Chapter 3
"A year we toiled In company; and I'll not tell you all The hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent. In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol, Got for our joint protection in those days. May it be near you, should you ever need it! Finding, at length, I could no longer earn My share of our expenses by the needle, I sought a situation as a nurse. And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.' An answer came, directing me to call Upon the writer at a certain hour. I went. I met a man of middle age Whose name was Percival. I thought his manner Was coldly kind.
"'You're very young,' he said, 'To fill the situation of a nurse. What reference have you?' Not a distant thought Of such a need had ever troubled me! 'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'--'That's a pity. What pledge have I of character?'--'Not any.' And then, impatient at this let, I cried: 'Look in my face, and if you find not there Pledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all-- All I can give!'--'Ah! my poor child,' said he, 'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt; For I have known a face, too beautiful, With look of innocence and shining candor, Prove but the ambush of duplicity, Pitiless and impure. But let me not Distrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas, And, with a scrutiny intent and grave, Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked, After a silence.--'Mary Merivale.' 'Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once. In the next room asleep reclines our patient. As for your wages, we will say two guineas A week, if you're content.'--'O, perfectly!'
"So, groping in my darkness, I at length Hit on the door that issued into light. Long talks between the patient and his friend Were frequent, and they heeded not my presence. Little by little Percival soon told The story that you've heard, and more which you May never hear in earthly interviews. An eager listener, I would treasure up Each word, each look; and on my soul at last Dawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits, The spirit's own, that harmonized so well With all the outward showed of good and noble. Strange that he took no notice of the way My very life was drifting! But to him I seemed a child, and his paternal airs Froze me and checked.
"A paragraph, 'The Times' Had published, when the accident took place, Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire, Though quite a young man still.
"A month went by And he was able to sit up awhile; And soon, with me beside him in the carriage, To take a drive;--when one day, Percival Said to me: 'Mary, you and I must try The span to-day; our patient shall keep house.' My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as if Approving the arrangement; so we went. 'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with you In private; do not answer if I put Questions that may embarrass or annoy; It is no idle curiosity, Prompting me now. We see that you were born To something better than this drudgery: If not reluctant, tell me who you are.' 'O, willingly!' I said.
"And so I told him All, from the first. He heard me patiently; And then remarked: 'But do you never long For that secure and easy life at home? You will go back to Liverpool, perchance, When you've had quite enough of servitude And toil precarious.'--'I go not back,' Said I, 'while health and liberty are left. The home that's grudged is not the home for me. Give me but love, and like the reed I yield; Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.' 'Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,' Replied he, musing.
"'Yes,' I said; 'consider What I've been telling of my mother's way Of marrying her daughters; well, my mother Is but the product of that social system, Hollow and false, which leaves for dowerless girls Few honorable outlooks for support Excepting marriage.[2] Poor, dependent, helpless, Untaught in any craft that could be made To yield emolument,--our average women,-- What can they do but take the common path Which my poor mother would have made _me_ try, And lead some honest man to think that they Are wedding _him_, and not his bank-account? Let woman, equally with man, be bred To learn with thoroughness some craft or trade By which she may support herself at least, You place her more at liberty to shun Unions, no priest, no church can sanctify!'[3]
"Percival eyed me with a puzzled look, Then said: 'The time is on its way, I hope, When from her thraldom woman will come forth, And in her own hands take her own redress; When laws disabling her shall not be made Under the cowardly, untested plea That man is better qualified than woman To estimate her needs and do her justice. Justice to her shall be to man advancement; And woman's wit can best heal woman's wrongs. Accelerate that time, all women true To their own sex,--yet not so much to that As to themselves and all the human race! But pardon me; I wander from the point,-- Following you. Now tell me, could you make America your home?'
"The sudden question Made my heart leap, and the hot crimson rush Up to my brow. Silent I bowed my head, And he continued thus: 'If it should be, That one, not wholly alien to your tastes,-- A man not quite so young as you, perhaps, But not beyond his prime,--an honest man,-- I will not say with ample means, for that Would jar upon your heart,--one who could make Your home a plentiful and happy one,-- Should offer you his hand,--would it deter you To know that in America your lot Must henceforth be?'
"My breath came quick,--my eyes Turned swift away, lest he should mark their joy And count his prize too cheaply won. I sighed, But did not speak. 'May I go on?' he asked. A 'yes' distinct, though faint, flew from my lips. 'May I,' said he, 'tell Kenrick he may hope?' 'What!' cried I, looking up, with something fiercer Than mere chagrin in my unguarded frown."
Linda broke in upon the story here, And turning to her father with a smile Tender as dawning light, yet arch and gay, Cried, "Fie, my father! Could you be so dull? How could you treat my future mother so?" "Nay, do not blame me hastily," said he, With glad paternal eyes regarding her; "How could a modest man--and I was one-- Suppose that youth and wealth, and gracious gifts Of person, such as Kenrick wore so well, Could fail to win? Truly I did not dream, Spite of the proverb, Love could be so blind."
Tossing her head with mock vindictive air, Like sweet sixteen, the mother then resumed: "Kenrick, it seems, being a bashful man,-- And somewhat shy, perhaps, because I knew He was but recently in mad pursuit Of an unfaithful spouse, a runaway, Commissioned Percival to try the ground, Obscure and doubtful, of my woman's will. My absolute 'What!' was unequivocal. Then turning to the coachman, Percival, Said, 'Home, now, home! and quickly!'
"Home we rattled, And both were silent to our journey's end. An eager glance he gave me as he touched My hand to help me from the carriage. He Has told me since that I returned the look With one which, if not actually scorn, Was next of kin to scorn, and much resembling:-- All the chimera of his guilty conscience.
"Kenrick next day renewed his suit by letter; He begged I would not give a hasty 'No,' But wait and grant him opportunities To prove that he was worthy and sincere, And to procure the requisite divorce. While I was answering his letter, he Drove out with Percival. My brief reply Told him there could be no decision other Than a complete and final negative.
"Then I sat down and ran my fingers over The keys of the piano; and my mood At length expressed itself in that wild burst Of a melodious anguish, which Edgardo Gives vent to in 'Lucia.' Words could add Nothing to magnify the utter heart-break Of that despair; and Donizetti's score Has made the cry audible through the ages. Less from the instrument than from my heart Was wrung the passionate music.
"At its close, A long-drawn breath made me look round, and there Whom should I see but Percival, as if Transfixed in mute surprise! 'I did not know There was a listener,--had supposed you gone,' Said I; and he replied: 'I thought you'd have Some word for Kenrick: so our drive was short.' 'Nothing but this.' I handed him my letter; He took it, bowed, and left me.
"The next day I learnt that Kenrick had engaged his passage In Wednesday's steamer for New York. My stay Must now be brief; my services no longer Could be of any use; and so I wrote Some formal lines, addressed to Percival, Asking for my dismissal, and conveying To both the gentlemen my thanks sincere For all their kindness and munificence. Two days I waited, but no answer came.
"The third day Kenrick sought an interview. We met, and freely talked of this and that. Said he, at last: 'Into what false, false ways We plunge because we do not care to _think_! We shudder at Chinese morality When it allows a parent to destroy Superfluous female children. Look at home! Have we no ancient social superstitions Born of the same old barbarous family? My life, Miss Merivale, has been so crowded That I've had little time to trace opinion Down to its root before accepting it. In giving opportunity for thought, Sickness has been a brisk iconoclast. Behold the world's ideal of a wife![4] 'Tis something like to this:
"'She marries young, Perhaps in meek submission to the will Parental, or in hope of a support; In a few years,--as heart and brain mature, And knowledge widens,--finds her lord and master Is a wrong-headed churl, a selfish tyrant, A miser, or a blockhead, or a brute; Her love for him, if love there ever was, Is turned to hatred or indifference: What shall she do? The world has one reply: You made your bed, and you must lie in it; True, you were heedless seventeen--no matter! True, a false sense of duty urged you on, And you were wrongly influenced--no matter! Be his wife still; stand by him to the last; Do not rebel against his cruelty; The more he plays the ruffian, the more merit In your endurance! Suffering is your lot; It is the badge and jewel of a woman. Shun not contamination from his touch; Keep having children by him, that his traits And his bad blood may be continuous. Think that you love him still; and feed your heart With all the lies you can, to keep it passive!
"'So say the bellwethers who lead the many Over stone walls into the thorns and ditches, Because their fathers took that way before them. Such is the popular morality! But is it moral? Nay; when man or woman Can look up, with the heart of prayer, and say, Forbid it, Heaven, forbid it, self-respect, Forbid it, merciful regard for others, That this one should be parent to my child,-- That moment should the intimate relations Of marriage end, and a release be found![5]
"'How many blunder in mistaking Passion, Mixed with a little sentiment, for Love! Passion may lead to Love, as it may lead Away from Love, but Passion is not Love; It may exist with Hate; too often leads Its victim blindfold into hateful bonds, Under the wild delusion that Love leads. Love's bonds are adamant, and Love a slave; And yet Love's service must be perfect freedom. Candor it craves, for Love is innocent,-- But no enforced fidelity, no ties Such as the harem shelters. Dupes are they Who think that Love can ever be compelled! Only what's lovely Love can truly love, And fickleness and falsehood are deformed. Reveal their features, Love may mourn indeed, But will not rave. Love, even when abandoned, Feels pity and not anger for the heart That could not prize Love's warm fidelity. But Passion, selfish, proud, and murderous, Seizes the pistol or the knife, and kills;-- And cozened juries make a heroine Of her who, stung with jealousy or pride, Or, by some meaner motive, hurled a wreck, Assassinates her too inconstant wooer.
"'Now do I see how little, in my case, There was of actual love, how much of passion! Love's day for me, if it may ever come In this brief stage, is yet to dawn. You smile; Love must have hope, a ray of hope, at least, To catch the hue of life; and so, Miss Mary, I'll not profess to love you; all I say Is, that a little hope from you would make me! But, since we can't be lovers, let's be friends; Here, in this little wallet, is a check For an amount that will secure your future From serious want,--a sum I shall not miss. But which--'
"With many thanks I answered 'No!' 'What can I do?' he asked, 'to show my debt To you and Percival?' I shook my head, And something in the sadness of my smile Arrested his attention. But that moment A girl rushed in with cry of 'O, he's killed-- Killed, the poor man!'--'Who?'--'Mr. Percival!' The name was like a blow upon my heart, And Kenrick saw it, and supported me.
"But in a moment I was strong. I heard A scuffling noise of people at the door, And then a form--'twas Percival's--was borne Into a room, and placed upon a bed. Pale and insensible he lay; a surgeon Came in; at last we got an explanation: In rescuing from a frightened horse the child Of a poor woman, Percival had been Thrown down, an arm been broken, and the pain Had made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy, When I was sure that this was the extreme Of injury, betrayed my reckless heart, And Kenrick had my secret. Percival Was soon himself; the broken limb was set, And I, engaged to stay another week To wait on the new patient--nothing loath.
"The day of his departure, Kenrick drew me Aside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!' 'Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breast To keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?' 'Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick, 'If by communication of your secret, I changed the desolation of his life To sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.' 'A moment only?'--'Soon his scruples rose: It cannot be! he said; two mountains lie Between my fate and hers.--Two bubbles rather! Retorted I; let's take their altitude.-- One is my age.--That mountain is already Tunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.-- The other is that infamous decree Against me at the period of my suit, Granting the guilty party a divorce, But me prohibiting to wed again.-- Well, that decree (I answered bitterly) Would have with me the weight of a request That I'd hereafter quaff at common puddles And not at one pure fount; I'd heed the bar As I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer; I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellers Than outrage sacred nature.--If that bench Could have you up for bigamy, what then?-- The dear old dames! they should not have the means To prove it on me: for the pact should be 'Twixt me and her who would accept my troth Freely before high heaven and all its angels: Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon, Could not, at least, produce.--But, Kenrick, you Do not consider all the risk and pain; The social stigma, and, should children come, The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.-- To which I answered: God's great gift of life, Coming through parentage select and pure, To me is such a sacred, sacred thing, So precious, so inestimably precious, That your objections seem of small account; Since only stunted hearts and slavish minds Could visit on your children disrepute, Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism, Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains.
"'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected, Is all in honor, purged of selfishness, Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame? But understand me: Would I cheapen form? Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it, Without a reason potent as your own, Trifled with danger. But I cannot make A god of form, an idol crushing me. Unlike the church, I look on marriage as A civil contract, not a sacrament,[6] Indissoluble, spite of every wrong; The high and holy purposes of marriage Are not fulfilled in instances where each Helps to demoralize or blight the other; Let it then stand, like other contracts, on A basis purely personal and legal.
"'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to! Challenging never, never testing them; Accepting them as irreversible; Part of God's order, not to be improved; Placing the form above the informing spirit, The outward show above the inward life; A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out, Above the pure, the everlasting truth; Fancying Nature is not Nature still, Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed; Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child, Yet unperverted, readily would pierce!
"'Consider my own case: a month ago, See me a maniac, rushing forth to find A wife who loved me not; my heart all swollen With rage against the man to whom I owed Exposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind! To chase a form from which the soul had fled! If I grew sane at length, you, Percival, And the mere presence of our little nurse Have brought me light and healing. I am cured, Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release.
"'Here I paused. Percival made no reply, But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floor Awhile, and then confronting him resumed:-- Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a way To free you from the meshes of the law: On my return, I'll go to Albany, Where war's financial sinews, as you know, Are those of legislation equally; I'll have a law put through to meet your case; To strip away these toils. I can; I will!-- Percival almost stunned me with his No! Make _me_ a gutter, adding more pollution To the fount of public justice? Never! No! I would not feed corruption with a bribe, To win release to-morrow. Such a cure Would be, my friend, far worse than the disease.-- Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell! The carriage waits to take me to the station.-- I shall not say farewell until we part Beside the carriage-door, said he: you'll take Your leave of Mary?--Yes, I go to seek her.-- And this, Miss Mary, is a full report Of all that passed between my friend and me.'
"Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought, Thus copious, in the hope his argument Would make me look as scornfully as he On obstacles that Percival would raise. I thanked him for his courtesy, and then, Not without some emotion, we two parted. When the last sound of the retiring wheels Was drowned in other noises, Percival Came in, and found me waiting in the parlor. 'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said. So, in the little parlor we sat down. I see it now, all vividly before me! The carpet--ay, its very hues and figures: The chandelier, the sofa, the engraving Of Wellington that hung above the mantel; The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving, And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters; And, in a vase, upon the marble stand, An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day-- Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope!
"Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each other With words indifferent; and we'll allow Small opportunity for hearts to speak: We know what they would utter, might we dare To give them audience. Let Reason rule. What I propose is this: that we now part-- Part for two years; and when that term shall end, If we are still in heart disposed as now, Then can we orient ourselves anew, And shape our course as wary conscience bids. Till then, no meeting and no correspondence!
"'Now for conditions more particular: You have a sister--Mrs. Hammersley-- Julia, I think you said,--an elder sister, Resident here, and in society, But fretted by her lord's extravagance And her own impecuniosity. You at her house shall be a visitor, But not without the means of aiding her; And who but I can now supply the means? Here's the dilemma: how can you be free If you're my debtor? Yet you _must_ be free, And promise to be free; nor let my gift Sway you one jot in trammelling your heart. Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley; Accepting all Society can offer To welcome youth and beauty to its lap; Keeping your heart as open as you can To influences and impressions new; For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are! So much for _you_. On _my_ part, I'll return To my own country, and endeavor there Once more to rectify the wretched wrong That circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps-- But we can be prepared for either issue.'
"Here he was silent, and I said: 'You're right, And I accept your terms without reserve.' We parted, and except a clasp of hands That lingered in each other, and a glance That flashed farewell from eyes enthroning truth, There was no outward token of our love.
"Two years (the longest of my life were they!) Emptied their sands at last, and then I wrote A letter to him, to the Barings' care, Containing one word only; this: '_Unchanged._' In the same old familiar room we met: Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back, Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile: ''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!' 'I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to show How slight, to love like mine, impediments Injustice can pile up!'
"He took my hand, And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss. Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he: 'Baffled in all my efforts to procure Reversal of my sentence, I resolved To terminate one misery at least: Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen, To render an account of all my income, Of which the larger portion must be paid For the support of my betrayer, and The child, called, by a legal fiction, mine. To this annoyance of an annual dealing With her attorney, I would put an end; And so I compromised by giving up Two thirds of all my property at once. This leaves me free from all entanglement With her or hers,--though with diminished means.
"'And now, since still you venture to confide Wholly in me, my Mary Merivale,-- And since you would intrust your happiness To one who can but give you love for love,-- To make our income certain, 'tis my plan Straightway my little remnant to convert Into a joint annuity, to last During our natural lives: this will secure A fair, though not munificent support. And since for me you put the gay world by, And since for you I make no sacrifice, Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'
"This I disclaimed; but we at last arranged That on the morrow, in the presence of My poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia, We two should take each other by the hand As emblem of a pledge including all Of sacred and inviolable, all Of holy and sincere, that man and woman, Uniting for connubial purposes, And with no purpose foreign to right love, Can, with responsible intelligence, Give to each other in the face of God, And before human witnesses.