University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MR. WESTERVELT.

OF course I could not let the next morning pass away
without seeing Miss Westervelt. I meant to speak
warmly; to rejoice frankly in having delivered her
from peril; to claim by some subtle word an interest in that
life which I had perhaps preserved: to attempt boldly to
read a secret in her eyes, careless whether my own revealed
one; to touch her hand with a pressure which should demand
recognition and answer. I set off for Seacliff with a brow
as elate and a step as light, as if the crown of wealth and
the wings of fame which I had proposed to win were already
mine. A few moments of lonely waiting in the parlor dispelled
this cheerful illusion, and made me sensible that I had
not mounted above the doubts and diffidences of ordinary humanity.
Presently a sweet rustle of dress,—a fragrance of
silken sound,—a descent without foot-falls,—told me that Miss
Westervelt was coming; and my heart began to beat as if it
meant to finish its threescore years and ten in as many
minutes.

“Mr. Fitz Hugh,—I am so obliged to you! I shall never
forget what I owe you,” she said, putting out her hand
timidly.

“You are very kind. I am glad that—that I have been
able to do you a service,” I replied, taking the soft and pliant
fingers, only to let them slide quietly away from me.

How stagnant, and frigid, and mean, often are the words

that a man utters at the very moment when his nature is
stirred most passionately. Deep down in the dungeons of
the soul, in the “black hole” of the heart, the imprisoned
emotions are wrestling and shrieking for air; but no sound
of the agony penetrates the dumb walls, and the placid, dissembling
jailer at the gate babbles of the news and the
weather. My face, I believe, was respectably calm, and I
am sure that what I said would not have startled the attention
of a stranger. I misplaced some words: her eyes dropped
as she gently answered; and that was all there was of
visible emotion. How often it happens thus! The moment
of moments,—the moment that of all we most longed for and
cherished in anticipation,—it arrives at last, and we are so
paralyzed that we cannot stretch out our hands to improve it.
The carrier-dove of opportunity appears in the distance; it
circles over our heads and alights with soft flutter of loving
wings on our shoulders; it rises into the clouds again, and
we have neither secured its message nor charged it with an
answer.

How differently from me would Somerville have behaved
and talked, and how differently he did talk when he entered
the room five minutes after Miss Westervelt! I was a mere
militiaman, awkward in manœuvre, and subject to panics,
compared with this disciplined mercenary of society, drilled
from childhood in the manual exercise of politeness, proof
against every surprise, master of every feint and stratagem.
Blandly and dulcetly he prated away the time until the whole
family had gathered in the parlor. Humbled at my inferiority,
and vexed that I had let slip my golden chance, I was
more silent than usual, notwithstanding that Mrs. Van Leer
seated herself by me and opened a coquettish chatter which
should have been enough to win small-talk from a fossil ichthyosaurus.

“Mary!” she called, at last, “Mr. Fitz Hugh is melancholy
this morning. He thinks that he hasn't been fairly
rewarded, I sup—pose; and he is quite right. You haven't

done anything that young ladies in novels usually do to their
preser—vers. Get the pic—ture now; let him see what is
coming.”

“You naughty creature!” says the blushing Mary. “I
told you not to speak of that till it was done, and not even
then. That was my right.”

“Well, go and get it now,” returned Mrs. Van. “I have
spoilt your sur—prise, you see, and there is no use in keeping
half a secret.”

Miss Westervelt left the room for a moment, and returned
with a drawing-book, from which she produced, with the
usual maidenly flutterings, a crayon sketch, spirited though
unfinished, representing our runaway adventure. The moment
chosen was the very crisis of the rescue; both horses
rearing magnificently; the black foaming in the background;
the bay on the near side, half a length behind; the lady
bending forward as if shaken in her seat by the sudden
check of speed; the champion clutching the broken rein with
a sublime indifference to his equilibrium. The picture was
not yet half completed, but enough was done to show a respectable
talent at composition, and the animals, in particular,
were remarkably lifelike and vigorous.

“It is beautiful,—it is wonderful!” I exclaimed, with an
earnestness of gratification which brought a burst of laughter
from Mrs. Van Leer. “But really it is well done,” I asserted,
reddening consciously. “The horses are perfect.
Why, Miss Westervelt, you will make Rosa Bonheur shake
in her horseshoes.”

“Ah! you suspected me,—you have found me out,” she
said. “The horses I could not do; and so I copied them,
separately, out of some engravings that I will show you.
But I did the grouping, and you shall see whether I can
finish the human figures. I like drawing, and I faintly hope
to design something original yet.”

“No doubt you will; you are naturally a designing creature,
Mary,” observed Mrs. Van Leer.

“All women are,” said her husband, and laughed tremendously
at what he considered his joke.

Coloring a little, perhaps at Mrs. Van Leer's accusation,
perhaps at my immense interest in the little picture, Miss
Westervelt went to a window and fell to sketching industriously.
I took my stand beside her, as might reasonably
have been expected; for was not the drawing mine, and was
not my portrait needed to its completeness? The white, plump
hand, bold in touch, and flexile in movement, brooded over
and quickened into warmer life its creations. It is a rare luxury,
I imagine, that of seeing one's own likeness wrought out
by the fingers that in all the world one holds the dearest;
and I enjoyed something more than this even, for I discovered
that Miss Westervelt could hit off my profile without
glancing at me, as if transferring it from memory. Of
course she flattered it, and of course I thanked her in my
soul. But the devil is a malicious creature, ever anxious,
they say, to disturb anything which reminds him of heaven;
and he presently stirred up Mrs. Van Leer to throw her
shadow and Somerville's over my enjoyment. Passing her
arm through his in a pert, familiar way, which was particularly
offensive when associated with my suspicions of her,
she drew him to my side, obliging me to give her place, and
watched with a knowing smile the process of filling in my
portrait.

“Excellent!” said she. “Mr. Fitz Hugh's moustache to
a hair; only the expression should be a little more worried;
ter—rible anxiety for the la—dy, you know. But really,
Mary, you must let Mr. Somerville sketch your face. He
has a par—ticular talent for taking ladies. I mean taking
their likenesses, of course; nothing else. He has done my
face and Mrs. Westervelt's to per—fection. Come, cousin,
let him try his hand on you, that's a dear girl.”

“Not a stroke of it,” replied I, positively. “I beg your
pardon for the contradiction, Mrs. Van Leer; but every
line of the drawing must be done by Miss Westervelt, or I
refuse it.”

“You see how unreasonable he is,” said my artist, with a
little laugh, which I thought indicated gratification.

“Well, I nev—er would permit a man to dictate in that
style,” observed Mrs. Van Leer, half piqued, half jesting.
“You must not al—low it, Mary; it is encouraging the ugly
sex in bad man—ners. Now, Mr. Somerville has been better
taught; he is meekly, and to the smallest fragment of him,
under my thumb; and to prove it he is going now to flirt in
the library, quite away from Mr. Fitz Hugh's naughty example.”

Oh, you brazen, affected, drawling flirt! I thought. I
wish that your husband had sense enough to keep an eye
on you. I wish that Mr. Westervelt would arrive and put a
stop to this shameless trifling.

Just then the doorbell rang, and Genevieve ran to the
front of the parlor, crying, “Papa! papa!”

Mr. Westervelt stood in the verandah, tapping on a window
with his umbrella, and smiling at us through the plate-glass.
Mary sprang from her seat, and flew into the hall to give
him entrance. He came in presently, his arm around her
waist, kissing her very fondly and calling her pet names,
while she held up her drawing before his face, saying, “See
there, papa; see what has happened to me.”

“What is that, my child?” he asked, but immediately
pushed it away to embrace Genevieve. Mrs. Westervelt
had started up at sight of him, but had not advanced, and
stood awaiting him with a strange air of hesitation, which
was perfectly manifest, although of course, incomprehensible
to me, who knew so little of his conjugal character. He did
not notice it; seemed very glad to see her; kissed her and
called her his dear Ellen. Her eye followed him with ill-concealed
anxiety, until his gaze rested on the calm, smiling,
handsome countenance of Somerville. She, too, has guessed
the dark secret, I thought; she knows that she ought not to
have let that wolf into the fold; she expects blame for her
unfaithful watch and ward.

“How do you do, Mr. Westervelt?” said the wolf, coming
forward and shaking the hand of the family chief with such
a mien of respect, that it was like incense. “I have an
impertinent air of welcoming you to your own house, sir.
You will excuse it?”

“Certainly, certainly. You are very welcome. I hope
you have been made comfortable, sir,” murmured Mr.
Westervelt, in a hesitating, troubled tone, as if half choked
by the civilities which he felt compelled to utter.

I was now introduced to him, in form; for he seemed not
to remember me.

“Oh!” said he,—“Mr. Fitz Hugh,—yes, we parted somewhere
in—in Switzerland, I believe. Yes, yes, I remember
now, perfectly. Excuse me for not recollecting you at once;
—I am a little short-sighted. I hope that you have—have
been very well, sir.”

My health during the very considerable space of time
since our last meeting, had been excellent; and I told him
so, with thanks for his inquiry, although I suspected that he
set small store by the information. “I am glad,” he rejoined,
bowing, “very glad to—to welcome you to my house, sir.”

“Thank you, sir. I have the pleasure of lodging near
you, with your neighbour, Mr. Treat,” I replied, anxious to
be received on my proper footing, and not as an intruder.

“Oh, you are not staying in the house? Well, we shall
always be most happy to have you call, Mr.—Mr. Fitz
Hugh.”

He now turned cordially to the Van Leers, addressing
Robert, especially, with a warmth so almost paternal, that it
annoyed me exceedingly. The salutations over, he begged to
be excused, and went off to wash away the dust of his journey.
I had studied him well, and felt disheartened: he was
clearly, not the man for my imagined exigency; no match
for Somerville, and hardly for Mrs. Van Leer. Since I left
him shivering amidst the misty morning glories of the Righi,
he had altered little, but altered for the worse, that is for the

weaker. He looked thinner, and frailer in body, more
worn, more worried, more timorous in spirit, more incapable
than ever of energetic resolve or execution. His dress, even
taking into consideration a railroad trip of two hours, seemed
careless; his thin, blonde faintly-silvered hair, hung in a disorder
unknown of old even to diligences and glaciers; and,
altogether, that halo of spruceness, which marked him in the
earlier days of his second marriage, had faded sadly in glory.
His tones had softened beyond their former hesitating softness;
his mild eye rarely rose to your face, when he addressed
you; or, if by chance it met yours, it dropped
hastily.

He returned presently, followed by his daughters, who had
run out to wait on him. Mrs. Van Leer, still keeping Somerville's
arm, was promenading the parlor with a semi-polking
step, and talking nonsense. Her husband and his brother
occupied separate window-seats, whence they could stare at
the Sound, and so enliven their heavy minds with the white
sails which brightened and darkened as they tacked across
its tremulous expanse. Miss Westervelt resumed her
sketch, and Genevieve her embroidery. Mr. Westervelt
seated himself on a sofa beside his wife, fidgeting there like
a nervous visitor, and occasionally casting glances of timid
inquiry at the passing and repassing Somerville. As for
me, I had been captured by Mr. Hunter, who made me sail
down the meandering frothy current of one of his tedious
stories about himself; but in spite of his interminable stream
of babble, and in spite of my efforts not to listen to what
was not intended for my ears, I overheard the general
purport of Mr. Westervelt's conversation. It consisted of
sighing complaints concerning the hard times and the unprofitableness
of business.

“But everybody else says that it is good times, papa, and
that business is lively,” observed Genevieve.

“Lively!” he returned with a groan. “It is lively, just
as a cheese is lively when it is full of nibbling mice. The

stock gamblers and swindlers are lively, Jenny, and real
honest business is suffering. Almost everybody that I can
hear of,—almost everybody, I tell you,—has been making
losses,—making losses in private that never get into the
papers,—things that you don't hear of, Jenny. If the slightest
pressure should come, multitudes of men would collapse
who are supposed to be as sound and solid as granite. People
are doing a great deal,—frightful amount of business,—
but it is mostly out of pocket. It is perfectly astonishing
how many houses I know of that are only keeping along,—
preserving splendid appearances and keeping along,—that is
all.”

When a man has the dropsy, or the rheumatism, or the
bronchitis, or the dyspepsia, it is incredible how many people
he finds who are afflicted like unto himself; while his robust
neighbor, whose juices are healthy, bones painless, throat
sound, and digestion uniformly triumphant, is hardly aware
that there is an invalid in all his acquaintance. Mr. Westervelt's
ill-luck in business was a chronic affair, which led him
into a wide sympathetic knowledge of other cases of financial
decrepitude. Misery not only loves company, but usually
finds plenty of it.

“But the papers say that there is plenty of money,” persisted
Genevieve. “I should think you must finally pick
up some of it, papa, looking about as sharp as you do. I
suppose that when a man has plenty of money he has good
times.”

“Ah! there is too much of it,” he moaned. “Too much
of it. Everything is inflated; everything is too high; the
cost of living is frightful. I wish that you,—that you women
could ever realize how much it takes to dress you. But that
is what you never can be got to think of.”

“But, papa, one bad speculation costs you more than all
our dresses for all our lives,” retorted Genevieve, with her
accustomed acuteness. “What makes you speculate, papa?”

“You don't know what you are talking about, child,” said

he, evidently bothered by the question. “Well, well, let's
have done with the subject; let's have done with it.”

Mr. Westervelt, like the majority of my respected fellow
countrymen, was business-bitten. During the early part of
my sojourn at Seacliff, money matters were the only things
on which he could talk fluently and earnestly. Say, “Stocks,”
in his hearing, and he turned upon you as full of excitement
as a dog when you say, “S't-boy.” Eager to get rich, eager
to become independent of a father who bullied him, he had
plunged into the sea of exchange gambling, without the coolness
necessary to take advantage of its onsets, or the sanguine
temperament fitted to bear its reverses. Whether
lucky or unlucky, he was always low-spirited, and generally
looked as if he had eight or ten notes out, lying among his
bank accounts, like lighted bombshells in a magazine, and
sure to blow him to atoms the moment their brief fuses were
consumed.

In this matter of melancholy he was well paired with his
wife, who often bore about a joyless look, which was not so
much downright sorrow as disheartenment and calm weariness.
Somewhere in her life, there seemed to be a dreary
ache, of which she herself, perhaps, could not have explained
the cause. It might have been the slow, dull oppression of
delicate health, or it might have been the empty sadness
which overtakes all frivolous natures when the first flush of
youth leaves them and they are removed from their accustomed
scenes of social gayety. This depressed air gave her
a fitful interest in my eyes, although I felt all the while that
she was not worth a moment's serious study. Sometimes the
veil lifted, and she was chatty, frolicsome, almost boisterous,
for a day or two together; then, without any apparent cause,
it would redescend, silencing her puerile mirth, and draping
her brow once more with its gauzy, deceptive romance.

Presently Mr. Westervelt lifted his eyes to his eldest
daughter, and asked languidly, “What are you drawing
there, Mary?”

She put the sketch in his lap and laughed out blushingly,
“Who are they, papa?”

“Why, the young lady,—let me see,—looks like—why,
I should say she looks a little like you. And the other,—
the gentleman;—well, Mary, who is the gentleman, and
what does the picture mean?”

“Between Mary and Genevieve the story was at length
narrated, Mr. Westervelt rose, approached me and shook
both my hands with an excitement of manner which contrasted
strongly with his ordinary languor. “I thank you,
sir,” said he. “I thank you with all my heart for saving my
child's life. I am ashamed, sir, that I have suffered you to
remain here so long without expressing my gratitude to you.
But, you see, I did not know of this, sir;—I did not know
how indebted I was to you;—I beg to offer you my excuses
and my warmest thanks. I am heartily glad to see you
under my—but stop—I—it seems to me that you said you
were stopping at my neighbor's. How is that, Mrs. Westervelt?
My dear sir, you must come directly to our house,
and let us see to your comfort.”

“Ah, papa, papa!” broke in Genevieve, laughing; “the
house is full; there isn't a room. It is too bad, but there
isn't even a closet.”

“Oh—ah—no room,” he stammered. “That is very unfortunate.
I am sorry, sir, on my own account; exceedingly
mortified.”

“Don't think of it, I beg of you, sir,” said I, stammering
as much as himself; for I was surprised, proud, and happy,
to hear him express so much gratitude. “I am exceedingly
comfortable,—perfectly well off with Mr. Treat.”

“With your Pa,” interposed Mary; and then that story
had to be told.

“Well, it is remarkably interesting,—quite a romantic
incident,” observed Mr. Westervelt. “Old foster-parents;
that reminds me of Irish novels; very interesting, indeed.—
But our house, by the way, I don't see how it can be full.

Oh! I comprehend,” he added, glancing at Somerville.
After a moment's hesitation, during which he looked particularly
flurried and low-spirited, he addressed his wife in a
whisper. “My dear, how comes he—how comes Mr. Somerville
to be here?”

“Why, he is visiting us, papa,” put in Genevieve suddenly,
and almost tartly.

Mrs. Westervelt moved her lips, but made no reply that
was audible, at least to me.

Mary bent lower over the drawing, and continued to work
in silence.

“Ah—yes,” sighed the husband and father, and let his
head fall back languidly, with the air of a man who has been
only half answered but dares not insist upon his inquiries. I
felt actually angry with him as I noted his irresolute hands
playing over and over each other, and his faded blue eyes
wandering out of the window, as if seeking to avoid any possible
cause of conflict within. If he wishes to prosecute the
subject, why doesn't he? I thought. How can he, the master
of the house, the head of the family, permit himself to be so
disconcerted and checked by a spunky little slip of a youngest
daughter? His home might become a nest of Lotharios and
blacklegs, for all such a guardian as he.

This was not my first discovery, it will be remembered,
that the beautiful Miss Genevieve had more spirit than was
absolutely necessary to keep her sweet. Loving and lovable
to her friends as long as they pleased her, the moment they
contradicted her fancies, she could fly at them, be it sister or
father, like a little tigress. At times she confessed, with delightful
frankness, to having a high temper; but, like many
other people similarly blessed, she rather thought it a convenient
thing to have; and even, when not using it, she often
kept it in sight and in terrorem, like a bully's bowie-knife
peeping from his bosom.

Annoyed beyond measure at the upshot of the conversation,
I paid my compliments and retired. Hurrying through

one of the thickest shrubbery walks of the garden, I came
across Mrs. Van Leer, leaning on Somerville's arm, and listening
to his talk with a downcast eye of mock timidity. She
colored slightly, but otherwise concealed all feeling under a
smile of heroic impudence, while her companion was as calm,
pensive, majestically innocent in air, as Plato might have been
when he talked his platonic love nonsense to some Aspasia of
his time under the shades of Academus. As I passed them,
he touched my arm, and pointed smilingly through the evergreens.
Following the line of his white forefinger, I saw Mr.
Westervelt on the edge of the bluff, holding Robert Van
Leer by the arm, and conversing with an earnestness which
smacked of notes to meet and loans to make.

“Sanguinary, isn't it?” whispered Somerville. “Our
robust young friend is being bled for funds. Westervelt has
spent all his cash in western lands, and is undoubtedly hard
up.”

If he meant to divert my thoughts from himself and Mrs.
Van Leer, he had accomplished his design. Of course,
thought I dolorously, Robert must have something for his
money; and of course he will never get anything nor ask for
anything but Miss Westervelt. I felt as if I had been bled
myself, not figuratively, but physically, and to a most weakening
extent, as I turned away and marched toward my
boarding-place.