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 finishing touches on his sophomore 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 passengers 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 embarrassed 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 comradeship 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 God 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 attitude 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.