The Desborough Connections Page #3

"The Desborough Connections" by Bret Harte is a captivating short story that explores themes of social class, morality, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the American West, the narrative revolves around the titular Desborough family, whose connections and enigmatic past intrigue locals and visitors alike. Through a blend of wit, irony, and vivid characterization, Harte delves into the intricacies of love, loyalty, and the consequences of choices made by the characters. The story reflects the author's hallmark style, showcasing his ability to capture the essence of frontier life while critiquing societal norms.

• Short story

								

to pick up for yourself and worry over."

But here the consul pointed out that the place itself was not
"ancestral" as regarded the present earl, and that even the original
title of his predecessors had passed away from it. "In fact, it came
into the family by one of those 'outsiders' you deprecate. But I dare
say you'd find the place quite as comfortable with Lord Beverdale for a
host as you would if you had found out he were a cousin," he added.

"Better," said the young lady frankly.

"I suppose your mother participates in these preferences?" said the
consul, with a smile.

"No," said Miss Desborough, with the same frankness, "I think maw's
rather cut up at not finding a Desborough. She was invited down here,
but SHE'S rather independent, you know, so she allowed I could take care
of myself, while she went off to stay with the old Dowager Lady Mistowe,
who thinks maw a very proper womanly person. I made maw mad by telling
her that's just what old Lady Mistowe would say of her cook--for I can't
stand these people's patronage. However, I shouldn't wonder if I was
invited here as a 'most original person.'"

But here Lord Algernon came up to implore her to sing them one of "those
plantation songs;" and Miss Desborough, with scarcely a change of voice
or manner, allowed herself to be led to the piano. The consul had
little chance to speak with her again, but he saw enough that evening to
convince him not only that Lord Algernon was very much in love with
her, but that the fact had been equally and complacently accepted by the
family and guests. That her present visit was only an opportunity for a
formal engagement was clear to every woman in the house--not excepting,
I fear, even the fair subject of gossip herself. Yet she seemed so
unconcerned and self-contained that the consul wondered if she really
cared for Lord Algernon. And having thus wondered, he came to the
conclusion that it didn't much matter, for the happiness of so
practically organized a young lady, if she loved him or not.

It is highly probable that Miss Sadie Desborough had not even gone so
far as to ask herself that question. She awoke the next morning with a
sense of easy victory and calm satisfaction that had, however, none of
the transports of affection. Her taste was satisfied by the love of
a handsome young fellow,--a typical Englishman,--who, if not exactly
original or ideal, was, she felt, of an universally accepted,
"hall-marked" standard, the legitimate outcome of a highly ordered,
carefully guarded civilization, whose repose was the absence of struggle
or ambition; a man whose regular features were not yet differentiated
from the rest of his class by any of those disturbing lines which people
call character. Everything was made ready for her, without care or
preparation; she had not even an ideal to realize or to modify. She
could slip without any jar or dislocation into this life which was just
saved from self-indulgence and sybaritic luxury by certain conventional
rules of activity and the occupation of amusement which, as obligations
of her position, even appeared to suggest the novel aspect of a DUTY!
She could accept all this without the sense of being an intruder in
an unbroken lineage--thanks to the consul's account of the Beverdales'
inheritance. She already pictured herself as the mistress of this fair
domain, the custodian of its treasures and traditions, and the dispenser
of its hospitalities, but--as she conscientiously believed--without
pride or vanity, in her position; only an intense and thoughtful
appreciation of it. Nor did she dream of ever displaying it
ostentatiously before her less fortunate fellow countrywomen; on the
contrary, she looked forward to their possible criticism of her casting
off all transatlantic ties with an uneasy consciousness that was perhaps
her nearest approach to patriotism. Yet, again, she reasoned that, as
her father was an Englishman, she was only returning to her old home.
As to her mother, she had already comforted herself by noticing certain
discrepancies in that lady's temperament, which led her to believe that
she herself alone inherited her father's nature--for her mother was, of
course, distinctly American! So little conscious was she of any possible
snobbishness in this belief, that in her superb naivete she would have
argued the point with the consul, and employed a wit and dialect that
were purely American.

She had slipped out of the Priory early that morning that she might
enjoy alone, unattended and unciceroned, the aspect of that vast estate
which might be hers for the mere accepting. Perhaps there was some
instinct of delicacy in her avoiding Lord Algernon that morning; not
wishing, as she herself might have frankly put it, "to take stock" of
his inheritance in his presence. As she passed into the garden through
the low postern door, she turned to look along the stretching facade of
the main building, with the high stained windows of its banqueting-hall
and the state chamber where a king had slept. Even in that crisp October
air, and with the green of its ivied battlements against the gold of
the distant wood, it seemed to lie in the languid repose of an eternal
summer. She hurried on down the other terrace into the Italian garden, a
quaint survival of past grandeur, passed the great orangery and numerous
conservatories, making a crystal hamlet in themselves--seeing everywhere
the same luxury. But it was a luxury that she fancied was redeemed
from the vulgarity of ostentation by the long custom of years and
generations, so unlike the millionaire palaces of her own land; and, in
her enthusiasm, she even fancied it was further sanctified by the grim
monastic founders who had once been content with bread and pulse in the
crumbling and dismantled refectory. In the plenitude of her feelings she
felt a slight recognition of some beneficent being who had rolled this
golden apple at her feet, and felt as if she really should like to "do
good" in her sphere.

It so chanced that, passing through a small gate in the park, she saw
walking, a little ahead of her, a young girl whom she at once recognized
as a Miss Amelyn, one of the guests of the evening before. Miss
Desborough remembered that she played the accompaniment of one or two
songs upon the piano, and had even executed a long solo during the
general conversation, without attention from the others, and apparently
with little irritation to herself, subsiding afterwards into an
armchair, quite on the fringe of other people's conversation. She had
been called "my dear" by one or two dowagers, and by her Christian name
by the earl, and had a way of impalpably melting out of sight at times.
These trifles led Miss Desborough to conclude that she was some kind of
dependent or poor relation. Here was an opportunity to begin her work of

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