Chapter 2
"And so she had her way, and we were married; And the next day all Wall Street was aroused By news that brave Papa had won renown Not simply as a bankrupt, but a swindler, Escaping, by the skin of his teeth, the Tombs. 'No matter! Papa has a son-in-law, A greenhorn, as they say, who occupies A stately house on the Fifth Avenue, And, in his hall, Papa will hang his hat.' And, in all this, Rumor but hit the truth.
"Six months rolled by. Repeatedly I asked, 'Where's Brother Ambrose?' He, it seems, was held In such request by government, that rarely Could he be spared for home enjoyment; but At length I did encounter Brother Ambrose, And once again I found him--
"Well, the scales Dropped from my eyes. I asked no other proof Than a quick look I saw the two exchange,-- Forgetful of a mirror at their side,-- To see I was betrayed. He was no brother. I sought more proof; but they, imagining I knew more than I did, were swift to act. Before I could find steps for a divorce She stole a march upon me, and herself Took the initiative, and played the victim, Nipping me as a culprit in the law.
"It was a plot so dexterously framed, All the precautions and contrivances Were with such craft foreplanned; the perjuries Were all so well adjusted; my pure life Was made to seem so black; the witnesses Were so well drilled, so perfect in their parts,-- In short, it was a work of art so thorough, I did not marvel at the Court's decision, Which was, for her,--divorce and alimony; For me,--no freedom, since no privilege Of marrying again. Such the decree!"
"I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda, While her cheeks flushed, and hot, indignant tears, Responded to her anger. Then she kissed Her father on each cheek, and tenderly Embraced her mother too; and they, the while, With a slight moisture in their smiling eyes, Exchanged a nod. Then Percival to Linda: "Why, what an utter rebel you would be, You little champion of the higher law! Sit down, and hear me out."
"If such their justice," Cried Linda, irrepressible and panting, "Who would not spurn it, and hurl back defiance To all the Justice Shallows on the Bench-- To them and their decrees!"
"My little girl," The father said, "the heart's impulsive choice May guide us safely when the act must be Born of the instant, but let Reason rule When Reason may. For some twelve years, I lived A wandering life in Europe; not so crushed By my most harsh experience but I Could find, in study and in change of scene, How much of relish life has for the mind As well as the affections; still I felt Mine was a nature in which these must play No secondary part; and so the void Enlarged as age drew nearer; and at forty A weariness of life came over me, And I was sick at heart; for many a joy Had lost the charm that made it joy. I took A house in London, all for solitude, And there got what you may not find in Egypt, Or on Mont Blanc.
"One day as I was crossing An obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmen Gathered around a man upon the ground: A rafter from a half-built house had fallen, And he was badly injured. Seeing none To act with promptness in the case, I hailed A cab, and had him driven to my house. Finding he was a fellow-countryman, I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sent For the best surgeon near. His report was, The wound itself was nothing serious, But there was over-action of the brain, Quite independent, which might lead to danger, Unless reduced in season; and the patient Should have the best of watching and attendance, And not be left to brood on any trouble, But be kept cheerful. Then with some directions For diet, sedatives, and laxatives, The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left. My guest lay sad and silent for a while, Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick; I'm from Chicago--was a broker there. A month ago my wife eloped from me; And her companion, as you may surmise, Was one I had befriended--raised from nothing. I'm here upon their track."
"'Why so?' I asked. 'What do you want of them?'--'What do I want?' He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly. 'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency! Here's a true man would try to overtake An untrue mate! If she's not sterling gold And loyal as the loadstone,--not alone In every act, but every thought and throb,-- Why should you care who puts her to the proof, Takes her away, and leaves you free again? Show me 'tis an illusion I adore, And I will thank you, though it be in anguish. To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'
"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only once Where I could take him by the throat, and measure My strength with his!'--'Tut, tut! the kind physician Who warns you of some lurking taint, to which The cautery should be applied at once, Is not, in act, if not intent, your friend More certainly than he you rave against. And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times, Of the poor runaway?'--'Ay, that I have! Bitterly jealous.'
"'Jealousy and love Were never yet true mates; for jealousy Is born of selfish passion, lust, or pride, While love is so divine and pure a thing, It only takes what cannot be withheld. It flies constraint. All that it gives is given, Even as the lily renders up its perfume, Because it cannot help it. Would it crave Return less worthy? Would it be content With a grudged gift? Then it is something else, Not love--not love! Ah me! how men and women Cozen themselves with words, and let their passions Fool them and blind, until they madly hug Illusions which some stunning shock like yours Puts to the proof, revealing emptiness. Have you a loving heart, and would you feed it On what the swine have left,--mock it with lies?' 'Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,' Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him, And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the list Of 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundred Instantly caught my eye. It merely said: 'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy, A place as nurse for any invalid. Address 681, Times Office.' So I wrote and told 681 to call Upon me at a certain hour.
"And now, My dear, this little girl with eager eyes Has, for a summer morning, heard enough. The weather is the crown of all that June Has of most fair,--the year's transcendent day; When the young foliage and the perfect air Intoxicate the birds, and put our hearts In harmony with their extravagance Of joy and love. Come, come! To slight this day Would be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park, And take our dinner there, and see the flowers, The children, and the swans, and all the places Which Linda used to love in babyhood, When, in her little carriage, like a queen She'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."
The father had his way; and in the Park They spent the happy time, and felt the charm Which harmony complete with Nature brings When loving spirits, unpreoccupied, Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving. O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs! To human happiness, like daily bread, Your blessings come, till the unthinking heart Recks not the debt we owe your silent powers. If ye can give so much, what may not He Of whose omnipotence ye are but shadows Have in reserve in his eternities!
III.
THE MOTHER'S STORY.
That evening, when the feast of strawberries Had been partaken, and the happy three Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now, May I not hear the rest?"--"To-morrow, Linda, You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now, That brain of yours must tranquillize itself Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night, Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,' And songs that most affront the dainty ear Of modern fashion." Linda played and sang A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair, Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine, Imagine you are rocking me to sleep, As in those far-off days."
Replied the mother: "O the dear days! yet not more dear than these! For frugal Linda brings along with her All of her past; the infant's purity, The child's confiding love, and now, at last, The maiden's free and quick intelligence! Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure In heart shall carry an immortal youth Into the great to-come. That little song-- Well I remember the delightful time When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen, I noted down the words, while, by your crib, Your father sat, and you, with little fists Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will, Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close Of an autumnal day, and we were staying In a secluded village, where a brook Babbled beneath our window, and the hum Of insects soothed us, while a louder note From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then, Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone And startle laughter." Here the matron paused; Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch, The ivory keys, sang
LINDA'S LULLABY.
I.
Murmur low, little rivulet flowing! For to sleep our dear Linda is going; All good little lambs be reposing, For Linda one eyelid is closing.
II.
O frogs! what a noise you are making! O crickets! now don't keep her waking! Stop barking, you little dog Rover, Till Linda can get half-seas over.
III.
Little birds, let our word of love reach you,-- Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you; On her little white coverlet lying, To sleep our dear Linda is trying.
IV.
Hush! sing just as softly as may be; Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby! Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,-- Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!
The next day, when the heat kept all at home, And they were gathered in the library, Where fitfully a lazy southern breeze Would stir the languid curtains, Percival Said, turning to the mother: "Mary, now Your story best will supplement my own; Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then; My life is but the affluent to yours, In which it found its amplitude and rest.
"My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father, A prosperous merchant, gave to business His time and active thoughts, and let his wife Rule all beside with rigor absolute. My maiden name was Mary Merivale. There were eight daughters of us, and of these I was the fourth. We lived in liberal style, And did not lack the best society The city could afford. My heedful mother, With eight undowered girls to be disposed of, Fearfully healthy all, and clamorous For clothes and rations, entered on a plan To which she steadily adhered: it was, To send the younger fry to boarding-schools, And keep one virgin only, at a time, And she the oldest, on her hands to marry. So they came forward in their order: Julia, And Isabel, and Caroline; until I was dragged forth from maps and lexicons, Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and put Candidate Number Four, upon the list.
"My elder sisters had been all 'well-married'; That is, to parties able to provide Establishments that Fashion would not scorn; What more could be desired by loving parents? As for resistance to her will, when once She set her heart upon a match, my mother Would no more bear it than a general Would bear demur from a subordinate When ordered into action. If a daughter, When her chance offered, and was checked as good, Presumed, from any scruple of dislike, To block the way for her successor, then Woe to that daughter, and no peace for her Did she not, with an utter selfishness, Stand in her younger sister's light? imperil The poor child's welfare? doom her possibly To an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?
"And so, with an imperious will, my mother Would sweep away all hindrances, all doubts. She was, besides, the slave of system; having Adopted once the plan of bringing forward No daughter till the previous one was mated, It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own! It had worked well; must not be broken through. So my poor sisters went; and some of them With doubting hearts.
"In me, my zealous mother Found metal not so malleable quite. One of my teachers at the boarding-school, A little woman who got scanty pay For teaching us in French and German, fed Her lonely heart with dreams of what, some day, Shall lift her sex to nobler life. She took A journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filled With pleadings for reform of many kinds,-- In education, physical and mental, Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living. Weekly I had the reading of it all; Some of it crude enough, some apt and just, Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts. At last these had for me a fascination That quite eclipsed the novels of the day.
"I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law, Are laws of health and physical control, Unheeded in the family and school; How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show, The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure, Empty and frivolous, make men and women False to their natures, cruel to each other And to the unborn offspring they devote To misery through ill-assorted unions, Or habits reckless of maternal dues; How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps, Is entered on from motives all unworthy; Social ambition, mercenary aims, The dread of poverty, of singleness,-- The object of uniting families,-- And momentary passion fatuous. So I resolved, God helping, to be true To my own self, and that way true to all.
"The fete that signalized my coming out Was, so my mother said, the costliest yet. Whole greenhouses were emptied to adorn Our rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall; The supper-table flashed with plate and silver And Dresden ware and bright Bohemian glass; The wines and viands were profuse and rare; And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball.
"But what of her, for whom it was the flourish Of trumpets blown to celebrate her entrance Into society? Let others speak! These the remarks I had to overhear: 'She's rather pretty.'--'Pretty is the word.' 'But not so dashing as the elder sisters.' 'Cleverer though, perhaps,'--'She takes it coolly. Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.' 'Where is it? Is she bookish?'--'So I've heard.' 'Unlike the rest, then.'--'That straw-colored silk Should have had flounces.'--'Is that hair her own?' 'I think so?'--'She's no dancer.'--'Apathetic As any duchess.'--'The young men seem shy; She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.' 'See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it; She'll not pick up admirers if she plays My Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma. The hook is nicely baited; where are all The gudgeons it should lure? I marvel not Mamma is in a fluster; tap, tap, tap, See her fan go! No strategy, no effort, No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes, On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'
"The gossips, in these random whisperings, Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark. The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music, The shining robes, the jewels, the bright faces Engrossed me not so much as one pale face, Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment, An hour before, reflected in the mirror At which I stood while nimble dressing-maids Helped to array me. A poor girl had brought The bodice of my silken robe, on which She had been working closely; and my mother Chided her for delay; but no reply Was made, save only what the pleading eyes Could not withhold. Then tendering a scrap Of paper, record of her paltry charge, She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,' My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried; 'Let her be paid at once; there must be money In the house somewhere; it may be a loss, An inconvenience, for her to come back Just for a trifling sum.'--'Impertinent!' My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?' 'I can return,' timidly said the girl. Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took, And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it, To hold you good for all your wasted time.' 'My time,--what is it worth?' replied the girl, Motioning her refusal, but with smiles Of speechless gratitude, and then escaping Before I could prevent her.
"'Novel-reading Has brought you to this insipidity,' My mother said: 'such sentimental pap, You never got from me. Come, hurry down; Put off that sullen look. The carriages Begin to roll; the guests are on the stairs. Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'
"So down I went, but in no conquering mood. I did not scrutinize the festive dresses; Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin hands That put of life somewhat in every stitch For a grudged pittance. All disguises fell; Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones, Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealed The weariness or hatred they would hide. And so, preoccupied and grave, I looked On all the gayety; and reigning belles Took heart to find in me no coming rival.
"Lent now was near; the time of all diversion And visiting was over; and my mother Summed up her griefs in this one lamentation: 'The season gone, and not one offer yet! You, Mary, are the first one of my daughters Whose coming-out so flat a failure proved. Think of your sister Julia; her first winter Brought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match! First cousin to a lord! How envious Were all the dowagers at my success! If I've not done all that a mother could, Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year more I shall allow you for your trial. Then, If you have made no step in the direction Of matrimony, why, you must go off To Ireland, to America, or France, And leave the field for your next younger For Susan.'--'She is welcome to it now,' I said, with something like disdain, I fear, In my cold smile.--'My plans are laid, you know,' Replied my mother; 'find your duty in A simple acquiescence; I know best.'
"'Tis said the woman always is to blame If a man ventures to commit himself In a proposal unacceptable. The rule has its exceptions; for I gave No word, no inkling of encouragement To Captain Dudley; yet I had an offer From Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant, Though of a stock somewhat attenuate; Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman, A scholar,--what good reason could I give For saying Nay to such an applicant? 'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe; 'Is not his character without a flaw?' 'So far as known to me.'--'Is he a fool?' 'Far from it; culture and good sense are his.' 'Could you not love him?'--'Very tenderly, Perhaps, with time to aid.'--'Has any one Preoccupied your heart?'--'My heart is free, And has been always free.'--'Indeed? Then why Refuse to be the wife of this young man?' 'Simply because he's not the man I'd choose To be the father of a child of mine.'
"If I had put a pistol at her head, My lady mother would not so have started. 'What! a mere girl--and you can entertain Such thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!' 'If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dream Of marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis time For me to think of all the risk I run. Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly; Is it unmaidenly to hesitate In the surrender of my maiden state? Your epithets belong to those who fail To think at all, or only think of this: What's the man's income? Will he let me have A house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage? And is he in society? Such women Plant nightshade, and affect to wonder why The growth is not of lilies and carnations!'
"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother, 'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx! Tell me in simple English what you mean By your objections to this match, so largely Above your merits?'--'This is what I mean: For reasons that are instincts more than reasons, And therefore not to be explained to those Who in them do not share, as you do not, I would not wed this man,--not if I loved him.' 'Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepare To make a visit to your father's cousin In Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you may Find a congenial mate among the clowns And roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk. Fool your own opportunities away; You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'
"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor, One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopes Anew in my poor mother's breast; and so Susan was kept at school another season, And I was put upon the course once more, My training perfect and my harness new!
"Who could object to Arthur Pennington? Son of a wealthy manufacturer, A type he was of English adolescence, Trained by harmonious culture to the fulness Of all that Nature had supplied; a person That did not lack one manly grace; a mind Which took the mould that social pressure gave, Without one protest native to itself. In the accepted, the conventional, He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubt Whether she might not hide in some deep well Rather than flaunt her modest purity In dusty highways. With my disposition To challenge all that human dogmatism Imperious would impose upon my thought, What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we, Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopes Which were inspired too fondly by my mother, He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.
"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offences Was overflowed at last. Now must I go-- Go, where she cared not; only disappear From her domain; she washed her hands of me! Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,-- My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,-- And here was the result! But no more money, From her, must I expect; my father's income Had not for years been equal to his outlays. Any day he might be compelled to change His style of living; all had been kept up For the advantage of myself and sisters; And here was all the gratitude I showed!
"This time my mother was in earnest; so Now must I lay my plans to go at once. Whither? to seek a transient home with one Of my own married sisters? Ah! the thought Of being dependent galled me like a spur. No! go to work,--a voice within me said: Think of the many thousands of your sex Who, young and giddy, not equipped like you, Are thrown upon the world to battle with it As best they may! Now try your closet virtue; See if your theory can stand the proof,-- If trial will not warp your sense of right. When Poverty shall dog your every step, And at your scanty or unwholesome meal Sit down, or with you, in your thin attire, Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,-- Then see if you can keep your feet from straying; Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!
"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress, The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle; I found her saving up her petty means To go to London, to get better wages,-- And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.' She sold some jewels for me, and we went.
"In London! two unfriended girls in London! We hired a room, and got employment soon, Such as it was; but small the recompense! Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I, Could earn enough to live upon--almost. For her the change was slight.