CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST EVENING.
CANDACE ARDEN'S mother had not only been Mrs. Gray's cousin, but herparticular friend as well. The two girls had been brought up together,had shared their studies and secrets and girlish fun, and had scarcelyever been separated for a week, until suddenly a change came whichseparated them for all the rest of their lives.
Pretty Candace Van Vliet went up to New Haven on her nineteenth birthdayto see what a college commencement was like, and at the President'sreception afterward met Henry Arden, the valedictorian of the graduatingclass, a handsome fellow just twenty-one years old. He came of plainfarming-people in the hill country of Connecticut; but he was clever,ambitious, and his manners had a natural charm, to which his four yearsof college life had added ease and the rubbing away of any little rusticawkwardness with which he might have begun. Candace thought himdelightful; he thought her more than delightful. In short, it was one ofthe sudden love-affairs with which college commencements notinfrequently end, and in the course of a few weeks they engagedthemselves to each other.
Henry was to be a minister, and his theological course must be gotthrough with before they could marry. Three years the course should havetaken, but he managed to do it in a little more than two, being spurredon by his impatient desire for home and wife, and a longing, no lessurgent, to begin as soon as possible to earn his own bread and relievehis father from the burden of his support. No one knew better than hewith what pinching and saving and self-sacrifice it had been madepossible for him to get a college education and become a clergyman; whatdaily self-denials had been endured for his sake in that old yellowfarm-house on the North Tolland hills. He was the only son, the onlychild; and his father and mother were content to bear anything so longas it gave him a chance to make the most of himself.
It is not an uncommon story in this New England of ours. Many and many afarm-house could tell a similar tale of thrift, hard work, and parentallove. The bare rocky acres are made to yield their uttermost, the cowsto do their full duty, the scanty apples of the "off year" are carefullyharvested, every pullet and hen is laid under contribution for the greatneed of the moment,--the getting the boys through college. It is bothbeautiful and pitiful, as all sacrifices must be; but the years ofeffort and struggle do not always end, as in the case of the Ardens,with a disappointment and a grief so bitter as to make the self-spendingseem all in vain.
For the over-study of those two years proved too much for Henry Arden'shealth. It was not hard study alone; he stinted himself in food, infiring as well; he exacted every possible exertion from his mind, andsystematically neglected his body. The examinations were brilliantlypassed; he was ordained; he received a "call" to Little Upshire, thevillage nearest to North Tolland; there was a pretty wedding in the oldVan Vliet mansion on Second Avenue, at which Kate Van Vliet, herselfjust engaged to Courtenay Gray, acted as bridesmaid; and then thecousins parted. They only met once again, when Mrs. Arden came down fromthe country to see her cousin married. Henry did not come with her; hewas not very well, she explained, and she must hurry back.
That was the beginning of a long wasting illness. Some spring ofvitality seemed to have been broken during those two terrible years atthe theological seminary; and though Henry Arden lived on, and even heldhis parish for several years, he was never fit for any severe study orlabor. The last three years of his life were spent in the old farm-houseat North Tolland, where his aunt Myra, a spare, sinewy, capable oldmaid, was keeping house for his father. Mrs. Arden had died soon afterher son's illness began; her heart was "kind of broken," the neighborssaid, and perhaps it was.
And little Candace and her mother lived on with the old people after thelong, sorrowful nursing was done, and another gray headstone had beenplaced beside the rest in the Arden lot in the North Tolland graveyard,having carved upon it, "Sacred to the memory of the Rev. Henry Arden,aged thirty-four. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessedbe His Holy name." There seemed nothing else for them to do but to liveon where they were. Mrs. Gray was in China with her husband, who at thattime was the resident partner in a well-known firm of tea-importers.Aunt Van Vliet had gone to Europe after her daughter's marriage. Therewas no one to come to the aid of the drooping young widow, and carry heraway from the lonely life and the sad memories which were slowly killingher. For her child's sake she did her best to rally; but her strengthhad been severely taxed during her husband's illness, and dying waseasier than living; so she died when Candace was just eight years old,and the little girl and the two old people were left alone in the yellowfarm-house.
A twelvemonth later, Grandfather Arden had a stroke of paralysis.--Don'tbe too much discouraged, dear children; this is positively the lastdeath that I shall have occasion to chronicle in this story. But itseemed necessary to show what sort of life Candace had lived, in orderto explain the sort of girl she was.--After her grandfather died, AuntMyra, aged sixty-nine, and little Cannie, aged nine, alone remained ofthe once large household; and the farm-house seemed very big and empty,and had strange echoes in all the unused corners.
It was a lonely place, and a lonely life for a child. Candace had fewenjoyments, and almost no young companions. She had never been used toeither, so she did not feel the want of them as most little girls wouldhave done. Aunt Myra was kind enough, and, indeed, fond of her in adry, elderly way; but she could not turn herself into a play-mate. It isnot often that a person who is as old as sixty-nine remembers how itfeels to play. Aunt Myra approved of Cannie especially, because she was"such a quiet child;" but I think Cannie's mother would rather have hadher noisier.
"She's a nice girl as I want to see," Aunt Myra was wont to tell hercronies. "She's likely-appearing enough,--and that's better than beingtoo pretty. And she's helpful about the house for such a young cretur,and she's not a bit forth-putting or highty-tighty. I don't know how Ishould have managed if Candace had turned out the sort of girl some of'em are,--like those Buell girls, for instance, always raising Nedbecause they can't get down to Hartford or Bridgeport to shop and seethe sights and have a good time. As if good times couldn't be had tohome as well as anywhere! Why, I reckon that Miss Buell has more fussand trouble in fitting out those girls every spring of her life thanI've had with Cannie since her mother died. She never makes one mite ofdifficulty, or bothers with objections. She just puts on whatever I seefit to get her; and she likes it, and there's the end."
This was not quite as true as Aunt Myra supposed. Candace wore whateverit was ordained that she should wear, but she did not always "like" it.From her mother she inherited a certain instinct of refinement and tastewhich only needed the chance to show itself. But there was little chanceto exercise taste in the old yellow farm-house, and Candace, fromtraining and long habit, was submissive; so she accepted the inevitable,and, as her great-aunt said, "made no difficulty."
Letters came now and then from "Cousin Kate," far away in China, andonce a little box with a carved ivory fan as fine as lace-work, a dozengay pictures on rice paper, and a scarf of watermelon-pink crape, whichsmelt of sandalwood, and was by far the most beautiful thing that Canniehad ever seen. Then, two years before our story opens, the Grays cameback to America to live; and a correspondence began between Mrs. Grayand Aunt Myra, part of which Candace heard about and part she did not.Mrs. Gray was anxious to know her cousin's child and be of use to her;but first one thing and then another delayed their meeting. The firstwinter the Grays spent at a hotel looking for a house; the second, theywere all in Florida on account of Mr. Gray's health. These difficultieswere now settled. A town house had been chosen, a Newport cottage leasedfor a term of years, and Cannie was asked for a long summer visit.
It was Mrs. Gray's secret desire that this visit should lead to a sortof adoption, that Cannie should stay on with them as a fourth daughter,and share all her cousins' advantages of education and society; butbefore committing herself to such a step, she wished to see what thegirl was like.
"It's so much easier to keep out of such
an arrangement than to get outof it," she told her husband. "My poor Candace was an angel, allsweetness and charm; but her child has the blood of those stiffConnecticut farmers in her. She may be like her father's people, and notin the least like her mother; she may be hopelessly stupid or vulgar orobstinate or un-improvable. We will wait and see."
This secret doubt and question was, I think, the reason why Mrs. Graywas so pleased at Cannie's little speech about Miss Joy and her friend.
"That was the true, honorable feeling," she thought to herself; "thechild is a lady by instinct. It wasn't easy for her to say it, either;she's a shy little thing. Well, if she has the instinct, the rest can beadded. It's easy enough to polish a piece of mahogany, but you may ruball day at a pine stick and not make much out of it."
As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she stole her armacross Candace's shoulders and gave them a little warm pressure; but allshe said was,--
"Dinner in twenty minutes, children. You would better run up at once andmake ready. Cannie, you and I will go to the library,--you haven't seenmy husband yet."
The library was a big, airy room, with an outlook to the sea. There werenot many books in it, only enough to fill a single low range ofbook-shelves; but the tables were covered with freshly cut magazines andpamphlet novels; there was a great file of "Punch" and other illustratedpapers, and that air of light-reading-in-abundance which seems to suit ahouse in summer-time. A little wood-fire was snapping on a pair of verybright andirons, and, June though it was, its warmth was agreeable.Beside it, in an enormous Russia-leather armchair, sat Mr. Gray,--aniron-whiskered, shrewd-looking man of the world, with a pair ofpleasant, kindly eyes, and that shining bald spot on his head whichseems characteristic of the modern business man.
"Court, here is our new child," said Mrs. Gray; "poor Candace'sdaughter, you know."
Mr. Gray understood, from his wife's tone, that she was pleased with herlittle visitor so far, and he greeted her in a very friendly fashion.
"You have your mother's eyes," he said. "I recollect her perfectly,though we only met two or three times, and that was seventeen--let mesee--nearly eighteen years ago it must have been. Her hair, too, Ishould say," glancing at Cannie's chestnut mop; "it was very thick, Iremember, and curled naturally."
"Aunt Myra always says that my hair is the same color as mother's,"replied Candace.
"It is almost exactly the same. Do you remember her at all, Cannie?"asked Mrs. Gray.
"Just a little. I recollect things she used to wear, and where she usedto sit, and one or two things she said. But perhaps I don't recollectthem, but think I do because Aunt Myra told them to me."
"Is there no picture of her?"
"Only a tin-type, and it isn't very good. It's almost faded out; youcan hardly see the face."
"What a pity!"
"Le diner est servi, Madame," said the voice of Frederic at the door.
"We won't wait for the girls. They will be down in a moment," said Mrs.Gray, as she led the way to the dining-room. The sound of their feet onthe staircase was heard as she spoke; and down they ran, the elder twoin pretty dresses of thin white woollen stuff, which Candace in herunworldliness thought fine enough for a party.
People in North Tolland did not dine in the modern sense of the word.They took in supplies of food at stated intervals, very much as alocomotive stops for wood and water when it cannot go on any longerwithout such replenishment; but it was a matter of business andnecessity to do so rather than of pleasure.
Candace, who had sat down opposite Aunt Myra every day as long as shecould remember at the small pine table in the yellow-painted kitchen,with always the same thick iron-stone ware plates and cups, the samelittle black tray to hold the tea-things, the same good, substantial,prosaic fare, served without the least attempt at grace or decoration,had never dreamed of such a dinner as was usual at the Grays'. She saidnot a word to express her astonishment; but she glanced at the thickcluster of maiden-hair ferns which quivered in the middle of the tablefrom an oval stand of repousse brass, at the slender glasses oftea-roses which stood on either side, at the Sevres dishes of fruit,sweet biscuits, and dried ginger, and wondered if this were to be allthe dinner. Did fashionable people never eat anything more substantialthan grapes and crackers? She felt very hungry, and yet it seemed coarsenot to be satisfied when everything was so pretty.
"Consomme, Mademoiselle?" murmured Frederic in her ear, as he placedbefore her a plate full of some clear liquid which smelt deliciously,and offered a small dish of grated cheese for her acceptance.
"Oh, thank you, sir," said Candace, wondering confusedly if cheese insoup was the correct thing.
Mrs. Gray's quick ear caught the "sir." She did not even turn her head,but she mentally added another to the hints which must be administeredto Candace as soon as she was sufficiently at home to bear them.
Spanish mackerel was the next course. Candace inadvertently took up thesteel knife placed beside her plate, instead of the silver one meant foruse with fish. The result was that when the saddle of mutton was served,she had no usable knife. Mr. Gray observed her difficulty, and directedFrederic to bring a steel knife for Mademoiselle, which Frederic did,first casting a scrutinizing glance about as if in search of something;and again Candace felt that she was somehow out of the way.
The climax of her discomfort came with the pretty tinted fruit platesand finger-bowls. Candace's tumbler was empty, and without particularlythinking about the matter she took a drink out of her finger-bowl,which she mistook for some sort of lemonade, from the bit of lemon whichfloated in the water.
The moment after, she was conscious of her blunder. She saw Georgiedabbling her fingers in her bowl. She saw Gertrude with difficultykeeping back a smile which would flicker in her eyes, though her lipswere rigidly grave. Little Marian giggled outright, and then relapsedinto a frightened solemnity. Candace felt utterly miserable. She lookedtoward Mrs. Gray apprehensively, but that lady only gave her anencouraging smile. Mr. Gray put a bunch of hot-house grapes on herplate. She ate them without the least idea of their flavor. With thelast grape a hot tear splashed down; and the moment Mrs. Gray moved,Candace fled upstairs to her own room, where she broke down into a fitof homesick crying.
How she longed for the old customary home among the hills, where nobodyminded what she did, or how she ate, or "had any manners in particular,"as she phrased it to her own mind, or thought her ignorant or awkward.And yet, on sober second thought, did she really wish so much to goback? Was it not better to stay on where she was, and learn to begraceful and low-spoken and at ease always, like her cousin Kate, if shecould, even if she had to undergo some mortification in the process?Candace was not sure.
She had stopped crying, and was cooling her eyes with a wet towel whenshe heard a little tap at the door. It was Mrs. Gray herself.
"Where are you, Cannie?" she said, looking about the room with hershort-sighted eyes. "You are so dark here that I cannot see you."
"I'm here by the washstand," faltered Candace; and then, to her dismay,she began to cry again. She tried to subdue it; but a little sob, whichall her efforts could not stifle, fell upon her cousin's observant ear.
"My dear child, you are crying," she exclaimed; and in another minuteCandace, she scarcely knew how, was in Mrs. Gray's arms, they weresitting on the sofa together, and she was finishing her cry with herhead on the kindest of shoulders and an unexpected feeling of comfort ather heart. Anything so soft and tender as Cousin Kate's arms she hadnever known before; there was a perfume of motherliness about them whichto a motherless girl was wholly irresistible. Gertrude declared thatmamma always stroked people's trouble away with those hands of hers, andthat they looked just like the hands of the Virgin in Holbein's Madonna,as if they could mother the whole world.
"Now, tell me, Cannie, tell me, dear child," said Mrs. Gray, when theshower was over and the hard sobs had grown faint and far between, "whatmade you cry? Was it because you are tired and a little homesick amongus all, or were y
ou troubled about anything? Tell me, Cannie."
"Oh, it's only because I'm so stupid and--and--countrified," saidCandace, beginning to sob again. "I made such horrid mistakes atdinner, and Gertrude wanted to laugh,--she didn't laugh, but I saw herwant to,--and Marian did laugh, and I felt so badly."
"Marian is such a little girl that you must forgive her this once," saidMrs. Gray, "though I am rather ashamed of her myself. I saw all your'mistakes,' as you call them, Cannie, even one or two that you didn'tsee yourself. They were very little mistakes, dear, not worth cryingabout,--small blunders in social etiquette, which is a matter of minorimportance,--not failures in good feeling or good manners, which are ofreal consequence. They did not make anybody uncomfortable exceptyourself."
"Cousin Kate," Candace ventured to ask, "will you tell me why there issuch a thing as etiquette? Why must everybody eat and behave and speakin the same way, and make rules about it? Is it any real use?"
"That is rather a large question, and leads back to the beginning ofthings," said Mrs. Gray, smiling. "I don't suppose I quite understandit myself, but I think I can make you understand a part of it. Iimagine, when the world was first peopled, in the strange faraway timesof which we know almost nothing except the hints we get in the Bible,that the few people there were did pretty much as they liked. Noah andhis family in the ark, for instance, probably never set any tables orhad any regular meals, but just ate when they were hungry, each one byhimself. Savage tribes do the same to this day; they seize their bone ortheir handful of meat and gnaw it in a corner, or as they walk about.This was the primitive idea of comfort. But after a time people foundthat it was less trouble to have the family food made ready at a certaintime for everybody at once, and have all come together to eat it.Perhaps at first it was served in one great pot or dish, and each onedipped in his hand or spoon. The Arabs still do this. Then, of course,the strongest and greediest got the most of everything, and it may havebeen some weak or slow person who went hungry in consequence, whoinvented the idea of separate plates and portions."
"But that is not etiquette," objected Cannie. "People have plates andset tables everywhere now,--in this country, I mean."
"Yes, but can't you imagine a time when to have a bowl or a saucer toyourself was considered finical and 'stuck up,' and when some roughFrank or Gaul from the mountains looked on disapprovingly, and said thatthe world was coming to a pretty pass if such daintiness was to beallowed? A bowl to one's self was etiquette then. All sorts of thingswhich to us seem matter of course and commonplace, began by beingnovelties and subjects for discussion and wonderment. Remember that tea,potatoes, carpets, tobacco, matches, almost all our modern conveniences,were quite unknown even so lately as four or five hundred years ago. Asthe world grew richer, people went on growing more refined. The richestfolks tried to make their houses more beautiful than the houses of theirneighbors. They gave splendid feasts, and hired sculptors and artiststo invent decorations for their tables, and all kinds of little elegantusages sprang up which have gradually become the custom of our own day,even among people who are not rich and do not give feasts."
"But do they mean anything? Are they of any real use?" persisted Cannie.
"I confess that some of them do not seem to mean a great deal. Still, ifwe look closely, I think we shall find that almost every one had itsorigin in one of two causes,--either it was a help to personalconvenience, or in some way it made people more agreeable or lessdisagreeable to their neighbors. We have to study, and to guess a littlesometimes, to make out just why it has become customary to do this orthat, for the original reason has been forgotten or perhaps does notexist any longer, while the custom remains."
"I wonder," said Cannie, whose mind was still running on her ownmishaps, "why people mustn't cut fish with a steel knife. I read in abook once that it was not genteel to do so, and I couldn't think why.And then to-night I didn't see the little silver one--"
"I imagine that in the first instance some old _gourmet_ discovered orfancied that a steel knife gave a taste to fish which injured it. Sopeople gave up using knives, and it grew to be said that it was vulgarand a mark of ignorance to cut fish with them. Then, later, it was foundnot to be quite comfortable always to tear your bit of fish apart with afork and hold it down with a piece of bread while you did so, and thecustom arose of having a silver knife to cut fish with. It is aconvenient custom, too, for some reasons. Waiting on table is quite anart, now-a-days, when there are so many changes of plates, and a goodwaiter always tries to simplify what he has to do, by providing as muchas possible beforehand. You can see that if each person has beside hisplate a silver knife for fish and a steel knife for meat and two forksthese two courses will go on more easily and quietly than if the waiterhas to stop and bring a fresh knife and fork for each person before hehelps to the dish, whatever it is."
"But why is there nothing on the table but flowers and pretty littlethings? And why do they put lemon-peel in the bowls of water?"
"Well, the lemon is supposed to take the smell of dinner away from thefingers. And it isn't always lemon. Frederic is apt to drop in ageranium leaf or a sprig of lemon-verbena, and those are nicer. As forthe other thing, it is more convenient for many reasons not to have thecarving done on the table; but aside from that, I imagine that in thefirst instance the custom was a matter of economy."
"Economy!" repeated Candace, opening wide her eyes.
"Yes, economy, though it seems droll to say so. In the old days, whenthe meat came on in a big platter, and the vegetables each in its largecovered dish, people had to put more on table than was really wanted,for the sake of not looking mean and giving their neighbors occasion fortalk. Now, when everything is carved on a side-table and a nice littleportion carried to each person, you are able to do with exactly what isneeded. There need not be a great piece of everything left over forlook's sake. One chicken is enough for four or five people if it isskilfully carved, but the chicken would look rather scanty on a platterby itself; don't you think so?"
"Yes," said Cannie, with a little laugh. She had forgotten her troublesin the interest of the discussion.
"A dish containing one mutton-chop and a spoonful of peas for eachperson would be called a stingy dish in the country, where every onesees his food on the table before him," continued Mrs. Gray; "but it isquite enough for the single course it is meant to be at a city dinner.There is no use in having three or four chops left over to toughen andgrow cold."
"I see," said Cannie, thoughtfully; "what else did I do that was wrong,Cousin Kate?"
"You called Frederic 'sir,'" replied her cousin, with a smile. "That wasnot wrong, but not customary. Servants are expected to say 'sir' and'ma'am' to their employers as a mark of respect; and people not servantsuse the word less frequently than they formerly did. They keep suchterms for elderly or distinguished persons, to whom they wish to showspecial deference."
"But Aunt Myra always _made_ me say 'sir' and 'ma'am' to her andgrandpapa. She said it was impolite not to."
"She was quite right; for she and your grandfather were a great dealolder than yourself, and it was only respectful to address them so. Butyou need not use the phrase to everybody to whom you speak."
"Not to you?"
"Well, I would quite as soon that in speaking to me you said, 'Yes,Cousin Kate,' as 'Yes, ma'am.' That is what I have taught my children todo. They say, 'Yes, mamma;' 'Did you call me, papa?' I like the soundof it better; but it is only a matter of taste. There is no real rightor wrong involved in it."
Candace sat for a moment in silence, revolving these new ideas in hermind.
"Cousin Kate," she said timidly, "will you tell me when I make littlemistakes, like that about the knife? I'd like to learn to do thingsright if I could, and if it wouldn't trouble you too much."
"Dear Cannie,"--and Mrs. Gray kissed her,--"I will, of course; and I amglad you like to have me. Your mother was the sweetest, most refinedlittle lady that I ever knew. I loved her dearly; and I should love totreat you as I do my o
wn girls, to whom I have to give a hint or acaution or a little lecture almost every day of their lives. No girlever grew into a graceful, well-bred woman without many such smalllessons from somebody. If your mother had lived, all these things wouldhave come naturally to you from the mere fact of being with her andnoticing what she did. You would have needed no help from any one else.But are you sure," she went on, after a little pause, "that you won'tend by thinking me tiresome or interfering or worrisome, if I do as Isay?"
"No, indeed, I won't!" cried Candace, to whom this long talk had beenlike the clearing up after a thunder-shower. "I think it would be _too_mean if I felt that way when you are so kind."