Nevertheless, in the excited spirit of gayety rather than with reluctant diffidence, she prepared to go out for dinner. She even tried to draw from Maggie, who was assisting her in her preparations, some more pronounced expression of satisfaction than had yet been forthcoming. She invited Maggie to subscribe to her eulogy of Mr. Dean. But Maggie only answered, “I’m glad he seems to realize he’ll be an awful care.”
As Mrs. Bradley had explained that her house was only a short distance from the hotel, the Ives family set forth on foot. Their directions took them across the Common; in the twilight it seemed to them a romantic place, but it was in vain that Mrs. Ives, for the benefit of her sons and for the heightening of her own excitement and pleasure, strove to recall to her memory the events that gave it historic significance. “I know there were great doings here of some sort,” she said, “but I can’t remember just what they were. It’s so discouraging to have my kind of a mind.”
Anyway, it was all mysterious, romantic, and adventurous to be strolling in this manner among presumably historic scenes that were brooded over by lofty, venerable elms—trees novel and enchanting to Western eyes. The illumination of the city streets shining across the open spaces was enlivening; the soft air was hospitable; the melting colors in the west communicated a glow to timid hearts. Entering the sphere of tranquil dignity that circumscribes Beacon Hill, the visitors ascended to the top of Mount Vernon Street; there, while searching for the designated portal, Mrs. Ives bethought herself to convey in an undertone to Ralph a last injunction: “Remember, Ralph, to sit quiet and wait for things to be passed to you; don’t ask and reach as you do at home.” Ralph’s inarticulate reply betokened a subdued spirit.
A white colonial door with a brass knocker presented the number of which they were in search; they were conducted up the stairs and into the spacious drawing-room, where four smiling Bradleys welcomed them. Mr. Bradley, a tall, bald-headed gentleman with a white mustache and wrinkled brow, looked twenty years older than his animated and handsome wife; more reasonably than she he seemed the friend and contemporary of Mr. Dean. To David he was at once the least interesting and important member of the family. Richard, a tall, slim youth of about David’s age, with a nose too short for his height and a mouth the corners of which seemed habitually pointed upward as if in search of amusement, engaged David’s most favorable attention. Marion Bradley was tall and slim also, but in no other respect resembled her coltish and informal brother. There was no hint of disproportion in any of her features; their very exquisiteness was severe, and David felt at once both chilled and perturbed by the young creature’s beauty. The steadfastness and depth of luminosity in her dark eyes were disconcerting to an inexperienced youth. With a sense of his own cowardice he turned to the brother as to a refuge and left Marion to consider and to ruminate upon the defenseless Ralph. It was the easier to do that because in the first few moments he learned that he and Richard were to be classmates at Harvard, and each had eager questions to ask.
Mr. Dean’s voice was heard calling from above. Marion answered in a voice the cultivated quality of which chimed distractingly on David’s ear; then with mature serenity she left the room to go upstairs to the blind man’s aid. Presently she returned, arm in arm with him.
“My family have arrived?” asked Mr. Dean, and upon Mrs. Bradley’s replying that they had, he said, “Then I must begin to get acquainted with them; Mrs. Ives, won’t you lead me over to the sofa and sit down with me?”
“If Mrs. Ives will go down to dinner with you instead,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It’s all ready.”
It was a cheerful gathering, and Mrs. Ives soon felt quite at her ease with Mr. Dean and with all the Bradley family except Marion. She found afterwards that she and David had formed similar impressions of Marion.
“I suppose she hasn’t really a better mind than her father or her mother, but she makes me more afraid of it,” said Mrs. Ives.
“She’s too self-possessed and doesn’t feel any responsibility for entertaining her guests—just sits and sizes them up,” David observed. “Not the kind I like—not a bit like Ruth Davenport up at St. Timothy’s. Richard’s a brick, though, and so is the old man.”