Delphi complete works of.., p.1103
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells, page 1103
“Safe, safe, safe! Not hurt the least! My precious gift! Oh, how glad I am! It’s even going yet! How did you get it? Where did you get it?”
Blake, who speaks with a certain painful effort while he moves slowly away backward from her:
“I found it — I got it from the thief.”
Leslie, looking confusedly at him: “How did you know they had it?”
Maggie: “Oh, it was you, Mr. Blake, who came flying past us, and drove them away! Did you have to fight them? Oh, did they hurt you?” Leslie: “It was you — Why, how pale you look! There’s blood on your face! Why, where were you? How did it all happen? It was you that drove them away? You? And I never thought of you! And I only thought about myself — my watch! I never can forgive myself.” She lets fall the watch from her heedless grasp, and he mechanically puts out the hand which he has been keeping behind him; she impetuously seizes it in her own and, suddenly shrinking, he subdues the groan that breaks from him to a sort of gasp and totters to the log where Leslie has been sitting.
Lilly: “Oh, see, Miss Bellingham; they’ve broken his wrist!”
Blake, panting: “It’s nothing; don’t — don’t—” Maggie: “Oh dear, he’s going to faint! What shall we do if he does? I didn’t know they ever fainted!” She wrings her hands in despair, while Leslie flings herself upon her knees at Blake’s side.
“Oughtn’t we to support him, somehow? Oh yes do let’s support him, all of us!”
Leslie, imperiously: “Run down to the river as fast as ever you can, and wet your handkerchiefs to sprinkle his face with.” She passes her arm round Blake’s, and tenderly gathers his broken wrist into her right hand. “One can support him.”
III. A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.
I. MRS. MURRAY AND MRS. BELLINGHAM.
THREE weeks after the events last represented Mrs. Bellingham and her sister-in-law are once more seated in the hotel parlor, both with sewing, to which the latter abandons herself with an apparently exasperated energy, while the former lets her work lie in her lap, and listens with some ladylike trepidation to what Mrs. Murray is saying.
Mrs. Murray: “From beginning to end it has been quite like a sensation play. Leslie must feel herself a heroine of melodrama. She is sojourning at a country inn, and she goes sketching in the woods, when two ruffians set upon her and try to rob her. Her screams reach the ear of the young man of humble life but noble heart, who professed to have gone away but who was still opportunely hanging about; he rushes on the scene and disperses the brigands, from whom he rends their prey. She seizes his hand to thank him for his sublime behavior, and discovers that his wrist has been broken by a blow from the bludgeon of one of the wicked ruffians. Very pretty, very charming, indeed; and so appropriate for a girl of Leslie’s training, family, and station in life. Upon my word I congratulate you, Marion. To think of being the mother of a heroine! It was fortunate that you let her snub Mr. Dudley. If she had married him probably nothing of this kind would have happened.”
Mrs. Bellingham, uneasily: “I ought to be glad the affair amuses you, but I don’t see how even you can hold the child responsible for what has happened.”
Mrs. Murray: “Responsible! I should be the last to do that, I hope. No, indeed. I consider her the victim of circumstances, and since the hero has been thrown back upon our hands, I’m sure every one must say that her devotion is most exemplary. I don’t hold her responsible for that, even.” As Mrs. Murray continues, Mrs. Bellingham’s uneasiness increases, and she drops her hands with a baffled look upon the work in her lap. “It’s quite en regie that she should be anxious about him; it would be altogether out of character, otherwise. It’s a pity that he doesn’t lend himself more gracefully to being petted. When I saw her bringing him a pillow, that first day, after the doctor set his wrist and she had got him to repose his exhausted frame on the sofa, I was almost melted to tears. Of course it can end only in one way.” Mrs. Bellingham: “Kate, I will not have any more of this. It’s intolerable, and you have no right to torment me so. You know that I’m as much vexed as you can be. It annoys me beyond endurance, but I don’t see what, as a lady, I can do about it. Mr. Blake is here again by no fault of his own, certainly, and neither Leslie nor I can treat him with indifference.”
Mrs. Murray: “I don’t object to your treating him as kindly as you like, but you had better leave as little kindness as possible to Leslie. You must sooner or later recognize one thing, Marion, and take your measures accordingly. I advise you to do it sooner.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Murray. “I mean what you know well enough: that Leslie is interested in this Mr. Blake. I saw that she was, from the very first moment. He’s just the kind of man to fascinate a girl like Leslie; you know that. He’s handsome, and he’s shown himself brave; and all that unconventionality which marks him of a different class gives him a charm to a girl’s fancy, even when she has recognized, herself, that he isn’t a gentleman. She soon forgets that, and sees merely that he is clever and good. She would very promptly teach a girl of his traditions her place, but a young man is different.” —
Mrs. Bellingham: “I hope Leslie would treat even a woman with consideration.”
Mrs. Murray: “Oh, consideration, consideration! You may thank yourself, Marion, and your impossible ideas, if this comes to the worst You belong to one order of things or you belong to another. If you believe that several generations of wealth, breeding, and station distinguish a girl so that a new man, however good or wise he is, can never be her equal, you must act on your belief, and in a case like this you can’t act too promptly.” Mrs. Bellingham: “What should you do?”
Mrs. Murray: “Do? I should fling away all absurd ideas of consideration, to begin with. I should deal frankly with Leslie; I should appeal to her pride and her common sense; and I should speak so distinctly to this young man that he couldn’t possibly mistake my meaning. I should tell him — I should advise him to try change of air for his wound; or whatever it is.”
Mrs. Bellingham, after a moment’s dreary reflection: “That’s quite impossible, Kate. I will speak to Leslie, but I can never offer offense to any one we owe so much.”
Mrs. Murray: “Do you wish me to speak to him?”
Mrs. Bellingham: “No, I can’t permit that, either.”
Mrs. Murray: “Very well; then you must abide by the result.” Mrs. Murray clutches her work together, stooping to recover dropping spools and scissors with an activity surprising in a lady of her massive person, and is about to leave the room, when the sound of steps and voices arrest her; a moment after Miss Bellingham and Blake, with his right arm in a sling, enter the room, so intent upon each other as not to observe the ladies in the corner.
II. LESLIE AND BLAKE; MRS. MURRAY AND MRS. BELLINGHAM APART.
Leslie: “I’m afraid you’ve let me tire you. I’m such an insatiable walker, and I never thought of your not being perfectly strong, yet.”
Make, laughing: “Why, Miss Bellingham, it isn’t one of my ankles that’s broken.”
Leslie, concessively: “No; but if you’d Only let me do something for you. I can both play and sing, and really not at all badly. Shall I play to you?” She goes up and strikes some chords on the piano, and with her hand on the keys glances with mock gravity round at Blake, who remains undecided. She turns about. “Perhaps you’d rather have me read to you?”
Blake: “Do you really wish me to choose?” Leslie: “I do. And ask something difficult and disagreeable.”
Make: “I’d rather have you talk to me than either.”
Leslie: “Is that your idea of something difficult and disagreeable?”
Make: I hope you won’t find it so.”
Leslie: “But I shan’t feel that it’s anything, then! Shall I begin to talk to you here? Or where?”
Blake: “This is a good place, but if I’m to choose again, I should say the gallery would be better.”
Leslie: “Oh, you’re choosing that because I said I wondered how people could come into the country and sit all their time in stuffy rooms!”
Make, going to the window and looking out: “There are no seats.” He returns, and putting the backs of two chairs together, lifts them with his left hand to carry them to the gallery.
Leslie, advancing tragically upon him and reproachfully possessing herself of the chairs: “Never! Do you think I have no sense of shame?” She lifts a chair in either hand and carries them out, while Blake in a charmed embarrassment follows her, and they are heard speaking without: “There! Or no! That’s in a draught. You mustn’t sit in a draught.”
Blake: “It won’t hurt me. I’m not a young lady.” —
Leslie: “That’s the very reason it will hurt you. If you were a young lady you could stand anything. Anything you liked.” There are indistinct murmurs of further feigned dispute, broken by more or less conscious laughter, to which Mrs. Bellingham listens with alarm and Mrs. Murray with the self-righteousness of those who have told you so, and who, having thus washed their hands of an affair, propose to give you a shower-bath of the water.
Mrs. Murray: “Well, Marion?”
Mrs. Bellingham, rising, with a heavy sigh: “Yes, it’s quite as bad as you could wish.”
Mrs. Murray: “As bad as I could wish? This is too much, Marion. What are you going to do?” Mrs. Bellingham is gathering up her work as if to quit the room, and Mrs. Murray’s demand is pitched in a tone of falling indignation and rising amazement.
Mrs. Bellingham: “We can’t remain to overhear their talk. I am going to my room.”
Mrs. Murray: “Why, Marion, the child is your own daughter!”
Mrs. Bellingham: “That is the very reason why I don’t wish to feel that she has cause to be ashamed of me; and I certainly should if I stayed to eavesdrop.”
Mrs. Murray: “How in the world should she ever know it?”
Mrs. Bellingham: “I should tell her. But that isn’t the point, quite.”
Mrs. Murray: “This is fantastic! Well, let her marry her — Caliban! Why don’t you go out and join them? That needn’t give her cause to blush for you. Remember, Marion; that Leslie is an ignorant, inexperienced child, and that it’s your duty to save her from her silliness.” -
Mrs. Bellingham: “My daughter is a lady, and will remember herself.”
Mrs. Murray: “But she’s a woman, Marion, and will forget herself!”
Mrs. Bellingham, who hesitates in a brief perplexity, but abruptly finishes her preparations for going out: “At any rate, I can’t dog her steps, nor play the spy upon her. I wish to know only what she will freely tell me.”
Mrs. Murray: “And are you actually going? Well, Marion, I suppose I mustn’t say what I think of you.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “It isn’t necessary that you should.”
Mrs. Murray: “If I were to speak, I should say that your logic was worthy of Bedlam, and your morality of — of — the millenium!” She whirls furiously out of the parlor, and Mrs. Bellingham, with a lingering glance at the door opening upon the balcony, follows her amply eddying skirts. A moment after their disappearance, Leslie comes to the gallery door and looks exploringly into the
III. LESLIE AND BLAKE; FINALLY, MRS. BELLINGHAM.
Leslie, speaking to Blake without: “I was sure I heard voices. But there’s nobody.” She turns, and glancing at the hills which show their irregular mass through the open window, sinks down into a chair beside the low gallery rail. “Ah, this is a better point still,” and as Blake appears with his chair and plants it vis-a-vis with her: “Why old Ponkwasset, I wonder? But people always say old of mountains: old Wachusett, old Agamenticus, old Monadnock, old Ponkwasset. Perhaps the young mountains have gone West and settled down on the prairies, with all the other young people of the neighborhood. Wouldn’t that explain it?” She looks with openly-feigned seriousness at Blake, who supports in his left hand the elbow of his hurt arm. “I’m sure it’s paining you.”
Blake: “No, no; not the least. The fact is” — he laughs lightly— “I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking about the mountains just now, when you spoke.” Leslie: “Oh, well, neither was I — very much.” They both laugh. “But why do you put your hand under your arm, if it doesn’t pain you?” Blake: “Oh! — I happened to think of the scamp who broke it for me.”
Leslie, shuddering: “Don’t speak of it! Or yes, do! Tell me about it; I’ve wanted to ask you. I ought to know about it; I hoped you would tell without asking. I can never be thankful enough that your walk happened to bring you back the same way. Why must you leave me to imagine all the rest?”
Blake: Oh, those things are better imagined than described, Miss Bellingham.”
Leslie: “But I want it described. I must hear it, no matter how terrible it is.”
Blake: “It wasn’t terrible; there was very little of it, one way or the other. The big fellow wouldn’t give up your watch; and I had to — urge him; and the little Irishman came dancing up, and made a pass at us with his stick, and my wrist caught it. That’s all.”
Leslie, with effusion: “All f You risked your life to get me back my watch, and I asked about that first, and never mentioned you.”
Blake: “I hadn’t done anything worth mentioning.”
Leslie: “Then getting my watch wasn’t worth mentioning!”
Blake: “Where is it? I haven’t seen you wear it.”
Leslie: “I broke something in it when I threw it down. It doesn’t go. Besides, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t like to see it.”
Blake: “Oh, yes, I should.”
Leslie, starting up: “I’ll go get it.”
Blake: “Not now!” They are both silent Leslie falters and then sits down again, and folds one hand over the other on the balcony rail, letting her fan dangle idly by its chain from her waist. He leans forward a little, and taking the fan, opens and shuts it, while she looks down upon him with a slight smile; he relinquishes it with a glance at her, and leans back again in his chair.
Leslie: “Well, what were you thinking about that hideous little wretch who hurt you?”
Blake: “Why, I was thinking, for one thing, that he didn’t mean to do it.”
Leslie: “Oh! Why did he do it, then?”
Blake: “I believe he meant to hit his partner, though I can’t exactly say why. It went through my mind. And I was thinking that a good deal might be said for tramps.”
Leslie: “For tramps that steal watches and break wrists? My philanthropy doesn’t rise to those giddy heights, quite. No decidedly, Mr. Blake, I draw the line at tramps. They never look clean, and why don’t they go to work?” Blake: “Well they couldn’t find work just now, if they wanted it, and generally I suppose they don’t want it. A man who’s been out of work three months is glad to get it, but if he’s idle a year he doesn’t want it. When I see one of your big cotton mills standing idle, I know that it means just so much tramping, so much starving and stealing, so much misery and murder. We ‘re all part of the tangle; we ‘re all of us to blame, we ‘re none of us to blame.” —
Leslie: “Oh, that’s very well. But if you pity such wretches, what becomes of the deserving poor?”
Blake: “I’m not sure there are any deserving poor, as you call them, any more than there are deserving rich. So I don’t draw the line at tramps. The fact is, Miss Bellingham, I had just been doing those fellows a charity before they attacked you, — . given them some tobacco. You don’t approve of that?”
Leslie: “Oh, I like smoking!”
Blake, laughing: “And I got their idea of a gentleman.”
Leslie, after a moment: “Yes? What was that?”
Blake: “A man who gives you tobacco, and doesn’t ask you why you don’t go to work. A real gentleman has matches about him to light your pipe with afterwards. Is that your notion of a gentleman?”
Leslie, consciously: “I don’t know; not exactly.”
Blake: “It made me think of the notion of a gentleman I once heard from a very nice fellow years ago: he believed that you couldn’t be a gentleman unless you began with your grandfather. I was younger then, and I remember shivering over it, for it left me quite out in the cold, though I couldn’t help liking the man; he was a gentleman in spite of what he said, — a splendid fellow, if you made allowance for him. You have to make allowances for everybody, especially for men who have had all the advantages. It’s apt to put them wrong for life; they get to thinking that the start is the race. I used to look down on that sort of men, once — in theory. But what I saw of them in the war taught me better; they only wanted an emergency, and they could show themselves as good as anybody. It isn’t safe to judge people by their circumstances; besides, I’ve known too many men who had all the disadvantage and never came to anything. Still I prefer the tramp’s idea — per-. haps because it’s more flattering — that you are a gentleman if you choose to be so. What do you think?”
Leslie: — don’t know.” After an interval long enough to vanquish and banish a disagreeable consciousness: “I think it’s a very unpleasant subject. Why don’t you talk of something else?” Blake: “Oh, I wasn’t to talk at all, as I understood. I was to be talked to.”
Leslie: “Well, what shall I talk to you about? You must choose that, too.”
Blake: “Let us talk about yourself, then.’” Leslie: “There is nothing about me. I’m just like every other girl. Get Miss Wallace to tell you about herself, some day, and then you’ll know my whole history. I’ve done everything that she’s done. We had the same dancing, singing, piano, French, German, and Italian lessons; we went to the same schools and the same lectures; we have both been abroad, and can sketch, and paint on tiles. We’re as nearly alike as the same experiences and associations could make us, and we ‘re just like all the other girls we know. Isn’t it rather monotonous?”
Blake: “I don’t know all the other girls that you know. If I can judge from Miss Wallace, I don’t believe you ‘re like them; but they may be like you.”
