The Whirligig of Time Part 11

"Oh, was there e'er a Yankee breast which did not feel the moral beauty of making worldly interest subordinate to sense of duty?" misquoted Harry. "Bother the duty. Tell me how you all are. How are Ruth and Oswald and Lucy and Jack and Timothy and the baby? All about eight feet high, I suppose? And James, where is he?"

"James is in New Haven," said Aunt Cecilia; "he has an examination early to-morrow morning and could not get away till after that. He'll be here to-morrow in time for lunch."

It was all very easy and cordial. Harry was in high spirits over returning to his native land, and was genuinely pleased that both his uncle and aunt should take the trouble to come down to the dock to meet his steamer. They, on their side, were most agreeably impressed by him; agreeably disappointed with him, we almost said. It was a relief, as well as a pleasure, to find him, so unchanged and unaffected at heart, though he looked and talked like an Englishman. Mrs. James sat on a packing case and watched him with unadulterated pleasure as he tended to the examination of his luggage. The art of his Bond Street tailor served to accentuate rather than hide the slim, sinewy, businesslike beauty of his limbs, brought into play as he bent down to lift a trunk tray or tug at a strap. Though all that was nothing, of course, to the joy of the discovery that he was unspoiled in character.

"It's turned out all right," she thought and smiled to herself. "I don't know whether it's chiefly to his credit or theirs, but it has come out all right, anyway. I wish the boat had not arrived in the evening, so that I could have brought the children to see him, the first thing.

They'll have plenty of time, though; and how they'll love him! And how pleased James will be!"

She meant young James, who was now putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on his soph.o.m.ore year at Yale. James was never very far from her mind when her thoughts ran to her own children--which was most of the time. She always thought of him now more as her own eldest child than as her husband's nephew.

And Harry's thoughts, beneath all his chatter to his uncle and aunt and his transactions with the Customs officials, were also on James. All the way across the Atlantic, on the long dull voyage from Gibraltar--there are not many pa.s.sengers traveling westward in June--they continually ran on that one subject--James, James, James. What would he be like now?

would he be the old James, or changed, somehow--strangely, disappointingly, unacceptably? Harry hoped not; hoped it with his whole heart, in which there was nothing but humility and affection when he thought of what his brother had been to him in the old days. He was so little able to speak what he felt about James that he was embarra.s.sed and over-silent about him. That was why he was so debonair with the Customs officials; that was why he asked after each of his young cousins by name before he mentioned his brother.

"Every single article of clothing I own was bought abroad," he was telling the Customs inspector; "so you can just go ahead and do your worst--That suit cost eight guineas--yes, I know it's too much; I told them so at the time, but they wouldn't listen.... No, that thing with the feathers is not a woman's hat; it's a Tyrolean hat, that the men climb mountains in. I'm going to give it to my Uncle James--that man there sitting on the woman's trunk that she wants to get into--to wear to his office, which is on the thirty-fifth floor.... Yes, I have worn it myself, but don't tell him.... That gold cigarette case is for my brother, who smokes when he's not playing football, and it cost six pound fifteen, which is dirt cheap, I say. I'd keep it myself, except that it's so cheap that I can't afford not to give it away...."

And James, what was he feeling, if he was feeling anything, in regard to his brother at this time, and why have we said nothing about him during these seven years? The truth is, his life had been chiefly distinguished by the blessed uneventfulness that comes of outward happiness and a good understanding with the world. If you can draw a mental picture for yourself of a boy of perfect physique and untarnished mind, gradually attaining the physical and mental development of manhood in comrades.h.i.+p with a hundred or more others in a like position, dedicating the use of each gift as it came to him not to his own aggrandizement but to the glory of G.o.d and the service of other men, recognizing his superiority in certain fields with the same humility with which he beheld his inferiority in others, equally willing to give help where he was strong and take help where he was weak, and possessed by the fundamental conviction that other people were just as good as he if not a little bit better, you may get some idea of James during the years of his brother's absence. He was not brilliant, he was not handsome, but there was a splendid normality about him, both in appearance and in character, that inspired confidence and affection among his teachers, his relatives, and friends of his own age.

"He has a good mind and body, and there is no nonsense about him," was the substance of the opinion of the first-named group. "He is a good boy and a nice boy, and I'm glad he is one of the family," said the second.

"He is captain of the football team," said the third group, and to one who knows anything about American boarding schools this last will tell everything.

If any one is inclined to blame James for his allowing the Atlantic Ocean to separate him and brother so completely for those seven years it may interest him to know that James was quite of the same opinion. As he sat in the train that took him from New Haven to New York on the morning after Harry's landing, he wondered how the long separation could have come about. On the whole, after a careful review of the business, he was inclined to blame himself; not over-severely, but definitely, nevertheless. He had been timid, indifferent and, above all, lazy.

Looking back over his att.i.tude of the last seven years, he was inclined to be scornful and a little amused. What had he to fear about Harry?

Weren't Uncle Giles and Aunt Miriam good people, who could be trusted to bring him up right? What was there to fear, even, in his becoming an Englishman? And anyway, even if he had feared the worst, ought he not to have taken the trouble to go over and see with his own eyes? It had probably turned out all right, for Harry had returned at last with every intention of living in America for the rest of his life; but if he had been spoiled or altered for the worse in any way, he, James, must take his share of the blame for it. There could be no doubt of that.

The root of the matter was, we suspect, that James had been somewhat lacking in initiative. Thoroughly normal people customarily are; it is at once their strength and their weakness. A splendid normality, such as we have described James as enjoying, is a serviceable thing in life, but it is apt to degenerate, if not sufficiently stimulated by misfortune and opposition, into commonplaceness and sterile conservatism. But let us do James justice; he at least saw his fault and blamed himself for it.

He was devoured with curiosity to see what Harry was like; almost as much so as Harry in regard to him. James had plenty of friends, but only one brother, when all was said and done. As the train rushed nearer the consummation of his curiosity, he felt the old feeling of timidity and suspicion sweep over him; but that, as he shook it off, only increased his curiosity; gave it edge. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico est_; every one knows that, even if he never heard of Virgil, and it is especially true of such natures as James'. Each little wave of fear and suspicion that swept over him made him a little more restless and unhappy, though he smiled at himself for feeling so. It was a relief when the train pulled into the Grand Central Station and he could grip his bag and start on the short walk to the house of his uncle, which was situated in the refined and expensive confines of Murray Hill.

Any one who knows anything about the world will be able to guess pretty closely the nature of the brothers' meeting. Harry was sitting in the front room upstairs when his cousin Ruth, who was at the window, announced: "Here he comes, Harry." In a perfect frenzy of pleasure, embarra.s.sment, affection and curiosity, the boy made a dash for the stairs and greeted his brother at the front door with the demonstrative words:

"h.e.l.lo, James!"

To which James, who for the last few minutes had been obliged to restrain himself from throwing his bag into the gutter and breaking into a run, replied:

"Well, Harry, how's the boy?"

Then they walked upstairs together and began talking rather fast about the voyage, examinations, Aunt Miriam, Spain, the Yale baseball team,--anything but what was in their hearts.

"Well, you came back without being made an earl, after all, it seems,"

said James a little later at lunch.

"No, but I came back a sub-freshman, which is the next best thing.

There's no telling what I might have been if I'd stayed, though.

Everybody was so frightfully keen on my staying over there and going to Oxford, especially Beatrice--Beatrice Carson, you know; I've written you about her? She would have made me an earl in a minute, if she could, to make me stay. None of it did any good, though. I would be a Yankee."

"How do you think you'll like being a Yankee again?" asked James. "You certainly don't look much like one at present."

"No? That'll come, I dare say. My heart's in the right place. Though that doesn't prevent the Americans from seeming strange, at first. Did you notice that woman in the chemist's shop this morning, Aunt C.? She was chewing gum all the time she waited on you, and she never said 'Thank you' or 'Ma'am' once."

"They all are that way," said Aunt Cecilia with a gentle sigh. "I don't expect anything else."

"Oh, the bloated aristocrat!" said James. "It is an earl, after all.

Only don't blame the poor girl for not calling you 'My lord.' She couldn't be expected to know; they don't have many of them over here."

"I don't mean that she was rude," said Harry; "she didn't give that impression, somehow. It was just the way she did things; a sort of casualness. The Americans are a funny people!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned James; "hear the prominent foreigner talk. What do you think of America, my lord? How do you like New York? What do you think of our climate? To think that that's the thing I used to spank when he was naughty!"

"That's all very well," retorted Harry, with warmth; "wait till you get out of this blessed country for a while yourself, and see how other people act, and then perhaps you'll see that there are differences. You may even be able to see that they are not all in our favor. And as for smacking--spanking, if you feel inclined to renew that quaint old custom now, I'm ready for you. Any time you want!"

"Oh, very well," growled James; "after lunch."

"Yes, and in Central Park, please," observed Uncle James; "not in the house; I can't afford it. You are right, though, Harry, about the Americans being a funny people. If you enter the legal profession, or if you go into public life, you'll be more and more struck by the fact as time goes on. But there's one thing to remember; it doesn't do to tell them so. They can't bear to hear it. We have proof of that immediately before us; you announce your opinion here, _coram familia_, as it were, and what is the result? Contempt and loathing on the part of the great American public, represented by James, and a duel to follow--in Central Park, remember; in Central Park."

"I wonder if that milk of magnesia has come yet," murmured Aunt Cecilia, who had not gone beyond the beginning of the conversation; and further hostilities--friendly ones, even--were forgotten in the general laugh that followed.

Of course James, who conformed to the American type of college boy as closely as any one could and retain his individuality, was greatly struck during the first few days by his brother's Anglicisms, which showed themselves at that time rather in his appearance and speech than in his point of view. For example, James was indulging one day in a lengthy plaint against the hardness of one of his instructors, as the result of which he would probably, to use his own expression, "drop an hour"; that is, lose an hour's work for the year and be put back one-sixtieth of his work for his degree. Harry listened attentively enough to the narrative, but his sole comment when James finished was the single word "Tiresome." The word was ill chosen for James' peace of mind. If such expressions were the result of English training he could not but think the less of English training.

The summer pa.s.sed off pleasantly enough, the boys living with their uncle and aunt at Bar Harbor. Harry saw much less of James than he had expected, for he was away much of the time, visiting cla.s.smates and school friends whom Harry did not know. He was obliged, too, to return to Yale soon after the first of September for football practise. Harry spent most of his time playing fairly happily about with his young cousins and other people of his own age. The most interesting feature of the summer to him was a visit to Aunt Selina at her summer place in Vermont. This was the ancestral, ante-Revolution farm of the Wimbournes, much rebuilt and enlarged and presented to Miss Wimbourne for her life on the death of her late father. Here Aunt Selina was wont to gather during the summer months a heterogeneous crowd of friends, and it was a source of wonder and admiration to the other members of the family that she was able to attract such a large number of what she referred to as "amusing people." With these Harry was quite at ease, his English training having accustomed him to a.s.sociating with older and cleverer people than himself, and it gave Aunt Selina quite a thrill of pleasure to see a boy of eighteen partaking in the staid amus.e.m.e.nts of his elders and meeting them on their own ground, and to think that the boy was her own nephew. She became at length so much taken with him that a bright idea occurred to her.

"Harry," said she one day; "what do you think of my going to live in New Haven?"

"I think it's a fine idea," said Harry. "But where?"

"Why, in the old house, of course. That is, if you and James, or your guardians, are willing to rent it to me. It has stood empty ever since you left it, and I presume there is no immediate prospect of your occupying it yourselves for some time."

"As half owner of the establishment," said Harry courteously, "I offer you the full use of it for as long a time as you wish, free of charge."

"That's sweet of you, but it's not business. I should insist on paying rent."

"Well, Aunt Selina, you're used to having your own way, so I presume you will. But what makes you want to come and live in New Haven, all of a sudden? I thought you could never bear the place."

"I had a great many friends there in the old days, and should like to see something of them again. Besides, it will be nice to be in the same town with you and James."

Like most people, she put the real reason last. If Harry failed to realize from its position that it was the real reason, he learned it unmistakably enough from what followed. The conversation wandered to a discussion of changes in the town since Aunt Selina had lived there. She supposed that everybody had dinner at night there now, though she remembered the time when it was impossible to reconcile servants to the custom. She herself would have it late, except on Sundays. Sunday never did seem like Sunday to her without dinner in the middle of the day and supper in the evening.

"Well," said Harry, "I hope you'll ask James and me to a Sunday dinner occasionally."

"Good gracious, yes! Every Sunday, and supper too. That will be a regular custom; and I want you both to feel at liberty to come up for a meal at any time. Any time, without even telephoning beforehand. And bring your friends; there will always be enough to eat. How stupid of me to forget that. Of course I want you, as often as you'll come."

"We accept," said Harry, "unconditionally. We shall be glad enough to have a decent meal once in a while, after the food we shall get in college. James says he even gets tired of the training table, which is a great admission, for he loves everything connected with football. Even when we were kids, I remember, he used to love to drink barley water with his meals; nasty stuff--they used to make me drink it in England."

Harry rattled on purposely about the first thing that came into his head, for he noticed his aunt seemed slightly embarra.s.sed. She was going to New Haven to take care of James and himself, and naturally she did not care to divulge the real reason to him. Well, she was a dear old thing, certainly; he remembered how she had acted on his mother's death.

He was suddenly sorry that he had seen nothing of her for the last seven years, and sorry that he had written her so irregularly during his absence. It was pleasant to think that he would have a chance to make up for it in the future.