A Newport Aquarelle/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
Gladys Carleton was not one of the women who are born possessed of a demon of coquetry. The mere suffering which a man undergoes at the hands of a coquette is not in its first effects so greatly to be deprecated. It is in the consequences that lies the deepest wrong which the insincere woman does to the man who loves her. For the distrust of her whole sex which grows upon him, and the conviction that neither she nor her kind are worthy of the best that is in his nature, she is responsible. The disdain which he may feel toward her cannot greatly injure him.
But the spirit in which he regards that tendency in his nature which looks to woman for the truest support of his life, and the systematic hardening of those qualities in him which reach out instinctively to the feminine side of humanity, are soul hurts, which are not healed when the pain of the deceived love has passed.
His judgment of the whole sex cannot fail to be biassed by his experience of the woman who has most deeply interested him. Thus it is that the coquette, by lowering the whole standard of womanhood in the eyes of man, injures her own sex as well as the other.
The forms of coquetry are infinitely varied, and some of them are much more reprehensible than others. The woman who undertakes conquests simply for the glory of displaying at the wheels of her chariot the captive she holds by the rosy bonds of love, is the commonest type.
As her coquetry is of the most patent kind, its wounds are rarely severe or lasting, and yet there is a certain vulgarity about this spirit of conquest, which makes this type of women dangerous to both men and women.
A more subtle and disastrous influence is wielded by the woman who is bent on the scientific analysis of the various effects produced by the tender passion on men of different character and nature.
She has little pigeon-holes marked with different characteristic names, and into these she classifies every new specimen. She is apt soon to discover that the pigeon-holes may be very few, and that nearly all the men she meets will fit exactly into one or another of them.
When she has arrived at this conclusion she is satisfied; two or three good specimens of every sort having been coolly analyzed and properly pigeon-holed.
It is variety, and not quantity, she desires; and, having already become quite familiar with the manner in which a certain species of the genus homo is affected by the greatest of passions, she allows many possible victims to pass by without an effort or desire to add them to her collection; but if a specimen hitherto unclassified crosses her path, she is ready with her little dissecting-knife to peer into the labyrinths of a new phase of human nature.
Another class, perhaps the most dangerous one, into which we are dividing coquettes, includes those women who fancy themselves in love with each fresh lover. These are emotional and sympathetic women, who, being incapable of strong feelings themselves, are borne along by the force of a passion which fascinates them, and which they would gladly reciprocate. In their often renewed disappointment at finding that the new lover cannot make them forget themselves, they feel a sense of injustice, and never dream that they are not the injured ones.
To none of these classes of coquettes did Gladys belong. She had broken her share of hearts in her day, but it was more for want of an occupation than for any other reason. She had no very particular talent for anything, not even for society, in which she was a prominent but not a popular figure.
A great belle she undoubtedly was, which did not make the women particularly fond of her. Men all admired her, and elbowed and fought for a place at her side in the ball-room. A good many of them were in love with her, and yet few liked her. She was admirable, she was lovable, but she was distinctly unlikable.
A certain fondness for the truth made her speak it at all times, even when it carried something of a sting with it.
Her intellect was of a high order enough to show her the insipidity of the men and women among whom her lot was cast. It was not strong enough to force her to leave the circle in which she was born, and strive for a footing in the world of thought, action, art, or literature.
She laughed at the Philistines, and yet avowed herself to be one of them.
The clever men, those who wrote books and painted pictures, if they found themselves in her company, were invariably drawn toward her. She numbered a poet, two journalists, and a marine painter among her winter's conquests.
Tennis was one of her favorite amusements, and when her English acquaintance appeared, in accordance with her permission, at twelve o'clock on the morning after the polo match, he found her dressed for the game. A long practice followed, at the end of which Miss Carleton acknowledged her indebtedness to Mr. Larkington for several points.
"What can I teach you in return for your excellent coaching, Mr. Larkington?" asked Gladys, as they sat on the veranda after lunch. The young man was silent, and absently rolled himself a cigarette, using one hand in the operation, à l'Espagnol.
"You are silent. Does that mean that I cannot teach you anything? Well, perhaps you are right; I am rather an ignoramus."
"Why do you answer your own question? You can teach me many, many things, but what I should like best to learn would be how to please you, Miss Gladys."
"If you want to please me, don't call me Miss Gladys. I am well out of my teens, and do not care to be addressed in that school-girl fashion. I know you have heard other men speak of and to me in that manner; but it is an odious fashion, and I hate it."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Carleton,—I will not offend you again in that matter. What are you going to do this afternoon? You must send me away if I interfere with any of your engagements."
"I am going out at four, in Mr. Belhomme's yacht. I want to see the sunset over the waters. I promised my cousin, before he left, that I would go to a certain spot and get a particular view of the bay. I am quixotic in the matter of promises; yes, really I am, and never break one. Mr. Belhomme has promised to take me just where I want to go. Would you like to go with us?"
"I should of course be delighted; but would it be convenient, do you think?"
"Oh, perfectly; I make up my own party, and invite all the people. Mrs. Fallow-Deer is going as chaperon. I don't know how you will like the company, I fancy you will not know any of them; it is the Boston gang principally."
"Indeed, I never met a Bostonian to know him—or her. They are said to be more like English people than New Yorkers are; is that true?"
"Yes, I suppose it is. Those who come to Newport are a queer lot. We have a great many traditions about the cleverness of the Boston women, the fascinations of the men, but I confess to be greatly at a loss to account for their reputation, which I don't think is deserved. The women are not any prettier, and certainly the specimens we see here are no better informed, than the average New Yorker. They have a curious elephantine way of carrying on flirtations, which is quite peculiar to them. The men are all married and very much married; they seem to have entirely severed their relations with all womankind, save their wives. The few bachelors I have met are so petted and spoiled that there is no enduring them."
"You dispose of them in a few words."
"You shall judge if my remarks are with or without a foundation."
Before many hours passed, Mr. Larkington had an excellent opportunity of noticing the manners and customs of the "Boston gang," as Gladys had disrespectfully spoken of her guests of the afternoon.
The distance from the wharf to the great steam yacht was safely accomplished in a pretty rowboat. As soon as the party were all on board, the good yacht Dolphin steamed out of the harbor, and headed for quiet water, passing along the coast of the island, toward Providence.
Gladys, who was a capital sailor, rather viciously suggested going "outside" into the rough waters of the open sea, but she was silenced by a sharp rebuke from Mrs. Fallow-Deer, who grew pale at the very thought. The ladies of the "Boston gang" seemed no better pleased at the idea, and the Dolphin, abandoning all hopes of a tumble with the waves, cut the quiet waters evenly with her sharp prow.
Miss Carleton expatiated upon the joys of riding over the big waves.
Mr. Larkington was presented first to one and then to another of the ladies, with all of whom he found himself quite at home in a short time.
Their names he was somewhat puzzled by; many of them he had never before met with in any part of the world.
One pretty married woman with an impossible three-syllabled patronymic advised him to come to Boston for the winter, if he should remain so long in America.
She explained that for a man the Athens of America was really the most delightful place in the world. Nowhere else were they so well treated, in spite of all the talk about the rights of women.
"Things are rather reversed with us, and it is the men who have all the privileges. We women are so much in the majority that we practically have the same rights that men do. Indeed, the male sex are, in our community, the privileged class. They are exempt from every social duty, and included in every social pleasure. The charities and the reforms are carried on by ladies, who minister to the sick and uphold the privileges of the criminals. We visit the hospitals and the prisons, pay the taxes, give the parties, oversee the schools, and keep up the churches. It is a fair division, is it not?"
The lady laughed as she asked the question, and Larkington, not knowing what to answer, laughed too.
He was not quite sure whether she was in earnest or in jest. There was a certain want of softness about the voice of the lady with the three-syllabled name, a certain independence of manner, which did not please him, though he thought her pretty and bright. The pillow behind her slipped to the ground as she sat looking at the group of people at the other end of the boat. Larkington started to pick it up for her, but she had involuntarily stooped and regained it.
Then she laughed and said,—
"If Miss Carleton had dropped that pillow, it would never have occurred to her that she might pick it up. You see that I quite naturally leaned forward to get it, though you were so near me. That is the difference between the New York and Boston woman. We expect nothing from mankind; they regard the male sex as simply created for their service. Let us join the others; I think there will be some singing. Somebody has brought Miss Carleton's banjo."
The Englishman was not displeased at the opportunity thus offered of returning to that part of the deck where Gladys Carleton had thrown herself on a pile of ropes. The mast behind her served for a support. She sat in Turk fashion, a thing few women can do with comfort or with grace. At the moment when Larkington approached, Gladys was indulging in the infantile amusement of playing ball with Mr. Silsbee Saltonstall, of Boston. A red apple provided by the steward served for the plaything.
Mr. Saltonstall was a good-looking young fellow of eight and twenty, tall, rather gracefully modelled, with a decidedly handsome head. His was an earnest face, with deep blue near-sighted eyes, blond beard, a wide forehead, and peculiarly sparkling white teeth.
Gladys threw the apple in the most provoking manner, trying every time to toss it out of his reach, but Saltonstall had not played in the Harvard Base Ball Nine for nothing, and he caught it every time, making impossible reaches in all directions.
After a few minutes, Gladys wearied of the game, and tossed the apple overboard "for the fishes," she said.
Then Saltonstall, in obedience to a half-gesture from the girl, took his place beside her on an adjacent pile of ropes.
Gladys did not look at Larkington, who stood near by, but began talking seriously and in a rather low voice to the Bostonian.
"Your sister tells me you are writing a book, Mr. Saltonstall, on the higher ethics of sociology. I was much interested in talking to her about it. I fancy you do not agree with Herbert Spencer in all his premises, from what I know of your character."
"You are quite right, Miss Carleton. I find that, in working out to a logical conclusion the principles which Spencer advances, one finds one's self in a cul-de-sac, and is led up to a blind wall. I therefore maintain that certain of his premises, and the inferences he draws from them, are fallacious. In my book I have tried to explain my doubts of his principles."
"How interesting you must find it to set your mind in an antagonistic attitude to thinkers like Spencer and Huxley! Could you explain to me just where you differ from these English philosophers?"
"In the hypothesis which they maintain concerning cerebral action and intellectual activity. Morality and immorality, according to Huxley, depend merely upon the condition of the muscles and tissues of the body. He admits no responsibility of man, save towards his descendants. For his own misdeeds man is not responsible; his sins are chargeable to the account of society. The inner essence, the ideal side of human nature, is denied. But let us talk of something else besides my hobbies, Miss Carleton. I see I am boring you already, and I have driven your English friend away from your side in terror and amaze."
"And why should you assume that you are boring me, Mr. Saltonstall? Do you think me incapable of following your conversation?"
"Not for an instant, Miss Carleton; it is not that you could not think, and think intelligently, upon this subject, or any other that I could talk to you about—only—I do not think, to speak frankly, that it interests you."
"Then why should I have begun by speaking of it?"
"Your natural goodness of heart prompted you to try to put me at my ease."
"You have known me long enough to know that I have n't any natural goodness of heart."
"Politeness, then. You will acknowledge that you have that quality to an uncommon degree?"
"Prevarication. Pure prevarication this, Mr. Saltonstall. It is quite useless to pursue it with me. Remember that I have known you a very long time, and though our acquaintance has been a superficial one, still it has given me some chances to judge of your character. Dissimulation is not a natural weakness of yours. You have, no doubt, quite enough sins without cultivating that one. Take my advice and remain the living curiosity that you are, the one man who is not a liar. Now tell me why a cloud came into your eyes suddenly, and you shrouded the thoughts in which I was becoming so deeply interested. Frankly now—tell me."
"If you will have the truth, Miss Carleton, I have a particular and possibly unreasonable objection to submitting myself to the process known among ladies as 'drawing a man out.' I distinctly dislike to be made to ride my hobby around a lady's drawing-room, or even around her yacht."
"And why do you think I was drawing you out?"
"Because you are aware that a man is never so agreeably employed as when expounding his own particular theory to an indulgent listener."
"In other words, you imagine that I was martyrizing myself by listening to your talk, in order that I might inspire you with the pleasant impression that you had succeeded in interesting me?"
"Yes."
"From what source have you drawn these conclusions?"
"From my former experience of the fair sex. A man may be flattered even when he is not deceived, Miss Carleton. It is a source of satisfaction to know that one has aroused a desire to please."
"You flatter yourself too much in this case, in fancying that I would take the trouble to counterfeit an interest I do not feel, to act a part, for your benefit."
"It is hardly an effort to follow the dictates of one's nature, Miss Carleton."
"And you imply exactly what?"
"That the love of conquest is fixed in the feminine character. It is the old fable of the knight and the witch. The love of power is the answer to the feminine riddle."
"I really ought to be angry at your impertinence, I suppose. But a soft answer turneth away wrath. I will rather try to convince you of the error of your ways. Women are by nature sympathetic. That natural sympathy of temperament is touched not only on the emotional side, but also on the intellectual. They have thinking-machines which are for the most part kept quite idle,—without 'feed,' to use a mechanical simile. The new thoughts which a man may bring them quickly set the thinking-machine in motion, and it eagerly draws the 'feed' into its interior. Your hobby is to another man who has a stable full of his own, a bore and a nuisance; to a woman who is hobbyless, it is sometimes the greatest pleasure to go for a gallop en croupe behind a gallant rider who bestrides a well-groomed hobby. Now I was in mid gallop over a new road, familiar to you, interesting to me, when the hobby, being well bred, does not stumble, but the man does, and down we all come together, dissatisfied and balked of our ride. The stone in the road which upset us being nothing in the world but the suspicion—vanity—how shall I call that quality in the Boston man which is so individual, so intangible, so utterly exasperating?"
"You cannot expect me to help you to find that word which is to condemn myself."
"I have it—caution."
"Miss Carleton, if a man would keep his peace of mind, he must hold fast to caution in your society."
"Why?"
"Because your fascinations are so devastating to future security and peace."
"Then you would rather not be fascinated? Strange creature! A European would look on you as a lunatic. And yet it is the characteristic of your race. One would almost fancy you to be like the youth in the song of Heine, who, when the beautiful maiden asks him the source of his grief, replies: 'I belong to that race of Asras who must die when they love.' But, to convince you that I have no design in 'drawing you out,' to prove that I am not plotting against your peace of mind, I shall join the Philistines, who have been clamoring for a song; will you help me in the chorus?"
Saltonstall could not sing, unfortunately, and he rather unreasonably resented the breaking up of a tête-à-tête so agreeable, so dangerous. Gladys tuned her banjo, and, a mandolin being found in the depths of Mr. Belhomme's stateroom, Larkington accompanied the music of the tinkling instrument with the softer picking of the mandolin strings. He had learned to play the instrument in Naples long ago, he said. The girl had a strong, sweet soprano voice; the man, a baritone of velvety quality.
They first sang the popular music of the time, the strains of lolanthe and the Sorcerer. Then, as the day waned and the sea and sky grew rosy and golden with the sunset colors, they sang tender Italian folk songs.
Saltonstall stood leaning against the mast, looking at Gladys as she stood facing him, her figure in a pose of perfect grace, her head thrown back a little, her white hands touching the strings of her instrument. Her face was lit up with the warm hues of the sunset clouds; behind her was a background of dark land and gray sky.
As the boat glided smoothly along the shores of the island, the mighty trees of Redwood loomed up, looking twice their size in the uncertain light. Over the tops of the proud trees crept the big yellow moon slowly, flooding the heavens with her light, shaming the garish fires of the western sky.
As they entered the harbor and drew near the wharf, the two voices, which had for a time been silent, broke forth into a "good-night,"—a pretty German serenade, which was received with great applause.
"Thank you for the most perfect day of my life," whispered Larkington, as he helped Gladys down the gangway to the little boat.
"Good-night and good-by, Miss Carleton," said Silsbee Saltonstall. "I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again, as I leave Newport to-morrow."
"And has to-day been so long that the month you yesterday expected to pass at Newport seems to have gone by? Thank you for the compliment. Good-by; bon voyage. Take my advice, and, as you are a cautious Boston man, don't go to Mt. Desert. I should recommend the Adirondacks for you. Good-night."
True to his word, Silsbee Saltonstall left Newport the next morning. He felt himself on the verge of falling in love with the strange girl with the deep eyes and lovely voice. It was not in accordance with his plan of life to fall in love for the next ten years.
He followed Miss Carleton's advice in avoiding Mount Desert, and chose instead a month's camping out in Northern Maine. The sonnet he wrote to her that night after the sail Gladys never saw till years after, when she stumbled upon it in a book of his verses.