Читать книгу The Giant's Strength - Basil King - Страница 6

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Of all the Trafford family it was Paula who had least of the clearness of vision and promptness of action that were so remarkable in her parents. Her thought worked slowly and somewhat illogically. She was not capable of large conceptions, and when she tried to trace for herself a definite line of duty it soon lost itself in vagueness. In a small way of life she would have fulfilled the daily task with scrupulous devotion, helped by the very absence of choice; but as mistress of a fortune such as that which she was already allowed to spend she felt herself bewildered. It was as if she had a bird's range of flight without the bird's instinct for finding the way.

She was conscious of this as she sat, on the following morning, looking over her correspondence. Everything in the room about her suggested wealth. She herself, in a soft, trailing garment that seemed to be woven of gossamer and the petals of pale-pink flowers, looked as far removed from the practical side of life as a Princess de Lamballe or Dauphiness Marie Antoinette. Her coffee, brought to her in the gold-plate service kept in the hotel as a delicate attention to passing royalties, was beside her on the table, and she sipped as she read.

The Duke's daily letter she glanced through first, laying it down with a sigh. When she had read the notes from her friends, she separated the letters of invitation from those of premature congratulation on her reported engagement. Then she attacked the large pile of envelopes, the nature of whose contents she knew only too well. They were all requests for contributions of money to charities of various kinds, and she swept them aside with a gesture of impatience. In spite of herself, her thoughts went back to the man she had seen last night—the man who was "evidently a gentleman," but who "looked poor."

For a man to "look poor" seemed to Paula the last touch of the pitiable. All the men with whom she had much to do had at least the outward air of riches. This man, on the contrary, bore the very stamp of one obliged to deny himself. Yes, that was it. She could see it now. It was not poverty that he expressed so much as self-denial. The very clothes he wore were threadbare. She had noticed that detail, sub-consciously at the time, and now it came back to her significantly. Well, he had a mother and a sister dependent on him; it was only too likely that he should be forced into personal privation. It was not the nobleness of the sacrifice that appealed to Paula; that was not the standard by which she had been taught to judge; it was rather the pitifulness involved in the necessity for making that kind of sacrifice at all. The men of her family put forth gigantic efforts, and carried them out to gigantic successes. She understood that; she was used to it; but that a man of her own world, one who was on such footing as to be casually presented to herself—that such a man should be driven to pinching, sordid, petty economies in clothing, and perhaps in food, had in it something of the shameful. It put him at once, in her imagination, into the class of people without money—the seekers, the wheedlers, the beggars. She was not indifferent to poverty, but she could not help being distrustful of it. She had seen so much of it, fawning and whining, with the back bent and the hand out-stretched! She could not remember the time when they, the Traffords, had not been tracked down by petitioners. They had moved among them like European tourists among Egyptian fellaheen, with cries for backsheesh forever ringing in their ears. Whether from the individual or the institution, the demand for money never ceased.

She had come to give carelessly, with a kind of royal prodigality, but none the less with a certain contempt for those who asked of her. They wearied her, they goaded her. There were so many of them that she was tempted to class every one who had not huge means of his own among their number. For the minute she saw Roger Winship there. He was poor; that surely was a sufficient reason why he should put his hand out like the rest.

Then came the thought of what had made him poor. She went over again the discussion of last night. Her father had eaten the heart out of the Winships' business before they had ever heard of him! He had laid out his plan of campaign to ruin them five or six years ahead! What did it mean? What could she do? Could she do anything? Was there a right and a wrong to the situation?

She leaned her head on her hand and tried to think; but the complex questions at issue were of the sort that baffled her intelligence. Her mind could only shift aimlessly about, as in a labyrinth, where all the paths led to nothing. She felt herself beating about in despair, in search of a way, when Mrs. George Trafford came tripping in and pointed out the direction.

She had knocked lightly at the door, but had entered without waiting for an answer. She, too, was in a morning costume, but one significantly unlike Paula's. It was of white linen, belted in at the waist with pale blue. It was neat and trim and cleared the ground, setting off her small figure to perfection.

"Good-morning, Laura," Paula said, rather wearily.

"Good-morning, dear," Mrs. Trafford returned, briskly.

They kissed each other in a pecking fashion, and Mrs. Trafford sank into the nearest chair. No one could see her without being sure that she was the sort of woman to go to her point at once.

"I simply had to come to you, dear, before you had a chance to go out. I've been so distressed about the conversation of last night. I've told George that he shouldn't hurl things at you like that."

"What things?" Paula demanded, holding herself erect, and flushing.

"About your father, dear. You might easily misunderstand—"

"I should never misunderstand to the extent of thinking he had done wrong," the girl said, haughtily.

"No, of course not. But I know exactly how you feel, because I've had times of feeling that way myself."

"You mean—?" Paula began, and stopped abruptly. Her eyes clouded, and the tiny furrow marked itself between her brows as she gazed straight before her, trying to shape her thought.

Mrs. Trafford leaned back in her chair and waited. She was a pretty woman, with the cold, clear-cut daintiness of a statuette in biscuit de Sèvres. When George Trafford married her it was a surprise to every one but herself. A Western girl, the daughter of a doctor in a small country town, she had the Western ability to meet poverty just as, when it came, she had the Western readiness to accept wealth. She had not looked for wealth—certainly not such wealth as George Trafford's—but she knew her capacity to fill any position, and she entered upon her new career with plenty of self-confidence.

The marriage was something of a public event, especially in the West. Even in New York there was some curiosity over the advent of a penniless country girl suddenly lifted to such a giddy height of fortune. Laura knew that people expected her head to be turned. They looked at least to be amused by that wild splashing in money supposed to be characteristic of those who have been hurriedly made rich, especially when their antecedents have lain beyond the Mississippi. But they had reckoned without the personal knowledge of one who knew thoroughly her own mind. In coming to New York Laura felt herself raised up for the purpose of illustrating the correct and conscientious use of wealth.

By this time the social position of the Traffords in New York had been secured. After living in Cleveland, St. Louis, Washington, and elsewhere, according to the needs of Mr. Trafford's growing empire, they had come to New York as comparative strangers. Their reception by the high powers ruling there had been one of mingled coldness and curiosity. Little by little, however, they had passed through the necessary stages of initiation, so that when Mrs. George Trafford made her entry it was into an uncontested place. In spite of the Mississippi, there was no reason why, as a bride unusually pretty and incomparably rich, she should not become one of that chosen oligarchy of ladies whose golden sceptre sways over the American metropolis.

And yet she had the courage to snub—gently, courteously, but none the less decidedly to snub—those two great potentates, Mrs. Van Rensselaer Smith and Mrs. Stuyvesant Jones, when, through sheer kindness, they united their rival forces to come and tell her so. She should have no time for mere amusement she informed them. The duties of her position would tax her strength to the utmost. Besides, she shrank from ostentation, from anything that made a parade of the mere power to spend. True refinement lay in making as little display as possible, didn't it? None, in fact, could know it better than themselves. The responsibility of wealth involved so many considerations for others that one's self and one's legitimate, one's natural tastes were driven to the background.

She looked at them with such clear, gray eyes, was so frank, so naïve, and (as they thought) so Western, that Mrs. Van Rensselaer Smith and Mrs. Stuyvesant Jones were nonplussed rather than offended. They liked her for her independence, and were certainly amused. If she wanted to help others with her money, goodness knew there was room enough, they said, when they went away. They were the last people in the world to object to it. Besides, when she had helped a few, she would have enough of such a thankless task as that. She had snubbed them—that was plain—but they were so unused to the process that they almost enjoyed it. She would have other ideas when she was a little older, and then they would take her up again.

But the years were slipping by and Laura was true to the principles with which she started. The only display she made was of the fact that she made no display; her only ostentation was that of her lack of ostentation. She made no secret of the fact that she looked upon wealth as a heavy burden. "Mr. Trafford and I have no pleasure like that of giving away," she sighed, not only in private but in public. They did give away on a scale of superb munificence. By confining their gifts to what would refine, elevate, and educate the masses at large, they took care not to pauperize or encourage idleness. Schools, colleges, libraries, and art museums had the chief benefit of their generosity. The grim want of individuals did not appeal to them, "because," so Mrs. Trafford said, "there were so few cases in which the after-effects of charity were not deleterious." She liked to feel that her liberality had a sound commercial basis.

"You needn't be afraid to speak out with me, Paula, dear," she said, encouragingly, when the girl had been a long time silent. "As I've told you already, I've been through it all, and I want to help you. Before I married George I'd heard lots of things about Uncle Trafford that—well, that rather shocked me."

Again Paula lifted her head haughtily, but Laura hurried on.

"I had to reason everything out before I could see how right he was. If I hadn't been able to come to that conclusion I could never have accepted George. Now, here's a principle which, George says, people in our position must never lose sight of: you can't go behind the law. If the law is on your side, you must be right."

"But can't the law be outwitted?" Paula asked, ponderingly. "It seems to me I've heard of that."

"I believe it can, but George says Uncle Trafford never tried to do it. That's where he's been so able."

"Did he—? Tell me frankly, Laura, please. I know he didn't, but I must ask you. Did he, in your opinion, ever do anything that wasn't honorable?"

"George says," Mrs. Trafford answered, slowly, "that business is a good deal like whist. Each player holds his portion of the cards, out of which he's permitted to win the game by any means short of cheating. It's acknowledged beforehand that there's no place in the play for mercy or unselfishness. The game goes to him who can get it. There are commonly accepted rules that he can observe or not, as he chooses. What justifies him is his success, and if he wins the question of honor or dishonor isn't raised. Now, dear, your father is an amazingly clever player of the game. He can win it when his opponents hold all the best cards and more than half the trumps. It isn't his place to consider them; it's his duty to take the tricks. If he takes a great many tricks—a great, great many tricks—his skill can't be called dishonor, can it? It's skill, that's all; and nothing is more admirable than skill in anything."

"But if it's skill to bring trouble and worry and want to some people, and to others—to us, for instance—millions more than we can ever use—"

"There's no such skill as that, dear," Mrs. Trafford argued, in a virtuous tone. "From the beginning of history wealth has always been a stewardship, and it has gone into the hands of certain stewards. If you are a steward, it's much more important to fulfil your stewardship than to question the means by which you were appointed."

"But," said Paula, doubtfully, "couldn't part of the stewardship be—to make reparation?"

"Reparation isn't as easy at it looks, dear. It's not only a matter of giving, but a matter of taking. When one side is willing to offer it, the other, perhaps, isn't ready to accept it."

"But if it were money? Anybody would accept money."

"No, anybody won't accept money, strange as it may seem. There are people—we may not know many of them—but there are people who put money a long way after pride. I've got a good mind to tell you something that George and I have always kept from you. It would show you."

Paula looked her interrogation.

"It's about your father."

"Do tell me, Laura, please."

"Well, the beginning of it was a long time ago, when we lived in Turtonville, Wisconsin. It was ages before I ever imagined I should marry one of the Traffords. Your father at that time had some trouble out there with a man named Marshall. I don't know exactly what it was, but it was something like what we were talking of last night."

"Not the Winships?" Paula cried, painfully. "There wasn't another case like that? Tell me, Laura!"

"No, it wasn't a bit like that, it was just something in the same line. What I'm coming to is this: Marshall was the rich man of Turtonville. He had something to do with coal, of course; and he had four daughters, all very plain. One of them was an old maid from the time I can begin to remember. Well, when the trouble started, your father began pushing Marshall and pushing him and pushing him—till at last he pushed him out of his business altogether. Then Marshall shot himself."

"Oh, Laura, don't tell me any more."

"It was all Marshall's fault, dear. Your father didn't make him shoot himself. That was perfectly gratuitous on Marshall's part. But it's about the old Miss Marshalls that I want to tell you. After their father died and they were so poor, they had to turn their hands to anything for a living. They did sewing and made cake and put up pickles and painted doilies—"

"Oh, how dreadful, Laura!"

"And they did pretty well till the eldest one fell ill. That was the very summer I was married; and one day, in the winter after, I happened to mention them to your father."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I know he was good to them!"

"Yes; he sent them a thousand dollars, anonymously, through their minister. He gave the strictest orders that his name was never to be known, but when they had spent a couple of hundred of it the foolish clergyman told them. That was enough. The sick one got up out of her dying bed and went to work. It was as if her pride had healed her. For two years they toiled and saved till they had got together as much as they had spent. Then they returned the full thousand to your father. He told me about it, and I know it cut him to the quick. He's forgiven them, though, great heart that he is! And he's asked me several times to do what I can for them."

"And you've done it, Laura?"

"Indeed I have! I couldn't send them money, of course, after their treatment of Uncle Trafford. Besides, I never run the risk of pauperizing any one. What I've done has been to give them work. They sew beautifully, and I've managed to let them have all the house-linen, both for Newport and Tuxedo, without a suspicion on their part that it was for our family. Naturally, I had to do it through a third person, for they wouldn't have touched it if they had known."

"Are there really people in the world who feel towards us like that?" Paula questioned, with an air of distress.

"I suppose," Mrs. Trafford replied, in her practical way—"I suppose they feel towards us much as the French do towards the Germans. It can't be very pleasant for the Germans to be hated so, and yet they have Alsace-Lorraine to console them. I don't blame the Miss Marshalls. I say it's very natural in their situation. I do all I can to alleviate their condition, and I believe I succeed. Their work is really exquisite, and I find that, even after paying the express charges, it is cheaper than it would be in New York. Now the third person of whom I spoke—if you must know who it is, it's that Miss Green who works in the College Settlement in Bleecker Street—she wants me to take a lot of their painted doilies, but I feel that I must draw the line at that."

"I'll take them," Paula said, instantly. "I'll take as many as they can paint, if they go on painting all the rest of their lives."

It was this sort of impulsive generosity that contradicted all Mrs. Trafford's well-thought-out principles of benevolence. It lacked the element of the practical good of both parties, as well as the sense of the responsibility of wealth.

"Then you'd be making a mistake," she said, bluntly. "You'd be wasting both your own money and their time. There are three useful things that they can do: they can sew, they can make cake, and they can put up pickles. Why on earth should they want to do painting—?"

"But painting is a useful thing," Paula interrupted, a little warmly.

"Exactly. And that brings me right to the thing I came in to say. I know what's been on your mind ever since last night. I know it, because it's been on my mind, too. I always feel for those cases where there's been a previous—connection with the family, so to speak. I know it's Uncle Trafford's wish that we should make things as easy for them as we can. Now, why shouldn't you have this Mr. Winship paint your portrait?"

"Oh, Laura. I couldn't!" the girl cried, flushing.

"Couldn't? Of course you could. It's the thing to do. He could paint you and the Duke and me and our little Paul, and perhaps I might even get George to sit to him. I suppose Aunt Trafford never would. Anyhow, he could do all of us, and we'd pay him very good prices—nothing fabulous, mind you, nothing of that kind, but what for him would be generous prices. Just think of all it would mean to him! It wouldn't be only the money—though that, of course, would be a great deal—it would be the réclame, the advertisement. It would pose him before the world; it would set him up for life. Then we should be rid of the worry of thinking about him. Of course, I can see it would be a bore to you," she added, as Paula still seemed to hesitate, "but people like ourselves, with the responsibility of wealth upon them, can't stop at a duty merely because, it's a bore."

"You're a wonderful woman, Laura," Paula said at last, her eyes suffused with that Celtic softness which is midway between smiles and tears. "You've such good ideas, and such sound ones. I won't say that I'll do it, but I'll think it over. But if I come to it," she went on, stammering slightly, "you—mustn't think—that it is because I have any doubt of—of—father."

As she uttered the last words there came a sharp rap at the door, and Paul Trafford himself entered.