April Hopes

  VIII.

  As soon after Class Day as Mrs. Pasmer's complaisant sense of thedecencies would let her, she went out from Boston to call on Mrs.Saintsbury in Cambridge, and thank her for her kindness to Alice andherself. "She will know well enough what I come for," she said toherself, and she felt it the more important to ignore Mrs. Saintsbury'spenetration by every polite futility; this was due to them both: and shedid not go till the second day after.

  Mrs. Saintsbury came down into the darkened, syringa-scented library tofind her, and give her a fan.

  "You still live, Jenny," she said, kissing her gaily.

  They called each other by their girl names, as is rather the customin Boston with ladies who are in the same set, whether they are greatfriends or not. In the more changeful society of Cambridge, where somany new people are constantly coming and going in connection with thecollege, it is not so much the custom; but Mrs. Saintsbury was Bostonborn, as well as Mrs. Pasmer, and was Cantabrigian by marriage--thoughthis is not saying that she was not also thoroughly so by convincementand usage she now rarely went into Boston society.

  "Yes, Etta--just. But I wasn't sure of it," said Mrs. Pasmer, "when Iwoke yesterday. I was a mere aching jelly!"

  "And Alice?"

  "Oh; I don't think she had any physical consciousness. She was a mererapturous memory!"

  "She did have a good time, didn't she?" said Mrs. Saintsbury, in agenerous retrospect. "I think she was on her feet every moment in theevening. It kept me from getting tired, to watch her."

  "I was afraid you'd be quite worn out. I'd no idea it was so late. Itmust have been nearly half past seven before we got away from theBeck Hall spread, and then by the time we had walked round the collegegrounds--how extremely pretty the lanterns were, and how charming thewhole effect was!--it must have been nine before the dancing began.Well, we owe it all to you, Etta."

  "I don't know what you mean by owing. I'm always glad of an excuse forClass Day. And it was Dan Mavering who really managed the affair."

  "He was very kind," said Mrs. Pasmer, with a feeling which was chieflygratitude to her friend for bringing in his name so soon. Now thatit had been spoken, she felt it decorous to throw aside the outerintegument of pretense, which if it could have been entirely exfoliatedwould have caused Mrs. Pasmer morally to disappear, like an onionstripped of its successive laminae.

  "What did you mean," she asked, leaning forward, with, her face averted,"about his having the artistic temperament? Is he going to be an artist?I should hope not." She remembered without shame that she had stronglyurged him to consider how much better it would be to be a painter than alawyer, in the dearth of great American painters.

  "He could be a painter if he liked--up to a certain point," said Mrs.Saintsbury. "Or he could be any one of half-a-dozen other things--hislast craze was journalism; but you know what I mean by the artistictemperament: it's that inability to be explicit; that habit of leavingthings vague and undefined, and hoping they'll somehow come out as youwant them of themselves; that way of taking the line of beauty to getat what you wish to do or say, and of being very finicking about littlethings and lag about essentials. That's what I mean by the artistictemperament."

  "Yes; that's terrible," sighed Mrs. Pasmer, with the abstractly severeyet personally pitying perception of one whose every word and act wassincere and direct. "I know just what you mean. But how does it apply toMr. Mavering?"

  "It doesn't, exactly," returned her friend. "And I'm always ashamedwhen I say, or even think, anything against Dan Mavering. He's sweetnessitself. We've known him ever since he came to Harvard, and I must saythat a more constant and lovely follow I never saw. It wasn't merelywhen he was a Freshman, and he had that home feeling hanging about himstill that makes all the Freshmen so appreciative of anything you do forthem; but all through the Sophomore and Junior years, when they're sotaken up with their athletics and their societies and their college lifegenerally that they haven't a moment for people that have been kind tothem, he was just as faithful as ever."

  "How nice!" cried Mrs. Pasmer.

  "Yes, indeed! And all the allurements of Boston society haven't takenhim from us altogether. You can't imagine how much this means tillyou've been at home a while and seen how the students are petted andspoiled nowadays in the young society."

  "Oh, I've heard of it," said Mrs. Pasmer. "And is it his versatilityand brilliancy, or his amiability, that makes him such a universalfavourite?"

  "Universal favourite? I don't know that he's that."

  "Well, popular, then."

  "Oh, he's certainly very much liked. But, Jenny, there are no universalfavourites in Harvard now, if there ever were: the classes arealtogether too big. And it wouldn't be ability, and it wouldn't beamiability alone, that would give a man any sort of leadership."

  "What in the world would it be?"

  "That question, more than anything else, shows how long you've beenaway, Jenny. It would be family--family, with a judicious mixture of theothers, and with money."

  "Is it possible? But of course--I remember! Only at their age one thinksof students as being all hail-fellow-well-met with each other--"

  "Yes; it's hard to realise how conventional they are--how very muchworldlier than the world--till one sees it as one does in Cambridge.They pique themselves on it. And Mr. Saintsbury"--she was one of thosewomen whom everything reminds of their husbands "says that it isn't abad thing altogether. He says that Harvard is just like the world; andeven if it's a little more so, these boys have got to live in the world,and they had better know what it is. You may not approve of the Harvardspirit, and Mr. Saintsbury doesn't sympathise with it; he only says it'sthe world's spirit. Harvard men--the swells--are far more exclusivethan Oxford men. A student, 'comme il faut', wouldn't at all like tobe supposed to know another student whom we valued for his brilliancy,unless he was popular and well known in college."

  "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Pasmer. "But of course! It's perfectly natural,with young people. And it's well enough that they should begin tounderstand how things really are in the world early; it will save themfrom a great many disappointments."

  "I assure you we have very little to teach Harvard men in those matters.They could give any of us points. Those who are of good family andstation know how to protect themselves by reserves that the otherswouldn't dare to transgress. But a merely rich man couldn't rise intheir set any more than a merely gifted man. He could get on to acertain point by toadying, and some do; but he would never get to bepopular, like Dan Mavering."

  "And what makes him popular?--to go back to the point we started from,"said Mrs. Pasmer.

  "Ah, that's hard to say. It's--quality, I suppose. I don't mean socialquality, exactly; but personal charm. He never had a mean thought; ofcourse we're all full of mean thoughts, and Dan is too; but his firstimpulse is always generous and sweet, and at his age people act a greatdeal from impulse. I don't suppose he ever met a human being withoutwanting to make him like him, and trying to do it."

  "Yes, he certainly makes you like him," sighed Mrs. Pasmer. "But Iunderstand that he can't make people like him without family or money;and I don't understand that he's one of those 'nouveaux riches' who aregiving Harvard such a reputation for extravagance nowadays."

  There was an inquiring note in Mrs. Pasmer's voice; and in thesyringa-scented obscurity, which protected the ladies from theexpression of each other's faces, Mrs. Saintsbury gave a little laughof intelligence, to which Mrs. Pasmer responded by a murmur of humorousenjoyment at being understood.

  "Oh no! He isn't one of those. But the Maverings have plenty of money,"said Mrs. Saintsbury, "and Dan's been very free with it, though notlavish. And he came here with a reputation for popularity from a verygood school, and that always goes a very great way in college."

  "Yes?" said Mrs. Pasmer, feeling herself getting hopelessly adrift inthese unknown waters; but reposing a pious confidence in her pilot.

  "Yes; if a sufficient number of his class said he was the best fellow
inthe world, he would be pretty sure to be chosen one of the First Ten inthe 'Dickey'."

  "What mysteries!" gasped Mrs. Pasmer, disposed to make fun of them, buta little overawed all the same. "What in the world is the 'Dickey'?"

  "It's the society that the Freshmen are the most eager to get into.They're chosen, ten at a time, by the old members, and to be one of thefirst ten--the only Freshmen chosen--is something quite ineffable."

  "I see." Mrs. Pasmer fanned herself, after taking a long breath. "Andwhen he had got into the------"

  "Then it would depend upon himself, how he spent his money, and allthat, and what sort of society success he was in Boston. That hasa great deal to do with it from the first. Then another thing iscaution--discreetness; not saying anything censorious or critical ofother men, no matter what they do. And Dan Mavering is the perfection ofprudence, because he's the perfection of good-nature."

  Mrs. Pasmer had apparently got all of these facts that she could digest."And who are the Maverings?"

  "Why, it's an old Boston name--"

  "It's too old, isn't it? Like Pasmer. There are no Maverings in Bostonthat I ever heard of."

  "No; the name's quite died out just here, I believe: but it's old, andit bids fair to be replated at Ponkwasset Falls."

  "At Ponk--"

  "That's where they have their mills, or factories, or shops, or whateverinstitution they make wall-paper in."

  "Wall-paper!" cried Mrs. Pasmer, austerely. After a moment she asked:"And is wall-paper the 'thing' now? I mean--" She tried to think of someway of modifying the commonness of her phrase, but did not. After all,it expressed her meaning.

  "It isn't the extreme of fashion, of course. But it's manufacturing, andit isn't disgraceful. And the Mavering papers are very pretty, andyou can live with them without becoming anaemic, or having your facetwitch."

  "Face twitch?" echoed Mrs. Pasmer.

  "Yes; arsenical poisoning."

  "Oh! Conscientious as well as aesthetic. I see. And does Mr. Maveringput his artistic temperament into them?"

  "His father does. He's a very interesting man. He has the best taste incertain things--he knows more about etchings, I suppose, than any oneelse in Boston."

  "Is it possible! And does he live at Ponkwasset Falls? It's in RhodeIsland, isn't it?"

  "New Hampshire. Yes; the whole family live there."

  "The whole family? Are there many of them? I'd fancied, somehow, thatMr. Mavering was the only----Do tell me about them, Etta," said Mrs.Pasmer, leaning back in her chair, and fanning herself with an effect ofimpartial interest, to which the dim light of the room lent itself.

  "He's the only son. But there are daughters, of course--very cultivatedgirls."

  "And is he--is the elder Mr. Mavering a--I don't know what made me thinkso--a widower?"

  "Well, no--not exactly."

  "Not exactly! He's not a grass-widower, I hope?"

  "No, indeed. But his wife's a helpless invalid, and always has been.He's perfectly devoted to her; and he hurried home yesterday, thoughhe wanted very much to stay for Commencement. He's never away fromher longer than he can help. She's bedridden; and you can see from themoment you enter it that it's a man's house. Daughters can't changethat, you know."

  "Have you been there?" asked Mrs. Pasmer, surprised that she was gettingso much information, but eager for more. "Why, how long have you knownthem, Etta?"

  "Only since Dan came to Harvard. Mr. Saintsbury took a fancy to himfrom the start, and the boy was so fond of him that they were alwaysinsisting upon a visit; and last summer we stopped there on our way tothe mountains."

  "And the sisters--do they stay there the whole year round? Are theycountrified?"

  "One doesn't live in the country without being countrified," said Mrs.Saintsbury. "They're rather quiet girls, though they've been abouta good deal--to Europe with friends, and to New York in the winter.They're older than Dan; they're more like their father. Are you afraidof that draught at the windows?"

  "Oh no; it's delicious. And he's like the mother?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it's the father who has the artistic taste--he gets that from him;and the mother who has the--"

  "Temperament--yes."

  "How extremely interesting! And so he's going to be a lawyer. Whylawyer, if he's got the talent and the temperament of an artist? Doeshis father wish him to be a lawyer?"

  "His father wishes him to be a wall-paper maker."

  "And the young man compromises on the law. I see," said Mrs. Pasmer."And you say he's been going into Boston a great deal? Where does hego?"

  The ladies entered into this social inquiry with a zest which it wouldbe hard to make the reader share, or perhaps to feel the importance of.It is enough that it ended in the social vindication of Dan Mavering.It would not have been enough for Mrs Pasmer that he was accepted inthe best Cambridge houses; she knew of old how people were accepted inCambridge for their intellectual brilliancy or solidity, their personalworth, and all sorts of things, without consideration of the mysticalsomething which gives vogue in Boston.

  "How superb Alice was!" Mrs. Saintsbury broke off abruptly. "She hassuch a beautiful manner. Such repose."

  "Repose! Yes," said her mother, thoughtfully. "But she's very intense.And I don't see where she gets it. Her father has repose enough, but hehas no intensity; and I'm all intensity, and no repose. But I'm no morelike my mother than Alice is like me."

  "I think she has the Hibbins face," said Mrs. Saintsbury.

  "Oh! she's got the Hibbins face," said Mrs Pasmer, with a disdain oftone which she did not at all feel; the tone was mere absent-mindedness.

  She was about to revert to the question of Mavering's family, whenthe door-bell rang, and another visitor interrupted her talk with Mrs.Saintsbury.