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Katherine Chandler - "The Bird Woman of the Lewis and Clark Expedition"

Georg Ebers - "Serapis, Volume 3."

George Meredith - "Beauchamps Career, v2"

Helen Fryer - "The Esperanto Teacher"

A Hazard of New Fortunes

W >> William Dean Howells >> A Hazard of New Fortunes




"If you do," said Christine, "I'll kill you."

Christine, however, had the visits of Beaton to console her, and, if
these seemed to have no definite aim, she was willing to rest in the
pleasure they gave her vanity; but Mela had nothing. Sometimes she even
wished they were all back on the farm.

"It would be the best thing for both of you," said Mrs. Dryfoos, in
answer to such a burst of desperation. "I don't think New York is any
place for girls."

"Well, what I hate, mother," said Mela, "is, it don't seem to be any
place for young men, either." She found this so good when she had said it
that she laughed over it till Christine was angry.

"A body would think there had never been any joke before."

"I don't see as it's a joke," said Mrs. Dryfoos. "It's the plain truth."

"Oh, don't mind her, mother," said Mela. "She's put out because her old
Mr. Beaton ha'r't been round for a couple o' weeks. If you don't watch
out, that fellow 'll give you the slip yit, Christine, after all your
pains."

"Well, there ain't anybody to give you the slip, Mela," Christine clawed
back.

"No; I ha'n't ever set my traps for anybody." This was what Mela said for
want of a better retort; but it was not quite true. When Kendricks came
with Beaton to call after her father's dinner, she used all her cunning
to ensnare him, and she had him to herself as long as Beaton stayed;
Dryfoos sent down word that he was not very well and had gone to bed. The
novelty of Mela had worn off for Kendricks, and she found him, as she
frankly told him, not half as entertaining as he was at Mrs. Horn's; but
she did her best with him as the only flirtable material which had yet
come to her hand. It would have been her ideal to have the young men stay
till past midnight, and her father come down-stairs in his stocking-feet
and tell them it was time to go. But they made a visit of decorous
brevity, and Kendricks did not come again. She met him afterward, once,
as she was crossing the pavement in Union Square to get into her coupe,
and made the most of him; but it was necessarily very little, and so he
passed out of her life without having left any trace in her heart, though
Mela had a heart that she would have put at the disposition of almost any
young man that wanted it. Kendricks himself, Manhattan cockney as he was,
with scarcely more out look into the average American nature than if he
had been kept a prisoner in New York society all his days, perceived a
property in her which forbade him as a man of conscience to trifle with
her; something earthly good and kind, if it was simple and vulgar. In
revising his impressions of her, it seemed to him that she would come
even to better literary effect if this were recognized in her; and it
made her sacred, in spite of her willingness to fool and to be fooled, in
her merely human quality. After all, he saw that she wished honestly to
love and to be loved, and the lures she threw out to that end seemed to
him pathetic rather than ridiculous; he could not join Beaton in laughing
at her; and he did not like Beaton's laughing at the other girl, either.
It seemed to Kendricks, with the code of honor which he mostly kept to
himself because he was a little ashamed to find there were so few others
like it, that if Beaton cared nothing for the other girl--and Christine
appeared simply detestable to Kendricks--he had better keep away from
her, and not give her the impression he was in love with her. He rather
fancied that this was the part of a gentleman, and he could not have
penetrated to that aesthetic and moral complexity which formed the
consciousness of a nature like Beaton's and was chiefly a torment to
itself; he could not have conceived of the wayward impulses indulged at
every moment in little things till the straight highway was traversed and
well-nigh lost under their tangle. To do whatever one likes is finally to
do nothing that one likes, even though one continues to do what one will;
but Kendricks, though a sage of twenty-seven, was still too young to
understand this.

Beaton scarcely understood it himself, perhaps because he was not yet
twenty-seven. He only knew that his will was somehow sick; that it spent
itself in caprices, and brought him no happiness from the fulfilment of
the most vehement wish. But he was aware that his wishes grew less and
less vehement; he began to have a fear that some time he might have none
at all. It seemed to him that if he could once do something that was
thoroughly distasteful to himself, he might make a beginning in the right
direction; but when he tried this on a small scale, it failed, and it
seemed stupid. Some sort of expiation was the thing he needed, he was
sure; but he could not think of anything in particular to expiate; a man
could not expiate his temperament, and his temperament was what Beaton
decided to be at fault. He perceived that it went deeper than even fate
would have gone; he could have fulfilled an evil destiny and had done
with it, however terrible. His trouble was that he could not escape from
himself; and, for the most part, he justified himself in refusing to try.
After he had come to that distinct understanding with Alma Leighton, and
experienced the relief it really gave him, he thought for a while that if
it had fallen out otherwise, and she had put him in charge of her
destiny, he might have been better able to manage his own. But as it was,
he could only drift, and let all other things take their course. It was
necessary that he should go to see her afterward, to show her that he was
equal to the event; but he did not go so often, and he went rather
oftener to the Dryfooses; it was not easy to see Margaret Vance, except
on the society terms. With much sneering and scorning, he fulfilled the
duties to Mrs. Horn without which he knew he should be dropped from her
list; but one might go to many of her Thursdays without getting many
words with her niece. Beaton hardly knew whether he wanted many; the girl
kept the charm of her innocent stylishness; but latterly she wanted to
talk more about social questions than about the psychical problems that
young people usually debate so personally. Son of the working-people as
he was, Beaton had never cared anything about such matters; he did not
know about them or wish to know; he was perhaps too near them. Besides,
there was an embarrassment, at least on her part, concerning the
Dryfooses. She was too high-minded to blame him for having tempted her to
her failure with them by his talk about them; but she was conscious of
avoiding them in her talk. She had decided not to renew the effort she
had made in the spring; because she could not do them good as
fellow-creatures needing food and warmth and work, and she would not try
to befriend them socially; she had a horror of any such futile
sentimentality. She would have liked to account to Beaton in this way for
a course which she suspected he must have heard their comments upon, but
she did not quite know how to do it; she could not be sure how much or
how little he cared for them. Some tentative approaches which she made
toward explanation were met with such eager disclaim of personal interest
that she knew less than before what to think; and she turned the talk
from the sisters to the brother, whom it seemed she still continued to
meet in their common work among the poor.

"He seems very different," she ventured.

"Oh, quite," said Beaton. "He's the kind of person that you might suppose
gave the Catholics a hint for the cloistral life; he's a cloistered
nature--the nature that atones and suffers for. But he's awfully dull
company, don't you think? I never can get anything out of him."

"He's very much in earnest."

"Remorselessly. We've got a profane and mundane creature there at the
office who runs us all, and it's shocking merely to see the contact of
the tyro natures. When Fulkerson gets to joking Dryfoos--he likes to put
his joke in the form of a pretence that Dryfoos is actuated by a selfish
motive, that he has an eye to office, and is working up a political
interest for himself on the East Side--it's something inexpressible."

"I should think so," said Miss Vance, with such lofty disapproval that
Beaton felt himself included in it for having merely told what caused it.
He could not help saying, in natural rebellion, "Well, the man of one
idea is always a little ridiculous."

"When his idea is right?" she demanded. "A right idea can't be
ridiculous."

"Oh, I only said the man that held it was. He's flat; he has no relief,
no projection."

She seemed unable to answer, and he perceived that he had silenced her to
his own, disadvantage. It appeared to Beaton that she was becoming a
little too exacting for comfort in her idealism. He put down the cup of
tea he had been tasting, and said, in his solemn staccato: "I must go.
Good-bye!" and got instantly away from her, with an effect he had of
having suddenly thought of something imperative.

He went up to Mrs. Horn for a moment's hail and farewell, and felt
himself subtly detained by her through fugitive passages of conversation
with half a dozen other people. He fancied that at crises of this strange
interview Mrs. Horn was about to become confidential with him, and
confidential, of all things, about her niece. She ended by not having
palpably been so. In fact, the concern in her mind would have been
difficult to impart to a young man, and after several experiments Mrs.
Horn found it impossible to say that she wished Margaret could somehow be
interested in lower things than those which occupied her. She had watched
with growing anxiety the girl's tendency to various kinds of
self-devotion. She had dark hours in which she even feared her entire
withdrawal from the world in a life of good works. Before now, girls had
entered the Protestant sisterhoods, which appeal so potently to the young
and generous imagination, and Margaret was of just the temperament to be
influenced by them. During the past summer she had been unhappy at her
separation from the cares that had engrossed her more and more as their
stay in the city drew to an end in the spring, and she had hurried her
aunt back to town earlier in the fall than she would have chosen to come.
Margaret had her correspondents among the working-women whom she
befriended. Mrs. Horn was at one time alarmed to find that Margaret was
actually promoting a strike of the button-hole workers. This, of course,
had its ludicrous side, in connection with a young lady in good society,
and a person of even so little humor as Mrs. Horn could not help seeing
it. At the same time, she could not help foreboding the worst from it;
she was afraid that Margaret's health would give way under the strain,
and that if she did not go into a sisterhood she would at least go into a
decline. She began the winter with all such counteractive measures as she
could employ. At an age when such things weary, she threw herself into
the pleasures of society with the hope of dragging Margaret after her;
and a sympathetic witness must have followed with compassion her course
from ball to ball, from reception to reception, from parlor-reading to
parlor-reading, from musicale to musicale, from play to play, from opera
to opera. She tasted, after she had practically renounced them, the
bitter and the insipid flavors of fashionable amusement, in the hope that
Margaret might find them sweet, and now at the end she had to own to
herself that she had failed. It was coming Lent again, and the girl had
only grown thinner and more serious with the diversions that did not
divert her from the baleful works of beneficence on which Mrs. Horn felt
that she was throwing her youth away. Margaret could have borne either
alone, but together they were wearing her out. She felt it a duty to
undergo the pleasures her aunt appointed for her, but she could not
forego the other duties in which she found her only pleasure.

She kept up her music still because she could employ it at the meetings
for the entertainment, and, as she hoped, the elevation of her
working-women; but she neglected the other aesthetic interests which once
occupied her; and, at sight of Beaton talking with her, Mrs. Horn caught
at the hope that he might somehow be turned to account in reviving
Margaret's former interest in art. She asked him if Mr. Wetmore had his
classes that winter as usual; and she said she wished Margaret could be
induced to go again: Mr. Wetmore always said that she did not draw very
well, but that she had a great deal of feeling for it, and her work was
interesting. She asked, were the Leightons in town again; and she
murmured a regret that she had not been able to see anything of them,
without explaining why; she said she had a fancy that if Margaret knew
Miss Leighton, and what she was doing, it might stimulate her, perhaps.
She supposed Miss Leighton was still going on with her art? Beaton said,
Oh yes, he believed so.

But his manner did not encourage Mrs. Horn to pursue her aims in that
direction, and she said, with a sigh, she wished he still had a class;
she always fancied that Margaret got more good from his instruction than
from any one else's.

He said that she was very good; but there was really nobody who knew half
as much as Wetmore, or could make any one understand half as much. Mrs.
Horn was afraid, she said, that Mr. Wetmore's terrible sincerity
discouraged Margaret; he would not let her have any illusions about the
outcome of what she was doing; and did not Mr. Beaton think that some
illusion was necessary with young people? Of course, it was very nice of
Mr. Wetmore to be so honest, but it did not always seem to be the wisest
thing. She begged Mr. Beaton to try to think of some one who would be a
little less severe. Her tone assumed a deeper interest in the people who
were coming up and going away, and Beaton perceived that he was
dismissed.

He went away with vanity flattered by the sense of having been appealed
to concerning Margaret, and then he began to chafe at what she had said
of Wetmore's honesty, apropos of her wish that he still had a class
himself. Did she mean, confound her? that he was insincere, and would let
Miss Vance suppose she had more talent than she really had? The more
Beaton thought of this, the more furious he became, and the more he was
convinced that something like it had been unconsciously if not
consciously in her mind. He framed some keen retorts, to the general
effect that with the atmosphere of illusion preserved so completely at
home, Miss Vance hardly needed it in her art studies. Having just
determined never to go near Mrs. Horn's Thursdays again, he decided to go
once more, in order to plant this sting in her capacious but somewhat
callous bosom; and he planned how he would lead the talk up to the point
from which he should launch it.

In the mean time he felt the need of some present solace, such as only
unqualified worship could give him; a cruel wish to feel his power in
some direction where, even if it were resisted, it could not be overcome,
drove him on. That a woman who was to Beaton the embodiment of
artificiality should intimate, however innocently--the innocence made it
all the worse--that he was less honest than Wetmore, whom he knew to be
so much more honest, was something that must be retaliated somewhere
before his self-respect could be restored. It was only five o'clock, and
he went on up-town to the Dryfooses', though he had been there only the
night before last. He asked for the ladies, and Mrs. Mandel received him.

"The young ladies are down-town shopping," she said, "but I am very glad
of the opportunity of seeing you alone, Mr. Beaton. You know I lived
several years in Europe."

"Yes," said Beaton, wondering what that could have to do with her
pleasure in seeing him alone. "I believe so?" He involuntarily gave his
words the questioning inflection.

"You have lived abroad, too, and so you won't find what I am going to ask
so strange. Mr. Beaton, why do you come so much to this house?" Mrs.
Mandel bent forward with an aspect of ladylike interest and smiled.

Beaton frowned. "Why do I come so much?"

"Yes."

"Why do I--Excuse me, Mrs. Mandel, but will you allow me to ask why you
ask?"

"Oh, certainly. There's no reason why I shouldn't say, for I wish you to
be very frank with me. I ask because there are two young ladies in this
house; and, in a certain way, I have to take the place of a mother to
them. I needn't explain why; you know all the people here, and you
understand. I have nothing to say about them, but I should not be
speaking to you now if they were not all rather helpless people. They do
not know the world they have come to live in here, and they cannot help
themselves or one another. But you do know it, Mr. Beaton, and I am sure
you know just how much or how little you mean by coming here. You are
either interested in one of these young girls or you are not. If you are,
I have nothing more to say. If you are not--" Mrs. Mandel continued to
smile, but the smile had grown more perfunctory, and it had an icy gleam.

Beaton looked at her with surprise that he gravely kept to himself. He
had always regarded her as a social nullity, with a kind of pity, to be
sure, as a civilized person living among such people as the Dryfooses,
but not without a humorous contempt; he had thought of her as Mandel, and
sometimes as Old Mandel, though she was not half a score of years his
senior, and was still well on the sunny side of forty. He reddened, and
then turned an angry pallor. "Excuse me again, Mrs. Mandel. Do you ask
this from the young ladies?"

"Certainly not," she said, with the best temper, and with something in
her tone that convicted Beaton of vulgarity, in putting his question of
her authority in the form of a sneer. "As I have suggested, they would
hardly know how to help themselves at all in such a matter. I have no
objection to saying that I ask it from the father of the young ladies. Of
course, in and for myself I should have no right to know anything about
your affairs. I assure you the duty of knowing isn't very pleasant." The
little tremor in her clear voice struck Beaton as something rather nice.

"I can very well believe that, Mrs. Mandel," he said, with a dreamy
sadness in his own. He lifted his eyes and looked into hers. "If I told
you that I cared nothing about them in the way you intimate?"

"Then I should prefer to let you characterize your own conduct in
continuing to come here for the year past, as you have done, and tacitly
leading them on to infer differently." They both mechanically kept up the
fiction of plurality in speaking of Christine, but there was no doubt in
the mind of either which of the young ladies the other meant. A good many
thoughts went through Beaton's mind, and none of them were flattering. He
had not been unconscious that the part he had played toward this girl was
ignoble, and that it had grown meaner as the fancy which her beauty had
at first kindled in him had grown cooler. He was aware that of late he
had been amusing himself with her passion in a way that was not less than
cruel, not because he wished to do so, but because he was listless and
wished nothing. He rose in saying: "I might be a little more lenient than
you think, Mrs. Mandel; but I won't trouble you with any palliating
theory. I will not come any more."

He bowed, and Mrs. Mandel said, "Of course, it's only your action that I
am concerned with."

She seemed to him merely triumphant, and he could not conceive what it
had cost her to nerve herself up to her too easy victory. He left Mrs.
Mandel to a far harder lot than had fallen to him, and he went away
hating her as an enemy who had humiliated him at a moment when he
particularly needed exalting. It was really very simple for him to stop
going to see Christine Dryfoos, but it was not at all simple for Mrs.
Mandel to deal with the consequences of his not coming. He only thought
how lightly she had stopped him, and the poor woman whom he had left
trembling for what she had been obliged to do embodied for him the
conscience that accused him of unpleasant things.

"By heavens! this is piling it up," he said to himself through his set
teeth, realizing how it had happened right on top of that stupid insult
from Mrs. Horn. Now he should have to give up his place on 'Every Other
Week; he could not keep that, under the circumstances, even if some
pretence were not made to get rid of him; he must hurry and anticipate
any such pretence; he must see Fulkerson at once; he wondered where he
should find him at that hour. He thought, with bitterness so real that it
gave him a kind of tragical satisfaction, how certainly he could find him
a little later at Mrs. Leighton's; and Fulkerson's happiness became an
added injury.

The thing had, of course, come about just at the wrong time. There never
had been a time when Beaton needed money more, when he had spent what he
had and what he expected to have so recklessly. He was in debt to
Fulkerson personally and officially for advance payments of salary. The
thought of sending money home made him break into a scoffing laugh, which
he turned into a cough in order to deceive the passers. What sort of face
should he go with to Fulkerson and tell him that he renounced his
employment on 'Every Other Week;' and what should he do when he had
renounced it? Take pupils, perhaps; open a class? A lurid conception of a
class conducted on those principles of shameless flattery at which Mrs.
Horn had hinted--he believed now she had meant to insult him--presented
itself. Why should not he act upon the suggestion? He thought with
loathing for the whole race of women--dabblers in art. How easy the thing
would be: as easy as to turn back now and tell that old fool's girl that
he loved her, and rake in half his millions. Why should not he do that?
No one else cared for him; and at a year's end, probably, one woman would
be like another as far as the love was concerned, and probably he should
not be more tired if the woman were Christine Dryfoos than if she were
Margaret Vance. He kept Alma Leighton out of the question, because at the
bottom of his heart he believed that she must be forever unlike every
other woman to him.

The tide of his confused and aimless reverie had carried him far
down-town, he thought; but when he looked up from it to see where he was
he found himself on Sixth Avenue, only a little below Thirty-ninth
Street, very hot and blown; that idiotic fur overcoat was stifling. He
could not possibly walk down to Eleventh; he did not want to walk even to
the Elevated station at Thirty-fourth; he stopped at the corner to wait
for a surface-car, and fell again into his bitter fancies. After a while
he roused himself and looked up the track, but there was no car coming.
He found himself beside a policeman, who was lazily swinging his club by
its thong from his wrist.

"When do you suppose a car will be along?" he asked, rather in a general
sarcasm of the absence of the cars than in any special belief that the
policeman could tell him.

The policeman waited to discharge his tobacco-juice into the gutter. "In
about a week," he said, nonchalantly.

"What's the matter?" asked Beaton, wondering what the joke could be.

"Strike," said the policeman. His interest in Beaton's ignorance seemed
to overcome his contempt of it. "Knocked off everywhere this morning
except Third Avenue and one or two cross-town lines." He spat again and
kept his bulk at its incline over the gutter to glance at a group of men
on the corner below: They were neatly dressed, and looked like something
better than workingmen, and they had a holiday air of being in their best
clothes.

"Some of the strikers?" asked Beaton.

The policeman nodded.

"Any trouble yet?"

"There won't be any trouble till we begin to move the cars," said the
policeman.

Beaton felt a sudden turn of his rage toward the men whose action would
now force him to walk five blocks and mount the stairs of the Elevated
station. "If you'd take out eight or ten of those fellows," he said,
ferociously, "and set them up against a wall and shoot them, you'd save a
great deal of bother."

"I guess we sha'n't have to shoot much," said the policeman, still
swinging his locust. "Anyway, we shant begin it. If it comes to a fight,
though," he said, with a look at the men under the scooping rim of his
helmet, "we can drive the whole six thousand of 'em into the East River
without pullin' a trigger."

"Are there six thousand in it?"

"About."

"What do the infernal fools expect to live on?"

"The interest of their money, I suppose," said the officer, with a grin
of satisfaction in his irony. "It's got to run its course. Then they'll
come back with their heads tied up and their tails between their legs,
and plead to be taken on again."

"If I was a manager of the roads," said Beaton, thinking of how much he
was already inconvenienced by the strike, and obscurely connecting it as
one of the series with the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of Mrs.
Horn and Mrs. Mandel, "I would see them starve before I'd take them
back--every one of them."