“Ah, so they have. I forgot. Well, what’s your plan?”
“My plan,” said Bellingham, “is to have him to breakfast with me, and interview him generally, and get him to read me a few passages, without rousing his suspicions. Heigh?”
“I don’t know that I believe much in your plan,” said Corey. “I should like to hear what my spiritual adviser has to say.”
“I shouldn’t know what to advise, exactly,” said Sewell. “But I won’t reject any plan that gives my client a chance.”
“Isn’t client rather euphuistic?” asked Corey.
“It is, rather. But I’ve got into the habit of handling Barker very delicately, even in thought. I’m not sure he’ll come,” added Sewell, turning to Bellingham.
“Oh yes, he will,” said Bellingham. “Tell him it’s business. There won’t be anybody there. Will nine be too late for him?”
“I imagine he’s more accustomed to half-past five at home, and seven here.”
“Well, we’ll say nine, anyway. I can’t imagine the cause that would get me up earlier. Here!” He turned to the mantel and wrote an invitation upon his card, and handed it to Sewell. “Please give him that from me, and beg him to come. I really want to see him, and if he can’t read well enough for this fastidious old gentleman, we’ll see what else he can do. Corey tells me he expects Tom on this summer,” he concluded, in dismissal of Lemuel as a topic.
“Ah,” said Sewell, putting the card in his pocket, “I’m very glad to hear that.”
He had something, but not so much, of the difficulty in overcoming Lemuel’s reluctance that he had feared, and on the morning named Lemuel presented himself at the address on Bellingham’s card exactly at nine. He had the card in his hand, and he gave it to the man who opened the street door of the bachelors’ apartment house where Bellingham lived. The man read it carefully over, and then said, “Oh yes; second floor,” and, handing it back, left Lemuel to wander upstairs alone. He was going to offer the card again at Bellingham’s door, but he had a dawning misgiving. Bellingham had opened the door himself, and, feigning to regard the card as offered by way of introduction, he gave his hand cordially, and led him into the cozy room, where the table was already laid for breakfast.
“Glad to see you, glad to see you, Mr. Barker. Give me your coat. Ah, I see you scorn the effeminacy of half-season things. Put your hat anywhere. The advantage of bachelors’ quarters is that you can put anything anywhere. We haven’t a woman on the premises, and you can fancy how unmolested we are.”
Lemuel had caught sight of one over the mantel, who had nothing but her water-colours on, and was called an “Etude;” but he no longer trembled, for evil or for good, in such presences. “That’s one of those Romano-Spanish things,” said Bellingham, catching the direction of his eye. “I forget the fellow’s name; but it isn’t bad. We’re pretty snug here,” he added, throwing open two doors in succession, to show the extent of his apartment.
“Here you have the dining-room and drawing-room and library in one; and here’s my bedroom, and here’s my bath.”
He pulled an easy-chair up toward the low fire for Lemuel. “But perhaps you’re hot from walking? Sit wherever you like.”
Lemuel chose to sit by the window. “It’s very mild out,” he said, and Bellingham did not exact anything more of him. He talked at him, and left Lemuel to make his mental inventory of the dense Turkey rugs on the slippery hardwood floor, the pictures on the Avails, the deep, leather-lined seats, the bric-a-brac on the mantel, the tall, coloured chests of drawers in two corners, the delicate china and quaint silver on the table.
Presently steps were heard outside, and Bellingham threw open the door as he had to Lemuel, and gave a hand to each of the two guests whom he met on his threshold.
“Ah, Meredith! Good morning, venerable father!” He drew them in. “Let me introduce you to Mr. Barker, Mr. Meredith. Mr. Barker, the Rev. Mr. Seyton. You fellows are pretty prompt.”
“We’re pretty hungry,” said Mr. Meredith. “I don’t know that we should have got here if we hadn’t leaned up against each other as we came along. Several policemen regarded us suspiciously, but Seyton’s cloth protected us.”
“It was terrible, coming up Beacon Street with an old offender like Meredith, at what he considered the dead hour of the night,” said Mr. Seyton. “I don’t know what I should have done if any one had been awake to see us.”
“You shall have breakfast instantly,” said Bellingham, touching an annunciator, and awakening a distant electric titter somewhere.
Mr. Seyton came toward Lemuel, who took the young Ritualist for a Catholic priest, but was not proof against the sweet friendliness which charmed every one with him, and was soon talking at more ease than he had felt from all Bellingham’s cordial intention. He was put at his host’s right hand when they sat down, and Mr. Seyton was given the foot, so that they continued their talk.
“Mr. Bellingham tells me you know my friend Sewell,” said the clergyman.
Lemuel’s face kindled. “Oh yes! Do you know him too?”
“Yes, I’ve known him a long time. He’s a capital fellow, Sewell is.”
“I think he’s a great preacher,” ventured Lemuel.
“Ah — well — yes? Is he? I’ve never heard him lecture,” said Mr. Seyton, looking down at his bread.
“I swear, Seyton,” said Meredith across the table, “when you put on that ecclesiastical superciliousness of yours, I want to cuff you.”
“I’ve no doubt he’d receive it in a proper spirit,” said Bellingham, who was eating himself hot and red from the planked shad before him. “But you mustn’t do it here.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Seyton, “Sewell is a very able man, and no end of a good fellow, but you can’t expect me to admit he’s a priest.”
He smiled in sweet enjoyment of his friend’s wrath. Lemuel observed that he spoke with an accent different from the others, which he thought very pleasant, but he did not know it for that neat utterance which the Anglican Church bestows upon its servants.
“He’s no Jesuit,” growled Meredith.
“I’m bound to say he’s not a pagan, either,” laughed the clergyman.
“These gentlemen exchange these little knocks,” Bellingham explained to Lemuel’s somewhat puzzled look, “because they were boys together at school and college, and can’t realise that they’ve grown up to be lights of the bar and the pulpit.” He looked round at the different plates. “Have some more shad?” No one wanted more, it seemed, and Bellingham sent it away by the man, who replaced it with broiled chicken before Bellingham, and lamb chops in front of Mr. Seyton. “This is all there is,” the host said.
“It’s enough for me,” said Meredith, “if no one else takes anything.”
But in fact there was also an omelet, and bread and butter delicious beyond anything that Lemuel had tasted; and there was a bouquet of pink radishes with fragments of ice dropped among olives, and other facts of a polite breakfast. At the close came a dish of what Bellingham called premature strawberries.
“Why! they’re actually sweet!” said Meredith, “and they’re as natural as emery-bags.”
“Yes, they’re all you say,” said Bellingham. “You can have strawberries any time nowadays after New Year’s, if you send far enough for them; but to get them ripe and sound, or distinguishable from small turnips in taste, is another thing.”
Lemuel had never imagined a breakfast like that; he wondered at himself for having respected the cuisine of the St. Albans. It seemed to him that he and the person he had been — the farm-boy, the captive of the police, the guest of the Wayfarer’s Lodge, the servant of Miss Vane, and the head-waiter at the hotel — could not be the same person. He fell into a strange reverie, while the talk, in which he had shared so little, took a range far beyond him. Then he looked up and found all the others’ eyes upon him, and heard Bellingham saying, “I fancy Mr. Barker can tell us something about that,” and at Lemuel’s mystified stare he add
ed, “About the amount of smoke at a fire that a man could fight through. Mr. Seyton was speaking of the train that was caught in the forest fires down in Maine the other day. How was it with you at the St. Albans?”
Lemuel blushed. It was clear that Mr. Bellingham had been reading that ridiculous newspaper version of his exploit. “There was hardly any smoke at all where I was. It didn’t seem to have got into the upper entries much.”
“That’s just what I was saying!” triumphed Bellingham. “If a man has anything to do, he can get on. That’s the way with the firemen. It’s the rat-in-a-trap idea that paralyses. Do you remember your sensations at all, when you were coming through the fire? Those things are very curious sometimes,” Bellingham suggested.
“There was no fire where I was,” said Lemuel stoutly, but helpless to make a more comprehensive disclaimer.
“I imagine you wouldn’t notice that, any more than the smoke,” said Bellingham, with a look of satisfaction in his hero for his other guests. “It’s a sort of ecstasy. Do you remember that fellow of Bret Harte’s, in How Christmas came to Simpson’s Bar, who gets a shot in his leg, or something, when he’s riding to get the sick boy a Christmas present, and doesn’t know it till he drops off his horse in a faint when he gets back?” He jumped actively up from the table, and found the book on his shelf. “There!” He fumbled for his glasses without finding them. “Will you be kind enough to read the passage, Mr. Barker? I think I’ve found the page. It’s marked.” He sat down again, and the others waited.
Lemuel read, as he needs must, and he did his best.
“Ah, that’s very nice. Glad you didn’t dramatise it; the drama ought to be in the words, not the reader. I like your quiet way.”
“Harte seems to have been about the last of the story-tellers to give us the great, simple heroes,” said Seyton.
When the others were gone, and Lemuel, who had been afraid to go first, rose to take himself away, Bellingham shook his hand cordially and said, “I hope you weren’t bored? The fact is, I rather promised myself a t�te-�-t�te with you, and I told Mr. Sewell so; but I fell in with Seyton and Meredith yesterday — you can’t help falling in with one when you fall in with the other; they’re inseparable when Seyton’s in town and I couldn’t resist the temptation to ask them.”
“Oh no, I wasn’t bored at all,” said Lemuel.
“I’m very glad. But — sit down a moment. I want to speak to you about a little matter of business. Mr. Sewell was telling us something of you the other night, at my cousin Bromfield Corey’s, and it occurred to me that you might be willing to come and read to him. His eyes seem to be on the wane, some way, and he’s rather sleepless. He’d give you a bed, and sometimes you’d have to read to him in the night; you’d take your meals where you like. How does it strike you, supposing the ‘harnsome pittance’ can be arranged?”
“Why, if you think I can do it,” began Lemuel.
“Of course I do. You don’t happen to read French?”
Lemuel shook his head hopelessly. “I studied Latin some at school—”
“Ah! Well! I don’t think he’d care for Latin. I think we’d better stick to English for the present.”
Bellingham arranged for Lemuel to go with him that afternoon to his cousin’s and make, as he phrased it, a stagger at the job.
XXVI.
The stagger seemed to be sufficiently satisfactory. Corey could not repress some twinges at certain characteristics of Lemuel’s accent, but he seemed, in a critical way, to take a fancy to him, and he was conditionally installed for a week.
Corey was pleased from the beginning with Lemuel’s good looks, and justified himself to his wife with an Italian proverb: “Novanta su cento, chi � bello difuori � buono di dentro.” She had heard that proverb before, and she had always considered it shocking; but he insisted that most people married upon no better grounds, and that what sufficed in the choice of a husband or wife was enough for the choice of an intellectual nurse. He corrected Lemuel’s pronunciation where he found it faulty, and amused himself with Lemuel’s struggles to conceal his hurt vanity, and his final good sense in profiting by the correction. But Lemuel’s reading was really very good; it was what, even more than his writing, had given him a literary reputation in Willoughby Pastures; and the old man made him exercise it in widely different directions. Chiefly, however, it was novels that he read, which, indeed, are the chief reading of most people in our time; and as they were necessarily the novels of our language, his elder was not obliged to use that care in choosing them which he must have exacted of himself in the fiction of other tongues. He liked to hear Lemuel talk, and he used the art of getting at the boy’s life by being frank with his own experience. But this was not always successful, and he was interested to find Lemuel keeping doors that Sewell’s narrative had opened carefully closed against him. He betrayed no consciousness that they existed, and Lemuel maintained intact the dignity and pride which come from the sense of ignominy well hidden.
The week of probation had passed without interrupting their relation, and Lemuel was regularly installed, and began to lead a life which was so cut off from his past in most things that it seemed to belie it. He found himself dropped in the midst of luxury stranger to him than the things they read of in those innumerable novels. The dull, rich colours in the walls, and the heavily rugged floors and dark-wooded leathern seats of the library where he read to the old man; the beautiful forms of the famous bronzes, and the Italian saints and martyrs in their baroque or Gothic frames of dim gold; the low shelves with their ranks of luxurious bindings, and all the seriously elegant keeping of the place, flattered him out of his strangeness; and the footing on which he was received in this house, the low-voiced respect with which the man-servant treated him, the master’s light, cordial frankness, the distant graciousness of the mistress, and the unembarrassed, unembarrassing kindliness of the young ladies, both so much older than himself, contributed to an effect that afterwards deepened more and more, and became a vital part of the struggle which he was finally to hold with himself. The first two or three days he saw no one but Mr. Corey, and but for the women’s voices in the other parts of the house, he might have supposed himself in another bachelor’s apartments, finer and grander than Bellingham’s. He was presented to Mrs. Corey when she came into the library, but he did not see the daughters of the house till he was installed in it. After that, his acquaintance with them seemed to go no further. They were all polite and kind when they met him, in the library or on the stairs, but they showed no curiosity about him; and his never meeting them at table helped to keep him a stranger to them under the same roof. He ate at a boarding-house in a neighbouring street, but he slept at the Coreys’ after he had read their father asleep, and then, going out to his late breakfast, he did not return till Mr. Corey had eaten his own, much later.
He wondered at first that neither of those young ladies read to their father, not knowing the disability for mutual help that riches bring. Later, he saw how much Miss Lily Corey was engrossed with charity and art, and how constantly Miss Nannie Corey was occupied with social cares, and was perpetually going and coming in their performance. Then he saw that they could not have rendered nor their father have received from his family the duty which he was paid to do, as they must have done if they had been poorer. But they were all fond of one another, and the father had a way of joking with his daughters, especially the youngest; and they talked with a freedom of themselves which puzzled Lemuel. It appeared from what they said at different times that they had not always been so rich, or that they had once had money, and then less, and now much more. It appeared also that their prosperity was due to a piece of luck, and that the young Mr. Corey, whom they expected in the summer, had brought it about. His father was very proud of him, and, getting more and more used to Lemuel’s companionship, he talked a great deal about his Tom, as he called him, and about Tom’s wife, and his wife’s family, who were somehow, Lemuel inferred, not all that his own fami
ly could wish them, but very good people. Once when Mr. Corey was talking of them, Mrs. Corey came in upon them, and seemed to be uneasy, as if she thought he was saying too much. But the daughters did not seem to care, especially the youngest.
He found out that Mr. Corey used to be a painter, and had lived a long time in Italy when he was young, and he recalled with a voluptuous thrill of secrecy that Williams had once been in Italy. Mr. Corey seemed to think better of it than Williams; he liked to talk of Rome and Florence, and of Venice, which Williams had said was a kind of hole. The old man said this or that picture was of this or that school, and vague lights of knowledge and senses of difference that flattered Lemuel’s intellectual vanity stole in upon him. He began to feel that the things Mr. Corey had lived for were the great and high objects of life.
He now perceived how far from really fine or fashionable anything at the St. Albans had been, and that the simplicity of Miss Vane’s little house, which the splendour of the hotel had eclipsed in his crude fancy, was much more in harmony with the richness of Mr. Corey’s. He oriented himself anew, and got another view of the world which he had dropped into. Occasionally he had glimpses of people who came to see the Coreys, and it puzzled him that this family, which he knew so kind and good, took with others the tone hard and even cynical which seemed the prevailing tone of society; when their acquaintances went away they dropped back, as if with relief, into their sincere and amiable fashions of speech. Lemuel asked himself if every one in the world was playing a part; it did not seem to him that Miss Carver had been; she was always the same, and always herself. To be one’s-self appeared to him the best thing in the world, and he longed for it the more as he felt that he too was insensibly beginning to play a part. Being so much in this beautiful and luxurious house, where every one was so well dressed and well mannered, and well kept in body and mind, and passing from his amazement at all its appointments into the habit of its comfortable beauty, he forgot more and more the humility and the humiliations of his past. He did not forget its claims upon him; he sent home every week the greater part of his earnings, and he wrote often to his mother; but now, when he could have got the time to go home and see her, he did not go. In the exquisite taste of his present environment, he could scarcely believe in that figure, grizzled, leathern, and gaunt, and costumed in a grotesque unlikeness to either sex. Sometimes he played with the fantastic supposition of some other origin for himself, romantic and involved like that of some of the heroes he was always reading of, which excluded her.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 317