For the noble part in man cannot be touched in its
+integrity by such vulgar disasters as we are considering. In those days
+when Evelyn saw dissolving about her the material splendors of her old
+life, while the Golden House was being dismantled, and she was taking
+sad leave of the scenes of her girlhood, so vivid with memory of
+affection and of intellectual activity, they seemed only the shell, the
+casting-off of which gave her freedom. The sun never shone brighter,
+there was never such singing in her heart, as on the morning when she
+was free to go to Mrs. Van Cortlandt's and throw herself into the arms
+of her dear governess and talk of Philip.
+
+Why not? Perhaps she had not that kind of maidenly shyness, sometimes
+called conventional propriety, sometimes described as 'mauvaise honte'
+which a woman of the world would have shown. The impulses of her heart
+followed as direct lines as the reasoning of her brain. Was it due to
+her peculiar education, education only in the noblest ideas of the race,
+that she should be a sort of reversion, in our complicated life, to the
+type of woman in the old societies (we like to believe there was such a
+type as the poets love, the Nausicaas), who were single-minded, as frank
+to avow affection as opinion?
+
+“Have you seen him?” she asked.
+
+“No, but he has written.”
+
+“And you think he--” the girl had her arms around her friend's
+neck again, and concealed her blushing face, “don't make me say it,
+McDonald.”
+
+“Yes, dear, I am sure--I know he does.”
+
+There was a little quiver in her form, but it was not of agony; then
+she put her hands on the shoulders of her governess, and, looking in her
+eyes, said:
+
+“When you did see him, how did he look--how did he look?--pretty sad?”
+
+“How could he help it?”
+
+“The dear! But was he well?”
+
+“Splendidly, so he said. Like his old self.”
+
+“Tell me,” said the girl.
+
+And Miss McDonald went into delightful details, how he looked, how he
+walked, how his voice sounded, how he talked, how melancholy he was, and
+how full of determination he was, his eyes were so kindly, and his smile
+was never so sweet as now when there was sadness in it.
+
+“It is very long since,” drearily murmured the girl. And then she
+continued, partly to herself, partly to Miss McDonald: “He will come
+now, can't he? Not to that house. Never would I wish him to set foot
+in it. But he is not forbidden to come to the place where we are going.
+Soon, you think? Perhaps you might hint--oh no, not from me--just your
+idea. Wouldn't it be natural, after our misfortune? Perhaps mamma would
+feel differently after what has happened. Oh, that Montague! that horrid
+little man! I think--I think I shall receive him coolly at first, just
+to see.”
+
+But it was not immediately that the chance for a guileless woman to show
+her coolness to her lover was to occur. This postponement was not due to
+the coolness or to the good sense of Philip. When the catastrophe came,
+his first impulse was that of a fireman who plunges into a burning
+building to rescue the imperiled inmates. He pictured in his mind a
+certain nobility of action in going forward to the unfortunate family
+with his sympathy, and appearing to them in the heroic attitude of a
+man whose love has no alloy of self-interest. They should speedily
+understand that it was not the heiress, but the woman, with whom he was
+in love.
+
+But Miss McDonald understood human nature better than that, at least
+the nature of Mrs. Mavick. People of her temperament, humiliated and
+enraged, are best left alone. The fierceness with which she would have
+turned upon any of her society friends who should have presumed to offer
+her condolence, however sweetly the condescension were concealed, would
+have been vented without mercy upon the man whose presence would have
+reminded her of her foolish rudeness to him, and of the bitter failure
+of her schemes for her daughter. “Wait, wait,” said the good counselor,
+“until the turmoil has subsided, and the hard pressure of circumstances
+compels her to look at things in their natural relations. She is too
+sore now in--the wreck of all her hopes.”
+
+But, indeed, her hopes were not all surrendered in a moment. She had
+more spirit than her husband in their calamity. She was, in fact, a born
+gambler; she had the qualities of her temperament, and would not believe
+that courage and luck could not retrieve, at least partially, their
+fortune. It seemed incredible in the Street that the widow of Henderson
+should have given over her property so completely to her second husband,
+and it was a surprise to find that there was very little of value that
+the assignment of Mavick did not carry with it. The Street did not know
+the guilty secret between Mavick and his wife that made them cowards to
+each other. Nor did it understand that Carmen was the more venturesome
+gambler of the two, and that gradually, for the success of promising
+schemes, she had thrown one thing after another into the common
+speculation, until practically all the property stood in Mavick's
+name. Was she a fool in this, as so many women are about their separate
+property, or was she cheated?
+
+The palace on Fifth Avenue was not even in her name. When she realized
+that, there was a scene--but this is not a history of the quarrels of
+Carmen and her husband after the break-down.
+
+The reader would not be interested--the public of the time were not--in
+the adjustment of Mavick and his wife to their new conditions. The
+broken-down, defeated bankrupt is no novelty in Wall Street, the man
+struggling to keep his foothold in the business of the Street, and
+descending lower and lower in the scale. The shrewd curbstone broker
+may climb to a seat in the Stock Exchange; quite as often a lord of the
+Board, a commander of millions, may be reduced to the seedy watcher of
+the bulletin-board in a bucket-shop.
+
+At first, in the excitement and the confusion, amid the debris of
+so much possible wealth, Mavick kept a sort of position, and did not
+immediately feel the pinch of vulgar poverty. But the day came when all
+illusion vanished, and it was a question of providing from day to day
+for the small requirements of the house in Irving Place.
+
+It was not a cheerful household; reproaches are hard to bear when
+physical energy is wanting to resist them. Mavick had visibly aged
+during the year. It was only in his office that he maintained anything
+of the spruce appearance and 'sang froid' which had distinguished the
+diplomatist and the young adventurer. At home he had fallen into the
+slovenliness that marks a disappointed old age. Was Mrs. Mavick peevish
+and unreasonable? Very likely. And had she not reason to be? Was she,
+as a woman, any more likely to be reconciled to her fate when her mirror
+told her, with pitiless reflection, that she was an old woman?
+
+Philip waited. Under the circumstances would not both Philip and Evelyn
+have been justified in disregarding the prohibition that forbade their
+meeting or even writing to each other? It may be a nice question, but it
+did not seem so to these two, who did not juggle with their consciences.
+Philip had given his word. Evelyn would tolerate no concealments; she
+was just that simple-minded in her filial notions.
+
+The girl, however, had one comfort, and that was the knowledge of Philip
+through Miss McDonald, whom she saw frequently, and to whom even Mrs.
+Mavick was in a manner reconciled. She was often in the little house in
+Irving Place. There was nothing in her manner to remind Mrs. Mavick that
+she had done her a great wrong, and her cheerfulness and good sense made
+her presence and talk a relief from the monotony of the defeated woman's
+life.
+
+It came about, therefore, that one day Philip made his way down into
+the city to seek an interview with Mr. Mavick. He found him, after some
+inquiry, in a barren little office, occupying one of the rented desks
+with three or four habitues of the Street, one of them an old man like
+himself, the others mere lads who did not intend to remain long in such
+cramped quarters.
+
+Mr. Mavick arose when his visitor stood at his desk, buttoned up his
+frock-coat, and extended his hand with a show of business cordiality,
+and motioned him to a chair. Philip was greatly shocked at the change in
+Mr. Mavick's appearance.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for disturbing you in business hours.”
+
+“No disturbance,” he answered, with something of the old cynical smile
+on his lips.
+
+“Long ago I called to see you on the errand I have now, but you were not
+in town. It was, Mr. Mavick,” and Philip hesitated and looked down, “in
+regard to your daughter.”
+
+“Ah, I did not hear of it.”
+
+“No? Well, Mr. Mavick, I was pretty presumptuous, for I had no foothold
+in the city, except a law clerkship.”
+
+“I remember--Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle; why didn't you keep it?”
+
+“I wasn't fitted for the law.”
+
+“Oh, literature? Does literature pay?”
+
+“Not in itself, not for many,” and Philip forced a laugh. “But it led to
+a situation in a first-rate publishing house--an apprenticeship that
+has now given me a position that seems to be permanent, with prospects
+beyond, and a very fair salary. It would not seem much to you, Mr.
+Mavick,” and Philip tried to laugh again.
+
+“I don't know,” replied Mr. Mavick. “If a fellow has any sort of salary
+these times, I should advise him to hold on to it. By-the-way, Mr.
+Burnett, Hunt's a Republican, isn't he?”
+
+“He was,” replied Philip, “the last I knew.”
+
+“Do you happen to know whether he knows Bilbrick, the present
+Collector?”
+
+“Mr. Bilbrick used to be a client of his.”
+
+“Just so. I think I'll see Hunt. A salary isn't a bad thing for a--for a
+man who has retired pretty much from business. But you were saying, Mr.
+Burnett?”
+
+“I was going to say, Mr. Mavick, that there was a little something
+more than my salary that I can count on pretty regularly now from the
+magazines, and I have had another story, a novel, accepted, and--you
+won't think me vain--the publisher says it will go; if it doesn't have a
+big sale he will--”
+
+“Make it up to you?”
+
+“Not exactly,” and Philip laughed; “he will be greatly mistaken.”
+
+“I suppose it is a kind of lottery, like most things. The publishers
+have to take risks. The only harm I wish them is that they were
+compelled to read all the stuff they try to make us read. Ah, well. Mr.
+Burnett, I hope you have made a hit. It is pretty much the same thing
+in our business. The publisher bulls his own book and bears the other
+fellow's. Is it a New York story?”
+
+“Partly; things come to a focus here, you know.”
+
+“I could give you points. It's a devil of a place. I guess the novelists
+are too near to see the romance of it. When I was in Rome I amused
+myself by diving into the mediaeval records. Steel and poison were the
+weapons then. We have a different method now, but it comes to the
+same thing, and we say we are more civilized. I think our way is more
+devilishly dramatic than the old brute fashion. Yes, I could give you
+points.”
+
+“I should be greatly obliged,” said Philip, seeing the way to bring
+the conversation back to its starting point; “your wide experience of
+life--if you had leisure at home some time.”
+
+“Oh,” replied Mavick, with more good-humor in his laugh than he had
+shown before, “you needn't beat about the bush. Have you seen Evelyn?”
+
+“No, not since that dinner at the Van Cortlandts'.”
+
+“Huh! for myself, I should be pleased to see you any time, Mr. Burnett.
+Mrs. Mavick hasn't felt like seeing anybody lately. But I'll see, I'll
+see.”
+
+The two men rose and shook hands, as men shake hands when they have an
+understanding.
+
+“I'm glad you are doing well,” Mr. Mavick added; “your life is before
+you, mine is behind me; that makes a heap of difference.”
+
+Within a few days Philip received a note from Mrs. Mavick--not an
+effusive note, not an explanatory note, not an apologetic note, simply
+a note as if nothing unusual had happened--if Mr. Burnett had leisure,
+would he drop in at five o'clock in Irving Place for a cup of tea?
+
+Not one minute by his watch after the hour named, Philip rang the bell
+and was shown into a little parlor at the front. There was only
+one person in the room, a lady in exquisite toilet, who rose rather
+languidly to meet him, exactly as if the visitor were accustomed to drop
+in to tea at that hour.
+
+Philip hesitated a moment near the door, embarrassed by a mortifying
+recollection of his last interview with Mrs. Mavick, and in that moment
+he saw her face. Heavens, what a change! And yet it was a smiling face.
+
+There is a portrait of Carmen by a foreign artist, who was years ago
+the temporary fashion in New York, painted the year after her second
+marriage and her return from Rome, which excited much comment at the
+time. Philip had seen it in more than one portrait exhibition.
+
+Its technical excellence was considerable. The artist had evidently
+intended to represent a woman piquant and fascinating, if not strictly
+beautiful. Many persons said it was lovely. Other critics said that,
+whether the artist intended it or not, he had revealed the real
+character of the subject. There was something sinister in its beauty.
+One artist, who was out of fashion as an idealist, said, of course
+privately, that the more he looked at it the more hideous it became to
+him--like one of Blake's objective portraits of a “soul”--the naked
+soul of an evil woman showing through the mask of all her feminine
+fascinations--the possible hell, so he put it, under a woman's charm.
+
+It was this in the portrait that Philip saw in the face smiling a
+welcome--like an old, sweetly smiling Lalage--from which had passed away
+youth and the sustaining consciousness of wealth and of a place in the
+great world. The smile was no longer sweet, though the words from the
+lips were honeyed.
+
+“It is very good of you to drop in in this way, Mr. Burnett,” she said,
+as she gave him her hand. “It is very quiet down here.”
+
+“It is to me the pleasantest part of the city.”
+
+“You think so now. I thought so once,” and there was a note of sadness
+in her voice. “But it isn't New York. It is a place for the people who
+are left.”
+
+“But it has associations.”
+
+“Yes, I know. We pretend that it is more aristocratic. That means the
+rents are lower. It is a place for youth to begin and for age to end.
+We seem to go round in a circle. Mr. Mavick began in the service of the
+government, now he has entered it again--ah, you did not know?--a place
+in the Custom-House. He says it is easier to collect other people's
+revenues than your own. Do you know, Mr. Burnett, I do not see much
+use in collecting revenues anyway--so far as New York is concerned the
+people get little good of them. Look out there at that cloud of dust in
+the street.”
+
+Mrs. Mavick rambled on in the whimsical, cynical fashion of old ladies
+when they cease to have any active responsibility in life and become
+spectators of it. Their remaining enjoyment is the indulgence of frank
+speech.
+
+“But I thought,” Philip interrupted, “that this part of the town was
+specially New York.”
+
+“New York!” cried Carmen, with animation. “The New York of the
+newspapers, of the country imagination; the New York as it is known in
+Paris is in Wall Street and in the palaces up-town. Who are the kings of
+Wall Street, and who build the palaces up-town? They say that there are
+no Athenians in Athens, and no Romans in Rome. How many New-Yorkers
+are there in New York? Do New-Yorkers control the capital, rule
+the politics, build the palaces, direct the newspapers, furnish the
+entertainment, manufacture the literature, set the pace in society? Even
+the socialists and mobocrats are not native. Successive invaders, as in
+Rome, overrun and occupy the town.
+
+“No, Mr. Burnett, I have left the existing New York. How queer it is
+to think about it. My first husband was from New Hampshire. My second
+husband was from Illinois. And there is your Murad Ault. The Lord knows
+where he came from.
+
+“Talk about the barbarians occupying Rome! Look at that Ault in a
+palace! Who was that emperor--Caligula?--I am like the young lady from
+a finishing-school who said she never could remember which came first in
+history, Greece or Rome--who stabled his horses with stalls and mangers
+of gold? The Aults stable themselves that way. Ah, me! Let me give you a
+cup of tea. Even that is English.”
+
+“It's an innocent pastime,” she continued, as Philip stirred his tea,
+in perplexity as to how he should begin to say what he had to say--“you
+won't object if I light a cigarette? One ought to retain at least one
+bad habit to keep from spiritual pride. Tea is an excuse for this. I
+don't think it a bad habit, though some people say that civilization is
+only exchanging one bad habit for another. Everything changes.”
+
+“I don't think I have changed, Mrs. Mavick,” said Philip, with
+earnestness.
+
+“No? But you will. I have known lots of people who said they never would
+change. They all did. No, you need not protest. I believe in you now, or
+I should not be drinking tea with you. But you must be tired of an
+old woman's gossip. Evelyn has gone out for a walk; she didn't know. I
+expect her any minute. Ah, I think that is her ring. I will let her in.
+There is nothing so hateful as a surprise.”
+
+She turned and gave Philip her hand, and perhaps she was sincere--she
+had a habit of being so when it suited her interests--when she said,
+“There are no bygones, my friend.”
+
+Philip waited, his heart beating a hundred to the minute. He heard
+greetings and whisperings in the passage-way, and then--time seemed to
+stand still--the door opened and Evelyn stood on the threshold, radiant
+from her walk, her face flushed, the dainty little figure poised in
+timid expectation, in maidenly hesitation, and then she stepped forward
+to meet his advance, with welcome in her great eyes, and gave him her
+hand in the old-fashioned frankness.
+
+“I am so glad to see you.”
+
+Philip murmured something in reply and they were seated.
+
+That was all. It was so different from the meeting as Philip had a
+hundred times imagined it.
+
+“It has been very long,” said Philip, who was devouring the girl with
+his eyes, “very long to me.”
+
+“I thought you had been very busy,” she replied, demurely. Her composure
+was very irritating.
+
+“If you thought about it at all, Miss Mavick.”
+
+“That is not like you, Mr. Burnett,” Evelyn replied, looking up suddenly
+with troubled eyes.
+
+“I didn't mean that,” said Philip, moving uneasily in his chair, “I--so
+many things have happened. You know a person can be busy and not happy.”
+
+“I know that. I was not always happy,” said the girl, with the air
+of making a confession. “But I liked to hear from time to time of
+the success of my friends,” she added, ingenuously. And then, quite
+inconsequently, “I suppose you have news from Rivervale?”
+
+Yes, Philip heard often from Alice, and he told the news as well as he
+could, and the talk drifted along--how strange it seemed!--about things
+in which neither of them felt any interest at the moment. Was there no
+way to break the barrier that the little brown girl had thrown around
+herself? Were all women, then, alike in parrying and fencing? The talk
+went on, friendly enough at last, about a thousand things. It might have
+been any afternoon call on a dear friend. And at length Philip rose to
+go.
+
+“I hope I may see you again, soon.”
+
+“Of course,” said Evelyn, cheerfully. “I am sure father will be
+delighted to see you. He enjoys so little now.”
+
+He had taken both her hands to say good-by, and was looking hungrily
+into her eyes.
+
+“I can't go so. Evelyn, you know, you must know, I love you.”
+
+And before the girl comprehended him he had drawn her to him and pressed
+his lips upon hers.
+
+The girl started back as if stung, and looked at him with flashing eyes.
+
+“What have you done, what have you done to me?”
+
+Her eyes were clouded, and she put her hands to her face, trembling, and
+then with a cry, as of a soul born into the world, threw herself upon
+him, her arms around his neck--“Philip, Philip, my Philip!”
+
+
+
+XXVII
+
+Perhaps Philip's announcement of his good-fortune to Alice and to
+Celia was not very coherent, but his meaning was plain. Perhaps he
+was conscious that the tidings would not increase the cheerfulness of
+Celia's single-handed struggle for the ideal life; at least, he would
+rather write than tell her face to face.
+
+However he put the matter to her, with what protestations of
+affectionate friendship and trust he wrapped up the statement that he
+made as matter of fact as possible, he could not conceal the ecstatic
+state of his mind.
+
+Nothing like it certainly had happened to anybody in the world before.
+All the dream of his boyhood, romantic and rose-colored, all the
+aspirations of his manhood, for recognition, honor, a place in the life
+of his time, were mere illusions compared to this wonderful crown of
+life--a woman's love. Where did it come from into this miserable world,
+this heavenly ray, this pure gift out of the divine beneficence, this
+spotless flower in a humanity so astray, this sure prophecy of the final
+redemption of the world? The immeasurable love of a good woman! And to
+him! Philip felt humble in his exaltation, charitable in his selfish
+appropriation. He wanted to write to Celia--but he did not--that he
+loved her more than ever. But to Alice he could pour out his wealth of
+affection, quickened to all the world by this great love, for he knew
+that her happiness would be in his happiness.
+
+The response from Alice was what he expected, tender, sweet, domestic,
+and it was full of praise of Evelyn, of love for her. “Perhaps, dear
+Phil,” she wrote, “I shall love her more than I do you. I almost
+think--did I not remember what a bad boy you could be sometimes--that
+each one of you is too good for the other. But, Phil, if you should ever
+come to think that she is not too good for you, you will not be good
+enough for her. I can't think she is perfect, any more than you are
+perfect--you will find that she is just a woman--but there is nothing
+in all life so precious as such a heart as hers. You will come here,
+of course, and at once, whenever it is. You know that big, square,
+old-fashioned corner chamber, with the high-poster. That is yours.
+Evelyn never saw it. The morning and the evening sun shoot across it,
+and the front windows look on the great green crown of Mount Peak. You
+know it. There is not such a place in the world to hear the low and
+peaceful murmur of the river, all night long, rushing, tumbling,
+crooning, I used to think when I was a little girl and dreamed of things
+unseen, and still going on when the birds begin to sing in the dawn. And
+with Evelyn! Dear Phil!”
+
+It was in another strain, but not less full of real affection, that
+Celia wrote:
+
+“I am not going to congratulate you. You are long past the need of that.
+But you know that I am happy in having you happy. You thought I never
+saw anything? I wonder if men are as blind as they seem to be? And I
+had fears. Do you know a man ought to build his own monument. If he goes
+into a monument built for him, that is the end of him. Now you can work,
+and you will. I am so glad she isn't an heiress any more. I guess there
+was a curse on that fortune. But she has eluded it. I believe all you
+tell me about her. Perhaps there are more such women in the world than
+you think. Some day I shall know her, and soon. I do long to see her.
+Love her I feel sure I shall.
+
+“You ask about myself. I am the same, but things change. When I get
+my medical diploma I shall decide what to do. My little property just
+suffices, with economy, and I enjoy economy. I doubt if I do any general
+practice for pay. There are so many young doctors that need the money
+for practice more than I do. And perhaps taking it up as a living would
+make me sort of hard and perfunctory. And there is so much to do in this
+great New York among the unfortunate that a woman who knows medicine can
+do better than any one else.
+
+“Ah, me, I am happy in a way, or I expect to be. Everybody--it isn't
+because I am a woman I say this--needs something to lean on now and
+then. There isn't much to lean on in the college, nor in many of my
+zealous and ambitious companions there. There is more faith in the poor
+people down in the wards where I go. They are kind to each other, and
+most of them, not all, believe in something. They, have that, at
+any rate, in all their trials and poverty. Philip, don't despise the
+invisible. I have got into the habit of going into a Catholic church
+down there, when I am tired and discouraged, and getting the peace of
+it. It is a sort of open door! You need not jump to the conclusion that
+I am 'going over.' Maybe I am going back. I don't know. I have always
+you know, been looking for something.
+
+“I like to sit there in that dim quiet and think of things I can't think
+of elsewhere. Do you think I am queer? Philip, all women are queer. They
+haven't yet been explained. That is the reason why the novelists find
+it next to impossible, with all the materials at hand, to make a good
+woman--that is a woman. Do you know what it is to want what you don't
+want? Longing is one thing and reason another.
+
+“Perhaps I have depended too much on my reason. If you long to go to a
+place where you will have peace, why should you let what you call your
+reason stand in the way? Perhaps your reason is foolishness. You will
+laugh a little at this, and say that I am tired. No. Only I am not so
+sure of things as I used to be. Do you remember when we children used
+to sit under that tree by the Deerfield, how confident I was that I
+understood all about life, and my airs of superiority?
+
+“Well, I don't know as much now. But there is one thing that has
+survived and grown with the years, and that, Philip, is your dear
+friendship.”
+
+What was it in this unassuming, but no doubt sufficiently conceited and
+ambitious, young fellow that he should have the affection, the love, of
+three such women?
+
+Is affection as whimsically, as blindly distributed as wealth? It is the
+experience of life that it is rare to keep either to the end, but as a
+man is judged not so much by his ability to make money as to keep it, so
+it is fair to estimate his qualities by his power to retain friendship.
+New York is full of failures, bankrupts in fortune and bankrupts in
+affection, but this melancholy aspect of the town is on the surface, and
+is not to be considered in comparison with the great body of moderately
+contented, moderately successful, and on the whole happy households. In
+this it is a microcosm of the world.
+
+To Evelyn and Philip, judging the world a good deal by each other, in
+those months before their marriage, when surprising perfection and new
+tenderness were daily developed, the gay and busy city seemed a sort of
+paradise.
+
+Mysterious things were going on in the weeks immediately preceding the
+wedding. There was a conspiracy between Miss McDonald and Philip in
+the furnishing and setting in order a tiny apartment on the Heights,
+overlooking the city, the lordly Hudson, and its romantic hills. And
+when, after the ceremony, on a radiant afternoon in early June, the
+wedded lovers went to their new home, it was the housekeeper, the old
+governess, who opened the door and took into her arms the child she had
+loved and lost awhile.
+
+This fragment of history leaves Philip Burnett on the threshold of his
+career. Those who know him only by his books may have been interested
+in his experiences, in the merciful interposition of disaster, before he
+came into the great fortune of the love of Evelyn Mavick.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of That Fortune, by Charles Dudley Warner
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