had fallen out very much to his mind. He was the Landlord at Lion’s Head, at last, with the full right to do what he pleased with the place, and with half a year’s leisure before him to think it over. He did not mean to waste the time while he was abroad; if there was anything to be learned anywhere about keeping a summer hotel, he was going to learn it; and he thought the summer hotel could be advantageously studied in its winter phases in the mild climates of Southern Europe. He meant to strike for the class of Americans who resorted to those climates; to divine their characters and to please their tastes.
He unconsciously included Cynthia in his scheme of inquiry; he had been used so long to trust to her instincts and opinions, and to rely upon her help, and he realized that she was no longer in his life with something like the shock a man experiences when the loss of a limb, which continues a part of his inveterate consciousness, is brought to his sense by some mechanical attempt to use it. But even in this pang he did not regret that all was over between them. He knew now that he had never cared for her as he had once thought, and on her account, if not his own, he was glad their engagement was broken. A soft melancholy for his own disappointment imparted itself to his thoughts of Cynthia. He felt truly sorry for her, and he truly admired and respected her. He was in a very lenient mood toward every one, and he went so far in thought toward forgiving his enemies that he was willing at least to pardon all those whom he had injured. A little rustling in the underbrush across the clearing caught his quick ear, and he looked up to see Jombateeste parting the boughs of the young pines on its edge and advancing into the open with a gun on his shoulder. He called to him, cheerily: “Hello, John! Any luck?”
Jombateeste shook his head. “Nawthing.” He hesitated.
“What are you after?”
“Partridge,” Jombateeste ventured back.
Jeff could not resist the desire to scoff which always came upon him at sight of the Canuck. “Oh, pshaw! Why don’t you go for woodchucks? They fly low, and you can hit them on the wing, if you can’t sneak on ’em sitting.”
Jombateeste received his raillery in dignified silence, and turned back into the woods again. He left Durgin in heightened good-humor with himself and with the world, which had finally so well adapted itself to his desires and designs.
Jeff watched his resentful going with a grin, and then threw himself back on the thick bed of dry moss where he had been sitting, and watched the clouds drifting across the space of blue which the clearing opened overhead. His own action reminded him of Jackson, lying in the orchard and looking up at the sky. He felt strangely at one with him, and he experienced a tenderness for his memory which he had not known before. Jackson had been a good man; he realized that with a curious sense of novelty in the reflection; he wondered what the incentives and the objects of such men as Jackson and Westover were, anyway. Something like grief for his brother came upon him; not such grief as he had felt, passionately enough, though tacitly, for his mother, but a regret for not having shown Jackson during his life that he could appreciate his unselfishness, though he could not see the reason or the meaning of it. He said to himself, in their safe remoteness from each other, that he wished he could do something for Jackson. He wondered if in the course of time he should get to be something like him. He imagined trying.
He heard sounds again in the edge of the clearing, but he decided that it was that fool Jombateeste coming back; and when steps approached softly and hesitantly across the moss, he did not trouble himself to take his eyes from the clouds. He was only vexed to have his revery broken in upon.
A voice that was not Jombateeste’s spoke: “I say! Can you tell me the way to the Brooker Institute, or to the road down the mountain?”
Jeff sat suddenly bolt-upright; in another moment he jumped to his feet. The Brooker Institute was a branch of the Keeley Cure recently established near the Huddle, and this must be a patient who had wandered from it, on one of the excursions the inmates made with their guardians, and lost his way. This was the fact that Jeff realized at the first glance he gave the man. The next he recognized that the man was Alan Lynde.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, quite simply. He felt so cruelly the hardship of his one unforgiven enemy’s coming upon him just when he had resolved to be good that the tears came into his eyes. Then his rage seemed to swell up in him like the rise of a volcanic flood. “I’m going to kill you!” he, roared, and he launched himself upon Lynde, who stood dazed.
But the murder which Jeff meant was not to be so easily done. Lynde had not grown up in dissolute idleness without acquiring some of the arts of self-defence which are called manly. He met Jeff’s onset with remembered skill and with the strength which he had gained in three months of the wholesome regimen of the Brooker Institute. He had been sent there, not by Dr. Lacy’s judgment, but by his despair, and so far the Cure had cured. He felt strong and fresh, and the hate which filled Jeff at sight of him steeled his shaken nerves and reinforced his feebler muscles, too.
He made a desperate fight where he could not hope for mercy, and kept himself free of his powerful foe, whom he fought round and foiled, if he could not hurt him. Jeff never knew of the blows Lynde got in upon him; he had his own science, too, but he would not employ it. He wanted to crash through Lynde’s defence and lay hold of him and crush the life out of him.
The contest could not have lasted long at the best; but before Lynde was worn out he caught his heel in an old laurel root, and while he whirled to recover his footing Jeff closed in upon him, caught him by the middle, flung him down upon the moss, and was kneeling on his breast with both hands at his throat.
He glared down into his enemy’s face, and suddenly it looked pitifully little and weak, like a girl’s face, a child’s.
Sometimes, afterward, it seemed to him that he forbore because at that instant he saw Jombateeste appear at the edge of the clearing and come running upon them. At other times he had the fancy that his action was purely voluntary, and that, against the logic of his hate and habit of his life, he had mercy upon his enemy. He did not pride himself upon it; he rather humbled himself before the fact, which was accomplished through his will, and not by it, and remained a mystery he did not try to solve.
He took his hands from Lynde’s throat and his knees off his breast. “Get up,” he said; and when Lynde stood trembling on his feet he said to Jombateeste: “Show this man the way to the Brooker Institute. I’ll take your gun home for you,” and it was easy for him to detach the piece from the bewildered Canuck’s grasp. “Go! And if you stop, or even let him look back, I’ll shoot him. Quick!”
LI.
The day after Thanksgiving, when Westover was trying to feel well after the turkey and cranberry and cider which a lady had given him at a consciously old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner, but not making it out sufficiently to be able to work, he was astonished to receive a visit from Whitwell.
“Well, sir,” said the philosopher, without giving himself pause for the exchange of reflections upon his presence in Boston, which might have been agreeable to him on a less momentous occasion. “It’s all up with Lion’s Head.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Westover, with his mind upon the mountain, which he electrically figured in an incredible destruction.
“She’s burnt. Burnt down the day before yist’d’y aft’noon. A’n’t hardly a stick of her left. Ketehed Lord knows how, from the kitchen chimney, and a high northwest wind blowin’, that ca’d the sparks to the barn, and set fire to that, too. Hasses gone; couldn’t get round to ’em; only three of us there, and mixed up so about the house till it was so late the critters wouldn’t come out. Folks from over Huddle way see the blaze, and helped ail they could; but it wa’n’t no use. I guess all we saved, about, was the flag-pole.”
“But you’re all right yourselves? Cynthia”
“Well, there was our misfortune,” said Whitwell, while Westover’s heart stopped in a mere wantonness of apprehension. “If she’d be’n there, it might ha’ be’n diff’ent. We might ha’ had more sense; or she would, anyway. But she was over to Lovewell stockin’ up for Thanksgivin’, and I had to make out the best I could, with Frank and Jombateeste. Why, that Canuck didn’t seem to have no more head on him than a hen. I was disgusted; but Cynthy wouldn’t let me say anything to him, and I d’ know as ‘t ‘ould done any good, myself. We’ve talked it all over in every light, ever since; guess we’ve set up most the time talkin’, and nothin’ would do her but I should come down and see you before I took a single step about it.”
“How–step about what?” asked Westover, with a remote sense of hardship at being brought in, tempered by the fact that it was Cynthia who had brought him in.
“Why, that devil,” said Whitwell, and Westover knew that he meant Jeff, “went and piled on all the insurance he could pile on, before he left; and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“I should think the best thing was to collect the insurance,” Westover suggested, distractedly.
“It a’n’t so easy as what that comes to,” said Whitwell. “I couldn’t collect the insurance; and here’s the point, anyway. When a hotel’s made a bad season, and she’s fully insured, she’s pootty certain to burn up some time in the winter. Everybody knows that comical devil wanted lion’s Head to burn up so ‘t he could build new, and I presume there a’n’t a man, woman, or child anywhere round but what believes I set her on fire. Hired to do it. Now, see? Jeff off in Europe; daytime; no lives lost; prop’ty total loss. ‘s a clear case. Heigh? I tell you, I’m afraid I’ve got trouble ahead.”
Westover tried to protest, to say something in derision or defiance; but he was shaken himself, and he ended by getting his hat and coat; Whitwell had kept his own on, in the excitement. “We’ll go out and see a lawyer. A friend of mine; it won’t cost you anything.” He added this assurance at a certain look of reluctance that came into Whitwell’s face, and that left it as soon as he had spoken. Whitwell glanced round the studio even cheerily. “Who’d ha’ thought,” he said, fastening upon the study which Westover had made of Lion’s head the winter before, “that the old place would ‘a’ gone so soon?” He did not mean the mountain which he was looking at, but the hotel that was present to his mind’s eye; and Westover perceived as he had not before that to Whitwell the hotel and not the mountain was Lion’s Head.
He remembered to ask now where Whitwell had left his family, and Whitwell said that Frank and Cynthia were at home in his own house with Jombateeste; but he presumed he could not get back to them now before the next day. He refused to be interested in any of the aspects of Boston which Westover casually pointed out, but when they had seen the lawyer he came forth a new man, vividly interested in everything. The lawyer had been able to tell them that though the insurance companies would look sharply into the cause of the fire, there was no probability, hardly a possibility, that they would inculpate him, and he need give himself no anxiety about the affair.
“There’s one thing, though,” Whitwell said to Westover when they got out upon the street. “Hadn’t I ought to let Jeff know?”
“Yes, at once. You’d better cable him. Have you got his address?”
Whitwell had it, and he tasted all the dramatic quality of sending word to Jeff, which he would receive in Florence an hour after it left Boston. “I did hope I could ha’ cabled once to Jackson while he was gone,” he said, regretfully, “but, unless we can fix up a wire with the other world, I guess I shan’t ever do it now. I suppose Jackson’s still hangin’ round Mars, some’res.”
He had a sectarian pride in the beauty of the Spiritual Temple which Westover walked him by on his way to see Trinity Church and the Fine Arts Museum, and he sorrowed that he could not attend a service’ there. But he was consoled by the lunch which he had with Westover at a restaurant where it was served in courses. “I presume this is what Jeff’s goin’ to give ’em at Lion’s Head when he gits it goin’ again.”
“How is it he’s in Florence?” it occurred to Westover to ask. “I thought he was going to Nice for the winter.”
“I don’t know. That’s the address he give in his last letter,” said Whitwell. “I’ll be glad when I’ve done with him for good and all. He’s all kinds of a devil.”
It was in Westover’s mind to say that he wished the Whitwells had never had anything to do with Durgin after his mother’s death. He had felt it a want of delicacy in them that they had been willing to stay on in his employ, and his ideal of Cynthia had suffered a kind of wound from what must have been her decision in the matter. He would have expected something altogether different from her pride, her self-respect. But he now merely said: “Yes, I shall be glad, too. I’m afraid he’s a bad fellow.”
His words seemed to appeal to Whitwell’s impartiality. “Well, I d’ know as I should say bad, exactly. He’s a mixture.”
“He’s a bad mixture,” said Westover.
“Well, I guess you’re partly right there,” Whitwell admitted, with a laugh. After a dreamy moment he asked: “Ever hear anything more about that girl here in Boston?”
Westover knew that he meant Bessie Lynde. “She’s abroad somewhere, with her aunt.”
Whitwell had not taken any wine; apparently he was afraid of forming instantly the habit of drink if he touched it; but he tolerated Westover’s pint of Zinfandel, and he seemed to warm sympathetically to a greater confidence as the painter made away with it. “There’s one thing I never told Cynthy yet; well, Jombateeste didn’t tell me himself till after Jeff was gone; and then, thinks I, what’s the use? But I guess you had better know.”
He leaned forward across the table, and gave Jombateeste’s story of the encounter between Jeff and Alan Lynde in the clearing. “Now what do you suppose was the reason Jeff let up on the feller? Of course, he meant to choke the life out of him, and his just ketchin’ sight of Jombateeste–do you believe that was enough to stop him, when he’d started in for a thing like that? Or what was it done it?”
Westover listened with less thought of the fact itself than of another fact that it threw light upon. It was clear to him now that the Class- Day scrapping which had left its marks upon Jeff’s face was with Lynde, and that when Jeff got him in his power he was in such a fury for revenge that no mere motive of prudence could have arrested him. In both events, it must have been Bessie Lynde that was the moving cause; but what was it that stayed Jeff in his vengeance?
“Let him up, and let him walk away, you say?” he demanded of Whitwell.
Whitwell nodded. “That’s what Jombateeste said. Said Jeff said if he let the feller look back he’d shoot him. But he didn’t haf to.”
“I can’t make it out,” Westover sighed.
“It’s been too much for me,” Whitwell said. “I told Jombateeste he’d better keep it to himself, and I guess he done so. S’pose Jeff still had a sneakin’ fondness for the girl?”
“I don’t know; perhaps,” Westover asserted.
Whitwell threw his head back in a sudden laugh that showed all the work of his dentist. “Well, wouldn’t it be a joke if he was there in Florence after her? Be just like Jeff.”
“It would be like Jeff; I don’t know whether it would be a joke or not. I hope he won’t find it a joke, if it’s so,” said Westover, gloomily. A fantastic apprehension seized him, which made him wish for the moment that it might be so, and which then passed, leaving him simply sorry for any chance that might bring Bessie Lynde into the fellow’s way again.
For the evening Whitwell’s preference would have been a lecture of some sort, but there was none advertised, and he consented to go with Westover to the theatre. He came back to the painter at dinner-time, after a wary exploration of the city, which had resulted not only in a personal acquaintance with its monuments, but an immunity from its dangers and temptations which he prided himself hardly less upon. He had seen Faneuil Hall, the old State House, Bunker Hill, the Public Library, and the Old South Church, and he had not been sandbagged or buncoed or led astray from the paths of propriety. In the comfortable sense of escape, he was disposed, to moralize upon the civilization of great cities, which he now witnessed at first hand for the first time; and throughout the evening, between the acts of the “Old Homestead,” which he found a play of some merit, but of not so much novelty in its characters as he had somehow led himself to expect, he recurred to the difficulties and dangers that must beset a young man in coming to a place like Boston. Westover found him less amusing than he had on his own ground at Lion’s Head, and tasted a quality of commonplace in his deliverances which made him question whether he had not, perhaps, always owed more to this environment than he had suspected. But they parted upon terms of mutual respect and in the common hope of meeting again. Whitwell promised to let Westover know what he heard of Jeff, but, when the painter had walked the philosopher home to his hotel, he found a message awaiting him at his studio from Jeff direct:
Whitwell’s despatch received. Wait letter. “DURGIN.”
Westover raged at the intelligent thrift of this telegram, and at the implication that he not only knew all about the business of Whitwell’s despatch, but that he was in communication with him, and would be sufficiently interested to convey Jeff’s message to him. Of course, Durgin had at once divined that Whitwell must have come to him for advice, and that he would hear from him, whether he was still in Boston or not. By cabling to Westover, Jeff saved the cost of an elaborate address to Whitwell at Lion’s Head, and had brought the painter in for further consultation and assistance in his affairs. What vexed him still more was his own consciousness that he could not defeat this impudent expectation. He had, indeed, some difficulty with himself to keep from going to Whitwell’s hotel with the despatch at once, and he slept badly, in his fear that he might not get it to him in the morning before he left town.
The sum of Jeff’s letter when it came, and it came to Westover and not to Whitwell, was to request the painter to see a lawyer in his behalf, and put his insurance policies in his hands, with full authority to guard his interests in the matter. He told Westover where his policies would be found, and enclosed the key of his box in the Safety Vaults, with a due demand for Westover’s admission to it. He registered his letter, and he jocosely promised Westover to do as much for him some day, in pleading that there was really no one else he could turn to. He put the whole business upon him, and Westover discharged himself of it as briefly as he could by delivering the papers to the lawyer he had already consulted for Whitwell.
“Is this another charity patient?” asked his friend, with a grin.
“No,” replied Westover. “You can charge this fellow along the whole line.”
Before he parted with the lawyer he had his misgivings, and he said: “I shouldn’t want the blackguard to think I had got a friend a fat job out of him.”
The lawyer laughed intelligently. “I shall only make the usual charge. Then he is a blackguard.”
“There ought to be a more blistering word.”
“One that would imply that he was capable of setting fire to his property?”
“I don’t say that. But I’m glad he was away when it took fire,” said Westover.
“You give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Yes, of every kind of doubt.”
LII.
Westover once more promised himself to have nothing to do with Jeff Durgin or his affairs. But he did not promise this so confidently as upon former occasions, and he instinctively waited for a new complication. He could not understand why Jeff should not have come home to look after his insurance, unless it was because he had become interested in some woman even beyond his concern for his own advantage. He believed him capable of throwing away advantages for disadvantages in a thing of that kind, but he thought it more probable that he had fallen in love with one whom he would lose nothing by winning. It did not seem at all impossible that he should have again met Bessie Lynde, and that they should have made up their quarrel, or whatever it was. Jeff would consider that he had done his whole duty by Cynthia, and that he was free to renew his suit with Bessie; and there was nothing in Bessie’s character, as Westover understood it, to prevent her taking him back upon a very small show of repentance if the needed emotions were in prospect. He had decided pretty finally that it would be Bessie rather than another when he received a letter from Mrs. Vostrand. It was dated at Florence, and after some pretty palaver about their old friendship, which she only hoped he remembered half as fondly as she did, the letter ran:
“I am turning to you now in a very strange difficulty, but I do not know that I should turn to you even now, and knowing all I do of your goodness, if I were not asked to do so by another.
“I believe we have not heard from each other since the first days of my poor Genevieve’s marriage, when everything looked so bright and fair, and we little realized the clouds that were to overcast her happiness. It is a long story, and I will not go into it fully. The truth is that poor Gigi did not treat her very kindly, and that she has not lived with him since the birth of their little girl, now nearly two years old, and the sweetest little creature in the world; I wish you could see her; I am sure it would inspire your pencil with the idea of an angel-child. At first I hoped that the separation would be only temporary, and that when Genevieve had regained her strength she would be willing to go back to her husband; but nothing would induce her to do so. In fact, poor Gigi had spent all her money, and they would have had nothing to live upon but his pay, and you know that the pay of the Italian officers is very small.
“Gigi made several attempts to see her, and he threatened to take the child from her, but he was always willing to compromise for money. I am afraid that he never really loved her and that we were both deceived by his fervent protestations. We managed to get away from Florence without his knowing it, and we have spent the last two years in Lausanne, very happily, though very quietly. Our dear Checco is in the university there, his father having given up the plan of sending him to Harvard, and we had him with us, while we were taking measures to secure the divorce. Even in the simple way we lived Genevieve attracted a great deal of attention, as she always has done, and she would have had several eligible offers if she had been divorced, or if her affections had not already been engaged, as I did not know at the time.
“We were in this state of uncertainty up to the middle of last summer, when the news of poor Gigi’s sudden death came. I am sorry to say that his habits in some respects were not good, and that probably hastened it some; it had obliged him to leave the army. Genevieve did not feel that she could consistently put on black for him, and I did not urge her, under the peculiar circumstances; there is so much mere formality in those kind of things at the best; but we immediately returned to Florence to try and see if we could not get back some of her effects which his family had seized. I am opposed to lawsuits if they can possibly be avoided, and we arranged with poor Gigi’s family by agreeing to let them have Genevieve’s furniture if they would promise never to molest her with the child, and I must say they have behaved very well. We are on the best of terms with them, and they have let us have some of the things back which were endeared to her by old associations, at a very reasonable rate.
“This brings me to the romantic part of my letter, and I will say at once that we found your friend Mr. Durgin in Florence, in the very hotel we went to. We all met in the dining-room, at the table d’hote one evening, and Genevieve and he took to each other at once. He spent the evening with us in our private drawing-room, and she said to me, after he went, that for the first time in years she felt rested. It seems that she had always secretly fancied him, and that she gave up to me in the matter of marrying poor Gigi, because she knew I had my heart set upon it, and she was not very certain of her own feelings when Mr. D. offered himself in Boston; but the conviction that she had made a mistake grew upon, her more and more after she had married Gigi.
“Well, now, Mr. Westover, I suppose you have guessed by this time that Mr. Durgin has renewed his offer, and Genevieve has conditionally accepted him; we do not feel that she is like an ordinary widow, and that she has to fill up a certain season of mourning; she and Gigi have been dead to each other for years; and Mr. Durgin is as fond of our dear little Bice as her own father could be, and they are together all the time. Her name is Beatrice de’ Popolani Grassi. Isn’t it lovely? She has poor Gigi’s black eyes, with the most beautiful golden hair, which she gets from our aide. You remember Genevieve’s hair back in the dear old days, before any trouble had come, and we were all so happy together? And this brings me to what I wanted to say. You are the oldest friend we have, and by a singular coincidence you are the oldest friend of Mr. Durgin, too. I cannot bear to risk my child’s happiness a second time, and though Mr. Vostrand fully approves of the match, and has cabled his consent from Seattle, Washington, still, you know, a mother’s heart cannot be at rest without some positive assurance. I told Mr. Durgin quite frankly how I felt, and he agreed with me that after our experience with poor Gigi we could not be too careful, and he authorized me to write to you and find out all you knew about him. He said you had known him ever since he was a boy, and that if there was anything bad in his record you could tell it, and he did not want you to spire the truth. He knows you will be just, and he wants you to write out the facts as they struck you at the time.
“I shall be on pins and needles, as the saying is, till we hear from you, and you know hew Genevieve and Mr. D. must be feeling. She is fully resolved not to have him without your endorsement, and he is quite willing to abide by what you say.
“I could almost wish you to cable me just Good or Bad, but I know that this will not be wise, and I am going to wait for your letter, and get your opinion in full.
“We all join in the kindest regards. Mr. D. is talking with Genevieve while I write, and has our darling Bice on his knees. You cannot imagine what a picture it makes, her childish delicacy contrasted with his stalwart strength. She says to send you a baciettino, and I wish you were here to receive it from her angel lips. Yours faithfully,
“MEDORA VOSTRAND.
“P. S.–Mr. D. says that he fell in love with Genevieve across the barrier between the first and second cabin when he came over with us on the Aquitaine four years ago, and that he has never ceased to love her, though at one time he persuaded himself that he cared for another because he felt that she was lost to him forever, and it was no use: He really did care for the lady he was engaged to, and had a true affection for her, which he mistook for a warmer feeling. He says that she was worthy of any man’s love and of the highest respect. I tell Genevieve that, she ought to honor him for it, and that she must never be jealous of a memory. We are very happy in Mr. Vostrand’s cordial approval of the match. He is so glad to think that Mr. D. is a business man. His cable from Seattle was most enthusiastic.
“M. D.”
Westover did not know whether to laugh or cry when he read this letter, which covered several sheets of paper in lines that traversed each other in different directions. His old, youthful ideal of Mrs. Vostrand finally perished in its presence, though still he could not blame her for wishing to see her daughter well married after having seen her married so ill. He asked himself, without getting any very definite response, whether Mrs. Vostrand had always been this kind of a woman, or had grown into it by the use of arts which her peculiar plan of life had rendered necessary to her. He remembered the intelligent toleration of Cynthia in speaking of her, and his indignation in behalf of the girl was also thrill of joy for her escape from the fate which Mrs. Vostrand was so eagerly invoking for her daughter. But he thought of Genevieve with something of the same tenderness, and with a compassion that was for her alone. She seemed to him a victim who was to be sacrificed a second time, and he had clearly a duty to her which he must not evade. The only question could be how best to discharge it, and Westover took some hours from his work to turn the question over in his mind. In the end, when he was about to give the whole affair up for the present, and lose a night’s sleep over it later, he had an inspiration, and he acted upon it at once. He perceived that he owed no formal response to the sentimental insincerities of Mrs. Vostrand’s letter, and he decided to write to Durgin himself, and to put the case altogether in his hands. If Durgin chose to show the Vostrands what he should write, very well; if he chose not to show it, then Westover’s apparent silence would be a sufficient reply to Mrs. Vostrand’s appeal.
“I prefer to address you,” he began, “because I do not choose to let you think that I have any feeling to indulge against you, and because I do not think I have the right to take you out of your own keeping in any way. You would be in my keeping if I did, and I do not wish that, not only because it would be a bother to me, but because it would be a wrong to you.
“Mrs. Vostrand, whose letter to me I will leave you to answer by showing her this, or in any other manner you choose, tells me you do not want me to spare the truth concerning you. I have never been quite certain what the truth was concerning you; you know that better than I do; and I do not propose to write your biography here. But I will remind you of a few things.
“The first day I saw you, I caught you amusing yourself with the terror of two little children, and I had the pleasure of cuffing you for it. But you were only a boy then, and afterward you behaved so well that I decided you were not so much cruel as thoughtlessly mischievous. When you had done all you could to lead me to this favorable conclusion, you suddenly turned and avenged yourself on me, so far as you could, for the help I had given the little ones against you. I never greatly blamed you for that, for I decided that you had a vindictive temperament, and that you were not responsible for your temperament, but only for your character.
“In your first year at Harvard your associations were bad, and your conduct generally was so bad that you were suspended. You were arrested with other rowdy students, and passed the night in a police station. I believe you were justly acquitted of any specific offence, and I always believed that if you had experienced greater kindness socially during your first year in college you would have been a better man.
“You seem to have told Mrs. Vostrand of your engagement, and I will not speak of that. It was creditable to you that so wise and good a girl as your betrothed should have trusted you, and I do not know that it was against you that another girl who was neither wise nor good should have trusted you at the same time. You broke with the last, because you had to choose between the two; and, so far as I know, you accepted with a due sense of your faithlessness your dismissal by the first. In this connection I must remind you that while you were doing your best to make the party to your second engagement believe that you were in love with her, you got her brother, an habitual inebriate, drunk, and were, so far, instrumental in breaking down the weak will with which he was struggling against his propensity. It is only fair to you that I should add that you persuaded me you got him only a little drunker than he already got himself, and that you meant to have looked after him, but forgot him in your preoccupation with his sister.
“I do not know what took place between you and these people after you broke your engagement with the sister, until your encounter with the brother in Whitwell’s Clearing, and I know of this only at second hand. I can well believe that you had some real or fancied injury to pay off; and I give you all the credit you may wish to claim for sparing him at last. For one of your vindictive temperament it must have been difficult.
“I have told you the worst things I know of you, and I do not pretend to know them more than superficially. I am not asked to judge you, and I will not. You must be your own judge. You are to decide whether these and other acts of yours are the acts of a man good enough to be intrusted with the happiness of a woman who has already been very unhappy.
“You have sometimes, however–oftener than I wished–come to me for advice, and I now offer you some advice voluntarily. Do not suppose that because you love this woman, as you believe, you are fit to be the keeper of her future. Ask yourself how you have dealt hitherto with those who have loved you, and whom in a sort you loved, and do not go further unless the answer is such as you can fully and faithfully report to the woman you wish to marry. What you have made yourself you will be to the end. You once called me an idealist, and perhaps you will call this idealism. I will only add, and I will give the last word in your defence, you alone know what you are.”
LIII.
As soon as Westover had posted his letter he began to blame himself for it. He saw that the right and manly thing would have been to write to Mrs. Vostrand, and tell her frankly what he thought of Durgin. Her folly, her insincerity, her vulgarity, had nothing to do with the affair, so far as he was concerned. If she had once been so kind to him as to bind him to her in grateful friendship, she certainly had a claim upon his best offices. His duty was to her, and not at all to Durgin. He need not have said anything against him because it was against him, but because it was true; and if he had written he must not have said anything less than the truth.
He could have chosen not to write at all. He could have said that her mawkish hypocrisy was a little too much; that she was really wanting him to whitewash Durgin for her, and she had no right to put upon him the responsibility for the step she clearly wished to take. He could have made either of these decisions, and defended them to himself; but in what he had done he had altogether shirked. While he was writing to Durgin, and pretending that he could justly leave this affair to him, he was simply indulging a bit of sentimental pose, far worse than anything in Mrs. Vostrand’s sham appeal for his help.
He felt, as the time went by, that she had not written of her own impulse, but at her daughter’s urgence, and that it was this poor creature whose trust he had paltered with. He believed that Durgin would not fail to make her unhappy, yet he had not done what he might to deliver her out of his hand. He had satisfied a wretched pseudo- magnanimity toward a faithless scoundrel, as he thought Durgin, at the cost of a woman whose anxious hope of his aid had probably forced her mother’s hand.
At first he thought his action irrevocable, and he bitterly upbraided himself for not taking council with Cynthia upon Mrs. Vostrand’s letter. He had thought of doing that, and then he had dismissed the thought as involving pain that he had no right to inflict; but now he perceived that the pain was such as she must suffer in the event, and that he had stupidly refused himself the only means of finding out the right thing to do. Her true heart and her clear mind would have been infallible in the affair, and he had trusted to his own muddled impulse.
He began to write other letters: to Durgin, to Mrs. Vostrand, to Genevieve; but none of them satisfied him, and he let the days go by without doing anything to retrieve his error or fulfil his duty. At last he did what he ought to have done at first: he enclosed Mrs. Vostrand’s letter to Cynthia, and asked her what she thought he ought to have done. While he was waiting Cynthia’s answer to his letter, a cable message reached him from Florence:
“Kind letter received. Married to-day. Written. “Vostrand.”
The next mail brought Cynthia’s reply, which was very brief:
“I am sorry you had to write at all; nothing could have prevented it. Perhaps if he cares for her he will be good to her.”
Since the matter was now irremediable, Westover crept less miserably through the days than he could have believed he should, until the letter which Mrs. Vostrand’s cable promised came to hand.
“Dear friend,” she wrote, “your generous and satisfactory answer came yesterday. It was so delicate and high,-minded, and so like you, to write to Mr. Durgin, and leave the whole affair to him; and he did not lose a moment in showing us your beautiful letter. He said you were a man after his own heart, and I wish you could have heard how he praised you. It made Genevieve quite jealous, or would have, if it had been any one else. But she is so happy in your approval of her marriage, which is to take place before the ‘sindaco’ to-morrow, We shall only have the civil rite; she feels that it is more American, and we are all coming home to Lion’s Head in the spring to live and die true Americans. I wish you could spend the summer with us there, but, until Lion’s Head is rebuilt, we can’t ask you. I don’t know exactly how we shall do ourselves, but Mr. Durgin is full of plans, and we leave everything to him. He is here, making Genevieve laugh so that I can hardly write. He joins us in love and thanks, and our darling Bice sends you a little kiss.
“MEDORA VOSTRAND.
“P. S. Mr. D. has told us all about the affairs you alluded to. With Miss L. we cannot feel that he was to blame; but he blames himself in regard to Miss W. He says his only excuse is that he was always in love with Genevieve; and I think that is quite excuse enough. M. V.”
From time to time during the winter Westover wrote to Cynthia, and had letters from her in which he pleased himself fancying almost a personal effect of that shyness which he thought a charming thing in her. But no doubt this was something he read into them; on their face they were plain, straightforward accounts of the life she led in the little old house at Lion’s Head, under the shadow of the black ruin on the hill. Westover had taken to sending her books and magazines, and in thanking him for these she would sometimes speak of things she had read in them. Her criticism related to the spirit rather than the manner of the things she spoke of, and it pleased him that she seemed, with all her insight, to have very little artistic sense of any kind; in the world where he lived there were so many women with an artistic sense in every kind that he was rather weary of it.
There never was anything about Durgin in the letters, and Westover was both troubled and consoled by this silence. It might be from consciousness, and it probably was; it might be from indifference. In the worst event, it hid any pain she might have felt with a dignity from which no intimation of his moved her. The nearest she came to speaking of Jeff was when she said that Jombateeste was going to work at the brick-yards in Cambridge as soon as the spring opened, and was not going to stay any longer at Lion’s Head.
Her brother Frank, she reported, had got a place with part work in the drug-and-book store at Lovewell, where he could keep on more easily with his studies; he had now fully decided to study for the ministry; he had always wanted to be an Episcopalian.
One day toward the end of April, when several weeks had passed without bringing Westover any word from Cynthia, her father presented himself, and enjoyed in the painter’s surprise the sensation of having dropped upon him from the clouds. He gave due accounts of the health of each of his household; ending with Jombateeste. “You know he’s out at the brick, as he calls it, in Cambridge.”
“Cynthia said he was coming. I didn’t know he had come yet,” said Westover. “I must go out and look him up, if you think I could find him among all those Canucks.”
” Well, I don’t know but you’d better look us up at the same time,” said Whitwell, with additional pleasure in the painter’s additional surprise. “I guess we’re out in Cambridge, too,” he added, at Westover’s start of question. “We’re out there, visitin’ one of our summer folks, as you might say. Remember Mis’ Fredericks?”
“Why, what the deuce kept you from telling me so at once?” Westover demanded, indignantly.
“Guess I hadn’t got round to it,” said Whitwell, with dry relish.
“Do you mean that Cynthia’s there?”
“Well, I guess they wouldn’t cared much for a visit from me.”
Whitwell took advantage of Westover’s moment of mystification to explain that Jeff had written over to him from Italy, offering him a pretty good rent for his house, which he wanted to occupy while he was rebuilding Lion’s Head. He was going to push the work right through in the summer, and be ready for the season the year after. That was what Whitwell understood, and he understood that Jeff’s family was going to stay in Lovewell, but Jeff himself wanted to be on the ground day and night.
“So that’s kind of turned us out of doors, as you may say, and Cynthia’s always had this idee of comin’ down Boston way: and she didn’t know anybody that could advise with her as well as Mis’ Fredericks, and she wrote to her, and Mis’ Fredericks answered her to come right down and talk it over.” Westover felt a pang of resentment that Cynthia, had not turned to him for counsel, but he said nothing, and Whitwell went on: “She said she was, ashamed to bother you, you’d had the whole neighborhood on your hands so much, and so she wrote to Mis’ Fredericks.”
Westover had a vague discomfort in it all, which ultimately defined itself as a discontent with the willingness of the Whitwells to let Durgin occupy their house upon any terms, for any purpose, and a lingering grudge that Cynthia should have asked help of any one but himself, even from a motive of delicacy.
In the evening he went out to see the girl at the house of Mrs. Fredericks, whom he found living in the Port. They had a first moment of intolerable shyness on her part. He had been afraid to see her, with the jealousy for her dignity he always felt, lest she should look as if she had been unhappy about Durgin. But he found her looking, not only very well, but very happy and full of peace, as soon as that moment of shyness passed. It seemed to Westover as if she had begun to live on new terms, and that a harassing element, which had always been in it, had gone out of her life, and in its absence she was beginning to rejoice in a lasting repose. He found himself rejoicing with her, and he found himself on simpler and franker terms with her than ever before. Neither of them spoke of Jeff, or made any approach to mention him, and Westover believed that this was not from a morbid feeling in her, but from a final and enduring indifference.
He saw her alone, for Mrs. Fredericks and her daughter had gone into town to a concert, which he made her confess she would have gone to herself if it had not been that her father said he was coming out to see her. She would not let him joke about the sacrifice he pretended she had made; he had a certain pain in fancying that his visit was the highest and finest favor that life could do her. She told him of the ambition she had that she might get a school somewhere in the neighborhood of Boston, and then find something for her brother to do, while he began his studies in the Theological School at Harvard. Frank was still at Lovewell, it seemed.
At the end of the long call he made, he said, abruptly, when he had risen to go, “I should like to paint you.”
“Who? Me?” she cried, as if it were the most incredible thing, while a glad color rushed over her face.
“Yes. While you’re waiting to get your school, couldn’t you come in with your father, now and then, and sit for me?”
“What’s he want me to come fer?” Whitwell demanded, when the plan was laid before him. He was giving his unlimited leisure to the exploration of Boston, and his tone expressed something of the injury, which he also put into words, as a sole objection to the proposed interruption. “Can’t you go alone, Cynthy ?” Cynthia said she did not know, but when the point was referred to Mrs. Fredericks, she was sure Cynthia could not go alone, and she acquainted them both, as far as she could, with that mystery of chaperonage which had never touched their lives before. Whitwell seemed to think that his daughter would give the matter up; and perhaps she might have done so, though she seemed reluctant, if Mrs. Fredericks had not further instructed them that it was the highest possible honor Mr. Westover was offering them, and that if he had proposed to paint her daughter she would simply have gone and lived with him while he was doing it.
Whitwell found some compensation for the time lost to his study of Boston in the conversation of the painter, which he said was worth a hundred cents on the dollar every time, though it dealt less with the metaphysical aspect of the latest facts of science than the philosopher could have wished. He did not, to be sure, take very much stock in the picture as it advanced, somewhat fitfully, with a good many reversions to its original state of sketch. It appeared to him always a slight and feeble representation of Cynthia, though, of course, a native politeness forbade him to express his disappointment. He avowed a faith in Westover’s ability to get it right in the end, and always bade him go on, and take as much time to it as he wanted.
He felt less uneasy than at first, because he had now found a little furnished house in the woodenest outskirts of North Cambridge, which he hired cheap from the recently widowed owner, and they were keeping house there. Jombateeste lived with them, and worked in the brick-yards. Out of hours he helped Cynthia, and kept the ugly little place looking trim and neat, and left Whitwell free for the tramps home to nature, which he began to take over the Belmont uplands as soon as the spring opened. He was not homesick, as Cynthia was afraid he might be; his mind was fully occupied by the vast and varied interests opened to it by the intellectual and material activities of the neighboring city; and he found ample scope for his physical energies in doing Cynthia’s errands, as well as studying the strange flora of the region. He apparently thought that he had made a distinct rise and advance in the world. Sometimes, in the first days of his satisfaction with his establishment, he expressed the wish that Jackson could only have seen how he was fixed, once. In his preoccupation with other things, he no longer attempted to explore the eternal mysteries with the help of planchette; the ungrateful instrument gathered as much dust as Cynthia would suffer on the what-not in the corner of the solemn parlor; and after two or three visits to the First Spiritual Temple in Boston, he lapsed altogether from an interest in the other world, which had, perhaps, mainly flourished in the absence of pressing subjects of inquiry, in this.
When at last Westover confessed that he had carried his picture of Cynthia as far as he could, Whitwell did his best to hide his disappointment. “Well, sir,” he said, tolerantly and even cheeringly, “I presume we’re every one of us a different person to whoever looks at us. They say that no two men see the same star.”
“You mean that she doesn’t look so to you,” suggested the painter, who seemed not at all abashed.
“Well, you might say–Why, here! It’s like her; photograph couldn’t get it any better; but it makes me think-well, of a bird that you’ve come on sudden, and it stoops as if it was goin’ to fly–“
“Ah,” said Westover, “does it make you think of that?”
LIV.
The painter could not make out at first whether the girl herself was pleased with the picture or not, and in his uncertainty he could not give it her at once, as he had hoped and meant to do. It was by a kind of accident he found afterward that she had always been passionately proud of his having painted her. This was when he returned from the last sojourn he had made in Paris, whither he went soon after the Whitwells settled in North Cambridge. He left the picture behind him to be framed and then sent to her with a letter he had written, begging her to give it houseroom while he was gone. He got a short, stiff note in reply after he reached Paris, and he had not tried to continue the correspondence. But as soon as he returned he went out to see the Whitwells in North Cambridge. They were still in their little house there; the young widower had married again; but neither he nor his new wife had cared to take up their joint life in his first home, and he had found Whitwell such a good tenant that he had not tried to put up the rent on him. Frank was at home, now, with an employment that gave him part of his time for his theological studies; Cynthia had been teaching school ever since the fall after Westover went away, and they were all, as Whitwell said, in clover. He was the only member of the family at home when Westover called on the afternoon of a warm summer day, and he entertained him with a full account of a visit he had paid Lion’s Head earlier in the season.
“Yes, sir,” he said, as if he had already stated the fact, “I’ve sold my old place there to that devil.” He said devil without the least rancor; with even a smile of good-will, and he enjoyed the astonishment Westover expressed in his demand:
“Sold Durgin your house?”
“Yes; I see we never wanted to go back there to live, any of us, and I went up to pass the papers and close the thing out. Well, I did have an offer for it from a feller that wanted to open a boa’din’-house there and get the advantage of Jeff’s improvements, and I couldn’t seem to make up my mind till I’d looked the ground over. Fust off, you know, I thought I’d sell to the other feller, because I could see in a minute what a thorn it ‘d be in Jeff’s flesh. But, dumn it all! When I met the comical devil I couldn’t seem to want to pester him. Why, here, thinks I, if we’ve made an escape from him–and I guess we have, about the biggest escape–what have I got ag’in’ him, anyway? I’d ought to feel good to him; and I guess that’s the way I did feel, come to boil it down. He’s got a way with him, you know, when you’re with him, that makes you like him. He may have a knife in your ribs the whole while, but so long’s he don’t turn it, you don’t seem to know it, and you can’t help likin’ him. Why, I hadn’t been with Jeff five minutes before I made up my mind to sell to him. I told him about the other offer–felt bound to do it–and he was all on fire. ‘I want that place, Mr. Whitwell,’ s’d he. ‘Name your price.’ Well, I wa’n’t goin’ to take an advantage of the feller, and I guess he see it. ‘You’ve offered me three thousand,’ s’d I, ‘n’ I don’t want to be no ways mean about it. Five thousand buys the place.’ ‘It’s mine,’ s’d he; just like that. I guess he see he had a gentleman to deal with, and we didn’t say a word more. Don’t you think I done right to sell to him? I couldn’t ‘a’ got more’n thirty-five hundred out the other feller, to save me, and before Jeff begun his improvements I couldn’t ‘a’ realized a thousand dollars on the prop’ty.”
“I think you did right to sell to him,” said Westover, saddened somewhat by the proof Whitwell alleged of his magnanimity.
“Well, Sir, I’m glad you do. I don’t believe in crowdin’ a man because you got him in a corner, an’ I don’t believe in bearin’ malice. Never did. All I wanted was what the place was wo’th–to him. ‘Twa’n’t wo’th nothin’ to me! He’s got the house and the ten acres around it, and he’s got the house on Lion’s Head, includin’ the Clearin’, that the poottiest picnic-ground in the mountains. Think of goin’ up there this summer?”
“No,” said Westover, briefly.
“Well, I some wish yon did. I sh’d like to know how Jeff’s improvements struck you. Of course, I can’t judge of ’em so well, but I guess he’s made a pootty sightly thing of it. He told me he’d had one of the leadin’ Boston architects to plan the thing out for him, and I tell you he’s got something nice. ‘Tain’t so big as old Lion’s Head, and Jeff wants to cater to a different style of custom, anyway. The buildin’s longer’n what she is deep, and she spreads in front so’s to give as many rooms a view of the mountain as she can. Know what ‘runnaysonce’ is? Well, that’s the style Jeff said it was; it’s all pillars and pilasters; and you ride up to the office through a double row of colyums, under a kind of a portico. It’s all painted like them old Colonial houses down on Brattle Street, buff and white. Well, it made me think of one of them old pagan temples. He’s got her shoved along to the south’ard, and he’s widened out a piece of level for her to stand on, so ‘t that piece o’ wood up the hill there is just behind her, and I tell you she looks nice, backin’ up ag’inst the trees. I tell you, Jeff’s got a head on him! I wish you could see that dinin’-room o’ his: all white colyums, and frontin’ on the view. Why, that devil’s got a regular little theatyre back o’ the dinin’-room for the young folks to act ammyture plays in, and the shows that come along, and he’s got a dance-hall besides; the parlors ain’t much–folks like to set in the office; and a good many of the rooms are done off into soots, and got their own parlors. I tell you, it’s swell, as they say. You can order what you please for breakfast, but for lunch and dinner you got to take what Jeff gives you; but he treats you well. He’s a Durgin, when it comes to that. Served in cou’ses, and dinner at seven o’clock. I don’t know where he got his money for ‘t all, but I guess he put in his insurance fust, and then he put a mortgage on the buildin’; be as much as owned it; said he’d had a splendid season last year, and if he done as well for a copule of seasons more he’d have the whole prop’ty free o’ debt.”
Westover could see that the prosperity of the unjust man had corrupted the imagination and confounded the conscience of this simple witness, and he asked, in the hope of giving his praises pause: “What has he done about the old family burying-ground in the orchard?”
“Well, there!” said Whitwell. “That got me more than any other one thing: I naturally expected that Jeff ‘d had ’em moved, for you know and I know, Mr. Westover, that a place like that couldn’t be very pop’la’ with summer folks; they don’t want to have anything to kind of make ’em serious, as you may say. But that devil got his architect to treat the place, as he calls it, and he put a high stone wall around it, and planted it to bushes and evergreens so ‘t looks like a piece of old garden, down there in the corner of the orchard, and if you didn’t hunt for it you wouldn’t know it was there. Jeff said ‘t when folks did happen to find it out, he believed they liked it; they think it’s picturesque and ancient. Why, some on ’em wanted him to put up a little chapel alongside and have services there; and Jeff said he didn’t know but he’d do it yet. He’s got dark-colored stones up for Mis’ Durgin and Jackson, so ‘t they look as old as any of ’em. I tell you, he knows how to do things.”
“It seems so,” said Westover, with a bitterness apparently lost upon the optimistic philosopher.
“Yes, sir. I guess it’s all worked out for the best. So long’s he didn’t marry Cynthy, I don’t care who he married, and–I guess he’s made out fust-rate, and he treats his wife well, and his mother-in-law, too. You wouldn’t hardly know they was in the house, they’re so kind of quiet; and if a guest wants to see Jeff, he’s got to send and ask for him; clerk does everything, but I guess Jeff keeps an eye out and knows what’s goin’ on. He’s got an elegant soot of appartments, and he lives as private as if he was in his own house, him and his wife. But when there’s anything goin’ on that needs a head, they’re both right on deck.
“He don’t let his wife worry about things a great deal; he’s got a fust- rate of a housekeeper, but I guess old Mis’ Vostrand keeps the housekeeper, as you may say. I hear some of the boa’ders talkin’ up there, and one of ’em said ‘t the great thing about Lion’s Head was ‘t you could feel everywheres in it that it was a lady’s house. I guess Jeff has a pootty good time, and a time ‘t suits him. He shows up on the coachin’ parties, and he’s got himself a reg’lar English coachman’s rig, with boots outside his trouse’s, and a long coat and a fuzzy plug-hat: I tell you, he looks gay! He don’t spend his winters at Lion’s Head: he is off to Europe about as soon as the house closes in the fall, and he keeps bringin’ home new dodges. Guess you couldn’t get no boa’d there for no seven dollars a week now! I tell you, Jeff’s the gentleman now, and his wife’s about the nicest lady I ever saw. Do’ know as I care so much about her mother; do’ know as I got anything ag’inst her, either, very much. But that little girl, Beechy, as they call her, she’s a beauty! And round with Jeff all the while! He seems full as fond of her as her own mother does, and that devil, that couldn’t seem to get enough of tormentin’ little children when he was a boy, is as good and gentle with that little thing as-pie!”
Whitwell seemed to have come to an end of his celebration of Jeff’s success, and Westover asked:
“And what do you make now, of planchette’s brokenshaft business? Or don’t you believe in planchette any more?”
Whitwell’s beaming face clouded. “Well, sir, that’s a thing that’s always puzzled me. If it wa’n’t that it was Jackson workin’ plantchette that night, I shouldn’t placed much dependence on what she said; but Jackson could get the truth out of her, if anybody could. Sence I b’en up there I b’en figurin’ it out like this: the broken shaft is the old Jeff that he’s left off bein’–“
Whitwell stopped midway in his suggestion, with an inquiring eye on the painter, who asked: “You think he’s left off being the old Jeff?”
“Well, sir, you got me there,” the philosopher confessed. “I didn’t see anything to the contrary, but come to think of it–“
“Why couldn’t the broken shaft be his unfulfilled destiny on the old lines? What reason is there to believe he isn’t what he’s always been?”
“Well, come to think of it–“
“People don’t change in a day, or a year,” Westover went on, “or two or three years, even. Sometimes I doubt if they ever change.”
“Well, all that I thought,” Whitwell urged, faintly, against the hard scepticism of a man ordinarily so yielding, “is ‘t there must be a moral government of the universe somewheres, and if a bad feller is to get along and prosper hand over hand, that way, don’t it look kind of as if–“
“There wasn’t any moral government of the universe? Not the way I see it,” said Westover. “A tree brings forth of its kind. As a man sows he reaps. It’s dead sure, pitilessly sure. Jeff Durgin sowed success, in a certain way, and he’s reaping it. He once said to me, when I tried to waken his conscience, that he should get where he was trying to go if he was strong enough, and being good had nothing to do with it. I believe now he was right. But he was wrong too, as such a man always is. That kind of tree bears Dead Sea apples, after all. He sowed evil, and he must reap evil. He may never know it, but he will reap what he has sown. The dreadful thing is that others must share in his harvest. What do you think?”
Whitwell scratched his head. “Well, sir, there’s something in what you say, I guess. But here! What’s the use of thinkin’ a man can’t change? Wa’n’t there ever anything in that old idee of a change of heart? What do you s’pose made Jeff let up on that feller that Jombateeste see him have down, that day, in my Clearin’? What Jeff would natch’ly done would b’en to shake the life out of him; but he didn’t; he let him up, and he let him go. What’s the reason that wa’n’t the beginnin’ of a new life for him?”
“We don’t know all the ins and outs of that business,” said Westover, after a moment. “I’ve puzzled over it a good deal. The man was the brother of that girl that Jeff had jilted in Boston. I’ve found out that much. I don’t know just the size and shape of the trouble between them, but Jeff may have felt that he had got even with his enemy before that day. Or he may have felt that if he was going in for full satisfaction, there was Jombateeste looking on.”
“That’s true,” said Whitwell, greatly daunted. After a while he took refuge in the reflection, “Well, he’s a comical devil.”
Westover said, in a sort of absence: “Perhaps we’re all broken shafts, here. Perhaps that old hypothesis of another life, a world where there is room enough and time enough for all the beginnings of this to complete themselves–“
“Well, now you’re shoutin’,” said Whitwell. “And if plantchette–” Westover rose. “Why, a’n’t you goin’ to wait and see Cynthy? I’m expectin’ her along every minute now; she’s just gone down to Harvard Square. She’ll be awfully put out when she knows you’ve be’n here.”
“I’ll come out again soon,” said Westover. “Tell her–“
” Well, you must see your picture, anyway. We’ve got it in the parlor. I don’t know what she’ll say to me, keepin’ you here in the settin’-room all the time.”
Whitwell led him into the little dark front hall, and into the parlor, less dim than it should have been because the afternoon sun was burning full upon its shutters. The portrait hung over the mantel, in a bad light, but the painter could feel everything in it that he could not see.
“Yes, it had that look in it.”
“Well, she ha’n’t took wing yet, I’m thankful to think,” said Whitwell, and he spoke from his own large mind to the sympathy of an old friend who he felt could almost share his feelings as a father.
IV
When Westover turned out of the baking little street where the Whitwells lived into an elm-shaded stretch of North Avenue, he took off his hat and strolled bareheaded along in the cooler air. He was disappointed not to have seen Cynthia, and yet he found himself hurrying away after his failure, with a sense of escape, or at least of respite.
What he had come to say, to do, was the effect of long experience and much meditation. The time had arrived when he could no longer feign to himself that his feelings toward the girl were not those of a lover, but he had his modest fears that she could never imagine him in that character, and that if he should ask her to do so he should shock and grieve her, and inflict upon himself an incurable wound.
During this last absence of his he had let his fancy dwell constantly upon her, until life seemed worth having only if she would share it with him. He was an artist, and he had always been a bohemian, but at heart he was philistine and bourgeois. His ideal was a settlement, a fixed habitation, a stated existence, a home where he could work constantly in an air of affection, and unselfishly do his part to make his home happy. It was a very simple-hearted ambition, and I do not quite know how to keep it from appearing commonplace and almost sordid; but such as it was, I must confess that it was his. He had not married his model, because he was mainly a landscapist, perhaps; and he had not married any of his pupils, because he had not been in love with them, charming and good and lovely as he had thought some of them; and of late he had realized more and more why his fancy had not turned in their direction. He perceived that it was already fixed, and possibly had long been fixed.
He did not blink the fact that there were many disparities, and that there would be certain disadvantages which could never be quite overcome. The fact had been brought rather strenuously home to him by his interview with Cynthia’s father. He perceived, as indeed he had always known, that with a certain imaginative lift in his thinking and feeling, Whitwell was irreparably rustic, that he was and always must be practically Yankee. Westover was not a Yankee, and he did not love or honor the type, though its struggles against itself touched and amused him. It made him a little sick to hear how Whitwell had profited by Durgin’s necessity, and had taken advantage of him with conscientious and self-applausive rapacity, while he admired his prosperity, and tried to account for it by doubt of its injustice. For a moment this seemed to him worse than Durgin’s conscientious toughness, which was the antithesis of Whitwell’s remorseless self-interest. For the moment this claimed Cynthia of its kind, and Westover beheld her rustic and Yankee of her father’s type. If she was not that now, she would grow into that through the lapse from the personal to the ancestral which we all undergo in the process of the years.
The sight of her face as he had pictured it, and of the soul which be had imagined for it, restored him to a better sense of her, but he felt the need of escaping from the suggestion of her father’s presence, and taking further thought. Perhaps he should never again reach the point that he was aware of deflecting from now; he filled his lungs with long breaths, which he exhaled in sighs of relief. It might have been a mistake on the spiritual as well as the worldly side; it would certainly not have promoted his career; it might have impeded it. These misgivings flitted over the surface of thought that more profoundly was occupied with a question of other things. In the time since he had seen her last it might very well be that a young and pretty girl had met some one who had taken her fancy; and he could not be sure that her fancy had ever been his, even if this had not happened. He had no proof at all that she had ever cared or could care for him except gratefully, respectfully, almost reverentially, with that mingling of filial and maternal anxiety which had hitherto been the warmest expression of her regard. He tried to reason it out, and could not. He suddenly found himself bitterly disappointed that he had missed seeing her, for if they had met, he would have known by this time what to think, what to hope. He felt old– he felt fully thirty-six years old–as he passed his hand over his crown, whose gossamer growth opposed so little resistance to his touch. He had begun to lose his hair early, but till then he had not much regretted his baldness. He entered into a little question of their comparative ages, which led him to the conclusion that Cynthia must now be about twenty- five.
Almost at the same moment he saw her coming up the walk toward him from far down the avenue. For a reason, or rather a motive, of his own he pretended to himself that it was not she, but he knew instantly that it was, and he put on his hat. He could see that she did not know him, and it was a pretty thing to witness the recognition dawn on her. When it had its full effect, he was aware of a flutter, a pause in her whole figure before she came on toward him, and he hurried his steps for the charm of her beautiful blushing face.
It was the spiritual effect of figure and face that he had carried in his thought ever since he had arrived at that one-sided intimacy through his study of her for the picture he had just seen. He had often had to ask himself whether he had really perceived or only imagined the character he had translated into it; but here, for the moment at least, was what he had seen. He hurried forward and joyfully took the hand she gave him. He thought he should speak of that at once, but it was not possible, of course. There had to come first the unheeded questions and answers about each other’s health, and many other commonplaces. He turned and walked home with her, and at the gate of the little ugly house she asked him if he would not come in and take tea with them.
Her father talked with him while she got the tea, and when it was ready her brother came in from his walk home out of Old Cambridge and helped her put it on the table. He had grown much taller than Westover, and he was very ecclesiastical in his manner; more so than he would be, probably, if he ever be came a bishop, Westover decided. Jombateeste, in an interval of suspended work at the brick yard, was paying a visit to his people in Canada, and Westover did not see him.
All the time while they sat at table and talked together Westover realized more and more that for him, at least, the separation of the last two years had put that space between them which alone made it possible for them to approach each other on new ground. A kind of horror, of repulsion, for her engagement to Jeff Durgin had ceased from his sense of her; it was as if she had been unhappily married, and the man, who had been unworthy and unkind, was like a ghost who could never come to trouble his joy. He was more her contemporary, he found, than formerly; she had grown a great deal in the past two years, and a certain affliction which her father’s fixity had given him concerning her passed in the assurance of change which she herself gave him.
She had changed her world, and grown to it, but her nature had not changed. Even her look had not changed, and he told her how he had seen his picture in her at the moment of their meeting in the street. They all went in to verify his impression from the painting. “Yes, that is the way you looked.”
“It seems to me that is the way I felt,” she asserted.
Frank went about the house-work, and left her to their guest. When Whitwell came back from the post-office, where he said he would only be gone a minute, he did not rejoin Westover and Cynthia in the parlor.
The parlor door was shut; he had risked his fate, and they were talking it over. Cynthia was not sure; she was sure of nothing but that there was no one in the world she cared for so much; but she was not sure that was enough. She did not pretend that she was surprised; she owned that she had sometimes expected it; she blamed herself for not expecting it then.
Westover said that he did not blame her for not knowing her mind; he had been fifteen years learning his own fully. He asked her to take all the time she wished. If she could not make sure after all, he should always be sure that she was wise and good. She told him everything there was to tell of her breaking with Jeff, and he thought the last episode a supreme proof of her wisdom and goodness.
After a certain time they went for a walk in the warm summer moonlight under the elms, where they had met on the avenue.
“I suppose,” she said, as they drew near her door again, “that people don’t often talk it over as we’ve done.”
“We only know from the novels,” he answered. “Perhaps people do, oftener than is ever known. I don’t see why they shouldn’t.”
“No.”
“I’ve never wished to be sure of you so much as since you’ve wished to be sure of yourself.”
“And I’ve never been so sure as since you were willing to let me,” said Cynthia.
“I am glad of that. Try to think of me, if that will help my cause, as some one you might have always known in this way. We don’t really know each other yet. I’m a great deal older than you, but still I’m not so very old.”
“Oh, I don’t care for that. All I want to be certain of is that the feeling I have is really–the feeling.”
“I know, dear,” said Westover, and his heart surged toward her in his tenderness for her simple conscience, her wise question. “Take time. Don’t hurry. Forget what I’ve said–or no; that’s absurd! Think of it; but don’t let anything but the truth persuade you. Now, good-night, Cynthia.”
“Good-night–Mr. Westover.”
“Mr. Westover” he reproached her.
She stood thinking, as if the question were crucial. Then she said, firmly, “I should always have to call you Mr. Westover.”
“Oh, well,” he returned, “if that’s all!”
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
Boldest man is commonly a little behind a timid woman Could not imagine the summer life of the place Crimson which stained the tops and steeps of snow Errors of a weak man, which were usually the basest Exchanging inaudible banalities
He might walk home with her if he would not seem to do so He’s the same kind of a man that he was a boy Hollow hilarities which people use to mask their indifference I suppose they must feel it
If one must, it ought to be champagne Intent upon some point in the future
No two men see the same star
Pathetic hopefulness
Picture which, he said to himself, no one would believe in Quiet but rather dull look of people slightly deaf Stupefied by a life of unalloyed prosperity and propriety To be exemplary is as dangerous as to be complimentary W’at you want letter for? Always same thing Want something hard, don’t you know; but I want it to be easy With all her insight, to have very little artistic sense World made up of two kinds of people