Part 48 (1/2)

She seemed to look at me a moment as for the tip of the ear of irony.

”You doubtless think I exaggerate, and you force me therefore to mention the fact that I speak of such matters with a certain intelligence.”

”I should never dream of doubting it,” I returned, ”but your daughter nevertheless strongly holds that you ought to take her home.” I might have feared that these words would practically represent treachery to the young lady, but I was rea.s.sured by seeing them produce in her mother's placid surface no symptom whatever of irritation.

”My daughter has her little theories,” that lady observed; ”she has, I may say, her small fond illusions and rebellions. And what wonder! What would youth be without its Sturm and Drang? Aurora says to herself-all at her ease-that she would be happier in their dreadful New York, in their dreary Boston, in their desperate Philadelphia, than in one of the charming old cities in which our lot is cast. But she knows not what she babbles of-that's all. We must allow our children their yearning to make mistakes, mustn't we? But we must keep the mistakes down to as few as possible.”

Her soft sweet positiveness, beneath which I recognised all sorts of really hard rigours of resistance and aggression, somehow breathed a chill on me. ”American cities,” I none the less threw off, ”are the paradise of the female young.”

”Do you mean,” she inquired, ”that the generations reared in those places are angels?”

”Well,” I said resolutely, ”they're the nicest of all girls.”

”This young lady-what's her odd name?-with whom my daughter has formed a somewhat precipitate acquaintance: is Miss Ruck an angel and one of the nicest of all? But I won't,” she amusedly added, ”force you to describe her as she deserves. It would be too cruel to make a single exception.”

”Well,” I at any rate pleaded, ”in America they've the easiest lot and the best time. They've the most innocent liberty.”

My companion laid her hand an instant on my arm. ”My dear young friend, I know America, I know the conditions of life there down to the ground.

There's perhaps no subject on which I've reflected more than on our national idiosyncrasies.”

”To the effect, I see, of your holding them in horror,” I said a little roughly.

Rude indeed as was my young presumption Mrs. Church had still her cultivated patience, even her pity, for it. ”We're very crude,” she blandly remarked, ”and we're proportionately indigestible.” And lest her own refined strictures should seem to savour of the vice she deprecated she went on to explain. ”There are two cla.s.ses of minds, you know-those that hold back and those that push forward. My daughter and I are not pushers; we move with the slow considerate steps to which a little dignity may still cling. We like the old trodden paths; we like the old old world.”

”Ah,” said I, ”you know what you like. There's a great virtue in that.”

”Yes, we like Europe; we prefer it. We like the opportunities of Europe; we like the _rest_. There's so much in that, you know. The world seems to me to be hurrying, pressing forward so fiercely, without knowing in the least where it's going. 'Whither?' I often ask in my little quiet way. But I've yet to learn that any one can tell me.”

”You're a grand old conservative,” I returned while I wondered whether I myself might have been able to meet her question.

Mrs. Church gave me a smile that was equivalent to a confession. ”I wish to retain a wee bit-just a wee bit. Surely we've done so much we might rest a while; we might pause. That's all my feeling-just to stop a little, to wait, to take breath. I've seen so many changes. I want to draw in, to draw in-to hold back, to hold back.”

”You shouldn't hold your daughter back!” I laughed as I got up. I rose not by way of closing our small discussion, for I felt my friend's exposition of her views to be by no means complete, but in order to offer a chair to Miss Aurora, who at this moment drew near. She thanked me and remained standing, but without at first, as I noticed, really facing her parent.

”You've been engaged with your new acquaintance, my dear?” this lady inquired.

”Yes, mamma,” said the girl with a sort of prompt sweet dryness.

”Do you find her very edifying?”

Aurora had a silence; then she met her mother's eyes. ”I don't know, mamma. She's very fresh.”

I ventured a respectful laugh. ”Your mother has another word for that.

But I must not,” I added, ”be indigestibly raw.”

”Ah, vous m'en voulez?” Mrs. Church serenely sighed. ”And yet I can't pretend I said it in jest. I feel it too much. We've been having a little social discussion,” she said to her daughter. ”There's still so much to be said. And I wish,” she continued, turning to me, ”that I could give you our point of view. Don't you wish, Aurora, that we could give him our point of view?”

”Yes, mamma,” said Aurora.

”We consider ourselves very fortunate in our point of view, don't we, dearest?” mamma demanded.