They do it in his teeth and they do it behind his back; the mother protects the daughter, and the daughter eggs on the mother.Between them they are bleeding him to death.""Ah, what a picture!" murmured Mrs.Church."I am afraid they are very-uncultivated.""I share your fears.They are perfectly ignorant; they have no resources.The vision of fine clothes occupies their whole imagination.They have not an idea--even a worse one--to compete with it.Poor Mr.Ruck, who is extremely good-natured and soft, seems to me a really tragic figure.He is getting bad news every day from home; his business is going to the dogs.He is unable to stop it; he has to stand and watch his fortunes ebb.He has been used to doing things in a big way, and he feels mean, if he makes a fuss about bills.So the ladies keep sending them in.""But haven't they common sense? Don't they know they are ruining themselves?""They don't believe it.The duty of an American husband and father is to keep them going.If he asks them how, that's his own affair.
So, by way of not being mean, of being a good American husband and father, poor Ruck stands staring at bankruptcy."Mrs.Church looked at me a moment, in quickened meditation."Why, if Aurora were to go to stay with them, she might not even be properly fed!""I don't, on the whole, recommend," I said, laughing, "that your daughter should pay a visit to Thirty-Seventh Street.""Why should I be subjected to such trials--so sadly eprouvee? Why should a daughter of mine like that dreadful girl?""DOES she like her?"
"Pray, do you mean," asked my companion, softly, "that Aurora is a hypocrite?"I hesitated a moment."A little, since you ask me.I think you have forced her to be."Mrs.Church answered this possibly presumptuous charge with a tranquil, candid exultation."I never force my daughter!""She is nevertheless in a false position," I rejoined."She hungers and thirsts to go back to her own country; she wants 'to come' out in New York, which is certainly, socially speaking, the El Dorado of young ladies.She likes any one, for the moment, who will talk to her of that, and serve as a connecting-link with her native shores.
Miss Ruck performs this agreeable office.""Your idea is, then, that if she were to go with Miss Ruck to America she would drop her afterwards."I complimented Mrs.Church upon her logical mind, but I repudiated this cynical supposition."I can't imagine her--when it should come to the point--embarking with the famille Ruck.But I wish she might go, nevertheless."Mrs.Church shook her head serenely, and smiled at my inappropriate zeal."I trust my poor child may never be guilty of so fatal a mistake.She is completely in error; she is wholly unadapted to the peculiar conditions of American life.It would not please her.She would not sympathise.My daughter's ideal is not the ideal of the class of young women to which Miss Ruck belongs.I fear they are very numerous; they give the tone--they give the tone.""It is you that are mistaken," I said; "go home for six months and see.""I have not, unfortunately, the means to make costly experiments.My daughter has had great advantages--rare advantages--and I should be very sorry to believe that au fond she does not appreciate them.One thing is certain: I must remove her from this pernicious influence.
We must part company with this deplorable family.If Mr.Ruck and his ladies cannot be induced to go to Chamouni--a journey that no traveller with the smallest self-respect would omit--my daughter and I shall be obliged to retire.We shall go to Dresden.""To Dresden?"
"The capital of Saxony.I had arranged to go there for the autumn, but it will be ******r to go immediately.There are several works in the gallery with which my daughter has not, I think, sufficiently familiarised herself; it is especially strong in the seventeenth century schools."As my companion offered me this information I perceived Mr.Ruck come lounging in, with his hands in his pockets, and his elbows ****** acute angles.He had his usual anomalous appearance of both seeking and avoiding society, and he wandered obliquely toward Mrs.Church, whose last words he had overheard."The seventeenth century schools," he said, slowly, as if he were weighing some very small object in a very large-pair of scales."Now, do you suppose they HADschools at that period?"
Mrs.Church rose with a good deal of precision, ****** no answer to this incongruous jest.She clasped her large volume to her neat little bosom, and she fixed a gentle, serious eye upon Mr.Ruck.
"I had a letter this morning from Chamouni," she said.
"Well," replied Mr.Ruck, "I suppose you've got friends all over.""I have friends at Chamouni, but they are leaving.To their great regret." I had got up, too; I listened to this statement, and Iwondered.I am almost ashamed to mention the subject of my agitation.I asked myself whether this was a sudden improvisation, consecrated by maternal devotion; but this point has never been elucidated."They are giving up some charming rooms; perhaps you would like them.I would suggest your telegraphing.The weather is glorious," continued Mrs.Church, "and the highest peaks are now perceived with extraordinary distinctness."Mr.Ruck listened, as he always listened, respectfully."Well," he said, "I don't know as I want to go up Mount Blank.That's the principal attraction, isn't it?""There are many others.I thought I would offer you an--an exceptional opportunity.""Well," said Mr.Ruck, "you're right down friendly.But I seem to have more opportunities than I know what to do with.I don't seem able to take hold.""It only needs a little decision," remarked Mrs.Church, with an air which was an admirable example of this virtue."I wish you good-night, sir." And she moved noiselessly away.
Mr.Ruck, with his long legs apart, stood staring after her; then he transferred his perfectly quiet eyes to me."Does she own a hotel over there?" he asked."Has she got any stock in Mount Blank?"
