Chapter 2

"Mother." The clear girlish voice rang through the house with persistent intensity but awakened no responsive call. Mr. Wayne, coming up the steps, heard the repeated summons for "Mother" and sent out his answering cry, "Father's here." Quick, light steps answered his call and an urgent young voice demanded, "Where's mother?"

"Mother has been called away for tonight, so you'll have to put up with father."

"O, dear!" sighed the girl despondently.

"Is father such a poor substitute, then?" inquired Mr. Wayne in an aggrieved tone.

"O, no," responded Helen, quickly. "You're usually as good as mother; but there were some special things I wanted to ask her about this evening. I suppose I can wait," she added, dolorously.

"Try me and see if I won't answer tolerably well. What are these weighty problems?" drawing his daughter to his knee as he spoke.

"That's it," pouted Helen. "You always make fun,--mother doesn't."

"Pardon me, daughter, I had no intention of making fun. I only wanted you to feel at home with me. It was a clumsy attempt, I'll admit, but really and truly I would like to be in your confidence--to feel that you trust me, too. I can't fill mother's place, I know, but I can do what mother can't, I can give you the man's view of things, and that is sometimes of great value for a girl to know."

"Yes," said Helen, snuggling down in her father's lap, for they were great friends and she felt his sympathy. "I often wish we could know how things look to other people. I know boys don't look at matters as girls do, but we can't always tell just what they do think."

"That is true," replied Mr. Wayne, gravely. "I often think that if girls knew just what boys say among themselves it would make them more careful of their conduct.

"For instance, not long ago I was on a steamer where there was dancing. I went into the smoking room, and there I heard the comments of the young men. I am sure the girls had no idea how their dress, figures, freedom and flirtatiousness were criticised and laughed at by these young men, who seemed to them, doubtless, so very nice and polite. Of course, these girls were mostly strangers to the young men and were getting acquainted without introductions, probably thinking it fine fun."

"Yes, father. I've heard some of the real nice girls talk about getting acquainted in that way, and they seem to think it all right. Someway, it never seemed quite nice to me."

"I hope not, my daughter. I should be sorry to have you form acquaintances in that way. You never can tell what a man's character is by his clothes or manners. Indeed, you may think you know a man pretty well, and yet be mistaken. I suppose girls who are familiar with young men and allow them liberties imagine that they are trustworthy. I sat in front of two young men on a train not long ago. They appeared well and really were nice, as boys go, but they had the usual boy's idea as to honor. They were talking freely of the girls they knew, discussing their merits and charms, saying that this one was soft and 'huggable,' that another was sweet to kiss--"

"O, father!" exclaimed Helen, in a fury of surprise and anger. "They didn't talk that way so that you could hear! And call the girls by name, too?"

"Yes, they did, dear. Then after they had discussed several, who all seemed to allow great freedom, they mentioned another name, and their whole manner changed. 'Ah,' said one, 'there's no nonsense about her. It's 'hands off' there every time and'--he went on, with great emphasis, 'that's the kind of a girl I mean to marry. A man doesn't want to feel that his wife's been slobbered over by all the young men of her acquaintance.'"

Helen hid her face on her father's shoulder. "How perfectly dreadful!" she said. "They were not gentlemen."

"I'll admit that,--and yet the conduct of the girls in permitting such freedom was really an excuse for their speaking so discourteously of them. The girls had not maintained their own self-respect, and therefore had not secured the respect of the young men. The girl who respected herself compelled respect from them, and that is the idea I wish to impress on your mind. Never expect any one to respect you more than you respect yourself, nor to shield your honor if you have placed yourself in their power."

"But, father," said Helen hesitatingly, "most of the girls and boys think it no harm to kiss each other good night, and the girls say the boys would be offended if a girl refused."

"They are mistaken. Of course, the boys like to have the girls think so; but they don't talk that way among themselves, you may be sure."

"But, you see, father," urged Helen, hesitatingly, "they say they are engaged, and that makes it all right."

"How long do they stay engaged?" asked Mr. Wayne. "Do they really consider it a true engagement, to end ultimately in marriage, or is it merely an excuse for freedom of association?"

"O, they're all the time breaking their engagements. I don't believe they expect them to last very long. Now, there's Dora Ills. She's only sixteen and she says she's been engaged four times, and when she breaks the engagement she doesn't give back the ring. She's making a collection of engagement rings, she says."

"It is very evident that she cannot have the highest respect for herself. I knew of a girl whose sister had been engaged several times and who said to her, 'Why, Lida, you've never been engaged yet, have you?' And Lida replied, 'No, and I have made up my mind that I'll not be one of your pawed-over girls.'

"Her expression was not an elegant one, but it showed that she respected herself, and of course, she will be more truly respected by the young men if she does not permit them to approach too closely. A girl is very much mistaken if she fancies that a young man thinks more of her if she lets him be familiar. On the other hand, it is always true that he thinks more of her if she makes him feel that she is not to be carelessly approached. As one boy said to me, 'Girls ought to know that boys always want most that which is hardest to get.'"

"But, father, if it's so difficult for boys and girls to be together and act as they should, wouldn't it be best to keep them entirely apart until they are old enough to marry?"

"That is what they think in the old world, and girls are kept shut up in schools and convents until they are grown; then their parents select a husband for them, and after they are married they are allowed to go into society. I am afraid our girls wouldn't like that,--they'd want to select their own husbands."

"They could do that after they got out of school."

"My observation is that the girl who has been shut up away from young men, is the very one who doesn't know how to act when she comes out of school. She has very romantic ideas, and is quite apt to be misled by a glittering exterior. She is less able to judge wisely or to guide her own conduct judiciously than the girl who, having been educated with boys, has less romantic ideas concerning them. No, I believe in co-education and in the common social life for both sexes; but with it I should ask that all young people should be taught to respect themselves and each other, and to understand their responsibility to future generations."

"And what is that responsibility? What have we young people to do with future generations?"

"Just exactly what we older people once had. We didn't think of it in our youth, but we can see now that even then we were creating our own characters and at the same time the characters of our future children. Now, I can see in you many of my own youthful characteristics. I can understand why you find it hard to do things that I'd like you to do, and easy to do some I'd rather you wouldn't do. And if, in the years to come, you have a daughter, she will be apt to be largely what you are now. All the efforts you make now to overcome your own faults are in reality helping to overcome those faults for her also. Suppose the young people knew and thought of these things; don't you think they would judge more wisely of what they ought to do?"

"Why, yes, I know what I'd want my daughter to do, it seems to me, even better than I could tell what I ought to do myself."

"Wouldn't that be a good way to decide your own conduct--to do only those things which you'd be perfectly willing your daughter should do?"

"But, father, tell me why it's so much more important for girls to be particular about what they do than for boys."

"It's not more important."

"Well, people seem to think it is. The other day Johnnie Webster was going to a show and his little sister Carrie wanted to go, too, and he told her it was no place for girls, and she said, 'Then it is no place for boys'; and he said, 'But boys don't have to be as good as girls.' And his father and mother both heard it and never said a word. They only laughed."

"It is unfortunately quite a common idea that boys and men do not have to be as good as girls and women; but it is not God's idea. He doesn't have two standards of morals, and I think the time is coming when men will be glad to live up to the highest level of purity."

"Don't you think it seems worse for girls to swear or drink or gamble than for boys?"

"It does _seem_ worse, because we have had such high ideals for women; but to God it must seem no worse, because he judges of us as _souls_, not as men and women, and He has laid down only one rule of conduct for all souls."

"I'd like to know how the idea ever grew that it was not so bad for men to do wrong as for women."

"Perhaps we cannot now see all the reasons for this state of things, but we can see at least one reason. Many, many years ago men bought their wives, or took them by force from others, so they felt that they _owned_ their wives. Of course, each man liked to feel that his wife was above reproach, that she really did belong to him; therefore, he held any lack of fidelity as a great sin against himself. But he did not think that he belonged to her. She had neither bought nor captured him, so she had no power over him, except such as she could gain by her fascinations.

"Naturally, he didn't care to be bound by the same rigid ideas to which he held her. He felt himself free to do what fancy dictated. The general level of morals was low, so he followed the pleasures of sense, and the wife could only submit, or try to be more fascinating to him than any one else. But if he was great and influential or handsome, and was not bound by any moral restraints, there would be other women desirous of gaining his attentions and the material comforts he might be able to give, and he would quite willingly think himself free to follow his fancy without censure. In this way has grown up the double moral standard, the pure woman holding herself to the strictest morality, and men imagining themselves not so sternly held to the narrow path of absolute purity.

"Women are not now slaves, bought as wives and valued for their personal charms alone. They have intellectual power and moral force and social influence, and they can, if they will, create the single moral standard,--that is, the one high ideal for both men and women."

"O, father, do you think girls have as much power as that? It always seems to me as if girls might be of value when they are grown up, but that while we are girls we can't do much to make the world better."

"That is the mistake girls generally make, when in fact the most important time of life is youth. It is while you are girls that you are forming your own character, and at the same time you are helping to form the character of the generations to come. You are of far more value to the nation now, while you are young and can make of yourselves almost anything you please, than you will be when you are old and your habits are fixed. If girls all lived nobly and exacted noble conduct of all their associates, boys as well as girls, it would not take long to settle all questions of reform. Young men will be what young women ask them to be, and that, you see, makes girls of great importance. Do you remember what we were reading in Sesame and Lilies the other day about woman's queenly power? Get the book and let us read it again."

Helen brought the book, and, finding the place, read:

"Woman's power is for rule, not for battle, and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement and decision. Her great function is Praise.

"There is not a war in the world, no, nor an injustice, but you women are answerable for it, not in that you have provoked, but in that you have not hindered. Men, by their nature, are prone to fight. They will fight for any cause or none. It is for you to choose their cause for them, and to forbid when there is no cause. There is no suffering, no injustice, no misery in the earth, but the guilt of it lies with you.

"Queens you must always be: queens to your lovers: queens to your husbands and sons: queens of higher mystery to the world beyond, which bows itself and will forever bow before the myrtle crown and the stainless sceptre of womanhood."

Helen leaned her head on her father's shoulder in silence. Then she said, softly: "It makes me almost afraid to become a woman."

Mr. Wayne kissed his daughter tenderly, saying: "It is worthy your highest ambition to be a noble woman. I would be glad to see you such an one as is pictured in Lowell's poem of Irene. Would you like to read it to me?"

Helen took the book from her father's hand and read.

IRENE.

Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; Far down into her large and patient eyes I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light, That from the shade of self she walketh free: The garden of her soul still keepeth she An Eden where the snake did never enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the center: So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift to her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; And, though herself not unacquaint with care, Hath in her heart wide room for all that be-- Her heart that hath no secrets of its own, But open as an eglantine full blown. Cloudless forever is her brow serene, Speaking calm hope and trust within her, whence Welleth a noiseless spring of patience, That keepeth all her life so fresh, so green And full of holiness, that every look, The greatness of her woman's soul revealing, Unto me bringeth blessing, and a feeling As when I read in God's own holy book.

A graciousness in giving that doth make The small gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake; The deep religion of a thankful heart, Which rests instinctively in heaven's clear law With a full peace, that never can depart From its own steadfastness;--a holy awe For holy things,--not those which men call holy, But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries: A love that blossoms soon, but ripens slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, Enduring with a firmness that defies All shallow tricks of circumstance and time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering: These are Irene's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes: No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side: For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, But labored to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; And to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sin and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthy thrall, For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live. She walks so bright and heaven-like therein,--

Too wise, too meek, too womanly, to sin. Like a lone star through riven storm-clouds seen By sailors, tempest-tost upon the sea, Telling of rest and peaceful havens nigh, Unto my soul her star-like soul hath been, Her sight as full of hope and calm to me; For she unto herself hath builded high A home serene, wherein to lay her head, Earth's noblest thing, a Woman perfected.

"That is a beautiful picture of what a girl may be, and I'd be glad to see you making it your model."

"Yes," said Helen, slowly. Then, with more enthusiasm, "You know, father, I've always wished I were a boy. It seems so much grander to be a man than a woman. A man's life is so much freer, and he can do so much greater things, you know. Of course, I shall try to be a good woman, but I wish women could do big things, the way men can."

"What wondrous things can men do that women can't do?" asked Mr. Wayne with a smile.

"Oh," replied Helen, clasping her hands with enthusiasm, "just see what men do. They build immense houses, and great bridges--Oh, they make the world, and women just sit in the house and look on. I'd like to _do_ something."

Mr. Wayne smoothed back the hair from the forehead of his enthusiastic daughter with a tender smile, as he replied, "It does seem on the surface as if men did greater things than women, but it is only seeming, my dear. It is just as grand a thing to be a woman as to be a man. True, woman's work does not show on the surface so plainly, but she works with more enduring material than does man in creating the world of things. We can see the great works of man's hands and they impress us with a sense of his power; but it is _mind_ that does the real work, and women have _minds_, or _are_ minds, you know."

"Yes, I know, but they must devote their minds to cooking and dishwashing."

"I have seen women doing other things. In the old world I saw women digging ditches, carrying brick and mortar to the top of high buildings, ploughing in the fields; in fact, working just like men. The great buildings of the World's Exposition erected in Vienna in 1873, were largely the work of women's hands. You are not anxious to exchange dishwashing for such work, are you?"

"O, no, indeed; but it is man who plans such work and superintends its doing. A woman could not have planned Brooklyn bridge, for example."

"It is quite true that a woman did not plan it, but did you know that it was completed under a woman's supervision?"

"No, was it? How did that happen? Tell me all about it."

"It happened this way. Mr. Roebling, who was superintending its construction, was taken ill, and his wife took his place and personally gave oversight to every part of the work until it was done. You see, her being a woman did not prevent her doing the work. But if she had been only a careless or an ignorant woman she could not have done it. It was _mind_, you see, and cultured mind at that, which was the master power. If she had not been working with him in making the plans, she could not have worked for him in carrying them out. Instead of lamenting over your sex, you would better rejoice in the fact that you are a _spirit_, and realize that your power in all spheres of activity will be measured by the cultivation of your mental and spiritual powers."

"But, father, even if I do cultivate my mind, I shall probably never have an opportunity to do such a grand thing as help to build a Brooklyn bridge."

"Probably not, but you can do a greater thing. You can fit yourself to work on finer material than insensate stones. You can mould plastic minds. It is a far greater thing to wield spiritual forces than to manipulate inorganic matter."

"But, all men do not merely make _things_. There are great statesmen, great soldiers, great writers."

"True, but you would not want to be a soldier, I am sure. To kill is not a glorious profession. And to be a great statesman or writer is not merely a question of sex; it is a question of mind."

"Do you think women have as much ability as men? Aren't men really smarter than women?"

Mr. Wayne smiled at the girl's eagerness. "I do not compare men and women to decide their relative ability," he answered. "I believe their minds differ, but that does not imply that one is superior and the other inferior. Each is superior in its own place."

"But men's minds are so much stronger, father. Women never can be on the same level as men."

"Bring me two needles of different sizes from your work basket. Now, tell me, which is superior to the other."

"That depends on what you want to do with them," replied Helen. "If you were going to sew on shoe buttons, you'd use this big one. If you wanted to hem a cambric handkerchief, you'd take this fine one."

"Just so. Each is superior in its special place, and both are necessary. This is just as it seems to me in regard to the ability of men and women. They are both minds; one strong, robust, enduring rough usage; the other fine, delicate, going where the first cannot go, and therefore supplementing it, and increasing the range of work that can be accomplished. The fine needle might complain that it could not do hard work, but do you think the complaint would be justifiable?"

"Why, no, I don't; but tell me what great things a woman can do--things that are worth while, I mean; something besides keep house and take care of children. It seems to me that merely to be a cook and nurse girl is not a very high calling."

"She might be a chemist," suggested Mr. Wayne.

"Oh, yes, a few women might; but I mean something that I could be, or other girls like me who have no special talent."

"There is a great need of scientific knowledge among women. Every housekeeper needs to know something of chemistry. The woman who knows the chemical action of acids and alkalies on each other will never use soda with sweet milk, nor make the mistake of using an excess of soda with sour milk. And every day, in a myriad of ways, her knowledge of chemistry will be called into use."

"Then every woman should be a psychologist, most especially if she is to have the care of children."

"O, father, you use such big words. Tell me just what you mean."

"I mean that the office of nurse or mother demands the highest study of mental evolution. More big words, but I'll try to make you understand.

"It seems to you that any one can take care of a baby. But what is a baby? Not just a helpless little animal, to be fed and clothed and kept warm. A baby is a spirit in the process of development. From the moment of birth it is being educated by everything around it; the very tones of voice used in speaking to it are educating it. It is a great thing to be President of the United States, but that president was once a baby. His life depended on the way he was fed and cared for; his character was largely created by the circumstances of his life; and his mental powers--which he inherited from both parents--were in his babyhood and early childhood largely under the training of some woman. That woman, whether mother or nurse, had the first chance to develop him, to make him worthy or unworthy. John Quincy Adams said, 'All I am I owe to my mother,' and that is the testimony of many of earth's greatest men. Garfield's first kiss after his inauguration was very justly given to his mother.

"God has entrusted mothers with life's grandest work, the moulding of humanity in its plastic stage. You have done clay modelling in school, and you know that when the clay is fresh and moist you can make of it almost anything you will, but when it has hardened it is past remodelling. It is just the same with humanity. In babyhood the mind is plastic; when one has grown to maturity, it is hard and unyielding. Man makes _things_; woman makes _men_. Which is the greater work?"

Helen hesitated. "It seems very noble as you talk of it, to train a child; but you know people don't feel that way. Mothers cuddle their babies, to be sure, but men think caring for babies is beneath them. They sneer at it as woman's work."

"Not all men, dear. Some of the great men of the world have spent years in the study of infancy, realizing that to know how the baby develops will enable them to understand better how to train it, and rightly to train babies is in reality to make the nation."

Helen, leaning her head back on her father's shoulder, was silent for a while, then she kissed him softly, saying, "Thank you, father dear. It has been a beautiful talk together. I am sure it will help me to be a better woman."