Law and love go very well together as occupations, but, when literature
is added, the trio is not harmonious. Either of the two might pull
together, but the combination of the three is certainly disastrous.
It would be difficult to conceive of a person more obviously up in the
air than Philip at this moment. He went through his office duties
intelligently and perfunctorily, but his heart was not in the work, and
reason as he would his career did not seem to be that way. He was lured
too strongly by that siren, the ever-alluring woman who sits upon the
rocks and sings so deliciously to youth of the sweets of authorship. He
who listens once to that song hears it always in his ears, through
disappointment and success--and the success is often the greatest
disappointment--through poverty and hope deferred and heart-sickness for
recognition, through the hot time of youth and the creeping incapacity of
old age. The song never ceases. Were the longing and the hunger it
arouses ever satisfied with anything, money for instance, any more than
with fame?
And if the law had a feeble hold on him, how much more uncertain was his
grasp on literature. He had thrown his line, he had been encouraged by
nibbles, but publishers were too wary to take hold. It seemed to him
that he had literally cast his bread upon the waters, and apparently at
an ebb tide, and his venture had gone to the fathomless sea. He had put
his heart into the story, and, more than that, his hope of something
dearer than any public favor. As he went over the story in his mind,
scene after scene, and dwelt upon the theme that held the whole in unity,
he felt that Evelyn would be touched by the recognition of her part in
the inspiration, and that the great public must give some heed to it.
Perhaps not the great public--for its liking now ran in quite another
direction, but a considerable number of people like Celia, who were
struggling with problems of life, and the Alices in country homes who
still preserved in their souls a belief in the power of a noble life, and
perhaps some critics who had not rid themselves of the old traditions.
If the publishers would only give him a chance!
But if law and literature were to him little more than unsubstantial
dreams, the love he cherished was, in the cool examination of reason,
preposterous. What! the heiress of so many millions, brought up
doubtless in the expectation of the most brilliant worldly alliance, the
heiress with the world presently at her feet, would she look at a
lawyer's clerk and an unsuccessful scribbler? Oh, the vanity of youth
and the conceit of intellect!
Down in his heart Philip thought that she might. And he went on nursing
this vain passion, knowing as well as any one can know the social code,
that Mr. Mavick and Mrs. Mavick would simply laugh in his face at such a
preposterous idea. And yet he knew that he had her sympathy in his
ambition, that to a certain extent she was interested in him. The girl
was too guileless to conceal that. And then suppose he should become
famous--well, not exactly famous, but an author who was talked about, and
becoming known, and said to be promising? And then he could fancy Mavick
weighing this sort of reputation in his office scales against money, and
Mrs. Mavick weighing it in her boudoir against social position. He was a
fool to think of it. And yet, suppose, suppose the girl should come to
love him. It would not be lightly. He knew that, by looking into her
deep, clear, beautiful eyes. There were in them determination and
tenacity of purpose as well as the capability of passion. Heavens and
earth, if that girl once loved, there was a force that no opposition
could subdue! That was true. But what had he to offer to evoke such a
love?
In those days Philip saw much of Celia, who at length had given up
teaching, and had come to the city to try her experiment, into which she
was willing to embark her small income. She had taken a room in the
midst of poverty and misery on the East Side, and was studying the
situation.
"I am not certain," she said, "whether I or any one else can do anything,
or whether any organization down there can effect much.
But I will find out."
"Aren't you lonesome--and disgusted?" asked Philip.
"Disgusted? You might as well be disgusted with one thing as another. I
am generally disgusted with the way things go. But, lonely? No, there
is too much to do and to learn. And do you know, Philip, that people are
more interesting over there, more individual, have more queer sorts of
character. I begin to believe, with a lovely philanthropist I know, who
had charge of female criminals, that 'wicked women are more interesting
than good women.'"
"You have struck a rich mine of interest in New York, then."
"Don't be cynical, Phil. There are different kinds of interest. Stuff!
But I won't explain." And then, abruptly changing the subject, "Seems to
me you have something on your mind lately. Is it the novel?"
"Perhaps."
"The publishers haven't decided?"
"I am afraid they have."
"Well, Philip, do you know that I think the best thing that could happen
to you would be to have the story rejected."
"It has been rejected several times," said Philip. "That didn't seem to
do me any good."
"But finally, so that you would stop thinking about it, stop expecting
anything that way, and take up your profession in earnest."
"You are a nice comforter!" retorted Philip, with a sort of smirking grin
and a look of keen inspection, as if he saw something new in the
character of his adviser. "What has come over you? Suppose I should
give you that sort of sympathy in the projects you set your heart on?"
"It does seem hard and mean, doesn't it? I knew you wouldn't like it.
That is, not now. But it is for your lifetime. As for me, I've wanted
so many things and I've tried so many things. And do you know, Phil,
that I have about come to the conclusion that the best things for us in
this world are the things we don't get."
"You are always coming to some new conclusion."
"Yes, I know. But just look at it rationally. Suppose your story is
published, cast into the sea of new books, and has a very fair sale.
What will you get out of it? You can reckon how many copies at ten cents
a copy it will need to make as much as some writers get for a trivial
magazine paper. Recognition? Yes, from a very few people. Notoriety?
You would soon find what that is. Suppose you make what is called a
'hit.' If you did not better that with the next book, you would be
called a failure. And you must keep at it, keep giving the public
something new all the time, or you will drop out of sight. And then the
anxiety and the strain of it, and the temptation, because you must live,
to lower your ideal, and go down to what you conceive to be the buying
public. And if your story does not take the popular fancy, where will
you be then?"
"Celia, you have become a perfect materialist. You don't allow anything
for the joy of creation, for the impulse of a man's mind, for the delight
in fighting for a place in the world of letters."
"So it seems to you now. If you have anything that must be said, of
course you ought to say it, no matter what comes after. If you are
looking round for something you can say in order to get the position you
covet, that is another thing. People so deceive themselves about this.
I know literary workers who lead a dog's life and are slaves to their
pursuit, simply because they have deceived themselves in this. I want
you to be free and independent, to live your own life and do what work
you can in the world. There, I've said it, and of course you will go
right on. I know you. And maybe I am all wrong. When I see the story I
may take the other side and urge you to go on, even if you are as poor as
a church-mouse, and have to be under the harrow of poverty for years."
"Then you have some curiosity to see the story?"
"You know I have. And I know I shall like it. It isn't that, Phil; it
is what is the happiest career for you."
"Well, I will send it to you when it comes back."
But the unexpected happened. It did not come back. One morning Philip
received a letter from the publishers that set his head in a whirl. The
story was accepted. The publisher wrote that the verdict of the readers
was favorable, and he would venture on it, though he cautioned Mr.
Burnett not to expect a great commercial success. And he added, as to
terms, it being a new name, though he hoped one that would become famous,
that the copyright of ten per cent. would not begin until after the sale
of the first thousand copies.
The latter part of the letter made no impression on Philip. So long as
the book was published, and by a respectable firm, he was indifferent as
a lord to the ignoble details of royalty. The publisher had recognized
the value of the book, and it was accepted on its merits. That was
enough. The first thing he did was to enclose the letter to Celia, with
the simple remark that he would try to sympathize with her in her
disappointment.
Philip would have been a little less jubilant if he had known how the
decision of the publishing house was arrived at. It was true that the
readers had reported favorably, but had refused to express any opinion on
the market value. The manuscript had therefore been put in the
graveyard of manuscripts, from which there is commonly no resurrection
except in the funeral progress of the manuscript back to the author. But
the head of the house happened to dine at the house of Mr. Hunt, the
senior of Philip's law firm. Some chance allusion was made by a lady to
an article in a recent magazine which had pleased her more than anything
she had seen lately. Mr. Hunt also had seen it, for his wife had insisted
on reading it to him, and he was proud to say that the author was a clerk
in his office--a fine fellow, who, he always fancied, had more taste for
literature than for law, but he had the stuff in him to succeed in
anything. The publisher pricked up his ears and asked some questions. He
found that Mr. Burnett stood well in the most prominent law firm in the
city, that ladies of social position recognized his talent, that he dined
here and there in a good set, and that he belonged to one of the best
clubs. When he went to his office the next morning he sent for the
manuscript, looked it over critically, and then announced to his partners
that he thought the thing was worth trying.
In a day or two it was announced in the advertising lists as forthcoming.
There it stared Philip in the face and seemed to be the only conspicuous
thing in the journal. He had not paid much attention before to the
advertisements, but now this department seemed the most interesting part
of the paper, and he read every announcement, and then came back and read
his over and over. There it stood:--"On Saturday, The Puritan Nun. An
Idyl. By Philip Burnett."
The naming of the book had been almost as difficult as the creation. His
first choice had been "The Lily of the Valley," but Balzac had pre-empted
that. And then he had thought of "The Enclosed Garden" (Hortus Clausus),
the title of a lovely picture he had seen. That was Biblical, but in the
present ignorance of the old scriptures it would be thought either
agricultural or sentimental. It is not uncommon that a book owes its
notoriety and sale to its title, and it is not easy to find a title that
will attract attention without being too sensational. The title chosen
was paradoxical, for while a nun might be a puritan, it was unthinkable
that a Puritan should be a nun.
Mr. Brad said he liked it, because it looked well and did not mean
anything; he liked all such titles, the "Pious Pirate," the "Lucid
Lunatic," the "Sympathetic Siren," the "Guileless Girl," and so on.
The announcement of publication had the effect of putting Philip in high
spirits for the Mavick reception-spirits tempered, however, by the
embarrassment natural to a modest man that he would be painfully
conspicuous. This first placarding of one's name is a peculiar and mixed
sensation. The letters seem shamefully naked, and the owner seems
exposed and to have parted with a considerable portion of his innate
privacy. His first fancy is that everybody will see it. But this fancy
only comes once. With experience he comes to doubt if anybody except
himself will see it.
To those most concerned the Mavick reception was the event of a lifetime.
To the town--that is, to a thousand or two persons occupying in their own
eyes an exclusive position it was one of the events of the season, and,
indeed, it was the sensation for a couple of days. The historian of
social life formerly had put upon him the task of painfully describing
all that went to make such an occasion brilliant--the house itself, the
decorations, the notable company, men distinguished in the State or the
Street, women as remarkable for their beauty as for their courage in its
exhibition, the whole world of fashion and of splendid extravagance upon
which the modiste and the tailor could look with as much pride as the
gardener does upon a show of flowers which his genius has brought to
perfection.
The historian has no longer this responsibility. It is transferred to a
kind of trust. A race of skillful artists has arisen, who, in
combination with the caterers, the decorators, and the milliners, produce
a composite piece of literature in which all details are woven into a
splendid whole--a composition rhetorical, humorous, lyrical, a noble
apotheosis of wealth and beauty which carefully satisfies individual
vanity and raises in the mind a noble picture of modern civilization.
The pen and the pencil contribute to this splendid result in the daily
chronicle of our life. Those who are not present are really witnesses of
the scene, and this pictorial and literary triumph is justified in the
fact that no other effort of the genius of reproduction is so eagerly
studied by the general public. Not only in the city, but in the remote
villages, these accounts are perused with interest, and it must be taken
as an evidence of the new conception of the duties of the favored of
fortune to the public pleasure that the participants in these fetes
overcome, though reluctantly, their objection to notoriety.
No other people in the world are so hospitable as the Americans, and so
willing to incur discomfort in showing hospitality. No greater proof of
this can be needed than the effort to give princely entertainments in
un-princely houses, where opposing streams of guests fight for progress
in scant passages and on narrow stairways, and pack themselves in
stifling rooms. The Mavick house, it should be said, was perfectly
adapted to the throng that seemed to fill but did not crowd it. The
spacious halls, the noble stairways, the ample drawing-rooms, the
ballroom, the music-room, the library, the picture-gallery, the
dining-room, the conservatory--into these the crowd flowed or lingered
without confusion or annoyance and in a continual pleasure of surprise.
"The best point of view," said an artist of Philip's acquaintance, "is
just here." They were standing in the great hall looking up at that noble
gallery from which flowed down on either hand a broad stairway.
"I didn't know there was so much beauty in New York. It never before had
such an opportunity to display itself. There is room for the exhibition
of the most elaborate toilets, and the costumes really look regal in such
a setting."
When Philip was shown to the dressing-room, conscious that the servant
was weighing him lightly in the social scale on account of his early
arrival, he found a few men who were waiting to make their appearance
more seasonable. They were young men, who had the air of being bored by
this sort of thing, and greeted each other with a look of courteous
surprise, as much as to say, "Hello! you here?" One of them, whom Philip
knew slightly, who had the reputation of being the distributer if not the
fountain of social information, and had the power of attracting gossip as
a magnet does iron filings, gave Philip much valuable information
concerning the function.
"Mrs. Mavick has done it this time. Everybody has tumbled in.
Washington is drained of its foreign diplomats, the heavy part of the
cabinet is moved over to represent the President, who sent a gracious
letter, the select from Boston, the most ancient from Philadelphia, and I
know that Chicago comes in a special train. Oh, it's the thing. I
assure you there was a scramble for invitations in the city. Lots of
visiting nobility--Count de l'Auney, I know, and that little snob, Lord
Montague."
"Who is he?"
"Lord Crewe Monmouth Fitzwilliam, the Marquis of Montague, eldest son of
the Duke of Tewkesbury. He's a daisy.
"They say he is over here looking for capital to carry on his peer
business when he comes into it. Don't know who put up the money for the
trip. These foreigners keep a sharp eye on our market, I can tell you.
They say she is a nice little girl, rather a blue-stocking, face rather
intelligent than pretty, but Montague won't care for that--excuse the old
joke, but it is the figure Monte is after. He hasn't any manners, but
he's not a bad sort of a fellow, generally good-natured, immensely
pleased with New York, and an enthusiastic connoisseur in club drinks."
At the proper hour--the hour, it came into, his mind, when the dear ones
at Rivervale had been long in sleep, lulled by the musical flow of the
Deerfield--Philip made his way to the reception room, where there
actually was some press of a crowd, in lines, to approach the attraction
of the evening, and as he waited his turn he had leisure to observe the
brilliant scene. There was scarcely a person in the room he knew. One
or two ladies gave him a preoccupied nod, a plain little woman whom he
had talked with about books at a recent dinner smiled upon him
encouragingly. But what specially impressed him at the moment was the
seriousness of the function, the intentness upon the presentation, and
the look of worry on the faces of the women in arranging trains and
avoiding catastrophes.
As he approached he fancied that Mr. Mavick looked weary and bored, and
that a shade of abstraction occasionally came over his face as if it were
difficult to keep his thoughts on the changing line.
But his face lighted up a little when he took Philip's hand and exchanged
with him the commonplaces of the evening. But before this he had to wait
a moment, for he was preceded by an important personage. A dapper little
figure, trim, neat, at the moment drew himself up before Mrs. Mavick,
brought his heels together with a click, and made a low bow. Doubtless
this was the French count. Mrs. Mavick was radiant. Philip had never
seen her in such spirits or so fascinating in manner.
"It is a great honor, count."
"It ees to me," said the count, with a marked accent; "I assure you it is
like Paris in ze time of ze monarchy. Ah, ze Great Republic, madame--so
it was in France in ze ancien regime. Ah, mademoiselle! Permit me," and
he raised her hand to his lips; "I salute--is it not" (turning to Mrs.
Mavick)--"ze princess of ze house?"
The next man who shook hands with the host, and then stood in an easy
attitude before the hostess, attracted Philip's attention strongly, for
he fancied from the deference shown him it must be the lord of whom he
had heard. He was a short, little man, with heavy limbs and a clumsy
figure, reddish hair, very thin on the crown, small eyes that were not
improved in expression by white eyebrows, a red face, smooth shaven and
freckled. It might have been the face of a hostler or a billiard-marker.
"I am delighted, my lord, that you could make room in your engagements to
come."
"Ah, Mrs. Mavick, I wouldn't have missed it," said my lord, with easy
assurance; "I'd have thrown over anything to have come. And, do you
know" (looking about him coolly), "it's quite English, 'pon my honor,
quite English--St. James and that sort of thing."
"You flatter me, my lord," replied the lady of the house, with a winning
smile.
"No, I do assure you, it's bang-up. Ah, Miss Mavick, delighted,
delighted. Most charming. Lucky for me, wasn't it? I'm just in time."
"You've only recently come over, Lord Montague?" asked Evelyn.
"Been here before--Rockies, shooting, all that. Just arrived now
--beastly trip, beastly."
"And so you were glad to land?"
"Glad to land anywhere. But New York suits me down to the ground.
It goes, as you say over here. You know Paris?"
"We have been in Paris. You prefer it?"
"For some thing. Paris as it was in the Empire. For sport, no.
For horses, no. And" (looking boldly into her face) "when you speak of
American women, Paris ain't in it, as you say over here."
And the noble lord, instead of passing on, wheeled about and took a
position near Evelyn, so that he could drop his valuable observations
into her ear as occasion offered.
To Philip Mrs. Mavick was civil, but she did not beam upon him, and she
did not detain him longer than to say, "Glad to see you." But Evelyn
--could Philip be deceived?--she gave him her hand cordially and looked
into his eyes trustfully, as she had the habit of doing in the country,
and as if it were a momentary relief to her to encounter in all this
parade a friend.
"I need not say that I am glad you could come. And oh" (there was time
only for a word), "I saw the announcement. Later, if you can, you will
tell me more about it."
Lord Montague stared at him as if to say, "Who the deuce are you?" and as
Philip met his gaze he thought, "No, he hasn't the manner of a stable
boy; no one but a born nobleman could be so confident with women and so
supercilious to men."
But my lord, was little in his thought. It was the face of Evelyn that
he saw, and the dainty little figure; the warmth of the little hand still
thrilled him. So simple, and only a bunch of violets in her corsage for
all ornament! The clear, dark complexion, the sweet mouth, the wonderful
eyes! What could Jenks mean by intimating that she was plain?
Philip drifted along with the crowd. He was very much alone. And he
enjoyed his solitude. A word and a smile now and then from an
acquaintance did not tempt him to come out of his seclusion. The gay
scene pleased him. He looked for a moment into the ballroom. At another
time he would have tried his fortune in the whirl. But now he looked on
as at a spectacle from which he was detached. He had had his moment and
he waited for another. The voluptuous music, the fascinating toilets,
the beautiful faces, the graceful forms that were woven together in this
shifting kaleidoscope, were, indeed, a part of his beautiful dream. But
how unreal they all were! There was no doubt that Evelyn's eyes had
kindled for him as for no one else whom she had greeted. She singled him
out in all this crush, her look, the cordial pressure of her hand,
conveyed the feeling of comradeship and understanding. This was enough
to fill his thought with foolish anticipations. Is there any being quite
so happy, quite so stupid, as a lover? A lover, who hopes everything and
fears everything, who goes in an instant from the heights of bliss to the
depths of despair.
When the "reception" was over and the company was breaking up into groups
and moving about, Philip again sought Evelyn. But she was the centre of
a somewhat noisy group, and it was not easy to join it.
Yet it was something that he could feast his eyes on her and was rewarded
by a look now and then that told him she was conscious of his presence.
Encouraged by this, he was making his way to her, when there was a
movement towards the supper-room, and Mrs. Mavick had taken the arm of
the Count de l'Auney, and the little lord was jauntily leading away
Evelyn. Philip had a pang of disgust and jealousy. Evelyn was actually
chatting with him and seemed amused. Lord Montague was evidently laying
himself out to please and exerting all the powers of his subtle humor and
exploiting his newly acquired slang. That Philip could hear as they
moved past him. "The brute!" Philip said to himself, with the injustice
which always clouds the estimate of a lover of a rival whose
accomplishments differ from his own.
In the supper-room, however, in the confusion and crowding of it, Philip
at length found his opportunity to get to the side of Evelyn, whose smile
showed him that he was welcome. It was in that fortunate interval when
Lord Montague was showing that devotion to women was not incompatible
with careful attention to terrapin and champagne. Philip was at once
inspired to say:
"How lovely it is! Aren't you tired?"
"Not at all. Everybody is very kind, and some are very amusing. I am
learning a great deal," and there was a quizzical look in her eyes,
"about the world."
"Well," said Philip, "t's all here."
"I suppose so. But do you know," and there was quite an ingenuous blush
in her cheeks as she said it, "it isn't half so nice, Mr. Burnett, as a
picnic in Zoar."
"So you remember that?" Philip had not command of himself enough not to
attempt the sentimental.
"You must think I have a weak memory," she replied, with a laugh.
"And the story? When shall we have it?"
"Soon, I hope. And, Miss Mavick, I owe so much of it to you that I hope
you will let me send you the very first copy from the press."
"Will you? And do you Of course I shall be pleased and" (making him a
little curtsy) "honored, as one ought to say in this company."
Lord Montague was evidently getting uneasy, for his attention was
distracted from the occupation of feeding.
"No, don't go Lord Montague, an old friend, Mr. Burnett."
"Much pleased," said his lordship, looking round rather inquiringly at
the intruder. "I can't say much for the champagne--ah, not bad, you
know--but I always said that your terrapin isn't half so nasty as it
looks." And his lordship laughed most good-humoredly, as if he were
paying the American nation a deserved compliment.
"Yes," said Philip, "we have to depend upon France for the champagne, but
the terrapin is native."
"Quite so, and devilish good! That ain't bad, 'depend upon France for
the champagne!' There is nothing like your American humor, Miss Mavick."
"It needs an Englishman to appreciate it," replied Evelyn, with a twinkle
in her eyes which was lost upon her guest.
In the midst of these courtesies Philip bowed himself away. The party
was over for him, though he wandered about for a while, was attracted
again by the music to the ballroom, and did find there a dinner
acquaintance with whom he took a turn. The lady must have thought him a
very uninteresting or a very absent-minded companion.
As for Lord Montague, after he had what he called a "go" in the
dancing-room, he found his way back to the buffet in the supper-room, and
the historian says that he greatly enjoyed himself, and was very amusing,
and that he cultivated the friendship of an obliging waiter early in the
morning, who conducted his lordship to his cab.
