First harvests

by Frederic Jesup Stimson

For Gracie has long been wondering why Arthur has not come; she has looked forward to her “coming out” chiefly that she might see our hero every day once more. Derwent goes to her at once. “I have just left a friend of yours lamenting that he cannot get here sooner,” says he. “Holyoke was positively savage that he was kept so long down town.” It was a white lie, I know; yet few men would have been at the pains to tell it. And Gracie smiles once more; and the burly, blond-bearded man stays by her, like some comforting, protecting power. But he seems destined to annoy his friends that afternoon; for Charlie Townley finds him near by, too, and with quite other feelings. Charlie was there early enough, you may be sure; and he is sitting with pretty Mamie Livingstone on a sofa just behind them. And Birmingham, I fear, is cursing Derwent too; such a knack have fanatics of making themselves disagreeable! For every time he makes a pretty compliment to Miss Farnum—and pretty compliments are slow and heavy things for our peer of the realm to struggle with—it seems as if his beautiful companion caught Derwent’s eye. And the beauty is, even to the Briton’s eye, a bit unconscious of his fine speeches; and looks about her as if she too were looking for some other swain. Only Mrs. Gower and Wemyss seem to have escaped; but they are sitting by a certain screen in the tea-room and fancy themselves unseen; so they are, indeed, save by the eyes of some old dowagers—the same who had called upon her the day of the drive—barbed by a touch of malice to a keener sight than even “that damned adventurer’s,” as Birmingham calls him. But Pussie De Witt is there, in a gorgeous dress her novel matronhood permits her, perfectly happy yet; and Kill Van Kull, her partner, manages to get his amusement out of all the world and everywheres.

Then Derwent takes his seat by Mamie, calmly turning Charlie’s flank. So the Wall Street knight has to retreat; and Derwent flirts most desperately, so that her little head—heart—what shall I say? is tickled. And it is very late when Arthur comes, and he finds that Gracie has gone up-stairs with a headache; so that he is angrier than ever.

But the dinner that night is a great success. Everybody came—except Van Kull, which is, indeed, a little of a disappointment—and the wines and cooking are most excellent. A great success, that is, until Wemyss, most unfortunately, began to talk of American families. Some one said something about Kitty Farnum, and what a fine woman she was, and what a pity it was that her people was so ordinary. “Pooh!” says his lordship, “all your Yankee families are just alike.”

“Without impugning Birmingham’s knowledge of American families,” says Wemyss, thinking of his own, “I think I may submit that there are differences. Take Mrs. Gower, for instance, Mrs. Levison Gower, I mean—I think that is a family name not unknown in England, and blood shows itself in every line of her face, and, in every motion of her figure, breeding.” Wemyss never forgets his polished periods, even in the heat of argument. “Or take,” he goes on, “Miss Holyoke, whom we saw to-day, she is perhaps even a better example of what I mean. She has not perhaps much style; she is countrified, if you like—but she comes of the best old Massachusetts stock, and I submit there is no older blood in the England of to-day than hers.”

“Oh, come, now, I say,” says his lordship, “you don’t mean to set up that little filly against us? That’s the sort of thing our governesses are in England.”

It is a little hard for Arthur to sit by and hear this; but he remembers that Birmingham is the guest of the evening and keeps silent. But Haviland takes it up. “If that is true, Lord Birmingham, I congratulate you upon your governess’s breeding; and am only sorry that its lessons are so soon forgotten.”

“I think, sir; you should remember the lady is a cousin of our host,” adds Lucie Gower, pluckily.

“Damn it, man,” cries Birmingham, “we all think so in England. Do you suppose the prince cares a curse for your shop-keeping distinctions? As much as I do for Jess the farrier’s daughter and Nell the draper’s wife in my county town. He only takes up one Yankee woman after another because they’re easier than the women that he’s used to. That’s why your Buffalo Bills get to the Queen’s levees as well as your poker Schencks—we might as well marry a Chicago pork man’s pretty daughter as any Yankee Boston professor’s—if she’s got the money and the looks.”

“And damn it, sir,” cries little Lucie Gower, “I tell you that if you had spoken but just now of my wife as you did of poor Miss Holyoke, I’d have shied this bottle at your head.”

Gower looks fierce, as he stands up, grasping his decanter; and Charlie Townley interposes to pour oil on troubled waters. “Sit down, Lucie,” says he, “I’ve no doubt all our ancestors were no better than they should be; Lord Birmingham’s own included.” With which American reflection, and something in the ludicrousness of Gower’s gentle nickname, the altercation passes for the time. Birmingham, being a bit of a coward, is brought to apologize; “and perhaps,” adds Charlie, “Lord B. has just been touched upon a tender point.” All laugh at this, save Birmingham, who blushes red and angrily. But John has said nothing, and is twirling his mustache grimly.