Part 6 (1/2)

”I wonder what she's thinking of now,--what's pa.s.sing in her mind,”

mused Dunham aloud.

”_You_ want to know, too, do you?” mocked his friend. ”I'll tell you what: processions of young men so long that they are an hour getting by a given point. That's what's pa.s.sing in every girl's mind--when she's thinking. It's perfectly right. Processsions of young girls are similarly pa.s.sing in our stately and s.p.a.cious intellects. It's the chief business of the youth of one s.e.x to think of the youth of the other s.e.x.”

”Oh, yes, I know,” a.s.sented Dunham; ”and I believe in it, too--”

”Of course you do, you wicked wretch, you abandoned Lovelace, you bruiser of ladies' hearts! You hope the procession is composed entirely of yourself. What would the divine Hibbard say to your goings-on?”

”Oh, don't, Staniford! It isn't fair,” pleaded Dunham, with the flattered laugh which the best of men give when falsely attainted of gallantry. ”I was wondering whether she was feeling homesick, or strange, or--”

”I will go below and ask her,” said Staniford. ”I know she will tell me the exact truth. They always do. Or if you will take a guess of mine instead of her word for it, I will hazard the surmise that she is not at all homesick. What has a pretty young girl to regret in such a life as she has left? It's the most arid and joyless existence under the sun.

She has never known anything like society. In the country with us, the social side must always have been somewhat paralyzed, but there are monumental evidences of pleasures in other days that are quite extinct now. You see big dusty ball-rooms in the old taverns: ball-rooms that have had no dancing in them for half a century, and where they give you a bed sometimes. There used to be academies, too, in the hill towns, where they furnished a rude but serviceable article of real learning, and where the local octogenarian remembers seeing something famous in the way of theatricals on examination-day; but neither his children nor his grandchildren have seen the like. There's a decay of the religious sentiment, and the church is no longer a social centre, with merry meetings among the tombstones between the morning and the afternoon service. Superficial humanitarianism of one kind or another has killed the good old orthodoxy, as the railroads have killed the turnpikes and the country taverns; and the common schools have killed the academies.

Why, I don't suppose this girl ever saw anything livelier than a towns.h.i.+p cattle show, or a Sunday-school picnic, in her life. They don't pay visits in the country except at rare intervals, and their evening parties, when they have any, are something to strike you dead with pity.

They used to clear away the corn-husks and pumpkins on the barn floor, and dance by the light of tin lanterns. At least, that's the traditional thing. The actual thing is sitting around four sides of the room, giggling, whispering, looking at photograph alb.u.ms, and coaxing somebody to play on the piano. The banquet is pa.s.sed in the form of apples and water. I have a.s.sisted at _some_ rural festivals where the apples were omitted. Upon the whole, I wonder our country people don't all go mad.

They do go mad, a great many of them, and manage to get a little glimpse of society in the insane asylums.” Staniford ended his tirade with a laugh, in which he vented his humorous sense and his fundamental pity of the conditions he had caricatured.

”But how,” demanded Dunham, breaking rebelliously from the silence in which he had listened, ”do you account for her good manner?”

”She probably was born with a genius for it. Some people are born with a genius for one thing, and some with a genius for another. I, for example, am an artistic genius, forced to be an amateur by the delusive possession of early wealth, and now burning with a creative instinct in the direction of the sheep or cattle business; you have the gift of universal optimism; Lurella Blood has the genius of good society. Give that girl a winter among nice people in Boston, and you would never know that she was not born on Beacon Hill.”

”Oh, I doubt that,” said Dunham.

”You doubt it? Pessimist!”

”But you implied just now that she had no sensibility,” pursued Dunham.

”So I did!” cried Staniford, cheerfully. ”Social genius and sensibility are two very different things; the cynic might contend they were incompatible, but I won't insist so far. I dare say she may regret the natal spot; most of us have a dumb, brutish attachment to the _cari luoghi_; but if she knows anything, she hates its surroundings, and must be glad to get out into the world. I should like mightily to know how the world strikes her, as far as she's gone. But I doubt if she's one to betray her own counsel in any way. She looks deep, Lurella does.”

Staniford laughed again at the pain which his insistence upon the name brought into Dunham's face.

VIII.

After dinner, nature avenged herself in the young men for their vigils of the night before, when they had stayed up so late, parting with friends, that they had found themselves early risers without having been abed. They both slept so long that Dunham, leaving Staniford to a still unfinished nap, came on deck between five and six o'clock.

Lydia was there, wrapped against the freshening breeze in a red knit shawl, and seated on a stool in the waist of the s.h.i.+p, in the Evangeline att.i.tude, and with the wistful, Evangeline look in her face, as she gazed out over the far-weltering sea-line, from which all trace of the sh.o.r.e had vanished. She seemed to the young man very interesting, and he approached her with that kindness for all other women in his heart which the lover feels in absence from his beloved, and with a formless sense that some retribution was due her from him for the roughness with which Staniford had surmised her natural history. Women had always been dear and sacred to him; he liked, beyond most young men, to be with them; he was forever calling upon them, getting introduced to them, waiting upon them, inventing little services for them, corresponding with them, and wearing himself out in their interest. It is said that women do not value men of this sort so much as men of some other sorts. It was long, at any rate, before Dunham--whom people always called Charley Dunham--found the woman who thought him more lovely than every other woman p.r.o.nounced him; and naturally Miss Hibbard was the most exacting of her s.e.x. She required all those offices which Dunham delighted to render, and many besides: being an invalid, she needed devotion. She had refused Dunham before going out to Europe with her mother, and she had written to take him back after she got there. He was now on his way to join her in Dresden, where he hoped that he might marry her, and be perfectly sacrificed to her ailments. She only lacked poverty in order to be thoroughly displeasing to most men; but Dunham had no misgiving save in regard to her money; he wished she had no money.

”A good deal more motion, isn't there?” he said to Lydia, smiling sunnily as he spoke, and holding his hat with one hand. ”Do you find it unpleasant?”

”No,” she answered, ”not at all. I like it.”

”Oh, there isn't enough swell to make it uncomfortable, yet,” a.s.serted Dunham, looking about to see if there were not something he could do for her. ”And you may turn out a good sailor. Were you ever at sea before?”

”No; this is the first time I was ever on a s.h.i.+p.”

”Is it possible!” cried Dunham; he was now fairly at sea for the first time himself, though by virtue of his European a.s.sociations he seemed to have made many voyages. It appeared to him that if there was nothing else he could do for Lydia, it was his duty to talk to her. He found another stool, and drew it up within easier conversational distance.

”Then you've never been out of sight of land before?”