Not that Josephine admired Miss Schenectady, or thought that she herself could ever be like her. The old lady was a type of her class; intelligent and well versed in many subjects–even learned she might have been called by some. But to Joe’s view, essentially European by nature and education, it seemed as though her aunt, like many Bostonians, judged everything–literature, music, art of all kinds, history and the doings of great men– by one invariable standard. Her comments on what she heard and read were uniformly delivered from the same point of view, in the same tone of practical judgment, and with the same assumption of original superiority. It was the everlasting “Carthago delenda” of the Roman orator. Whatever the world wrote, sang, painted, thought, or did, the conviction remained unshaken in Miss Schenectady’s mind that Beacon Street was better than those things, and that of all speeches and languages known and spoken in the world’s history, the familiar dialect of Boston was the one best calculated by Providence and nature to express and formulate all manner of wisdom.
It is a strange thing that where criticism is on the whole so fair, and cultivation of the best faculties so general, the manner of expressing a judgment and of exhibiting acquired knowledge should be such as to jar unpleasantly on the sensibilities of Europeans. Where is the real difference? It probably lies in some subtle point of proportion in the psychic chemistry of the Boston mind, but the analyst who shall express the formula is not yet born; though there be those who can cast the spectrum of Boston existence and thought upon their printed screens with matchless accuracy.
Joe judged but did not analyze. She said Miss Schenectady was always right, but that the way she was right was “horrid.” Consequently she did not look to her aunt for sympathy or assistance, and though they had more than once talked of Ronald Surbiton since receiving his cable from England, Joe had not said anything of her intentions regarding him. When the second telegram arrived from New York, saying that he would be in Boston on the following morning, Joe begged that Miss Schenectady would be at home to receive him when he came.
“Well, if you insist upon it, I expect I shall have to,” said Miss Schenectady. She did not see why her niece should require her presence at the interview; young men may call on young ladies in Boston without encountering the inevitable chaperon, or being obliged to do their talking in the hearing of a police of papas, mammas, and aunts. But as Joe “insisted upon it,” as the old lady said, she “expected there were no two ways about it.” Her expectations were correct, for Joe would have refused absolutely to receive Ronald alone.
“I know the value of a stern aunt, my dear,” she had said to Sybil the day previous. When matters were arranged, therefore, they went to bed, and in the morning Miss Schenectady sat in state in the front drawing-room, reading the life of Mr. Ticknor until Ronald should arrive. Joe was up-stairs writing a note to Sybil Brandon, wherein the latter was asked to lunch and to drive in the afternoon. Ronald could not come before ten o’clock with any kind of propriety, and they could have luncheon early and then go out; after which the bitterness of death would be past.
It was not quite ten o’clock when Ronald Surbiton rang the bell, and was turned into the drawing-room to face an American aunt for the first time in his life.
“Miss Schenectady?” said he, taking the proffered hand of the old lady and then bowing slightly. He pronounced her name Schenectady, with a strong accent on the penultimate syllable.
“Schenectady,” corrected his hostess. “I expect you are Mr. Surbiton.”
“A–exactly so,” said Ronald, in some embarrassment.
“Well, we are glad to see you in Boston, Mr. Surbiton.” Miss Schenectady resumed her seat, and Ronald sat down beside her, holding his hat in his hand.