University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
A DINNER PARTY.

Having assumed the payment of Mr. Blessing's note,
as the first instalment upon his stock, Joseph was compelled
to prepare himself for future emergencies. A year
must still elapse before the term of the mortgage upon
his farm would expire, but the sums he had invested for
the purpose of meeting it when due must be held ready
for use. The assurance of great and certain profit in the
mean time rendered this step easy; and, even at the worst,
he reflected, there would be no difficulty in procuring a
new mortgage whereby to liquidate the old. A notice
which he received at this time, that a second assessment
of ten per cent. on the Amaranth stock had been made,
was both unexpected and disquieting. Mr. Blessing,
however, accompanied it with a letter, making clear not
only the necessity, but the admirable wisdom of a greater
present outlay than had been anticipated. So the first
of April—the usual business anniversary of the neighborhood—went
smoothly by. Money was plenty, the Asten
credit had always been sound, and Joseph tasted for the
first time a pleasant sense of power in so easily receiving
and transferring considerable sums.

One result of the venture was the development of a new
phase in Julia's nature. She not only accepted the future
profit as certain, but she had apparently calculated its exact
amount and framed her plans accordingly. If she had been

humiliated by the character of Joseph's first business transaction
with her father, she now made amends for it. “Pa”
was their good genius. “Pa” was the agency whereby they
should achieve wealth and social importance. Joseph now
had the clearest evidence of the difference between a man
who knew the world and was of value in it, and their slow,
dull-headed country neighbors. Indeed, Julia seemed to
consider the Asten property as rather contemptible beside
the splendor of the Blessing scheme. Her gratitude for a
quiet home, her love of country life, her disparagement of
the shams and exactions of “society,” were given up as suddenly
and coolly as if she had never affected them. She
gave herself no pains to make the transition gradual, and
thus lessen its shock. Perhaps she supposed that Joseph's
fresh, unsuspicious nature was so plastic that it had already
sufficiently taken her impress, and that he would easily forget
the mask she had worn. If so, she was seriously mistaken.

He saw, with a deadly chill of the heart, the change in
her manner,—a change so complete that another face confronted
him at the table, even as another heart beat beside
his on the dishallowed marriage-bed. He saw the gentle
droop vanish from the eyelids, leaving the cold, flinty pupils
unshaded; the soft appeal of the half-opened lips was lost
in the rigid, almost cruel compression which now seemed
habitual to them; all the slight dependent gestures, the tender
airs of reference to his will or pleasure, had rapidly
transformed themselves into expressions of command or obstinate
resistance. But the patience of a loving man is
equal to that of a loving woman: he was silent, although
his silence covered an ever-increasing sense of outrage.

Once it happened, that after Julia had been unusually

eloquent concerning “what pa is doing for us,” and what
use they should make of “pa's money, as I call it,” Joseph
quietly remarked:—

“You seem to forget, Julia, that without my money not
much could have been done.”

An angry color came into her face; but, on second thought,
she bent her head, and murmured in an offended voice: “It
is very mean and ungenerous in you to refer to our temporary
poverty. You might forget, by this time, the help pa
was compelled to ask of you.”

“I did not think of that!” he exclaimed. “Besides,
you did not seem entirely satisfied with my help, at the
time.”

“O, how you misunderstand me!” she groaned. “I
only wished to know the extent of his need. He is so
generous, so considerate towards us, that we only guess his
misfortune at the last moment.”

The possibility of being unjust silenced Joseph. There
were tears in Julia's voice, and he imagined they would soon
rise to her eyes. After a long, uncomfortable pause, he
said, for the sake of changing the subject: “What can have
become of Elwood Withers? I have not seen him for
months.”

“I don't think you need care to know,” she remarked.
“He's a rough, vulgar fellow: it's just as well if he keeps
away from us.”

“Julia! he is my friend, and must always be welcome to
me. You were friendly enough towards him, and towards
all the neighborhood, last summer: how is it that you have
not a good word to say now?”

He spoke warmly and indignantly. Julia, however, looked
at him with a calm, smiling face. “It is very simple,”

she said. “You will agree with me, in another year. A
guest, as I was, must try to see only the pleasant side of
people: that's our duty; and so I enjoyed—as much as I
could—the rusticity, the awkwardness, the ignorance, the
(now, don't be vexed, dear!)—the vulgarity of your friend.
As one of the society of the neighborhood, as a resident, I
am not bound by any such delicacy. I take the same right
to judge and select as I should take anywhere. Unless I
am to be hypocritical, I cannot—towards you, at least—
conceal my real feelings. How shall I ever get you to see
the difference between yourself and these people, unless I
continually point it out? You are modest, and don't like
to acknowledge your own superiority.”

She rose from the table, laughing, and went out of the
room humming a lively air, leaving Joseph to make the best
of her words.

A few days after this the work on the branch railway,
extending down the valley, reached a point where it could
be seen from the Asten farm. Joseph, on riding over to inspect
the operations, was surprised to find Elwood, who had
left his father's place and become a sub-contractor. The
latter showed his hearty delight at their meeting.

“I've been meaning to come up,” he said, “but this is a
busy time for me. It's a chance I couldn't let slip, and now
that I've taken hold I must hold on. I begin to think this
is the thing I was made for, Joseph.”

“I never thought of it before,” Joseph answered, “and yet
I'm sure you are right. How did you hit upon it?”

“I didn't; it was Mr. Held.”

“Philip?”

“Him. You know I've been hauling for the Forge, and
so it turned up by degrees, as I may say. He's at home,

and, I expect, looking for you. But how are you now,
really?”

Elwood's question meant a great deal more than he knew
how to say. Suddenly, in a flash of memory, their talk of
the previous year returned to Joseph's mind; he saw his
friend's true instincts and his own blindness as never before.
But he must dissemble, if possible, with that strong,
rough, kindly face before him.

“O,” he said, attempting a cheerful air, “I am one of the
old folks now. You must come up—”

The recollection of Julia's words cut short the invitation
upon his lips. A sharp pang went through his heart, and
the treacherous blood crowded to his face all the more that
he tried to hold it back.

“Come, and I'll show you where we're going to make
the cutting,” Elwood quietly said, taking him by the arm.
Joseph fancied, thenceforth, that there was a special kindness
in his manner, and the suspicion seemed to rankle in
his mind as if he had been slighted by his friend.

As before, to vary the tedium of his empty life, so now, to
escape from the knowledge which he found himself more and
more powerless to resist, he busied himself beyond all need
with the work of the farm. Philip had returned with his
sister, he knew, but after the meeting with Elwood he shrank
with a painful dread from Philip's heart-deep, intimate eye.
Julia, however, all the more made use of the soft spring
weather to survey the social ground, and choose where to
take her stand. Joseph scarcely knew, indeed, how extensive
her operations had been, until she announced an invitation
to dine with the Hopetons, who were now in possession
of the renovated Calvert place. She enlarged, more than
was necessary, on the distinguished city position of the

family, and the importance of “cultivating” its country
members. Joseph's single brief meeting with Mr. Hopeton—who
was a short, solid man, in ripe middle age, of a
thoroughly cosmopolitan, though not a remarkably intellectual
stamp—had been agreeable, and he recognized the obligation
to be neighborly. Therefore he readily accepted the
invitation on his own grounds.

When the day arrived, Julia, after spending the morning
over her toilet, came forth resplendent in rosy silk, bright
and dazzling in complexion, and with all her former grace of
languid eyelids and parted lips. The void in Joseph's heart
grew wider at the sight of her; for he perceived, as never
before, her consummate skill in assuming a false character.
It seemed incredible that he should have been so deluded.
For the first time a feeling of repulsion, which was almost
disgust, came upon him as he listened to her prattle of delight
in the soft weather, and the fragrant woods, and the
blossoming orchards. Was not, also, this delight assumed?
he asked himself: false in one thing, false in all, was the
fatal logic which then and there began its torment.

The most that was possible in such a short time had been
achieved on the Calvert place. The house had been brightened,
surrounded by light, airy verandas, and the lawn and
garden, thrown into one and given into the hands of a skilful
gardener, were scarcely to be recognized. A broad, solid
gravel-walk replaced the old tan-covered path; a pretty
fountain tinkled before the door; thick beds of geranium
in flower studded the turf, and veritable thickets of rose-trees
were waiting for June. Within the house, some rooms
had been thrown together, the walls richly yet harmoniously
colored, and the sumptuous furniture thus received a proper
setting. In contrast to the houses of even the wealthiest

farmers, which expressed a nicely reckoned sufficiency of
comfort, the place had an air of joyous profusion, of a
wealth which delighted in itself.

Mr. Hopeton met them with the frank, offhand manner
of a man of business. His wife followed, and the two
guests made a rapid inspection of her as she came down the
hall. Julia noticed that her crocus-colored dress was high
in the neck, and plainly trimmed; that she wore no ornaments,
and that the natural pallor of her complexion had
not been corrected by art. Joseph remarked the simple
grace of her movement, the large, dark, inscrutable eyes, the
smooth bands of her black hair, and the pure though somewhat
lengthened oval of her face. The gentle dignity of her
manner more than refreshed, it soothed him. She was so
much younger than her husband that Joseph involuntarily
wondered how they should have come together.

The greetings were scarcely over before Philip and Madeline
Held arrived. Julia, with the least little gush of tenderness,
kissed the latter, whom Philip then presented to
Joseph for the first time. She had the same wavy hair as
her brother, but the golden hue was deepened nearly into
brown, and her eyes were a clear hazel. It was also the
same frank, firm face, but her woman's smile was so much
the sweeter as her lips were lovelier than the man's. Joseph
seemed to clasp an instant friendship in her offered hand.

There was but one other guest, who, somewhat to his surprise,
was Lucy Henderson. Julia concealed whatever she
might have felt, and made so much reference to their former
meetings as might satisfy Lucy without conveying to Mrs.
Hopeton the impression of any special intimacy. Lucy
looked thin and worn, and her black silk dress was not of
the latest fashion: she seemed to be the poor relation of the

company. Joseph learned that she had taken one of the
schools in the valley, for the summer. Her manner to him
was as simple and friendly as ever, but he felt the presence
of some new element of strength and self-reliance in her nature.

His place at dinner was beside Mrs. Hopeton, while
Lucy—apparently by accident—sat upon the other side of
the hostess. Philip and the host led the conversation, confining
it too exclusively to the railroad and iron interests;
but these finally languished, and gave way to other topics in
which all could take part. Joseph felt that while the others,
except Lucy and himself, were fashioned under different aspects
of life, some of which they shared in common, yet that
their seeming ease and freedom of communication touched,
here and there, some invisible limit, which they were careful
not to pass. Even Philip appeared to be beyond his
reach, for the time.

The country and the people, being comparatively new to
them, naturally came to be discussed.

“Mr. Held, or Mr. Asten,—either of you know both,”—
Mr. Hopeton asked, “what are the principal points of difference
between society in the city and in the country?”

“Indeed, I know too little of the city,” said Joseph.

“And I know too little of the country,—here, at least,”
Philip added. “Of course the same passions and prejudices
come into play everywhere. There are circles, there are
jealousies, ups and downs, scandals, suppressions, and rehabilitations:
it can't be otherwise.”

“Are they not a little worse in the country,” said Julia,
“because—I may ask the question here, among us—there is
less refinement of manner?”

“If the external forms are ruder,” Philip resumed, “it

may be an advantage, in one sense. Hypocrisy cannot be
developed into an art.”

Julia bit her lip, and was silent.

“But are the country people, hereabouts, so rough?” Mrs.
Hopeton asked. “I confess that they don't seem so to me.
What do you say, Miss Henderson?”

“Perhaps I am not an impartial witness,” Lucy answered.
“We care less about what is called `manners' than the city
people. We have no fixed rules for dress and behavior,—only
we don't like any one to differ too much from the rest of us.”

“That's it!” Mr. Hopeton cried; “the tyrannical levelling
sentiment of an imperfectly developed community!
Fortunately, I am beyond its reach.”

Julia's eyes sparkled: she looked across the table at Joseph,
with a triumphant air.

Philip suddenly raised his head. “How would you correct
it? Simply by resistance?” he asked.

Mr. Hopeton laughed. “I should no doubt get myself
into a hornet's-nest. No; by indifference!”

Then Madeline Held spoke. “Excuse me,” she said; “but
is indifference possible, even if it were right? You seem to
take the levelling spirit for granted, without looking into its
character and causes; there must be some natural sense of
justice, no matter how imperfectly society is developed. We
are members of this community,—at least, Philip and I certainly
consider ourselves so,—and I am determined not to
judge it without knowledge, or to offend what may be only
mechanical habits of thought, unless I can see a sure advantage
in doing so.”

Lucy Henderson looked at the speaker with a bright,
grateful face. Joseph's eyes wandered from her to Julia,
who was silent and watchful.

“But I have no time for such conscientious studies,” Mr.
Hopeton resumed. “One can be satisfied with half a dozen
neighbors, and let the mass go. Indifference, after all, is the
best philosophy. What do you say, Mr. Held?”

“Indifference!” Philip echoed. A dark flush came into
his face, and he was silent a moment. “Yes: our hearts are
inconvenient appendages. We suffer a deal from unnecessary
sympathies, and from imagining, I suppose, that others
feel them as we do. These uneasy features of society are
simply the effort of nature to find some occupation for brains
otherwise idle—or empty. Teach the people to think, and
they will disappear.”

Joseph stared at Philip, feeling that a secret bitterness was
hidden under his careless, mocking air. Mrs. Hopeton rose,
and the company left the table. Madeline Held had a
troubled expression, but there was an eager, singular brightness
in Julia's eyes.

“Emily, let us have coffee on the veranda,” said Mr.
Hopeton, leading the way. He had already half forgotten
the subject of conversation: his own expressions, in fact,
had been made very much at random, for the sole purpose
of keeping up the flow of talk. He had no very
fixed views of any kind, beyond the sphere of his business
activity.

Philip, noticing the impression he had made on Joseph,
drew him to one side. “Don't seriously remember my
words against me,” he said; “you were sorry to hear them,
I know. All I meant was, that an over-sensitive tenderness
towards everybody is a fault. Besides, I was provoked to
answer him in his own vein.”

“But, Philip!” Joseph whispered, “such words tempt
me! What if they were true?”

Philip grasped his arm with a painful force. “They
never can be true to you, Joseph,” he said.

Gay and pleasant as the company seemed to be, each one
felt a secret sense of relief when it came to an end. As Joseph
drove homewards, silently recalling what had been
said, Julia interrupted his reflections with: “Well, what do
you think of the Hopetons?”

“She is an interesting woman,” he answered.

“But reserved; and she shows very little taste in dress.
However, I suppose you hardly noticed anything of the
kind. She kept Lucy Henderson beside her as a foil: Madeline
Held would have been damaging.”

Joseph only partly guessed her meaning; it was repugnant,
and he determined to avoid its further discussion.

“Hopeton is a shrewd business man,” Julia continued,
“but he cannot compare with her for shrewdness—either
with her or—Philip Held!”

“What do you mean?”

“I made a discovery before the dinner was over, which
you—innocent, unsuspecting man that you are—might have
before your eyes for years, without seeing it. Tell me now,
honestly, did you notice nothing?”

“What should I notice, beyond what was said?” he asked.

“That was the least!” she cried; “but, of course, I
knew you couldn't. And perhaps you won't believe me,
when I tell you that Philip Held,—your particular friend,
your hero, for aught I know, your pattern of virtue and
character, and all that is manly and noble,—that Philip
Held, I say, is furiously in love with Mrs. Hopeton!”

Joseph started as if he had been shot, and turned around
with an angry red on his brow. “Julia!” he said, “how
dare you speak so of Philip!”

She laughed. “Because I dare to speak the truth, when
I see it. I thought I should surprise you. I remembered
a certain rumor I had heard before she was married,—while
she was Emily Marrable,—and I watched them closer than
they guessed. I'm certain of Philip: as for her, she's a
deep creature, and she was on her guard; but they are
near neighbors.”

Joseph was thoroughly aroused and indignant. “It is
your own fancy!” he exclaimed. “You hate Philip on
account of that affair with Clementina; but you ought to
have some respect for the woman whose hospitality you
have accepted!”

“Bless me! I have any quantity of respect both for her
and her furniture. By the by, Joseph, our parlor would
furnish better than hers; I have been thinking of a few
changes we might make, which would wonderfully improve
the house. As for Philip, Clementina was a fool. She'd
be glad enough to have him now, but in these matters, once
gone is gone for good. Somehow, people who marry for
love very often get rich afterwards,—ourselves, for instance.”

It was some time before Joseph's excitement subsided.
He had resented Julia's suspicion as dishonorable to Philip,
yet he could not banish the conjecture of its possible truth.
If Philip's affected cynicism had tempted him, Julia's unblushing
assumption of the existence of a passion which was
forbidden, and therefore positively guilty, seemed to stain
the pure texture of his nature. The lightness with which
she spoke of the matter was even more abhorrent to him
than the assertion itself; the malicious satisfaction in the
tones of her voice had not escaped his ear.

“Julia,” he said, just before they reached home, “do not

mention your fancy to another soul than me. It would
reflect discredit on you.”

“You are innocent,” she answered. “And you are not
complimentary. If I have any remarkable quality, it is
tact. Whenever I speak, I shall know the effect beforehand;
even pa, with all his official experience, is no match
for me in this line. I see what the Hopetons are after, and
I mean to show them that we were first in the field. Don't
be concerned, you good, excitable creature, you are no match
for such well-drilled people. Let me alone, and before the
summer is over we will give the law to the neighborhood!”