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diff --git a/12354-0.txt b/12354-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f883bd --- /dev/null +++ b/12354-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9054 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12354 *** + +“MAKE THEIR ACQUAINTANCE; FOR AMY WILL BE FOUND DELIGHTFUL, BETH VERY +LOVELY, MEG BEAUTIFUL, AND JO SPLENDID!”—_The Catholic World._ + + +LITTLE WOMEN. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. In Two Parts. Price of each $1.50. + +“Simply one of the most charming little books that have fallen into our +hands for many a day. There is just enough of sadness in it to make it +true to life, while it is so full of honest work and whole-souled fun, +paints so lively a picture of a home in which contentment, energy, high +spirits, and real goodness make up for the lack of money, that it will +do good wherever it finds its way. Few will read it without lasting +profit.”—_Hartford Courant._ + +“LITTLE WOMEN. By Louisa M. Alcott. We regard these volumes as two of +the most fascinating that ever came into a household. Old and young +read them with the same eagerness. Lifelike in all their delineations +of time, place, and character, they are not only intensely interesting, +but full of a cheerful morality, that makes them healthy reading +for both fireside and the Sunday school. We think we love ”Jo“ a +little better than all the rest, her genius is so happy tempered with +affection.”—_The Guiding Star._ + +The following verbatim copy of a letter from a “little woman” is a +specimen of many which enthusiasm for her book has dictated to the +author of “Little Women:”— + + —— March 12, 1870. + + DEAR JO, OR MISS ALCOTT,—We have all been reading “Little + Women,” and we liked it so much I could not help wanting to + write to you. We think _you_ are perfectly splendid; I like + you better every time I read it. We were all so disappointed + about your not marrying Laurie; I cried over that part,—I + could not help it. We all liked Laurie ever so much, and + almost killed ourselves laughing over the funny things you + and he said. + + We are six sisters and two brothers; and there were so many + things in “Little Women” that seemed so natural, especially + selling the rags. + + Eddie is the oldest; then there is Annie (our Meg), then + Nelly (that’s me), May and Milly (our Beths), Rosie, + Rollie, and dear little Carrie (the baby). Eddie goes away + to school, and when he comes home for the holidays we have + lots of fun, playing cricket, croquet, base ball, and every + thing. If you ever want to play any of those games, just + come to our house, and you will find plenty children to play + with you. + + If you ever come to ——, I do wish you would come and see + us,—we would like it so much. + + I have named my doll after you, and I hope she will try and + deserve it. + + I do wish you would send me a picture of you. I hope your + health is better, and you are having a nice time. + + If you write to me, please direct —— Ill. All the children + send their love. + + With ever so much love, from your affectionate friend, + + NELLY. + + +_Mailed to any address, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price._ + + ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, + _Boston._ + + + + +AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. With Illustrations. Price +$1.50. + + +“Miss Alcott has a faculty of entering into the lives and feelings of +children that is conspicuously wanting in most writers who address +them; and to this cause, to the consciousness among her readers that +they are hearing about people like themselves, instead of abstract +qualities labelled with names, the popularity of her books is due. +Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy are friends in every nursery and schoolroom, +and even in the parlor and office they are not unknown; for a good +story is interesting to older folks as well, and Miss Alcott carries +on her children to manhood and womanhood, and leaves them only on the +wedding-day.”—_Mrs. Sarah J. Hale in Godey’s Ladies’ Book._ + +“We are glad to see that Miss Alcott is becoming naturalized among us +as a writer, and cannot help congratulating ourselves on having done +something to bring about the result. The author of ‘Little Women’ is +so manifestly on the side of all that is ‘lovely, pure, and of good +report’ in the life of women, and writes with such genuine power and +humor, and with such a tender charity and sympathy, that we hail her +books with no common pleasure. ‘An Old-Fashioned Girl’ is a protest +from the other side of the Atlantic against the manners of the creature +which we know on this by the name of ‘the Girl of the Period;’ but +the attack is delivered with delicacy as well as force.”—_The London +Spectator._ + +“A charming little book, brimful of the good qualities of intellect and +heart which made ‘Little Women’ so successful. The ‘Old-Fashioned Girl’ +carries with it a teaching specially needed at the present day, and we +are glad to know it is even already a decided and great success.”—_New +York Independent._ + +“Miss Alcott’s new story deserves quite as great a success as her +famous ”Little Women,“ and we dare say will secure it. She has written +a book which child and parent alike ought to read, for it is neither +above the comprehension of the one, nor below the taste of the other. +Her boys and girls are so fresh, hearty, and natural, the incidents of +her story are so true to life, and the tone is so thoroughly healthy, +that a chapter of the ‘Old-Fashioned Girl’ wakes up the unartificial +better life within us almost as effectually as an hour spent in the +company of good, honest, sprightly children. The Old-Fashioned Girl, +Polly Milton, is a delightful creature!”—_New York Tribune._ + +“Gladly we welcome the ‘Old-Fashioned Girl’ to heart and home! Joyfully +we herald her progress over the land! Hopefully we look forward to +the time when our young people, following her example, will also +be old-fashioned in purity of heart and simplicity of life, thus +brightening like a sunbeam the atmosphere around them.”—_Providence +Journal._ + + +_Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price, by the +Publishers_, + + ROBERTS BROTHERS, + _Boston._ + + + + +MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS’ + +RECENT NEW BOOKS. + + + A VISIT TO MY DISCONTENTED COUSIN. Handy-Volume Series, No. + 8. 16mo. $1.00. + + BURNAND (F. C.). More Happy Thoughts. 16mo. $1.00. + + ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN. The Forest House and Catherine’s Lovers. + 16mo. $1.50. + + HELPS (ARTHUR). Essays Written in the Intervals of Business. + 16mo. $1.50. + + —— Brevia: Short Essays and Aphorisms. 16mo. $1.50. + + —— Conversations on War and General Culture. 16mo. $1.50. + + HALE (EDWARD E.). Ten times One is Ten. 16mo. $0.88. + + HAMERTON (PHILIP G.). Thoughts about Art. 16mo. $2.00. + + INGELOW (JEAN). The Monitions of the Unseen, and Poems of + Love and Childhood. 12 Illustrations. 16mo. $1.50. + + JUDD (SYLVESTER). Margaret: A Tale of the Real and the + Ideal, of Blight and Bloom. 16mo. $1.50. + + —— Richard Edney and the Governor’s Family. 16mo. $1.50. + + KONEWKA (PAUL). Silhouette Illustrations to Goethe’s Faust. + Quarto. $4.00. + + LOWELL (MRS. A. C.). Posies for Children. 16mo. $0.75. + + LANDOR (WALTER SAVAGE). Pericles and Aspasia. 16mo. $1.50. + + MAX AND MAURICE. Translated by Charles T. Brooks. 12mo. + $1.50. + + MICHELET (M. JULES). France Before Europe. 16mo. $1.00. + + PARKER (JOSEPH). Ad Clerum: Advices to a Young Preacher. + 16mo. $1.50. + + PRESTON (HARRIET W.). Aspendale. 16mo. $1.50. + + PUCK’S NIGHTLY PRANKS. Silhouette Illustrations by Paul + Konewka. Paper Covers. $0.50 + + SEELEY (J. R.). Roman Imperialism and Other Lectures and + Essays. 16mo. $1.50. + + STOWE (HARRIET BEECHER). Pink and White Tyranny. 16mo. $1.50. + + JOHN WHOPPER’S ADVENTURES. 16mo. $0.75. + + +“MISS ALCOTT IS REALLY A BENEFACTOR OF HOUSE-HOLDS.”—_H. H._ + + +LITTLE MEN: Life at Plumfield with Jo’s Boys. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. With +Illustrations. Price $1.50. + +“The gods are to be congratulated upon the success of the Alcott +experiment, as well as all childhood, young and old, upon the singular +charm of the little men and little women who have run forth from +the Alcott cottage, children of a maiden whose genius is beautiful +motherhood.”—_The Examiner._ + +“No true-hearted boy or girl can read this book without deriving +benefit from the perusal: nor, for that matter, will it the least +injure children of a larger growth to endeavor to profit by the +examples of gentleness and honesty set before them in its pages. What +a delightful school ‘Jo’ did keep! Why, it makes us want to live our +childhood’s days over again, in the hope that we might induce some +kind-hearted female to establish just such a school, and might prevail +upon our parents to send us, ‘because it was cheap.’ ... We wish the +genial authoress a long life in which to enjoy the fruits of her labor, +and cordially thank her, in the name of our young people, for her +efforts in their behalf.”—_Waterbury American._ + +“Miss Alcott, whose name has already become a household word among +little people, will gain a new hold upon their love and admiration by +this little book. It forms a fitting sequel to ‘Little Women,’ and +contains the same elements of popularity.... We expect to see it even +more popular than its predecessor, and shall heartily rejoice at the +success of an author whose works afford so much hearty and innocent +enjoyment to the family circle, and teach such pleasant and wholesome +lessons to old and young.”—_N. Y. Times._ + +“Suggestive, truthful, amusing, and racy, in a certain simplicity of +style which very few are capable of producing. It is the history of +only six months’ school-life of a dozen boys, but is full of variety +and vitality, and the having girls with the boys is a charming novelty, +too. To be very candid, this book is so thoroughly good that we hope +Miss Alcott will give us another in the same genial vein, for she +understands children and their ways.”—_Phil. Press._ + +A specimen letter from a little woman to the author of “Little Men.” + + June 17, 1871. + +DEAR MISS ALCOTT,—We have just finished “Little Men,” and like it so +much that we thought we would write and ask you to write another book +sequel to “Little Men,” and have more about Laurie and Amy, as we like +them the best. We are the Literary Club, and we got the idea from +“Little Women.” We have a paper two sheets of foolscap and a half. +There are four of us, two cousins and my sister and myself. Our assumed +names are: Horace Greeley, President; Susan B. Anthony, Editor; Harriet +B. Stowe, Vice-President; and myself, Anna C. Ritchie, Secretary. We +call our paper the “Saturday Night,” and we all write stories and have +reports of sermons and of our meetings, and write about the queens of +England. We did not know but you would like to hear this, as the idea +sprang from your book; and we thought we would write, as we liked your +book _so_ much. And now, if it is not too much to ask of you, I wish +you would answer this, as we are very impatient to know if you will +write another book; and please answer soon, as Miss Anthony is going +away, and she wishes very much to hear from you before she does. If you +write, please direct to —— Street, Brooklyn, N.Y. + + Yours truly, + ALICE ——. + + +_Mailed to any address, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price, +by the Publishers,_ + + ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON. + + + + +PINK AND WHITE TYRANNY. + + A Society Novel. + + BY + MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, + AUTHOR OF “UNCLE TOM’S CABIN,” “THE MINISTER’S WOOING,” ETC. + + “Come, then, the colors and the ground prepare; + Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; + Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it + Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.” + POPE. + + + BOSTON: + ROBERTS BROTHERS. + 1871. + + + + + Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by + + HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, + + In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. + + + CAMBRIDGE: + PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +MY DEAR READER,—This story is not to be a novel, as the world +understands the word; and we tell you so beforehand, lest you be in +ill-humor by not finding what you expected. For if you have been told +that your dinner is to be salmon and green peas, and made up your mind +to that bill of fare, and then, on coming to the table, find that it +is beefsteak and tomatoes, you may be out of sorts; _not_ because +beefsteak and tomatoes are not respectable viands, but because they are +not what you have made up your mind to enjoy. + +Now, a novel, in our days, is a three-story affair,—a complicated, +complex, multiform composition, requiring no end of scenery and +_dramatis personæ_, and plot and plan, together with trap-doors, +pit-falls, wonderful escapes and thrilling dangers; and the scenes +transport one all over the earth,—to England, Italy, Switzerland, +Japan, and Kamtschatka. But this is a little commonplace history, +all about one man and one woman, living straight along in one little +prosaic town in New England. It is, moreover, a story with a moral; +and for fear that you shouldn’t find out exactly what the moral is, +we shall adopt the plan of the painter who wrote under his pictures, +“This is a bear,” and “This is a turtle-dove.” We shall tell you in the +proper time succinctly just what the moral is, and send you off edified +as if you had been hearing a sermon. So please to call this little +sketch a parable, and wait for the exposition thereof. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAP. PAGE + I. FALLING IN LOVE 1 + II. WHAT SHE THINKS OF IT 19 + III. THE SISTER 31 + IV. PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE 39 + V. WEDDING, AND WEDDING-TRIP 56 + VI. HONEY-MOON, AND AFTER 63 + VII. WILL SHE LIKE IT? 74 + VIII. SPINDLEWOOD 86 + IX. A CRISIS 92 + X. CHANGES 104 + XI. NEWPORT; OR, THE PARADISE OF NOTHING TO DO 112 + XII. HOME À LA POMPADOUR 126 + XIII. JOHN’S BIRTHDAY 137 + XIV. A GREAT MORAL CONFLICT 152 + XV. THE FOLLINGSBEES ARRIVE 161 + XVI. MRS. JOHN SEYMOUR’S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 181 + XVII. AFTER THE BATTLE 197 + XVIII. A BRICK TURNS UP 213 + XIX. THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 228 + XX. THE VAN ASTRACHANS 243 + XXI. MRS. FOLLINGSBEE’S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 250 + XXII. THE SPIDER-WEB BROKEN 268 + XXIII. COMMON-SENSE ARGUMENTS 281 + XXIV. SENTIMENT _v._ SENSIBILITY 284 + XXV. WEDDING BELLS 291 + XXVI. MOTHERHOOD 297 + XXVII. CHECKMATE 304 + XXVIII. AFTER THE STORM 321 + XXIX. THE NEW LILLIE 326 + + + + +PINK AND WHITE TYRANNY. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +_FALLING IN LOVE._ + +[Illustration: LILLIE.] + + +“WHO _is_ that beautiful creature?” said John Seymour, as a light, +sylph-like form tripped up the steps of the veranda of the hotel where +he was lounging away his summer vacation. + +“That! Why, don’t you know, man? That is the celebrated, the divine +Lillie Ellis, the most adroit ‘fisher of men’ that has been seen in our +days.” + +“By George, but she’s pretty, though!” said John, following with +enchanted eyes the distant motions of the sylphide. + +The vision that he saw was of a delicate little fairy form; a +complexion of pearly white, with a cheek of the hue of a pink shell; +a fair, sweet, infantine face surrounded by a fleecy radiance of soft +golden hair. The vision appeared to float in some white gauzy robes; +and, when she spoke or smiled, what an innocent, fresh, untouched, +unspoiled look there was upon the face! John gazed, and thought of all +sorts of poetical similes: of a “daisy just wet with morning dew;” of a +“violet by a mossy stone;” in short, of all the things that poets have +made and provided for the use of young gentlemen in the way of falling +in love. + +This John Seymour was about as good and honest a man as there is going +in this world of ours. He was a generous, just, manly, religious young +fellow. He was heir to a large, solid property; he was a well-read +lawyer, established in a flourishing business; he was a man that all +the world spoke well of, and had cause to speak well of. The only +duty to society which John had left as yet unperformed was that of +matrimony. Three and thirty years had passed; and, with every advantage +for supporting a wife, with a charming home all ready for a mistress, +John, as yet, had not proposed to be the defender and provider for any +of the more helpless portion of creation. The cause of this was, in +the first place, that John was very happy in the society of a sister, +a little older than himself, who managed his house admirably, and was +a charming companion to his leisure hours; and, in the second place, +that he had a secret, bashful self-depreciation in regard to his power +of pleasing women, which made him ill at ease in their society. Not +that he did not mean to marry. He certainly did. But the fair being +that he was to marry was a distant ideal, a certain undefined and +cloudlike creature; and, up to this time, he had been waiting to meet +her, without taking any definite steps towards that end. To say the +truth, John Seymour, like many other outwardly solid, sober-minded, +respectable citizens, had deep within himself a little private bit +of romance. He could not utter it, he never talked it; he would have +blushed and stammered and stuttered wofully, and made a very poor +figure, in trying to tell any one about it; but nevertheless it was +there, a secluded chamber of imagery, and the future Mrs. John Seymour +formed its principal ornament. + +The wife that John had imaged, his _dream_-wife, was not at all like +his sister; though he loved his sister heartily, and thought her one of +the best and noblest women that could possibly be. + +But his sister was all plain prose,—good, strong, earnest, respectable +prose, it is true, but yet prose. He could read English history with +her, talk accounts and business with her, discuss politics with her, +and valued her opinions on all these topics as much as that of any +man of his acquaintance. But, with the visionary Mrs. John Seymour +aforesaid, he never seemed to himself to be either reading history or +settling accounts, or talking politics; he was off with her in some +sort of enchanted cloudland of happiness, where she was all to him, +and he to her,—a sort of rapture of protective love on one side, and +of confiding devotion on the other, quite inexpressible, and that John +would not have talked of for the world. + +So when he saw this distant vision of airy gauzes, of pearly whiteness, +of sea-shell pink, of infantine smiles, and waving, golden curls, he +stood up with a shy desire to approach the wonderful creature, and yet +with a sort of embarrassed feeling of being very awkward and clumsy. +He felt, somehow, as if he were a great, coarse behemoth; his arms +seemed to him awkward appendages; his hands suddenly appeared to him +rough, and his fingers swelled and stumpy. When he thought of asking +an introduction, he felt himself growing very hot, and blushing to the +roots of his hair. + +“Want to be introduced to her, Seymour?” said Carryl Ethridge. “I’ll +trot you up. I know her.” + +“No, thank you,” said John, stiffly. In his heart, he felt an absurd +anger at Carryl for the easy, assured way in which he spoke of the +sacred creature who seemed to him something too divine to be lightly +talked of. And then he saw Carryl marching up to her with his air of +easy assurance. He saw the bewitching smile come over that fair, +flowery face; he saw Carryl, with unabashed familiarity, take her fan +out of her hand, look at it as if it were a mere common, earthly fan, +toss it about, and pretend to fan himself with it. + +[Illustration: “I didn’t know he was such a puppy.”] + +“I didn’t know he was such a puppy!” said John to himself, as he stood +in a sort of angry bashfulness, envying the man that was so familiar +with that loveliness. + +Ah! John, John! You wouldn’t, for the world, have told to man or woman +what a fool you were at that moment. + +“What a fool I am!” was his mental commentary: “just as if it was any +thing to me.” And he turned, and walked to the other end of the veranda. + +“I think you’ve hooked another fish, Lillie,” said Belle Trevors in the +ear of the little divinity. + +“Who. . . ?” + +“Why! that Seymour there, at the end of the veranda. He is looking at +you, do you know? He is rich, very rich, and of an old family. Didn’t +you see how he started and looked after you when you came up on the +veranda?” + +“Oh! I saw plain enough,” said the divinity, with one of her +unconscious, baby-like smiles. + +“What are you ladies talking?” said Carryl Ethridge. + +“Oh, secrets!” said Belle Trevors. “You are very presuming, sir, to +inquire.” + +“Mr. Ethridge,” said Lillie Ellis, “don’t you think it would be nice to +promenade?” + +This was said with such a pretty coolness, such a quiet composure, as +showed Miss Lillie to be quite mistress of the situation; there was, of +course, no sort of design in it. + +Ethridge offered his arm at once; and the two sauntered to the end of +the veranda, where John Seymour was standing. + +The blood rushed in hot currents over him, and he could hear the +beating of his heart: he felt somehow as if the hour of his fate was +coming. He had a wild desire to retreat, and put it off. He looked +over the end of the veranda, with some vague idea of leaping it; but +alas! it was ten feet above ground, and a lover’s leap would have only +ticketed him as out of his head. There was nothing for it but to meet +his destiny like a man. + +Carryl came up with the lady on his arm; and as he stood there for a +moment, in the coolest, most indifferent tone in the world, said, “Oh! +by the by, Miss Ellis, let me present my friend Mr. Seymour.” + +[Illustration: “Let me present my friend, Mr. Seymour.”] + +The die was cast. + +John’s face burned like fire: he muttered something about “being happy +to make Miss Ellis’s acquaintance,” looking all the time as if he would +be glad to jump over the railing, or take wings and fly, to get rid of +the happiness. + +Miss Ellis was a belle by profession, and she understood her business +perfectly. In nothing did she show herself master of her craft, more +than in the adroitness with which she could soothe the bashful pangs of +new votaries, and place them on an easy footing with her. + +“Mr. Seymour,” she said affably, “to tell the truth, I have been +desirous of the honor of your acquaintance, ever since I saw you in the +breakfast-room this morning.” + +“I am sure I am very much flattered,” said John, his heart beating +thick and fast. “May I ask why you honor me with such a wish?” + +“Well, to tell the truth, because you strikingly resemble a very +dear friend of mine,” said Miss Ellis, with her sweet, unconscious +simplicity of manner. + +“I am still more flattered,” said John, with a quicker beating of the +heart; “only I fear that you may find me an unpleasant contrast.” + +“Oh! I think not,” said Lillie, with another smile: “we shall soon be +good friends, too, I trust.” + +“I trust so certainly,” said John, earnestly. + +Belle Trevors now joined the party; and the four were soon chatting +together on the best footing of acquaintance. John was delighted to +feel himself already on easy terms with the fair vision. + +“You have not been here long?” said Lillie to John. + +“No, I have only just arrived.” + +“And you were never here before?” + +“No, Miss Ellis, I am entirely new to the place.” + +“I am an old _habituée_ here,” said Lillie, “and can recommend myself +as authority on all points connected with it.” + +“Then,” said John, “I hope you will take me under your tuition.” + +“Certainly, free of charge,” she said, with another ravishing smile. + +“You haven’t seen the boiling spring yet?” she added. + +“No, I haven’t seen any thing yet.” + +“Well, then, if you’ll give me your arm across the lawn, I’ll show it +to you.” + +All of this was done in the easiest, most matter-of-course manner in +the world; and off they started, John in a flutter of flattered delight +at the gracious acceptance accorded to him. + +Ethridge and Belle Trevors looked after them with a nod of intelligence +at each other. + +“Hooked, by George!” said Ethridge. + +“Well, it’ll be a good thing for Lillie, won’t it?” + +“For her? Oh, yes, a capital thing _for her_!” + +“Well, for _him_ too.” + +“Well, I don’t know. John is a pretty nice fellow; a very nice fellow, +besides being rich, and all that; and Lillie is somewhat shop-worn by +this time. Let me see: she must be seven and twenty.” + +“Oh, yes, she’s all that!” said Belle, with ingenuous ardor. “Why, she +was in society while I was a school-girl! Yes, dear Lillie is certainly +twenty-seven, if not more; but she keeps her freshness wonderfully.” + +“Well, she looks fresh enough, I suppose, to a good, honest, artless +fellow like John Seymour, who knows as little of the world as a +milkmaid. John is a great, innocent, country steer, fed on clover and +dew; and as honest and ignorant of all sorts of naughty, wicked things +as his mother or sister. He takes Lillie in a sacred simplicity quite +refreshing; but to me Lillie is played out. I know her like a book. I +know all her smiles and wiles, advices and devices; and her system of +tactics is an old story with me. I shan’t interrupt any of her little +games. Let her have her little field all to herself: it’s time she was +married, to be sure.” + +Meanwhile, John was being charmingly ciceroned by Lillie, and scarcely +knew whether he was in the body or out. All that he felt, and felt with +a sort of wonder, was that he seemed to be acceptable and pleasing +in the eyes of this little fairy, and that she was leading him into +wonderland. + +They went not only to the boiling spring, but up and down so many +wild, woodland paths that had been cut for the adornment of the Carmel +Springs, and so well pleased were both parties, that it was supper-time +before they reappeared on the lawn; and, when they did appear, Lillie +was leaning confidentially on John’s arm, with a wreath of woodbine in +her hair that he had arranged there, wondering all the while at his +own wonderful boldness, and at the grace of the fair entertainer. + +[Illustration: “Lillie was leaning confidentially on John’s arm.”] + +The returning couple were seen from the windows of Mrs. Chit, who sat +on the lookout for useful information; and who forthwith ran to the +apartments of Mrs. Chat, and told her to look out at them. + +Billy This, who was smoking his cigar on the veranda, immediately ran +and called Harry That to look at them, and laid a bet at once that +Lillie had “hooked” Seymour. + +“She’ll have him, by George, she will!” + +“Oh, pshaw! she is always hooking fellows, but you see she don’t get +married,” said matter-of-fact Harry. “It won’t come to any thing, now, +I’ll bet. Everybody said she was engaged to Danforth, but it all ended +in smoke.” + +Whether it would be an engagement, or would all end in smoke, was the +talk of Carmel Springs for the next two weeks. + +At the end of that time, the mind of Carmel Springs was relieved by the +announcement that it was an engagement. + +The important deciding announcement was first authentically made by +Lillie to Belle Trevors, who had been invited into her room that night +for the purpose. + +“Well, Belle, it’s all over. He spoke out to-night.” + +“He offered himself?” + +“Certainly.” + +“And you took him?” + +“Of course I did: I should be a fool not to.” + +“Oh, so I think, decidedly!” said Belle, kissing her friend in a +rapture. “You dear creature! how nice! it’s splendid!” + +Lillie took the embrace with her usual sweet composure, and turned to +her looking-glass, and began taking down her hair for the night. It +will be perceived that this young lady was not overcome with emotion, +but in a perfectly collected state of mind. + +“He’s a little bald, and getting rather stout,” she said reflectively, +“but he’ll do.” + +“I never saw a creature so dead in love as he is,” said Belle. + +A quiet smile passed over the soft, peach-blow cheeks as Lillie +answered,— + +“Oh, dear, yes! He perfectly worships the ground I tread on.” + +“Lil, you fortunate creature, you! Positively it’s the best match +that there has been about here this summer. He’s rich, of an old, +respectable family; and then he has good principles, you know, and all +that,” said Belle. + +“I think he’s nice myself,” said Lillie, as she stood brushing out +a golden tangle of curls. “Dear me!” she added, “how much better he +is than that Danforth! Really, Danforth was a little too horrid: his +teeth were dreadful. Do you know, I should have had something of a +struggle to take him, though he was so terribly rich? Then Danforth had +been horridly dissipated,—you don’t know,—Maria Sanford told me such +shocking things about him, and she knows they are true. Now, I don’t +think John has ever been dissipated.” + +[Illustration: “I think he’s nice myself.”] + +“Oh, no!” said Belle. “I heard all about him. He joined the +church when he was only twenty, and has been always spoken of as a +perfect model. I only think you may find it a little slow, living +in Springdale. He has a fine, large, old-fashioned house there, and +his sister is a very nice woman; but they are a sort of respectable, +retired set,—never go into fashionable company.” + +“Oh, I don’t mind it!” said Lillie. “I shall have things my own way, +I know. One isn’t obliged to live in Springdale, nor with pokey old +sisters, you know; and John will do just as I say, and live where I +please.” + +She said this with her simple, soft air of perfect assurance, twisting +her shower of bright, golden curls; with her gentle, childlike face, +and soft, beseeching, blue eyes, and dimpling little mouth, looking +back on her, out of the mirror. By these the little queen had always +ruled from her cradle, and should she not rule now? Was it any +wonder that John was half out of his wits with joy at thought of +possessing _her_? Simply and honestly, she thought not. He was to be +congratulated; though it wasn’t a bad thing for her, either. + +“Belle,” said Lillie, after an interval of reflection, “I won’t be +married in white satin,—that I’m resolved on. Now,” she said, facing +round with increasing earnestness, “there have been five weddings +in our set, and all the girls have been married in just the same +dress,—white satin and point lace, white satin and point lace, over and +over, till I’m tired of it. _I’m_ determined I’ll have something new.” + +“Well, I would, I’m sure,” said Belle. “Say white tulle, for instance: +you know you are so _petite_ and fairy-like.” + +“No: I shall write out to Madame La Roche, and tell her she must get up +something wholly original. I shall send for my whole _trousseau_. Papa +will be glad enough to come down, since he gets me off his hands, and +no more fuss about bills, you know. Do you know, Belle, that creature +is just wild about me: he’d like to ransack all the jewellers’ shops in +New York for me. He’s going up to-morrow, just to choose the engagement +ring. He says he can’t trust to an order; that he must go and choose +one worthy of me.” + +“Oh! it’s plain enough that that game is all in your hands, as to him, +Lillie; but, Lil, what will your Cousin Harry say to all this?” + +“Well, of course he won’t like it; but I can’t help it if he don’t. +Harry ought to know that it’s all nonsense for him and me to think of +marrying. He does know it.” + +“To tell the truth, I always thought, Lil, you were more in love with +Harry than anybody you ever knew.” + +Lillie laughed a little, and then the prettiest sweet-pea flush +deepened the pink of her cheeks. + +“To say the truth, Belle, I could have been, if he had been in +circumstances to marry. But, you see, I am one of those to whom the +luxuries are essential. I never could rub and scrub and work; in fact, +I had rather not live at all than live poor; and Harry is poor, and he +always will be poor. It’s a pity, too, poor fellow, for he’s nice. +Well, he is off in India! I know he will be tragical and gloomy, and +all that,” she said; and then the soft child-face smiled to itself in +the glass,—such a pretty little innocent smile! + +All this while, John sat up with his heart beating very fast, writing +all about his engagement to his sister, and, up to this point, his +nearest, dearest, most confidential friend. It is almost too bad to +copy the letter of a shy man who finds himself in love for the first +time in his life; but we venture to make an extract:— + + “It is not her beauty merely that drew me to her, though + she is the most beautiful human being I ever saw: it is the + exquisite feminine softness and delicacy of her character, + that sympathetic pliability by which she adapts herself to + every varying feeling of the heart. You, my dear sister, + are the noblest of women, and your place in my heart is + still what it always was; but I feel that this dear little + creature, while she fills a place no other has ever entered, + will yet be a new bond to unite us. She will love us both; + she will gradually come into all our ways and opinions, + and be insensibly formed by us into a noble womanhood. Her + extreme beauty, and the great admiration that has always + followed her, have exposed her to many temptations, and + caused most ungenerous things to be said of her. + + “Hitherto she has lived only in the fashionable world; and + her literary and domestic education, as she herself is + sensible, has been somewhat neglected. + + “But she longs to retire from all this; she is sick of + fashionable folly, and will come to us to be all our own. + Gradually the charming circle of cultivated families which + form our society will elevate her taste, and form her mind. + + “Love is woman’s inspiration, and love will lead her to all + that is noble and good. My dear sister, think not that any + new ties are going to make you any less to me, or touch your + place in my heart. I have already spoken of you to Lillie, + and she longs to know you. You must be to her what you have + always been to me,—guide, philosopher, and friend. + + “I am sure I never felt better impulses, more humble, more + thankful, more religious, than I do now. That the happiness + of this soft, gentle, fragile creature is to be henceforth + in my hands is to me a solemn and inspiring thought. What + man is worthy of a refined, delicate woman? I feel my + unworthiness of her every hour; but, so help me God, I shall + try to be all to her that a husband should; and you, my + sister, I know, will help me to make happy the future which + she so confidingly trusts to me. + + “Believe me, dear sister, I never was so much your + affectionate brother, + + “JOHN SEYMOUR. + + “P.S.—I forgot to tell you that Lillie remarkably resembles + the ivory miniature of our dear sainted mother. She was + very much affected when I told her of it. I think naturally + Lillie has very much such a character as our mother; though + circumstances, in her case, have been unfavorable to the + development of it.” + +Whether the charming vision was realized; whether the little sovereign +now enthroned will be a just and clement one; what immunities and +privileges she will allow to her slaves,—is yet to be seen in this +story. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +_WHAT SHE THINKS OF IT._ + + +[Illustration: “From John, good fellow.”] + +SPRINGDALE was one of those beautiful rural towns whose flourishing +aspect is a striking exponent of the peculiarities of New-England +life. The ride through it presents a refreshing picture of wide, cool, +grassy streets, overhung with green arches of elm, with rows of large, +handsome houses on either side, each standing back from the street +in its own retired square of gardens, green turf, shady trees, and +flowering shrubs. It was, so to speak, a little city of country-seats. +It spoke of wealth, thrift, leisure, cultivation, quiet, thoughtful +habits, and moral tastes. + +Some of these mansions were of ancestral reputation, and had been in +the family whose name they bore for generations back; a circumstance +sometimes occurring even in New-England towns where neither law nor +custom unites to perpetuate property in certain family lines. + +The Seymour house was a well-known, respected mansion for generations +back. Old Judge Seymour, the grandfather, was the lineal descendant of +Parson Seymour; the pastor who first came with the little colony of +Springdale, when it was founded as a church in the wilderness, amid all +the dangers of wild beasts and Indians. + +This present Seymour mansion was founded on the spot where the house of +the first minister was built by the active hands of his parishioners; +and, from generation to generation, order, piety, education, and high +respectability had been the tradition of the place. + +The reader will come in with us, on this bright June morning, through +the grassy front yard, which has only the usual New-England fault of +being too densely shaded. The house we enter has a wide, cool hall +running through its centre and out into a back garden, now all aglow +with every beauty of June. The broad alleys of the garden showed +bright stores of all sorts of good old-fashioned flowers, well tended +and kept. Clumps of stately hollyhocks and scarlet peonies; roses of +every hue, purple, blush, gold-color, and white, were showering down +their leaves on the grassy turf; honeysuckles climbed and clambered +over arbors; and great, stately tufts of virgin-white lilies exalted +their majestic heads in saintly magnificence. The garden was Miss +Grace Seymour’s delight and pride. Every root in it was fragrant with +the invisible blossoms of memory,—memories of the mother who loved +and planted and watched them before her, and the grandmother who had +cared for them before that. The spirit of these charming old-fashioned +gardens is the spirit of family love; and, if ever blessed souls from +their better home feel drawn back to any thing on earth, we think it +must be to their flower-garden. + +Miss Grace had been up early, and now, with her garden hat on, and +scissors in hand, was coming up the steps with her white apron full +of roses, white lilies, meadow-sweets, and honeysuckle, for the +parlor-vases, when the servant handed her a letter. + +“From John,” she said, “good fellow;” and then she laid it on the +mantel-shelf of the parlor, while she busied herself in arranging her +flowers. + +“I must get these into water, or they will wilt,” she said. + +The large parlor was like many that you and I have seen in a certain +respectable class of houses,—wide, cool, shady, and with a mellow +_old_ tone to every thing in its furniture and belongings. It was +a parlor of the past, and not of to-day, yet exquisitely neat and +well-kept. The Turkey carpet was faded: it had been part of the wedding +furnishing of Grace’s mother, years ago. The great, wide, motherly, +chintz-covered sofa, which filled a recess commanding the window, was +as different as possible from any smart modern article of the name. +The heavy, claw-footed, mahogany chairs; the tall clock that ticked in +one corner; the footstools and ottomans in faded embroidery,—all spoke +of days past. So did the portraits on the wall. One was of a fair, +rosy young girl, in a white gown, with powdered hair dressed high over +a cushion. It was the portrait of Grace’s mother. Another was that of +a minister in gown and bands, with black-silk gloved hands holding +up conspicuously a large Bible. This was the remote ancestor, the +minister. Then there was the picture of John’s father, placed lovingly +where the eyes seemed always to be following the slight, white-robed +figure of the young wife. The walls were papered with an old-fashioned +paper of a peculiar pattern, bought in France seventy-five years +before. The vases of India-china that adorned the mantels, the framed +engravings of architecture and pictures in Rome, all were memorials of +the taste of those long passed away. Yet the room had a fresh, sweet, +sociable air. The roses and honeysuckles looked in at the windows; the +table covered with books and magazines, and the familiar work-basket +of Miss Grace, with its work, gave a sort of impression of modern +family household life. It was a wide, open, hospitable, generous-minded +room, that seemed to breathe a fragrance of invitation and general +sociability; it was a room full of associations and memories, and its +daily arrangement and ornamentation made one of the pleasant tasks of +Miss Grace’s life. + +She spread down a newspaper on the large, square centre-table, and, +emptying her apronful of flowers upon it, took her vases from the +shelf, and with her scissors sat down to the task of clipping and +arranging them. + +Just then Letitia Ferguson came across the garden, and entered the back +door after her, with a knot of choice roses in her hand, and a plate of +seed-cakes covered with a hem-stitched napkin. The Fergusons and the +Seymours occupied adjoining houses, and were on footing of the most +perfect undress intimacy. They crossed each other’s gardens, and came +without knocking into each other’s doors twenty times a day, _apropos_ +to any bit of chit-chat that they might have, a question to ask, a +passage in a book to show, a household receipt that they had been +trying. Letitia was the most intimate and confidential friend of Grace. +In fact, the whole Ferguson family seemed like another portion of the +Seymour family. There were two daughters, of whom Letitia was the +eldest. Then came the younger Rose, a nice, charming, well-informed, +good girl, always cheerful and chatty, and with a decent share of +ability at talking lively nonsense. The brothers of the family, like +the young men of New-England country towns generally, were off in +the world seeking their fortunes. Old Judge Ferguson was a gentleman +of the old school,—formal, stately, polite, always complimentary to +ladies, and with a pleasant little budget of old-gentlemanly hobbies +and prejudices, which it afforded him the greatest pleasure to air +in the society of his friends. Old Mrs. Ferguson was a pattern of +motherliness, with her quaint, old-fashioned dress, her elaborate +caps, her daily and minute inquiries after the health of all her +acquaintances, and the tender pityingness of her nature for every thing +that lived and breathed in this world of sin and sorrow. + +Letitia and Grace, as two older sisters of families, had a peculiar +intimacy, and discussed every thing together, from the mode of clearing +jelly up to the profoundest problems of science and morals. They were +both charming, well-mannered, well-educated, well-read women, and +trusted each other to the uttermost with every thought and feeling and +purpose of their hearts. + +As we have said, Letitia Ferguson came in at the back door without +knocking, and, coming softly behind Miss Grace, laid down her bunch of +roses among the flowers, and then set down her plate of seed-cakes. + +Then she said, “I brought you some specimens of my Souvenir de +Malmaison bush, and my first trial of your receipt.” + +“Oh, thanks!” said Miss Grace: “how charming those roses are! It was +too bad to spoil your bush, though.” + +“No: it does it good to cut them; it will flower all the more. But try +one of those cakes,—are they right?” + +“Excellent! you have hit it exactly,” said Grace; “exactly the right +proportion of seeds. I was hurrying,” she added, “to get these flowers +in water, because a letter from John is waiting to be read.” + + +“A letter! How nice!” said Miss Letitia, looking towards the shelf. +“John is as faithful in writing as if he were your lover.” + +“He is the best lover a woman can have,” said Grace, as she busily +sorted and arranged the flowers. “For my part, I ask nothing better +than John.” + +“Let me arrange for you, while you read your letter,” said Letitia, +taking the flowers from her friend’s hands. + +Miss Grace took down the letter from the mantelpiece, opened, and began +to read it. Miss Letitia, meanwhile, watched her face, as we often +carelessly watch the face of a person reading a letter. + +Miss Grace was not technically handsome, but she had an interesting, +kindly, sincere face; and her friend saw gradually a dark cloud rising +over it, as one watches a shadow on a field. + +When she had finished the letter, with a sudden movement she laid her +head forward on the table among the flowers, and covered her face with +her hands. She seemed not to remember that any one was present. + +Letitia came up to her, and, laying her hand gently on hers, said, +“What is it, dear?” + +Miss Grace lifted her head, and said in a husky voice,— + +“Nothing, only it is so sudden! John is engaged!” + +“Engaged! to whom?” + +“To Lillie Ellis.” + +“John engaged to Lillie Ellis?” said Miss Ferguson, in a tone of +shocked astonishment. + +[Illustration: “She laid her head forward on the table.”] + +“So he writes me. He is completely infatuated by her.” + +“How very sudden!” said Miss Letitia. “Who could have expected it? +Lillie Ellis is so entirely out of the line of any of the women he has +ever known.” + +“That’s precisely what’s the matter,” said Miss Grace. “John knows +nothing of any but good, noble women; and he thinks he sees all this in +Lillie Ellis.” + +“There’s nothing to her but her wonderful complexion,” said Miss +Ferguson, “and her pretty little coaxing ways; but she is the most +utterly selfish, heartless little creature that ever breathed.” + +“Well, _she_ is to be John’s wife,” said Miss Grace, sweeping the +remainder of the flowers into her apron; “and so ends my life +with John. I might have known it would come to this. I must make +arrangements at once for another house and home. This house, so +much, so dear to me, will be nothing to her; and yet she must be its +mistress,” she added, looking round on every thing in the room, and +then bursting into tears. + +Now, Miss Grace was not one of the crying sort, and so this emotion +went to her friend’s heart. Miss Letitia went up and put her arms round +her. + +“Come, Gracie,” she said, “you must not take it so seriously. John is a +noble, manly fellow. He loves you, and he will always be master of his +own house.” + +“No, he won’t,—no married man ever is,” said Miss Grace, wiping her +eyes, and sitting up very straight. “No man, that is a gentleman, is +ever master in his own house. He has only such rights there as his wife +chooses to give him; and this woman won’t like me, I’m sure.” + +“Perhaps she will,” said Letitia, in a faltering voice. + +“No, she won’t; because I have no faculty for lying, or playing +the hypocrite in any way, and I shan’t approve of her. These soft, +slippery, pretty little fibbing women have always been my abomination.” + +“Oh, my _dear_ Grace!” said Miss Ferguson, “do let us make the best of +it.” + +“I _did_ think,” said Miss Grace, wiping her eyes, “that John had some +sense. I wasn’t such a fool, nor so selfish, as to want him always to +live for me. I wanted him to marry; and if he had got engaged to your +Rose, for instance ... O Letitia! I always did so _hope_ that he and +Rose would like each other.” + +“We can’t choose for our brothers,” said Miss Letitia, “and, hard as it +is, we must make up our minds to love those they bring to us. Who knows +what good influences may do for poor Lillie Ellis? She never has had +any yet. Her family are extremely common sort of people, without any +culture or breeding, and only her wonderful beauty brought them into +notice; and they have always used that as a sort of stock in trade.” + +“And John says, in this letter, that she reminds him of our mother,” +said Miss Grace; “and he thinks that naturally she was very much such a +character. Just think of that, now!” + +“He must be far gone,” said Miss Ferguson; “but then, you see, she is +distractingly pretty. She has just the most exquisitely pearly, pure, +delicate, saint-like look, at times, that you ever saw; and then she +knows exactly how she does look, and just how to use her looks; and +John can’t be blamed for believing in her. I, who know all about her, +am sometimes taken in by her.” + +“Well,” said Miss Grace, “Mrs. Lennox was at Newport last summer at the +time that she was there, and she told me all about her. I think her an +artful, unscrupulous, unprincipled woman, and her being made mistress +of this house just breaks up our pleasant sociable life here. She has +no literary tastes; she does not care for reading or study; she won’t +like our set here, and she will gradually drive them from the house. +She won’t like me, and she will want to alienate John from me,—so there +is just the situation.” + +“You may read that letter,” added Miss Grace, wiping her eyes, and +tossing her brother’s letter into Miss Letitia’s lap. Miss Letitia took +the letter and read it. “Good fellow!” she exclaimed warmly, “you see +just what I say,—his heart is all with you.” + +“Oh, John’s heart is all right enough!” said Miss Grace; “and I don’t +doubt his love. He’s the best, noblest, most affectionate fellow in the +world. I only think he reckons without his host, in thinking he can +keep all our old relations unbroken, when he puts a new mistress into +the house, and such a mistress.” + +“But if she really loves him”— + +“Pshaw! she don’t. That kind of woman can’t love. They are like cats, +that want to be stroked and caressed, and to be petted, and to lie soft +and warm; and they will purr to any one that will pet them,—that’s all. +As for love that leads to any self-sacrifice, they don’t begin to know +any thing about it.” + +“Gracie dear,” said Miss Ferguson, “this sort of thing will never do. +If you meet your brother in this way, you will throw him off, and, +maybe, make a fatal breach. Meet it like a good Christian, as you +are. You know,” she said gently, “where we have a right to carry our +troubles, and of whom we should ask guidance.” + +“Oh, I do know, ’Titia!” said Miss Grace; “but I am letting myself be +wicked just a little, you know, to relieve my mind. I ought to put +myself to school to make the best of it; but it came on me so _very_ +suddenly. Yes,” she added, “I am going to take a course of my Bible and +Fénelon before I see John,—poor fellow.” + +“And try to have faith for her,” said Miss Letitia. + +“Well, I’ll try to have faith,” said Miss Grace; “but I do trust it +will be some days before John comes down on me with his raptures,—men +in love are such fools.” + +“But, dear me!” said Miss Letitia, as her head accidentally turned +towards the window; “who is this riding up? Gracie, as sure as you +live, it is John himself!” + +“John himself!” repeated Miss Grace, becoming pale. + +“Now do, dear, be careful,” said Miss Letitia. “I’ll just run out this +back door and leave you alone;” and just as Miss Letitia’s light heels +were heard going down the back steps, John’s heavy footsteps were +coming up the front ones. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +_THE SISTER._ + + +GRACE SEYMOUR was a specimen of a class of whom we are happy to say New +England possesses a great many. + +She was a highly cultivated, intelligent, and refined woman, arrived +at the full age of mature womanhood unmarried, and with no present +thought or prospect of marriage. I presume all my readers, who are in +a position to run over the society of our rural New-England towns, can +recall to their minds hundreds of such. They are women too thoughtful, +too conscientious, too delicate, to marry for any thing but a purely +personal affection; and this affection, for various reasons, has not +fallen in their way. + +The tendency of life in these towns is to throw the young men of the +place into distant fields of adventure and enterprise in the far +Western and Southern States, leaving at their old homes a population in +which the feminine element largely predominates. It is not, generally +speaking, the most cultivated or the most attractive of the brethren +who remain in the place where they were born. The ardent, the daring, +the enterprising, are off to the ends of the earth; and the choice of +the sisters who remain at home is, therefore, confined to a restricted +list; and so it ends in these delightful rose-gardens of single women +which abound in New England,—women who remain at home as housekeepers +to aged parents, and charming persons in society; women over whose +graces of conversation and manner the married men in their vicinity go +off into raptures of eulogium, which generally end with, “Why hasn’t +that woman ever got married?” + +It often happens to such women to expend on some brother that stock of +hero-worship and devotion which it has not come in their way to give to +a nearer friend. Alas! it is building on a sandy foundation; for, just +as the union of hearts is complete, the chemical affinity which began +in the cradle, and strengthens with every year of life, is dissolved +by the introduction of that third element which makes of the brother a +husband, while the new combination casts out the old,—sometimes with a +disagreeable effervescence. + +John and Grace Seymour were two only children of a very affectionate +family; and they had grown up in the closest habits of intimacy. They +had written to each other those long letters in which thoughtful people +who live in retired situations delight; letters not of outward events, +but of sentiments and opinions, the phases of the inner life. They had +studied and pursued courses of reading together. They had together +organized and carried on works of benevolence and charity. + +The brother and sister had been left joint heirs of a large +manufacturing property, employing hundreds of hands, in their vicinity; +and the care and cultivation of these work-people, the education of +their children, had been most conscientiously upon their minds. Half +of every Sunday they devoted together to labors in the Sunday school +of their manufacturing village; and the two worked so harmoniously +together in the interests of their life, that Grace had never felt the +want of any domestic ties or relations other than those that she had. + +Our readers may perhaps, therefore, concede that, among the many +claimants for their sympathy in this cross-grained world of ours, some +few grains of it may properly be due to Grace. + +Things are trials that try us: afflictions are what afflict us; and, +under this showing, Grace was both tried and afflicted by the sudden +engagement of her brother. When the whole groundwork on which one’s +daily life is built caves in, and falls into the cellar without one +moment’s warning, it is not in human nature to pick one’s self up, and +reconstruct and rearrange in a moment. So Grace thought, at any rate; +but she made a hurried effort to dash back her tears, and gulp down +a rising in her throat, anxious only not to be selfish, and not to +disgust her brother in the outset with any personal egotism. + +So she ran to the front door to meet him, and fell into his arms, +trying so hard to seem congratulatory and affectionate that she broke +out into sobbing. + +“My dear Gracie,” said John, embracing and kissing her with that +gushing fervor with which newly engaged gentlemen are apt to deluge +every creature whom they meet, “you’ve got my letter. Well, were not +you astonished?” + +“O John, it was so sudden!” was all poor Grace could say. “And you +know, John, since mother died, you and I have been all in all to each +other.” + +“And so we shall be, Gracie. Why, yes, of course we shall,” he said, +stroking her hair, and playing with her trembling, thin, white hands. +“Why, this only makes me love you the more now; and you will love my +little Lillie: fact is, you can’t help it. We shall both of us be +happier for having her here.” + +“Well, you know, John, I never saw her,” said Grace, deprecatingly, +“and so you can’t wonder.” + +“Oh, yes, of course! Don’t wonder in the least. It comes rather +sudden,—and then you haven’t seen her. Look, here is her photograph!” +said John, producing one from the most orthodox innermost region, +directly over his heart. “Look there! isn’t it beautiful?” + +“It is a very sweet face,” said Grace, exerting herself to be +sympathetic, and thankful that she could say that much truthfully. + +“I can’t imagine,” said John, “what ever made her like me. You know +she has refused half the fellows in the country. I hadn’t the remotest +idea that she would have any thing to say to me; but you see there’s no +accounting for tastes;” and John plumed himself, as young gentlemen do +who have carried off prizes. + +“You see,” he added, “it’s odd, but she took a fancy to me the first +time she saw me. Now, you know, Gracie, I never found it easy to get +along with ladies at first; but Lillie has the most extraordinary way +of putting a fellow at his ease. Why, she made me feel like an old +friend the first hour.” + +[Illustration: “It _is_ a very sweet face.”] + +“Indeed!” + +“Look here,” said John, triumphantly drawing out his pocket-book, and +producing thence a knot of rose-colored satin ribbon. “Did you ever +see such a lovely color as this? It’s so exquisite, you see! Well, she +always is wearing just such knots of ribbon, the most lovely shades. +Why, there isn’t one woman in a thousand could wear the things she +does. Every thing becomes her. Sometimes it’s rose color, or lilac, or +pale blue,—just the most trying things to others are what she can wear.” + +“Dear John, I hope you looked for something deeper than the complexion +in a wife,” said Grace, driven to moral reflections in spite of herself. + +“Oh, of course!” said John: “she has such soft, gentle, winning ways; +she is so sympathetic; she’s just the wife to make home happy, to +be a bond of union to us all. Now, in a wife, what we want is just +that. Lillie’s mind, for instance, hasn’t been cultivated as yours +and Letitia’s. She isn’t at all that sort of girl. She’s just a dear, +gentle, little confiding creature, that you’ll delight in. You’ll form +her mind, and she’ll look up to you. You know she’s young yet.” + +“Young, John! Why, she’s seven and twenty,” said Grace, with +astonishment. + +“Oh, no, my dear Gracie! that is all a mistake. She told me herself +she’s only twenty. You see, the trouble is, she went into company +injudiciously early, a mere baby, in fact; and that causes her to have +the name of being older than she is. But, I do assure you, she’s only +twenty. She told me so herself.” + +“Oh, indeed!” said Grace, prudently choking back the contradiction +which she longed to utter. “I know it seems a good many summers since I +heard of her as a belle at Newport.” + +“Ah, yes, exactly! You see she went into company, as a young lady, +when she was only thirteen. She told me all about it. Her parents were +very injudicious, and they pushed her forward. She regrets it now. +She knows that it wasn’t the thing at all. She’s very sensitive to the +defects in her early education; but I made her understand that it was +the _heart_ more than the head that I cared for. I dare say, Gracie, +she’ll fall into all our little ways without really knowing; and you, +in point of fact, will be mistress of the house as much as you ever +were. Lillie is delicate, and never has had any care, and will be only +too happy to depend on you. She’s one of the gentle, dependent sort, +you know.” + +To this statement, Grace did not reply. She only began nervously +sweeping together the _débris_ of leaves and flowers which encumbered +the table, on which the newly arranged flower-vases were standing. Then +she arranged the vases with great precision on the mantel-shelf. As she +was doing it, so many memories rushed over her of that room and her +mother, and the happy, peaceful family life that had hitherto been led +there, that she quite broke down; and, sitting down in the chair, she +covered her face, and went off in a good, hearty crying spell. + +Poor John was inexpressibly shocked. He loved and revered his sister +beyond any thing in the world; and it occurred to him, in a dim wise, +that to be suddenly dispossessed and shut out in the cold, when one has +hitherto been the first object of affection, is, to make the best of +it, a real and sore trial. + +But Grace soon recovered herself, and rose up smiling through her +tears. “What a fool I am making of myself!” she said. “The fact is, +John, I am only a little nervous. You mustn’t mind it. You know,” she +said, laughing, “we old maids are like cats,—we find it hard to be put +out of our old routine. I dare say we shall all of us be happier in the +end for this, and I shall try to do all I can to make it so. Perhaps, +John, I’d better take that little house of mine on Elm Street, and set +up my tent in it, and take all the old furniture and old pictures, and +old-time things. You’ll be wanting to modernize and make over this +house, you know, to suit a young wife.” + +“Nonsense, Gracie; no such thing!” said John. “Do you suppose I want +to leave all the past associations of my life, and strip my home bare +of all pleasant memorials, because I bring a little wife here? Why, +the very idea of a wife is somebody to sympathize in your tastes; and +Lillie will love and appreciate all these dear old things as you and +I do. She has such a sympathetic heart! If you want to make me happy, +Gracie, stay here, and let us live, as near as may be, as before.” + +“So we will, John,” said Grace, so cheerfully that John considered the +whole matter as settled, and rushed upstairs to write his daily letter +to Lillie. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +_PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE._ + + +MISS LILLIE ELLIS was sitting upstairs in her virgin bower, which was +now converted into a tumultuous, seething caldron of millinery and +mantua-making, such as usually precedes a wedding. To be sure, orders +had been forthwith despatched to Paris for the bridal regimentals, +and for a good part of the _trousseau_; but that did not seem in the +least to stand in the way of the time-honored confusion of sewing +preparations at home, which is supposed to waste the strength and +exhaust the health of every bride elect. + +Whether young women, while disengaged, do not have proper +under-clothing, or whether they contemplate marriage as an awful +gulf which swallows up all future possibilities of replenishing a +wardrobe,—certain it is that no sooner is a girl engaged to be married +than there is a blind and distracting rush and pressure and haste to +make up for her immediately a stock of articles, which, up to that +hour, she has managed to live very comfortably and respectably without. +It is astonishing to behold the number of inexpressible things with +French names which unmarried young ladies never think of wanting, but +which there is a desperate push to supply, and have ranged in order, +the moment the matrimonial state is in contemplation. + +Therefore it was that the virgin bower of Lillie was knee-deep in a +tangled mass of stuffs of various hues and description; that the sharp +sound of tearing off breadths resounded there; that Miss Clippins and +Miss Snippings and Miss Nippins were sewing there day and night; that +a sewing-machine was busily rattling in mamma’s room; and that there +were all sorts of pinking and quilling, and braiding and hemming, +and whipping and ruffling, and over-sewing and cat-stitching and +hem-stitching, and other female mysteries, going on. + +As for Lillie, she lay in a loose _negligé_ on the bed, ready every +five minutes to be called up to have something measured, or tried on, +or fitted; and to be consulted whether there should be fifteen or +sixteen tucks and then an insertion, or sixteen tucks and a series of +puffs. Her labors wore upon her; and it was smilingly observed by Miss +Clippins across to Miss Nippins, that Miss Lillie was beginning to show +her “engagement bones.” In the midst of these preoccupations, a letter +was handed to her by the giggling chambermaid. It was a thick letter, +directed in a bold honest hand. Miss Lillie took it with a languid +little yawn, finished the last sentences in a chapter of the novel she +was reading, and then leisurely broke the seal and glanced it over. It +was the one that the enraptured John had spent his morning in writing. + +“Miss Ellis, now, if you’ll try on this jacket—oh! I beg your pardon,” +said Miss Clippins, observing the letter, “we can wait, _of course_;” +and then all three laughed as if something very pleasant was in their +minds. + +“No,” said Lillie, giving the letter a toss; “it’ll _keep_;” and she +stood up to have a jaunty little blue jacket, with its pluffy bordering +of swan’s down, fitted upon her. + +“It’s too bad, now, to take you from your letter,” said Miss Clippins, +with a sly nod. + +“I’m sure you take it philosophically,” said Miss Nippins, with a +giggle. + +“Why shouldn’t I?” said the divine Lillie. “I get one every day; and +it’s all the old story. I’ve heard it ever since I was born.” + +“Well, now, to be sure you have. Let’s see,” said Miss Clippins, “this +is the seventy-fourth or seventy-fifth offer, was it?” + +“Oh, you must ask mamma! she keeps the lists: I’m sure I don’t trouble +my head,” said the little beauty; and she looked so natty and jaunty +when she said it, just arching her queenly white neck, and making soft, +downy dimples in her cheeks as she gave her fresh little childlike +laugh; turning round and round before the looking-glass, and issuing +her orders for the fitting of the jacket with a precision and real +interest which showed that there _were_ things in the world which +didn’t become old stories, even if one had been used to them ever since +one was born. + +Lillie never was caught napping when the point in question was the fit +of her clothes. + +When released from the little blue jacket, there was a rose-colored +morning-dress to be tried on, and a grave discussion as to whether the +honiton lace was to be set on plain or frilled. + +So important was this case, that mamma was summoned from the +sewing-machine to give her opinion. Mrs. Ellis was a fat, fair, rosy +matron of most undisturbed conscience and digestion, whose main +business in life had always been to see to her children’s clothes. She +had brought up Lillie with faithful and religious zeal; that is to say, +she had always ruffled her underclothes with her own hands, and darned +her stockings, sick or well; and also, as before intimated, kept a list +of her offers, which she was ready in confidential moments to tell off +to any of her acquaintance. The question of ruffled or plain honiton +was of such vital importance, that the whole four took some time in +considering it in its various points of view. + +“Sarah Selfridge had hers ruffled,” said Lillie. + +“And the effect was perfectly sweet,” said Miss Clippins. + +“Perhaps, Lillie, you had better have it ruffled,” said mamma. + +“But three rows laid on plain has such a lovely effect,” said Miss +Nippins. + +“Perhaps, then, she had better have three rows laid on plain,” said +mamma. + +“Or she might have one row ruffled on the edge, with three rows laid on +plain, with a satin fold,” said Miss Clippins. “That’s the way I fixed +Miss Elliott’s.” + +“That would be a nice way,” said mamma. “Perhaps, Lillie, you’d better +have it so.” + +“Oh! come now, all of you, just hush,” said Lillie. “I know just how I +want it done.” + +The words may sound a little rude and dictatorial; but Lillie had the +advantage of always looking so pretty, and saying dictatorial things +in such a sweet voice, that everybody was delighted with them; and she +took the matter of arranging the trimming in hand with a clearness of +head which showed that it was a subject to which she had given mature +consideration. Mrs. Ellis shook her fat sides with a comfortable +motherly chuckle. + +“Lillie always did know exactly what she wanted: she’s a smart little +thing.” + +And, when all the trying on and arranging of folds and frills and pinks +and bows was over, Lillie threw herself comfortably upon the bed, to +finish her letter. + +Shrewd Miss Clippins detected the yawn with which she laid down the +missive. + +“Seems to me your letters don’t meet a very warm reception,” she said. + +“Well! every day, and such long ones!” Lillie answered, turning over +the pages. “See there,” she went on, opening a drawer, “What a heap of +them! I can’t see, for my part, what any one can want to write a letter +every day to anybody for. John is such a goose about me.” + +[Illustration: “Shrewd Miss Clippins detected the yawn.”] + +“He’ll get over it after he’s been married six months,” said Miss +Clippins, nodding her head with the air of a woman that has seen life. + +“I’m sure I shan’t care,” said Lillie, with a toss of her pretty head. +“It’s _borous_ any way.” + +Our readers may perhaps imagine, from the story thus far, that our +little Lillie is by no means the person, in reality, that John supposes +her to be, when he sits thinking of her with such devotion, and writing +her such long, “borous” letters. + +She is not. John is in love not with the actual Lillie Ellis, but with +that ideal personage who looks like his mother’s picture, and is the +embodiment of all his mother’s virtues. The feeling, as it exists in +John’s mind, is not only a most respectable, but in fact a truly divine +one, and one that no mortal man ought to be ashamed of. The love that +quickens all the nature, that makes a man twice manly, and makes him +aspire to all that is high, pure, sweet, and religious,—is a feeling +so sacred, that no unworthiness in its object can make it any less +beautiful. More often than not it is spent on an utter vacancy. Men and +women both pass through this divine initiation,—this sacred inspiration +of our nature,—and find, when they have come into the innermost shrine, +where the divinity ought to be, that there is no god or goddess +there; nothing but the cold black ashes of commonplace vulgarity and +selfishness. Both of them, when the grand discovery has been made, do +well to fold their robes decently about them, and make the best of +the matter. If they cannot love, they can at least be friendly. They +can tolerate, as philosophers; pity, as Christians; and, finding just +where and how the burden of an ill-assorted union galls the least, can +then and there strap it on their backs, and walk on, not only without +complaint, but sometimes in a cheerful and hilarious spirit. + +Not a word of all this thinks our friend John, as he sits longing, +aspiring, and pouring out his heart, day after day, in letters that +interrupt Lillie in the all-important responsibility of getting her +wardrobe fitted. + +Shall we think this smooth little fair-skinned Lillie is a cold-hearted +monster, because her heart does not beat faster at these letters which +she does not understand, and which strike her as unnecessarily prolix +and prosy? Why should John insist on telling her his feelings and +opinions on a vast variety of subjects that she does not care a button +for? She doesn’t know any thing about ritualism and anti-ritualism; +and, what’s more, she doesn’t care. She hates to hear so much about +religion. She thinks it’s pokey. John may go to any church he pleases, +for all her. As to all that about his favorite poems, she don’t like +poetry,—never could,—don’t see any sense in it; and John _will_ be +quoting ever so much in his letters. Then, as to the love parts,—it may +be all quite new and exciting to John; but she has, as she said, heard +that story over and over again, till it strikes her as quite a matter +of course. Without doubt the whole world is a desert where she is +not: the thing has been asserted, over and over, by so many gentlemen +of credible character for truth and veracity, that she is forced to +believe it; and she cannot see why John is particularly to be pitied +on this account. He is in no more desperate state about her than the +rest of them; and secretly Lillie has as little pity for lovers’ pangs +as a nice little white cat has for mice. They amuse her; they are her +appropriate recreation; and she pats and plays with each mouse in +succession, without any comprehension that it may be a serious thing +for him. + +When Lillie was a little girl, eight years old, she used to sell her +kisses through the slats of the fence for papers of candy, and thus +early acquired the idea that her charms were a capital to be employed +in trading for the good things of life. She had the misfortune—and a +great one it is—to have been singularly beautiful from the cradle, and +so was praised and exclaimed over and caressed as she walked through +the streets. She was sent for, far and near; borrowed to be looked at; +her picture taken by photographers. If one reflects how many foolish +and inconsiderate people there are in the world, who have no scruple in +making a pet and plaything of a pretty child, one will see how this one +unlucky lot of being beautiful in childhood spoiled Lillie’s chances of +an average share of good sense and goodness. The only hope for such a +case lies in the chance of possessing judicious parents. Lillie had not +these. Her father was a shrewd grocer, and nothing more; and her mother +was a competent cook and seamstress. While he traded in sugar and salt, +and she made pickles and embroidered under-linen, the pretty Lillie was +educated as pleased Heaven. + +Pretty girls, unless they have wise mothers, are more educated by +the opposite sex than by their own. Put them where you will, there +is always some _man_ busying himself in their instruction; and the +burden of masculine teaching is generally about the same, and might be +stereotyped as follows: “You don’t need to be or do any thing. Your +business in life is to look pretty, and amuse us. You don’t need to +study: you know all by nature that a woman need to know. You are, by +virtue of being a pretty woman, superior to any thing we can teach +you; and we wouldn’t, for the world, have you any thing but what you +are.” When Lillie went to school, this was what her masters whispered +in her ear as they did her sums for her, and helped her through her +lessons and exercises, and looked into her eyes. This was what her +young gentlemen friends, themselves delving in Latin and Greek and +mathematics, told her, when they came to recreate from their severer +studies in her smile. Men are held to account for talking sense. +Pretty women are told that lively nonsense is their best sense. Now +and then, an admirer bolder than the rest ventured to take Lillie’s +education more earnestly in hand, and recommended to her just a little +reading,—enough to enable her to carry on conversation, and appear +to know something of the ordinary topics discussed in society,—but +informed her, by the by, that there was no sort of need of being either +profound or accurate in these matters, as the mistakes of a pretty +woman had a grace of their own. + +At seventeen, Lillie graduated from Dr. Sibthorpe’s school with a +“finished education.” She had, somehow or other, picked her way +through various “ologies” and exercises supposed to be necessary for a +well-informed young lady. She wrote a pretty hand, spoke French with a +good accent, and could turn a sentimental note neatly; “and that, my +dear,” said Dr. Sibthorpe to his wife, “is all that a woman needs, who +so evidently is intended for wife and mother as our little Lillie.” Dr. +Sibthorpe, in fact, had amused himself with a semi-paternal flirtation +with his pupil during the whole course of her school exercises, and +parted from her with tears in his eyes, greatly to her amusement; for +Lillie, after all, estimated his devotion at just about what it was +worth. It amused her to see him make a fool of himself. + +Of course, the next thing was—to be married; and Lillie’s life now +became a round of dressing, dancing, going to watering-places, +travelling, and in other ways seeking the fulfilment of her destiny. + +She had precisely the accessible, easy softness of manner that +leads every man to believe that he may prove a favorite, and her +run of offers became quite a source of amusement. Her arrival at +watering-places was noted in initials in the papers; her dress on +every public occasion was described; and, as acknowledged queen of +love and beauty, she had everywhere her little court of men and women +flatterers. The women flatterers around a belle are as much a part of +the _cortége_ as the men. They repeat the compliments they hear, and +burn incense in the virgin’s bower at hours when the profaner sex may +not enter. + +The life of a petted creature consists essentially in being deferred +to, for being pretty and useless. A petted child runs a great risk, +if it is ever to outgrow childhood; but a pet woman is a perpetual +child. The pet woman of society is everybody’s toy. Everybody looks +at her, admires her, praises and flatters her, stirs her up to play +off her little airs and graces for their entertainment; and passes +on. Men of profound sense encourage her to chatter nonsense for their +amusement, just as we delight in the tottering steps and stammering +mispronunciations of a golden-haired child. When Lillie has been in +Washington, she has had judges of the supreme court and secretaries +of state delighted to have her give her opinions in their respective +departments. Scholars and literary men flocked around her, to the +neglect of many a more instructed woman, satisfied that she knew enough +to blunder agreeably on every subject. + +Nor is there any thing in the Christian civilization of our present +century that condemns the kind of life we are describing, as in any +respect unwomanly or unbecoming. Something very like it is in a measure +considered as the appointed rule of attractive young girls till they +are married. + +Lillie had numbered among her admirers many lights of the Church. She +had flirted with bishops, priests, and deacons,—who, none of them, +would, for the world, have been so ungallant as to quote to her such +dreadful professional passages as, “She that liveth in pleasure is dead +while she liveth.” + +In fact, the clergy, when off duty, are no safer guides of attractive +young women than other mortal men; and Lillie had so often seen their +spiritual attentions degenerate into downright, temporal love-making, +that she held them in as small reverence as the rest of their sex. +Only one dreadful John the Baptist of her acquaintance, one of +the camel’s-hair-girdle and locust-and-wild-honey species, once +encountering Lillie at Saratoga, and observing the ways and manners +of the court which she kept there, took it upon him to give her a +spiritual admonition. + +“Miss Lillie,” he said, “I see no chance for the salvation of your +soul, unless it should please God to send the small-pox upon you. I +think I shall pray for that.” + +“Oh, horrors! don’t! I’d rather never be saved,” Lillie answered with a +fervent sincerity. + +The story was repeated afterwards as an amusing _bon mot_, and a +specimen of the barbarity to which religious fanaticism may lead; and +yet we question whether John the Baptist had not the right of it. + +For it must at once appear, that, had the small-pox made the +above-mentioned change in Lillie’s complexion at sixteen, the entire +course of her life would have taken another turn. The whole world then +would have united in letting her know that she must live to some useful +purpose, or be nobody and nothing. Schoolmasters would have scolded her +if she idled over her lessons; and her breaking down in arithmetic, and +mistakes in history, would no longer have been regarded as interesting. +Clergymen, consulted on her spiritual state, would have told her +freely that she was a miserable sinner, who, except she repented, must +likewise perish. In short, all those bitter and wholesome truths, which +strengthen and invigorate the virtues of plain people, might possibly +have led her a long way on towards saintship. + +As it was, little Lillie was confessedly no saint; and yet, if much +of a sinner, society has as much to answer for as she. She was the +daughter and flower of the Christian civilization of the nineteenth +century, and the kind of woman, that, on the whole, men of quite +distinguished sense have been fond of choosing for wives, and will go +on seeking to the end of the chapter. + +Did she love John? Well, she was quite pleased to be loved by him, and +she liked the prospect of being his wife. She was sure he would always +let her have her own way, and that he had a plenty of worldly means to +do it with. + +Lillie, if not very clever in a literary or scientific point of view, +was no fool. She had, in fact, under all her softness of manner, a +great deal of that real hard grit which shrewd, worldly people call +common sense. She saw through all the illusions of fancy and feeling, +right to the tough material core of things. However soft and tender and +sentimental her habits of speech and action were in her professional +capacity of a charming woman, still the fair Lillie, had she been a +man, would have been respected in the business world, as one that had +cut her eye-teeth, and knew on which side her bread was buttered. + +A husband, she knew very well, was the man who undertook to be +responsible for his wife’s bills: he was the giver, bringer, and +maintainer of all sorts of solid and appreciable comforts. + +Lillie’s bills had hitherto been sore places in the domestic history of +her family. The career of a fashionable belle is not to be supported +without something of an outlay; and that innocence of arithmetical +combinations, over which she was wont to laugh bewitchingly among her +adorers, sometimes led to results quite astounding to the prosaic, +hard-working papa, who stood financially responsible for all her finery. + +Mamma had often been called in to calm the tumult of his feelings on +such semi-annual developments; and she did it by pointing out to him +that this heavy present expense was an investment by which Lillie was, +in the end, to make her own fortune and that of her family. + +When Lillie contemplated the marriage-service with a view to going +through it with John, there was one clause that stood out in consoling +distinctness,—“_With all my worldly goods I thee endow._” + +As to the other clause, which contains the dreadful word “obey,” about +which our modern women have such fearful apprehensions, Lillie was +ready to swallow it without even a grimace. + +“Obey John!” Her face wore a pretty air of droll assurance at the +thought. It was too funny. + +“My dear,” said Belle Trevors, who was one of Lillie’s incense-burners +and a bridesmaid elect, “_have_ you the least idea how rich he is?” + +“He is well enough off to do about any thing I want,” said Lillie. + +“Well, you know he owns the whole village of Spindlewood, with all +those great factories, besides law business,” said Belle. “But then +they live in a dreadfully slow, pokey way down there in Springdale. +They haven’t the remotest idea how to use money.” + +“I can show him how to use it,” said Lillie. + +“He and his sister keep a nice sort of old-fashioned place there, and +jog about in an old countrified carriage, picking up poor children and +visiting schools. She is a _very_ superior woman, that sister.” + +“I don’t like superior women,” said Lillie. + +“But you must like her, you know. John is perfectly devoted to her, and +I suppose she is to be a fixture in the establishment.” + +“We shall see about that,” said Lillie. “One thing at a time. I don’t +mean he shall live at Springdale. It’s horridly pokey to live in those +little country towns. He must have a house in New York.” + +“And a place at Newport for the summer,” said Belle Trevors. + +“Yes,” said Lillie, “a cottage in Newport does very well in the season; +and then a country place well fitted up to invite company to in the +other months of summer.” + +“Delightful,” said Belle, “_if_ you can make him do it.” + +“See if I don’t,” said Lillie. + +“You dear, funny creature, you,—how you do always ride on the top of +the wave!” said Belle. + +“It’s what I was born for,” said Lillie. “By the by, Belle, I got a +letter from Harry last night.” + +“Poor fellow, had he heard”— + +“Why, of course not. I didn’t want he should till it’s all over. It’s +best, you know.” + +“He is such a good fellow, and so devoted,—it does seem a pity.” + +“Devoted! well, I should rather think he was,” said Lillie. “I believe +he would cut off his right hand for me, any day. But I never gave him +any encouragement. I’ve always told him I could be to him only as a +sister, you know.” + +“You ought not to write to him,” said Belle. + +“What can I do? He is perfectly desperate if I don’t, and still +persists that he means to marry me some day, spite of my screams.” + +“Well, he’ll have to stop making love to you after you’re married.” + +“Oh, pshaw! I don’t believe that old-fashioned talk. Lovers make a +variety in life. I don’t see why a married woman is to give up all the +fun of having admirers. Of course, one isn’t going to do any thing +wrong, you know; but one doesn’t want to settle down into Darby and +Joan at once. Why, some of the young married women, the most stunning +belles at Newport last year, got a great deal more attention after they +were married than they did before. You see the fellows like it, because +they are so sure not to be drawn in.” + +“I think it’s too bad on us girls, though,” said Belle. “You ought to +leave us our turn.” + +“Oh! I’ll turn over any of them to you, Belle,” said Lillie. “There’s +Harry, to begin with. What do you say to him?” + +“Thank you, I don’t think I shall take up with second-hand articles,” +said Belle, with some spirit. + +But here the entrance of the chamber-maid, with a fresh dress from +the dressmaker’s, resolved the conversation into a discussion so very +minute and technical that it cannot be recorded in our pages. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +_WEDDING, AND WEDDING-TRIP._ + + +WELL, and so they were married, with all the newest modern forms, +ceremonies, and accessories. + +Every possible thing was done to reflect lustre on the occasion. There +were eight bridesmaids, and every one of them fair as the moon; and +eight groomsmen, with white-satin ribbons and white rosebuds in their +button-holes; and there was a bishop, assisted by a priest, to give +the solemn benedictions of the church; and there was a marriage-bell +of tuberoses and lilies, of enormous size, swinging over the heads of +the pair at the altar; and there were voluntaries on the organ, and +chantings, and what not, all solemn and impressive as possible. In the +midst of all this, the fair Lillie promised, “forsaking all others, to +keep only unto him, so long as they both should live,”—“to love, honor, +and obey, until death did them part.” + +During the whole agitating scene, Lillie kept up her presence of mind, +and was perfectly aware of what she was about; so that a very fresh, +original, and crisp style of trimming, that had been invented in Paris +specially for her wedding toilet, received no detriment from the +least unguarded movement. We much regret that it is contrary to our +literary principles to write half, or one third, in French; because +the wedding-dress, by far the most important object on this occasion, +and certainly one that most engrossed the thoughts of the bride, was +one entirely indescribable in English. Just as there is no word in the +Hottentot vocabulary for “holiness,” or “purity,” so there are no words +in our savage English to describe a lady’s dress; and, therefore, our +fair friends must be recommended, on this point, to exercise their +imagination in connection with the study of the finest French plates, +and they may get some idea of Lillie in her wedding robe and train. + +Then there was the wedding banquet, where everybody ate quantities of +the most fashionable, indigestible horrors, with praiseworthy courage +and enthusiasm; for what is to become of “_paté de fois gras_” if we +don’t eat it? What is to become of us if we do is entirely a secondary +question. + +On the whole, there was not one jot nor tittle of the most exorbitant +requirements of fashion that was not fulfilled on this occasion. The +house was a crush of wilting flowers, and smelt of tuberoses enough +to give one a vertigo for a month. A band of music brayed and clashed +every minute of the time; and a jam of people, in elegant dresses, +shrieked to each other above the din, and several of Lillie’s former +admirers got tipsy in the supper-room. In short, nothing could be +finer; and it was agreed, on all hands, that it was “stunning.” +Accounts of it, and of all the bride’s dresses, presents, and even +wardrobe, went into the daily papers; and thus was the charming Lillie +Ellis made into Mrs. John Seymour. + +Then followed the approved wedding journey, the programme of which had +been drawn up by Lillie herself, with _carte blanche_ from John, and +included every place where a bride’s new toilets could be seen in the +most select fashionable circles. They went to Niagara and Trenton, they +went to Newport and Saratoga, to the White Mountains and Montreal; +and Mrs. John Seymour was a meteor of fashionable wonder and delight +at all these places. Her dresses and her diamonds, her hats and her +bonnets, were all wonderful to behold. The stir and excitement that +she had created as simple Miss Ellis was nothing to the stir and +excitement about Mrs. John Seymour. It was the mere grub compared with +the full-blown butterfly,—the bud compared with the rose. Wherever she +appeared, her old admirers flocked in her train. The unmarried girls +were, so to speak, nowhere. Marriage was a new lease of power and +splendor, and she revelled in it like a humming-bird in the sunshine. + +And was John equally happy? Well, to say the truth, John’s head was a +little turned by the possession of this curious and manifold creature, +that fluttered and flapped her wings about the eyes and ears of his +understanding, and appeared before him every day in some new device +of the toilet, fair and fresh; smiling and bewitching, kissing and +coaxing, laughing and crying, and in all ways bewildering him, the +once sober-minded John, till he scarce knew whether he stood on his +head or his heels. He knew that this sort of rattling, scatter-brained +life must come to an end some time. He knew there was a sober, +serious life-work for him; something that must try his mind and soul +and strength, and that would, by and by, leave him neither time nor +strength to be the mere wandering _attaché_ of a gay bird, whose string +he held in hand, and who now seemed to pull him hither and thither at +her will. + +John thought of all these things at intervals; and then, when he +thought of the quiet, sober, respectable life at Springdale, of the +good old staple families, with their steady ways,—of the girls in his +neighborhood with their reading societies, their sewing-circles for +the poor, their book-clubs and art-unions for practice in various +accomplishments,—he thought, with apprehension, that there appeared +not a spark of interest in his charmer’s mind for any thing in this +direction. She never had read any thing,—knew nothing on all those +subjects about which the women and young girls in his circle were +interested; while, in Springdale, there were none of the excitements +which made her interested in life. He could not help perceiving that +Lillie’s five hundred particular friends were mostly of the other sex, +and wondering whether he alone, when the matter should be reduced to +that, could make up to her for all her retinue of slaves. + +Like most good boys who grow into good men, John had unlimited faith +in women. Whatever little defects and flaws they might have, still +at heart he supposed they were all of the same substratum as his +mother and sister. The moment a woman was married, he imagined that +all the lovely domestic graces would spring up in her, no matter what +might have been her previous disadvantages, merely because she was a +woman. He had no doubt of the usual orthodox oak-and-ivy theory in +relation to man and woman; and that his wife, when he got one, would +be the clinging ivy that would bend her flexible tendrils in the way +his strong will and wisdom directed. He had never, perhaps, seen, in +southern regions, a fine tree completely smothered and killed in the +embraces of a gay, flaunting parasite; and so received no warning from +vegetable analogies. + +Somehow or other, he was persuaded, he should gradually bring his wife +to all his own ways of thinking, and all his schemes and plans and +opinions. This might, he thought, be difficult, were she one of the +pronounced, strong-minded sort, accustomed to thinking and judging for +herself. Such a one, he could easily imagine, there might be a risk +in encountering in the close intimacy of domestic life. Even in his +dealings with his sister, he was made aware of a force of character and +a vigor of intellect that sometimes made the carrying of his own way +over hers a matter of some difficulty. Were it not that Grace was the +best of women, and her ways always the very best of ways, John was not +so sure but that she might prove a little too masterful for him. + +But this lovely bit of pink and white; this downy, gauzy, airy little +elf; this creature, so slim and slender and unsubstantial,—surely he +need have no fear that he could not mould and control and manage her? +Oh, no! He imagined her melting, like a moon-beam, into all manner of +sweet compliances, becoming an image and reflection of his own better +self; and repeated to himself the lines of Wordsworth,— + + “I saw her, on a nearer view, + A spirit, yet a woman too,— + Her household motions light and free, + And steps of virgin liberty. + A creature not too bright or good + For human nature’s daily food, + For transient pleasures, simple wiles, + Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.” + +John fancied he saw his little Lillie subdued into a pattern wife, +weaned from fashionable follies, eagerly seeking mental improvement +under his guidance, and joining him and Grace in all sorts of edifying +works and ways. + +The reader may see, from the conversations we have detailed, that +nothing was farther from Lillie’s intentions than any such conformity. + +The intentions of the married pair, in fact, ran exactly contrary to +one another. John meant to bring Lillie to a sober, rational, useful +family life; and Lillie meant to run a career of fashionable display, +and make John pay for it. + +Neither, at present, stated their purposes precisely to the other, +because they were “honey-mooning.” John, as yet, was the enraptured +lover; and Lillie was his pink and white sultana,—his absolute +mistress, her word was law, and his will was hers. How the case was +ever to be reversed, so as to suit the terms of the marriage service, +John did not precisely inquire. + +But, when husband and wife start in life with exactly opposing +intentions, which, think you, is likely to conquer,—the man, or +the woman? That is a very nice question, and deserves further +consideration. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +_HONEY-MOON, AND AFTER._ + + +WE left Mr. and Mrs. John Seymour honey-mooning. The honey-moon, dear +ladies, is supposed to be the period of male subjection. The young +queen is enthroned; and the first of her slaves walks obediently in her +train, carries her fan, her parasol, runs of her errands, packs her +trunk, writes her letters, buys her any thing she cries for, and is +ready to do the impossible for her, on every suitable occasion. + +A great strong man sometimes feels awkwardly, when thus led captive; +but the greatest, strongest, and most boastful, often go most +obediently under woman-rule; for which, see Shakspeare, concerning +Cleopatra and Julius Cæsar and Mark Antony. + +But then all kingdoms, and all sway, and all authority must come to +an end. Nothing lasts, you see. The plain prose of life must have its +turn, after the poetry and honey-moons—stretch them out to their utmost +limit—have their terminus. + +So, at the end of six weeks, John and Lillie, somewhat dusty and +travel-worn, were received by Grace into the old family-mansion at +Springdale. + +Grace had read her Bible and Fénelon to such purpose, that she had +accepted her cross with open arms. + +Dear reader, Grace was not a severe, angular, old-maid sister, ready to +snarl at the advent of a young beauty; but an elegant and accomplished +woman, with a wide culture, a trained and disciplined mind, a +charming taste, and polished manners; and, above all, a thorough +self-understanding and discipline. Though past thirty, she still had +admirers and lovers; yet, till now, her brother, insensibly to herself, +had blocked up the doorway of her heart; and the perfectness of the +fraternal friendship had prevented the wish and the longing by which +some fortunate man might have found and given happiness. + +Grace had resolved she would love her new sister; that she would look +upon all her past faults and errors with eyes of indulgence; that she +would put out of her head every story she ever had heard against her, +and unite with her brother to make her lot a happy one. + +“John is so good a man,” she said to Miss Letitia Ferguson, “that I am +sure Lillie cannot but become a good woman.” + +So Grace adorned the wedding with her presence, in an elegant Parisian +dress, ordered for the occasion, and presented the young bride with a +set of pearl and amethyst that were perfectly bewitching, and kisses +and notes of affection had been exchanged between them; and during +various intervals, and for weeks past, Grace had been pleasantly +employed in preparing the family-mansion to receive the new mistress. + +John’s bachelor apartments had been new furnished, and furbished, and +made into a perfect bower of roses. + +The rest of the house, after the usual household process of +purification, had been rearranged, as John and his sister had always +kept it since their mother’s death in the way that she loved to see +it. There was something quaint and sweet and antique about it, that +suited Grace. Its unfashionable difference from the smart, flippant, +stereotyped rooms of to-day had a charm in her eyes. + +Lillie, however, surveyed the scene, the first night that she took +possession, with a quiet determination to re-modernize on the very +earliest opportunity. What would Mrs. Frippit and Mrs. Nippit say to +such rooms, she thought. But then there was time enough to attend +to that. Not a shade of these internal reflections was visible in +her manner. She said, “Oh, how sweet! How perfectly charming! How +splendid!” in all proper places; and John was delighted. + +She also fell into the arms of Grace, and kissed her with effusion; and +John saw the sisterly union, which he had anticipated, auspiciously +commencing. + +The only trouble in Grace’s mind was from a terrible sort of +clairvoyance that seems to beset very sincere people, and makes them +sensitive to the presence of any thing unreal or untrue. Fair and soft +and caressing as the new sister was, and determined as Grace was to +believe in her, and trust her, and like her,—she found an invisible, +chilly barrier between her heart and Lillie. She scolded herself, and, +in the effort to confide, became unnaturally demonstrative, and said +and did more than was her wont to show affection; and yet, to her own +mortification, she found herself, after all, seeming to herself to be +hypocritical, and professing more than she felt. + +As to the fair Lillie, who, as we have remarked, was no fool, she +took the measure of her new sister with that instinctive knowledge of +character which is the essence of womanhood. Lillie was not in love +with John, because that was an experience she was not capable of. +But she had married him, and now considered him as her property, her +subject,—_hers_, with an intensity of ownership that should shut out +all former proprietors. + +We have heard much talk, of late, concerning the husband’s ownership +of the wife. But, dear ladies, is that any more pronounced a fact than +every wife’s ownership of her husband?—an ownership so intense and +pervading that it may be said to be the controlling nerve of womanhood. +Let any one touch your right to the first place in your husband’s +regard, and see! + +Well, then, Lillie saw at a glance just what Grace was, and what her +influence with her brother must be; and also that, in order to live the +life she meditated, John must act under her sway, and not under his +sister’s; and so the resolve had gone forth, in her mind, that Grace’s +dominion in the family should come to an end, and that she would, as +sole empress, reconstruct the state. But, of course, she was too wise +to say a word about it. + +“Dear me!” she said, the next morning, when Grace proposed showing her +through the house and delivering up the keys, “I’m sure I don’t see why +you want to show things to me. I’m nothing of a housekeeper, you know: +all I know is what I want, and I’ve always had what I wanted, you know; +but, you see, I haven’t the least idea how it’s to be done. Why, at +home I’ve been everybody’s baby. Mamma laughs at the idea of my knowing +any thing. So, Grace dear, you must just be prime minister; and I’ll be +the good-for-nothing Queen, and just sign the papers, and all that, you +know.” + +Grace found, the first week, that to be housekeeper to a young duchess, +in an American village and with American servants, was no sinecure. + +The young mistress, the next week, tumbled into the wash an amount of +muslin and lace and French puffing and fluting sufficient to employ +two artists for two or three days, and by which honest Bridget, as she +stood at her family wash-tub, was sorely perplexed. + +But, in America, no woman ever dies for want of speaking her mind; and +the lower orders have their turn in teaching the catechism to their +superiors, which they do with an effectiveness that does credit to +democracy. + +“And would ye be plased to step here, Miss Saymour,” said Bridget to +Grace, in a voice of suppressed emotion, and pointing oratorically, +with her soapy right arm, to a snow-wreath of French finery and puffing +on the floor. “What I asks, Miss Grace, is, _Who_ is to do all this? +I’m sure it would take me and Katy a week, workin’ day and night, let +alone the cookin’ and the silver and the beds, and all them. It’s a +pity, now, somebody shouldn’t spake to that young crather; fur she’s +nothin’ but a baby, and likely don’t know any thing, as ladies mostly +don’t, about what’s right and proper.” Bridget’s Christian charity and +condescension in this last sentence was some mitigation of the crisis; +but still Grace was appalled. We all of us, my dear sisters, have stood +appalled at the tribunal of good Bridgets rising in their majesty and +declaring their ultimatum. + +[Illustration: “_Who_ is to do all this?”] + +Bridget was a treasure in the town of Springdale, where servants +were scarce and poor; and, what was more, she was a treasure that +knew her own worth. Grace knew very well how she had been beset with +applications and offers of higher wages to draw her to various hotels +and boarding-houses in the vicinity, but had preferred the comparative +dignity and tranquillity of a private gentleman’s family. + +But the family had been small, orderly, and systematic, and Grace the +most considerate of housekeepers. Still it was not to be denied, that, +though an indulgent and considerate mistress, Bridget was, in fact, +mistress of the Seymour mansion, and that her mind and will concerning +the washing must be made known to the young queen. + +It was a sore trial to speak to Lillie; but it would be sorer to be +left at once desolate in the kitchen department, and exposed to the +marauding inroads of unskilled Hibernians. + +In the most delicate way, Grace made Lillie acquainted with the +domestic crisis; as, in old times, a prime minister might have carried +to one of the Charleses the remonstrance and protest of the House of +Commons. + +“Oh! I’m sure I don’t know how it’s to be done,” said Lillie, gayly. +“Mamma always got my things done _somehow_. They always _were_ done, +and always must be: you just tell her so. I think it’s always best to +be decided with servants. Face ’em down in the beginning.” + +“But you see, Lillie dear, it’s almost impossible to _get_ servants +at all in Springdale; and such servants as ours everybody says are an +exception. If we talk to Bridget in that way, she’ll just go off and +leave us; and then what shall we do?” + +“What in the world does John want to live in such a place for?” said +Lillie, peevishly. “There are plenty of servants to be got in New York; +and that’s the only place fit to live in. Well, it’s no affair of mine! +Tell John he married me, and must take care of me. He must settle it +some way: I shan’t trouble my head about it.” + +The idea of living in New York, and uprooting the old time-honored +establishment in Springdale, struck Grace as a sort of sacrilege; +yet she could not help feeling, with a kind of fear, that the young +mistress had power to do it. + +“Don’t, darling, talk so, for pity’s sake,” she said. “I will go to +John, and we will arrange it somehow.” + +A long consultation with faithful John, in the evening, revealed to +him the perplexing nature of the material processes necessary to get +up his fair puff of thistledown in all that wonderful whiteness and +fancifulness of costume which had so entranced him. + +Lillie cried, and said she never had any trouble before about “getting +her things done.” She was sure mamma or Trixie or somebody did them, +or got them done,—she never knew how or when. With many tears and +sobs, she protested her ardent desire to realize the Scriptural idea +of the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field, which were fed +and clothed, “like Solomon in all his glory,” without ever giving a +moment’s care to the matter. + +John kissed and embraced, and wiped away her tears, and declared she +should have every thing just as she desired it, if it took the half of +his kingdom. + +After consoling his fair one, he burst into Grace’s room in the +evening, just at the hour when they used to have their old brotherly +and sisterly confidential talks. + +“You see, Grace,—poor Lillie, dear little thing,—you don’t know how +distressed she is; and, Grace, we must find somebody to do up all her +fol-de-rols and fizgigs for her, you know. You see, she’s been _used_ +to this kind of thing; can’t do without it.” + +“Well, I’ll try to-morrow, John,” said Grace, patiently. “There is Mrs. +Atkins,—she is a very nice woman.” + +“Oh, exactly! just the thing,” said John. “Yes, we’ll get her to take +all Lillie’s things every week. That settles it.” + +“Do you know, John, at the prices that Mrs. Atkins asks, you will have +to pay more than for all your family service together? What we have +this week would be twenty dollars, at the least computation; and it is +worth it too,—the work of getting up is so elaborate.” + +John opened his eyes, and looked grave. Like all stable New-England +families, the Seymours, while they practised the broadest liberality, +had instincts of great sobriety in expense. Needless profusion shocked +them as out of taste; and a quiet and decent reticence in matters of +self-indulgence was habitual with them. + +Such a price for the fine linen of his little angel rather staggered +him; but he gulped it down. + +“Well, well, Gracie,” he said, “cost what it may, she must have it as +she likes it. The little creature, you see, has never been accustomed +to calculate or reflect in these matters; and it is trial enough to +come down to our stupid way of living,—so different, you know, from the +gay life she has been leading.” + +Miss Seymour’s saintship was somewhat rudely tested by this remark. +That anybody should think it a sacrifice to be John’s wife, and a +trial to accept the homestead at Springdale, with all its tranquillity +and comforts,—that John, under her influence, should speak of the +Springdale life as _stupid_,—was a little drop too much in her cup. A +bright streak appeared in either cheek, as she said,— + +“Well, John, I never knew you found Springdale stupid before. I’m sure, +we _have_ been happy here,”—and her voice quavered. + +“Pshaw, Gracie! you know what I mean. I don’t mean that _I_ find +it stupid. I don’t like the kind of rattle-brained life we’ve been +leading this six weeks. But, then, it just suits Lillie; and it’s so +sweet and patient of her to come here and give it all up, and say not +a word of regret; and then, you see, I shall be just up to my ears in +business now, and can’t give up all my time to her, as I have. There’s +ever so much law business coming on, and all the factory matters at +Spindlewood; and I can see that Lillie will have rather a hard time of +it. You must devote yourself to her, Gracie, like a dear, good soul, +as you always were, and try to get her interested in our kind of life. +Of course, all our set will call, and that will be something; and +then—there will be some invitations out.” + +“Oh, yes, John! we’ll manage it,” said Grace, who had by this time +swallowed her anger, and shouldered her cross once more with a womanly +perseverance. “Oh, yes! the Fergusons, and the Wilcoxes, and the +Lennoxes, will all call; and we shall have picnics, and lawn teas, and +musicals, and parties.” + +“Yes, yes, I see,” said John. “Gracie, _isn’t_ she a dear little +thing? Didn’t she look cunning in that white wrapper this morning? How +do women do those things, I wonder?” said John. “Don’t you think her +manners are lovely?” + +“They are very sweet, and she is charmingly pretty,” said Grace; “and I +love her dearly.” + +“And so affectionate! Don’t you think so?” continued John. “She’s a +person that you can do any thing with through her heart. She’s all +heart, and very little head. I ought not to say that, either. I think +she has fair natural abilities, had they ever been cultivated.” + +“My dear John,” said Grace, “you forget what time it is. Good-night!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +_WILL SHE LIKE IT?_ + + +“JOHN,” said Grace, “when are you going out again to our Sunday school +at Spindlewood? They are all asking after you. Do you know it is now +two months since they have seen you?” + +“I know it,” said John. “I am going to-morrow. You see, Gracie, I +couldn’t well before.” + +“Oh! I have told them all about it, and I have kept things up; but then +there are so many who want to see _you_, and so many things that you +alone could settle and manage.” + +“Oh, yes! I’ll go to-morrow,” said John. “And, after this, I shall +be steady at it. I wonder if we could get Lillie to go,” said he, +doubtfully. + +Grace did not answer. Lillie was a subject on which it was always +embarrassing to her to be appealed to. She was so afraid of appearing +jealous or unappreciative; and her opinions were so different from +those of her brother, that it was rather difficult to say any thing. + +“Do you think she would like it, Grace?” + +“Indeed, John, you must know better than I. If anybody could make her +take an interest in it, it would be you.” + +Before his marriage, John had always had the idea that pretty, +affectionate little women were religious and self-denying at heart, as +matters of course. No matter through what labyrinths of fashionable +follies and dissipation they had been wandering, still a talent for +saintship was lying dormant in their natures, which it needed only the +touch of love to develop. The wings of the angel were always concealed +under the fashionable attire of the belle, and would unfold themselves +when the hour came. A nearer acquaintance with Lillie, he was forced +to confess, had not, so far, confirmed this idea. Though hers was a +face so fair and pure that, when he first knew her, it suggested ideas +of prayer, and communion with angels, yet he could not disguise from +himself that, in all near acquaintance with her, she had proved to +be most remarkably “of the earth, earthy.” She was alive and fervent +about fashionable gossip,—of who is who, and what does what; she was +alive to equipages, to dress, to sightseeing, to dancing, to any thing +of which the whole stimulus and excitement was earthly and physical. +At times, too, he remembered that she had talked a sort of pensive +sentimentalism, of a slightly religious nature; but the least idea +of a moral purpose in life—of self-denial, and devotion to something +higher than immediate self-gratification—seemed never to have entered +her head. What is more, John had found his attempts to introduce such +topics with her always unsuccessful. Lillie either gaped in his face, +and asked him what time it was; or playfully pulled his whiskers, and +asked him why he didn’t take to the ministry; or adroitly turned the +conversation with kissing and compliments. + +Sunday morning came, shining down gloriously through the dewy +elm-arches of Springdale. The green turf on either side of the wide +streets was mottled and flecked with vivid flashes and glimmers of +emerald, like the sheen of a changeable silk, as here and there long +arrows of sunlight darted down through the leaves and touched the +ground. + +The gardens between the great shady houses that flanked the street were +full of tall white and crimson phloxes in all the majesty of their +summer bloom, and the air was filled with fragrance; and Lillie, after +a two hours’ toilet, came forth from her chamber fresh and lovely as +the bride in the Canticles. “Thou art all fair, my love; there is +no spot in thee.” She was killingly dressed in the rural-simplicity +style. All her robes and sashes were of purest white; and a knot of +field-daisies and grasses, with French dew-drops on them, twinkled +in an infinitesimal bonnet on her little head, and her hair was all +_créped_ into a filmy golden aureole round her face. In short, dear +reader, she was a perfectly got-up angel, and wanted only some tulle +clouds and an opening heaven to have gone up at once, as similar angels +do from the Parisian stage. + +“You like me, don’t you?” she said, as she saw the delight in John’s +eyes. + +John was tempted to lay hold of his plaything. + +“Don’t, now,—you’ll crumple me,” she said, fighting him off with a +dainty parasol. “Positively you shan’t touch me till after church.” + +John laid the little white hand on his arm with pride, and looked down +at her over his shoulder all the way to church. He felt proud of her. +They would look at her, and see how pretty she was, he thought. And +so they did. Lillie had been used to admiration in church. It was one +of her fields of triumph. She had received compliments on her toilet +even from young clergymen, who, in the course of their preaching and +praying, found leisure to observe the beauties of nature and grace in +their congregation. She had been quite used to knowing of young men +who got good seats in church simply for the purpose of seeing her; +consequently, going to church had not the moral advantages for her that +it has for people who go simply to pray and be instructed. John saw the +turning of heads, and the little movements and whispers of admiration; +and his heart was glad within him. The thought of her mingled with +prayer and hymn; even when he closed his eyes, and bowed his head, she +was there. + +Perhaps this was not exactly as it should be; yet let us hope the +angels look tenderly down on the sins of too much love. John felt as if +he would be glad of a chance to die for her; and, when he thought of +her in his prayers, it was because he loved her better than himself. + +As to Lillie, there was an extraordinary sympathy of sentiment between +them at that moment. John was thinking only of her; and she was +thinking only of herself, as was her usual habit,—herself, the one +object of her life, the one idol of her love. + +Not that she knew, in so many words, that she, the little, frail bit of +dust and ashes that she was, was her own idol, and that she appeared +before her Maker, in those solemn walls, to draw to herself the homage +and the attention that was due to God alone; but yet it was true +that, for years and years, Lillie’s unconfessed yet only motive for +appearing in church had been the display of herself, and the winning of +admiration. + +But is she so much worse than others?—than the clergyman who uses the +pulpit and the sacred office to show off his talents?—than the singers +who sing God’s praises to show their voices,—who intone the agonies +of their Redeemer, or the glories of the _Te Deum_, confident on the +comments of the newspaper press on their performance the next week? No: +Lillie may be a little sinner, but not above others in this matter. + +“Lillie,” said John to her after dinner, assuming a careless, +matter-of-course air, “would you like to drive with me over to +Spindlewood, and see my Sunday school?” + +“_Your_ Sunday school, John? Why, bless me! do _you_ teach Sunday +school?” + +“Certainly I do. Grace and I have a school of two hundred children and +young people belonging to our factories. I am superintendent.” + +“I never did hear of any thing so odd!” said Lillie. “What in the world +can you want to take all that trouble for,—go basking over there in +the hot sun, and be shut up with a room full of those ill-smelling +factory-people? Why, I’m sure it can’t be your duty! I wouldn’t do it +for the world. Nothing would tempt me. Why, gracious, John, you might +catch small-pox or something!” + +“Pooh! Lillie, child, you don’t know any thing about them. They are +just as cleanly and respectable as anybody.” + +“Oh, well! they may be. But these Irish and Germans and Swedes and +Danes, and all that low class, do smell so,—you needn’t tell me, +now!—that working-class smell is a thing that can’t be disguised.” + +“But, Lillie, these are our people. They are the laborers from whose +toils our wealth comes; and we owe them something.” + +“Well! you pay them something, don’t you?” + +“I mean morally. We owe our efforts to instruct their children, and +to elevate and guide them. Lillie, I feel that it is wrong for us to +use wealth merely as a means of self-gratification. We ought to labor +for those who labor for us. We ought to deny ourselves, and make some +sacrifices of ease for their good.” + +“You dear old preachy creature!” said Lillie. “How good you must be! +But, really, I haven’t the smallest vocation to be a missionary,—not +the smallest. I can’t think of any thing that would induce me to take a +long, hot ride in the sun, and to sit in that stived-up room with those +common creatures.” + +John looked grave. “Lillie,” he said, “you shouldn’t speak of any of +your fellow-beings in that heartless way.” + +“Well now, if you are going to scold me, I’m sure I don’t want to go. +I’m sure, if everybody that stays at home, and has comfortable times, +Sundays, instead of going out on missions, is heartless, there are a +good many heartless people in the world.” + +“I beg your pardon, my darling. I didn’t mean, dear, that _you_ were +heartless, but that what you said _sounded_ so. I knew you didn’t +really mean it. I didn’t ask you, dear, to go to _work_,—only to be +company for me.” + +“And I ask you to stay at home, and be company for _me_. I’m sure it is +lonesome enough here, and you are off on business almost all your days; +and you might stay with me Sundays. You could hire some poor, pious +young man to do all the work over there. There are plenty of them, dear +knows, that it would be a real charity to help, and that could preach +and pray better than you can, I know. I don’t think a man that is busy +all the week ought to work Sundays. It is breaking the Sabbath.” + +“But, Lillie, I am _interested_ in my Sunday school. I know all my +people, and they know me; and no one else in the world could do for +them what I could.” + +“Well, I should think you might be interested in _me_: nobody else can +do for me what you can, and I want you to stay with me. That’s just the +way with you men: you don’t care any thing about us after you get us.” + +“Now, Lillie, darling, you know that isn’t so.” + +“It’s just so. You care more for your old missionary work, now, +than you do for me. I’m sure I never knew that I’d married a +home-missionary.” + +“Darling, please, now, don’t laugh at me, and try to make me selfish +and worldly. You have such power over me, you ought to be my +inspiration.” + +“I’ll be your common-sense, John. When you get on stilts, and run +benevolence into the ground, I’ll pull you down. Now, I know it must +be bad for a man, that has as much as you do to occupy his mind all +the week, to go out and work Sundays; and it’s foolish, when you could +perfectly well hire somebody else to do it, and stay at home, and have +a good time.” + +“But, Lillie, I _need_ it myself.” + +“Need it,—what for? I can’t imagine.” + +“To keep me from becoming a mere selfish, worldly man, and living for +mere material good and pleasure.” + +“You dear old Don Quixote! Well, you are altogether in the clouds above +me. I can’t understand a word of all that.” + +“Well, good-by, darling,” said John, kissing her, and hastening out of +the room, to cut short the interview. + +Milton has described the peculiar influence of woman over man, in +lowering his moral tone, and bringing him down to what he considered +the peculiarly womanly level. “You women,” he said to his wife, when +she tried to induce him to seek favors at court by some concession of +principle,—“you women never care for any thing but to be fine, and to +ride in your coaches.” In Father Adam’s description of the original +Eve, he says,— + + “All higher knowledge in her presence falls + Degraded; wisdom, in discourse with her, + Loses, discountenanced, and like folly shows.” + +Something like this effect was always produced on John’s mind when he +tried to settle questions relating to his higher nature with Lillie. He +seemed, somehow, always to get the worst of it. All her womanly graces +and fascinations, so powerful over his senses and imagination, arrayed +themselves formidably against him, and for the time seemed to strike +him dumb. What he believed, and believed with enthusiasm, when he was +alone, or with Grace, seemed to drizzle away, and be belittled, when +he undertook to convince her of it. Lest John should be called a muff +and a spoon for this peculiarity, we cite once more the high authority +aforesaid, where Milton makes poor Adam tell the angel,— + + “Yet when I approach + Her loveliness, so absolute she seems + And in herself complete, so well to know + Her own, that what she wills to do or say + Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.” + +John went out from Lillie’s presence rather humbled and over-crowed. +When the woman that a man loves laughs at his moral enthusiasms, it is +like a black frost on the delicate tips of budding trees. It is up-hill +work, as we all know, to battle with indolence and selfishness, and +self-seeking and hard-hearted worldliness. Then the highest and holiest +part of our nature has a bashfulness of its own. It is a heavenly +stranger, and easily shamed. A nimble-tongued, skilful woman can so +easily show the ridiculous side of what seemed heroism; and what is +called common-sense, so generally, is only some neatly put phase of +selfishness. Poor John needed the angel at his elbow, to give him the +caution which he is represented as giving to Father Adam:— + + “What transports thee so? + An outside?—fair, no doubt, and worthy well + Thy cherishing, thy honor, and thy love, + Not thy subjection. Weigh her with thyself, + Then value. Oft-times nothing profits more + Than self-esteem, grounded on just and right + Well managed: of that skill the more thou knowest, + The more she will acknowledge thee her head, + And to realities yield all her shows.” + +But John had no angel at his elbow. He was a fellow with a great +heart,—good as gold,—with upward aspirations, but with slow speech; +and, when not sympathized with, he became confused and incoherent, and +even dumb. So his only way with his little pink and white empress was +immediate and precipitate flight. + +Lillie ran to the window when he was gone, and saw him and Grace get +into the carriage together; and then she saw them drive to the old +Ferguson House, and Rose Ferguson came out and got in with them. +“Well,” she said to herself, “he shan’t do that many times more,—I’m +resolved.” + +No, she did not say it. It would be well for us all if we _did_ put +into words, plain and explicit, many instinctive resolves and purposes +that arise in our hearts, and which, for want of being so expressed, +influence us undetected and unchallenged. If we would say out boldly, +“I don’t care for right or wrong, or good or evil, or anybody’s rights +or anybody’s happiness, or the general good, or God himself,—all I care +for, or feel the least interest in, is to have a good time myself, and +I mean to do it, come what may,”—we should be only expressing a feeling +which often lies in the dark back-room of the human heart; and saying +it might alarm us from the drugged sleep of life. It might rouse us to +shake off the slow, creeping paralysis of selfishness and sin before it +is for ever too late. + +But Lillie was a creature who had lost the power of self-knowledge. +She was, my dear sir, what you suppose the true woman to be,—a bundle +of blind instincts; and among these the strongest was that of property +in her husband, and power over him. She had lived in her power over +men; it was her field of ambition. She knew them thoroughly. Women are +called ivy; and the ivy has a hundred little fingers in every inch of +its length, that strike at every flaw and crack and weak place in the +strong wall they mean to overgrow; and so had Lillie. She saw, at a +glance, that the sober, thoughtful, Christian life of Springdale was +wholly opposed to the life she wanted to lead, and in which John was to +be her instrument. She saw that, if such women as Grace and Rose had +power with him, she should not have; and her husband should be hers +alone. He should do her will, and be her subject,—so she thought, +smiling at herself as she looked in the looking-glass, and then curled +herself peacefully and languidly down in the corner of the sofa, and +drew forth the French novel that was her usual Sunday companion. + +Lillie liked French novels. There was an atmosphere of things in them +that suited her. The young married women had lovers and admirers; and +there was the constant stimulus of being courted and adored, under the +safe protection of a good-natured “_mari_.” + +In France, the flirting is all done after marriage, and the young +girl looks forward to it as her introduction to a career of conquest. +In America, so great is our democratic liberality, that we think +of uniting the two systems. We are getting on in that way fast. A +knowledge of French is beginning to be considered as the pearl of +great price, to gain which, all else must be sold. The girls must go +to the French theatre, and be stared at by French _débauchées_, who +laugh at them while they pretend they understand what, thank Heaven, +they cannot. Then we are to have series of French novels, carefully +translated, and puffed and praised even by the religious press, written +by the corps of French female reformers, which will show them exactly +how the naughty French women manage their cards; so that, by and by, +we shall have the latest phase of eclecticism,—the union of American +and French manners. The girl will flirt till twenty _à l’Américaine_, +and then marry and flirt till forty _à la Française_. This was about +Lillie’s plan of life. Could she hope to carry it out in Springdale? + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +_SPINDLEWOOD._ + + +IT seemed a little like old times to Grace, to be once more going with +Rose and John over the pretty romantic road to Spindlewood. + +John did not reflect upon how little she now saw of him, and how much +of a trial the separation was; but he noticed how bright and almost gay +she was, when they were by themselves once more. He was gay too. In the +congenial atmosphere of sympathy, his confidence in himself, and his +own right in the little controversy that had occurred, returned. Not +that he said a word of it; he did not do so, and would not have done so +for the world. Grace and Rose were full of anecdotes of this, that, and +the other of their scholars; and all the particulars of some of their +new movements were discussed. The people had, of their own accord, +raised a subscription for a library, which was to be presented to John +that day, with a request that he would select the books. + +“Gracie, that must be your work,” said John; “you know I shall have an +important case next week.” + +“Oh, yes! Rose and I will settle it,” said Grace. “Rose, we’ll get the +catalogues from all the book-stores, and mark the things.” + +“We’ll want books for the children just beginning to read; and then +books for the young men in John’s Bible-class, and all the way +between,” said Rose. “It will be quite a work to select.” + +“And then to bargain with the book-stores, and make the money go ‘far +as possible,’” said Grace. + +“And then there’ll be the covering of the books,” said Rose. “I’ll tell +you. I think I’ll manage to have a lawn tea at our house; and the girls +shall all come early, and get the books covered,—that’ll be charming.” + +“I think Lillie would like that,” put in John. + +“I should be so glad!” said Rose. “What a lovely little thing she is! +I hope she’ll like it. I wanted to get up something pretty for her. I +think, at this time of the year, lawn teas are a little variety.” + +“Oh, she’ll like it of course!” said John, with some sinking of heart +about the Sunday-school books. + +There were so many pressing to shake hands with John, and congratulate +him, so many histories to tell, so many cases presented for +consultation, that it was quite late before they got away; and tea had +been waiting for them more than an hour when they returned. + +Lillie looked pensive, and had that indescribable air of patient +martyrdom which some women know how to make so very effective. Lillie +had good general knowledge of the science of martyrdom,—a little spice +and flavor of it had been gently infused at times into her demeanor +ever since she had been at Springdale. She could do the uncomplaining +sufferer with the happiest effect. She contrived to insinuate at times +how she didn’t complain,—how dull and slow she found her life, and yet +how she endeavored to be cheerful. + +“I know,” she said to John when they were by themselves, “that you and +Grace both think I’m a horrid creature.” + +“Why, no, dearest; indeed we don’t.” + +“But you do, though; oh, I feel it! The fact is, John, I haven’t a +particle of constitution; and, if I should try to go on as Grace does, +it would kill me in a month. Ma never would let me try to do any thing; +and, if I did, I was sure to break all down under it: but, if you say +so, I’ll try to go into this school.” + +“Oh, no, Lillie! I don’t want you to go in. I know, darling, you could +not stand any fatigue. I only wanted you to take an interest,—just to +go and see them for my sake.” + +“Well, John, if you must go, and must keep it up, I must try to go. +I’ll go with you next Sunday. It will make my head ache perhaps; but no +matter, if you wish it. You don’t think badly of me, do you?” she said +coaxingly, playing with his whiskers. + +“No, darling, not the least.” + +“I suppose it would be a great deal better for you if you had married a +strong, energetic woman, like your sister. I do admire her so; but it +discourages me.” + +“Darling, I’d a thousand times rather have you what you are,” said +John; for— + + “What she wills to do, + Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.” + +“O John! come, you ought to be sincere.” + +“Sincere, Lillie! I am sincere.” + +“You really would rather have poor, poor little me than a woman like +Gracie,—a great, strong, energetic woman?” And Lillie laid her soft +cheek down on his arm in pensive humility. + +“Yes, a thousand million times,” said John in his enthusiasm, catching +her in his arms and kissing her. “I wouldn’t for the world have you any +thing but the darling little Lillie you are. I love your faults more +than the virtues of other women. You are a thousand times better than +I am. I am a great, coarse blockhead, compared to you. I hope I didn’t +hurt your feelings this noon; you know, Lillie, I’m hasty, and apt to +be inconsiderate. I don’t really know that I ought to let you go over +next Sunday.” + +“O John, you are so good! Certainly if you go I ought to; and I shall +try my best.” Then John told her all about the books and the lawn tea, +and Lillie listened approvingly. + +So they had a lawn tea at the Fergusons that week, where Lillie was +the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Mathews, the new young clergyman of +Springdale, was there. Mr. Mathews had been credited as one of the +admirers of Rose Ferguson; but on this occasion he promenaded and +talked with Lillie, and Lillie alone, with an exclusive devotion. + +“What a lovely young creature your new sister is!” he said to Grace. +“She seems to have so much religious sensibility.” + +“I say, Lillie,” said John, “Mathews seemed to be smitten with you. I +had a notion of interfering.” + +“Did you ever see any thing like it, John? I couldn’t shake the +creature off. I was so thankful when you came up and took me. He’s +Rose’s admirer, and he hardly spoke a word to her. I think it’s +shameful.” + +The next Sunday, Lillie rode over to Spindlewood with John and Rose and +Mr. Mathews. + +Never had the picturesque of religion received more lustre than from +her presence. John was delighted to see how they all gazed at her +and wondered. Lillie looked like a first-rate French picture of the +youthful Madonna,—white, pure, and patient. The day was hot, and the +hall crowded; and John noticed, what he never did before, the close +smell and confined air, and it made him uneasy. When we are feeling +with the nerves of some one else, we notice every roughness and +inconvenience. John thought he had never seen his school appear so +little to advantage. Yet Lillie was an image of patient endurance, +trying to be pleased; and John thought her, as she sat and did nothing, +more of a saint than Rose and Grace, who were laboriously sorting +books, and gathering around them large classes of factory boys, to whom +they talked with an exhausting devotedness. + +When all was over, Lillie sat back on the carriage-cushions, and +smelled at her gold vinaigrette. + +“You are all worn out, dear,” said John, tenderly. + +“It’s no matter,” she said faintly. + +“O Lillie darling! _does_ your head ache?” + +“A little,—you know it was close in there. I’m very sensitive to such +things. I don’t think they affect others as they do me,” said Lillie, +with the voice of a dying zephyr. + +“Lillie, _it is not your duty to go_,” said John; “if you are not made +ill by this, I never will take you again; you are too precious to be +risked.” + +“How can you say so, John? I’m a poor little creature,—no use to +anybody.” + +Hereupon John told her that her only use in life was to be lovely +and to be loved,—that a thing of beauty was a joy forever, &c., &c. +But Lillie was too much exhausted, on her return, to appear at the +tea-table. She took to her bed at once with sick headache, to the +poignant remorse of John. “You see how it is, Gracie,” he said. “Poor +dear little thing, she is willing enough, but there’s nothing of her. +We mustn’t allow her to exert herself; her feelings always carry her +away.” + +The next Sunday, John sat at home with Lillie, who found herself too +unwell to go to church, and was in a state of such low spirits as to +require constant soothing to keep her quiet. + +“It is fortunate that I have you and Rose to trust the school with,” +said John; “you see, it’s my first duty to take care of Lillie.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +_A CRISIS._ + + +ONE of the shrewdest and most subtle modern French writers has given +his views of womankind in the following passage:— + + “There are few women who have not found themselves, at least + once in their lives, in regard to some incontestable fact, + faced down by precise, keen, searching inquiry,—one of those + questions pitilessly put by their husbands, the very idea + of which gives a slight chill, and the first word of which + enters the heart like a stroke of a dagger. Hence comes the + maxim, _Every woman lies_—obliging lies—venial lies—sublime + lies—horrible lies—but always the obligation of lying. + + “This obligation once admitted, must it not be a necessity + to know how to lie well? In France, the women lie admirably. + Our customs instruct them so well in imposture. And woman is + so naïvely impertinent, so pretty, so graceful, so true, in + her lying! They so well understand its usefulness in social + life for avoiding those violent shocks which would destroy + happiness,—it is like the cotton in which they pack their + jewelry. + + “Lying is to them the very foundation of language, and + truth is only the exception; they speak it, as they are + virtuous, from caprice or for a purpose. According to their + character, some women laugh when they lie, and some cry; + some become grave, and others get angry. Having begun life + by pretending perfect insensibility to that homage which + flatters them most, they often finish by lying even to + themselves. Who has not admired their apparent superiority + and calm, at the moment when they were trembling for the + mysterious treasures of their love? Who has not studied + their ease and facility, their presence of mind in the midst + of the most critical embarrassments of social life? There is + nothing awkward about it; their deception flows as softly as + the snow falls from heaven. + + “Yet there are men that have the presumption to expect to + get the better of the Parisian woman!—of the woman who + possesses thirty-seven thousand ways of saying ‘No,’ and + incommensurable variations in saying ‘Yes.’” + +This is a Frenchman’s view of life in a country where women are trained +more systematically for the mere purposes of attraction than in any +other country, and where the pursuit of admiration and the excitement +of winning lovers are represented by its authors as constituting the +main staple of woman’s existence. France, unfortunately, is becoming +the great society-teacher of the world. What with French theatres, +French operas, French novels, and the universal rush of American women +for travel, France is becoming so powerful on American fashionable +society, that the things said of the Parisian woman begin in some cases +to apply to some women in America. + +Lillie was as precisely the woman here described as if she had been +born and bred in Paris. She had all the thirty-seven thousand ways +of saying “No,” and the incommensurable variations in saying “Yes,” +as completely as the best French teaching could have given it. She +possessed, and had used, all that graceful facility, in the story of +herself that she had told John in the days of courtship. Her power over +him was based on a dangerous foundation of unreality. Hence, during the +first few weeks of her wedded life, came a critical scene, in which she +was brought in collision with one of those “pitiless questions” our +author speaks of. + +Her wedding-presents, manifold and brilliant, had remained at home, in +the charge of her mother, during the wedding-journey. One bright day, +a few weeks after her arrival in Springdale, the boxes containing the +treasures were landed there; and John, with all enthusiasm, busied +himself with the work of unpacking these boxes, and drawing forth the +treasures. + +Now, it so happened that Lillie’s maternal grandfather, a nice, pious +old gentleman, had taken the occasion to make her the edifying and +suggestive present of a large, elegantly bound family Bible. + +The binding was unexceptionable; and Lillie assigned it a proper place +of honor among her wedding-gear. Alas! she had not looked into it, nor +seen what dangers to her power were lodged between its leaves. + +[Illustration: “He found the date of the birth of ‘Lillie Ellis.’”] + +But John, who was curious in the matter of books, sat quietly down in +a corner to examine it; and on the middle page, under the head “Family +Record,” he found, in a large, bold hand, the date of the birth of +“Lillie Ellis” in figures of the most uncompromising plainness; and +thence, with one flash of his well-trained arithmetical sense, came the +perception that, instead of being twenty years old, she was in fact +twenty-seven,—and that of course she had lied to him. + +It was a horrid and a hard word for an American young man to have +suggested in relation to his wife. If we may believe the French +romancer, a Frenchman would simply have smiled in amusement on +detecting this petty feminine _ruse_ of his beloved. But American men +are in the habit of expecting the truth from respectable women as a +matter of course; and the want of it in the smallest degree strikes +them as shocking. Only an Englishman or an American can understand the +dreadful pain of that discovery to John. + +The Anglo-Saxon race have, so to speak, a worship of truth; and they +hate and abhor lying with an energy which leaves no power of tolerance. + +The Celtic races have a certain sympathy with deception. They have a +certain appreciation of the value of lying as a fine art, which has +never been more skilfully shown than in the passage from De Balzac we +have quoted. The woman who is described by him as lying so sweetly and +skilfully is represented as one of those women “qui ont je ne sais quoi +de saint et de sacré, qui inspirent tant de respect que l’amour,”—“a +woman who has an indescribable something of holiness and purity which +inspires respect as well as love.” It was no detraction from the +character of Jesus, according to the estimate of Renan, to represent +him as consenting to a benevolent fraud, and seeming to work miracles +when he did not work them, by way of increasing his good influence over +the multitude. + +But John was the offspring of a generation of men for hundreds of +years, who would any of them have gone to the stake rather than have +told the smallest untruth; and for him who had been watched and guarded +and catechised against this sin from his cradle, till he was as true +and pure as a crystal rock, to have his faith shattered in the woman +he loved, was a terrible thing. + +As he read the fatal figures, a mist swam before his eyes,—a sort of +faintness came over him. It seemed for a moment as if his very life was +sinking down through his boots into the carpet. He threw down the book +hastily, and, turning, stepped through an open window into the garden, +and walked quickly off. + +“Where in the world is John going?” said Lillie, running to the door, +and calling after him in imperative tones. + +“John, John, come back. I haven’t done with you yet;” but John never +turned his head. + +“How very odd! what in the world is the matter with him?” she said to +herself. + +John was gone all the afternoon. He took a long, long walk, all by +himself, and thought the matter over. He remembered that fresh, +childlike, almost infantine face, that looked up into his with such a +bewitching air of frankness and candor, as she professed to be telling +all about herself and her history; and now which or what of it was +true? It seemed as if he loathed her; and yet he couldn’t help loving +her, while he despised himself for doing it. + +When he came home to supper, he was silent and morose. Lillie came +running to meet him; but he threw her off, saying he was tired. She was +frightened; she had never seen him look like that. + +“John, what is the matter with you?” said Grace at the tea-table. “You +are upsetting every thing, and don’t drink your tea.” + +“Nothing—only—I have some troublesome business to settle,” he said, +getting up to go out again. “You needn’t wait for me; I shall be out +late.” + +“What can be the matter?” + +Lillie, indeed, had not the remotest idea. Yet she remembered his +jumping up suddenly, and throwing down the Bible; and mechanically she +went to it, and opened it. She turned it over; and the record met her +eye. + +“Provoking!” she said. “Stupid old creature! must needs go and put that +out in full.” Lillie took a paper-folder, and cut the leaf out quite +neatly; then folded and burned it. + +She knew now what was the matter. John was angry at her; but she +couldn’t help wondering that he should be so angry. If he had laughed +at her, teased her, taxed her with the trick, she would have understood +what to do. But this terrible gloom, this awful commotion of the +elements, frightened her. + +She went to her room, saying that she had a headache, and would go +to bed. But she did not. She took her French novel, and read till +she heard him coming; and then she threw down her book, and began to +cry. He came into the room, and saw her leaning like a little white +snow-wreath over the table, sobbing as if her heart would break. To +do her justice, Lillie’s sobs were not affected. She was lonesome and +thoroughly frightened; and, when she heard him coming, her nerves gave +out. John’s heart yearned towards her. His short-lived anger had burned +out; and he was perfectly longing for a reconciliation. He felt as if +he must have her to love, no matter what she was. He came up to her, +and stroked her hair. “O Lillie!” he said, “why couldn’t you have told +me the truth? What made you deceive me?” + +“I was afraid you wouldn’t like me if I did,” said Lillie, in her sobs. + +“O Lillie! I should have liked you, no matter how old you were,—only +you should have told me _the truth_.” + +“I know it—I know it—oh, it _was_ wrong of me!” and Lillie sobbed, and +seemed in danger of falling into convulsions; and John’s heart gave +out. He gathered her in his arms. “I can’t help loving you; and I can’t +live without you,” he said, “be you what you may!” + +Lillie’s little heart beat with triumph under all her sobs: she had got +him, and should hold him yet. + +“There can be no confidence between husband and wife, Lillie,” said +John, gravely, “unless we are perfectly true with each other. Promise +me, dear, that you will never deceive me again.” + +Lillie promised with ready fervor. “O John!” she said, “I never should +have done so wrong if I had only come under your influence earlier. The +fact is, I have been under the worst influences all my life. I never +had anybody like you to guide me.” + +John may of course be excused for feeling that his flattering little +penitent was more to him than ever; and as to Lillie, she gave a sigh +of relief. _That_ was over, “anyway;” and she had him not only safe, +but more completely hers than before. + +A generous man is entirely unnerved by a frank confession. If Lillie +had said one word in defence, if she had raised the slightest shadow +of an argument, John would have roused up all his moral principle to +oppose her; but this poor little white water-sprite, dissolving in a +rain of penitent tears, quite washed away all his anger and all his +heroism. + +The next morning, Lillie, all fresh in a ravishing toilet, with +field-daisies in her hair, was in a condition to laugh gently at John +for his emotion of yesterday. She triumphed softly, not too obviously, +in her power. He couldn’t do without her,—do what she might,—that was +plain. + +“Now, John,” she said, “don’t you think we poor women are judged +rather hardly? Men, you know, tell all sorts of lies to carry on their +great politics and their ambition, and nobody thinks it so dreadful of +_them_.” + +“I _do_—I should,” interposed John. + +“Oh, well! _you_—you are an exception. It is not one man in a hundred +that is so good as you are. Now, we women have only one poor little +ambition,—to be pretty, to please you men; and, as soon as you know +we are getting old, you don’t like us. And can you think it’s so very +shocking if we don’t come square up to the dreadful truth about our +age? Youth and beauty is all there is to us, you know.” + +“O Lillie! don’t say so,” said John, who felt the necessity of being +instructive, and of improving the occasion to elevate the moral tone of +his little elf. “Goodness lasts, my dear, when beauty fades.” + +“Oh, nonsense! Now, John, don’t talk humbug. I’d like to see _you_ +following goodness when beauty is gone. I’ve known lots of plain old +maids that were perfect saints and angels; and yet men crowded and +jostled by them to get the pretty sinners. I dare say now,” she added, +with a bewitching look over her shoulder at him, “you’d rather have me +than Miss Almira Carraway,—hadn’t you, now?” + +And Lillie put her white arm round his neck, and her downy cheek to +his, and said archly, “Come, now, confess.” + +Then John told her that she was a bad, naughty girl; and she laughed; +and, on the whole, the pair were more hilarious and loving than usual. + +But yet, when John was away at his office, he thought of it again, and +found there was still a sore spot in his heart. + +She had cheated him once; would she cheat him again? And she could +cheat so prettily, so serenely, and with such a candid face, it was a +dangerous talent. + +No: she wasn’t like his mother, he thought with a sigh. The “je ne sais +quoi de saint et de sacré,” which had so captivated his imagination, +did not cover the saintly and sacred nature; it was a mere outward +purity of complexion and outline. And then Grace,—she must not be +left to find out what he knew about Lillie. He had told Grace that +she was only twenty,—told it on her authority; and now must he become +an accomplice? If called on to speak of his wife’s age, must he +accommodate the truth to her story, or must he palter and evade? Here +was another brick laid on the wall of separation between his sister +and himself. It was rising daily. Here was another subject on which he +could never speak frankly with Grace; for he must defend Lillie,—every +impulse of his heart rushed to protect her. + +But it is a terrible truth, and one that it will not hurt any of us to +bear in mind, that our judgments of our friends are involuntary. + +We may long with all our hearts to confide; we may be fascinated, +entangled, and wish to be blinded; but blind we cannot be. The friend +that has lied to us once, we may long to believe; but we cannot. Nay, +more; it is the worse for us, if, in our desire to hold the dear +deceiver in our hearts, we begin to chip and hammer on the great +foundations of right and honor, and to say within ourselves, “After +all, why be so particular?” Then, when we have searched about for +all the reasons and apologies and extenuations for wrong-doing, are +we sure that in our human weakness we shall not be pulling down the +moral barriers in ourselves? The habit of excusing evil, and finding +apologies, and wishing to stand with one who stands on a lower moral +plane, is not a wholesome one for the soul. + +As fate would have it, the very next day after this little scene, +who should walk into the parlor where Lillie, John, and Grace were +sitting, but that terror of American democracy, the census-taker. Armed +with the whole power of the republic, this official steps with elegant +ease into the most sacred privacies of the family. Flutterings and +denials are in vain. Bridget and Katy and Anne, no less than Seraphina +and Isabella, must give up the critical secrets of their lives. + +John took the paper into the kitchen. Honest old Bridget gave in her +age with effrontery as “twinty-five.” Anne giggled and flounced, and +declared on her word she didn’t know,—they could put it down as they +liked. “But, Anne, you _must_ tell, or you may be sent to jail, you +know.” + +Anne giggled still harder, and tossed her head: “Then it’s to jail I’ll +have to go; for I don’t know.” + +“Dear me,” said Lillie, with an air of edifying candor, “what a fuss +they make! Set down my age ‘twenty-seven,’ John,” she added. + +Grace started, and looked at John; he met her eye, and blushed to the +roots of his hair. + +“Why, what’s the matter?” said Lillie, “are you embarrassed at telling +your age?” + +“Oh, nothing!” said John, writing down the numbers hastily; and then, +finding a sudden occasion to give directions in the garden, he darted +out. “It’s so silly to be ashamed of our age!” said Lillie, as the +census-taker withdrew. + +“Of course,” said Grace; and she had the humanity never to allude to +the subject with her brother. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +_CHANGES._ + +SCENE.—_A chamber at the Seymour House. Lillie discovered weeping. John +rushing in with empressement._ + + +“LILLIE, you _shall_ tell me what ails you.” + +“Nothing ails me, John.” + +“Yes, there does; you were crying when I came in.” + +“Oh, well, that’s nothing!” + +“Oh, but it _is_ a great deal! What is the matter? I can see that you +are not happy.” + +“Oh, pshaw, John! I am as happy as I ought to be, I dare say; there +isn’t much the matter with me, only a little blue, and I don’t feel +quite strong.” + +“You don’t feel strong! I’ve noticed it, Lillie.” + +“Well, you see, John, the fact is, that I never have got through this +month without going to the sea-side. Mamma always took me. The doctors +told her that my constitution was such that I couldn’t get along +without it; but I dare say I shall do well enough in time, you know.” + +“But, Lillie,” said John, “if you do need sea-air, you must go. I can’t +leave my business; that’s the trouble.” + +“Oh, no, John! don’t think of it. I ought to make an effort to get +along. You see, it’s very foolish in me, but places affect my spirits +so. It’s perfectly absurd how I am affected.” + +“Well, Lillie, I hope this place doesn’t affect you unpleasantly,” said +John. + +“It’s a nice, darling place, John, and it’s very silly in me; but it is +a fact that this house somehow has a depressing effect on my spirits. +You know it’s not like the houses I’ve been used to. It has a sort of +old look; and I can’t help feeling that it puts me in mind of those who +are dead and gone; and then I think I shall be dead and gone too, some +day, and it makes me cry so. Isn’t it silly of me, John?” + +“Poor little pussy!” said John. + +“You see, John, our rooms are lovely; but they aren’t modern and +cheerful, like those I’ve been accustomed to. They make me feel pensive +and sad all the time; but I’m trying to get over it.” + +“Why, Lillie!” said John, “would you like the rooms refurnished? It can +easily be done if you wish it.” + +“Oh, no, no, dear! You are too good; and I’m sure the rooms are lovely, +and it would hurt Gracie’s feelings to change them. No: I must try and +get over it. I know just how silly it is, and I shall try to overcome +it. If I had only more strength, I believe I could.” + +“Well, darling, you must go to the sea-side. I shall have you sent +right off to Newport. Gracie can go with you.” + +“Oh, no, John! not for the world. Gracie must stay, and keep house for +you. She’s such a help to you, that it would be a shame to take her +away. But I think mamma would go with me,—if you could take me there, +and engage my rooms and all that, why, mamma could stay with me, you +know. To be sure, it would be a trial not to have you there; but then +if I could get up my strength, you know,”— + +“Exactly, certainly; and, Lillie, how would you like the parlors +arranged if you had your own way?” + +“Oh, John! don’t think of it.” + +“But I just want to know for curiosity. Now, how would you have them if +you could?” + +“Well, then, John, don’t you think it would be lovely to have them +frescoed? Did you ever see the Folingsbees’ rooms in New York? They +were so lovely!—one was all in blue, and the other in crimson, opening +into each other; with carved furniture, and those _marquetrie_ tables, +and all sorts of little French things. They had such a gay and cheerful +look.” + +“Now, Lillie, if you want our rooms like that, you shall have them.” + +“O John, you are too good! I couldn’t ask such a sacrifice.” + +“Oh, pshaw! it isn’t a sacrifice. I don’t doubt I shall like them +better myself. Your taste is perfect, Lillie; and, now I think of it, +I wonder that I thought of bringing you here without consulting you +in every particular. A woman ought to be queen in her own house, I am +sure.” + +“But, Gracie! Now, John, I know she has associations with all the +things in this house, and it would be cruel to her,” said Lillie, with +a sigh. + +“Pshaw! Gracie is a good, sensible girl, and ready to make any rational +change. I suppose we have been living rather behind the times, and are +somewhat rusty, that’s a fact; but Gracie will enjoy new things as much +as anybody, I dare say.” + +“Well, John, since you are set on it, there’s Charlie Ferrola, one of +my particular friends; he’s an architect, and does all about arranging +rooms and houses and furniture. He did the Folingsbees’, and the +Hortons’, and the Jeromes’, and no end of real nobby people’s houses; +and made them perfectly lovely. People say that one wouldn’t know that +they weren’t in Paris, in houses that he does.” + +Now, our John was by nature a good solid chip of the old Anglo-Saxon +block; and, if there was any thing that he had no special affinity +for, it was for French things. He had small opinion of French morals, +and French ways in general; but then at this moment he saw his Lillie, +whom, but half an hour before, he found all pale and tear-drenched, +now radiant and joyous, sleek as a humming-bird, with the light in her +eyes, and the rattle on the tip of her tongue; and he felt so delighted +to see her bright and gay and joyous, that he would have turned his +house into the Jardin Mabille, if that were possible. + +Lillie had the prettiest little caressing tricks and graces imaginable; +and she perched herself on his knee, and laughed and chatted so gayly, +and pulled his whiskers so saucily, and then, springing up, began +arraying herself in such an astonishing daintiness of device, and +fluttering before him with such a variety of well-assorted plumage, +that John was quite taken off his feet. He did not care so much whether +what she willed to do were, “Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,” +as feel that what she wished to do must be done at any rate. + +[Illustration: “She perched herself on his knee.”] + +“Why, darling!” he said in his rapture; “why didn’t you tell me all +this before? Here you have been growing sad and blue, and losing your +vivacity and spirits, and never told me why!” + +“I thought it was my duty, John, to try to bear it,” said Lillie, with +the sweet look of a virgin saint. “I thought perhaps I should get used +to things in time; and I think it is a wife’s duty to accommodate +herself to her husband’s circumstances.” + +“No, it’s a husband’s duty to accommodate himself to his wife’s +wishes,” said John. “What’s that fellow’s address? I’ll write to him +about doing our house, forthwith.” + +“But, John, do pray tell Gracie that it’s _your_ wish. I don’t want her +to think that it’s I that am doing this. Now, pray do think whether you +really want it yourself. You see it must be so natural for you to like +the old things! They must have associations, and I wouldn’t for the +world, now, be the one to change them; and, after all, how silly it was +of me to feel blue!” + +“Don’t say any more, Lillie. Let me see,—next week,” he said, taking +out his pocket-book, and looking over his memoranda,—“next week I’ll +take you down to Newport; and you write to-day to your mother to meet +you there, and be your guest. I’ll write and engage the rooms at once.” + +“I don’t know what I shall do without you, John.” + +“Oh, well, I couldn’t stay possibly! But I may run down now and then, +for a night, you know.” + +“Well, we must make that do,” said Lillie, with a pensive sigh. + +Thus two very important moves on Miss Lillie’s checker-board of life +were skilfully made. The house was to be refitted, and the Newport +precedent established. + +Now, dear friends, don’t think Lillie a pirate, or a conspirator, or a +wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing, or any thing else but what she was,—a pretty +little, selfish woman; undeveloped in her conscience and affections, +and strong in her instincts and perceptions; in a blind way using what +means were most in her line to carry her purposes. Lillie had always +found her prettiness, her littleness, her helplessness, and her tears +so very useful in carrying her points in life that she resorted to them +as her lawful stock in trade. Neither were her blues entirely shamming. +There comes a time after marriage, when a husband, if he be any thing +of a man, has something else to do than make direct love to his wife. +He cannot be on duty at all hours to fan her, and shawl her, and admire +her. His love must express itself through other channels. He must be a +full man for her sake; and, as a man, must go forth to a whole world of +interests that takes him from her. Now what in this case shall a woman +do, whose only life lies in petting and adoration and display? + +Springdale had no _beau monde_, no fashionable circle, no Bois de +Boulogne, and no beaux, to make amends for a husband’s engrossments. +Grace was sisterly and kind; but what on earth had they in common +to talk about? Lillie’s wardrobe was in all the freshness of bridal +exuberance, and there was nothing more to be got, and so, for the +moment, no stimulus in this line. But then where to wear all these fine +French dresses? Lillie had been called on, and invited once to little +social evening parties, through the whole round of old, respectable +families that lived under the elm-arches of Springdale; and she had +found it rather stupid. There was not a man to make an admirer of, +except the young minister, who, after the first afternoon of seeing +her, returned to his devotion to Rose Ferguson. + +You know, ladies, Æsop has a pretty little fable as follows: A young +man fell desperately in love with a cat, and prayed to Jupiter to +change her to a woman for his sake. Jupiter was so obliging as to grant +his prayer; and, behold, a soft, satin-skinned, purring, graceful woman +was given into his arms. + +But the legend goes on to say that, while he was delighting in her +charms, she heard the sound of _mice_ behind the wainscot, and left him +forthwith to rush after her congenial prey. + +Lillie had heard afar the sound of _mice_ at Newport, and she longed +to be after them once more. Had she not a prestige now as a rich young +married lady? Had she not jewels and gems to show? Had she not any +number of mouse-traps, in the way of ravishing toilets? She thought it +all over, till she was sick with longing, and was sure that nothing +but the sea-air could do her any good; and so she fell to crying, and +kissing her faithful John, till she gained her end, like a veritable +little cat as she was. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +_NEWPORT; OR, THE PARADISE OF NOTHING TO DO._ + + +BEHOLD, now, our Lillie at the height of her heart’s desire, installed +in fashionable apartments at Newport, under the placid chaperonship +of dear mamma, who never saw the least harm in any earthly thing her +Lillie chose to do. + +All the dash and flash and furbelow of upper-tendom were there; and +Lillie now felt the full power and glory of being a rich, pretty, young +married woman, with oceans of money to spend, and nothing on earth to +do but follow the fancies of the passing hour. + +This was Lillie’s highest ideal of happiness; and didn’t she enjoy it? + +Wasn’t it something to flame forth in wondrous toilets in the eyes of +Belle Trevors and Margy Silloway and Lottie Cavers, who were _not_ +married; and before the Simpkinses and the Tomkinses and the Jenkinses, +who, last year, had said hateful things about her, and intimated that +she had gone off in her looks, and was on the way to be an old maid? + +And wasn’t it a triumph when all her old beaux came flocking round her, +and her parlors became a daily resort and lounging-place for all the +idle swains, both of her former acquaintance and of the newcomers, who +drifted with the tide of fashion? Never had she been so much the rage; +never had she been declared so “stunning.” The effect of all this good +fortune on her health was immediate. We all know how the spirits affect +the bodily welfare; and hence, my dear gentlemen, we desire it to be +solemnly impressed on you, that there is nothing so good for a woman’s +health as to give her her own way. + +Lillie now, from this simple cause, received enormous accessions of +vigor. While at home with plain, sober John, trying to walk in the +quiet paths of domesticity, how did her spirits droop! If you only +could have had a vision of her brain and spinal system, you would have +seen how there was no nervous fluid there, and how all the fine little +cords and fibres that string the muscles were wilting like flowers out +of water; but now she could bathe the longest and the strongest of +any one, could ride on the beach half the day, and dance the German +into the small hours of the night, with a degree of vigor which showed +conclusively what a fine thing for her the Newport air was. Her +dancing-list was always over-crowded with applicants; bouquets were +showered on her; and the most superb “turn-outs,” with their masters +for charioteers, were at her daily disposal. + +All this made talk. The world doesn’t forgive success; and the ancients +informed us that even the gods were envious of happy people. It is +astonishing to see the quantity of very proper and rational moral +reflection that is excited in the breast of society, by any sort of +success in life. How it shows them the vanity of earthly enjoyments, +the impropriety of setting one’s heart on it! How does a successful +married flirt impress all her friends with the gross impropriety of +having one’s head set on gentlemen’s attentions! + +“I must say,” said Belle Trevors, “that dear Lillie does astonish me. +Now, I shouldn’t want to have that dissipated Danforth lounging in +my rooms every day, as he does in Lillie’s: and then taking her out +driving day after day; for my part, I don’t think it’s respectable.” + +“Why don’t you speak to her?” said Lottie Cavers. + +“Oh, my dear! she wouldn’t mind _me_. Lillie always was the most +imprudent creature; and, if she goes on so, she’ll certainly get +awfully talked about. That Danforth is a horrid creature; I know all +about him.” + +As Miss Belle had herself been driving with the “horrid creature” +only the week before Lillie came, it must be confessed that her +opportunities for observation were of an authentic kind. + +Lillie, as queen in her own parlor, was all grace and indulgence. +Hers was now to be the sisterly _rôle_, or, as she laughingly styled +it, the maternal. With a ravishing morning-dress, and with a killing +little cap of about three inches in extent on her head, she enacted the +young matron, and gave full permission to Tom, Dick, and Harry to make +themselves at home in her room, and smoke their cigars there in peace. +She “adored the smell;” in fact, she accepted the present of a fancy +box of cigarettes from Danforth with graciousness, and would sometimes +smoke one purely for good company. She also encouraged her followers +to unveil the tender secrets of their souls confidentially to her, and +offered gracious mediations on their behalf with any of the flitting +Newport fair ones. When they, as in duty bound, said that they saw +nobody whom they cared about now she was married, that she was the only +woman on earth for them,—she rapped their knuckles briskly with her +fan, and bid them mind their manners. All this mode of proceeding gave +her an immense success. + +[Illustration: “And would sometimes smoke one purely for good +company.”] + +But, as we said before, all this was talked about; and ladies in their +letters, chronicling the events of the passing hour, sent the tidings +up and down the country; and so Miss Letitia Ferguson got a letter from +Mrs. Wilcox with full pictures and comments; and she brought the same +to Grace Seymour. + +“I dare say,” said Letitia, “these things have been exaggerated; they +always are: still it does seem desirable that your brother should go +there, and be with her.” + +“He can’t go and be with her,” said Grace, “without neglecting his +business, already too much neglected. Then the house is all in +confusion under the hands of painters; and there is that young artist +up there,—a very elegant gentleman,—giving orders to right and left, +every one of which involves further confusion and deeper expense; for +my part, I see no end to it. Poor John has got ‘the Old Man of the Sea’ +on his back in the shape of this woman; and I expect she’ll be the ruin +of him yet. I can’t want to break up his illusion about her; because, +what good will it do? He has married her, and must live with her; and, +for Heaven’s sake, let the illusion last while it can! I’m going to +draw off, and leave them to each other; there’s no other way.” + +“You are, Gracie?” + +“Yes; you see John came to me, all stammering and embarrassment, about +this making over of the old place; but I put him at ease at once. ‘The +most natural thing in the world, John,’ said I. ‘Of course Lillie has +her taste; and it’s her right to have the house arranged to suit it.’ +And then I proposed to take all the old family things, and furnish +the house that I own on Elm Street, and live there, and let John and +Lillie keep house by themselves. You see there is no helping the thing. +Married people must be left to themselves; nobody can help them. They +must make their own discoveries, fight their own battles, sink or swim, +together; and I have determined that not by the winking of an eye will +I interfere between them.” + +“Well, but do you think John wants you to go?” + +“He feels badly about it; and yet I have convinced him that it’s best. +Poor fellow! all these changes are not a bit to his taste. He liked the +old place as it was, and the old ways; but John is so unselfish. He has +got it in his head that Lillie is very sensitive and peculiar, and that +her spirits require all these changes, as well as Newport air.” + +“Well,” said Letitia, “if a man begins to say A in that line, he must +say B.” + +“Of course,” said Grace; “and also C and D, and so on, down to X, +Y, Z. A woman, armed with sick-headaches, nervousness, debility, +presentiments, fears, horrors, and all sorts of imaginary and real +diseases, has an eternal armory of weapons of subjugation. What can a +man do? Can he tell her that she is lying and shamming? Half the time +she isn’t; she can actually work herself into about any physical state +she chooses. The fortnight before Lillie went to Newport, she really +looked pale, and ate next to nothing; and she managed admirably to seem +to be trying to keep up, and not to complain,—yet you see how she can +go on at Newport.” + +“It seems a pity John couldn’t understand her.” + +“My dear, I wouldn’t have him for the world. Whenever he does, he will +despise her; and then he will be wretched. For John is no hypocrite, +any more than I am. No, I earnestly pray that his soap-bubble may not +break.” + +“Well, then,” said Letitia, “at least, he might go down to Newport +for a day or two; and his presence there might set some things right: +it might at least check reports. You might just suggest to him that +unfriendly things were being said.” + +“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” said Grace. + +So, by a little feminine tact in suggestion, Grace despatched her +brother to spend a day or two in Newport. + + * * * * * + +His coming and presence interrupted the lounging hours in Lillie’s +room; the introduction to “my husband” shortened the interviews. John +was courteous and affable; but he neither smoked nor drank, and there +was a mutual repulsion between him and many of Lillie’s _habitués_. + +“I say, Dan,” said Bill Sanders to Danforth, as they were smoking on +one end of the veranda, “you are driven out of your lodgings since +Seymour came.” + +“No more than the rest of you,” said Danforth. + +“I don’t know about that, Dan. I think _you_ might have been taken for +master of those premises. Look here now, Dan, why didn’t you _take_ +little Lill yourself? Everybody thought you were going to last year.” + +“Didn’t want her; knew too much,” said Danforth. “Didn’t want to keep +her; she’s too cursedly extravagant. It’s jolly to have this sort of +concern on hand; but I’d rather Seymour’d pay her bills than I.” + +“Who thought you were so practical, Dan?” + +“Practical! that I am; I’m an old bird. Take my advice, boys, now: keep +shy of the girls, and flirt with the married ones,—then you don’t get +roped in.” + +“I say, boys,” said Tom Nichols, “isn’t she a case, now? What a head +she has! I bet she can smoke equal to any of us.” + +“Yes; I keep her in cigarettes,” said Danforth; “she’s got a box of +them somewhere under her ruffles now.” + +“What if Seymour should find them?” said Tom. + +“Seymour? pooh! he’s a muff and a prig. I bet you he won’t find her +out; she’s the jolliest little humbugger there is going. She’d cheat a +fellow out of the sight of his eyes. It’s perfectly wonderful.” + +“How came Seymour to marry her?” + +“He? Why, he’s a pious youth, green as grass itself; and I suppose she +talked religion to him. Did you ever hear her talk religion?” + +A roar of laughter followed this, out of which Danforth went on. “By +George, boys, she gave me a prayer-book once! I’ve got it yet.” + +“Well, if that isn’t the best thing I ever heard!” said Nichols. + +“It was at the time she was laying siege to me, you see. She undertook +the part of guardian angel, and used to talk lots of sentiment. The +girls get lots of that out of George Sand’s novels about the _holiness_ +of doing just as you’ve a mind to, and all that,” said Danforth. + +“By George, Dan, you oughtn’t to laugh. She may have more good in her +than you think.” + +“Oh, humbug! don’t I know her?” + +“Well, at any rate she’s a wonderful creature to hold her looks. By +George! how she _does_ hold out! You’d say, now, she wasn’t more than +twenty.” + +“Yes; she understands getting herself up,” said Danforth, “and touches +up her cheeks a bit now and then.” + +“She don’t paint, though?” + +“Don’t paint! _Don’t_ she? I’d like to know if she don’t; but she does +it like an artist, like an old master, in fact.” + +“Or like a young mistress,” said Tom, and then laughed at his own wit. + +Now, it so happened that John was sitting at an open window above, and +heard occasional snatches of this conversation quite sufficient to +impress him disagreeably. He had not heard enough to know exactly what +had been said, but enough to feel that a set of coarse, low-minded men +were making quite free with the name and reputation of his Lillie; and +he was indignant. + +“She is so pretty, so frank, and so impulsive,” he said. “Such women +are always misconstrued. I’m resolved to caution her.” + +“Lillie,” he said, “who is this Danforth?” + +“Charlie Danforth—oh! he’s a millionnaire that I refused. He was wild +about me,—is now, for that matter. He perfectly haunts my rooms, and is +always teasing me to ride with him.” + +“Well, Lillie, if I were you, I wouldn’t have any thing to do with him.” + +“John, I don’t mean to, any more than I can help. I try to keep him off +all I can; but one doesn’t want to be rude, you know.” + +“My darling,” said John, “you little know the wickedness of the world, +and the cruel things that men will allow themselves to say of women who +are meaning no harm. You can’t be too careful, Lillie.” + +“Oh! I am careful. Mamma is here, you know, all the while; and I never +receive except she is present.” + +John sat abstractedly fingering the various objects on the table; then +he opened a drawer in the same mechanical manner. + +“Why, Lillie! what’s this? what in the world are these?” + +“O John! sure enough! well, there is something I was going to ask you +about. Danforth used always to be sending me things, you know, before +we were married,—flowers and confectionery, and one thing or other; +and, since I have been here now, he has done the same, and I really +didn’t know what to do about it. You know I didn’t want to quarrel +with him, or get his ill-will; he’s a high-spirited fellow, and a man +one doesn’t want for an enemy; so I have just passed it over easy as I +could.” + +“But, Lillie, a box of cigarettes!—of course, they can be of no use to +you.” + +“Of course: they are only a sort of curiosity that he imports from +Spain with his cigars.” + +“I’ve a great mind to send them back to him myself,” said John. + +“Oh, don’t, John! why, how it would look! as if you were angry, or +thought he meant something wrong. No; I’ll contrive a way to give ’em +back without offending him. I am up to all such little ways.” + +“Come, now,” she added, “don’t let’s be cross just the little time you +have to stay with me. I do wish our house were not all torn up, so that +I could go home with you, and leave Newport and all its bothers behind.” + +“Well, Lillie, you could go, and stay with me at Gracie’s,” said John, +brightening at this proposition. + +“Dear Gracie,—so she has got a house all to herself; how I shall miss +her! but, really, John, I think she will be happier. Since you would +insist on revolutionizing our house, you know”— + +“But, Lillie, it was to please you.” + +“Oh, I know it! but you know I begged you not to. Well, John, I don’t +think I should like to go in and settle down on Grace; perhaps, as I am +here, and the sea-air and bathing strengthens me so, we may as well +put it through. I will come home as soon as the house is done.” + +“But perhaps you would want to go with me to New York to select the +furniture?” + +“Oh, the artist does all that! Charlie Ferrola will give his orders to +Simon & Sauls, and they will do every thing up complete. It’s the way +they all do—saves lots of trouble.” + +John went home, after three days spent in Newport, feeling that Lillie +was somehow an injured fair one, and that the envious world bore down +always on beauty and prosperity. + +But incidentally he heard and overheard much that made him uneasy. He +heard her admired as a “bully” girl, a “fast one;” he heard of her +smoking, he overheard something about “painting.” + +The time was that John thought Lillie an embryo angel,—an angel a +little bewildered and gone astray, and with wings a trifle the worse +for the world’s wear,—but essentially an angel of the same nature with +his own revered mother. + +Gradually the mercury had been falling in the tube of his estimation. +He had given up the angel; and now to himself he called her “a silly +little pussy,” but he did it with a smile. It was such a neat, white, +graceful pussy; and all his own pussy too, and purred and rubbed its +little head on no coat-sleeve but his,—of that he was certain. Only a +bit silly. She would still _fib_ a little, John feared, especially when +he looked back to the chapter about her age,—and then, perhaps, about +the cigarettes. + +Well, she might, perhaps, in a wild, excited hour, have smoked _one +or two_, just for fun, and the thing had been exaggerated. She had +promised fairly to return those cigarettes,—he dared not say to himself +that he feared she would not. He kept saying to himself that she would. +It was necessary to say this often to make himself believe it. + +As to painting—well, John didn’t like to ask her, because, what if she +shouldn’t tell him the truth? And, if she did paint, was it so great +a sin, poor little thing? he would watch, and bring her out of it. +After all, when the house was all finished and arranged, and he got her +back from Newport, there would be a long, quiet, domestic winter at +Springdale; and they would get up their reading-circles, and he would +set her to improving her mind, and gradually the vision of this empty, +fashionable life would die out of her horizon, and she would come into +his ways of thinking and doing. + +But, after all, John managed to be proud of her. When he read in the +columns of “The Herald” the account of the Splandangerous ball in +Newport, and of the entrancingly beautiful Mrs. J. S., who appeared in +a radiant dress of silvery gauze made _à la nuage_, &c., &c., John was +rather pleased than otherwise. Lillie danced till daylight,—it showed +that she must be getting back her strength,—and she was voted the belle +of the scene. Who wouldn’t take the comfort that is to be got in any +thing? John owned this fashionable meteor,—why shouldn’t he rejoice in +it? + +Two years ago, had anybody told him that one day he should have a wife +that told fibs, and painted, and smoked cigarettes, and danced all +night at Newport, and yet that he should love her, and be proud of her, +he would have said, Is thy servant a dog? He was then a considerate, +thoughtful John, serious and careful in his life-plans; and the wife +that was to be his companion was something celestial. But so it is. By +degrees, we accommodate ourselves to the actual and existing. To all +intents and purposes, for us it is the inevitable. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +_HOME À LA POMPADOUR._ + + +WELL, Lillie came back at last; and John conducted her over the +transformed Seymour mansion, where literally old things had passed +away, and all things become new. + +There was not a relic of the past. The house was furbished and +resplendent—it was gilded—it was frescoed—it was _à la_ Pompadour, +and _à la_ Louis Quinze and Louis Quatorze, and _à la_ every thing +Frenchy and pretty, and gay and glistening. For, though the parlors +at first were the only apartments contemplated in this _renaissance_, +yet it came to pass that the parlors, when all tricked out, cast such +invidious reflections on the chambers that the chambers felt themselves +old and rubbishy, and prayed and stretched out hands of imploration to +have something done for _them_! + +So the spare chamber was first included in the glorification programme; +but, when the spare chamber was once made into a Pompadour pavilion, it +so flouted and despised the other old-fashioned Yankee chambers, that +they were ready to die with envy; and, in short, there was no way to +produce a sense of artistic unity, peace, and quietness, but to do the +whole thing over, which was done triumphantly. + +The French Emperor, Louis Napoleon, who was a shrewd sort of a man in +his day and way, used to talk a great deal about the “logic of events;” +which language, being interpreted, my dear gentlemen, means a good deal +in domestic life. It means, for instance, that when you drive the first +nail, or tear down the first board, in the way of alteration of an old +house, you will have to make over every room and corner in it, and pay +as much again for it as if you built a new one. + +John was able to sympathize with Lillie in her childish delight in the +new house, because he _loved_ her, and was able to put himself and his +own wishes out of the question for her sake; but, when all the bills +connected with this change came in, he had emotions with which Lillie +could not sympathize: first, because she knew nothing about figures, +and was resolved never to know any thing; and, like all people who know +nothing about them, she cared nothing;—and, second, because she did +_not_ love John. + +Now, the truth is, Lillie would have been quite astonished to have been +told this. She, and many other women, suppose that they love their +husbands, when, unfortunately, they have not the beginning of an idea +what love is. Let me explain it to you, my dear lady. Loving to be +admired by a man, loving to be petted by him, loving to be caressed by +him, and loving to be praised by him, is not loving a man. All these +may be when a woman has no power of loving at all,—they may all be +simply because she loves herself, and loves to be flattered, praised, +caressed, coaxed; as a cat likes to be coaxed and stroked, and fed with +cream, and have a warm corner. + +But all this _is not love_. It may exist, to be sure, where there +_is_ love; it generally does. But it may also exist where there is +no love. Love, my dear ladies, is _self-sacrifice_; it is a life out +of self and in another. Its very essence is the preferring of the +comfort, the ease, the wishes of another to one’s own, _for the_ love +we bear then? Love is giving, and not receiving. Love is not a sheet +of blotting-paper or a sponge, sucking in every thing to itself; it is +an out-springing fountain, giving from itself. Love’s motto has been +dropped in this world as a chance gem of great price by the loveliest, +the fairest, the purest, the strongest of Lovers that ever trod this +mortal earth, of whom it is recorded that He said, “It is more blessed +to give than to receive.” Now, in love, there are ten receivers to +one giver. There are ten persons in this world who like to be loved +and love love, where there is one who knows _how to love_. That, O my +dear ladies, is a nobler attainment than all your French and music and +dancing. You may lose the very power of it by smothering it under a +load of early self-indulgence. By living just as you are all wanting +to live,—living to be petted, to be flattered, to be admired, to be +praised, to have your own way, and to do only that which is easy and +agreeable,—you may lose the power of self-denial and self-sacrifice; +you may lose the power of loving nobly and worthily, and become a mere +sheet of blotting-paper all your life. + +You will please to observe that, in all the married life of these two, +as thus far told, all the accommodations, compliances, changes, have +been made by John for Lillie. + +_He_ has been, step by step, giving up to her his ideal of life, and +trying, as far as so different a nature can, to accommodate his to +hers; and she accepts all this as her right and due. + +She sees no particular cause of gratitude in it,—it is what she +expected when she married. Her own specialty, the thing which she has +always cultivated, is to get that sort of power over man, by which she +can carry her own points and purposes, and make him flexible to her +will; nor does a suspicion of the utter worthlessness and selfishness +of such a life ever darken the horizon of her thoughts. + +John’s bills were graver than he expected. It is true he was rich; but +riches is a relative term. As related to the style of living hitherto +practised in his establishment, John’s income was princely, and left +a large balance to be devoted to works of general benevolence; but he +perceived that, in this year, that balance would be all absorbed; and +this troubled him. + +Then, again, his establishment being now given up by his sister must be +reorganized, with Lillie at its head; and Lillie declared in the outset +that she could not, and would not, take any trouble about any thing. + +“John would have to get servants; and the servants would have to see to +things:” she “was resolved, for one thing, that she wasn’t going to be +a slave to housekeeping.” + +By great pains and importunity, and an offer of high wages, Grace and +John retained Bridget in the establishment, and secured from New York +a seamstress and a waitress, and other members to make out a domestic +staff. + +This sisterhood were from the isle of Erin, and not an unfavorable +specimen of that important portion of our domestic life. They were +quick-witted, well-versed in a certain degree of household and domestic +skill, guided in well-doing more by impulsive good feeling than by any +very enlightened principle. The dominant idea with them all appeared +to be, that they were living in the house of a millionnaire, where +money flowed through the establishment in a golden stream, out of which +all might drink freely and rejoicingly, with no questions asked. Mrs. +Lillie concerned herself only with results, and paid no attention to +ways and means. She wanted a dainty and generous table to be spread +for her, at all proper hours, with every pleasing and agreeable +variety; to which she should come as she would to the table of a +boarding-house, without troubling her head where any thing came from +or went to. Bridget, having been for some years under the training and +surveillance of Grace Seymour, was more than usually competent as cook +and provider; but Bridget had abundance of the Irish astuteness, which +led her to feel the genius of circumstances, and to shape her course +accordingly. + +With Grace, she had been accurate, saving, and economical; for Miss +Grace was so. Bridget had felt, under her sway, the beauty of that +economy which saves because saving is in itself so fitting and so +respectable; and because, in this way, a power for a wise generosity +is accumulated. She was sympathetic with the ruling spirit of the +establishment. + +But, under the new mistress, Bridget declined in virtue. The +announcement that the mistress of a family isn’t going to give herself +any trouble, nor bother her head with care about any thing, is one the +influence of which is felt downward in every department. Why should +Bridget give herself any trouble to save and economize for a mistress +who took none for herself? She had worked hard all her life, why not +take it easy? And it was so much easier to send daily a basket of cold +victuals to her cousin on Vine Street than to contrive ways of making +the most of things, that Bridget felt perfectly justified in doing it. +If, once in a while, a little tea and a paper of sugar found their way +into the same basket, who would ever miss it? + +The seamstress was an elegant lady. She kept all Lillie’s dresses and +laces and wardrobe, and had something ready for her to put on when +she changed her toilet every day. If this very fine lady wore her +mistress’s skirts and sashes, and laces and jewelry, on the sly, to +evening parties among the upper servant circles of Springdale, who was +to know it? Mrs. John Seymour knew nothing about where her things were, +nor what was their condition, and never wanted to trouble herself to +inquire. + +It may therefore be inferred that when John began to settle up +accounts, and look into financial matters, they seemed to him not to be +going exactly in the most promising way. + +He thought he would give Lillie a little practical insight into his +business,—show her exactly what his income was, and make some estimates +of his expenses, just that she might have some little idea how things +were going. + +So John, with great care, prepared a nice little account-book, prefaced +by a table of figures, showing the income of the Spindlewood property, +and the income of his law business, and his income from other sources. +Against this, he placed the necessary out-goes of his business, and +showed what balance might be left. Then he showed what had hitherto +been spent for various benevolent purposes connected with the schools +and his establishments at Spindlewood. He showed what had been the +bills for the refitting of the house, and what were now the running +current expenses of the family. + +He hoped that he had made all these so plain and simple, that Lillie +might easily be made to understand them, and that thus some clear +financial boundaries might appear in her mind. Then he seized a +favorable hour, and produced his book. + +“Lillie,” he said, “I want to make you understand a little about our +expenditures and income.” + +“Oh, dreadful, John! don’t, pray! I never had any head for things of +that kind.” + +“But, Lillie, _please_ let me show you,” persisted John. “I’ve made it +just as simple as can be.” + +[Illustration: “I never had the least head for figures.”] + +“O John! now—I just—can’t—there now! Don’t bring that book now; it’ll +just make me low-spirited and cross. I never had the least head for +figures; mamma always said so; and if there _is_ any thing that seems +to me perfectly dreadful, it is accounts. I don’t think it’s any of a +woman’s business—it’s all _man’s_ work, and men have got to see to it. +Now, _please_ don’t,” she added, coming to him coaxingly, and putting +her arm round his neck. + +“But, you see, Lillie,” John persevered, in a pleading tone,—“you see, +all these alterations that have been made in the house have involved +very serious expenses; and then, too, we are living at a very different +rate of expense from what we ever lived before”— + +“There it is, John! Now, you oughtn’t to reproach me with it; for you +know it was your own idea. I didn’t want the alterations made; but you +would insist on it. I didn’t think it was best; but you would have +them.” + +“But, Lillie, it was all because you wanted them.” + +“Well, I dare say; but I shouldn’t have wanted them if I thought it was +going to bring in all this bother and trouble, and make me have to look +over old accounts, and all such things. I’d rather never have had any +thing!” And here Lillie began to cry. + +“Come, now, my darling, do be a sensible woman, and not act like a +baby.” + +“There, John! it’s just as I knew it would be; I always said you wanted +a different sort of a woman for a wife. Now, you knew when you took me +that I wasn’t in the least strong-minded or sensible, but a poor little +helpless thing; and you are beginning to get tired of me already. You +wish you had married a woman like Grace, I know you do.” + +“Lillie, how silly! Please do listen, now. You have no idea how simple +and easy what I want to explain to you is.” + +“Well, John, I can’t to-night, anyhow, because I have a headache. Just +this talk has got my head to thumping so,—it’s really dreadful! and I’m +so low-spirited! I do wish you had a wife that would suit you better.” +And forthwith Mrs. Lillie dissolved in tears; and John stroked her +head, and petted her, and called her a nice little pussy, and begged +her pardon for being so rough with her, and, in short, acted like a +fool generally. + +“If that woman was _my_ wife now,” I fancy I hear some youth with a +promising moustache remark, “I’d make her behave!” + +Well, sir, supposing she was your wife, what are you going to do about +it? + +What are you going to do when accounts give your wife a sick headache, +so that she cannot possibly attend to them? Are you going to enact the +Blue Beard, and rage and storm, and threaten to cut her head off? What +good would that do? Cutting off a wrong little head would not turn it +into a right one. An ancient proverb significantly remarks, “You can’t +have more of a cat than her skin,”—and no amount of fuming and storming +can make any thing more of a woman than she is. _Such_ as your wife is, +sir, you must take her, and make the best of it. Perhaps you want your +own way. Don’t you wish you could get it? + +But didn’t she promise to obey? Didn’t she? Of course. Then why is it +that I must be all the while yielding points, and she never? Well, sir, +that is for you to settle. The marriage service gives you authority; +so does the law of the land. John could lock up Mrs. Lillie till she +learned her lessons; he could do any of twenty other things that no +gentleman would ever think of doing, and the law would support him +in it. But, because John is a gentleman, and not Paddy from Cork, he +strokes his wife’s head, and submits. + +We understand that our brethren, the Methodists, have recently decided +to leave the word “obey” out of the marriage-service. Our friends are, +as all the world knows, a most wise and prudent denomination, and +guided by a very practical sense in their arrangements. If they have +left the word “obey” out, it is because they have concluded that it +does no good to put it in,—a decision that John’s experience would go a +long way to justify. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +_JOHN’S BIRTHDAY._ + + +“MY dear Lillie,” quoth John one morning, “next week Wednesday is my +birthday.” + +“Is it? How charming! What shall we do?” + +“Well, Lillie, it has always been our custom—Grace’s and mine—to give a +grand _fête_ here to all our work-people. We invite them all over _en +masse_, and have the house and grounds all open, and devote ourselves +to giving them a good time.” + +Lillie’s countenance fell. + +“Now, really, John, how trying! what shall we do? You don’t really +propose to bring all those low, dirty, little factory children in +Spindlewood through our elegant new house? Just look at that satin +furniture, and think what it will be when a whole parcel of freckled, +tow-headed, snubby-nosed children have eaten bread and butter and +doughnuts over it! Now, John, there is reason in all things; _this_ +house is not made for a missionary asylum.” + +John, thus admonished, looked at his house, and was fain to admit that +there was the usual amount of that good, selfish, hard grit—called +common sense—in Lillie’s remarks. + +Rooms have their atmosphere, their necessities, their artistic +proprieties. Apartments _à la_ Louis Quatorze represent the ideas +and the sympathies of a period when the rich lived by themselves in +luxury, and the poor were trodden down in the gutter; when there was +only aristocratic contempt and domination on one side, and servility +and smothered curses on the other. With the change of the apartments +to the style of that past era, seemed to come its maxims and morals, +as artistically indicated for its completeness. So John walked up and +down in his Louis Quinze _salon_, and into his Pompadour _boudoir_, and +out again into the Louis Quatorze dining-rooms, and reflected. He had +had many reflections in those apartments before. Of all ill-adapted and +unsuitable pieces of furniture in them, he had always felt himself the +most unsuitable and ill-adapted. He had never felt at home in them. He +never felt like lolling at ease on any of those elegant sofas, as of +old he used to cast himself into the motherly arms of the great chintz +one that filled the recess. His Lillie, with her smart paraphernalia of +hoops and puffs and ruffles and pinkings and bows, seemed a perfectly +natural and indigenous production there; but he himself seemed always +to be out of place. His Lillie might have been any of Balzac’s +charming duchesses, with their “thirty-seven thousand ways of saying +‘Yes;’” but, as to himself, he must have been taken for her steward or +gardener, who had accidentally strayed in, and was fraying her satin +surroundings with rough coats and heavy boots. There was not, in fact, +in all the reorganized house, a place where he felt _himself_ to be +at all the proper thing; nowhere where he could lounge, and read his +newspaper, without a feeling of impropriety; nowhere that he could +indulge in any of the slight Hottentot-isms wherein unrenewed male +nature delights,—without a feeling of rebuke. + +John had not philosophized on the causes of this. He knew, in a +general and unconfessed way, that he was not comfortable in his new +arrangements; but he supposed it was his own fault. He had fallen into +rusty, old-fashioned, bachelor ways; and, like other things that are +not agreeable to the natural man, he supposed his trim, resplendent, +genteel house was good for him, and that he ought to like it, and by +grace should attain to liking it, if he only tried long enough. + +Only he took long rests every day while he went to Grace’s, on Elm +Street, and stretched himself on the old sofa, and sat in his mother’s +old arm-chair, and told Grace how very elegant their house was, and how +much taste the architect had shown, and how much Lillie was delighted +with it. + +But this silent walk of John’s, up and down his brilliant apartments, +opened his eyes to another troublesome prospect. He was a Christian +man, with a high aim and ideal in life. He believed in the Sermon on +the Mount, and other radical preaching of that nature; and he was a +very honest man, and hated humbug in every shape. Nothing seemed meaner +to him than to profess a sham. But it began in a cloudy way to appear +to him that there is a manner of arranging one’s houses that makes +it difficult—yes, well-nigh impossible—to act out in them any of the +brotherhood principles of those discourses. + +There are houses where the self-respecting poor, or the honest +laboring man and woman, cannot be made to enter or to feel at home. +They are made for the selfish luxury of the privileged few. Then John +reflected, uneasily, that this change in his house had absorbed that +whole balance which usually remained on his accounts to be devoted to +benevolent purposes, and with which this year he had proposed to erect +a reading-room for his work-people. + +“Lillie,” said John, as he walked uneasily up and down, “I wish you +would try to help me in this thing. I always have done it,—my father +and mother did it before me,—and I don’t want all of a sudden to depart +from it. It may seem a little thing, but it does a great deal of good. +It produces kind feeling; it refines and educates and softens them.” + +“Oh, well, John! if you say so, I must, I suppose,” said Lillie, with +a sigh. “I can have the carpets and furniture all covered, I suppose; +it’ll be no end of trouble, but I’ll try. But I must say, I think all +this kind of petting of the working-classes does no sort of good; it +only makes them uppish and exacting: you never get any gratitude for +it.” + +“But you know, dearie, what is said about doing good, ‘hoping for +nothing again,’” said John. + +“Now, John, please don’t preach, of all things. Haven’t I told you that +I’ll try my best? I am going to,—I’ll work with all my strength,—you +know that isn’t much,—but I shall exert myself to the utmost if you say +so.” + +“My dear, I don’t want you to injure yourself!” + +“Oh! I don’t mind,” said Lillie, with the air of a martyr. “The +servants, I suppose, will make a fuss about it; and I shouldn’t wonder +if it was the means of sending them every one off in a body, and +leaving me without any help in the house, just as the Follingsbees and +the Simpkinses are coming to visit us.” + +“I didn’t know that you had invited the Follingsbees and Simpkinses,” +said John. + +“Didn’t I tell you? I meant to,” said Mrs. Lillie, innocently. + +“I don’t like those Follingsbees, Lillie. He is a man I have no respect +for; he is one of those shoddy upstarts, not at all our sort of folks. +I’m sorry you asked him.” + +“But his wife is my particular friend,” said Lillie, “and they were +very polite to mamma and me at Newport; and we really owe them some +attention.” + +“Well, Lillie, since you have asked them, I will be polite to them; and +I will try and do every thing to save you care in this entertainment. +I’ll speak to Bridget myself; she knows our ways, and has been used to +managing.” + +And so, as John was greatly beloved by Bridget, and as all the domestic +staff had the true Irish fealty to the man of the house, and would +run themselves off their feet in his service any day,—it came to pass +that the _fête_ was holden, as of yore, in the grounds. Grace was there +and helped, and so were Letitia and Rose Ferguson; and all passed off +better than could be expected. But John did not enjoy it. He felt all +the while that he was dragging Lillie as a thousand-pound weight after +him; and he inly resolved that, once out of that day’s festival, he +would never try to have it again. + +Lillie went to bed with sick headache, and lay two days after it, +during which she cried and lamented incessantly. She “knew she was not +the wife for John;” she “always told him he wouldn’t be satisfied with +her, and now she saw he wasn’t; but she had tried her very best, and +now it was cruel to think she should not succeed any better.” + +“My dearest child,” said John, who, to say the truth, was beginning to +find this thing less charming than it used to be, “I _am_ satisfied. I +am much obliged to you. I’m sure you have done all that could be asked.” + +“Well, I’m sure I hope those folks of yours were pleased,” quoth +Lillie, as she lay looking like a martyr, with a cloth wet in ice-water +bound round her head. “They ought to be; they have left grease-spots +all over the sofa in my boudoir, from one end to the other; and cake +and raisins have been trodden into the carpets; and the turf around the +oval is all cut up; and they have broken my little Diana; and such a +din as there was!—oh, me! it makes my head ache to think of it.” + +“Never mind, Lillie, I’ll see to it, and set it all right.” + +“No, you can’t. One of the children broke that model of the Leaning +Tower too. I found it. You can’t teach such children to let things +alone. Oh, dear me! my head!” + +[Illustration: “Oh, me! it makes my head ache to think of it.”] + +“There, there, pussy! only don’t worry,” said John, in soothing tones. + +“Don’t think me horrid, _please_ don’t,” said Lillie, piteously. “I did +try to have things go right; didn’t I?” + +“Certainly you did, dearie; so don’t worry. I’ll get all the spots +taken out, and all the things mended, and make every thing right.” + +So John called Rosa, on his way downstairs. “Show me the sofa that they +spoiled,” said he. + +“Sofa?” said Rosa. + +“Yes; I understand the children greased the sofa in Mrs. Seymour’s +boudoir.” + +“Oh, dear, no! nothing of the sort; I’ve been putting every thing to +rights in all the rooms, and they look beautifully.” + +“Didn’t they break something?” + +“Oh, no, nothing! The little things were good as could be.” + +“That Leaning Tower, and that little Diana,” suggested John. + +“Oh, dear me, no! I broke those a month ago, and showed them to Mrs. +Seymour, and promised to mend them. Oh! she knows all about that.” + +“Ah!” said John, “I didn’t know that. Well, Rosa, put every thing up +nicely, and divide this money among the girls for extra trouble,” he +added, slipping a bill into her hand. + +“I’m sure there’s no trouble,” said Rosa. “We all enjoyed it; and I +believe everybody did; only I’m sorry it was too much for Mrs. Seymour; +she is very delicate.” + +“Yes, she is,” said John, as he turned away, drawing a long, slow sigh. + + * * * * * + +That long, slow sigh had become a frequent and unconscious occurrence +with him of late. When our ideals are sick unto death; when they are +slowly dying and passing away from us, we sigh thus. John said to +himself softly,—no matter what; but he felt the pang of knowing again +what he had known so often of late, that his Lillie’s word was not +golden. What she said would not bear close examination. Therefore, why +examine? + +“Evidently, she is determined that this thing shall not go on,” said +John. “Well, I shall never try again; it’s of no use;” and John went +up to his sister’s, and threw himself down upon the old chintz sofa as +if it had been his mother’s bosom. His sister sat there, sewing. The +sun came twinkling through a rustic frame-work of ivy which it had been +the pride of her heart to arrange the week before. All the old family +pictures and heirlooms, and sketches and pencillings, were arranged in +the most charming way, so that her rooms seemed a reproduction of the +old home. + +“Hang it all!” said John, with a great flounce as he turned over on the +sofa. “I’m not up to par this morning.” + +Now, Grace had that perfect intuitive knowledge of just what the matter +was with her brother, that women always have who have grown up in +intimacy with a man. These fine female eyes see farther between the +rough cracks and ridges of the oak bark of manhood than men themselves. +Nothing would have been easier, had Grace been a jealous _exigeante_ +woman, than to have passed a fine probe of sisterly inquiry into the +weak places where the ties between John and Lillie were growing slack, +and untied and loosened them more and more. She could have done it so +tenderly, so conscientiously, so pityingly,—encouraging John to talk +and to complain, and taking part with him,—till there should come to be +two parties in the family, the brother and sister against the wife. + +How strong the temptation was, those may feel who reflect that this +one subject caused an almost total eclipse of the life-long habit of +confidence which had existed between Grace and her brother, and that +her brother was her life and her world. + +But Grace was one of those women formed under the kindly severe +discipline of Puritan New England, to act not from blind impulse or +instinct, but from high principle. The habit of self-examination and +self-inspection, for which the religious teaching of New England has +been peculiar, produced a race of women who rose superior to those mere +feminine caprices and impulses which often hurry very generous and +kindly-natured persons into ungenerous and dishonorable conduct. Grace +had been trained, by a father and mother whose marriage union was an +ideal of mutual love, honor, and respect, to feel that marriage was the +holiest and most awful of obligations. To her, the idea of a husband or +a wife betraying each other’s weaknesses or faults by complaints to a +third party seemed something sacrilegious; and she used all her womanly +tact and skill to prevent any conversation that might lead to such a +result. + +“Lillie is entirely knocked up by the affair yesterday; she had a +terrible headache this morning,” said John. + +“Poor child! She is a delicate little thing,” said Grace. + +“She couldn’t have had any labor,” continued John, “for I saw to every +thing and provided every thing myself; and Bridget and Rosa and all the +girls entered into it with real spirit, and Lillie did the best she +could, poor girl! but I could see all the time she was worrying about +her new fizgigs and folderols in the house. Hang it! I wish they were +all in the Red Sea!” burst out John, glad to find something to vent +himself upon. “If I had known that making the house over was going to +be such a restraint on a fellow, I would never have done it.” + +“Oh, well! never mind that now,” said Grace. “Your house will get +rubbed down by and by, and the new gloss taken off; and so will +your wife, and you will all be cosey and easy as an old shoe. Young +mistresses, you see, have nerves all over their house at first. They +tremble at every dent in their furniture, and wink when you come near +it, as if you were going to hit it a blow; but that wears off in time, +and they they learn to take it easy.” + +John looked relieved; but after a minute broke out again:— + +“I say, Gracie, Lillie has gone and invited the Simpkinses and the +Follingsbees here this fall. Just think of it!” + +“Well, I suppose you expect your wife to have the right of inviting her +company,” said Grace. + +“But, you know, Gracie, they are not at all our sort of folks,” said +John. “None of our set would ever think of visiting them, and it’ll +seem so odd to see them here. Follingsbee is a vulgar sharper, who has +made his money out of our country by dishonest contracts during the +war. I don’t know much about his wife. Lillie says she is her intimate +friend.” + +“Oh, well, John! we must get over it in the quietest way possible. It +wouldn’t be handsome not to make the agreeable to your wife’s company; +and if you don’t like the quality of it, why, you are a good deal +nearer to her than any one else can be,—you can gradually detach her +from them.” + +“Then you think I ought to put a good face on their coming?” said John, +with a sigh of relief. + +“Oh, certainly! of course. What else can you do? It’s one of the things +to be expected with a young wife.” + +“And do you think the Wilcoxes and the Fergusons and the rest of our +set will be civil?” + +“Why, of course they will,” said Grace. “Rose and Letitia will, +certainly; and the others will follow suit. After all, John, perhaps +we old families, as we call ourselves, are a little bit pharisaical +and self-righteous, and too apt to thank God that we are not as other +men are. It’ll do us good to be obliged to come a little out of our +crinkles.” + +“It isn’t any old family feeling about Follingsbee,” said John. “But I +feel that that man deserves to be in State’s prison much more than many +a poor dog that is there now.” + +“And that may be true of many another, even in the selectest circles +of good society,” said Grace; “but we are not called on to play +Providence, nor pronounce judgments. The common courtesies of life do +not commit us one way or the other. The Lord himself does not express +his opinion of the wicked, but allows all an equal share in his +kindliness.” + +“Well, Gracie, you are right; and I’ll constrain myself to do the thing +handsomely,” said John. + +“The thing with you men,” said Grace, “is, that you want your wives to +see with your eyes, all in a minute, what has got to come with years +and intimacy, and the gradual growing closer and closer together. The +husband and wife, of themselves, drop many friendships and associations +that at first were mutually distasteful, simply because their tastes +have grown insensibly to be the same.” + +John hoped it would be so with himself and Lillie; for he was still +very much in love with her; and it comforted him to have Grace speak so +cheerfully, as if it were possible. + +“You think Lillie will grow into our ways by and by?”—he said +inquiringly. + +“Well, if we have patience, and give her time. You know, John, that you +knew when you took her that she had not been brought up in our ways +of living and thinking. Lillie comes from an entirely different set +of people from any we are accustomed to; but a man must face all the +consequences of his marriage honestly and honorably.” + +“I know it,” said John, with a sigh. “I say, Gracie, do you think the +Fergusons like Lillie? I want her to be intimate with them.” + +“Well, I think they admire her,” said Grace, evasively, “and feel +disposed to be as intimate as she will let them.” + +“Because,” said John, “Rose Ferguson is such a splendid girl; she is so +strong, and so generous, and so perfectly true and reliable,—it would +be the joy of my heart if Lillie would choose her for a friend.” + +“Then, pray don’t tell her so,” said Grace, earnestly; “and don’t +praise her to Lillie,—and, above all things, never hold her up as a +pattern, unless you want your wife to hate her.” + +John opened his eyes very wide. + +“So!” said he, slowly, “I never thought of that. You think she would be +jealous?” and John smiled, as men do at the idea that their wives may +be jealous, not disliking it on the whole. + +“I know I shouldn’t be in much charity with a woman my husband proposed +to me as a model; that is to say, supposing I had one,” said Grace. + +“That reminds me,” said John, suddenly rising up from the sofa. “Do you +know, Gracie, that Colonel Sydenham has come back from his cruise?” + +“I had heard of it,” said Grace, quietly. “Now, John, don’t interrupt +me. I’m just going to turn this corner, and must count,—‘one, two, +three, four, five, six,’”— + +John looked at his sister. “How handsome she looks when her cheeks have +that color!” he thought. “I wonder if there ever was any thing in that +affair between them.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +_A GREAT MORAL CONFLICT._ + + +“NOW, John dear, I have something very particular that I want you to +promise me,” said Mrs. Lillie, a day or two after the scenes last +recorded. Our Lillie had recovered her spirits, and got over her +headache, and had come down and done her best to be delightful; and +when a very pretty woman, who has all her life studied the art of +pleasing, does that, she generally succeeds. + +John thought to himself he “didn’t care _what_ she was, he loved her;” +and that she certainly was the prettiest, most bewitching little +creature on earth. He flung his sighs and his doubts and fears to the +wind, and suffered himself to be coaxed, and cajoled, and led captive, +in the most amiable manner possible. + +His fair one had a point to carry,—a point that instinct told her was +to be managed with great adroitness. + +“Well,” said John, over his newspaper, “what is this something so very +particular?” + +“First, sir, put down that paper, and listen to me,” said Mrs. Lillie, +coming up and seating herself on his knee, and sweeping down the +offending paper with an air of authority. + +“Yes’m,” said John, submissively. “Let’s see,—how was that in the +marriage service? I promised to obey, didn’t I?” + +“Of course you did; that service is always interpreted by +contraries,—ever since Eve made Adam mind her in the beginning,” said +Mrs. Lillie, laughing. + +“And got things into a pretty mess in that way,” said John; “but come, +now, what is it?” + +“Well, John, you know the Follingsbees are coming next week?” + +“I know it,” said John, looking amiable and conciliatory. + +“Well, dear, there are some things about our establishment that are not +just as I should feel pleased to receive them to.” + +“Ah!” said John; “why, Lillie, I thought we were fine as a fiddle, from +the top of the house to the bottom.” + +“Oh! it’s not the house; the house is splendid. I shouldn’t be in the +least ashamed to show it to anybody; but about the table arrangements.” + +“Now, really, Lillie, what can one have more than real old china and +heavy silver plate? I rather pique myself on that; I think it has quite +a good, rich, solid old air.” + +“Well, John, to say the truth, why do we never have any wine? I don’t +care for it,—I never drink it; but the decanters, and the different +colored glasses, and all the apparatus, are such an adornment; and +then the Follingsbees are such judges of wine. He imports his own from +Spain.” + +John’s face had been hardening down into a firm, decided look, while +Lillie, stroking his whiskers and playing with his collar, went on with +this address. + +At last he said, “Lillie, I have done almost every thing you ever +asked; but this one thing I cannot do,—it is a matter of principle. I +never drink wine, never have it on my table, never give it, because I +have pledged myself not to do it.” + +“Now, John, here is some more of your Quixotism, isn’t it?” + +“Well, Lillie, I suppose you will call it so,” said John; “but listen +to me patiently. My father and I labored for a long time to root out +drinking from our village at Spindlewood. It seemed, for the time, as +if it would be the destruction of every thing there. The fact was, +there was rum in every family; the parents took it daily, the children +learned to love and long after it, by seeing the parents, and drinking +little sweetened remains at the bottoms of tumblers. There were, every +year, families broken up and destroyed, and fine fellows going to +the very devil, with this thing; and so we made a movement to form a +temperance society. I paid lecturers, and finally lectured myself. At +last they said to me: ‘It’s all very well for you rich people, that +have twice as fine houses and twice as many pleasures as we poor folks, +to pick on us for having a little something comfortable to drink in +our houses. If we could afford your fine nice wines, and all that, +we wouldn’t drink whiskey. You must all have your wine on the table; +whiskey is the poor man’s wine.’” + +“I think,” said Lillie, “they were abominably impertinent to talk so to +you. I should have told them so.” + +“Perhaps they thought I was impertinent in talking to them about their +private affairs,” said John; “but I will tell you what I said to them. +I said, ‘My good fellows, I will clear my house and table of wine, if +you will clear yours of rum.’ On this agreement I formed a temperance +society; my father and I put our names at the head of the list, and we +got every man and boy in Spindlewood. It was a complete victory; and, +since then, there hasn’t been a more temperate, thrifty set of people +in these United States.” + +“Didn’t your mother object?” + +“My mother! no, indeed; I wish you could have known my mother. It was +no small sacrifice to her and father. Not that they cared a penny for +the wine itself; but the poetry and hospitality of the thing, the fine +old cheery associations connected with it, were a real sacrifice. But +when we told my mother how it was, she never hesitated a moment. All +our cellar of fine old wines was sent round as presents to hospitals, +except a little that we keep for sickness.” + +“Well, really!” said Lillie, in a dry, cool tone, “I suppose it was +very good of you, perfectly saintlike and all that; but it does seem a +great pity. Why couldn’t these people take care of themselves? I don’t +see why you should go on denying yourself just to keep them in the ways +of virtue.” + +“Oh, it’s no self-denial now! I’m quite used to it,” said John, +cheerily. “I am young and strong, and just as well as I can be, and +don’t need wine; in fact, I never think of it. The Fergusons, who are +with us in the Spindlewood business, took just the same view of it, and +did just as we did; and the Wilcoxes joined us; in fact, all the good +old families of our set came into it.” + +“Well, couldn’t you, just while the Follingsbees are here, do +differently?” + +“No, Lillie; there’s my pledge, you see. No: it’s really impossible.” + +Lillie frowned and looked disconsolate. + +“John, I really do think you are selfish; you don’t seem to have any +consideration for me at all. It’s going to make it so disagreeable and +uncomfortable for me. The Follingsbees are accustomed to wine every +day. I’m perfectly ashamed not to give it to them.” + +“Do ’em good to fast awhile, then,” said John, laughing like a +hard-hearted monster. “You’ll see they won’t suffer materially. Bridget +makes splendid coffee.” + +“It’s a shame to laugh at what troubles me, John. The Follingsbees are +my friends, and of course I want to treat them handsomely.” + +“We will treat them just as handsomely as we treat ourselves,” said +John, “and mortal man or woman ought not to ask more.” + +“I don’t care,” said Lillie, after a pause. “I hate all these moral +movements and society questions. They are always in the way of people’s +having a good time; and I believe the world would wag just as well as +it does, if nobody had ever thought of them. People will call you a +real muff, John.” + +“How very terrible!” said John, laughing. “What shall I do if I am +called a muff? and what a jolly little Mrs. Muff you will be!” he said, +pinching her cheek. + +“You needn’t laugh, John,” said Lillie, pouting. “You don’t know how +things look in fashionable circles. The Follingsbees are in the very +highest circle. They have lived in Paris, and been invited by the +Emperor.” + +“I haven’t much opinion of Americans who live in Paris and are invited +by the Emperor,” said John. “But, be that as it may, I shall do the +best I can for them, and Mr. Young says, ‘angels could no more;’ so, +good-by, puss: I must go to my office; and don’t let’s talk about this +any more.” + + * * * * * + +And John put on his cap and squared his broad shoulders, and, marching +off with a resolute stride, went to his office, and had a most +uncomfortable morning of it. You see, my dear friends, that though +Nature has set the seal of sovereignty on man, in broad shoulders and +bushy beard; though he fortify and incase himself in rough overcoats +and heavy boots, and walk with a dashing air, and whistle like a +freeman, we all know it is not an easy thing to wage a warfare with a +pretty little creature in lace cap and tiny slippers, who has a faculty +of looking very pensive and grieved, and making up a sad little mouth, +as if her heart were breaking. + +John never doubted that he was right, and in the way of duty; and yet, +though he braved it out so stoutly with Lillie, and though he marched +out from her presence victoriously, as it were, with drums beating and +colors flying, yet there was a dismal sinking of heart under it. + +“I’m right; I know I am. Of course I can’t give up here; it’s a matter +of principle, of honor,” he said over and over to himself. “Perhaps if +Lillie had been here I never should have taken such a pledge; but as I +have, there’s no help for it.” + +Then he thought of what Lillie had suggested about it’s looking +niggardly in hospitality, and was angry with himself for feeling +uncomfortable. “What do I care what Dick Follingsbee thinks?” said he +to himself: “a man that I despise; a cheat, and a swindler,—a man of +no principle. Lillie doesn’t know the sacrifice it is to me to have +such people in my house at all. Hang it all! I wish Lillie was a little +more like the women I’ve been used to,—like Grace and Rose and my +mother. But, poor thing, I oughtn’t to blame her, after all, for her +unfortunate bringing up. But it’s so nice to be with women that can +understand the grounds you go on. A man never wants to fight a woman. +I’d rather give up, hook and line, and let Lillie have her own way +in every thing. But then it won’t do; a fellow must stop somewhere. +Well, I’ll make it up in being a model of civility to these confounded +people that I wish were in the Red Sea. Let’s see, I’ll ask Lillie if +she don’t want to give a party for them when they come. By George! she +shall have every thing her own way there,—send to New York for the +supper, turn the house topsy-turvy, illuminate the grounds, and do any +thing else she can think of. Yes, yes, she shall have _carte blanche_ +for every thing!” + +All which John told Mrs. Lillie when he returned to dinner and found +her enacting the depressed wife in a most becoming lace cap and wrapper +that made her look like a suffering angel; and the treaty was sealed +with many kisses. + +“You shall have _carte blanche_, dearest,” he said, “for every thing +but what we were speaking of; and that will content you, won’t it?” + +And Lillie, with lingering pensiveness, very graciously acknowledged +that it would; and seemed so touchingly resigned, and made such a merit +of her resignation, that John told her she was an angel; in fact, he +had a sort of indistinct remorseful feeling that he was a sort of cruel +monster to deny her any thing. Lillie had sense enough to see when she +could do a thing, and when she couldn’t. She had given up the case +when John went out in the morning, and so accepted the treaty of peace +with a good degree of cheerfulness; and she was soon busy discussing +the matter. “You see, we’ve been invited everywhere, and haven’t given +any thing,” she said; “and this will do up our social obligations to +everybody here. And then we can show off our rooms; they really are +made to give parties in.” + +“Yes, so they are,” said John, delighted to see her smile again; “they +seem adapted to that, and I don’t doubt you’ll make a brilliant affair +of it, Lillie.” + +“Trust me for that, John,” said Lillie. “I’ll show the Follingsbees +that something can be done here in Springdale as well as in New York.” +And so the great question was settled. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +_THE FOLLINGSBEES ARRIVE._ + +[Illustration: THE FOLLINGSBEES.] + + +NEXT week the Follingsbees alighted, so to speak, from a cloud of +glory. They came in their own carriage, and with their own horses; all +in silk and silver, purple and fine linen, “with rings on their fingers +and bells on their toes,” as the old song has it. We pause to caution +our readers that this last clause is to be interpreted metaphorically. + +Springdale stood astonished. The quiet, respectable old town had not +seen any thing like it for many a long day; the ostlers at the hotel +talked of it; the boys followed the carriage, and hung on the slats of +the fence to see the party alight, and said to one another in their +artless vocabulary, “Golly! ain’t it bully?” + +There was Mr. Dick Follingsbee, with a pair of waxed, tow-colored +moustaches like the French emperor’s, and ever so much longer. He was +a little, thin, light-colored man, with a yellow complexion and sandy +hair; who, with the appendages aforesaid, looked like some kind of +large insect, with very long _antennæ_. There was Mrs. Follingsbee,—a +tall, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired, dashing woman, French dressed +from the tip of her lace parasol to the toe of her boot. There was +Mademoiselle Thérèse, the French maid, an inexpressibly fine lady; and +there was _la petite_ Marie, Mrs. Follingsbee’s three-year-old hopeful, +a lean, bright-eyed little thing, with a great scarlet bow on her back +that made her look like a walking butterfly. On the whole, the tableau +of arrival was so impressive, that Bridget and Annie, Rosa and all the +kitchen cabinet, were in a breathless state of excitement. + +“How do I find you, _ma chère_?” said Mrs. Follingsbee, folding Lillie +rapturously to her breast. “I’ve been just dying to see you! How +lovely every thing looks! Oh, _ciel_! how like dear Paris!” she said, +as she was conducted into the parlor, and sunk upon the sofa. + +“Pretty well done, too, for America!” said Mr. Follingsbee, gazing +round, and settling his collar. Mr. Follingsbee was one of the class +of returned travellers who always speak condescendingly of any +thing American; as, “so-so,” or “tolerable,” or “pretty fair,”—a +considerateness which goes a long way towards keeping up the spirits of +the country. + +“I say, Dick,” said his lady, “have you seen to the bags and wraps?” + +“All right, madam.” + +“And my basket of medicines and the books?” + +“O. K.,” replied Dick, sententiously. + +“Oh! how often must I tell you not to use those odious slang terms?” +said his wife, reprovingly. + +“Oh! Mrs. John Seymour knows _me_ of old,” said Mr. Follingsbee, +winking facetiously at Lillie. “We’ve had many a jolly lark together; +haven’t we, Lill?” + +“Certainly we have,” said Lillie, affably. “But come, darling,” she +added to Mrs. Follingsbee, “don’t you want to be shown your room?” + +“Go it, then, my dearie; and I’ll toddle up with the fol-de-rols and +what-you-may-calls,” said the incorrigible Dick. “There, wife, Mrs. +John Seymour shall go first, so that you shan’t be jealous of her +and me. You know we came pretty near being in interesting relations +ourselves at one time; didn’t we, now?” he said with another wink. + +It is said that a thorough-paced naturalist can reconstruct a whole +animal from one specimen bone. In like manner, we imagine that, from +these few words of dialogue, our expert readers can reconstruct Mr. and +Mrs. Follingsbee: he, vulgar, shallow, sharp, keen at a bargain, and +utterly without scruples; with a sort of hilarious, animal good nature +that was in a state of constant ebullition. He was, as Richard Baxter +said of a better man, “always in that state of hilarity that another +would be in when he hath taken a cup too much.” + +Dick Follingsbee began life as a peddler. He was now reputed to be +master of untold wealth, kept a yacht and race-horses, ran his own +theatre, and patronized the whole world and creation in general with a +jocular freedom. Mrs. Follingsbee had been a country girl, with small +early advantages, but considerable ambition. She had married Dick +Follingsbee, and helped him up in the world, as a clever, ambitious +woman may. The last few years she had been spending in Paris, improving +her mind and manners in reading Dumas’ and Madame George Sand’s novels, +and availing herself of such outskirt advantages of the court of the +Tuileries as industrious, pains-taking Americans, not embarrassed by +self-respect, may command. + +Mrs. Follingsbee, like many another of our republicans who besieged the +purlieus of the late empire, felt that a residence near the court, at a +time when every thing good and decent in France was hiding in obscure +corners, and every thing _parvenu_ was wide awake and active, entitled +her to speak as one having authority concerning French character, +French manners and customs. This lady assumed the sentimental literary +_rôle_. She was always cultivating herself in her own way; that is to +say, she was assiduous in what she called keeping up her French. + +In the opinion of many of her class of thinkers, French is the key +of the kingdom of heaven; and, of course, it is worth one’s while to +sell all that one has to be possessed of it. Mrs. Follingsbee had not +been in the least backward to do this; but, as to getting the golden +key, she had not succeeded. She had formed the acquaintance of many +disreputable people; she had read French novels and French plays such +as no well-bred French woman would suffer in her family; she had lost +such innocence and purity of mind as she had to lose, and, after all, +had _not_ got the French language. + +However, there are losses that do not trouble the subject of them, +because they bring insensibility. Just as Mrs. Follingsbee’s ear was +not delicate enough to perceive that her rapid and confident French was +not Parisian, so also her conscience and moral sense were not delicate +enough to know that she had spent her labor for “that which was not +bread.” She had only succeeded in acquiring such an air that, on a +careless survey, she might have been taken for one of the _demi-monde_ +of Paris; while secretly she imagined herself the fascinating heroine +of a French romance. + +The friendship between Mrs. Follingsbee and Lillie was of the most +impassioned nature; though, as both of them were women of a good solid +perception in regard to their own material interests, there were +excellent reasons on both sides for this enthusiasm. + +Notwithstanding the immense wealth of the Follingsbees, there were +circles to which Mrs. Follingsbee found it difficult to be admitted. +With the usual human perversity, these, of course, became exactly the +ones, and the only ones, she particularly cared for. Her ambition was +to pass beyond the ranks of the “shoddy” aristocracy to those of the +old-established families. Now, the Seymours, the Fergusons, and the +Wilcoxes were families of this sort; and none of them had ever cared to +conceal the fact, that they did not intend to know the Follingsbees. +The marriage of Lillie into the Seymour family was the opening of a +door; and Mrs. Follingsbee had been at Lillie’s feet during her Newport +campaign. On the other hand, Lillie, having taken the sense of the +situation at Springdale, had cast her thoughts forward like a discreet +young woman, and perceived in advance of her a very dull domestic +winter, enlivened only by reading-circles and such slow tea-parties as +unsophisticated Springdale found agreeable. The idea of a long visit to +the New-York alhambra of the Follingsbees in the winter, with balls, +parties, unlimited opera-boxes, was not a thing to be disregarded; and +so, when Mrs. Follingsbee “_ma chèred_” Lillie, Lillie “my deared” Mrs. +Follingsbee: and the pair are to be seen at this blessed moment sitting +with their arms tenderly round each other’s waists on a _causeuse_ in +Mrs. Follingsbee’s dressing-room. + +“You don’t know, _mignonne_,” said Mrs. Follingsbee, “how perfectly +_ravissante_ these apartments are! I’m so glad poor Charlie did them so +well for you. I laid my commands on him, poor fellow!” + +“Pray, how does your affair with him get on?” said Lillie. + +“O dearest! you’ve no conception what a trial it is to me to keep him +in the bounds of reason. He has such struggles of mind about that +stupid wife of his. Think of it, my dear! a man like Charlie Ferrola, +all poetry, romance, ideality, tied to a woman who thinks of nothing +but her children’s teeth and bowels, and turns the whole house into a +nursery! Oh, I’ve no patience with such people.” + +“Well, poor fellow! it’s a pity he ever got married,” said Lillie. + +“Well, it would be all well enough if this sort of woman ever would +be reasonable; but they won’t. They don’t in the least comprehend the +necessities of genius. They want to yoke Pegasus to a cart, you see. +Now, I understand Charlie perfectly. I could give him that which he +needs. I appreciate him. I make a bower of peace and enjoyment for him, +where his artistic nature finds the repose it craves.” + +“And she pitches into him about you,” said Lillie, not slow to perceive +the true literal rendering of all this. + +“Of course, _ma chère_,—tears him, rends him, lacerates his soul; +sometimes he comes to me in the most dreadful states. Really, dear, I +have apprehended something quite awful! I shouldn’t in the least be +surprised if he should blow his brains out!” + +And Mrs. Follingsbee sighed deeply, gave a glance at herself in an +opposite mirror, and smoothed down a bow pensively, as the prima donna +at the grand opera generally does when her lover is getting ready to +stab himself. + +“Oh! I don’t think he’s going to kill himself,” said Mrs. Lillie, who, +it must be understood, was secretly somewhat sceptical about the power +of her friend’s charms, and looked on this little French romance with +the eye of an outsider: “never you believe that, dearest. These men +make dreadful tearings, and shocking eyes and mouths; but they take +pretty good care to keep in the world, after all. You see, if a man’s +dead, there’s an end of all things; and I fancy they think of that +before they quite come to any thing decisive.” + +“_Chère étourdie_,” said Mrs. Follingsbee, regarding Lillie with a +pensive smile: “you are just your old self, I see; you are now at the +height of your power,—‘_jeune Madame, un mari qui vous adore_,’ ready +to put all things under your feet. How can you feel for a worn, lonely +heart like mine, that sighs for congeniality?” + +“Bless me, now,” said Lillie, briskly; “you don’t tell me that you’re +going to be so silly as to get in love with Charlie yourself! It’s +all well enough to keep these fellows on the tragic high ropes; but, +if a woman falls in love herself, there’s an end of her power. And, +darling, just think of it: you wouldn’t have married that creature if +you could; he’s poor as a rat, and always will be; these desperately +interesting fellows always are. Now you have money without end; and of +course you have position; and your husband is a man you can get any +thing in the world out of.” + +“Oh! as to that, I don’t complain of Dick,” said Mrs. Follingsbee: +“he’s coarse and vulgar, to be sure, but he never stands in my way, +and I never stand in his; and, as you say, he’s free about money. But +still, darling, sometimes it seems to me such a weary thing to live +without sympathy of soul! A marriage without congeniality, _mon Dieu_, +what is it? And then the harsh, cold laws of human society prevent any +relief. They forbid natures that are made for each other from being to +each other what they can be.” + +“You mean that people will talk about you,” said Lillie. “Well, I +assure you, dearest, they _will_ talk awfully, if you are not very +careful. I say this to you frankly, as your friend, you know.” + +“Ah, _ma petite_! you don’t need to tell me that. I _am_ careful,” said +Mrs. Follingsbee. “I am always lecturing Charlie, and showing him that +we must keep up _les convenances_; but is it not hard on us poor women +to lead always this repressed, secretive life?” + +“What made you marry Mr. Follingsbee?” said Lillie, with apparent +artlessness. + +“Darling, I was but a child. I was ignorant of the mysteries of my own +nature, of my capabilities. As Charlie said to me the other day, we +never learn what we are till some congenial soul unlocks the secret +door of our hearts. The fact is, dearest, that American society, with +its strait-laced, puritanical notions, bears terribly hard on woman’s +heart. Poor Charlie! he is no less one of the victims of society.” + +“Oh, nonsense!” said Lillie. “You take it too much to heart. You +mustn’t mind all these men say. They are always being desperate and +tragic. Charlie has talked just so to me, time and time again. I +understand it all. He talked exactly so to me when he came to Newport +last summer. You must take matters easy, my dear,—you, with your +beauty, and your style, and your money. Why, you can lead all New York +captive! Forty fellows like Charlie are not worth spoiling one’s dinner +for. Come, cheer up; positively I shan’t let you be blue, _ma reine_. +Let me ring for your maid to dress you for dinner. _Au revoir._” + +The fact was, that Mrs. Lillie, having formerly set down this lovely +Charlie on the list of her own adorers, had small sympathy with the +sentimental romance of her friend. + +“What a fool she makes of herself!” she thought, as she contemplated +her own sylph-like figure and wonderful freshness of complexion in the +glass. “Don’t I know Charlie Ferrola? he wants her to get him into +fashionable life, and knows the way to do it. To think of that stout, +middle-aged party imagining that Charlie Ferrola’s going to die for her +charms! it’s too funny! How stout the dear old thing does get, to be +sure!” + +It will be observed here that our dear Lillie did not want for +perspicacity. There is nothing so absolutely clear-sighted, in certain +directions, as selfishness. Entire want of sympathy with others clears +up one’s vision astonishingly, and enables us to see all the weak +points and ridiculous places of our neighbors in the most accurate +manner possible. + +[Illustration: MR. CHARLIE FERROLA.] + +As to Mr. Charlie Ferrola, our Lillie was certainly in the right in +respect to him. He was one of those blossoms of male humanity that +seem as expressly designed by nature for the ornamentation of ladies’ +boudoirs, as an Italian greyhound: he had precisely the same graceful, +shivery adaptation to live by petting and caresses. His tastes were all +so exquisite that it was the most difficult thing in the world to keep +him out of misery a moment. He was in a chronic state of disgust with +something or other in our lower world from morning till night. + +His profession was nominally that of architecture and landscape +gardening; but, in point of fact, consisted in telling certain rich, +_blasé_, stupid, fashionable people how they could quickest get rid of +their money. He ruled despotically in the Follingsbee halls: he bought +and rejected pictures and jewelry, ordered and sent off furniture, with +the air of an absolute master; amusing himself meanwhile with running +a French romance with the handsome mistress of the establishment. +As a consequence, he had not only opportunities for much quiet +feathering of his own nest, but the _éclat_ of always having the use +of the Follingsbees’ carriages, horses, and opera-boxes, and being +the acknowledged and supreme head of fashionable dictation. Ladies +sometimes pull caps for such charming individuals, as we have seen in +the case of Mrs. Follingsbee and Lillie. + +For it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Follingsbee, though she had +assumed the gushing style with her young friend, wanted spirit or +perception on her part. Her darling Lillie had left a nettle in her +bosom which rankled there. + +“The vanity of these thin, light, watery blondes!” she said to herself, +as she looked into her own great dark eyes in the mirror,—“thinking +Charlie Ferrola cares for her! I know just what he thinks of _her_, +thank heaven! Poor thing! Don’t you think Mrs. John Seymour has gone +off astonishingly since her marriage?” she said to Thérèse. + +“_Mon Dieu, madame, q’oui_,” said the obedient tire-woman, scraping +the very back of her throat in her zeal. “Madame Seymour has the real +American _maigreur_. These thin women, madame, they have no substance; +there is noting to them. For young girl, they are charming; but, as +woman, they are just noting at all. Now, you will see, madame, what I +tell you. In a year or two, people shall ask, ‘Was she ever handsome?’ +But _you_, madame, you come to your prime like great rose! Oh, dere is +no comparison of you to Mrs. John Seymour!” + +And Thérèse found her words highly acceptable, after the manner of all +her tribe, who prophesy smooth things unto their mistresses. + +It may be imagined that the entertaining of Dick Follingsbee was no +small strain on the conjugal endurance of our faithful John; but he was +on duty, and endured without flinching that gentleman’s free and easy +jokes and patronizing civilities. + +“I do wish, darling, you’d teach that creature not to call you ‘Lillie’ +in that abominably free manner,” he said to his wife, the first day, +after dinner. + +“Mercy on us, John! what can I do? All the world knows that Dick +Follingsbee’s an oddity; and everybody agrees to take what he says for +what it’s worth. If I should go to putting on any airs, he’d behave ten +times worse than he does: the only way is, to pass it over quietly, and +not to seem to notice any thing he says or does. My way is, to smile, +and look gracious, and act as if I hadn’t heard any thing but what is +perfectly proper.” + +“It’s a tremendous infliction, Lillie!” + +“Poor man! is it?” said Lillie, putting her arm round his neck, and +stroking his whiskers. “Well, now, he’s a good man to bear it so well, +so he is; and they shan’t plague him long. But, John, you must confess +Mrs. Follingsbee is nice: poor woman! she is mortified with the way +Dick will go on; but she can’t do any thing with him.” + +“Yes, I can get on with her,” said John. In fact, John was one of +the men so loyal to women that his path of virtue in regard to them +always ran down hill. Mrs. Follingsbee was handsome, and had a gift +in language, and some considerable tact in adapting herself to her +society; and, as she put forth all her powers to win his admiration, +she succeeded. + +Grace had done her part to assist John in his hospitable intents, by +securing the prompt co-operation of the Fergusons. The very first +evening after their arrival, old Mrs. Ferguson, with Letitia and Rose, +called, not formally but socially, as had always been the custom +of the two families. Dick Follingsbee was out, enjoying an evening +cigar,—a circumstance on which John secretly congratulated himself as +a favorable feature in the case. He felt instinctively a sort of uneasy +responsibility for his guests; and, judging the Fergusons by himself, +felt that their call was in some sort an act of self-abnegation on +his account; and he was anxious to make it as easy as possible. +Mrs. Follingsbee was presentable, so he thought; but he dreaded the +irrepressible Dick, and had much the same feeling about him that one +has on presenting a pet spaniel or pointer in a lady’s parlor,—there +was no answering for what he might say or do. + +The Fergusons were disposed to make themselves most amiable to Mrs. +Follingsbee; and, with this intent, Miss Letitia started the subject of +her Parisian experiences, as being probably one where she would feel +herself especially at home. Mrs. Follingsbee of course expanded in +rapturous description, and was quite clever and interesting. + +“You must feel quite a difference between that country and this, in +regard to facilities of living,” said Miss Letitia. + +“Ah, indeed! do I not?” said Mrs. Follingsbee, casting up her eyes. +“Life here in America is in a state of perfect disorganization.” + +“We are a young people here, madam,” said John. “We haven’t had time to +organize the smaller conveniences of life.” + +“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Mrs. Follingsbee. “Now, you men don’t +feel it so very much; but it bears hard on us poor women. Life here +in America is perfect slavery to women,—a perfect dead grind. You +see there’s no career at all for a married woman in this country, as +there is in France. Marriage there opens a brilliant prospect before a +girl: it introduces her to the world; it gives her wings. In America, +it is clipping her wings, chaining her down, shutting her up,—no more +gayety, no more admiration; nothing but cradles and cribs, and bibs +and tuckers, little narrowing, wearing, domestic cares, hard, vulgar +domestic slaveries: and so our women lose their bloom and health and +freshness, and are moped to death.” + +“I can’t see the thing in that light, Mrs. Follingsbee,” said old Mrs. +Ferguson. “I don’t understand this modern talk. I am sure, for one, I +can say I have had all the career I wanted ever since I married. You +know, dear, when one begins to have children, one’s heart goes into +them: we find nothing hard that we do for the dear little things. I’ve +heard that the Parisian ladies never nurse their own babies. From my +very heart, I pity them.” + +“Oh, my dear madam!” said Mrs. Follingsbee, “why insist upon it +that a cultivated, intelligent woman shall waste some of the most +beautiful years of her life in a mere animal function, that, after +all, any healthy peasant can perform better than she? The French are +a philosophical nation; and, in Paris, you see, this thing is all +systematic: it’s altogether better for the child. It’s taken to the +country, and put to nurse with a good strong woman, who makes that her +only business. She just lives to be a good animal, you see, and so is +a better one than a more intellectual being can be; thus she gives the +child a strong constitution, which is the main thing.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Letitia; “I was told, when in Paris, that this system +is universal. The dressmaker, who works at so much a day, sends her +child out to nurse as certainly as the woman of rank and fashion. There +are no babies, as a rule, in French households.” + +“And you see how good this is for the mother,” said Mrs. Follingsbee. +“The first year or two of a child’s life it is nothing but a little +animal; and one person can do for it about as well as another: and all +this time, while it is growing physically, the mother has for art, for +self-cultivation, for society, and for literature. Of course she keeps +her eye on her child, and visits it often enough to know that all goes +right with it.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Letitia; “and the same philosophical spirit regulates +the education of the child throughout. An American gentleman, who +wished to live in Paris, told me that, having searched all over it, he +could not accommodate his family, including himself and wife and two +children, without taking _two_ of the suites that are usually let to +one family. The reason, he inferred, was the perfection of the system +which keeps the French family reduced in numbers. The babies are out +at nurse, sometimes till two, and sometimes till three years of age; +and, at seven or eight, the girl goes into a pension, and the boy into +a college, till they are ready to be taken out,—the girl to be married, +and the boy to enter a profession: so the leisure of parents for +literature, art, and society is preserved.” + +“It seems to me the most perfectly dreary, dreadful way of living I +ever heard of,” said Mrs. Ferguson, with unwonted energy. “How I pity +people who know so little of real happiness!” + +“Yet the French are dotingly fond of children,” said Mrs. Follingsbee. +“It’s a national peculiarity; you can see it in all their literature. +Don’t you remember Victor Hugo’s exquisite description of a mother’s +feelings for a little child in ‘Notre Dame de Paris’? I never read any +thing more affecting; it’s perfectly subduing.” + +“They can’t love their children as I did mine,” said Mrs. Ferguson: +“it’s impossible; and, if that’s what’s called organizing society, I +hope our society in America never will be organized. It can’t be that +children are well taken care of on that system. I always attended to +every thing for my babies _myself_; because I felt God had put them +into my hands perfectly helpless; and, if there is any thing difficult +or disagreeable in the case, how can I expect to _hire_ a woman for +money to be faithful in what I cannot do for love?” + +“But don’t you think, dear madam, that this system of personal devotion +to children may be carried too far?” said Mrs. Follingsbee. “Perhaps in +France they may go to an extreme; but don’t our American women, as a +rule, sacrifice themselves too much to their families?” + +“_Sacrifice!_” said Mrs. Ferguson. “How can we? Our children are our +new life. We live in them a thousand times more than we could in +ourselves. No, I think a mother that doesn’t take care of her own baby +misses the greatest happiness a woman can know. A baby isn’t a mere +animal; and it is a great and solemn thing to see the coming of an +immortal soul into it from day to day. My very happiest hours have been +spent with my babies in my arms.” + +“There may be women constituted so as to enjoy it,” said Mrs. +Follingsbee; “but you must allow that there is a vast difference among +women.” + +“There certainly is,” said Mrs. Ferguson, as she rose with a frigid +courtesy, and shortened the call. “My dear girls,” said the old lady to +her daughters, when they returned home, “I disapprove of that woman. +I am very sorry that pretty little Mrs. Seymour has so bad a friend +and adviser. Why, the woman talks like a Fejee Islander! Baby a mere +animal, to be sure! it puts me out of temper to hear such talk. The +woman talks as if she had never heard of such a thing as love in her +life, and don’t know what it means.” + +“Oh, well, mamma!” said Rose, “you know we are old-fashioned folks, and +not up to modern improvements.” + +“Well,” said Miss Letitia, “I should think that that poor little weird +child of Mrs. Follingsbee’s, with the great red bow on her back, had +been brought up on this system. Yesterday afternoon I saw her in the +garden, with that maid of hers, apparently enjoying a free fight. They +looked like a pair of goblins,—an old and a young one. I never saw any +thing like it.” + +“What a pity!” said Rose; “for she’s a smart, bright little thing; and +it’s cunning to hear her talk French.” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Ferguson, straightening her back, and sitting up +with a grand air: “I am one of eight children that my mother nursed +herself at her own breast, and lived to a good honorable old age after +it. People called her a handsome woman at sixty: she could ride and +walk and dance with the best; and nobody kept up a keener interest in +reading or general literature. Her conversation was sought by the most +eminent men of the day as something remarkable. She was always with her +children: we always knew we had her to run to at any moment; and we +were the first thing with her. She lived a happy, loving, useful life; +and her children rose up and called her blessed.” + +“As we do you, dear mamma,” said Rose, kissing her: “so don’t be +oratorical, darling mammy; because we are all of your mind here.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +_MRS. JOHN SEYMOUR’S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT._ + + +MRS. JOHN SEYMOUR’S party marked an era in the annals of Springdale. +Of this, you may be sure, my dear reader, when you consider that it +was projected and arranged by Mrs. Lillie, in strict counsel with her +friend Mrs. Follingsbee, who had lived in Paris, and been to balls +at the Tuileries. Of course, it was a tip-top New-York-Paris party, +with all the new, fashionable, unspeakable crinkles and wrinkles, all +the high, divine, spick and span new ways of doing things; which, +however, like the Eleusinian mysteries, being in their very nature +incommunicable except to the elect, must be left to the imagination. + +A French _artiste_, whom Mrs. Follingsbee patronized as “my +confectioner,” came in state to Springdale, with a retinue of +appendages and servants sufficient for a circus; took formal possession +of the Seymour mansion, and became, for the time being, absolute +dictator, as was customary in the old Roman Republic in times of +emergency. + +Mr. Follingsbee was forward, fussy, and advisory, in his own +peculiar free-and-easy fashion; and Mrs. Follingsbee was instructive +and patronizing to the very last degree. Lillie had bewailed in her +sympathizing bosom John’s unaccountable and most singular moral +Quixotism in regard to the wine question, and been comforted by her +appreciative discourse. Mrs. Follingsbee had a sort of indefinite +faith in French phrases for mending all the broken places in life. A +thing said partly in French became at once in her view elucidated, +even though the words meant no more than the same in English; so she +consoled Lillie as follows:— + +“Oh, _ma chère_! I understand perfectly: your husband may be ‘_un peu +borné_,’ as they say in Paris, but still ‘_un homme très respectable_,’ +(Mrs. Follingsbee here scraped her throat emphatically, just as her +French maid did),—a sublime example of the virtues; and let me tell +you, darling, you are very fortunate to get such a man. It is not often +that a woman can get an establishment like yours, and a good man into +the bargain; so, if the goodness is a little _ennuyeuse_, one must put +up with it. Then, again, people of old established standing may do +about what they like socially: their position is made. People only say, +‘Well, that is their way; the Seymours will do so and so.’ Now, we have +to do twice as much of every thing to make our position, as certain +other people do. We might flood our place with champagne and Burgundy, +and get all the young fellows drunk, as we generally do; and yet people +will call our parties ‘_bourgeois_,’ and yours ‘_recherché_,’ if you +give them nothing but tea and biscuit. Now, there’s my Dick: he +respects your husband; you can see he does. In his odious slang way, +he says he’s ‘some’ and ‘a brick;’ and he’s a little anxious to please +him, though he professes not to care for anybody. Now, Dick has pretty +sharp sense, after all, or he’d never have been just where he is.” + +Our friend John, during these days preceding the party, the party +itself and the clearing up after it, enacted submissively that part +of unconditional surrender which the master of the house, if well +trained, generally acts on such occasions. He resembled the prize +ox, which is led forth adorned with garlands, ribbons, and docility, +to grace a triumphal procession. He went where he was told, did as +he was bid, marched to the right, marched to the left, put on gloves +and cravat, and took them off, entirely submissive to the word of his +little general; and exhibited, in short, an edifying spectacle of that +pleasant domestic animal, a tame husband. He had to make atonement for +being a reformer, and for endeavoring to live like a Christian, by +conceding to his wife all this latitude of indulgence; and he meant +to go through it like a man and a philosopher. To be sure, in his +eyes, it was all so much unutterable bosh and nonsense; and bosh and +nonsense for which he was eventually to settle the bills: but he armed +himself with the patient reflection that all things have their end +in time,—that fireworks and Chinese lanterns, bands of music and kid +gloves, ruffs and puffs, and pinkings and quillings, and all sorts of +unspeakable eatables with French names, would ere long float down the +stream of time, and leave their record only in a few bad colds and days +of indigestion, which also time would mercifully cure. + +So John steadied his soul with a view of that comfortable future, when +all this fuss should be over, and the coast cleared for something +better. Moreover, John found this good result of his patience: that he +learned a little something in a Christian way by it. Men of elevated +principle and moral honesty often treat themselves to such large slices +of contempt and indignation, in regard to the rogues of society, as to +forget a common brotherhood of pity. It is sometimes wholesome for such +men to be obliged to tolerate a scamp to the extent of exchanging with +him the ordinary benevolences of social life. + +John, in discharging the duty of a host to Dick Follingsbee, found +himself, after a while, looking on him with pity, as a poor creature, +like the rich fool in the Gospels, without faith, or love, or prayer; +spending life as a moth does,—in vain attempts to burn himself up in +the candle, and knowing nothing better. In fact, after a while, the +stiff, tow-colored moustache, smart stride, and flippant air of this +poor little man struck him somewhere in the region between a smile and +a tear; and his enforced hospitality began to wear a tincture of real +kindness. There is no less pathos in moral than in physical imbecility. + +It is an observable social phenomenon that, when any family in a +community makes an advance very greatly ahead of its neighbors in +style of living or splendor of entertainments, the fact causes great +searchings of spirit in all the region round about, and abundance of +talk, wherein the thoughts of many hearts are revealed. + +Springdale was a country town, containing a choice knot of the old, +respectable, true-blue, Boston-aristocracy families. Two or three +of them had winter houses in Beacon Street, and went there, after +Christmas, to enjoy the lectures, concerts, and select gayeties of +the modern Athens; others, like the Fergusons and Seymours, were in +intimate relationship with the same circle. + +Now, it is well known that the real old true-blue, Simon-pure, Boston +family is one whose claims to be considered “the thing,” and the only +thing, are somewhat like the claim of apostolic succession in ancient +churches. It is easy to see why certain affluent, cultivated, and +eminently well-conducted people should be considered “the thing” in +their day and generation; but why they should be considered as the +“only thing” is the point insoluble to human reason, and to be received +by faith alone; also, why certain other people, equally affluent, +cultivated, and well-conducted are _not_ “the thing” is one of the +divine mysteries, about which whoso observes Boston society will do +well not too curiously to exercise his reason. + +These “true-blue” families, however, have claims to respectability; +which make them, on the whole, quite a venerable and pleasurable +feature of society in our young, topsy-turvy, American community. Some +of them have family records extending clearly back to the settlement +of Massachusetts Bay; and the family estate is still on grounds first +cleared up by aboriginal settlers. Being of a Puritan nobility, +they have an ancestral record, affording more legitimate subject of +family self-esteem than most other nobility. Their history runs back +to an ancestry of unworldly faith and prayer and self-denial, of +incorruptible public virtue, sturdy resistance of evil, and pursuit of +good. + +There is also a literary aroma pervading their circles. Dim suggestions +of “The North American Review,” of “The Dial,” of Cambridge,—a sort of +vague “_miel-fleur_” of authorship and poetry,—is supposed to float +in the air around them; and it is generally understood that in their +homes exist tastes and appreciations denied to less favored regions. +Almost every one of them has its great man,—its father, grandfather, +cousin, or great uncle, who wrote a book, or edited a review, or was a +president of the United States, or minister to England, whose opinions +are referred to by the family in any discussion, as good Christians +quote the Bible. + +It is true that, in some few instances, the _pleroma_ of aristocratic +dignity undergoes a sort of acetic fermentation, and comes out in +ungenial qualities. Now and then, at a public watering-place, a man or +woman appears no otherwise distinguished than by a remarkable talent +for being disagreeable; and it is amusing to find, on inquiry, that +this repulsiveness of demeanor is entirely on account of belonging to +an ancient family. + +Such is the tendency of democracy to a general mingling of elements, +that this frigidity is deemed necessary by these good souls to +prevent the commonalty from being attracted by them, and sticking to +them, as straws and bits of paper do to amber. But more generally +the “true-blue” old families are simple and urbane in their manners; +and their pretensions are, as Miss Edgeworth says, presented rather +_intaglio_ than in cameo. Of course, they most thoroughly believe in +themselves, but in a bland and genial way. “_Noblesse oblige_” is with +them a secret spring of gentle address and social suavity. They prefer +their own set and their own ways, and are comfortably sure that what +they do not know is not worth knowing, and what they have not been in +the habit of doing is not worth doing; but still they are indulgent of +the existence of human nature outside of their own circle. + +The Seymours and the Fergusons belonged to this sort of people; and, +of course, Mr. John Seymour’s marriage afforded them opportunity +for some wholesome moral discipline. The Ferguson girls were frank, +social, magnanimous young women; of that class, to whom the saying +or doing of a rude or unhandsome thing by any human being was an +utter impossibility, and whose cheeks would flush at the mere idea of +asserting personal superiority over any one. Nevertheless, they trod +the earth firmly, as girls who felt that they were born to a certain +position. Judge Ferguson was a gentleman of the old school, devoted to +past ideas, fond of the English classics, and with small faith in any +literature later than Dr. Johnson. He confessed to a toleration for +Scott’s novels, and had been detected by his children both laughing and +crying over the stories of Charles Dickens; for the amiable weaknesses +of human nature still remain in the best regulated mind. To women and +children, the judge was benignity itself, imitating the Grand Monarque, +who bowed even to a chambermaid. He believed in good, orderly, +respectable, old ways and entertainments, and had a quiet horror of all +that is loud or noisy or pretentious; which sometimes made his social +duties a trial to him, as was the case in regard to the Seymour party. + +The arrangements of the party, including the preparations for an +extensive illumination of the grounds, and fireworks, were on so +unusual a scale as to rouse the whole community of Springdale to a +fever of excitement; of course, the Wilcoxes and the Lennoxes were +astonished and disgusted. When had it been known that any of their +set had done any thing of the kind? How horribly out of taste! Just +the result of John Seymour’s marrying into that class of society! +Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that she ought not to go. She was of the +determined and spicy order of human beings, and often, like a certain +French countess, felt disposed to thank Heaven that she generally +succeeded in being rude when the occasion required. Mrs. Lennox +regarded “snubbing” in the light of a moral duty devolving on people +of condition, when the foundations of things were in danger of being +removed by the inroads of the vulgar commonalty. On the present +occasion, Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that quiet, respectable people, of +good family, ought to ignore this kind of proceeding, and not think of +encouraging such things by their presence. + +Mrs. Wilcox generally shaped her course by Mrs. Lennox: still she had +promised Letitia Ferguson to be gracious to the Seymours in their +exigency, and to call on the Follingsbees; so there was a confusion +all round. The young people of both families declared that _they_ were +going, just to see the fun. Bob Lennox, with the usual vivacity of +Young America, said he didn’t “care a hang who set a ball rolling, if +only something was kept stirring.” The subject was discussed when Mrs. +Lennox and Mrs. Wilcox were making a morning call upon the Fergusons. + +“For my part,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I’m principled on this subject. Those +Follingsbees are not proper people. They are of just that vulgar, +pushing class, against which I feel it my duty to set my face like +a flint; and I’m astonished that a man like John Seymour should go +into relations with them. You see it puts all his friends in a most +embarrassing position.” + +“Dear Mrs. Lennox,” said Rose Ferguson, “indeed, it is not Mr. +Seymour’s fault. These persons are invited by his wife.” + +“Well, what business has he to allow his wife to invite them? A man +should be master in his own house.” + +“But, my dear Mrs. Lennox,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “such a pretty young +creature, and just married! of course it would be unhandsome not to +allow her to have her friends.” + +“Certainly,” said Judge Ferguson, “a gentleman cannot be rude to his +wife’s invited guests; for my part, I think Seymour is putting the best +face he can on it; and we must all do what we can to help him. We shall +all attend the Seymour party.” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I think we shall go. To be sure, it is not +what I should like to do. I don’t approve of these Follingsbees. Mr. +Wilcox was saying, this morning, that his money was made by frauds on +the government, which ought to have put him in the State Prison.” + +“Now, I say,” said Mrs. Lennox, “such people ought to be put +down socially: I have no patience with their airs. And that Mrs. +Follingsbee, I have heard that she was a milliner, or shop-girl, or +some such thing; and to see the airs she gives herself! One would +think it was the Empress Eugénie herself, come to queen it over us in +America. I can’t help thinking we ought to take a stand. I really do.” + +“But, dear Mrs. Lennox, we are not obliged to cultivate further +relations with people, simply from exchanging ordinary civilities with +them on one evening,” said Judge Ferguson. + +“But, my dear sir, these pushing, vulgar, rich people take advantage of +every opening. Give them an inch, and they will take an ell,” said Mrs +Lennox. “Now, if I go, they will be claiming acquaintance with me in +Newport next summer. Well, I shall cut them,—dead.” + +“Trust you for that,” said Miss Letitia, laughing; “indeed, Mrs. +Lennox, I think you may go wherever you please with perfect safety. +People will never saddle themselves on you longer than you want them; +so you might as well go to the party with the rest of us.” + +“And besides, you know,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “all our young people will +go, whether we go or not. Your Tom was at my house yesterday; and he is +going with my girls: they are all just as wild about it as they can be, +and say that it is the greatest fun that has been heard of this summer.” + +In fact, there was not a man, woman, or child, in a circle of fifteen +miles round, who could show shade or color of an invitation, who was +not out in full dress at Mrs. John Seymour’s party. People in a city +may pick and choose their entertainments, and she who gives a party +there may reckon on a falling off of about one-third, for various other +attractions; but in the country, where there is nothing else stirring, +one may be sure that not one person able to stand on his feet will +be missing. A party in a good old sleepy, respectable country place +is a godsend. It is equal to an earthquake, for suggesting materials +of conversation; and in so many ways does it awaken and vivify the +community, that one may doubt whether, after all, it is not a moral +benefaction, and the giver of it one to be ranked in the noble army of +martyrs. + +Everybody went. Even Mrs. Lennox, when she had sufficiently swallowed +her moral principles, sent in all haste to New York for an elegant +spick and span new dress from Madame de Tullegig’s, expressly for the +occasion. Was she to be outshone by unprincipled upstarts? Perish the +thought! It was treason to the cause of virtue, and the standing order +of society. Of course, the best thing to be done is to put certain +people down, if you can; but, if you cannot do that, the next best +thing is to outshine them in their own way. It may be very naughty +for them to be so dressy and extravagant, and very absurd, improper, +immoral, unnecessary, and in bad taste; but still, if you cannot help +it, you may as well try to do the same, and do a little more of it. +Mrs. Lennox was in a feverish state till all her trappings came from +New York. The bill was something stunning; but, then, it was voted by +the young people that she had never looked so splendidly in her life; +and she comforted herself with marking out a certain sublime distance +and reserve of manner to be observed towards Mrs. Seymour and the +Follingsbees. + +The young people, however, came home delighted. Tom, aged twenty-two, +instructed his mother that Follingsbee was a brick, and a real jolly +fellow; and he had accepted an invitation to go on a yachting cruise +with him the next month. Jane Lennox, moreover, began besetting her +mother to have certain details in their house rearranged, with an eye +to the Seymour glorification. + +“Now, Jane dear, that’s just the result of allowing you to visit in +this flash, vulgar genteel society,” said the troubled mamma. + +“Bless your heart, mamma, the world moves on, you know; and we must +move with it a little, or be left behind. For my part, I’m perfectly +ashamed of the way we let things go at our house. It really is not +respectable. Now, I like Mrs. Follingsbee, for my part: she’s clever +and amusing. It was fun to hear all about the balls at the Tuileries, +and the opera and things in Paris. Mamma, when are we going to Paris?” + +“Oh! I don’t know, my dear; you must ask your father. He is very +unwilling to go abroad.” + +“Papa is so slow and conservative in his notions!” said the young lady. +“For my part, I cannot see what is the use of all this talk about the +Follingsbees. He is good-natured and funny; and, I am sure, I think +she’s a splendid woman: and, by the way, she gave me the address of +lots of places in New York where we can get French things. Did you +notice her lace? It is superb; and she told me where lace just like it +could be bought one-third less than they sell at Stewart’s.” + +Thus we see how the starting-out of an old, respectable family in any +new ebullition of fancy and fashion is like a dandelion going to seed. +You have not only the airy, fairy globe; but every feathery particle +thereof bears a germ which will cause similar feather bubbles all over +the country; and thus old, respectable grass-plots become, in time, +half dandelion. It is to be observed that, in all questions of life +and fashion, “the world and the flesh,” to say nothing of the third +partner of that ancient firm, have us at decided advantage. It is easy +to see the flash of jewelry, the dazzle of color, the rush and glitter +of equipage, and to be dizzied by the babble and gayety of fashionable +life; while it is not easy to see justice, patience, temperance, +self-denial. These are things belonging to the invisible and the +eternal, and to be seen with other eyes than those of the body. + +Then, again, there is no one thing in all the items which go to make +up fashionable extravagance, which, taken separately and by itself, is +not in some point of view a good or pretty or desirable thing; and so, +whenever the forces of invisible morality begin an encounter with the +troops of fashion and folly, the world and the flesh, as we have just +said, generally have the best of it. + +It may be very shocking and dreadful to get money by cheating and +lying; but when the money thus got is put into the forms of yachts, +operas, pictures, statues, and splendid entertainments, of which you +are freely offered a share if you will only cultivate the acquaintance +of a sharper, will you not then begin to say, “Everybody is going, +why not I? As to countenancing Dives, why he is countenanced; and my +holding out does no good. What is the use of my sitting in my corner +and sulking? Nobody minds me.” Thus Dives gains one after another to +follow his chariot, and make up his court. + +Our friend John, simply by being a loving, indulgent husband, had +come into the position, in some measure, of demoralizing the public +conscience, of bringing in luxury and extravagance, and countenancing +people who really ought not to be countenanced. He had a sort of +uneasy perception of this fact; yet, at each particular step, he seemed +to himself to be doing no more than was right or reasonable. It was a +fact that, through all Springdale, people were beginning to be uneasy +and uncomfortable in houses that used to seem to them nice enough, and +ashamed of a style of dress and entertainment and living that used to +content them perfectly, simply because of the changes of style and +living in the John-Seymour mansion. + +Of old, the Seymour family had always been a bulwark on the side of a +temperate self-restraint and reticence in worldly indulgence; of a kind +that parents find most useful to strengthen their hands when children +are urging them on to expenses beyond their means: for they could say, +“The Seymours are richer than we are, and you see they don’t change +their carpets, nor get new sofas, nor give extravagant parties; and +they give simple, reasonable, quiet entertainments, and do not go into +any modern follies.” So the Seymours kept up the Fergusons, and the +Fergusons the Seymours; and the Wilcoxes and the Lennoxes encouraged +each other in a style of quiet, reasonable living, saving money for +charity, and time for reading and self-cultivation, and by moderation +and simplicity keeping up the courage of less wealthy neighbors to hold +their own with them. + +The John-Seymour party, therefore, was like the bursting of a great +dam, which floods a whole region. There was not a family who had not +some trouble with the inundation, even where, like Rose and Letitia +Ferguson, they swept it out merrily, and thought no more of it. + +“It was all very pretty and pleasant, and I’m glad it went off so +well,” said Rose Ferguson the next day; “but I have not the smallest +desire to repeat any thing of the kind. We who live in the country, and +have such a world of beautiful things around us every day, and so many +charming engagements in riding, walking, and rambling, and so much to +do, cannot afford to go into this sort of thing: we really have not +time for it.” + +“That pretty creature,” said Mrs. Ferguson, speaking of Lillie, “is +really a charming object. I hope she will settle down now to domestic +life. She will soon find better things to care for, I trust: a baby +would be her best teacher. I am sure I hope she will have one.” + +“A baby is mamma’s infallible recipe for strengthening the character,” +said Rose, laughing. + +“Well, as the saying is, they bring love with them,” said Mrs. +Ferguson; “and love always brings wisdom.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +_AFTER THE BATTLE._ + + +“WELL, Grace, the Follingsbees are gone at last, I am thankful to say,” +said John, as he stretched himself out on the sofa in Grace’s parlor +with a sigh of relief. “If ever I am caught in such a scrape again, I +shall know it.” + +“Yes, it is all well over,” said Grace. + +“Over! I wish you would look at the bills. Why, Gracie! I had not the +least idea, when I gave Lillie leave to get what she chose, what it +would come to, with those people at her elbow, to put things into her +head. I could not interfere, you know, after the thing was started; +and I thought I would not spoil Lillie’s pleasure, especially as I had +to stand firm in not allowing wine. It was well I did; for if wine had +been given, and taken with the reckless freedom that all the rest was, +it might have ended in a general riot.” + +“As some of the great fashionable parties do, where young women get +merry with champagne, and young men get drunk,” said Grace. + +“Well,” said John, “I don’t exactly like the whole turn of the way +things have been going at our house lately. I don’t like the influence +of it on others. It is not in the line of the life I want to lead, and +that we have all been trying to lead.” + +“Well,” said Gracie, “things will be settled now quietly, I hope.” + +“I say,” said John, “could not we start our little reading sociables, +that were so pleasant last year? You know we want to keep some little +pleasant thing going, and draw Lillie in with us. When a girl has been +used to lively society, she can’t come down to mere nothing; and I +am afraid she will be wanting to rush off to New York, and visit the +Follingsbees.” + +“Well,” said Grace, “Letitia and Rose were speaking the other day of +that, and wanting to begin. You know we were to read Froude together, +as soon as the evenings got a little longer.” + +“Oh, yes! that will be capital,” said John. + +“Do you think Lillie will be interested in Froude?” asked Grace. + +“I really can’t say,” said John, with some doubting of heart; “perhaps +it would be well to begin with something a little lighter, at first.” + +“Any thing you please, John. What shall it be?” + +“But I don’t want to hold you all back on my account,” said John. + +“Well, then again, John, there’s our old study-club. The Fergusons +and Mr. Mathews were talking it over the other night, and wondering +when you would be ready to join us. We were going to take up Lecky’s +‘History of Morals,’ and have our sessions Tuesday evenings,—one +Tuesday at their house, and the other at mine, you know.” + +“I should enjoy that, of all things,” said John; “but I know it is of +no use to ask Lillie: it would only be the most dreadful bore to her.” + +“And you couldn’t come without her, of course,” said Grace. + +“Of course not; that would be too cruel, to leave the poor little thing +at home alone.” + +“Lillie strikes me as being naturally clever,” said Grace; “if she only +would bring her mind to enter into your tastes a little, I’m sure you +would find her capable.” + +“But, Gracie, you’ve no conception how very different her sphere of +thought is, how entirely out of the line of our ways of thinking. I’ll +tell you,” said John, “don’t wait for me. You have your Tuesdays, and +go on with your Lecky; and I will keep a copy at home, and read up +with you. And I will bring Lillie in the evening, after the reading is +over; and we will have a little music and lively talk, and a dance or +charade, you know: then perhaps her mind will wake up by degrees.” + + SCENE.—_After tea in the Seymour parlor. John at a table, reading. + Lillie in a corner, embroidering._ + +_Lillie._ “Look here, John, I want to ask you something.” + +_John_,—putting down his book, and crossing to her, “Well, dear?” + +_Lillie._ “There, would you make a green leaf there, or a brown one?” + +_John_,—endeavoring to look wise, “Well, a brown one.” + +_Lillie._ “That’s just like you, John; now, don’t you see that a brown +one would just spoil the effect?” + +“Oh! would it?” said John, innocently. “Well, what did you ask me for?” + +“Why, you tiresome creature! I wanted you to say something. What are +you sitting moping over a book for? You don’t entertain me a bit.” + +“Dear Lillie, I have been talking about every thing I could think of,” +said John, apologetically. + +“Well, I want you to keep on talking, and put up that great heavy book. +What is it, any way?” + +“Lecky’s ‘History of Morals,’” said John. + +“How dreadful! do you really mean to read it?” + +“Certainly; we are all reading it.” + +“Who all?” + +“Why, Gracie, and Letitia and Rose Ferguson.” + +“Rose Ferguson? I don’t believe it. Why, Rose isn’t twenty yet! She +cannot care about such stuff.” + +“She does care, and enjoys it too,” said John, eagerly. + +“It is a pity, then, you didn’t get her for a wife instead of me,” said +Lillie, in a tone of pique. + +Now, this sort of thing does well enough occasionally, said by a +pretty woman, perfectly sure of her ground, in the early days of the +honey-moon; but for steady domestic diet is not to be recommended. +Husbands get tired of swearing allegiance over and over; and John +returned to his book quietly, without reply. He did not like the +suggestion; and he thought that it was in very poor taste. Lillie +embroidered in silence a few minutes, and then threw down her work +pettishly. + +“How close this room is!” + +John read on. + +“John, do open the door!” + +John rose, opened the door, and returned to his book. + +“Now, there’s that draft from the hall-window. John, you’ll have to +shut the door.” + +John shut it, and read on. + +“Oh, dear me!” said Lillie, throwing herself down with a portentous +yawn. “I do think this is dreadful!” + +“What is dreadful?” said John, looking up. + +“It is dreadful to be buried alive here in this gloomy town of +Springdale, where there is nothing to see, and nowhere to go, and +nothing going on.” + +“We have always flattered ourselves that Springdale was a most +attractive place,” said John. “I don’t know of any place where there +are more beautiful walks and rambles.” + +“But I detest walking in the country. What is there to see? And you +get your shoes muddy, and burrs on your clothes, and don’t meet a +creature! I got so tired the other day when Grace and Rose Ferguson +would drag me off to what they call ‘the glen.’ They kept oh-ing and +ah-ing and exclaiming to each other about some stupid thing every +step of the way,—old pokey nutgalls, bare twigs of trees, and red and +yellow leaves, and ferns! I do wish you could have seen the armful +of trash that those two girls carried into their respective houses. +I would not have such stuff in mine for any thing. I am tired of all +this talk about Nature. I am free to confess that I don’t like Nature, +and do like art; and I wish we only lived in New York, where there is +something to amuse one.” + +[Illustration: “But I detest walking in the country.”] + +“Well, Lillie dear, I am sorry; but we don’t live in New York, and are +not likely to,” said John. + +“Why can’t we? Mrs. Follingsbee said that a man in your profession, +and with your talents, could command a fortune in New York.” + +“If it would give me the mines of Golconda, I would not go there,” said +John. + +“How stupid of you! You know you would, though.” + +“No, Lillie; I would not leave Springdale for any money.” + +“That is because you think of nobody but yourself,” said Lillie. “Men +are always selfish.” + +“On the contrary, it is because I have so many here depending on me, of +whom I am bound to think more than myself,” said John. + +“That dreadful mission-work of yours, I suppose,” said Lillie; “that +always stands in the way of having a good time.” + +“Lillie,” said John, shutting his book, and looking at her, “what is +your ideal of a good time?” + +“Why, having something amusing going on all the time,—something bright +and lively, to keep one in good spirits,” said Lillie. + +“I thought that you would have enough of that with your party and all,” +said John. + +“Well, now it’s all over, and duller than ever,” said Lillie. “I think +a little spirit of gayety makes it seem duller by contrast.” + +“Yet, Lillie,” said John, “you see there are women, who live right here +in Springdale, who are all the time busy, interested, and happy, with +only such sources of enjoyment as are to be found here. Their time does +not hang heavy on their hands; in fact, it is too short for all they +wish to do.” + +“They are different from me,” said Lillie. + +“Then, since you must live here,” said John, “could you not learn to be +like them? Could you not acquire some of these tastes that make simple +country life agreeable?” + +“No, I can’t; I never could,” said Lillie, pettishly. + +“Then,” said John, “I don’t see that anybody can help your being +unhappy.” And, opening his book, he sat down, and began to read. + +Lillie pouted awhile, and then drew from under the sofa-pillow a copy +of “Indiana;” and, establishing her feet on the fender, she began to +read. + +Lillie had acquired at school the doubtful talent of reading French +with facility, and was soon deep in the fascinating pages, whose theme +is the usual one of French novels,—a young wife, tired of domestic +monotony, with an unappreciative husband, solacing herself with the +devotion of a lover. Lillie felt a sort of pique with her husband. He +was evidently unappreciative: he was thinking of all sorts of things +more than of her, and growing stupid, as husbands in French romances +generally do. She thought of her handsome Cousin Harry, the only man +that she ever came anywhere near being in love with; and the image of +his dark, handsome eyes and glossy curls gave a sort of piquancy to the +story. + +John got deeply interested in his book; and, looking up from time to +time, was relieved to find that Lillie had something to employ her. + +“I may as well make a beginning,” he said to himself. “I must have my +time for reading; and she must learn to amuse herself.” + +After a while, however, he peeped over her shoulder. + +“Why, darling!” he said, “where did you get that?” + +“It is Mrs. Follingsbee’s,” said Lillie. + +“Dear, it is a bad book,” said John. “Don’t read it.” + +“It amuses me, and helps pass away time,” said Lillie; “and I don’t +think it is bad: it is beautiful. Besides, you read what amuses you; +and it is a pity if I can’t read what amuses me.” + +“I am glad to see you like to read French,” continued John; “and I can +get you some delightful French stories, which are not only pretty and +witty, but have nothing in them that tend to pull down one’s moral +principles. Edmond About’s ‘Mariages de Paris’ and ‘Tolla’ are charming +French things; and, as he says, they might be read aloud by a man +between his mother and his sister, without a shade of offence.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lillie. “You had better go to Rose +Ferguson, and get her to give you a list of the kinds of books she +prefers.” + +“Lillie!” said John, severely, “your remarks about Rose are in bad +taste. I must beg you to discontinue them. There are subjects that +never ought to be jested about.” + +“Thank you, sir, for your moral lessons,” said Lillie, turning her back +on him defiantly, putting her feet on the fender, and going on with her +reading. + +John seated himself, and went on with his book in silence. + +Now, this mode of passing a domestic evening is certainly not agreeable +to either party; but we sustain the thesis that in this sort of +interior warfare the woman has generally the best of it. When it comes +to the science of annoyance, commend us to the lovely sex! Their +methods have a _finesse_, a suppleness, a universal adaptability, that +does them infinite credit; and man, with all his strength, and all his +majesty, and his commanding talent, is about as well off as a buffalo +or a bison against a tiny, rainbow-winged gnat or mosquito, who bites, +sings, and stings everywhere at once, with an infinite grace and +facility. + +A woman without magnanimity, without generosity, who has no love, and +whom a man loves, is a terrible antagonist. To give up or to fight +often seems equally impossible. + +How is a man going to make a woman have a good time, who is determined +not to have it? Lillie had sense enough to see, that, if she settled +down into enjoyment of the little agreeablenesses and domesticities +of the winter society in Springdale, she should lose her battle, and +John would keep her there for life. The only way was to keep him as +uncomfortable as possible without really breaking her power over him. + +In the long-run, in these encounters of will, the woman has every +advantage. The constant dropping that wears away the stone has passed +into a proverb. + +Lillie meant to go to New York, and have a long campaign at the +Follingsbees. The thing had been all promised and arranged between +them; and it was necessary that she should appear sufficiently +miserable, and that John should be made sufficiently uncomfortable, to +consent with effusion, at last, when her intentions were announced. + +These purposes were not distinctly stated to herself; for, as we have +before intimated, uncultivated natures, who have never thought for +a serious moment on self-education, or the way their character is +forming, act purely from a sort of instinct, and do not even in their +own minds fairly and squarely face their own motives and purposes; if +they only did, their good angel would wear a less dejected look than he +generally must. + +Lillie had power enough, in that small circle, to stop and interrupt +almost all its comfortable literary culture. The reading of Froude was +given up. John could not go to the study club; and, after an evening +or two of trying to read up at home, he used to stay an hour later at +his office. Lillie would go with him on Tuesday evening, after the +readings were over; and then it was understood that all parties were +to devote themselves to making the evening pass agreeable to her. She +was to be put forward, kept in the foreground, and every thing arranged +to make her appear the queen of the _fête_. They had tableaux, where +Rose made Lillie into marvellous pictures, which all admired and +praised. They had little dances, which Lillie thought rather stupid +and humdrum, because they were not _en grande toilette_; yet Lillie +always made a great merit of putting up with her life at Springdale. A +pleasant English writer has a lively paper on the advantages of being +a “cantankerous fool,” in which he goes to show that men or women of +inferior moral parts, little self-control, and great selfishness, often +acquire an absolute dominion over the circle in which they move, merely +by the exercise of these traits. Every one being anxious to please +and pacify them, and keep the peace with them, there is a constant +succession of anxious compliances and compromises going on around them; +by all of which they are benefited in getting their own will and way. + +The one person who will not give up, and cannot be expected to be +considerate or accommodating, comes at last to rule the whole circle. +He is counted on like the fixed facts of nature; everybody else must +turn out for him. So Lillie reigned in Springdale. In every little +social gathering where she appeared, the one uneasy question was, +would she have a good time, and anxious provision made to that end. +Lillie had declared that reading aloud was a bore, which was definitive +against reading-parties. She liked to play and sing; so that was always +a part of the programme. Lillie sang well, but needed a great deal of +urging. Her throat was apt to be sore; and she took pains to say that +the harsh winter weather in Springdale was ruining her voice. A good +part of an evening was often spent in supplications before she could be +induced to make the endeavor. + +Lillie had taken up the whim of being jealous of Rose. Jealousy is said +to be a sign of love. We hold another theory, and consider it more +properly a sign of selfishness. Look at noble-hearted, unselfish women, +and ask if they are easily made jealous. Look, again, at a woman who +in her whole life shows no disposition to deny herself for her husband, +or to enter into his tastes and views and feelings: are not such as she +the most frequently jealous? + +Her husband, in her view, is a piece of her property; every look, word, +and thought which he gives to any body or thing else is a part of her +private possessions, unjustly withheld from her. + +Independently of that, Lillie felt the instinctive jealousy which a +_passée_ queen of beauty sometimes has for a young rival. + +She had eyes to see that Rose was daily growing more and more +beautiful; and not all that young girl’s considerateness, her +self-forgetfulness, her persistent endeavors to put Lillie forward, and +make her the queen of the hour, could disguise this fact. Lillie was +a keen-sighted little body, and saw, at a glance, that, once launched +into society together, Rose would carry the day; all the more that no +thought of any day to be carried was in her head. + +Rose Ferguson had one source of attraction which is as great a natural +gift as beauty, and which, when it is found with beauty, makes it +perfectly irresistible; to wit, perfect unconsciousness of self. This +is a wholly different trait from unselfishness: it is not a moral +virtue, attained by voluntary effort, but a constitutional gift, and +a very great one. Fénelon praises it as a Christian grace, under the +name of simplicity; but we incline to consider it only as an advantage +of natural organization. There are many excellent Christians who are +haunted by themselves, and in some form or other are always busy with +themselves; either conscientiously pondering the right and wrong of +their actions, or approbatively sensitive to the opinions of others, or +æsthetically comparing their appearance and manners with an interior +standard; while there are others who have received the gift, beyond +the artist’s eye or the musician’s ear, of perfect self-forgetfulness. +Their religion lacks the element of conflict, and comes to them by +simple impulse. + + “Glad souls, without reproach or blot, + Who do His will, and know it not.” + +Rose had a frank, open joyousness of nature, that shed around her a +healthy charm, like fine, breezy weather, or a bright morning; making +every one feel as if to be good were the most natural thing in the +world. She seemed to be thinking always and directly of matters in +hand, of things to be done, and subjects under discussion, as much as +if she were an impersonal being. + +She had been educated with every solid advantage which old Boston can +give to her nicest girls; and that is saying a good deal. Returning +to a country home at an early age, she had been made the companion +of her father; entering into all his literary tastes, and receiving +constantly, from association with him, that manly influence which +a woman’s mind needs to develop its completeness. Living the whole +year in the country, the Fergusons developed within themselves a +multiplicity of resources. They read and studied, and discussed +subjects with their father; for, as we all know, the discussion of +moral and social questions has been from the first, and always will be, +a prime source of amusement in New-England families; and many of them +keep up, with great spirit, a family debating society, in which whoever +hath a psalm, a doctrine, or an interpretation, has free course. + +Rose had never been into fashionable life, technically so called. She +had not been brought out: there never had been a mile-stone set up +to mark the place where “her education was finished;” and so she had +gone on unconsciously,—studying, reading, drawing, and cultivating +herself from year to year, with her head and hands always so full of +pleasurable schemes and plans, that there really seemed to be no room +for any thing else. We have seen with what interest she co-operated +with Grace in the various good works of the factory village in which +her father held shares, where her activity found abundant scope, and +her beauty and grace of manner made her a sort of idol. + +Rose had once or twice in her life been awakened to self-consciousness, +by applicants rapping at the front door of her heart; but she answered +with such a kind, frank, earnest, “No, I thank you, sir,” as made +friends of her lovers; and she entered at once into pleasant relations +with them. Her nature was so healthy, and free from all morbid +suggestion; her yes and no so perfectly frank and positive, that there +seemed no possibility of any tragedy caused by her. + +Why did not John fall in love with Rose? Why did not he, O most sapient +senate of womanhood? Why did not your brother fall in love with that +nice girl you know of, who grew up with you all at his very elbow, and +was, as everybody else could see, just the proper person for him? + +Well, why didn’t he? There is the doctrine of election. “The election +hath obtained it; and the rest were blinded.” John was some six years +older than Rose. He had romped with her as a little girl, drawn her on +his sled, picked up her hair-pins, and worn her tippet, when they had +skated together as girl and boy. They had made each other Christmas and +New Year’s presents all their lives; and, to say the truth, loved each +other honestly and truly: nevertheless, John fell in love with Lillie, +and married her. Did you ever know a case like it? + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +_A BRICK TURNS UP._ + + +THE snow had been all night falling silently over the long elm avenues +of Springdale. + +It was one of those soft, moist, dreamy snow-falls, which come down +in great loose feathers, resting in magical frost-work on every tree, +shrub, and plant, and seeming to bring down with it the purity and +peace of upper worlds. + +Grace’s little cottage on Elm Street was imbosomed, as New-England +cottages are apt to be, in a tangle of shrubbery, evergreens, syringas, +and lilacs; which, on such occasions, become bowers of enchantment when +the morning sun looks through them. + +Grace came into her parlor, which was cheery with the dazzling +sunshine, and, running to the window, began to examine anxiously the +state of her various greeneries, pausing from time to time to look out +admiringly at the wonderful snow-landscape, with its many tremulous +tints of rose, lilac, and amethyst. + +The only thing wanting was some one to speak to about it; and, with a +half sigh, she thought of the good old times when John would come to +her chamber-door in the morning, to get her out to look on scenes like +this. + +“Positively,” she said to herself, “I must invite some one to visit +me. One wants a friend to help one enjoy solitude.” The stock of +social life in Springdale, in fact, was running low. The Lennoxes and +the Wilcoxes had gone to their Boston homes, and Rose Ferguson was +visiting in New York, and Letitia found so much to do to supply her +place to her father and mother, that she had less time than usual +to share with Grace. Then, again, the Elm-street cottage was a walk +of some considerable distance; whereas, when Grace lived at the old +homestead, the Fergusons were so near as to seem only one family, and +were dropping in at all hours of the day and evening. + +“Whom can I send for?” thought Grace to herself; and she ran over +mentally, in a moment, the list of available friends and acquaintances. +Reader, perhaps you have never really estimated your friends, till you +have tried them by the question, which of them you could ask to come +and spend a week or fortnight with you, alone in a country-house, in +the depth of winter. Such an invitation supposes great faith in your +friend, in yourself, or in human nature. + +Grace, at the moment, was unable to think of anybody whom she could +call from the approaching festivities of holiday life in the cities to +share her snow Patmos with her; so she opened a book for company, and +turned to where her dainty breakfast-table, with its hot coffee and +crisp rolls, stood invitingly waiting for her before the cheerful open +fire. + +At this moment, she saw, what she had not noticed before, a letter +lying on her breakfast plate. Grace took it up with an exclamation of +surprise; which, however, was heard only by her canary birds and her +plants. + +Years before, when Grace was in the first summer of her womanhood, she +had been very intimate with Walter Sydenham, and thoroughly esteemed +and liked him; but, as many another good girl has done, about those +days she had conceived it her duty not to think of marriage, but to +devote herself to making a home for her widowed father and her brother. +There was a certain romance of self-abnegation in this disposition +of herself which was rather pleasant to Grace, and in which both the +gentlemen concerned found great advantage. As long as her father lived, +and John was unmarried and devoted to her, she had never regretted it. + +Sydenham had gone to seek his fortune in California. He had begged +to keep up intercourse by correspondence; but Grace was not one of +those women who are willing to drain the heart of the man they refuse +to marry, by keeping up with him just that degree of intimacy which +prevents his seeking another. Grace had meant her refusal to be final, +and had sincerely hoped that he would find happiness with some other +woman; and to that intent had rigorously denied herself and him a +correspondence: yet, from time to time, she had heard of him through an +occasional letter to John, or by a chance Californian newspaper. Since +John’s marriage had so altered her course of life, Grace had thought of +him more frequently, and with some questionings as to the wisdom of her +course. + +This letter was from him; and we shall give our readers the benefit of +it:— + + “DEAR GRACE,—You must pardon me this beginning,—in the old + style of other days; for though many years have passed, in + which I have been trying to walk in your ways, and keep + all your commandments, I have never yet been able to do + as you directed, and forget you: and here I am, beginning + ‘Dear Grace,’—just where I left off on a certain evening + long, long ago. I wonder if you remember it as plainly as + I do. I am just the same fellow that I was then and there. + If you remember, you admitted that, were it not for other + duties, you might have considered my humble supplication. I + gathered that it would not have been impossible _per se_, + as metaphysicians say, to look with favor on your humble + servant. + + “Gracie, I have been living, I trust, not unworthily of you. + Your photograph has been with me round the world,—in the + miner’s tent, on shipboard, among scenes where barbarous men + do congregate; and everywhere it has been a presence, ‘to + warn, to comfort, to command;’ and if I have come out of + many trials firmer, better, more established in right than + before; if I am more believing in religion, and in every way + grounded and settled in the way you would have me,—it has + been your spiritual presence and your power over me that has + done it. Besides that, I may as well tell you, I have never + given up the hope that by and by you would see all this, and + in some hour give me a different answer. + + “When, therefore, I learned of your father’s death, and + afterwards of John’s marriage, I thought it was time for me + to return again. I have come to New York, and, if you do not + forbid, shall come to Springdale. + + “Will you be a little glad to see me, Gracie? Why not? We + are both alone now. Let us take hands, and walk the same + path together. Shall we? + + “Yours till death, and after, + ”WALTER SYDENHAM.“ + +Would she? To say the truth, the question as asked now had a very +different air from the question as asked years before, when, full +of life and hope and enthusiasm, she had devoted herself to making +an ideal home for her father and brother. What other sympathy or +communion, she had asked herself then, should she ever need than these +friends, so very dear: and, if she needed more, there, in the future, +was John’s ideal wife, who, somehow, always came before her in the +likeness of Rose Ferguson, and John’s ideal children, whom she was sure +she should love and pet as if they were her own. + +And now here she was, in a house all by herself, coming down to her +meals, one after another, without the excitement of a cheerful face +opposite to her, and with all possibility of confidential intercourse +with her brother entirely cut off. Lillie, in this matter, acted, +with much grace and spirit, the part of the dog in the manger; and, +while she resolutely refused to enter into any of John’s literary or +intellectual tastes, seemed to consider her wifely rights infringed +upon by any other woman who would. She would absolutely refuse to go +up with her husband and spend an evening with Grace, alleging it was +“pokey and stupid,” and that they always got talking about things +that she didn’t care any thing about. If, then, John went without +her to spend the evening, he was sure to be received, on his return, +with a dead and gloomy silence, more fearful, sometimes, than the +most violent of objurgations. That look of patient, heart-broken woe, +those long-drawn sighs, were a reception that he dreaded, to say the +truth, a great deal more than a direct attack, or any fault-finding +to which he could have replied; and so, on the whole, John made up +his mind that the best thing he could do was to stay at home and rock +the cradle of this fretful baby, whose wisdom-teeth were so hard to +cut, and so long in coming. It was a pretty baby; and when made the +sole and undivided object of attention, when every thing possible was +done for it by everybody in the house, condescended often to be very +graceful and winning and playful, and had numberless charming little +ways and tricks. The difference between Lillie in good humor and Lillie +in bad humor was a thing which John soon learned to appreciate as one +of the most powerful forces in his life. If you knew, my dear reader, +that by pursuing a certain course you could bring upon yourself a +drizzling, dreary, north-east rain-storm, and by taking heed to your +ways you could secure sunshine, flowers, and bird-singing, you would be +very careful, after a while, to keep about you the right atmospheric +temperature; and, if going to see the very best friend you had on earth +was sure to bring on a fit of rheumatism or tooth-ache, you would +soon learn to be very sparing of your visits. For this reason it was +that Grace saw very little of John; that she never now had a sisterly +conversation with him; that she preferred arranging all those little +business matters, in which it would be convenient to have a masculine +appeal, solely and singly by herself. The thing was never referred to +in any conversation between them. It was perfectly understood without +words. There are friends between whom and us has shut the coffin-lid; +and there are others between whom and us stand sacred duties, +considerations never to be enough reverenced, which forbid us to seek +their society, or to ask to lean on them either in joy or sorrow: the +whole thing as regards them must be postponed until the future life. +Such had been Grace’s conclusion with regard to her brother. She well +knew that any attempt to restore their former intimacy would only +diminish and destroy what little chance of happiness yet remained to +him; and it may therefore be imagined with what changed eyes she read +Walter Sydenham’s letter from those of years ago. + +There was a sound of stamping feet at the front door; and John came +in, all ruddy and snow-powdered, but looking, on the whole, uncommonly +cheerful. + +“Well, Gracie,” he said, “the fact is, I shall have to let Lillie go +to New York for a week or two, to see those Follingsbees. Hang them! +But what’s the matter, Gracie? Have you been crying, or sitting up all +night reading, or what?” + +The fact was, that Gracie had for once been indulging in a good cry, +rather pitying herself for her loneliness, now that the offer of relief +had come. She laughed, though; and, handing John her letter, said,— + +“Look here, John! here’s a letter I have just had from Walter Sydenham.” + +John broke out into a loud, hilarious laugh. + +“The blessed old brick!” said he. “Has he turned up again?” + +“Read the letter, John,” said Grace. “I don’t know exactly how to +answer it.” + +John read the letter, and seemed to grow more and more quiet as he read +it. Then he came and stood by Grace, and stroked her hair gently. + +“I wish, Gracie dear,” he said, “you had asked my advice about this +matter years ago. You loved Walter,—I can see you did; and you sent him +off on my account. It is just too bad! Of all the men I ever knew, he +was the one I should have been best pleased to have you marry!” + +“It was not wholly on your account, John. You know there was our +father,” said Grace. + +“Yes, yes, Gracie; but he would have preferred to see you well +married. He would not have been so selfish, nor I either. It is your +self-abnegation, you dear over-good women, that makes us men seem +selfish. We should be as good as you are, if you would give us the +chance. I think, Gracie, though you’re not aware of it, there is a +spice of Pharisaism in the way in which you good girls allow us men +to swallow you up without ever telling us what you are doing. I often +wondered about your intimacy with Sydenham, and why it never came to +any thing; and I can but half forgive you. How selfish I must have +seemed!” + +“Oh, no, John! indeed not.” + +“Come, you needn’t put on these meek airs. I insist upon it, you have +been feeling self-righteous and abused,” said John, laughing; “but +‘all’s well that ends well.’ Sit down, now, and write him a real +sensible letter, like a nice honest woman as you are.” + +“And say, ‘Yes, sir, and thank you too’?” said Grace, laughing. + +“Well, something in that way,” said John. “You can fence it in with as +many make-believes as is proper. And now, Gracie, this is deuced lucky! +You see Sydenham will be down here at once; and it wouldn’t be exactly +the thing for you to receive him at this house, and our only hotel is +perfectly impracticable in winter; and that brings me to what I am here +about. Lillie is going to New York to spend the holidays; and I wanted +you to shut up, and come up and keep house for us. You see you have +only one servant, and we have four to be looked after. You can bring +your maid along, and then I will invite Walter to our house, where he +will have a clear field; and you can settle all your matters between +you.” + +“So Lillie is going to the Follingsbees’?” said Grace. + +“Yes: she had a long, desperately sentimental letter from Mrs. +Follingsbee, urging, imploring, and entreating, and setting forth all +the splendors and glories of New York. Between you and me, it strikes +me that that Mrs. Follingsbee is an affected goose; but I couldn’t +say so to Lillie, ‘by no manner of means.’ She professes an untold +amount of admiration and friendship for Lillie, and sets such brilliant +prospects before her, that I should be the most hard-hearted old Turk +in existence if I were to raise any objections; and, in fact, Lillie is +quite brilliant in anticipation, and makes herself so delightful that I +am almost sorry that I agreed to let her go.” + +“When shall you want me, John?” + +“Well, this evening, say; and, by the way, couldn’t you come up and see +Lillie a little while this morning? She sent her love to you, and said +she was so hurried with packing, and all that, that she wanted you to +excuse her not calling.” + +“Oh, yes! I’ll come,” said Grace, good-naturedly, “as soon as I have +had time to put things in a little order.” + +“And write your letter,” said John, gayly, as he went out. “Don’t +forget that.” + +Grace did not forget the letter; but we shall not indulge our readers +with any peep over her shoulder, only saying that, though written with +an abundance of precaution, it was one with which Walter Sydenham was +well satisfied. + +Then she made her few arrangements in the housekeeping line, called in +her grand vizier and prime minister from the kitchen, and held with +her a counsel of ways and means; put on her india-rubbers and Polish +boots, and walked up through the deep snow-drifts to the Springdale +post-office, where she dropped the fateful letter with a good heart on +the whole; and then she went on to John’s, the old home, to offer any +parting services to Lillie that might be wanted. + +It is rather amusing, in any family circle, to see how some one member, +by dint of persistent exactions, comes to receive always, in all the +exigencies of life, an amount of attention and devotion which is never +rendered back. Lillie never thought of such a thing as offering any +services of any sort to Grace. Grace might have packed her trunks to go +to the moon, or the Pacific Ocean, quite alone for matter of any help +Lillie would ever have thought of. If Grace had headache or toothache +or a bad cold, Lillie was always “so sorry;” but it never occurred to +her to go and sit with her, to read to her, or offer any of a hundred +little sisterly offices. When she was in similar case, John always +summoned Grace to sit with Lillie during the hours that his business +necessarily took him from her. It really seemed to be John’s impression +that a toothache or headache of Lillie’s was something entirely +different from the same thing with Grace, or any other person in the +world; and Lillie fully shared the impression. + +Grace found the little empress quite bewildered in her multiplicity of +preparations, and neglected details, all of which had been deferred to +the last day; and Rosa and Anna and Bridget, in fact the whole staff, +were all busy in getting her off. + +“So good of you to come, Gracie!” and, “If you would do this;” and, +“Won’t you see to that?” and, “If you could just do the other!” and +Grace both could and would, and did what no other pair of hands could +in the same time. John apologized for the lack of any dinner. “The fact +is, Gracie, Bridget had to be getting up a lot of her things that were +forgotten till the last moment; and I told her not to mind, we could do +on a cold lunch.” Bridget herself had become so wholly accustomed to +the ways of her little mistress, that it now seemed the most natural +thing in the world that the whole house should be upset for her. + +But, at last, every thing was ready and packed; the trunks and boxes +shut and locked, and the keys sorted; and John and Lillie were on their +way to the station. + +“I shall find out Walter in New York, and bring him back with me,” said +John, cheerily, as he parted from Grace in the hall. “I leave you to +get things all to rights for us.” + +It would not have been a very agreeable or cheerful piece of work to +tidy the disordered house and take command of the domestic forces +under any other circumstances; but now Grace found it a very nice +diversion to prevent her thoughts from running too curiously on this +future meeting. “After all,” she thought to herself, “he is just the +same venturesome, imprudent creature that he always was, jumping to +conclusions, and insisting on seeing every thing in his own way. How +could he dare write me such a letter without seeing me? Ten years make +great changes. How could he be sure he would like me?” And she examined +herself somewhat critically in the looking-glass. + +“Well,” she said, “he may thank me for it that we are not engaged, and +that he comes only as an old friend, and perfectly free, for all he has +said, to be nothing more, unless on seeing each other we are so agreed. +I am so sorry the old place is all demolished and be-Frenchified. It +won’t look natural to him; and I am not the kind of person to harmonize +with these cold, polished, glistening, slippery surroundings, that have +no home life or association in them.” + +But Grace had to wake from these reflections to culinary counsels with +Bridget, and to arrangements of apartments with Rosa. Her own exacting +carefulness followed the careless footsteps of the untrained handmaids, +and rearranged every plait and fold; so that by nightfall the next day +she was thoroughly tired. + +She beguiled the last moments, while waiting for the coming of the +cars, in arranging her hair, and putting on one of those wonderful +Parisian dresses, which adapt themselves so precisely to the air of the +wearer that they seem to be in themselves works of art. Then she stood +with a fluttering color to see the carriage drive up to the door, and +the two get out of it. + +It is almost too bad to spy out such meetings, and certainly one has +no business to describe them; but Walter Sydenham carried all before +him, by an old habit which he had of taking all and every thing for +granted, as, from the first moment, he did with Grace. He had no idea +of hesitations or holdings off, and would have none; and met Gracie as +if they had parted only yesterday, and as if her word to him always had +been yes, instead of no. + +In fact, they had not been together five minutes before the whole life +of youth returned to them both,—that indestructible youth which belongs +to warm hearts and buoyant spirits. + +Such a merry evening as they had of it! When John, as the wood fire +burned low on the hearth, with some excuse of letters to write in his +library, left them alone together, Walter put on her finger a diamond +ring, saying,— + +“There, Gracie! now, when shall it be? You see you’ve kept me waiting +so long that I can’t spare you much time. I have an engagement to be in +Montreal the first of February, and I couldn’t think of going alone. +They have merry times there in mid-winter; and I’m sure it will be ever +so much nicer for you than keeping house alone here.” + +Grace said, of course, that it was impossible; but Walter declared +that doing the impossible was precisely in his line, and pushed on his +various advantages with such spirit and energy that, when they parted +for the night, Grace said she would think of it: which promise, at the +breakfast-table next morning, was interpreted by the unblushing Walter, +and reported to John, as a full consent. Before noon that day, Walter +had walked up with John and Grace to take a survey of the cottage, +and had given John indefinite power to engage workmen and artificers +to rearrange and enlarge and beautify it for their return after the +wedding journey. For the rest of the visit, all the three were busy +with pencil and paper, projecting balconies, bow-windows, pantries, +library, and dining-room, till the old cottage so blossomed out in +imagination as to leave only a germ of its former self. + +Walter’s visit brought back to John a deal of the warmth and freedom +which he had not known since he married. We often live under an +insensible pressure of which we are made aware only by its removal. +John had been so much in the habit lately of watching to please Lillie, +of measuring and checking his words or actions, that he now bubbled +over with a wild, free delight in finding himself alone with Grace and +Walter. He laughed, sang, whistled, skipped upstairs two at a time, and +scarcely dared to say even to himself why he was so happy. He did not +face himself with that question, and went dutifully to the library at +stated times to write to Lillie, and made much of her little letters. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +_THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE._ + + +IF John managed to be happy without Lillie in Springdale, Lillie +managed to be blissful without him in New York. + +“The bird let loose in Eastern skies” never hastened more fondly home +than she to its glitter and gayety, its life and motion, dash and +sensation. She rustled in all her bravery of curls and frills, pinkings +and quillings,—a marvellous specimen of Parisian frostwork, without one +breath of reason or philosophy or conscience to melt it. + +The Follingsbees’ house might stand for the original of the Castle of +Indolence. + + “Halls where who can tell + What elegance and grandeur wide expand,— + The pride of Turkey and of Persia’s land? + Soft quilts on quilts; on carpets, carpets spread; + And couches stretched around in seemly band; + And endless pillows rise to prop the head: + So that each spacious room was one full swelling bed.” + +It was not without some considerable profit that Mrs. Follingsbee had +read Balzac and Dumas, and had Charlie Ferrola for master of arts in +her establishment. The effect of the whole was perfect; it transported +one, bodily, back to the times of Montespan and Pompadour, when life +was all one glittering upper-crust, and pretty women were never +troubled with even the shadow of a duty. + +It was with a rebound of joyousness that Lillie found herself once +more with a crowded list of invitations, calls, operas, dancing, and +shopping, that kept her pretty little head in a perfect whirl of +excitement, and gave her not one moment for thought. + +Mrs. Follingsbee, to say the truth, would have been a little careful +about inviting a rival queen of beauty into the circle, were it not +that Charlie Ferrola, after an attentive consideration of the subject, +had assured her that a golden-haired blonde would form a most complete +and effective tableau, in contrast with her own dark rich style of +beauty. Neither would lose by it, so he said; and the impression, as +they rode together in an elegant open barouche, with ermine carriage +robes, would be “stunning.” So they called each other _ma sœur_, and +drove out in the park in a ravishing little pony-phaeton all foamed +over with ermine, drawn by a lovely pair of cream-colored horses, whose +harness glittered with gold and silver, after the fashion of the Count +of Monte Cristo. In truth, if Dick Follingsbee did not remind one of +Solomon in all particulars, he was like him in one, that he “made +silver and gold as the stones of the street” in New York. + +Lillie’s presence, however, was all desirable; because it would draw +the calls of two or three old New York families who had hitherto stood +upon their dignity, and refused to acknowledge the shoddy aristocracy. +The beautiful Mrs. John Seymour, therefore, was no less useful than +ornamental, and advanced Mrs. Follingsbee’s purposes in her “Excelsior” +movements. + +“Now, I suppose,” said Mrs. Follingsbee to Lillie one day, when they +had been out making fashionable calls together, “we really must call on +Charlie’s wife, just to keep her quiet.” + +“I thought you didn’t like her,” said Lillie. + +“I don’t; I think she is dreadfully common,” said Mrs. Follingsbee: +“she is one of those women who can’t talk any thing but baby, and bores +Charlie half to death. But then, you know, when there is a _liaison_ +like mine with Charlie, one can’t be too careful to cultivate the +wives. _Les convenances_, you know, are the all-important things. I +send her presents constantly, and send my carriage around to take +her to church or opera, or any thing that is going on, and have her +children at my fancy parties: yet, for all that, the creature has not a +particle of gratitude; those narrow-minded women never have. You know +I am very susceptible to people’s atmospheres; and I always feel that +that creature is just as full of spite and jealousy as she can stick in +her skin.” + +It will be remarked that this was one of those idiomatic phrases which +got lodged in Mrs. Follingsbee’s head in a less cultivated period of +her life, as a rusty needle sometimes hides in a cushion, coming out +unexpectedly, when excitement gives it an honest squeeze. + +“Now, I should think,” pursued Mrs. Follingsbee, “that a woman who +really loved her husband would be thankful to have him have such a +rest from the disturbing family cares which smother a man’s genius, +as a house like ours offers him. How can the artistic nature exercise +itself in the very grind of the thing, when this child has a cold, and +the other the croup; and there is fussing with mustard-paste and ipecac +and paregoric,—all those realities, you know? Why, Charlie tells me he +feels a great deal more affection for his children when he is all calm +and tranquil in the little boudoir at our house; and he writes such +lovely little poems about them, I must show you some of them. But this +creature doesn’t appreciate them a bit: she has no poetry in her.” + +“Well, I must say, I don’t think I should have,” said Lillie, honestly. +“I should be just as mad as I could be, if John acted so.” + +“Oh, my dear! the cases are different: Charlie has such peculiarities +of genius. The artistic nature, you know, requires soothing.” Here they +stopped, and rang at the door of a neat little house, and were ushered +into a pair of those characteristic parlors which show that they have +been arranged by a home-worshipper, and a mother. There were plants and +birds and flowers, and little _genre_ pictures of children, animals, +and household interiors, arranged with a loving eye and hand. + +“Did you ever see any thing so perfectly characteristic?” said Mrs. +Follingsbee, looking around her as if she were going to faint. + +“This woman drives Charlie perfectly wild, because she has no +appreciation of high art. Now, I sent her photographs of Michel +Angelo’s ‘Moses,’ and ‘Night and Morning;’ and I really wish you would +see where she hung them,—away in yonder dark corner!” + +“I think myself they are enough to scare the owls,” said Lillie, after +a moment’s contemplation. + +“But, my dear, you know they are the thing,” said Mrs. Follingsbee: +“people never like such things at first, and one must get used to high +art before one forms a taste for it. The thing with her is, she has no +docility. She does not try to enter into Charlie’s tastes.” + +The woman with “no docility” entered at this moment,—a little snow-drop +of a creature, with a pale, pure, Madonna face, and that sad air of +hopeless firmness which is seen unhappily in the faces of so many women. + +“I had to bring baby down,” she said. “I have no nurse to-day, and he +has been threatened with croup.” + +“The dear little fellow!” said Mrs. Follingsbee, with officious +graciousness. “So glad you brought him down; come to his aunty?” she +inquired lovingly, as the little fellow shrank away, and regarded +her with round, astonished eyes. “Why will you not come to my next +reception, Mrs. Ferrola?” she added. “You make yourself quite a +stranger to us. You ought to give yourself some variety.” + +“The fact is, Mrs. Follingsbee,” said Mrs. Ferrola, “receptions in New +York generally begin about my bed-time; and, if I should spend the +night out, I should have no strength to give to my children the next +day.” + +[Illustration: “I had to bring baby down.”] + +“But, my dear, you ought to have some amusement.” + +“My children amuse me, if you will believe it,” said Mrs. Ferrola, with +a remarkably quiet smile. + +Mrs. Follingsbee was not quite sure whether this was meant to be +sarcastic or not. She answered, however, “Well! your husband will +come, at all events.” + +“You may be quite sure of that,” said Mrs. Ferrola, with the same +quietness. + +“Well!” said Mrs. Follingsbee, rising, with patronizing cheerfulness, +“delighted to see you doing so well; and, if it is pleasant, I will +send the carriage round to take you a drive in the park this afternoon. +Good-morning.” + +And, like a rustling cloud of silks and satins and perfumes, she bent +down and kissed the baby, and swept from the apartment. + +Mrs. Ferrola, with a movement that seemed involuntary, wiped the baby’s +cheek with her handkerchief, and, folding it closer to her bosom, +looked up as if asking patience where patience is to be found for the +asking. + +“There! didn’t I tell you?” said Mrs. Follingsbee when she came out; +“just one of those provoking, meek, obstinate, impracticable creatures, +with no adaptation in her.” + +“Oh, gracious me!” said Lillie: “I can’t imagine more dire despair than +to sit all day tending baby.” + +“Well, so you would think; and Charlie has offered to hire competent +nurses, and wants her to dress herself up and go into society; and she +just won’t do it, and sticks right down by the cradle there, with her +children running over her like so many squirrels.” + +“Oh! I hope and trust I never shall have children,” said Lillie, +fervently, “because, you see, there’s an end of every thing. No more +fun, no more frolics, no more admiration or good times; nothing but +this frightful baby, that you can’t get rid of.” + +Yet, as Lillie spoke, she knew, in her own slippery little heart, that +the shadow of this awful cloud of maternity was resting over her; +though she laced and danced, and bid defiance to every law of nature, +with a blind and ignorant wilfulness, not caring what consequences she +might draw down on herself, if only she might escape this. + +And was there, then, no soft spot in this woman’s heart anywhere? +Generally it is thought that the throb of the child’s heart awakens +a heart in the mother, and that the mother is born again with her +child. It is so with unperverted nature, as God meant it to be; and +you shall hear from the lips of an Irish washer-woman a genuine poetry +of maternal feeling, for the little one who comes to make her toil +more toilsome, that is wholly withered away out of luxurious circles, +where there is every thing to make life easy. Just as the Chinese have +contrived fashionable monsters, where human beings are constrained to +grow in the shape of flower-pots, so fashionable life contrives at last +to grow a woman who hates babies, and will risk her life to be rid of +the crowning glory of womanhood. + +There was a time in Lillie’s life, when she was sixteen years of age, +which was a turning-point with her, and decided that she should be +the heartless woman she was. If at that age, and at that time, she +had decided to marry the man she really loved, marriage might indeed +have proved to her a sacrament. It might have opened to her a door +through which she could have passed out from a career of selfish +worldliness into that gradual discipline of unselfishness which a true +love-marriage brings. + +But she did not. The man was poor, and she was beautiful; her beauty +would buy wealth and worldly position, and so she cast him off. Yet +partly to gratify her own lingering feeling, and partly because she +could not wholly renounce what had once been hers, she kept up for +years with him just that illusive simulacrum which such women call +friendship; which, while constantly denying, constantly takes pains to +attract, and drains the heart of all possibility of loving another. + +Harry Endicott was a young man of fine capabilities, sensitive, +interesting, handsome, full of generous impulses, whom a good woman +might easily have led to a full completeness. He was not really +Lillie’s cousin, but the cousin of her mother; yet, under the name of +cousin, he had constant access and family intimacy. + +This winter Harry Endicott suddenly returned to the fashionable circles +of New York,—returned from a successful career in India, with an ample +fortune. He was handsomer than ever, took stylish bachelor lodgings, +set up a most distracting turnout, and became a sort of Marquis of +Farintosh in fashionable circles. Was ever any thing so lucky, or so +unlucky, for our Lillie?—lucky, if life really does run on the basis of +French novels, and if all that is needed is the sparkle and stimulus of +new emotions; unlucky, nay, even gravely terrible, if life really is +established on a basis of moral responsibility, and dogged by the fatal +necessity that “whatsoever man or woman soweth, that shall he or she +also reap.” + +In the most critical hour of her youth, when love was sent to her heart +like an angel, to beguile her from selfishness, and make self-denial +easy, Lillie’s pretty little right hand had sowed to the world and +the flesh; and of that sowing she was now to reap all the disquiets, +the vexations, the tremors, that go to fill the pages of French +novels,—records of women who marry where they cannot love, to serve +the purposes of selfishness and ambition, and then make up for it by +loving where they cannot marry. If all the women in America who have +practised, and are practising, this species of moral agriculture should +stand forth together, it would be seen that it is not for nothing that +France has been called the society educator of the world. + +The apartments of the Follingsbee mansion, with their dreamy +voluptuousness, were eminently adapted to be the background and +scenery of a dramatic performance of this kind. There were vistas +of drawing-rooms, with delicious boudoirs, like side chapels in a +temple of Venus, with handsome Charlie Ferrola gliding in and out, +or lecturing dreamily from the corner of some sofa on the last most +important crinkle of the artistic rose-leaf, demonstrating conclusively +that beauty was the only true morality, and that there was no sin but +bad taste; and that nobody knew what good taste was but himself and +his clique. There was the discussion, far from edifying, of modern +improved theories of society, seen from an improved philosophic point +of view; of all the peculiar wants and needs of etherealized beings, +who have been refined and cultivated till it is the most difficult +problem in the world to keep them comfortable, while there still +remains the most imperative necessity that they should be made happy, +though the whole universe were to be torn down and made over to effect +it. + +The idea of not being happy, and in all respects as blissful as they +could possibly be made, was one always assumed by the Follingsbee +clique as an injustice to be wrestled with. Anybody that did not +affect them agreeably, that jarred on their nerves, or interrupted +the delicious reveries of existence with the sharp saw-setting of +commonplace realities, in their view ought to be got rid of summarily, +whether that somebody were husband or wife, parent or child. + +Natures that affected each other pleasantly were to spring together +like dew-drops, and sail off on rosy clouds with each other to the land +of Do-just-as-you-have-a-mind-to. + +The only thing never to be enough regretted, which prevented this +immediate and blissful union of particles, was the impossibility of +living on rosy clouds, and making them the means of conveyance to the +desirable country before mentioned. Many of the fair _illuminatæ_, who +were quite willing to go off with a kindred spirit, were withheld by +the necessities of infinite pairs of French kid gloves, and gallons +of cologne-water, and indispensable clouds of mechlin and point lace, +which were necessary to keep around them the poetry of existence. + +Although it was well understood among them that the religion of the +emotions is the only true religion, and that nothing is holy that you +do not feel exactly like doing, and every thing is holy that you do; +still these fair confessors lacked the pluck of primitive Christians, +and could not think of taking joyfully the spoiling of their goods, +even for the sake of a kindred spirit. Hence the necessity of living in +deplored marriage-bonds with husbands who could pay rent and taxes, and +stand responsible for unlimited bills at Stewart’s and Tiffany’s. Hence +the philosophy which allowed the possession of the body to one man, and +of the soul to another, which one may see treated of at large in any +writings of the day. + +As yet Lillie had been kept intact from all this sort of thing by the +hard, brilliant enamel of selfishness. That little shrewd, gritty +common sense, which enabled her to see directly through other people’s +illusions, has, if we mistake not, by this time revealed itself to our +readers as an element in her mind: but now there is to come a decided +thrust at the heart of her womanhood; and we shall see whether the +paralysis is complete, or whether the woman is alive. + +If Lillie had loved Harry Endicott poor, had loved him so much that +at one time she had seriously balanced the possibility of going to +housekeeping in a little unfashionable house, and having only one girl, +and hand in hand with him walking the paths of economy, self-denial, +and prudence,—the reader will see that Harry Endicott rich, Harry +Endicott enthroned in fashionable success, Harry Endicott plus fast +horses, splendid equipages, a fine city house, and a country house on +the Hudson, was something still more dangerous to her imagination. + +But more than this was the stimulus of Harry Endicott out of her power, +and beyond the sphere of her charms. She had a feverish desire to see +him, but he never called. Forthwith she had a confidential conversation +with her bosom friend, who entered into the situation with enthusiasm, +and invited him to her receptions. But he didn’t come. + +The fact was, that Harry Endicott hated Lillie now, with that kind of +hatred which is love turned wrong-side out. He hated her for the misery +she had caused him, and was in some danger of feeling it incumbent +on himself to go to the devil in a wholly unnecessary manner on that +account. + +He had read the story of Monte Cristo, with its highly wrought plot of +vengeance, and had determined to avenge himself on the woman who had so +tortured him, and to make her feel, if possible, what he had felt. + +So, when he had discovered the hours of driving observed by Mrs. +Follingsbee and Lillie in the park, he took pains, from time to time, +to meet them face to face, and to pass Lillie with an unrecognizing +stare. Then he dashed in among Mrs. Follingsbee’s circle, making +himself everywhere talked of, till they were beset on all hands by the +inquiry, “Don’t you know young Endicott? why, I should think you would +want to have him visit here.” + +After this had been played far enough, he suddenly showed himself one +evening at Mrs. Follingsbee’s, and apologized in an off-hand manner to +Lillie, when reminded of passing her in the park, that really he wasn’t +thinking of meeting her, and didn’t recognize her, she was so altered; +it had been so many years since they had met, &c. All in a tone of +cool and heartless civility, every word of which was a dagger’s thrust +not only into her vanity, but into the poor little bit of a real heart +which fashionable life had left to Lillie. + +Every evening, after he had gone, came a long, confidential +conversation with Mrs. Follingsbee, in which every word and look +was discussed and turned, and all possible or probable inferences +therefrom reported; after which Lillie often laid a sleepless head +on a hot and tumbled pillow, poor, miserable child! suffering her +punishment, without even the grace to know whence it came, or what it +meant. Hitherto Lillie had been walking only in the limits of that +kind of permitted wickedness, which, although certainly the remotest +thing possible from the Christianity of Christ, finds a great deal +of tolerance and patronage among communicants of the altar. She had +lived a gay, vain, self-pleasing life, with no object or purpose but +the simple one to get each day as much pleasurable enjoyment out of +existence as possible. Mental and physical indolence and inordinate +vanity had been the key-notes of her life. She hated every thing that +required protracted thought, or that made trouble, and she longed +for excitement. The passion for praise and admiration had become +to her like the passion of the opium-eater for his drug, or of the +brandy-drinker for his dram. But now she was heedlessly steering to +what might prove a more palpable sin. + +Harry the serf, once half despised for his slavish devotion, now stood +before her, proud and free, and tantalized her by the display he made +of his indifference, and preference for others. She put forth every +art and effort to recapture him. But the most dreadful stroke of fate +of all was, that Rose Ferguson had come to New York to make a winter +visit, and was much talked of in certain circles where Harry was quite +intimate; and he professed himself, indeed, an ardent admirer at her +shrine. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +_THE VAN ASTRACHANS._ + + +THE Van Astrachans, a proud, rich old family, who took a certain +defined position in New-York life on account of some ancestral passages +in their family history, had invited Rose to spend a month or two with +them; and she was therefore moving as a star in a very high orbit. + +Now, these Van Astrachans were one of those cold, glittering, +inaccessible pinnacles in Mrs. Follingsbee’s fashionable Alp-climbing +which she would spare no expense to reach if possible. It was one of +the families for whose sake she had Mrs. John Seymour under her roof; +and the advent of Rose, whom she was pleased to style one of Mrs. +Seymour’s most intimate friends, was an unhoped-for stroke of good +luck; because there was the necessity of calling on Rose, of taking her +out to drive in the park, and of making a party on her account, from +which, of course, the Van Astrachans could not stay away. + +It will be seen here that our friend, Mrs. Follingsbee, like all +ladies whose watch-word is “Excelsior,” had a peculiar, difficult, and +slippery path to climb. + +The Van Astrachans were good old Dutch-Reformed Christians, +unquestioning believers in the Bible in general, and the Ten +Commandments in particular,—persons whose moral constitutions had been +nourished on the great stocky beefsteaks and sirloins of plain old +truths which go to form English and Dutch nature. Theirs was a style +of character which rendered them utterly hopeless of comprehending +the etherealized species of holiness which obtained in the innermost +circles of the Follingsbee _illuminati_. Mr. Van Astrachan buttoned +under his coat not only many solid inches of what Carlyle calls “good +Christian fat,” but also a pocket-book through which millions of +dollars were passing daily in an easy and comfortable flow, to the +great advantage of many of his fellow-creatures no less than himself; +and somehow or other he was pig-headed in the idea that the Bible and +the Ten Commandments had something to do with that stability of things +which made this necessary flow easy and secure. + +He was slow-moulded, accurate, and fond of security; and was of opinion +that nineteen centuries of Christianity ought to have settled a few +questions so that they could be taken for granted, and were not to be +kept open for discussion. + +Moreover, Mr. Van Astrachan having read the accounts of the first +French revolution, and having remarked all the subsequent history of +that country, was confirmed in his idea, that pitching every thing into +pi once in fifty years was no way to get on in the affairs of this +world. + +He had strong suspicions of every thing French, and a mind very ill +adapted to all those delicate reasonings and shadings and speculations +of which Mr. Charlie Ferrola was particularly fond, which made every +thing in morals and religion an open question. + +He and his portly wife planted themselves, like two canons of the +sanctuary, every Sunday, in the tip-top highest-priced pew of the +most orthodox old church in New York; and if the worthy man sometimes +indulged in gentle slumbers in the high-padded walls of his slip, it +was because he was so well assured of the orthodoxy of his minister +that he felt that no interest of society would suffer while he was off +duty. But may Heaven grant us, in these days of dissolving views and +general undulation, large armies of these solid-planted artillery on +the walls of our Zion! + +Blessed be the people whose strength is to sit still! Much needed are +they when the activity of free inquiry seems likely to chase us out of +house and home, and leave us, like the dove in the deluge, no rest for +the sole of our foot. + +Let us thank God for those Dutch-Reformed churches; great solid +breakwaters, that stand as the dykes in their ancestral Holland to keep +out the muddy waves of that sea whose waters cast up mire and dirt. + +But let us fancy with what quakings and shakings of heart Mrs. +Follingsbee must have sought the alliance of these tremendously solid +old Christians. They were precisely what she wanted to give an air of +solidity to the cobweb glitter of her state. And we can also see how +necessary it was that she should ostentatiously visit Charlie Ferrola’s +wife, and speak of her as a darling creature, her particular friend, +whom she was doing her very best to keep out of an early grave. + +Charlie Ferrola said that the Van Astrachans were obtuse; and so, to +a certain degree, they were. In social matters they had a kind of +confiding simplicity. They were so much accustomed to regard positive +morals in the light of immutable laws of Nature, that it would not have +been easy to have made them understand that sliding scale of estimates +which is in use nowadays. They would probably have had but one word, +and that a very disagreeable one, to designate a married woman who was +in love with anybody but her husband. Consequently, they were the very +last people whom any gossip of this sort could ever reach, or to whose +ears it could have been made intelligible. + +Mr. Van Astrachan considered Dick Follingsbee a swindler, whose proper +place was the State’s prison, and whose morals could only be mentioned +with those of Sodom and Gomorrah. + +Nevertheless, as Mrs. Follingsbee made it a point of rolling up her +eyes and sighing deeply when his name was mentioned,—as she attended +church on Sunday with conspicuous faithfulness, and subscribed to +charitable societies and all manner of good works,—as she had got +appointed directress on the board of an orphan asylum where Mrs. Van +Astrachan figured in association with her, that good lady was led +to look upon her with compassion, as a worthy woman who was making +the best of her way to heaven, notwithstanding the opposition of a +dissolute husband. + +As for Rose, she was as fresh and innocent and dewy, in the hot whirl +and glitter and glare of New York, as a waving spray of sweet-brier, +brought in fresh with all the dew upon it. + +She really had for Lillie a great deal of that kind of artistic +admiration which nice young girls sometimes have for very beautiful +women older than themselves; and was, like almost every one else, +somewhat bejuggled and taken in by that air of infantine sweetness and +simplicity which had survived all the hot glitter of her life, as if a +rose, fresh with dew, should lie unwilted in the mouth of a furnace. + +Moreover, Lillie’s face had a beauty this winter it had never worn: +the softness of a real feeling, the pathos of real suffering, at times +touched her face with something that was always wanting in it before. +The bitter waters of sin that she would drink gave a strange feverish +color to her cheek; and the poisoned perfume she would inhale gave a +strange new brightness to her eyes. + +Rose sometimes looked on her and wondered; so innocent and healthy and +light-hearted in herself, she could not even dream of what was passing. +She had been brought up to love John as a brother, and opened her heart +at once to his wife with a sweet and loyal faithfulness. When she told +Mrs. Van Astrachan that Mrs. John Seymour was one of her friends from +Springdale, married into a family with which she had grown up with +great intimacy, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to the +good lady that Rose should want to visit her; that she should drive +with her, and call on her, and receive her at their house; and with her +of course must come Mrs. Follingsbee. + +Mr. Van Astrachan made a dead halt at the idea of Dick Follingsbee. He +never would receive _that_ man under his roof, he said, and he never +would enter his house; and when Mr. Van Astrachan once said a thing of +this kind, as Mr. Hosea Biglow remarks, “a meeting-house wasn’t sotter.” + +But then Mrs. Follingsbee’s situation was confidentially stated to +Lillie, and by Lillie confidentially stated to Rose, and by Rose to +Mrs. Van Astrachan; and it was made to appear how Dick Follingsbee had +entirely abandoned his wife, going off in the ways of Balaam the son +of Bosor, and all other bad ways mentioned in Scripture, habitually +leaving poor Mrs. Follingsbee to entertain company alone, so that he +was never seen at her parties, and had nothing to do with her. + +“So much the better for them,” remarked Mr. Van Astrachan. + +“In that case, my dear, I don’t see that it would do any harm for you +to go to Mrs. Follingsbee’s party on Rose’s account. I never go to +parties, as you know; and I certainly should not begin by going there. +But still I see no objection to your taking Rose.” + +If Mr. Van Astrachan had seen objections, you never would have caught +Mrs. Van Astrachan going; for she was one of your full-blooded women, +who never in her life engaged to do a thing she didn’t mean to do: and +having promised in the marriage service to obey her husband, she obeyed +him plumb, with the air of a person who is fulfilling the prophecies; +though her chances in this way were very small, as Mr. Van Astrachan +generally called her “ma,” and obeyed all her orders with a stolid +precision quite edifying to behold. He took her advice always, and +was often heard naively to remark that Mrs. Van Astrachan and he were +always of the same opinion,—an expression happily defining that state +in which a man does just what his wife tells him to. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +_MRS. FOLLINGSBEE’S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT._ + + +OUR vulgar idea of a party is a week or fortnight of previous +discomfort and chaotic tergiversation, and the mistress of it all +distracted and worn out with endless cares. Such a party bursts in +on a well-ordered family state as a bomb bursts into a city, leaving +confusion and disorder all around. But it would be a pity if such a +life-long devotion to the arts and graces as Mrs. Follingsbee had +given, backed by Dick Follingsbee’s fabulous fortune, and administered +by the exquisite Charlie Ferrola, should not have brought forth some +appreciable results. One was, that the great Castle of Indolence was +prepared for the _fête_, with no more ripple of disturbance than if +it had been a Nereid’s bower, far down beneath the reach of tempests, +where the golden sand is never ruffled, and the crimson and blue sea +flowers never even dream of commotion. + +Charlie Ferrola wore, it is true, a brow somewhat oppressed with care, +and was kept tucked up on a rose-colored satin sofa, and served with +lachrymæ Christi, and Montefiascone, and all other substitutes for the +dews of Hybla, while he draughted designs for the floral arrangements, +which were executed by obsequious attendants in felt slippers; and +the whole process of arrangement proceeded like a dream of the +lotus-eaters’ paradise. + +Madame de Tullegig was of course retained primarily for the adornment +of Mrs. Follingsbee’s person. It was understood, however, on this +occasion, that the composition of the costumes was to embrace both hers +and Lillie’s, that they might appear in a contrasted tableau, and bring +out each other’s points. It was a subject worthy a Parisian artiste, +and drew so seriously on Madame de Tullegig’s brain-power, that she +assured Mrs. Follingsbee afterwards that the effort of composition had +sensibly exhausted her. + +Before we relate the events of that evening, as they occurred, we must +give some little idea of the position in which the respective parties +now stood. + +Harry Endicott, by his mother’s side, was related to Mrs. Van +Astrachan. Mr. Van Astrachan had been, in a certain way, guardian +to him; and his success in making his fortune was in consequence +of capital advanced and friendly patronage thus accorded. In the +family, therefore, he had the _entrée_ of a son, and had enjoyed the +opportunity of seeing Rose with a freedom and frequency that soon +placed them on the footing of old acquaintanceship. Rose was an easy +person to become acquainted with in an ordinary and superficial manner. +She was like those pellucid waters whose great clearness deceives the +eye as to their depth. Her manners had an easy and gracious frankness; +and she spoke right on, with an apparent simplicity and fearlessness +that produced at first the impression that you knew all her heart. A +longer acquaintance, however, developed depths of reserved thought and +feeling far beyond what at first appeared. + +Harry, at first, had met her only on those superficial grounds of +banter and _badinage_ where a gay young gentleman and a gay young lady +may reconnoitre, before either side gives the other the smallest peep +of the key of what Dr. Holmes calls the side-door of their hearts. + +Harry, to say the truth, was in a bad way when he first knew Rose: +he was restless, reckless, bitter. Turned loose into society with an +ample fortune and nothing to do, he was in danger, according to the +homely couplet of Dr. Watts, of being provided with employment by that +undescribable personage who makes it his business to look after idle +hands. + +Rose had attracted him first by her beauty, all the more attractive to +him because in a style entirely different from that which hitherto had +captivated his imagination. Rose was tall, well-knit, and graceful, +and bore herself with a sort of slender but majestic lightness, like +a meadow-lily. Her well-shaped, classical head was set finely on +her graceful neck, and she had a stag-like way of carrying it, that +impressed a stranger sometimes as haughty; but Rose could not help +that, it was a trick of nature. Her hair was of the glossiest black, +her skin fair as marble, her nose a little, nicely-turned aquiline +affair, her eyes of a deep violet blue and shadowed by long dark +lashes, her mouth a little larger than the classical proportion, but +generous in smiles and laughs which revealed perfect teeth of dazzling +whiteness. There, gentlemen and ladies, is Rose Ferguson’s picture: +and, if you add to all this the most attractive impulsiveness and +self-unconsciousness, you will not wonder that Harry Endicott at first +found himself admiring her, and fancied driving out with her in the +park; and that when admiring eyes followed them both, as a handsome +pair, Harry was well pleased. + +Rose, too, liked Harry Endicott. A young girl of twenty is not a +severe judge of a handsome, lively young man, who knows far more of +the world than she does; and though Harry’s conversation was a perfect +Catherine-wheel of all sorts of wild talk,—sneering, bitter, and +sceptical, and giving expression to the most heterodox sentiments, with +the evident intention of shocking respectable authorities,—Rose rather +liked him than otherwise; though she now and then took the liberty to +stand upon her dignity, and opened her great blue eyes on him with a +grave, inquiring look of surprise,—a look that seemed to challenge +him to stand and defend himself. From time to time, too, she let fall +little bits of independent opinion, well poised and well turned, that +hit exactly where she meant they should; and Harry began to stand a +little in awe of her. + +Harry had never known a woman like Rose; a woman so poised and +self-centred, so cultivated, so capable of deep and just reflections, +and so religious. His experience with women had not been fortunate, as +has been seen in this narrative; and, insensibly to himself, Rose was +beginning to exercise an influence over him. The sphere around her was +cool and bright and wholesome, as different from the hot atmosphere of +passion and sentiment and flirtation to which he had been accustomed, +as a New-England summer morning from a sultry night in the tropics. +Her power over him was in the appeal to a wholly different part of +his nature,—intellect, conscience, and religious sensibility; and +once or twice he found himself speaking to her quietly, seriously, +and rationally, not from the purpose of pleasing her, but because she +had aroused such a strain of thought in his own mind. There was a +certain class of brilliant sayings of his, of a cleverly irreligious +and sceptical nature, at which Rose never laughed: when this sort of +firework was let off in her presence, she opened her eyes upon him, +wide and blue, with a calm surprise intermixed with pity, but said +nothing; and, after trying the experiment several times, he gradually +felt this silent kind of look a restraint upon him. + +At the same time, it must not be conjectured that, at present, Harry +Endicott was thinking of falling in love with Rose. In fact, he scoffed +at the idea of love, and professed to disbelieve in its existence. +And, beside all this, he was gratifying an idle vanity, and the wicked +love of revenge, in visiting Lillie; sometimes professing for days +an exclusive devotion to her, in which there was a little too much +reality on both sides to be at all safe or innocent; and then, when +he had wound her up to the point where even her involuntary looks +and words and actions towards him must have compromised her in the +eyes of others, he would suddenly recede for days, and devote himself +exclusively to Rose; driving ostentatiously with her in the park, +where he would meet Lillie face to face, and bow triumphantly to her +in passing. All these proceedings, talked over with Mrs. Follingsbee, +seemed to give promise of the most impassioned French romance possible. + +Rose walked through all her part in this little drama, wrapped in a +veil of sacred ignorance. Had she known the whole, the probability +is that she would have refused Harry’s acquaintance; but, like many +another nice girl, she tripped gayly near to pitfalls and chasms of +which she had not the remotest conception. + +Lillie’s want of self-control, and imprudent conduct, had laid her open +to reports in certain circles where such reports find easy credence; +but these were circles with which the Van Astrachans never mingled. +The only accidental point of contact was the intimacy of Rose with the +Seymour family; and Rose was the last person to understand an allusion +if she heard it. The reading of Rose had been carefully selected by +her father, and had not embraced any novels of the French romantic +school; neither had she, like some modern young ladies, made her mind a +highway for the tramping of every kind of possible fictitious character +which a novelist might choose to draw, nor taken an interest in the +dissections of morbid anatomy. In fact, she was old-fashioned enough to +like Scott’s novels; and though she was just the kind of girl Thackeray +would have loved, she never could bring her fresh young heart to enjoy +his pictures of world-worn and decaying natures. + +The idea of sentimental flirtations and love-making on the part of a +married woman was one so beyond her conception of possibilities that it +would have been very difficult to make her understand or believe it. + +On the occasion of the Follingsbee party, therefore, Rose accepted +Harry as an escort in simple good faith. She was by no means so wise +as not to have a deal of curiosity about it, and not a little of dazed +and dazzled sense of enjoyment in prospect of the perfect labyrinth of +fairy-land which the Follingsbee mansion opened before her. + +On the eventful evening, Mrs. Follingsbee and Lillie stood together to +receive their guests,—the former in gold color, with magnificent point +lace and diamond tiara; while Lillie in heavenly blue, with wreaths +of misty tulle and pearl ornaments, seemed like a filmy cloud by the +setting sun. + +Rose, entering on Harry Endicott’s arm, in the full bravery of a +well-chosen toilet, caused a buzz of admiration which followed them +through the rooms; but Rose was nothing to the illuminated eyes of +Mrs. Follingsbee compared with the portly form of Mrs. Van Astrachan +entering beside her, and spreading over her the wings of motherly +protection. That much-desired matron, serene in her point lace and +diamonds, beamed around her with an innocent kindliness, shedding +respectability wherever she moved, as a certain Russian prince was said +to shed diamonds. + +[Illustration: “Rose, entering on Harry Endicott’s arm.”] + +“Why, that is Mrs. Van Astrachan!” + +“You don’t tell me so! Is it possible?” + +“Which?” “Where is she?” “How in the world did she get here?” were +the whispered remarks that followed her wherever she moved; and Mrs. +Follingsbee, looking after her, could hardly suppress an exulting _Te +Deum_. It was done, and couldn’t be undone. + +Mrs. Van Astrachan might not appear again at a _salon_ of hers for +a year; but that could not do away the patent fact, witnessed by so +many eyes, that she had been there once. Just as a modern newspaper +or magazine wants only one article of a celebrated author to announce +him as among their stated contributors for all time, and to flavor +every subsequent issue of the journal with expectancy, so Mrs. +Follingsbee exulted in the idea that this one evening would flavor all +her receptions for the winter, whether the good lady’s diamonds ever +appeared there again or not. In her secret heart, she always had the +perception, when striving to climb up on this kind of ladder, that the +time might come when she should be found out; and she well knew the +absolute and uncomprehending horror with which that good lady would +regard the French principles and French practice of which Charlie +Ferrola and Co. were the expositors and exemplars. + +This was what Charlie Ferrola meant when he said that the Van +Astrachans were obtuse. They never could be brought to the niceties of +moral perspective which show one exactly where to find the vanishing +point for every duty. + +Be that as it may, there, at any rate, she was, safe and sound; +surrounded by people whom she had never met before, and receiving +introductions to the right and left with the utmost graciousness. The +arrangements for the evening had been made at the tea-table of the Van +Astrachans with an innocent and trustful simplicity. + +“You know, dear,” said Mrs. Van Astrachan to Rose, “that I never like +to stay long away from papa” (so the worthy lady called her husband); +“and so, if it’s just the same to you, you shall let me have the +carriage come for me early, and then you and Harry shall be left free +to see it out. I know young folks must be young,” she said, with a +comfortable laugh. “There was a time, dear, when my waist was not +bigger than yours, that I used to dance all night with the best of +them; but I’ve got bravely over that now.” + +[Illustration: THE VAN ASTRACHANS.] + +“Yes, Rose,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, “you mayn’t believe it, but ma +there was the spryest dancer of any of the girls. You are pretty nice +to look at, but you don’t quite come up to what she was in those days. +I tell you, I wish you could have seen her,” said the good man, warming +to his subject. “Why, I’ve seen the time when every fellow on the floor +was after her.” + +“Papa,” says Mrs. Van Astrachan, reprovingly, “I wouldn’t say such +things if I were you.” + +“Yes, I would,” said Rose. “Do tell us, Mr. Van Astrachan.” + +“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Van Astrachan: “you ought to have seen +her in a red dress she used to wear.” + +“Oh, come, papa! what nonsense! Rose, I never wore a red dress in my +life; it was a pink silk; but you know men never do know the names for +colors.” + +“Well, at any rate,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, hardily, “pink or red, no +matter; but I’ll tell you, she took all before her that evening. There +were Stuyvesants and Van Rennselaers and Livingstons, and all sorts of +grand fellows, in her train; but, somehow, I cut ’em out. There is no +such dancing nowadays as there was when wife and I were young. I’ve +been caught once or twice in one of their parties; and I don’t call +it dancing. I call it draggle-tailing. They don’t take any steps, and +there is no spirit in it.” + +“Well,” said Rose, “I know we moderns are very much to be pitied. Papa +always tells me the same story about mamma, and the days when he was +young. But, dear Mrs. Van Astrachan, I hope you won’t stay a moment, +on my account, after you get tired. I suppose if you are just seen with +me there in the beginning of the evening, it will matronize me enough; +and then I have engaged to dance the ‘German’ with Mr. Endicott, and I +believe they keep that up till nobody knows when. But I am determined +to see the whole through.” + +“Yes, yes! see it all through,” said Mr. Van Astrachan. “Young people +must be young. It’s all right enough, and you won’t miss my Polly after +you get fairly into it near so much as I shall. I’ll sit up for her +till twelve o’clock, and read my paper.” + +Rose was at first, to say the truth, bewildered and surprised by the +perfect labyrinth of fairy-land which Charlie Ferrola’s artistic +imagination had created in the Follingsbee mansion. + +Initiated people, who had travelled in Europe, said it put them in +mind of the “Jardin Mabille;” and those who had not were reminded of +some of the wonders of “The Black Crook.” There were apartments turned +into bowers and grottoes, where the gas-light shimmered behind veils +of falling water, and through pendant leaves of all sorts of strange +water-plants of tropical regions. There were all those wonderful +leaf-plants of every weird device of color, which have been conjured +up by tricks of modern gardening, as Rappacini is said to have created +his strange garden in Padua. There were beds of hyacinths and crocuses +and tulips, made to appear like living gems by the jets of gas-light +which came up among them in glass flowers of the same form. Far away +in recesses were sofas of soft green velvet turf, overshadowed by +trailing vines, and illuminated with moonlight-softness by hidden +alabaster lamps. The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, and the +sound of music and dancing from the ballroom came to these recesses +softened by distance. + +The Follingsbee mansion occupied a whole square of the city; and +these enchanted bowers were created by temporary enlargements of the +conservatory covering the ground of the garden. With money, and the +Croton Water-works, and all the New-York greenhouses at disposal, +nothing was impossible. + +There was in this reception no vulgar rush or crush or jam. The +apartments opened were so extensive, and the attractions in so many +different directions, that there did not appear to be a crowd anywhere. + +There was no general table set, with the usual liabilities of rush and +crush; but four or five well-kept rooms, fragrant with flowers and +sparkling with silver and crystal, were ready at any hour to minister +to the guest whatever delicacy or dainty he or she might demand; and +light-footed waiters circulated with noiseless obsequiousness through +all the rooms, proffering dainties on silver trays. + +Mrs. Van Astrachan and Rose at first found themselves walking +everywhere, with a fresh and lively interest. It was something quite +out of the line of the good lady’s previous experience, and so +different from any thing she had ever seen before, as to keep her in a +state of placid astonishment. Rose, on the other hand, was delighted +and excited; the more so that she could not help perceiving that she +herself amid all these objects of beauty was followed by the admiring +glances of many eyes. + +It is not to be supposed that a girl so handsome as Rose comes to her +twentieth year without having the pretty secret made known to her +in more ways than one, or that thus made known it is any thing but +agreeable; but, on the present occasion, there was a buzz of inquiry +and a crowd of applicants about her; and her dancing-list seemed in +a fair way to be soon filled up for the evening, Harry telling her +laughingly that he would let her off from every thing but the “German;” +but that she might consider her engagement with him as a standing one +whenever troubled with an application which for any reason she did not +wish to accept. + +Harry assumed towards Rose that air of brotherly guardianship which a +young man who piques himself on having seen a good deal of the world +likes to take with a pretty girl who knows less of it. Besides, he +rather valued himself on having brought to the reception the most +brilliant girl of the evening. + +Our friend Lillie, however, was in her own way as entrancingly +beautiful this evening as the most perfect mortal flesh and blood +could be made; and Harry went back to her when Rose went off with her +partners as a moth flies to a candle, not with any express intention of +burning his wings, but simply because he likes to be dazzled, and likes +the bitter excitement. He felt now that he had power over her,—a bad, a +dangerous power he knew, with what of conscience was left in him; but +he thought, “Let her take her own risk.” And so, many busy gossips saw +the handsome young man, his great dark eyes kindled with an evil light, +whirling in dizzy mazes with this cloud of flossy mist; out of which +looked up to him an impassioned woman’s face, and eyes that said what +those eyes had no right to say. + +There are times, in such scenes of bewilderment, when women are as +truly out of their own control by nervous excitement as if they were +intoxicated; and Lillie’s looks and words and actions towards Harry +were as open a declaration of her feelings as if she had spoken them +aloud to every one present. + +The scandals about them were confirmed in the eyes of every one that +looked on; for there were plenty of people present in whose view of +things the worst possible interpretation was the most probable one. + +Rose was in the way, during the course of the evening, of hearing +remarks of the most disagreeable and startling nature with regard to +the relations of Harry and Lillie to each other. They filled her with a +sort of horror, as if she had come to an unwholesome place; while she +indignantly repelled them from her thoughts, as every uncontaminated +woman will the first suspicion of the purity of a sister woman. In +Rose’s view it was monstrous and impossible. Yet when she stood at +one time in a group to see them waltzing, she started, and felt a +cold shudder, as a certain instinctive conviction of something not +right forced itself on her. She closed her eyes, and wished herself +away; wished that she had not let Mrs. Van Astrachan go home without +her; wished that somebody would speak to Lillie and caution her; felt +an indignant rising of her heart against Harry, and was provoked at +herself that she was engaged to him for the “German.” + +She turned away; and, taking the arm of the gentleman with her, +complained of the heat as oppressive, and they sauntered off together +into the bowery region beyond. + +“Oh, now! where can I have left my fan?” she said, suddenly stopping. + +“Let me go back and get it for you,” said he of the whiskers who +attended her. It was one of the dancing young men of New York, and it +is no particular matter what his name was. + +“Thank you,” said Rose: “I believe I left it on the sofa in the yellow +drawing-room.” He was gone in a moment. + +Rose wandered on a little way, through the labyrinth of flowers and +shadowy trees and fountains, and sat down on an artificial rock where +she fell into a deep reverie. Rising to go back, she missed her way, +and became quite lost, and went on uneasily, conscious that she had +committed a rudeness in not waiting for her attendant. + +At this moment she looked through a distant alcove of shrubbery, +and saw Harry and Lillie standing together,—she with both hands +laid upon his arm, looking up to him and speaking rapidly with an +imploring accent. She saw him, with an angry frown, push Lillie from +him so rudely that she almost fell backward, and sat down with her +handkerchief to her eyes; he came forward hurriedly, and met the eyes +of Rose fixed upon him. + +[Illustration: “She saw him, with an angry frown, push Lillie from +him.”] + +“Mr. Endicott,” she said, “I have to ask a favor of you. Will you be so +good as to excuse me from the ‘German’ to-night, and order my carriage?” + +“Why, Miss Ferguson, what is the matter?” he said: “what has come over +you? I hope I have not had the misfortune to do any thing to displease +you?” + +Without replying to this, Rose answered, “I feel very unwell. My head +is aching violently, and I cannot go through the rest of the evening. I +must go home at once.” She spoke it in a decided tone that admitted of +no question. + +Without answer, Harry Endicott gave her his arm, accompanied her +through the final leave-takings, went with her to the carriage, put her +in, and sprang in after her. + +Rose sank back on her seat, and remained perfectly silent; and Harry, +after a few remarks of his had failed to elicit a reply, rode by her +side equally silent through the streets homeward. + +He had Mr. Van Astrachan’s latch-key; and, when the carriage stopped, +he helped Rose to alight, and went up the steps of the house. + +“Miss Ferguson,” he said abruptly, “I have something I want to say to +you.” + +“Not now, not to-night,” said Rose, hurriedly. “I am too tired; and it +is too late.” + +“To-morrow then,” he said: “I shall call when you will have had time to +be rested. Good-night!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +_THE SPIDER-WEB BROKEN._ + + +HARRY did not go back, to lead the “German,” as he had been engaged to +do. In fact, in his last apologies to Mrs. Follingsbee, he had excused +himself on account of his partner’s sudden indisposition,—a thing which +made no small buzz and commotion; though the missing gap, like all gaps +great and little in human society, soon found somebody to step into it: +and the dance went on just as gayly as if they had been there. + +Meanwhile, there were in this good city of New York a couple of +sleepless individuals, revolving many things uneasily during the +night-watches, or at least that portion of the night-watches that +remained after they reached home,—to wit, Mr. Harry Endicott and Miss +Rose Ferguson. + +What had taken place in that little scene between Lillie and Harry, +the termination of which was seen by Rose? We are not going to give +a minute description. The public has already been circumstantially +instructed by such edifying books as “Cometh up as a Flower,” and +others of a like turn, in what manner and in what terms married women +can abdicate the dignity of their sex, and degrade themselves so far +as to offer their whole life, and their whole selves, to some reluctant +man, with too much remaining conscience or prudence to accept the +sacrifice. + +It was from some such wild, passionate utterances of Lillie that Harry +felt a recoil of mingled conscience, fear, and that disgust which man +feels when she, whom God made to be sought, degrades herself to seek. +There is no edification and no propriety in highly colored and minute +drawing of such scenes of temptation and degradation, though they +are the stock and staple of some French novels, and more disgusting +English ones made on their model. Harry felt in his own conscience +that he had been acting a most unworthy part, that no advances on the +part of Lillie could excuse his conduct; and his thoughts went back +somewhat regretfully to the days long ago, when she was a fair, pretty, +innocent girl, and he had loved her honestly and truly. Unperceived +by himself, the character of Rose was exerting a powerful influence +over him; and, when he met that look of pain and astonishment which he +had seen in her large blue eyes the night before, it seemed to awaken +many things within him. It is astonishing how blindly people sometimes +go on as to the character of their own conduct, till suddenly, like a +torch in a dark place, the light of another person’s opinion is thrown +in upon them, and they begin to judge themselves under the quickening +influence of another person’s moral magnetism. Then, indeed, it often +happens that the graves give up their dead, and that there is a sort +of interior resurrection and judgment. + +Harry did not seem to be consciously thinking of Rose, and yet the +undertone of all that night’s uneasiness was a something that had +been roused and quickened in him by his acquaintance with her. How he +loathed himself for the last few weeks of his life! How he loathed +that hot, lurid, murky atmosphere of flirtation and passion and French +sentimentality in which he had been living!—atmosphere as hard to draw +healthy breath in as the odor of wilting tuberoses the day after a +party. + +Harry valued Rose’s good opinion as he had never valued it before; +and, as he thought of her in his restless tossings, she seemed to him +something as pure, as wholesome, and strong as the air of his native +New-England hills, as the sweet-brier and sweet-fern he used to love +to gather when he was a boy. She seemed of a piece with all the good +old ways of New England,—its household virtues, its conscientious sense +of right, its exact moral boundaries; and he felt somehow as if she +belonged to that healthy portion of his life which he now looked back +upon with something of regret. + +Then, what would she think of him? They had been friends, he said to +himself; they had passed over those boundaries of teasing unreality +where most young gentlemen and young ladies are content to hold +converse with each other, and had talked together reasonably and +seriously, saying in some hours what they really thought and felt. +And Rose had impressed him at times by her silence and reticence in +certain connections, and on certain subjects, with a sense of something +hidden and veiled,—a reserved force that he longed still further to +penetrate. But now, he said to himself, he must have fallen in her +opinion. Why was she so cold, so almost haughty, in her treatment of +him the night before? He felt in the atmosphere around her, and in the +touch of her hand, that she was quivering like a galvanic battery with +the suppressed force of some powerful emotion; and his own conscience +dimly interpreted to him what it might be. + +To say the truth, Rose was terribly aroused. And there was a great deal +in her to be aroused, for she had a strong nature; and the whole force +of womanhood in her had never received such a shock. + +Whatever may be scoffingly said of the readiness of women to pull one +another down, it is certain that the highest class of them have the +feminine _esprit de corps_ immensely strong. The humiliation of another +woman seems to them their own humiliation; and man’s lordly contempt +for another woman seems like contempt of themselves. + +The deepest feeling roused in Rose by the scenes which she saw last +night was concern for the honor of womanhood; and her indignation at +first did not strike where we are told woman’s indignation does, on +the woman, but on the man. Loving John Seymour as a brother from her +childhood, feeling in the intimacy in which they had grown up as if +their families had been one, the thoughts that had been forced upon +her of his wife the night before had struck to her heart with the +weight of a terrible affliction. She judged Lillie as a pure woman +generally judges another,—out of herself,—and could not and would +not believe that the gross and base construction which had been put +upon her conduct was the true one. She looked upon her as led astray +by inordinate vanity, and the hopeless levity of an undeveloped, +unreflecting habit of mind. She was indignant with Harry for the part +that he had taken in the affair, and indignant and vexed with herself +for the degree of freedom and intimacy which she had been suffering +to grow up between him and herself. Her first impulse was to break it +off altogether, and have nothing more to say to or do with him. She +felt as if she would like to take the short course which young girls +sometimes take out of the first serious mortification or trouble in +their life, and run away from it altogether. She would have liked to +have packed her trunk, taken her seat on board the cars, and gone home +to Springdale the next day, and forgotten all about the whole of it; +but then, what should she say to Mrs. Van Astrachan? what account could +she give for the sudden breaking up of her visit? + +Then, there was Harry going to call on her the next day! What ought +she to say to him? On the whole, it was a delicate matter for a young +girl of twenty to manage alone. How she longed to have the counsel +of her sister or her mother! She thought of Mrs. Van Astrachan; but +then, again, she did not wish to disturb that good lady’s pleasant, +confidential relations with Harry, and tell tales of him out of school: +so, on the whole, she had a restless and uncomfortable night of it. + +Mrs. Van Astrachan expressed her surprise at seeing Rose take her place +at the breakfast-table the next morning. “Dear me!” she said, “I was +just telling Jane to have some breakfast kept for you. I had no idea of +seeing you down at this time.” + +“But,” said Rose, “I gave out entirely, and came away only an hour +after you did. The fact is, we country girls can’t stand this sort of +thing. I had such a terrible headache, and felt so tired and exhausted, +that I got Mr. Endicott to bring me away before the ‘German.’” + +“Bless me!” said Mr. Van Astrachan; “why, you’re not at all up to +snuff! Why, Polly, you and I used to stick it out till daylight! didn’t +we?” + +“Well, you see, Mr. Van Astrachan, I hadn’t anybody like you to stick +it out with,” said Rose. “Perhaps that made the difference.” + +“Oh, well, now, I am sure there’s our Harry! I am sure a girl must be +difficult, if he doesn’t suit her for a beau,” said the good gentleman. + +“Oh, Mr. Endicott is all well enough!” said Rose; “only, you observe, +not precisely to me what you were to the lady you call Polly,—that’s +all.” + +“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Van Astrachan. “Well, to be sure, that does make +a difference; but Harry’s a nice fellow, nice fellow, Miss Rose: not +many fellows like him, as I think.” + +“Yes, indeed,” chimed in Mrs. Van Astrachan. “I haven’t a son in the +world that I think more of than I do of Harry; he has such a good +heart.” + +Now, the fact was, this eulogistic strain that the worthy couple were +very prone to fall into in speaking of Harry to Rose was this morning +most especially annoying to her; and she turned the subject at once, by +chattering so fluently, and with such minute details of description, +about the arrangements of the rooms and the flowers and the lamps and +the fountains and the cascades, and all the fairy-land wonders of the +Follingsbee party, that the good pair found themselves constrained to +be listeners during the rest of the time devoted to the morning meal. + +It will be found that good young ladies, while of course they have all +the innocence of the dove, do display upon emergencies a considerable +share of the wisdom of the serpent. And on this same mother wit and +wisdom, Rose called internally, when that day, about eleven o’clock, +she was summoned to the library, to give Harry his audience. + +Truth to say, she was in a state of excited womanhood vastly becoming +to her general appearance, and entered the library with flushed cheeks +and head erect, like one prepared to stand for herself and for her sex. + +Harry, however, wore a mortified, semi-penitential air, that, on +the first glance, rather mollified her. Still, however, she was not +sufficiently clement to give him the least assistance in opening the +conversation, by the suggestions of any of those nice little oily +nothings with which ladies, when in a gracious mood, can smooth the +path for a difficult confession. + +She sat very quietly, with her hands before her, while Harry walked +tumultuously up and down the room. + +“Miss Ferguson,” he said at last, abruptly, “I know you are thinking +ill of me.” + +Miss Ferguson did not reply. + +“I had hoped,” he said, “that there had been a little something more +than mere acquaintance between us. I had hoped you looked upon me as a +friend.” + +“I did, Mr. Endicott,” said Rose. + +“And you do not now?” + +“I cannot say that,” she said, after a pause; “but, Mr. Endicott, if we +are friends, you must give me the liberty to speak plainly.” + +“That’s exactly what I want you to do!” he said impetuously; “that is +just what I wish.” + +“Allow me to ask, then, if you are an early friend, and family +connection of Mrs. John Seymour?” + +“I was an early friend, and am somewhat of a family connection.” + +“That is, I understand there has been a ground in your past history for +you to be on a footing of a certain family intimacy with Mrs. Seymour; +in that case, Mr. Endicott, I think you ought to have considered +yourself the guardian of her honor and reputation, and not allowed her +to be compromised on your account.” + +The blood flushed into Harry’s face; and he stood abashed and silent. +Rose went on,— + +“I was shocked, I was astonished, last night, because I could not help +overhearing the most disagreeable, the most painful remarks on you and +her,—remarks most unjust, I am quite sure, but for which I fear you +have given too much reason!” + +“Miss Ferguson,” said Harry, stopping as he walked up and down, “I +confess I have been wrong and done wrong; but, if you knew all, you +might see how I have been led into it. That woman has been the evil +fate of my life. Years ago, when we were both young, I loved her as +honestly as man could love a woman; and she professed to love me in +return. But I was poor; and she would not marry me. She sent me off, +yet she would not let me forget her. She would always write to me just +enough to keep up hope and interest; and she knew for years that all my +object in striving for fortune was to win her. At last, when a lucky +stroke made me suddenly rich, and I came home to seek her, I found her +married,—married, as she owns, without love,—married for wealth and +ambition. I don’t justify myself,—I don’t pretend to; but when she met +me with her old smiles and her old charms, and told me she loved me +still, it roused the very devil in me. I wanted revenge. I wanted to +humble her, and make her suffer all she had made me; and I didn’t care +what came of it.” + +Harry spoke, trembling with emotion; and Rose felt almost terrified +with the storm she had raised. + +“O Mr. Endicott!” she said, “was this worthy of you? was there nothing +better, higher, more manly than this poor revenge? You men are +stronger than we: you have the world in your hands; you have a thousand +resources where we have only one. And you ought to be stronger and +nobler according to your advantages; you ought to rise superior to the +temptations that beset a poor, weak, ill-educated woman, whom everybody +has been flattering from her cradle, and whom you, I dare say, have +helped to flatter, turning her head with compliments, like all the rest +of them. Come, now, is not there something in that?” + +“Well, I suppose,” said Harry, “that when Lillie and I were girl and +boy together, I did flatter her, sincerely that is. Her beauty made a +fool of me; and I helped make a fool of her.” + +“And I dare say,” said Rose, “you told her that all she was made for +was to be charming, and encouraged her to live the life of a butterfly +or canary-bird. Did you ever try to strengthen her principles, to +educate her mind, to make her strong? On the contrary, haven’t you been +bowing down and adoring her for being weak? It seems to me that Lillie +is exactly the kind of woman that you men educate, by the way you look +on women, and the way you treat them.” + +Harry sat in silence, ruminating. + +“Now,” said Rose, “it seems to me it’s the most cowardly and unmanly +thing in the world for men, with every advantage in their hands, with +all the strength that their kind of education gives them, with all +their opportunities,—a thousand to our one,—to hunt down these poor +little silly women, whom society keeps stunted and dwarfed for their +special amusement.” + +“Miss Ferguson, you are very severe,” said Harry, his face flushing. + +“Well,” said Rose, “you have this advantage, Mr. Endicott: you know, if +I am, the world will not be. Everybody will take your part; everybody +will smile on you, and condemn her. That is generous, is it not? I +think, after all, Noah Claypole isn’t so very uncommon a picture of the +way that your lordly sex turn round and cast all the blame on ours. +You will never make me believe in a protracted flirtation between a +gentleman and lady, where at least half the blame does not lie on +his lordship’s side. I always said that a woman had no need to have +offers made her by a man she could not love, if she conducted herself +properly; and I think the same is true in regard to men. But then, as I +said before, you have the world on your side; nine persons out of ten +see no possible harm in a man’s taking every advantage of a woman, if +she will let him.” + +“But I care more for the opinion of the tenth person than of the nine,” +said Harry; “I care more for what you think than any of them. Your +words are severe; but I think they are just.” + +“O Mr. Endicott!” said Rose, “live for something higher than for what +I think,—than for what any one thinks. Think how many glorious chances +there are for a noble career for a young man with your fortune, with +your leisure, with your influence! is it for you to waste life in this +unworthy way? If I had your chances, I would try to do something worth +doing.” + +Rose’s face kindled with enthusiasm; and Harry looked at her with +admiration. + +“Tell me what I ought to do!” he said. + +“I cannot tell you,” said Rose; “but where there is a will there is +a way: and, if you have the will, you will find the way. But, first, +you must try and repair the mischief you have done to Lillie. By your +own account of the matter, you have been encouraging and keeping up a +sort of silly, romantic excitement in her. It is worse than silly; it +is sinful. It is trifling with her best interests in this life and the +life to come. And I think you must know that, if you had treated her +like an honest, plain-spoken brother or cousin, without any trumpery of +gallantry or sentiment, things would have never got to be as they are. +You could have prevented all this; and you can put an end to it now.” + +“Honestly, I will try,” said Harry. “I will begin, by confessing my +faults like a good boy, and take the blame on myself where it belongs, +and try to make Lillie see things like a good girl. But she is in bad +surroundings; and, if I were her husband, I wouldn’t let her stay there +another day. There are no morals in that circle; it’s all a perfect +crush of decaying garbage.” + +“I think,” said Rose, “that, if this thing goes no farther, it will +gradually die out even in that circle; and, in the better circles of +New York, I trust it will not be heard of. Mrs. Van Astrachan and I +will appear publicly with Lillie; and if she is seen with us, and at +this house, it will be sufficient to contradict a dozen slanders. +She has the noblest, kindest husband,—one of the best men and truest +gentlemen I ever knew.” + +“I pity him then,” said Harry. + +“He is to be pitied,” said Rose; “but his work is before him. This +woman, such as she is, with all her faults, he has taken for better or +for worse; and all true friends and good people, both his and hers, +should help both sides to make the best of it.” + +“I should say,” said Harry, “that there is in this no best side.” + +“I think you do Lillie injustice,” said Rose. “There is, and must be, +good in every one; and gradually the good in him will overcome the evil +in her.” + +“Let us hope so,” said Harry. “And now, Miss Ferguson, may I hope that +you won’t quite cross my name out of your good book? You’ll be friends +with me, won’t you?” + +“Oh, certainly!” said Rose, with a frank smile. + +“Well, let’s shake hands on that,” said Harry, rising to go. + +Rose gave him her hand, and the two parted in all amity. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +_COMMON-SENSE ARGUMENTS._ + + +HARRY went straightway from the interview to call upon Lillie, and +had a conversation with her; in which he conducted himself like a +sober, discreet, and rational man. It was one of those daylight, +matter-of-fact kinds of talks, with no nonsense about them, in which +things are called by their right names. He confessed his own sins, and +took upon his own shoulders the blame that properly belonged there; +and, having thus cleared his conscience, took occasion to give Lillie a +deal of grandfatherly advice, of a very sedative tendency. + +They had both been very silly, he said; and the next step to being +silly very often was to be wicked. For his part, he thought she ought +to be thankful for so good a husband; and, for his own part, he should +lose no time in trying to find a good wife, who would help him to be +a good man, and do something worth doing in the world. He had given +people occasion to say ill-natured things about her; and he was sorry +for it. But, if they stopped being imprudent, the world would in time +stop talking. He hoped, some of these days, to bring his wife down to +see her, and to make the acquaintance of her husband, whom he knew to +be a capital fellow, and one that she ought to be proud of. + +Thus, by the intervention of good angels, the little paper-nautilus +bark of Lillie’s fortunes was prevented from going down in the great +ugly maelstrom, on the verge of which it had been so heedlessly sailing. + +Harry was not slow in pushing the advantage of his treaty of friendship +with Rose to its utmost limits; and, being a young gentleman of parts +and proficiency, he made rapid progress. + +The interview of course immediately bred the necessity for at least a +dozen more; for he had to explain this thing, and qualify that, and, +on reflection, would find by the next day that the explanation and +qualification required a still further elucidation. Rose also, after +the first conversation was over, was troubled at her own boldness, and +at the things that she in her state of excitement had said; and so was +only too glad to accord interviews and explanations as often as sought, +and, on the whole, was in the most favorable state towards her penitent. + +Hence came many calls, and many conferences with Rose in the library, +to Mrs. Van Astrachan’s great satisfaction, and concerning which Mr. +Van Astrachan had many suppressed chuckles and knowing winks at Polly. + +“Now, pa, don’t you say a word,” said Mrs. Van Astrachan. + +“Oh, no, Polly! catch me! I see a great deal, but I say nothing,” said +the good gentleman, with a jocular quiver of his portly person. “I +don’t say any thing,—oh, no! by no manner of means.” + +Neither at present did Harry; neither do we. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +_SENTIMENT v. SENSIBILITY._ + + +THE poet has feelingly sung the condition of + + “The banquet hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, and garlands dead,” &c., + +and so we need not cast the daylight of minute description on the +Follingsbee mansion. + +Charlie Ferrola, however, was summoned away at early daylight, just +as the last of the revellers were dispersing, by a hurried messenger +from his wife; and, a few moments after he entered his house, he +was standing beside his dying baby,—the little fellow whom we have +seen brought down on Mrs. Ferrola’s arm, to greet the call of Mrs. +Follingsbee. + +It is an awful thing for people of the flimsy, vain, pain-shunning, +pleasure-seeking character of Charlie Ferrola, to be taken at times, +as such people will be, in the grip of an inexorable power, and held +face to face with the sternest, the most awful, the most frightful +realities of life. Charlie Ferrola was one of those whose softness and +pitifulness, like that of sentimentalists generally, was only one form +of intense selfishness. The sight of suffering pained him; and his +first impulse was to get out of the way of it. Suffering that he did +not see was nothing to him; and, if his wife or children were in any +trouble, he would have liked very well to have known nothing about it. + +But here he was, by the bedside of this little creature, dying in the +agonies of slow suffocation, rolling up its dark, imploring eyes, and +lifting its poor little helpless hands; and Charlie Ferrola broke out +into the most violent and extravagant demonstrations of grief. + +The pale, firm little woman, who had watched all night, and in whose +tranquil face a light as if from heaven was beaming, had to assume the +care of him, in addition to that of her dying child. He was another +helpless burden on her hands. + +There came a day when the house was filled with white flowers, and +people came and went, and holy words were spoken; and the fairest +flower of all was carried out, to return to the house no more. + +“That woman is a most unnatural and peculiar woman!” said Mrs. +Follingsbee, who had been most active and patronizing in sending +flowers, and attending to the scenic arrangements of the funeral. “It +is just what I always said: she is a perfect statue; she’s no kind of +feeling. There was Charlie, poor fellow! so sick that he had to go to +bed, perfectly overcome, and have somebody to sit up with him; and +there was that woman never shed a tear,—went round attending to every +thing, just like a piece of clock-work. Well, I suppose people are +happier for being made so; people that have no sensibility are better +fitted to get through the world. But, gracious me! I can’t understand +such people. There she stood at the grave, looking so calm, when +Charlie was sobbing so that he could hardly hold himself up. Well, it +really wasn’t respectable. I think, at least, I would keep my veil +down, and keep my handkerchief up. Poor Charlie! he came to me at last; +and I gave way. I was completely broken down, I must confess. Poor +fellow! he told me there was no conceiving his misery. That baby was +the very idol of his soul; all his hopes of life were centred in it. +He really felt tempted to rebel at Providence. He said that he really +could not talk with his wife on the subject. He could not enter into +her submission at all; it seemed to him like a want of feeling. He said +of course it wasn’t her fault that she was made one way and he another.” + +In fact, Mr. Charlie Ferrola took to the pink satin boudoir with a +more languishing persistency than ever, requiring to be stayed with +flagons, and comforted with apples, and receiving sentimental calls +of condolence from fair admirers, made aware of the intense poignancy +of his grief. A lovely poem, called “My Withered Blossom,” which +appeared in a fashionable magazine shortly after, was the out-come of +this experience, and increased the fashionable sympathy to the highest +degree. + +Honest Mrs. Van Astrachan, however, though not acquainted with Mrs. +Ferrola, went to the funeral with Rose; and the next day her carriage +was seen at Mrs. Ferrola’s door. + +“You poor little darling!” she said, as she came up and took Mrs. +Ferrola in her arms. “You must let me come, and not mind me; for I know +all about it. I lost the dearest little baby once; and I have never +forgotten it. There! there, darling!” she said, as the little woman +broke into sobs in her arms. “Yes, yes; do cry! it will do your little +heart good.” + +There are people who, wherever they move, freeze the hearts of those +they touch, and chill all demonstration of feeling; and there are warm +natures, that unlock every fountain, and bid every feeling gush forth. +The reader has seen these two types in this story. + + * * * * * + +“Wife,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, coming to Mrs. V. confidentially a day +or two after, “I wonder if you remember any of your French. What is a +_liaison_?” + +“Really, dear,” said Mrs. Van Astrachan, whose reading of late years +had been mostly confined to such memoirs as that of Mrs. Isabella +Graham, Doddridge’s “Rise and Progress,” and Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest,” +“it’s a great while since I read any French. What do you want to know +for?” + +“Well, there’s Ben Stuyvesant was saying this morning, in Wall Street, +that there’s a great deal of talk about that Mrs. Follingsbee and that +young fellow whose baby’s funeral you went to. Ben says there’s a +_liaison_ between her and him. I didn’t ask him what ’twas; but it’s +something or other with a French name that makes talk, and I don’t +think it’s respectable! I’m sorry that you and Rose went to her party; +but then that can’t be helped now. I’m afraid this Mrs. Follingsbee is +no sort of a woman, after all.” + +“But, pa, I’ve been to call on Mrs. Ferrola, poor little afflicted +thing!” said Mrs. Van Astrachan. “I couldn’t help it! You know how we +felt when little Willie died.” + +“Oh, certainly, Polly! call on the poor woman by all means, and do all +you can to comfort her; but, from all I can find out, that handsome +jackanapes of a husband of hers is just the poorest trash going. They +say this Follingsbee woman half supports him. The time was in New York +when such doings wouldn’t be allowed; and I don’t think calling things +by French names makes them a bit better. So you just be careful, and +steer as clear of her as you can.” + +“I will, pa, just as clear as I can; but you know Rose is a friend of +Mrs. John Seymour; and Mrs. Seymour is visiting at Mrs. Follingsbee’s.” + +“Her husband oughtn’t to let her stay there another day,” said Mr. +Van Astrachan. “It’s as much as any woman’s reputation is worth to be +staying with her. To think of that fellow being dancing and capering at +that Jezebel’s house the night his baby was dying!” + +“Oh, but, pa, he didn’t know it.” + +“Know it? he ought to have known it! What business has a man to get +a woman with a lot of babies round her, and then go capering off? +’Twasn’t the way I did, Polly, you know, when our babies were young. I +was always on the spot there, ready to take the baby, and walk up and +down with it nights, so that you might get your sleep; and I always had +it my side of the bed half the night. I’d like to have seen myself out +at a ball, and you sitting up with a sick baby! I tell you, that if I +caught any of my boys up to such tricks, I’d cut them out of my will, +and settle the money on their wives;—that’s what I would!” + +“Well, pa, I shall try and do all in my power for poor Mrs. Ferrola,” +said Mrs. Van Astrachan; “and you may be quite sure I won’t take +another step towards Mrs. Follingsbee’s acquaintance.” + +“It’s a pity,” said Mr. Van Astrachan, “that somebody couldn’t put it +into Mr. John Seymour’s head to send for his wife home. + +“I don’t see, for my part, what respectable women want to be +gallivanting and high-flying on their own separate account for, away +from their husbands! Goods that are sold shouldn’t go back to the +shop-windows,” said the good gentleman, all whose views of life were of +the most old-fashioned, domestic kind. + +“Well, dear, we don’t want to talk to Rose about any of this scandal,” +said his wife. + +“No, no; it would be a pity to put any thing bad into a nice girl’s +head,” said Mr. Van Astrachan. “You might caution her in a general way, +you know; tell her, for instance, that I’ve heard of things that make +me feel you ought to draw off. Why can’t some bird of the air tell +that little Seymour woman’s husband to get her home?” + +The little Seymour woman’s husband, though not warned by any particular +bird of the air, was not backward in taking steps for the recall of his +wife, as shall hereafter appear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +_WEDDING BELLS._ + + +SOME weeks had passed in Springdale while these affairs had been going +on in New York. The time for the marriage of Grace had been set; and +she had gone to Boston to attend to that preparatory shopping which +even the most sensible of the sex discover to be indispensable on such +occasions. + +Grace inclined, in the centre of her soul, to Bostonian rather than +New-York preferences. She had the innocent impression that a classical +severity and a rigid reticence of taste pervaded even the rebellious +department of feminine millinery in the city of the Pilgrims,—an idea +which we rather think young Boston would laugh down as an exploded +superstition, young Boston’s leading idea at the present hour being +apparently to outdo New York in New York’s imitation of Paris. + +In fact, Grace found it very difficult to find a milliner who, if left +to her own devices, would not befeather and beflower her past all +self-recognition, giving to her that generally betousled and fly-away +air which comes straight from the _demi-monde_ of Paris. + +We apprehend that the recent storms of tribulation which have beat +upon those fairy islands of fashion may scatter this frail and fanciful +population, and send them by shiploads on missions of civilization to +our shores; in which case, the bustle and animation and the brilliant +display on the old turnpike, spoken of familiarly as the “broad road,” +will be somewhat increased. + +Grace however managed, by the exercise of a good individual taste, +to come out of these shopping conflicts in good order,—a handsome, +well-dressed, charming woman, with everybody’s best wishes for, and +sympathy in, her happiness. + +Lillie was summoned home by urgent messages from her husband, calling +her back to take her share in wedding festivities. + +She left willingly; for the fact is that her last conversation with her +cousin Harry had made the situation as uncomfortable to her as if he +had unceremoniously deluged her with a pailful of cold water. + +There is a chilly, disagreeable kind of article, called common sense, +which is of all things most repulsive and antipathetical to all petted +creatures whose life has consisted in flattery. It is the kind of talk +which sisters are very apt to hear from brothers, and daughters from +fathers and mothers, when fathers and mothers do their duty by them; +which sets the world before them as it is, and not as it is painted by +flatterers. Those women who prefer the society of gentlemen, and who +have the faculty of bewitching their senses, never are in the way of +hearing from this cold matter-of-fact region; for them it really does +not exist. Every phrase that meets their ear is polished and softened, +guarded and delicately turned, till there is not a particle of homely +truth left in it. They pass their time in a world of illusions; they +demand these illusions of all who approach them, as the sole condition +of peace and favor. All gentlemen, by a sort of instinct, recognize the +woman who lives by flattery, and give her her portion of meat in due +season; and thus some poor women are hopelessly buried, as suicides +used to be in Scotland, under a mountain of rubbish, to which each +passer-by adds one stone. It is only by some extraordinary power of +circumstances that a man can be found to invade the sovereignty of a +pretty woman with any disagreeable tidings; or, as Junius says, “to +instruct the throne in the language of truth.” Harry was brought up +to this point only by such a concurrence of circumstances. He was in +love with another woman,—a ready cause for disenchantment. He was in +some sort a family connection; and he saw Lillie’s conduct at last, +therefore, through the plain, unvarnished medium of common sense. +Moreover, he felt a little pinched in his own conscience by the view +which Rose seemed to take of his part in the matter, and, manlike, was +strengthened in doing his duty by being a little galled and annoyed +at the woman whose charms had tempted him into this dilemma. So he +talked to Lillie like a brother; or, in other words, made himself +disagreeably explicit,—showed her her sins, and told her her duties +as a married woman. The charming fair ones who sentimentally desire +gentlemen to regard them as sisters do not bargain for any of this +sort of brotherly plainness; and yet they might do it with great +advantage. A brother, who is not a brother, stationed near the ear of +a fair friend, is commonly very careful not to compromise his position +by telling unpleasant truths; but, on the present occasion, Harry made +a literal use of the brevet of brotherhood which Lillie had bestowed +on him, and talked to her as the generality of _real_ brothers talk +to their sisters, using great plainness of speech. He withered all +her poor little trumpery array of hothouse flowers of sentiment, by +treating them as so much garbage, as all men know they are. He set +before her the gravity and dignity of marriage, and her duties to her +husband. Last, and most unkind of all, he professed his admiration of +Rose Ferguson, his unworthiness of her, and his determination to win +her by a nobler and better life; and then showed himself to be a stupid +blunderer by exhorting Lillie to make Rose her model, and seek to +imitate her virtues. + +Poor Lillie! the world looked dismal and dreary enough to her. She +shrunk within herself. Every thing was withered and disenchanted. All +her poor little stock of romance seemed to her as disgusting as the +withered flowers and crumpled finery and half-melted ice-cream the +morning after a ball. + +In this state, when she got a warm, true letter from John, who always +grew tender and affectionate when she was long away, couched in those +terms of admiration and affection that were soothing to her ear, she +really longed to go back to him. She shrunk from the dreary plainness +of truth, and longed for flattery and petting and caresses once +more; and she wrote to John an overflowingly tender letter, full of +longings, which brought him at once to her side, the most delighted of +men. When Lillie cried in his arms, and told him that she found New +York perfectly hateful; when she declaimed on the heartlessness of +fashionable life, and longed to go with him to their quiet home,—she +was tolerably in earnest; and John was perfectly enchanted. + +Poor John! Was he a muff, a spoon? We think not. We understand well +that there is not a _woman_ among our readers who has the slightest +patience with Lillie, and that the most of them are half out of +patience with John for his enduring tenderness towards her. + +But men were born and organized by nature to be the protectors of +women; and, generally speaking, the stronger and more thoroughly +manly a man is, the more he has of what phrenologists call the “pet +organ,”—the disposition which makes him the charmed servant of what is +weak and dependent. John had a great share of this quality. He was made +to be a protector. He loved to protect; he loved every thing that was +helpless and weak,—young animals, young children, and delicate women. + +He was a romantic adorer of womanhood, as a sort of divine mystery,—a +never-ending poem; and when his wife was long enough away from him to +give scope for imagination to work, when she no longer annoyed him with +the friction of the sharp little edges of her cold and selfish nature, +he was able to see her once more in the ideal light of first love. +After all, she was his wife; and in that one word, to a good man, is +every thing holy and sacred. He longed to believe in her and trust her +wholly; and now that Grace was going from him, to belong to another, +Lillie was more than ever his dependence. + +On the whole, if we must admit that John was weak, he was weak where +strong and noble natures may most gracefully be so,—weak through +disinterestedness, faith, and the disposition to make the best of the +wife he had chosen. + +And so Lillie came home; and there was festivity and rejoicing. Grace +found herself floated into matrimony on a tide bringing gifts and +tokens of remembrance from everybody that had ever known her; for all +were delighted with this opportunity of testifying a sense of her +worth, and every hand was ready to help ring her wedding bells. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +_MOTHERHOOD._ + + +IT is supposed by some that to become a mother is of itself a healing +and saving dispensation; that of course the reign of selfishness +ends, and the reign of better things begins, with the commencement of +maternity. + +But old things do not pass away and all things become new by any such +rapid process of conversion. A whole life spent in self-seeking and +self-pleasing is no preparation for the most august and austere of +woman’s sufferings and duties; and it is not to be wondered at if the +untrained, untaught, and self-indulgent shrink from this ordeal, as +Lillie did. + +The next spring, while the gables of the new cottage on Elm Street were +looking picturesquely through the blossoming cherry-trees, and the +smoke was curling up from the chimneys where Grace and her husband were +cosily settled down together, there came to John’s house another little +Lillie. + +The little creature came in terror and trembling. For the mother had +trifled fearfully with the great laws of her being before its birth; +and the very shadow of death hung over her at the time the little new +life began. + +Lillie’s mother, now a widow, was sent for, and by this event installed +as a fixture in her daughter’s dwelling; and for weeks the sympathies +of all the neighborhood were concentrated upon the sufferer. Flowers +and fruits were left daily at the door. Every one was forward in +offering those kindly attentions which spring up so gracefully in +rural neighborhoods. Everybody was interested for her. She was little +and pretty and suffering; and people even forgot to blame her for the +levities that had made her present trial more severe. As to John, he +watched over her day and night with anxious assiduity, forgetting every +fault and foible. She was now more than the wife of his youth; she was +the mother of his child, enthroned and glorified in his eyes by the +wonderful and mysterious experiences which had given this new little +treasure to their dwelling. + +To say the truth, Lillie was too sick and suffering for sentiment. It +requires a certain amount of bodily strength and soundness to feel +emotions of love; and, for a long time, the little Lillie had to be +banished from the mother’s apartment, as she lay weary in her darkened +room, with only a consciousness of a varied succession of disagreeables +and discomforts. Her general impression about herself was, that she +was a much abused and most unfortunate woman; and that all that could +ever be done by the utmost devotion of everybody in the house was +insufficient to make up for such trials as had come upon her. + +A nursing mother was found for the little Lillie in the person of a +goodly Irish woman, fair, fat, and loving; and the real mother had none +of those awakening influences, from the resting of the little head +in her bosom, and the pressure of the little helpless fingers, which +magnetize into existence the blessed power of love. + +She had wasted in years of fashionable folly, and in a life led only +for excitement and self-gratification, all the womanly power, all the +capability of motherly giving and motherly loving that are the glory +of womanhood. Kathleen, the white-armed, the gentle-bosomed, had all +the simple pleasures, the tendernesses, the poetry of motherhood; while +poor, faded, fretful Lillie had all the prose—the sad, hard, weary +prose—of sickness and pain, unglorified by love. + +John did not well know what to do with himself in Lillie’s darkened +room; where it seemed to him he was always in the way, always doing +something wrong; where his feet always seemed too large and heavy, and +his voice too loud; and where he was sure, in his anxious desire to +be still and gentle, to upset something, or bring about some general +catastrophe, and to go out feeling more like a criminal than ever. + +The mother and the nurse, stationed there like a pair of chief +mourners, spoke in tones which experienced feminine experts seem to +keep for occasions like these, and which, as Hawthorne has said, give +an effect as if the voice had been dyed black. It was a comfort and +relief to pass from the funeral gloom to the little pink-ruffled +chamber among the cherry-trees, where the birds were singing and the +summer breezes blowing, and the pretty Kathleen was crooning her Irish +songs, and invoking the holy virgin and all the saints to bless the +“darlin’” baby. + +[Illustration: “An’ it’s a blessin’ they brings wid ’em, sir.”] + +“An’ it’s a blessin’ they brings wid ’em to a house, sir; the angels +comes down wid ’em. We can’t see ’em, sir; but, bless the darlin’, she +can. And she smiles in her sleep when she sees ’em.” + +Rose and Grace came often to this bower with kisses and gifts and +offerings, like a pair of nice fairy godmothers. They hung over the +pretty little waxen miracle as she opened her great blue eyes with a +silent, mysterious wonder; but, alas! all these delicious moments, this +artless love of the new baby life, was not for the mother. She was not +strong enough to enjoy it. Its cries made her nervous; and so she kept +the uncheered solitude of her room without the blessing of the little +angel. + +People may mourn in lugubrious phrase about the Irish blood in our +country. For our own part, we think the rich, tender, motherly nature +of the Irish girl an element a thousand times more hopeful in our +population than the faded, washed-out indifferentism of fashionable +women, who have danced and flirted away all their womanly attributes, +till there is neither warmth nor richness nor maternal fulness left +in them,—mere paper-dolls, without milk in their bosoms or blood in +their veins. Give us rich, tender, warm-hearted Bridgets and Kathleens, +whose instincts teach them the real poetry of motherhood; who can love +unto death, and bear trials and pains cheerfully for the joy that is +set before them. We are not afraid for the republican citizens that +such mothers will bear to us. They are the ones that will come to high +places in our land, and that will possess the earth by right of the +strongest. + +Motherhood, to the woman who has lived only to be petted, and to be +herself the centre of all things, is a virtual dethronement. Something +weaker, fairer, more delicate than herself comes,—something for her to +serve and to care for more than herself. + +It would sometimes seem as if motherhood were a lovely artifice of +the great Father, to wean the heart from selfishness by a peaceful +and gradual process. The babe is self in another form. It is so +interwoven and identified with the mother’s life, that she passes by +almost insensible gradations from herself to it; and day by day the +distinctive love of self wanes as the child-love waxes, filling the +heart with a thousand new springs of tenderness. + +But that this benignant transformation of nature may be perfected, it +must be wrought out in Nature’s own way. Any artificial arrangement +that takes the child away from the mother interrupts that wonderful +system of contrivances whereby the mother’s nature and being shade off +into that of the child, and her heart enlarges to a new and heavenly +power of loving. + +When Lillie was sufficiently recovered to be fond of any thing, +she found in her lovely baby only a new toy,—a source of pride and +pleasure, and a charming occasion for the display of new devices of +millinery. But she found Newport indispensable that summer to the +re-establishment of her strength. “And really,” she said, “the baby +would be so much better off quietly at home with mamma and Kathleen. +The fact is,” she said, “she quite disregards me. She cries after +Kathleen if I take her; so that it’s quite provoking.” + +And so Lillie, free and unencumbered, had her gay season at Newport +with the Follingsbees, and the Simpkinses, and the Tompkinses, and +all the rest of the nice people, who have nothing to do but enjoy +themselves; and everybody flattered her by being incredulous that one +so young and charming could possibly be a mother. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +_CHECKMATE._ + + +IF ever our readers have observed two chess-players, both ardent, +skilful, determined, who have been carrying on noiselessly the moves +of a game, they will understand the full significance of this decisive +term. + +Up to this point, there is hope, there is energy, there is enthusiasm; +the pieces are marshalled and managed with good courage. At last, +perhaps in an unexpected moment, one, two, three adverse moves follow +each other, and the decisive words, _check-mate_, are uttered. + +This is a symbol of what often goes on in the game of life. + +Here is a man going on, indefinitely, conscious in his own heart that +he is not happy in his domestic relations. There is a want of union +between him and his wife. She is not the woman that meets his wants +or his desires; and in the intercourse of life they constantly cross +and annoy each other. But still he does not allow himself to look the +matter fully in the face. He goes on and on, hoping that to-morrow +will bring something better than to-day,—hoping that this thing, or +that thing or the other thing will bring a change, and that in some +indefinite future all will round and fashion itself to his desires. +It is very slowly that a man awakens from the illusions of his first +love. It is very unwillingly that he ever comes to the final conclusion +that he has made _there_ the mistake of a whole lifetime, and that the +woman to whom he gave his whole heart not only is not the woman that he +supposed her to be, but never in any future time, nor by any change of +circumstances, will become that woman,—that the difficulty is radical +and final and hopeless. + +In “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” we read that the poor man, Christian, +tried to persuade his wife to go with him on the pilgrimage to the +celestial city; but that finally he had to make up his mind to go +alone without her. Such is the lot of the man who is brought to the +conclusion, positively and definitely, that his wife is always to be +a hinderance, and never a help to him, in any upward aspiration; that +whatever he does that is needful and right and true must be done, not +by her influence, but in spite of it; that, if he has to swim against +the hard, upward current of the river of life, he must do so with her +hanging on his arm, and holding him back, and that he cannot influence +and cannot control her. + +Such hours of disclosure to a man are among the terrible hidden +tragedies of life,—tragedies such as are never acted on the stage. Such +a time of disclosure came to John the year after Grace’s marriage; and +it came in this way:— + +The Spindlewood property had long been critically situated. Sundry +financial changes which were going on in the country had depreciated +its profits, and affected it unfavorably. All now depended upon the +permanency of one commercial house. John had been passing through an +interval of great anxiety. He could not tell Lillie his trouble. He +had been for months past nervously watching all the in-comings and +out-goings of his family, arranged on a scale of reckless expenditure, +which he felt entirely powerless to control. Lillie’s wishes were +importunate. She was nervous and hysterical, wholly incapable of +listening to reason; and the least attempt to bring her to change any +of her arrangements, or to restrict any of her pleasures, brought tears +and faintings and distresses and scenes of domestic confusion which he +shrank from. He often tried to set before her the possibility that they +might be obliged, for a time at least, to live in a different manner; +but she always resisted every such supposition as so frightful, so +dreadful, that he was utterly discouraged, and put off and off, hoping +that the evil day never might arrive. + +But it did come at last. One morning, when he received by mail the +tidings of the failure of the great house of Clapham & Co., he knew +that the time had come when the thing could no longer be staved off. He +was an indorser to a large amount on the paper of this house; and the +crisis was inevitable. + +It was inevitable also that he must acquaint Lillie with the state of +his circumstances; for she was going on with large arrangements and +calculations for a Newport campaign, and sending the usual orders to +New York, to her milliner and dressmaker, for her summer outfit. It +was a cruel thing for him to be obliged to interrupt all this; for +she seemed perfectly cheerful and happy in it, as she always was when +preparing to go on a pleasure-seeking expedition. But it could not be. +All this luxury and indulgence must be cut off at a stroke. He must +tell her that she could not go to Newport; that there was no money for +new dresses or new finery; that they should probably be obliged to move +out of their elegant house, and take a smaller one, and practise for +some time a rigid economy. + +John came into Lillie’s elegant apartments, which glittered like a +tulip-bed with many colored sashes and ribbons, with sheeny silks and +misty laces, laid out in order to be surveyed before packing. + +“Gracious me, John! what on earth is the matter with you to-day? How +perfectly awful and solemn you do look!” + +“I have had bad news, this morning, Lillie, which I must tell you.” + +“Oh, dear me, John! what is the matter? Nobody is dead, I hope!” + +“No, Lillie; but I am afraid you will have to give up your Newport +journey.” + +“Gracious, goodness, John! what for?” + +“To say the truth, Lillie, I cannot afford it.” + +“Can’t afford it? Why not? Why, John, what is the matter?” + +“Well, Lillie, just read this letter!” + +Lillie took it, and read it with her hands trembling. + +“Well, dear me, John! I don’t see any thing in this letter. If they +have failed, I don’t see what that is to you!” + +“But, Lillie, I am indorser for them.” + +“How very silly of you, John! What made you indorse for them? Now that +is too bad; it just makes me perfectly miserable to think of such +things. I know _I_ should not have done so; but I don’t see why you +need pay it. It is their business, anyhow.” + +“But, Lillie, I shall have to pay it. It is a matter of honor and +honesty to do it; because I engaged to do it.” + +“Well, I don’t see why that should be! It isn’t your debt; it is their +debt: and why need you do it? I am sure Dick Follingsbee said that +there were ways in which people could put their property out of their +hands when they got caught in such scrapes as this. Dick knows just how +to manage. He told me of plenty of people that had done that, who were +living splendidly, and who were received everywhere; and people thought +just as much of them.” + +“O Lillie, Lillie! my child,” said John; “you don’t know any thing of +what you are talking about! That would be dishonorable, and wholly out +of the question. No, Lillie dear, the fact is,” he said, with a great +gulp, and a deep sigh,—“the fact is, I have failed; but I am going to +fail honestly. If I have nothing else left, I will have my honor and +my conscience. But we shall have to give up this house, and move into +a smaller one. Every thing will have to be given up to the creditors +to settle the business. And then, when all is arranged, we must try +to live economically some way; and perhaps we can make it up again. +But you see, dear, there can be no more of this kind of expenses at +present,” he said, pointing to the dresses and jewelry on the bed. + +“Well, John, I am sure I had rather die!” said Lillie, gathering +herself into a little white heap, and tumbling into the middle of the +bed. “I am sure if we have got to rub and scrub and starve so, I had +rather die and done with it; and I hope I shall.” + +John crossed his arms, and looked gloomily out of the window. + +“Perhaps you had better,” he said. “I am sure I should be glad to.” + +“Yes, I dare say!” said Lillie; “that is all you care for me. Now there +is Dick Follingsbee, he would be taking care of his wife. Why, he has +failed three or four times, and always come out richer than he was +before!” + +“He is a swindler and a rascal!” said John; “that is what he is.” + +“I don’t care if he is,” said Lillie, sobbing. “His wife has good +times, and goes into the very first society in New York. People don’t +care, so long as you are rich, what you do. Well, I am sure I can’t do +any thing about it. I don’t know how to live without money,—that’s a +fact! and I can’t learn. I suppose you would be glad to see me rubbing +around in old calico dresses, wouldn’t you? and keeping only one girl, +and going into the kitchen, like Miss Dotty Peabody? I think I see +myself! And all just for one of your Quixotic notions, when you might +just as well keep all your money as not. That is what it is to marry +a reformer! I never have had any peace of my life on account of your +conscience, always something or other turning up that you can’t act +like anybody else. I should think, at least, you might have contrived +to settle this place on me and poor little Lillie, that we might have a +house to put our heads in.” + +“Lillie, Lillie,” said John, “this is too much! Don’t you think that +_I_ suffer at all?” + +“I don’t see that you do,” said Lillie, sobbing. “I dare say you are +glad of it; it is just like you. Oh, dear, I wish I had never been +married!” + +“I _certainly_ do,” said John, fervently. + +“I suppose so. You see, it is nothing to you men; you don’t care any +thing about these things. If you can get a musty old corner and your +books, you are perfectly satisfied; and you don’t know when things are +pretty, and when they are not: and so you can talk grand about your +honor and your conscience and all that. I suppose the carriages and +horses have got to be sold too?” + +“Certainly, Lillie,” said John, hardening his heart and his tone. + +“Well, well,” she said, “I wish you would go now and send ma to me. +I don’t want to talk about it any more. My head aches as if it would +split. Poor ma! She little thought when I married you that it was going +to come to this.” + +John walked out of the room gloomily enough. He had received this +morning his _check-mate_. All illusion was at an end. The woman that +he had loved and idolized and caressed and petted and indulged, in +whom he had been daily and hourly disappointed since he was married, +but of whom he still hoped and hoped, he now felt was of a nature not +only unlike, but opposed to his own. He felt that he could neither love +nor respect her further. And yet she was his wife, and the mother of +his daughter, and the only queen of his household; and he had solemnly +promised at God’s altar that “forsaking all others, he would keep only +unto her, so long as they both should live, for better, for worse,” +John muttered to himself,—“for better, for worse. This is the worse; +and oh, it is dreadful!” + +In all John’s hours of sorrow and trouble, the instinctive feeling of +his heart was to go back to the memory of his mother; and the nearest +to his mother was his sister Grace. In this hour of his blind sorrow, +he walked directly over to the little cottage on Elm Street, which +Grace and her husband had made a perfectly ideal home. + +When he came into the parlor, Grace and Rose were sitting together with +an open letter lying between them. It was evident that some crisis of +tender confidence had passed between them; for the tears were hardly +dry on Rose’s cheeks. Yet it was not painful, whatever it was; for her +face was radiant with smiles, and John thought he had never seen her +look so lovely. At this moment the truth of her beautiful and lovely +womanhood, her sweetness and nobleness of nature, came over him, in +bitter contrast with the scene he had just passed through, and the +woman he had left. + +“What do you think, John?” said Grace; “we have some congratulations +here to give! Rose is engaged to Harry Endicott.” + +“Indeed!” said John, “I wish her joy.” + +“But what is the matter, John?” said both women, looking up, and seeing +something unusual in his face. + +“Oh, trouble!” said John,—“trouble upon us all. Gracie and Rose, the +Spindlewood Mills have failed.” + +“Is it possible?” was the exclamation of both. + +“Yes, indeed!” said John; “you see, the thing has been running very +close for the last six months; and the manufacturing business has been +looking darker and darker. But still we could have stood it if the +house of Clapham & Co. had stood; but they have gone to smash, Gracie. +I had a letter this morning, telling me of it.” + +Both women stood a moment as if aghast; for the Ferguson property was +equally involved. + +“Poor papa!” said Rose; “this will come hard on him.” + +“I know it,” said John, bitterly. “It is more for others that I feel +than for myself,—for all that are involved must suffer with me.” + +“But, after all, John dear,” said Rose, “don’t feel so about us at any +rate. We shall do very well. People that fail honorably always come +right side up at last; and, John, how good it is to think, whatever you +lose, you cannot lose your best treasure,—your true noble heart, and +your true friends. I feel this minute that we shall all know each other +better, and be more precious to each other for this very trouble.” + +John looked at her through his tears. + +“Dear Rose,” he said, “you are an angel; and from my soul I +congratulate the man that has got _you_. He that has you would be rich, +if he lost the whole world.” + +“You are too good to me, all of you,” said Rose. “But now, John, about +that bad news—let me break it to papa and mamma; I think I can do it +best. I know when they feel brightest in the day; and I don’t want it +to come on them suddenly: but I can put it in the very best way. How +fortunate that I am just engaged to Harry! Harry is a perfect prince +in generosity. You don’t know what a good heart he has; and it happens +so fortunately that we have him to lean on just now. Oh, I’m sure we +shall find a way out of these troubles, never fear.” And Rose took the +letter, and left John and Grace together. + +“O Gracie, Gracie!” said John, throwing himself down on the old chintz +sofa, and burying his face in his hands, “what a woman there is! O +Gracie! I wish I was dead! Life is played out with me. I haven’t the +least desire to live. I can’t get a step farther.” + +“O John, John! don’t talk so!” said Grace, stooping over him. “Why, you +will recover from this! You are young and strong. It will be settled; +and you can work your way up again.” + +“It is not the money, Grace; I could let that go. It is that I have +nothing to live for,—nobody and nothing. My wife, Gracie! she is worse +than nothing,—worse, oh! infinitely worse than nothing! She is a chain +and a shackle. She is my obstacle. She tortures me and hinders me every +way and everywhere. There will never be a home for me where she is; +and, because she is there, no other woman can make a home for me. Oh, I +wish she would go away, and stay away! I would not care if I never saw +her face again.” + +[Illustration: “O Gracie! I wish I was dead!”] + +There was something shocking and terrible to Grace about this +outpouring. It was dreadful to her to be the recipient of such a +confidence, to hear these words spoken, and to more than suspect their +truth. She was quite silent for a few moments, as he still lay with his +face down, buried in the sofa-pillow. + +Then she went to her writing-desk, took out a little ivory miniature of +their mother, came and sat down by him, and laid her hand on his head. + +“John,” she said, “look at this.” + +He raised his head, took it from her hand, and looked at it. Soon she +saw the tears dropping over it. + +“John,” she said, “let me say to you now what I think our mother would +have said. The great object of life is not happiness; and, when we +have lost our own personal happiness, we have not lost all that life +is worth living for. No, John, the very best of life often lies beyond +that. When we have learned to let ourselves go, then we may find that +there is a better, a nobler, and a truer life for us.” + +“I _have_ given up,” said John in a husky voice. “I have lost _all_.” + +“Yes,” replied Grace, steadily, “I know perfectly well that there +is very little hope of personal and individual happiness for you in +your marriage for years to come. Instead of a companion, a friend, +and a helper, you have a moral invalid to take care of. But, John, if +Lillie had been stricken with blindness, or insanity, or paralysis, +you would not have shrunk from your duty to her; and, because the +blindness and paralysis are moral, you will not shrink from it, will +you? You sacrifice all your property to pay an indorsement for a debt +that is not yours; and why do you do it? Because society rests on +every man’s faithfulness to his engagements. John, if you stand by a +business engagement with this faithfulness, how much more should you +stand by that great engagement which concerns all other families and +the stability of all society. Lillie is your wife. You were free to +choose; and you chose her. She is the mother of your child; and, John, +what that daughter is to be depends very much on the steadiness with +which you fulfil your duties to the mother. I know that Lillie is a +most undeveloped and uncongenial person; I know how little you have in +common: but your duties are the same as if she were the best and the +most congenial of wives. It is every man’s duty to make the best of his +marriage.” + +“But, Gracie,” said John, “is there any thing to be made of her?” + +“You will never make me believe, John, that there are any human beings +absolutely without the capability of good. They may be very dark, and +very slow to learn, and very far from it; but steady patience and love +and well-doing will at last tell upon any one.” + +“But, Gracie, if you could have heard how utterly without principle she +is: urging me to put my property out of my hands dishonestly, to keep +her in luxury!” + +“Well, John, you must have patience with her. Consider that she has +been unfortunate in her associates. Consider that she has been a petted +child all her life, and that you have helped to pet her. Consider +how much your sex always do to weaken the moral sense of women, by +liking and admiring them for being weak and foolish and inconsequent, +so long as it is pretty and does not come in your way. I do not mean +you in particular, John; but I mean that the general course of society +releases pretty women from any sense of obligation to be constant in +duty, or brave in meeting emergencies. You yourself have encouraged +Lillie to live very much like a little humming-bird.” + +“Well, I thought,” said John, “that she would in time develop into +something better.” + +“Well, there lies your mistake; you expected too much. The work of +years is not to be undone in a moment; and you must take into account +that this is Lillie’s first adversity. You may as well make up your +mind not to expect her to be reasonable. It seems to me that we can +make up our minds to bear any thing that we know must come; and you +may as well make up yours, that, for a long time, you will have to +carry Lillie as a burden. But then, you must think that she is your +daughter’s mother, and that it is very important for the child that she +should respect and honor her mother. You must treat her with respect +and honor, even in her weaknesses. We all must. We all must help +Lillie as we can to bear this trial, and sympathize with her in it, +unreasonable as she may seem; because, after all, John, it is a real +trial to her.” + +“I cannot see, for my part,” said John, “that she loves any thing.” + +“The power of loving may be undeveloped in her, John; but it will +come, perhaps, later in life. At all events take this comfort to +yourself,—that, when you are doing your duty by your wife, when you +are holding her in her place in the family, and teaching her child to +respect and honor her, you are putting her in God’s school of love. +If we contend with and fly from our duties, simply because they gall +us and burden us, we go against every thing; but if we take them up +bravely, then every thing goes with us. God and good angels and good +men and all good influences are working with us when we are working for +the right. And in this way, John, you may come to happiness; or, if you +do not come to personal happiness, you may come to something higher +and better. You know that you think it nobler to be an honest man than +a rich man; and I am sure that you will think it better to be a good +man than to be a happy one. Now, dear John, it is not I that say these +things, I think; but it seems to me it is what our mother would say, if +she should speak to you from where she is. And then, dear brother, it +will all be over soon, this life-battle; and the only thing is, to come +out victorious.” + +“Gracie, you are right,” said John, rising up: “I see it myself. I will +brace up to my duty. Couldn’t you try and pacify Lillie a little, poor +girl? I suppose I have been rough with her.” + +“Oh, yes, John, I will go up and talk with Lillie, and condole with +her; and perhaps we shall bring her round. And then when my husband +comes home next week, we’ll have a family palaver, and he will find +some ways and means of setting this business straight, that it won’t +be so bad as it looks now. There may be arrangements made when the +creditors come together. My impression is that, whenever people find a +man really determined to arrange a matter of this kind honorably, they +are all disposed to help him; so don’t be cast down about the business. +As for Lillie’s discontent, treat it as you would the crying of your +little daughter for its sugar-plums, and do not expect any thing more +of her just now than there is.” + + * * * * * + +We have brought our story up to this point. We informed our readers in +the beginning that it was not a novel, but a story with a moral; and, +as people pick all sorts of strange morals out of stories, we intend to +put conspicuously into our story exactly what the moral of it is. + +Well, then, it has been very surprising to us to see in these our times +that some people, who really at heart have the interest of women upon +their minds, have been so short-sighted and reckless as to clamor for +an easy dissolution of the marriage-contract, as a means of righting +their wrongs. Is it possible that they do not see that this is a +liberty which, once granted, would always tell against the weaker sex? +If the woman who finds that she has made a mistake, and married a man +unkind or uncongenial, may, on the discovery of it, leave him and seek +her fortune with another, so also may a man. And what will become of +women like Lillie, when the first gilding begins to wear off, if the +man who has taken one of them shall be at liberty to cast her off +and seek another? Have we not enough now of miserable, broken-winged +butterflies, that sink down, down, down into the mud of the street? +But are women-reformers going to clamor for having every woman turned +out helpless, when the man who has married her, and made her a mother, +discovers that she has not the power to interest him, and to help his +higher spiritual development? It was because woman is helpless and +weak, and because Christ was her great Protector, that he made the law +of marriage irrevocable. “Whosoever putteth away his wife causeth her +to commit adultery.” If the sacredness of the marriage-contract did not +hold, if the Church and all good men and all good women did not uphold +it with their might and main, it is easy to see where the career of +many women like Lillie would end. Men have the power to reflect before +the choice is made; and that is the only proper time for reflection. +But, when once marriage is made and consummated, it should be as fixed +a fact as the laws of nature. And they who suffer under its stringency +should suffer as those who endure for the public good. “He that +sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not, he shall enter into the +tabernacle of the Lord.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +_AFTER THE STORM._ + + +THE painful and unfortunate crises of life often arise and darken +like a thunder-storm, and seem for the moment perfectly terrific and +overwhelming; but wait a little, and the cloud sweeps by, and the +earth, which seemed about to be torn to pieces and destroyed, comes +out as good as new. Not a bird is dead; not a flower killed: and the +sun shines just as he did before. So it was with John’s financial +trouble. When it came to be investigated and looked into, it proved +much less terrible than had been feared. It was not utter ruin. The +high character which John bore for honor and probity, the general +respect which was felt for him by all to whom he stood indebted, led to +an arrangement by which the whole business was put into his hands, and +time given him to work it through. His brother-in-law came to his aid, +advancing money, and entering into the business with him. Our friend +Harry Endicott was only too happy to prove his devotion to Rose by +offers of financial assistance. + +In short, there seemed every reason to hope that, after a period of +somewhat close sailing, the property might be brought into clear water +again, and go on even better than before. + +To say the truth, too, John was really relieved by that terrible burst +of confidence in his sister. It is a curious fact, that giving full +expression to bitterness of feeling or indignation against one we +love seems to be such a relief, that it always brings a revulsion of +kindliness. John never loved his sister so much as when he heard her +plead his wife’s cause with him; for, though in some bitter, impatient +hour a man may feel, which John did, as if he would be glad to sunder +all ties, and tear himself away from an uncongenial wife, yet a good +man never can forget the woman that once he loved, and who is the +mother of his children. Those sweet, sacred visions and illusions of +first love will return again and again, even after disenchantment; and +the better and the purer the man is, the more sacred is the appeal to +him of woman’s weakness. Because he is strong, and she is weak, he +feels that it would be unmanly to desert her; and, if there ever was +any thing for which John thanked his sister, it was when she went over +and spent hours with his wife, patiently listening to her complainings, +and soothing her as if she had been a petted child. All the circle of +friends, in a like manner, bore with her for his sake. + +Thanks to the intervention of Grace’s husband and of Harry, John was +not put to the trial and humiliation of being obliged to sell the +family place, although constrained to live in it under a system of more +rigid economy. Lillie’s mother, although quite a commonplace woman as +a companion, had been an economist in her day; she had known how to +make the most of straitened circumstances, and, being put to it, could +do it again. + +To be sure, there was an end of Newport gayeties; for Lillie vowed +and declared that she would not go to Newport and take cheap board, +and live without a carriage. She didn’t want the Follingsbees and the +Tompkinses and the Simpkinses talking about her, and saying that they +had failed. Her mother worked like a servant for her in smartening her +up, and tidying her old dresses, of which one would think that she had +a stock to last for many years. And thus, with everybody sympathizing +with her, and everybody helping her, Lillie subsided into enacting the +part of a patient, persecuted saint. She was touchingly resigned, and +wore an air of pleasing melancholy. John had asked her pardon for all +the hasty words he said to her in the terrible interview; and she had +forgiven him with edifying meekness. “Of course,” she remarked to her +mother, “she knew he would be sorry for the way he had spoken to her; +and she was very glad that he had the grace to confess it.” + +So life went on and on with John. He never forgot his sister’s words, +but received them into his heart as a message from his mother in +heaven. From that time, no one could have judged by any word, look, or +action of his that his wife was not what she had always been to him. + +Meanwhile Rose was happily married, and settled down in the Ferguson +place; where her husband and she formed one family with her parents. It +was a pleasant, cosey, social, friendly neighborhood. After all, John +found that his cross was not so very heavy to carry, when once he had +made up his mind that it must be borne. By never expecting much, he +was never disappointed. Having made up his mind that he was to serve +and to give without receiving, he did it, and began to find pleasure +in it. By and by, the little Lillie, growing up by her mother’s side, +began to be a compensation for all he had suffered. The little creature +inherited her mother’s beauty, the dazzling delicacy of her complexion, +the abundance of her golden hair; but there had been given to her also +her father’s magnanimous and generous nature. Lillie was a selfish, +exacting mother; and such women often succeed in teaching to their +children patience and self-denial. As soon as the little creature could +walk, she was her father’s constant play-fellow and companion. He took +her with him everywhere. He was never weary of talking with her and +playing with her; and gradually he relieved the mother of all care of +her early training. When, in time, two others were added to the nursery +troop, Lillie became a perfect model of a gracious, motherly, little +older sister. + +Did all this patience and devotion of the husband at last awaken any +thing like love in the wife? Lillie was not naturally rich in emotion. +Under the best education and development, she would have been rather +wanting in the loving power; and the whole course of her education had +been directed to suppress what little she had, and to concentrate all +her feelings upon herself. + +The factitious and unnatural life she had lived so many years had +seriously undermined the stamina of her constitution; and, after +the birth of her third child, her health failed altogether. Lillie +thus became in time a chronic invalid, exacting, querulous, full of +troubles and wants which tasked the patience of all around her. During +all these trying years, her husband’s faithfulness never faltered. +As he gradually retrieved his circumstances, she was first in every +calculation. Because he knew that here lay his greatest temptation, +here he most rigidly performed his duty. Nothing that money could give +to soften the weariness of sickness was withheld; and John was for +hours and hours, whenever he could spare the time, himself a personal, +assiduous, unwearied attendant in the sick-room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +_THE NEW LILLIE._ + +[Illustration] + + +WE have but one scene more before our story closes. It is night now in +Lillie’s sick-room; and her mother is anxiously arranging the drapery, +to keep the fire-light from her eyes, stepping noiselessly about the +room. She lies there behind the curtains, on her pillow,—the wreck and +remnant only of what was once so beautiful. During all these years, +when the interests and pleasures have been slowly dropping, leaf by +leaf, and passing away like fading flowers, Lillie has learned to do +much thinking. It sometimes seems to take a stab, a thrust, a wound, +to open in some hearts the capacity of deep feeling and deep thought. +There are things taught by suffering that can be taught in no other +way. By suffering sometimes is wrought out in a person the power of +loving, and of appreciating love. During the first year, Lillie had +often seemed to herself in a sort of wild, chaotic state. The coming +in of a strange new spiritual life was something so inexplicable to +her that it agitated and distressed her; and sometimes, when she +appeared more petulant and fretful than usual, it was only the stir +and vibration on her weak nerves of new feelings, which she wanted the +power to express. These emotions at first were painful to her. She +felt weak, miserable, and good for nothing. It seemed to her that her +whole life had been a wretched cheat, and that she had ill repaid the +devotion of her husband. At first these thoughts only made her bitter +and angry; and she contended against them. But, as she sank from day +to day, and grew weaker and weaker, she grew more gentle; and a better +spirit seemed to enter into her. + +On this evening that we speak of, she had made up her mind that she +would try and tell her husband some of the things that were passing in +her mind. + +“Tell John I want to see him,” she said to her mother. “I wish he would +come and sit with me.” + +This was a summons for which John invariably left every thing. He laid +down his book as the word was brought to him, and soon was treading +noiselessly at her bedside. + +“Well, Lillie dear,” he said, “how are you?” + +She put out her little wasted hand; “John dear,” she said, “sit down; I +have something that I want to say to you. I have been thinking, John, +that this can’t last much longer.” + +“What can’t last, Lillie?” said John, trying to speak cheerfully. + +“I mean, John, that I am going to leave you soon, for good and all; and +I should not think you would be sorry either.” + +“Oh, come, come, my girl, it won’t do to talk so!” said John, patting +her hand. “You must not be blue.” + +“And so, John,” said Lillie, going on without noticing this +interruption, “I wanted just to tell you, before I got any weaker, that +I know and feel just how patient and noble and good you have always +been to me.” + +“O Lillie darling!” said John, “why shouldn’t I be? Poor little girl, +how much you have suffered!” + +“Well, now, John, I know perfectly well that I have never been the +wife that I ought to be to you. You know it too; so don’t try to say +anything about it. I was never the woman to have made you happy; and +it was not fair in me to marry you. I have lived a dreadfully worldly, +selfish life. And now, John, I am come to the end. You dear good man, +your trials with me are almost over; but I want you to know that you +really have succeeded. John, I do love you now with all my heart, +though I did not love you when I married you. And, John, I do feel +that God will take pity on me, poor and good for nothing as I am, just +because I see how patient and kind you have always been to me when I +have been so very provoking. You see it has made me think how good God +must be,—because, dear, we know that he is better than the best of us.” + +“O Lillie, Lillie!” said John, leaning over her, and taking her in his +arms, “do live, I want you to live. Don’t leave me now, now that you +really love me!” + +“Oh, no, John! it is best as it is,—I think I should not have strength +to be _very_ good, if I were to get well; and you would still have your +little cross to carry. No, dear, it is all right. And, John, you will +have the best of me in our Lillie. She looks like me: but, John, she +has your good heart; and she will be more to you than I could be. She +is just as sweet and unselfish as I _was_ selfish. I don’t think I am +quite so bad now; and I think, if I lived, I should try to be a great +deal better.” + +“O Lillie! I cannot bear to part with you! I never have ceased to love +you; and I never have loved any other woman.” + +“I know that, John. Oh! how much truer and better you are than I have +been! But I like to think that you love me,—I like to think that you +will be sorry when I am gone, bad as I am, or _was_; for I insist on it +that I am a little better than I was. You remember that story of Undine +you read me one day? It seems as if most of my life I have been like +Undine before her soul came into her. But this last year I have felt +the coming in of a soul. It has troubled me; it has come with a strange +kind of pain. I have never suffered so much. But it has done me good—it +has made me feel that I have an immortal soul, and that you and I, +John, shall meet in some better place hereafter.—And there you will be +rewarded for all your goodness to me.” + +As John sat there, and held the little frail hand, his thoughts went +back to the time when the wild impulse of his heart had been to break +away from this woman, and never see her face again; and he gave thanks +to God, who had led him in a better way. + + . . . . . . . . + +And so, at last, passed away the little story of Lillie’s life. But +in the home which she has left now grows another Lillie, fairer and +sweeter than she,—the tender confidant, the trusted friend of her +father. And often, when he lays his hand on her golden head, he says, +“Dear child, how like your mother you look!” + +Of all that was painful in that experience, nothing now remains. John +thinks of her only as he thought of her in the fair illusion of first +love,—the dearest and most sacred of all illusions. + +The Lillie who guides his household, and is so motherly to the younger +children; who shares every thought of his heart; who enters into every +feeling and sympathy,—she is the pure reward of his faithfulness and +constancy. She is a sacred and saintly Lillie, springing out of the sod +where he laid her mother, forgetting all her faults for ever. + +[Illustration] + + Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. + + * * * * * + +Transcriber’s Notes: + +Obvious punctuation errors repaired. + +Page 47, “embroided” changed to “embroidered” (embroidered under-linen) + +Page 79, “wo ld” changed to “world” (do it for the world) + +Page 203, “spirt” changed to “spirit” (little spirit of gayety) + +Page 223, “Syndenham” changed to “Sydenham” (with which Walter Sydenham +was) + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Pink and White Tyranny, by Harriet Beecher Stowe + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12354 *** |