Chapter 195

"Yes," said Mavick, too much pleased with the result to be belligerent, "I let the newspaper do the wriggling."

"Oh, my dear, I can trust you for that. Have you any idea how it got hold of the details?"

"No; you don't think McDonald--"

"McDonald! I'd as soon suspect myself. So would you."

"Well, everybody knew it already, for that matter. I only wonder that some newspaper didn't get on to it before. What did Evelyn say?"

"Nothing more than what you heard at dinner. She thought it amusing that there should be such a crowd to gaze at the house, simply because a picture of it had appeared in a newspaper. She thought her father must be a very important personage. I didn't undeceive her. At times, you know, dear, I think so myself."

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Mavick, with a good-natured laugh, in which Carmen joined, "and those times usually coincide with the times that you want something specially."

"You ought to be ashamed to take me up that way. I just wanted to talk about the coming-out reception. You know I had come over to your opinion that seventeen was perhaps better than eighteen, considering Evelyn's maturity. When I was seventeen I was just as good as I am now."

"I don't doubt it," said Mavick, with another laugh.

"But don't you see this affair upsets all our arrangements? It's very vexatious."

"I don't see it exactly. By-the-way, what do you think of the escape suggested by the Spectrum, in the assertion that you and Evelyn had arranged to go to Europe? The steamer sails tomorrow."

"Think!" exclaimed Carmen. "Do you think I am going to be run, as you call it, by the newspapers? They run everything else. I'm not politics, I'm not an institution, I'm not even a revolution. No, I thank you. It answers my purpose for them to say we have gone."

"I suppose you can keep indoors a few days. As to the reception, I had arranged my business for it. I may be in Mexico or Honolulu the following winter."

"Well, we can't have it now. You see that."

"Carmen, I don't care a rap what the public thinks or says. The child's got to face the world some time, and look out for herself. I fancy she will not like it as much as you did."

"Very likely. Perhaps I liked it because I had to fight it. Evelyn never will do that."

"She hasn't the least idea what the world is like."

"Don't you be too sure of that, my dear; you don't understand yet what a woman feels and knows. You think she only sees and thinks what she is told. The conceit of men is most amusing about this. Evelyn is deeper than you think. The discrimination of that child sometimes positively frightens me--how she sees into things. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if she actually knew her father and mother!"

"Then she beats me," said Mavick, with another laugh, "and I've been at it a long time. Carmen, just for fun, tell me a little about your early life."

"Well"--there was a Madonna-like smile on her lips, and she put out the toe of her slender foot and appeared to study it for a moment--" I was intended to be a nun."

"Spanish or French?"

"Just a plain nun. But mamma would not hear of it. Mamma was just a bit worldly."

"I never should have suspected it," said Mavick, with equal gravity. "But how did you live in those early days, way back there?"

"Oh!" and Carmen looked up with the most innocent, open-eyed expression, "we lived on our income."

"Naturally. We all try to do that." The tone in Mavick's voice showed that he gave it up.

"But, of course," and Carmen was lively again, "it's much nicer to have a big income that's certain than a small one that is uncertain."

"It would seem so."

"Ah, deary me, it's such a world! Don't you think, dear, that we have had enough domestic notoriety for one year?"

"Quite. It would do for several."

"And we will put it off a year?"

"Arrange as you like." And Mavick stretched up his arms, half yawned, and took up another cigar.

"It will be such a relief to McDonald. She insisted it was too soon." And Carmen whirled out of her chair, went behind her husband, lifted with her delicate fingers a lock of grayish hair on his forehead, deposited the lightest kiss there--"Nobody in the world knows how good you are except me," and was gone.

And the rich man, who had gained everything he wanted in life except happiness, lighted his cigar and sought refuge in a tale of modern life, that was, however, too much like his own history to be consoling.

It must not be supposed from what she said that Mrs. Mavick stood in fear of her daughter, but it was only natural that for a woman of the world the daily contact of a pure mind should be at times inconvenient. This pure mind was an awful touchstone of conduct, and there was a fear that Evelyn's ignorance of life would prevent her from making the proper allowances. In her affectionate and trusting nature, which suspected little evil anywhere, there was no doubt that her father and mother had her entire confidence and love. But the likelihood was that she would not be pliant. Under Miss McDonald's influence she had somewhat abstract notions of what is right and wrong, and she saw no reason why these should not be applied in all cases. What her mother would have called policy and reasonable concessions she would have given different names. For getting on in the world, this state of mind has its disadvantages, and in the opinion of practical men, like Mavick, it was necessary to know good and evil. But it was the girl's power of discernment that bothered her mother, who used often to wonder where the child came from.

On the other hand, it must not be supposed that the singular training of Evelyn had absolutely destroyed her inherited tendencies, or made her as she was growing into womanhood anything but a very real woman, with the reserves, the weaknesses, the coquetries, the defenses which are the charm of her sex. Nor was she so ignorant of life as such a guarded personality might be thought. Her very wide range of reading had liberalized her mind, and given her a much wider outlook upon the struggles and passions and failures and misery of life than many another girl of her age had gained by her limited personal experience. Those who hold the theory that experience is the only guide are right as a matter of fact, since every soul seems determined to try for itself and not to accept the accumulated wisdom of literature or of experienced advisers; but those who come safely out of their experiences are generally sound by principle which has been instilled in youth. But it is useless to moralize. Only the event could show whether such an abnormal training as Evelyn had received was wise.

When Mrs. Mavick went to her daughter's apartments she found Evelyn reading aloud and Miss McDonald at work on an elaborate piece of Bulgarian embroidery.

"How industrious! What a rebuke to me!"

"I don't see, mamma, how we could be doing less; I've only an audience of one, and she is wasting her time."

"Well, carissima, it is settled. It's off for a year."

"The reception? Why so?"

"Your father cannot arrange it. He has too much on hand this season, and may be away."

"There, McDonald, we've got a reprieve," and Evelyn gave a sigh of relief.

The Scotch woman smiled, and only said, "Then I shall have time to finish this."

Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother's lap, and began to smooth her hair and pet her. "I'm awfully glad. I'd ever so much rather stay in than come out. Yes, dear little mother."

"Little?"

"Yes." And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her stand up to measure. "See, McDonald, almost an inch taller than mamma, and when I do my hair on top!"

"And see, mamma"--the girl was pirouetting on the floor--"I can do those steps you do. Isn't it Spanish?"

"Rather Spanish-American, I guess. This is the way."

Evelyn clapped her hands. "Isn't that lovely!"

"You are only a little brownie, after all." Her mother was holding her at arm's--length and studying her critically, wondering if she would ever be handsome.

The girl was slender, but not tall. Her figure had her mother's grace, but not its suggestion of yielding suppleness. She was an undoubted brunette--complexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in the sunlight, and low on her forehead-chin a little strong, and nose piquant to say the least of it. Certainly features not regular nor classic. The mouth, larger than her mother's, had full lips, the upper one short, and admirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled. A face not handsome, but interesting. And the eyes made you hesitate to say she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel and changeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness under the long eyelashes; and it would not be safe to say that they could not blaze with indignation. Not a face to go wild about, but when you felt her character through it, a face very winning in its dark virgin purity.

"I do wonder where she came from?" Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself, as she threw herself upon a couch in her own room and took up the latest Spanish novel.

IX

Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the days when they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field. And a fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a woman in whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if her advice was not always followed. In the years of student life and preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and painstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the running chronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations. Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most important part of his education. For, though in this way he might never hope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge of himself.

As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhat uncertain. She kept before him a very high ideal; she expected him to be distinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time. Now she would have him take one path and now another. And Philip learned to read in this varying advice the changes in her own experience. There was a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar: there was no position so noble as that of a university professor or president. Then she turned short round and extolled the business life: get money, get a position, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like and be independent. Then came a time--this was her last year in college --when science seemed the only thing. That was really a benefit to mankind: create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.

"Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, the necessity of pure air, you would deserve a monument. And, besides--this is an appeal to your lower nature--science is now the thing that pays." Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in its direction. Law she had finally approved; it was still respectable; it was a very good waiting-ground for many opportunities, and it did not absolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had a sneaking fondness.

Philip wondered if Celia was not thinking of the law for herself. She had tried teaching, she had devoted herself for a time to work in a College Settlement, she had learned stenography, she had talked of learning telegraphy, she had been interested in women's clubs, in a civic club, in the political education of women, and was now a professor of economics in a girl's college.

It finally dawned upon Philip, who was plodding along, man fashion, in one of the old ruts, feeling his way, like a true American, into the career that best suited him, that Celia might be a type of the awakened American woman, who does not know exactly what she wants. To be sure, she wants everything. She has recently come into an open place, and she is distracted by the many opportunities. She has no sooner taken up one than she sees another that seems better, or more important in the development of her sex, and she flies to that. But nothing, long, seems the best thing. Perhaps men are in the way, monopolizing all the best things. Celia had never made a suggestion of this kind, but Philip thought she was typical of the women who push individualism so far as never to take a dual view of life.

"I have just been," Celia wrote in one of her letters, when she was an active club woman, "out West to a convention of the Federation of Women's Clubs. Such a striking collection of noble, independent women! Handsome, lots of them, and dressed--oh, my friend, dress is still a part of it! So different from a man's convention! Cranks? Yes, a few left over. It was a fine, inspiring meeting. But, honestly, I could not exactly make out what they were federating about, and what they were going to do when they got federated. It sort of came over me, I am such a weak sister, that there is such a lot of work done in this world with no object except the doing of it."

A more recent letter:--"Do you remember Aunt Hepsy, who used to keep the little thread-and-needle and candy shop in Rivervale? Such a dear, sweet, contented old soul! Always a smile and a good word for every customer. I can see her now, picking out the biggest piece of candy in the dish that she could afford to give for a little fellow's cent. It never came over me until lately how much good that old woman did in the world. I remember what a comfort it was to go and talk with her. Well, I am getting into a frame of mind to want to be an Aunt Hepsy. There is so much sawdust in everything--No, I'm not low-spirited. I'm just philosophical--I've a mind to write a life of Aunt Hepsy, and let the world see what a real useful life is."

And here is a passage from the latest:--"What an interesting story your friend--I hope he isn't you friend, for I don't half like him--has made out of that Mavick girl! If I were the girl's mother I should want to roast him over the coals. Is there any truth in it?

"Of course I read it, as everybody did and read the crawl out, and looked for more. So it is partly our fault, but what a shame it is, the invasion of family life! Do tell me, if you happen to see her--the girl --driving in the Park or anywhere--of course you never will--what she looks like. I should like to see an unsophisticated millionaire-ess! But it is an awfully interesting problem, invented or not I'm pretty deep in psychology these days, and I'd give anything to come in contact with that girl. You would just see a woman, and you wouldn't know. I'd see a soul. Dear me, if I'd only had the chance of that Scotch woman! Don't you see, if we could only get to really know one mind and soul, we should know it all. I mean scientifically. I know what you are thinking, that all women have that chance. What you think is impertinent--to the subject."

Indeed, the story of Evelyn interested everybody. It was taken up seriously in the country regions. It absorbed New York gossip for two days, and then another topic took possession of the mercurial city; but it was the sort of event to take possession of the country mind. New York millionaires get more than their share of attention in the country press at all times, but this romance became the subject of household talk and church and sewing-circle gossip, and all the women were eager for more details, and speculated endlessly about the possible character and career of the girl.

Alice wrote Philip from Rivervale that her aunt Patience was very much excited by it. "'The poor thing,' she said, 'always to have somebody poking round, seeing every blessed thing you do or don't do; it would drive me crazy. There is that comfort in not having anything much--you have yourself. You tell Philip that I hope he doesn't go there often. I've no objection to his being kind to the poor thing when they meet, and doing neighborly things, but I do hope he won't get mixed up with that set.' It is very amusing," Alice continued, "to hear Patience soliloquize about it and construct the whole drama.

"But you cannot say, Philip, that you are not warned (!) and you know that Patience is almost a prophet in the way she has of putting things together. Celia was here recently looking after the little house that has been rented ever since the death of her mother. I never saw her look so well and handsome, and yet there was a sort of air about her as if she had been in public a good deal and was quite capable of taking care of herself. But she was that way when she was little.

"I think she is a good friend of yours. Well, Phil, if you do ever happen to see that Evelyn in the opera, or anywhere, tell me how she looks and what she has on--if you can."

The story had not specially interested Philip, except as it was connected with Brad's newspaper prospects, but letters, like those referred to, received from time to time, began to arouse a personal interest. Of course merely a psychological interest, though the talk here and there at dinner-tables stimulated his desire, at least, to see the subject of them. But in this respect he was to be gratified, in the usual way things desired happen in life--that is, by taking pains to bring them about.

When Mr. Brad came back from his vacation his manner had somewhat changed. He had the air of a person who stands on firm ground. He felt that he was a personage. He betrayed this in a certain deliberation of speech, as if any remark from him now might be important. In a way he felt himself related to public affairs.

In short, he had exchanged the curiosity of the reporter for the omniscience of the editor. And for a time Philip was restrained from intruding the subject of the Mavick sensation. However, one day after dinner he ventured:

"I see, Mr. Brad, that your hit still attracts attention." Mr. Brad looked inquiringly blank.

I mean about the millionaire heiress. It has excited a wide interest."

"Ah, that! Yes, it gave me a chance," replied Brad, who was thinking only of himself.

"I've had several letters about it from the country."

"Yes? Well, I suppose," said Brad, modestly, "that a little country notoriety doesn't hurt a person."

Philip did not tell his interlocutor that, so far as he knew, nobody in the country had ever heard the name of Olin Brad, or knew there was such a person in existence. But he went on:

"Certainly. And, besides, there is a great curiosity to know about the girl. Did you ever see her?"

"Only in public. I don't know Mavick personally, and for reasons," and Mr. Brad laughed in a superior manner. "It's easy enough to see her."

"How?"

"Watch out for a Wagner night, and go to the opera. You'll see where Mavick's box is in the bill. She is pretty sure to be there, and her mother. There is nothing special about her; but her mother is still a very fascinating woman, I can tell you. You'll find her sure on a 'Carmen' night, but not so sure of the girl."

On this suggestion Philip promptly acted. The extra expense of an orchestra seat he put down to his duty to keep his family informed of anything that interested them in the city. It was a "Siegfried" night, and a full house. To describe it all would be very interesting to Alice. The Mavick box was empty until the overture was half through. Then appeared a gentleman who looked as if he were performing a public duty, a lady who looked as if she were receiving a public welcome, and seated between them a dark, slender girl, who looked as if she did not see the public at all, but only the orchestra.

Behind them, in the shadow, a middle-aged woman in plainer attire. It must be the Scotch governess. Mrs. Mavick had her eyes everywhere about the house, and was graciously bowing to her friends. Mr. Mavick coolly and unsympathetically regarded the house, quite conscious of it, but as if he were a little bored. You could not see him without being aware that he was thinking of other things, probably of far-reaching schemes. People always used to say of Mavick, when he was young and a clerk in a Washington bureau, that he looked omniscient. At least the imagination of spectators invested him with a golden hue, and regarded him through the roseate atmosphere that surrounds a many-millioned man. The girl had her eyes always on the orchestra, and was waiting for the opening of the world that lay behind the drop-curtain. Philip noticed that all the evening Mrs. Mavick paid very little attention to the stage, except when the rest of the house was so dark that she could distinguish little in it.

Fortunately for Philip, in his character of country reporter, the Mavick box was near the stage, and he could very well see what was going on in it, without wholly distracting his attention from Wagner's sometimes very dimly illuminated creation.

There are faces and figures that compel universal attention and admiration. Commonly there is one woman in a theatre at whom all glances are leveled. It is a mystery why one face makes only an individual appeal, and an appeal much stronger than that of one universally admired. The house certainly concerned itself very little about the shy and dark heiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a moment's curiosity. But the face instantly took hold of Philip. He found it more interesting to read the play in her face than on the stage. He seemed instantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with her. So intense was his regard that it seemed as if she must, if there is anything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling, have been conscious of it. That she was, however, unconscious of any influence reaching her except from the stage was perfectly evident. She was absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost in darkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence that there was at least animal life responsive to the continual pleading, suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra. In the semi-gloom and groping of the under-world, it would seem that the girl felt that mystery of life which the instruments were trying to interpret.

At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that other world of the past, to a practical unconsciousness of her immediate surroundings. Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her? Perhaps only the latter, for it is Wagner's gift to reach by his creations those who have little technical knowledge of music. At any rate, she was absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the drama repeated in her face that Philip, always with the help of the orchestra, could trace it there.

But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student of her face. She was not merely discovering the poet's world, she was finding out herself. As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interested in this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation. To see her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow with enthusiasm during the sword-song was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried began his idyl, that nature and bird song of the awakening of the whole being to the passion of love. Then it was that Evelyn's face had a look of surprise, of pain, of profound disturbance; it was suffused with blushes, coming and going in passionate emotion; the eyes no longer blazed, but were softened in a melting tenderness of sympathy, and her whole person seemed to be carried into the stream of the great life passion. When it ceased she sank back in her seat, and blushed still more, as if in fear that some one had discovered her secret.

Afterwards, when Philip had an opportunity of knowing Evelyn Mavick, and knowing her very well, and to some extent having her confidence, he used to say to himself that he had little to learn--the soul of the woman was perfectly revealed to him that night of "Siegfried."