第71章 Sunday Table-talk.(1)

To the relief of all save Mrs.Mayhew,Sibley dined with a couple of young,fast men,who enforced their invitation by the irresistible attraction of a bottle of wine.

"There is too much starch and dignity at that table to suit me,any way,"he remarked."There are those two model saints,who led our devotions last Sunday evening,flirting with ponderous gravity with that deep little school-ma'am,who has turned both their heads,but can't make up her mind which of them to capture,both being such marvellously good game for one of her class.Cute Yankee as she believes herself to be,she's a fool to think that either of them is more than playing with her.By Jupiter!but it would be sport to cut 'em both out;and I could do it if I were up here a week.Those who know the world know that such women cipher out these matters in the spirit of New England thrift,and you have only to mislead them with sufficient plausible data to capture them body and soul."And Sibley complacently sipped his wine as if he had stated all there was to be said on the subject.Few men prided themselves more on a profound knowledge of the world than he.

Ida's despondency while at dinner was so great she could not throw it off.Listlessly and wearily she barely tasted of the different courses as they were passed to her.She consciously made only one effort,and that was to appear utterly indifferent to Van Berg;and both circumstances and his contemptuous neglect made but little feigning necessary.The evening before had associated her so inseparably in his mind with Sibley,that he was beginning to regard her with aversion.

"Trivial natures are disturbed by trivial causes,"he thought;"and she looks as if the world had turned black because Sibley has been lured from her side for an hour by a bottle of wine.He'll revive her again before supper.""How wintry that old gentleman looks who is just entering!"Stanton remarked."It makes one shiver to think of becoming as frosty and white as he.""Oh,don't speak of being old!"cried Mrs.Mayhew."Remember there are some at the table who are in greater danger of that final misfortune than you young people.""Do you dread being old,Miss Burton?"Van Berg asked.

"No;but I do the process of growing old.""For once we think alike,Miss Burton,"said Ida abruptly."To think of plodding on through indefinite dreary years toward the miserable conclusion of old age!and yet it is said nothing is so sweet as life.""Really,Cousin,your advance down the ages reminds one more of a quickstep than of 'plodding,'"remarked Stanton.

"The step matters little,"she retorted,"as long as you feel as if you were going to your own funeral.I agree with Miss Burton,that growing old is worse than being old,thought Heaven knows that both are bad enough.""I'm not sure that Heaven would agree with either of us,"said Miss Burton,gently.

"I fear the sermon did not do you much good,Coz,"said Stanton,maliciously.

"No;it did not.It did me harm,if such a thing were possible,"was the reckless reply.

"Human nature is generally regarded as capable of improvement,"remarked Stanton,sententiously.

"I was not speaking of human nature generally,"said Ida;"I was thinking of myself.""As usual,my charming Cousin."

She flushed resentfully,but did not reply.

"And I feel that Miss Mayhew has done herself injustice in her thought,"said Miss Burton,with a sympathetic glance at Ida."And how is it with you,Mr.Van Berg?Do you dread growing old?""I fear my opinion will remind you of Jack Bunsby,"replied the artist."Growing old is like a prospective journey.So much depends upon the country through which you travel and your company.

My father and mother are taking a summer excursion through Norway and Sweden,and I know they are enjoying themselves abundantly.

They have had a good time growing old.Why should not others?"Ida appeared to resent his words bitterly;and with a tone and manner that surprised every one she said:

"Mr.Van Berg,I could not have believed that you were capable of making so superficial a reply.Why not say,if the poor were rich,if the ugly were beautiful,if the sick were well,if the bad were good,and we all had our heart's desires,we could journey on complacently and prosperously?"The artist flushed deeply under this address,coming from such an unexpected quarter;but he replied quietly:

"That allusion with which I prefaced my remark,Miss Mayhew,proved that I regard my opinion as of little value;and yet I have no better one to offer.Nothing is more trite than the comparison of life to a journey or a pilgrimage.If one were compelled to travel with very disagreeable people,in fifth-rate conveyances,and through regions uninteresting or repulsive,the journey,or to abandon the figure,growing old,might well be dreaded.From my soul I would pity one condemned to such a fate.It would,indeed,be 'dreary plodding'where one's best hope would be that he might stumble upon his grave as soon as possible.But I do not believe in any such dreary fatalism.We are endowed with intelligence to choose carefully our paths and companions;and I cannot help thinking that the majority might choose wisely enough to make life an agreeable journey in the main.""Look here,Van;I'm no casuist,"said Stanton with a shrug;"but I can detect a flaw in your philosophy at once.Suppose one wanted good company and could not get it.""He had better jog on alone,in that case,than take bad company.""And heavy jogging it might be too,"muttered Stanton,with a frown.

Ida's head dropped low and her face became very pale.Her impulsive cousin in expressing his own tormenting fear,had unconsciously defined what promised to be her wretched experience.She felt that the artist's eyes were upon her;and in the blind impulse to shield her secret,which then was so vividly plain to her consciousness,she raised her head suddenly,and with a reckless laugh remarked: