Edward Burton

It is doubtless unnecessary to remind the reader that on a certain evening a social after-dinner gathering took place in the drawing-room of the Bonbright cottage at Bar Harbor. We deemed it advisable to take our leave for a time of the people there assembled and revert to other and distant scenes already passed, because of their vital connection with the lives of these persons in whose history we are interested.

How our pathways touch and cross those of other pedestrians on the highway of life; and how each contact colors, modifies, deflects, and even transforms our careers and their outcome. How small the world really is!

Mrs. Smith of San Francisco, and Mrs. Brown of Chicago, have opposite apartments at a hotel on the summit of the Rigi, and both are called up to witness the sunrise. Mrs. Smith, as she takes in the view, soliloquizes, though unconsciously, in audible tones, “Not much finer than our Sierras.”

Mrs. Brown, near by, has overheard the soliloquy and quietly observes, “Beg pardon, but I infer that you may be from San Francisco.”

“You are quite right,” replies Mrs. Smith. “My husband, Mr. Smith, is of the banking firm of Smith, Simpkins & Co. of that city.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, but is Mr. Simpkins the Mr. William J. Simpkins formerly of Albany?”

“The very same person. Were you acquainted with him?”

“I should rather think so,” replied Mrs. Brown. “But for a slight accident, the loss of a letter, I should have become his wife.”

“Indeed! That fact reminds me that I often have heard him speak of you. You, then, must be Mrs. Brown of Chicago, and your maiden name was Perkins.”

“You are quite correct,” replied Mrs. Brown. “Isn’t the view glorious?”

“Perfectly gorgeous! My uncle, Dr. Hitchcock, who is here, says that it is worth coming to Europe to see.”

“What Dr. Hitchcock is he, may I inquire? It can’t be possible that he is Dr. G. W. Hitchcock, of Portland, Maine?”

“The very same,” replied Mrs. Smith.

“No other than my old physician and Sunday-school teacher,” said Mrs. Brown.

“By the way, did you happen to know any of the Joneses, when you lived in Albany?” said Mrs. Smith.

“Yes, indeed. Mr. Abram V. Jones was an intimate friend of mine.”

“You astound me,” said Mrs. Smith. “He is my twin brother.”

Just then the breakfast gong interrupted the evolutionary process.

People who “want the earth” should remember that it is a limited affair.

The younger members of the company on the evening of the dinner-party had arranged for a sail on the following day, which took place with the result narrated in the preceding chapter.

On the morning following the rescue, Mr. Bonbright called upon Colonel Tapley to express his thanks, and also to invite the Sea-Foam party to dine with him on the same evening. “My dear colonel,” said Mr. Bonbright, “we can never discharge the debt of gratitude we owe to you and your party, especially to your son and Mr. Burton. We hope that you will do us the honor to dine with us to-night, and we wish to see you all very often during your stay at Bar Harbor. We should be gratified if the young gentlemen would become our guests. Our young people will be delighted to entertain them, and will do all in their power to make their stay agreeable.”

Colonel Tapley thanked Mr. Bonbright, and in behalf of himself and party accepted the invitation to dinner, and also said he would make known Mr. Bonbright’s wishes to the young gentlemen.

Colonel Tapley selected a convenient hotel for the headquarters of his party during their stay at Bar Harbor. With the Sea-Foam at hand, they could make short excursions in the bay, and along the near-by coast, and thus enjoy the scenery to the best advantage.

The Tapley party were most warmly received upon their arrival at the Bonbright cottage, in response to the invitation of the morning. Such a welcome was theirs as usually would be accorded only to old and dear friends. Before the events of the previous day, with the exception of a casual business acquaintance between Colonel Tapley and Mr. Bonbright, these families were strangers to each other. Now they were not only friends, but there existed between them a tie the formation of which, under ordinary circumstances, would have required a long process of growth.

It is significant how any deep though often short experience, perhaps a mutual danger safely passed, a common emergency survived, or an episode like the rescue of the previous day, will draw hearts together. Such experiences unseal the deepest fountains of human sympathy, so that their waters mingle together; formalities become mere cobwebs, and the intrinsic brotherhood of man is thereby revealed. How the conventionalities of society and social intercourse chill human affection, and build artificial walls and barriers between human souls! We touch the merest surface of those around us, and know nothing of their life-currents. A code of formal precedents, rules, and maxims becomes the unwritten though inviolable law of society, which in the main has its foundation in selfishness and self-seeking. People mingle with each other, each wearing an invisible armor, perhaps polished with external brilliancy and even attractiveness, but as impenetrable as tempered steel. Any deep mutual experience melts away the armor, and divine human qualities shine out, and heart responds to heart.

A carload of human freight plunges over a precipice. All may escape injury; but what a shattering of armors and crumbling of partition walls! A mutual kinship, embracing every soul in that car, has grown up with marvellous quickness, and has made itself felt and real.

More than a score of years ago, the steamer Lady Elgin was sunk in Lake Michigan as the result of a collision. The event was tragic, and the experience of the survivors thrilling and pathetic. The resulting kinship has since expressed itself in annual gatherings, which will probably continue until the diminishing ranks have faded away.

Why should it require a great emergency to soften and melt human frigidity? Mutual love should exist, not merely on account of the intrinsic worth of each, but because it is the fulfilment of the highest law of our being.

The dinner-party was much larger than the one of two nights previous. In the commodious drawing-room little Tom was the central attraction, and, notwithstanding his recent experience, appeared as “bright as a dollar.” He still insisted that he had been rudely awakened from the most beautiful dream imaginable; but yet he at once took a great fancy to Burton, which was reciprocated with interest.

“Do you know any good ghost stories?” he asked, as Burton drew him upon his knee.

“Perhaps I can think of one some time when we are by ourselves,” said Burton. “Are you fond of them?”

“Oh, I just dote on ghost stories.”

“How do you like fairy tales?”

“Oh, I dote on fairy tales, too. I like anything that is strange and misty, and a little bit mischievous.”

“I have known some larger boys, even some that had gray heads, just like you, Tom.”

A more general conversation prevented a fuller discussion of Tom’s favorite topic.

Dinner was soon announced. Mr. Bonbright escorted Mrs. Tapley to the dining-room, followed by Colonel Tapley with Mrs. Bonbright, Lord Percival with Miss Rosamond, Burton with Miss Helen, Van Roden with Miss Jenness, Adelbert with Miss Tapley, and then the surplus gentlemen, the ladies in this case—unlike most summer-resort dinner-parties—being in the minority. Colonel Tapley and Lord Percival were seated respectively on the right and left of Mrs. Bonbright, and Mrs. and Miss Tapley occupied corresponding positions at Mr. Bonbright’s end of the table. Burton was seated between Helen and Miss Jenness, with Van Roden next, and Miss Tapley on his right. Tapley was on the opposite side, between Bishop Alban and Miss Rosamond.

A great floral pyramid of rare beauty occupied the centre of the table. The size of the company made general conversation rather difficult; the sociability therefore was mainly confined to groups, embracing those in immediate proximity.

Helen Bonbright appeared in a simple costume of white muslin, without ornament of any kind; her wealth of blond hair gathered in a great knot behind, which, with her exquisitely chiselled features and delicate complexion, made a picture of feminine beauty which would fill the ideal of an artist. Her unaffected manner and low, musical voice gave a peculiar charm to her conversation, while as a listener she was no less attractive. Miss Rosamond, with her lustrous black eyes, graceful, volatile, and almost coquettish bearing, heightened by an elaborate costume, could not fail to dazzle and captivate. Miss Jenness, tall, queenly, and with pronounced independence, was an excellent example of another type of beauty. Miss Tapley was quite petite, with rather unattractive features, but very intellectual in character and appearance.

The loud hum of conversation gave evidence that a “feast of reason and flow of soul” was in progress.

“I hope,” said Helen to Burton, “that you and Mr. Tapley have felt no serious ill effects from your diving, and from the enforced delay in the change of your dripping clothing. I have been anxious all day to hear of your welfare, and to learn that you have not suffered from your self-sacrificing exposure.”

“I assure you, Miss Bonbright, that we are both in perfect health. The opportunity to serve, when improved, is such a moral tonic that I think it even penetrates through and invigorates the physical man. Within any reasonable limits, nothing is more wholesome than the privilege—improved—of doing one’s duty.”

“Do you think that hardship experienced in the performance of an act of mercy would be less harmful than equal exposure incurred in the ordinary course of events?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Burton; “though not because of any special interposition of Providence in that particular case, but because such an act is in accord with spiritual law, which is higher and ruling in its bearing upon physical manifestations.”

“Would it not be in the nature of the ‘miraculous,’ if two equal cases of physical exposure should have quite different results?” asked Miss Bonbright, much interested.

“Quite so,” replied Burton; “the miraculous, in the true sense, is normal. To the observer from a purely material standpoint, the unlike results would be a wonder; in fact, miraculous. He would conclude that physical laws had been either suspended or violated.”

“How would you otherwise explain it, Mr. Burton?”

“In the simplest way possible, Miss Bonbright. Nature, revelation, and analogy teach that the higher should rule the lower; but it does not suspend nor repeal it. No natural law, either in the material or spiritual realm, is capricious or changeable. It is to be relied upon. I lift a pebble from the ground. The quality of gravity in the pebble has not been suspended nor lessened, but a higher and superior force has come in and ruled and overcome it. The moral and spiritual forces involved in the two supposed cases are unequal, and therefore the visible, manifested results are unlike. The age of miracles has not passed, but they are all in accordance with orderly law. Miraculous works are real, but not abnormal. The beneficent result is veritable, but the miraculous tinge, which colors the process, fades out when viewed in the white light of spiritual force and causation.”

“That view hardly accords with the current estimate,” said Miss Bonbright, “but certainly it appears logical, and I see no reason why it is not reverent and scriptural.”

“Yes,” responded Burton, “to regard miracles as the orderly action of ruling, unseen forces, bringing into subjection those tendencies which are seen and material, does more honor to the Creator than to consider them as special, irregular, or spasmodic. The realm of causation is located within the confines of the Unseen. The seen is the external sequence. Half the confusion in the world arises from mistaking visible effects for primary causes.”

“You undoubtedly recognize necessary limitations in the present application of higher or spiritual law,” suggested Helen.

“Most assuredly. In the present materialistic age, each one is curbed and held back by inherited and prevailing race belief, or rather unbelief. Even Jesus declared of certain places that in them he ‘could not do many mighty works,’ because of prevailing unbelief. There must be, not only willingness, but desire. Principles, though complete in themselves, can have but partial application amidst crude and imperfect conditions. In the not distant future, when there will be a more general ‘living in spirit,’ and thorough appreciation of unseen forces, their practical working sphere will be greatly enlarged, and demonstrations will be common which now would be classed as miraculous. As the race becomes familiar with divinely ordained spiritual forces, a dexterous use will be made of them. Both physical and mental ills will be eliminated to an extent now unimagined. It is our privilege to be pioneers in this advance, and by steadily holding up these ideals to hasten forward their realization.”

“I suppose that you recognize all spiritual aids as divinely bestowed,” said Helen.

“Certainly. There is a Presence with each one of us, of which, in the din of the world, we are unconscious; but, when recognized and dwelt with, there follows an at-one-ment, which is most wholesome and inspiring. The Divine Spirit, as a force and as a teacher, reveals itself to our perception in proportion as we hold it steadily in our consciousness.”

“I infer that you regard the degree of such consciousness to be a matter of cultivation,” observed Helen.

“Upon that point there can be no doubt,” replied Burton. “But I must beg your pardon for so much moralizing, in the midst of such surroundings. I fear that you regard it as inopportune.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Burton, I am very fond of metaphysics, and delight in the consideration of spiritual topics. I have been greatly interested in your views, and they are in close accord with my own.”

Often it is not easy for one to find an appreciative listener, when topics out of the common order are introduced.

The fashions, the latest gossip, the weather, the markets, current amusements, the races, baseball, the last defalcation, are interesting to the majority; but, if the conversation chances to shade into subjects more vital, many listen with one ear, or by their manner say, “Please excuse me.” Social usage places a quiet but effectual “taboo” upon higher topics. People are ready to talk about the pleasures and the pains of their bodies, or the experience of their physical senses, but are reticent regarding their higher nature and deeper experiences.

Helen did not belong to “the majority.” She had been keenly impressed with Burton’s spirit, because the chords of her own being intuitively responded to the same ideals. Her words had been few, but mere words are rubbish. The two souls were like two musical instruments attuned to the same key, and responsive to the same melodies. Across the table, and partly hid by the great floral pyramid, Tapley and Miss Rosamond were chatting in a lively manner, but a close observer might have detected in Tapley an absence of mental pose and concentration, which usually were well marked in him. As Miss Rosamond made some bright suggestion, or flashed out some witty repartee, his attention was variable and some of his responses rather mechanical and not entirely lucid. His gaze appeared to be directed towards the mass of floral beauty before him. Had he taken a new interest in floriculture, or was he deeply abstracted upon some metaphysical problem? A closer inspection would have revealed the fact that his glances went beyond the flowers, and rested for intermittent periods upon beauty of a higher genus.

Tapley was not the man to be captivated by mere external loveliness, but that personality beyond the pyramid, unconscious and unaffected, who was drinking in Burton’s rounded sentences, was more than beautiful. Even at their very first meeting on board the Sea-Foam, Tapley had experienced a kind of mental shock, which he did not understand. Her perfection of form and feature made no unusual impression upon him, except as it was a mirror-like reflection of a real figure behind. There seemed to be an indefinable mist or halo surrounding her personality; intangible, yet perceptible.

Did he wish that chance had placed her at his side rather than by Burton? No! emphatically no! Not a shade of envy entered his mind. His devotion was only a worthily bestowed homage paid to a pure shrine because of an intuitive recognition of its quality.

Rosamond devoted herself mainly to Lord Percival, who occupied the seat on her right, though she had tried to be agreeable to Tapley, regardless of his abstraction. She thought Lord Percival charming. True, he manifested an “indefinable air of condescension,” when discussing American manners and institutions, but she reflected similar sentiments by an attitude of apology regarding everything in her own country.

“I fancy that you have often visited England and the Continent?” said Lord Percival as soon as they were fairly seated.

“Oh, yes, my lord. I should be sorry to have always lived in America. We have passed considerable time abroad, and hope soon to make another European tour. I am perfectly delighted with English manners and society, and also fancy your form of government, and institutions generally. With us there is such a dearth of art, antiquity, and romance, and even our best society has no well-defined limits. It shades off beyond even the slightest artificial distinctions. In observing our social conditions, Lord Percival, you will find it necessary to make great allowances, for this is a democratic nation. I dislike the very name.”

“Your discriminating sense of social distinctions does you honor, Miss Rosamond. I fancy that your own family has a history, and that not so very far back the roots of your ancestral tree may have been nourished in the soil of good old England.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “our genealogy has been traced back, and it is found that our paternal ancestor, who came to this country in 1690, was the youngest son of the Duke of Penzance.”

“By Jove! what a coincidence! The eldest son of that same Duke, who lived from 1640 to 1694, was my ancestor. A paltry two hundred years ago, and our ancestors were brothers. It is evident that we really are cousins, a few times removed, to be sure, but the removals are of small account. Blood will tell, Miss Rosamond. Please regard it, not as flattery, but as sound discrimination, when your—cousin, shall I say?—avers that in you the quality of the good old English stock has been perfectly maintained.”

“You are rather free with your cousinly compliments,” she replied, but by a rather fascinating toss of her head it was evident that her reproof was not deeply serious.

“’Pon my word,” he resumed, “there are no visible signs to show that you are a native of America. You have no nasal tone, no American accent, and you make no use of such beastly terms as, guess and calculate, don’t you know. Were I to see you in a West-End drawing-room, I should—aw—aw—beg pardon, regard it as an honor to gain an introduction, which here I have been so fortunate as to obtain under less formal conditions.”

“You do me too much honor, Lord Percival,” she replied with a bewitching smile. “The last time that we were in England I had the honor of being presented to the Queen, and several of the best people were very kind to me, and made me quite at home. The Queen’s reception that I refer to was held June 18, 188-.”

“Another coincidence, by Jove! I happened to be present on that very occasion. I remember the date for the reason that my only sister was married the day before. I fancy that I must have seen you. I vividly recall the fact that there were present some unusual specimens of feminine beauty. You will pardon such a slight reminiscence for relation’s sake.”

A merry laugh, and a blossoming rose on each cheek, gave evidence that she was not deeply offended.

“With all our crudity, I am glad that your worst anticipations of American life, so far, have not been realized, Lord Percival.”

“Really, Miss Rosamond, I must admit that the intolerable things which I have observed since landing on this side are remarkably few. A certain familiar vulgarity is noticeable, but so far I have been rather agreeably disappointed.”

“How delightful it must be to live all one’s life in dear old England,” said Rosamond. “Everything here is so commonplace and practical. I hate practicality. I like to live for the poetry there is in life. Our American gentlemen, as a rule, are completely enveloped in an atmosphere redolent with business and profits. Such an everlasting grind tends toward vulgarity, and renders life hardly worth the trouble. We have a surplus of mere bigness when looked at on the map, but that quality is coarse. Big things are always ordinary and unrefined. A country without any old castles or ruins, with no dim history, no mellow romance of a feudal period, no cathedrals, court, kings, queens, nor lords, is perfectly insipid.”

“I fancy that I quite agree with you, my dear Miss Rosamond, though I would hesitate to express my sentiments, except to you, don’t you know,” said Lord Percival, while toying with his single eyeglass. “Really, it would be quite awkward, you observe, to manifest a spirit of criticism while one was a guest. But I do give Americans credit for being more like English people than I had fancied. I imagine that when I go farther west, where the natives are more removed from English influences, I shall find the genuine American characteristics. I came over, you know, to indulge in a little study of specimens.”

“Somewhat with the spirit of an enthusiastic entomologist, when he is on the track of a rare spider or an uncommon bug, I suppose,” replied Rosamond, laughing.

“Yes, aw—aw—quite fancy character study; but to make it interesting, one must have unique specimens, you know, which so far are a little rare,” said Lord Percival, while caressing his mutton-chop whiskers.

“As you cannot pin them up and dry them, how will you take them along for exhibition?” inquired Rosamond, with a quizzing little smile.

“That is not in the least awkward,” replied his lordship. “I shall take them in the shape of pen-photographs, and on my return put into book-form my impressions of American institutions and people, don’t you know.”

“I trust that you will honor me with a copy,” said Rosamond.

“My dear cousin—slightly removed—it will give me the greatest pleasure.”

Lord Percival had seen America through the medium of current fiction, of the realistic variety, and this view, supplemented by a few days of visiting, made him feel quite competent to write the proposed treatise.

In Mr. Lowell’s sketch “Regarding a Certain Condescension in Foreigners,” he intimates that in some degree it may be due to our aping foreign manners, or, in other words, to our efforts to become second-hand Englishmen. He says, “There are not wanting those who give their whole genius to reproducing here the original Bull, whether by gaiters, the cut of their whiskers, by factitious brutality in their tone, or by an accent that is forever tripping and falling flat over the tangled roots of our common tongue. The average Briton meets with so many bad imitators as to conclude himself the only real thing in a wilderness of shams.”

We may have a Great West, but we have no West End. When we have occasion to make a business call upon an Englishman in his castle, we must ring at the area-bell, and not disturb the slumbers of the venerable knocker. Our manners are not of the aristocratic stamp, and we are awkward in interpreting the delicate expressions of caste. Let us, then, have our own standard, and not try to appropriate or counterfeit that of the Briton, even if it be perfection.

Frustadt seemed uneasy in his seat, which was between Bishop Alban and Mrs. Tapley. He exchanged a few commonplaces with the latter, and talked a little of life in the Heidelberg University with the bishop. He cast keen, fiery glances towards Lord Percival, who, to him, was an ever-present embodiment of the genus aristocrat. His discomfiture was further intensified by the fact that the Englishman monopolized the attention of the pretty Miss Rosamond. To a close observer, the scars, as plainly as an audible voice, exclaimed, “You robber! you want the earth, and that pretty girl besides.”

Van Roden, who by chance—how much chance is responsible for—had handed Miss Jenness into the dining-room, continued his “study of character” during the several courses, and in the intervals between. Like Lord Percival, he enjoyed a kind of professional dissection of specimens. Perhaps his experience as a medical student had sharpened this propensity. He only wanted to make a sort of scientific analysis of this unique female personality, that he first had met only forty-eight hours before. As a disciple of Huxley, he wanted to find out by what process of evolution or natural selection this “subject” had arrived at a point where she could successfully cope with him in intellectual sparring. His only motive was scientific curiosity. Any one, however, with both eyes open, might have noticed that when Burton, from the other side, was attentive to Miss Jenness, Van Roden improved the first pause to continue his monopoly of the “investigation.”

For the number and intensity of flirtations the average summer-resort bears off the palm. Released from the ordinary duties and occupations of life, and with nothing better to do, people flirt who never flirted before, and who never expect to again. They make it a temporary vocation, and then attend strictly to business. Not merely the young and giddy, but the old, the staid, the sedate, all “go in” to make conquests. By some mysterious power of natural selection, “affinities” are discovered as surely and quickly as an underground spring is located by the witch-hazel divining-rod in the hands of an expert. Married and unmarried, widows and widowers, D.D.’s as well as M.D.’s, in all their little games manage to throw doublets. Shake them up as you may, and despite the law of general average, they drop out together; they ride together, they walk together. Together they admire mountains, adore waterfalls, enjoy autumnal tints, and glorify sunsets.

On an ocular test, the average summer visitor sees double. Three days before, the affinities never had met, and three days later they will part forever. No difference. During this short companionship they become more intimately acquainted than would be possible if they merely moved in the same circle of metropolitan society for ten years. Friendships quickly become cemented, and congenial spirits rapidly become more congenial. Uncongenialities also become pronounced. A polarization of positive and negative influences produces groups and cliques defined by mutual attraction and repulsion.

The dinner proved an exceedingly pleasant entertainment in every respect. Lord Percival appreciatively remarked on the way to his hotel that it almost took him back to England, and called upon Jove to witness that there was not a single intolerable detail about the whole affair. As the Tapley party took their leave, the Bonbrights pressed them to waive all formality, and visit them very often while they remained at Bar Harbor. “But for the timely arrival of your ‘Angels of Mercy,’” said Mr. Bonbright, as he grasped Colonel Tapley’s hand when they parted, “our household to-night would be plunged into the depths of sorrow and mourning.”

As they filed out to their carriages, Lord Percival made a very profound bow to Rosamond, and Tapley’s abstraction was not diminished as he bade adieu to the mystic, lovable Helen Bonbright.