Papa’s Own Girl;
                                A NOVEL.


                           BY MARIE HOWLAND.


                           ——“Wisdom is humanity;
             And they who want it, wise as they may seem,
             And confident in their own sight and strength,
             Reach not the scope they aim at.”
                                             —W. S. LANDOR.


                               NEW YORK:
                      PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT,
                         No. 27 CLINTON PLACE.
                         BOSTON: LEE & SHEPARD.
                                 1874.




       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
                             MARIE HOWLAND,
       In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
                         [All rights reserved.]


                      Electrotyped and printed by
                    THE EXCELSIOR PRINTING COMPANY,
                     81, 83, & 85 Centre St., N. Y.




                               CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER                                                       PAGE
        I.— AN OLD LETTER                                            5
       II.— THE SKELETON IN THE GARRET                              11
      III.— DR. FOREST AT HOME                                      17
       IV.— ONE OF DR. FOREST’S PATIENTS                            25
        V.— THE TATTOOING                                           37
       VI.— CLARA AT STONYBROOK COLLEGE                             45
      VII.— DAN’S BUSINESS OPERATIONS                               54
     VIII.— PHILOSOPHY VANQUISHED                                   64
       IX.— THE LION’S DEN                                          73
        X.— CLARA’S RETURN.—THE DRAMA IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY         83
       XI.— FAITH AND WORKS                                         98
      XII.— CLARA DECIDES BETWEEN RELIGION AND PRINCIPLE           112
     XIII.— PAPA’S OWN GIRL                                        122
      XIV.— DAN’S MONEY RETURNED.—THE DOCTOR CONQUERED             132
       XV.— THE DOCTOR’S LETTER.—DAN REJECTED                      144
      XVI.— THE VISIT OF THE DELANOS                               152
     XVII.— COSTLY GRAPES                                          165
    XVIII.— HOW DAN GOT MARRIED                                    175
      XIX.— THE BABY.—LOVERS’ ADIEUX                               187
       XX.— CLARA’S WEDDING                                        199
      XXI.— THE NUCLEUS OF THE FLOWER BUSINESS                     208
     XXII.— THE FIRST CLOUD                                        220
    XXIII.— THE INVITATION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS                  236
     XXIV.— A SPASMODIC MOVEMENT OF LOVE                           244
      XXV.— LETTERS.—A CONVERSATION                                253
     XXVI.— THE CRISIS                                             266
    XXVII.— THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE                               278
   XXVIII.— THE EFFECT OF DR. DELANO’S FORGIVENESS                 291
     XXIX.— THE COUNT VON FRAUENSTEIN                              301
      XXX.— OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH                               314
     XXXI.— INTO A BETTER WORLD                                    330
    XXXII.— THE DISTINGUISHED VISITOR                              343
   XXXIII.— LEGITIMATE, OR ILLEGITIMATE                            360
    XXXIV.— THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP                                  375
     XXXV.— THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP OBEYS                            387
    XXXVI.— THE COUNT’S SPEECH TO HIS WORKMEN                      405
   XXXVII.— POETIC RETRIBUTION.—GROG-SELLERS INTERVIEWED BY WOMEN  425
  XXXVIII.— PROGRESS OF THE WORK                                   441
    XXXIX.— AN HONEST WOMAN                                        459
       XL.— UNDER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS                              473
      XLI.— AFTER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS                              492
     XLII.— A VISIT TO THE SOCIAL PALACE                           507
    XLIII.— THE INAUGURATION OF THE SOCIAL PALACE                  523
     XLIV.— THE BIRTH OF THE HEIR                                  538




                            PAPA’S OWN GIRL.




                               CHAPTER I.
                             AN OLD LETTER.


* * * * I was seven years old when they came—those mysterious little
red-faced sisters, which the day before were nowhere in the universe,
and the next had sprung up before my bewildered young eyes, full dressed
in long white gowns, and looking every way as exactly alike as did the
objects I used to see double by “crossing my eyes” as we called it; a
habit that brought me many a reprimand.

We lived then, as you know, in L——, Massachusetts, and I looked upon the
advent of the little creatures on that fine September morning as the
most wonderful stroke of fortune; but I remember that my mother, lying
very pale and still among her pillows, watched my delight with sad eyes,
and then turned her face wearily to the wall. Aunt Patty, the dear old
Goody, long since sleeping in the village churchyard, entered kindly
into my childish enthusiasm, turning up the skirts of the white dresses,
and then unfolding a mass of soft flannel, finally exposed the velvety
little feet, whose pink toes moved incessantly, as if enamored of the
air. I very soon grew so boisterous in my delight that I had to be sent
ignominiously from the room. I went immediately in search of my brother
Dan, a handsome, rough fellow, whom I found in the kitchen busily
employed with his fishing tackle; for the unusual excitement in the
house afforded him an opportunity to sly off to the river, where mother
had forbidden him to go on pain of severe penalties. I began eagerly
imparting the news.

“O, pshaw! I know all about it,” interrupted Dan. The statement
surprised me, but I accepted it as pure truth, as I generally did all
that he said. He was some years older than I, and I considered him a
superior being—at least everywhere except in school; there, even a
partial sister’s eyes had to see that he was a dunce; though a
good-natured one, and a great favorite. He was indefatigable in
“coasting” the girls and the little boys in winter, and he had a rough
humor that pleased them all. I remember that, at the beginning of one of
our winter terms, the master had offered a prize to the one who should
leave off at the head of the spelling class the greatest number of
times. On the last day of school I received the prize, flushed with
proud delight, standing at the head of the long line of pupils. Dan was
at the very foot, as usual, and the teacher took occasion to reprove him
for his bad lessons and his want of ambition in trying for the prize.

“Why, I almost got it,” said Dan.

“Almost!” echoed the teacher angrily; for we all knew that Dan had not
left off at the head a single day.

“Yes, sir. I should have had it if you had only made this end the head.”
A burst of laughter from the teacher and all the pupils followed this
view of the case, and the echoes, more and more subdued, continued when
we were dismissed to our seats, I hugging the precious prize, which was
a red morocco bound copy of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and Dan chuckling
over the success of his humor. He had consoled and vindicated all the
orthographical blockheads, and he was happy. But I am letting my pen run
wild, as I like to do when answering your letters.

While I stood watching Dan’s manœuvres with his wiggling angle-worms and
hooks and sinkers, I asked him if he did not think that the twins were
perfectly lovely.

“No, I don’t,” he replied, impatiently. “I was going to have two months
of fun before school commenced, and now I shan’t have any. I shall have
to run everywhere for them nasty twins; and then the crackers I shall
have to pound! Mother didn’t have half milk enough for Arthur, and it
would take a whole cow for these. Girls, too, both of them!” he added,
with great contempt. Here, in fact, was the sore point with Dan. While
the baby Arthur lived, he was very fond of him, in his way, and would
probably have been gracious over the advent of a new brother; possibly
would have pardoned our mother in time for presenting us one baby of
either sex; but two at a time, and both girls at that! This was too much
for Dan’s patience, or for his confidence in the discretion of mothers.
I was surprised at his cool prediction about the supply of milk, but I
deferred to his superior experience and years. He gave me another piece
of recondite information just as he started for the river, threatening
to kill my pet kitten if I dared to even hint where he had gone. This
information was that these particular babies would be “awful cross
patches; girls always were.”

In time I myself grew to qualify my ecstasy over the double blessing;
for they certainly proved “awful cross patches,” and the sacrifices I
was obliged to make to them as a child, only a child I think could fully
appreciate. * * * *

Do you remember the skeleton in the garret—the _memento mori_ of our
play-house banquets? * * * *

                                                                   C. F.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“C. F.” is my old friend Clara Forest, and I am one of the characters,
but it does not matter which one. I shall not appear again in the first
person after I have described my first acquaintance with her. It is a
long time since I determined to weave the events of her life into a
story, and coming across this old letter the other day turned the
balance of motives for and against the effort, and I set myself
deliberately to work collecting and arranging materials; for this novel
is by no means a structure evolved from the depths of my own
consciousness. The groundwork is a simple narration of fact, and even
the superstructure is real to a great extent.

In my early days, Clara was my heroine, my princess, but I worshipped
her silently, and she never took any special notice of me until years
after our first meeting.

I saw her first in a village graveyard one Sunday, between the morning
and afternoon services. That was the cheerful spot where the
congregations of the different churches walked during the noon recess,
discussed funereal subjects, and ate “sweet cake,” to use the New
England term of that time. Clara was accompanied by her Sunday-school
teacher, named Buzzell—a grim and forbidding woman, I thought. Everybody
called her “Miss Buzzell,” though she was a widow; but at that time,
among the rural people of New England, it was very common to call
married ladies Miss; unmarried ones received no title at all. Clara on
this day wore a broad-brimmed white straw hat, with wide rose-colored
streamers, a white dress and embroidered tunic of the same, and bronzed
gaiters, or boots, as we now call them. She was a solid little girl,
with a face round and very freckled, a broad, full brow, full pouting
rosy lips, radiant blue-grey eyes, with thick, long lashes, and a nose
that was pretty, though a little after the _rétroussé_ order.

I shall never forget my first sensation. It was a feeling of regret that
I had no freckles; for as soon as my eyes rested upon her, there came
into my heart a deep desire to be just like her in every particular.
Hundreds of times have I recalled her as she appeared to me that day;
and I still believe that, upon some secret principle of æsthetics,
notwithstanding the general prejudice against freckles, these added to
the piquancy of her beauty. As she grew up few called her handsome,
except those who could perceive the rich emotional nature that seemed to
radiate through every gesture and movement of her supple form, and
especially through her bright eyes, whose lids had sometimes a slight
quiver or shake from any sudden excitation. This was something
instantaneous as to time, and difficult to describe, but it added an
extraordinary charm to her soulful beauty. There was always about her an
atmosphere of fragrant health, which charmed you like the odors and
zephyrs of spring-time. The freckles which, as a child, I had so envied
her, disappeared entirely when she reached the nubile age.

On this Sunday in the graveyard I “tagged” after Clara everywhere she
went, fascinated by her fresh, full life, and by her exquisite dress;
but I could find no way to speak to her, because of her awe-inspiring
companion, though I was often so near to her that her long hat ribbons
swept my cheek. After a while my ignorance of churchyard etiquette came
to my aid; for, finding the distance between me and this divine vision
increasing, I made a short cut over some intervening graves. Miss
Buzzell turned her awful eyes upon me. I simply noticed that there were
many wrinkles converging about her mouth, and that her breath was
redolent of cloves. In a deep, slow, admonitory voice, she said, “Child!
you should never step on a grave!” It was like a cold leech dropped
suddenly upon the warm, sensitive flesh. I could do nothing but hang my
head in humiliation. Clara, childlike and human, sympathized with my
distress, and told me sweetly that my pantalette was coming down. It was
at the time when girls, in that part of the country at least, wore this
nondescript article fastened on with the garter, falling down to the
foot, and about three inches below the dress, where it ended with tucks
and a wide hem. Some of us were so extravagant as to add an edging,
which we used to knit of spool cotton. I stooped down to arrange the
rebel pantalette, but when I had finished, Clara was some graves away
from me, and the church bells were calling back the scattered
congregations.




                              CHAPTER II.
                      THE SKELETON IN THE GARRET.


 One beautiful May morning, not long after I first met Clara, I was sent
to Dr. Forest’s with a basket of eggs. As I opened the little gate
leading through the shrubbery and little lawn to the front door, I
perceived Clara standing on the wide upper step, with a watering-pot in
her hand. She was dressed in white, as usual, and was sprinkling some
flowers that grew in a large vase that stood on a pedestal by the steps.
She greeted me pleasantly, and led me into the kitchen, where Dinah, the
fat black servant, relieved my basket of its contents. Mrs. Forest, a
tall, sweet-looking, pale lady, in a white apron, was engaged in making
a vast quantity of little cakes, which Clara told me were macaroons for
her party—a great event which was to take place that afternoon. I had
heard of it, but did not expect an invitation, because I lived quite out
of the village, and knew Clara but very slightly. Seeing all these
delightful preparations, caused me to break the tenth commandment in my
heart, but I was glad that Clara was so happy; and I lingered in that
pleasant kitchen as long as I could, consistently with any degree of
propriety. The twins, now some five years old, were the most prominent
object in the Forest household, if not in the whole village. At that
moment Dinah was picking over raisins, and they kept near her, devouring
all she would give them, and when their importunities failed they
watched their chances, and every now and then succeeded in grabbing a
handful, when they would disappear, and remain very quiet for a few
minutes. Sometimes Dinah would be quick enough to seize the little
depredatory hand and rob it of its booty. When she failed, she “clar’d
to God” there wouldn’t be a raisin left for Miss Clara’s party cake.

The doctor’s family were from the South, where Dinah had formerly been a
slave, though her condition was little better than slavery after the
advent of those imps of twins. The good-natured old servant had loved
the other children very sincerely, and she tried hard to take these also
into her capacious heart, but she never fully succeeded. There was a
feud between her and them, born of their persistent delight in
tormenting her. “Hatching mischief,” she said, was their sole occupation
during their waking hours, and their tricks were told by Dinah to other
servants until the whole village laughed over them.

After amusing the twins awhile I rose to go, following Clara back
through the dining-room to the front door. In the hall she showed me a
long table filled with toy china sets for the amusement, she said, of
the “little girls,” Dr. Buzby cards and other games for the older. I
could not repress exclamations of delight at the prospect of so much
bliss; but when I informed her that I had never been invited to a party
in my life, I had not the remotest intention of “fishing” for an
invitation to hers.

“You never have been at a party!” she exclaimed, quite amazed; and
looking at me from head to foot, her heart seemed to be touched at the
extent and depth of my deprivation. Just then Mrs. Forest came into the
dining-room, and Clara said, “Mamma, I should like to invite one other
girl to my party, if you are willing. I mean this one.” “Certainly, my
dear, if you wish it,” was the pleasant reply, and thereupon, thanking
Clara as well as I could, I left the house, filled with a greater
happiness than I had ever known.

On reaching home I readily gained permission to attend Clara’s
reception, but the question of dress was a serious one, for I well knew
how finely her friends would be arrayed; still I managed as best I
could, and three o’clock in the afternoon found me timidly pulling the
door-bell at Dr. Forest’s. Some other girls arrived before Clara had
disposed of my hat and little cape. We were first ushered into the
drawing-room, where Mrs. Forest was sewing. She did not rise, but smiled
upon us, and addressed to each a few pleasant words.

We soon grew impatient of sitting prim and “behaving” in the
sitting-room, and were greatly relieved when we found ourselves playing
games among the fragrant lilacs and syringas of the garden. Then
followed a game with the innocuous Dr. Buzby cards then in vogue. Clara,
more beautiful than ever, I thought, explained the principles of the
game to me, in a charming, dogmatic manner. I was the only one ignorant
on the subject, and this, with my very plain dress, caused one of the
guests to eye me insolently and ask me if I lived in the woods. Clara
instantly, and in no measured terms, rebuked her guest’s impoliteness,
which had the effect to send her off pouting among the lilacs. I
remember this because it shows the superior nature of Clara Forest in
the most unquestionable way. Children may learn the form of politeness,
but the spirit of it is almost invariably absent, and must be from the
very nature of human development. Man is first the brute, then the
civilizee, and lastly the philosopher; and the child, in its unfolding,
exemplifies these phases just as society does. That Clara was
exceptionally fine in her nature I knew well even then, but I was
ignorant of the cause until long after.

We were much disturbed in our game of Dr. Buzby by Leila and Linnie, the
ubiquitous twins, who vexed and annoyed us in the thousand ways that
little ones have at their command. Finally, to escape from the twins,
Clara led us upstairs, through the doctor’s study, into his bedroom, and
closed the door. This was a plain little room, having a stand, with
several books, at the head of the bed, and over it the doctor’s
night-bell. Clara strictly enjoined us to not so much as touch a single
article in her father’s rooms, on penalty of being instantly obliged,
all of us, to quit our retreat. During our game of cards, Abbie Kendrick
asked Clara why this room was called the doctor’s exclusively.

“Why, because he sleeps here, to be sure,” answered Clara, with a slight
_hauteur_, as if unwilling to discuss family matters with her guests.
She was a very dignified child, this idol of mine—“proud” was the term
girls generally applied to her.

“But does not your mamma sleep here too?” asked Abbie, bold enough to
pursue the subject.

“Certainly not,” replied Clara. “Papa and mamma do not think it proper
to sleep together.”

This piece of information surprised us greatly, but we all accepted the
fact as showing the immeasurable aristocratic superiority of the Dr. and
Mrs. Forest over all the married people we knew. I remember we all
approved the system, agreeing that it was quite proper for girls to
sleep together, and for no others. How wise we were then! Some of us
have slightly modified our views on the subject since we played that
game of cards in the doctor’s room; but we had very fixed and positive
opinions then—all except Clara, who listened silently. We decided that
if we ever married, which, of course, we never would, we should have two
bedrooms, and never, never allow our husbands to enter ours, unless he
were a physician and we happened to be ill!

When the Dr. Buzby cards ceased to amuse us, Clara produced her _piece
de resistence_, which was her play-house in the garret, somewhat
neglected now, for she was approaching the outposts of young ladyhood.
This garret was the one place where the sacrilegious twins had not
penetrated. It was the sanctuary in which she had been in the habit of
taking refuge when hard pressed by the merciless tyrants, to whom she
had always been a patient nurse and victim, for her mother was in
delicate health, and Dinah was almost exclusively occupied with the
housekeeping. To this sanctuary Clara had removed her broken-nosed
dolls, smeared and torn books, and the wrecks generally that she had
snatched from time to time from the grip of the vandals.

We approached this large old garret, under the gable roof, by a rickety
flight of stairs, and on reaching the landing a hideous spectacle
curdled my young blood and riveted my scared, fascinated eyes. It was a
grinning skeleton, suspended to the rafter by a cord and a ring attached
to the top of the skull. The other girls being already initiated,
laughed my terrors to scorn, while one bold miss of ten, Clara’s most
intimate friend, Louise Kendrick, went straight up to the horror, made
faces at it, and then deliberately set it spinning! I shall never forget
the sinking, sickening sensation at my heart as the eyeless sockets and
hideous teeth glared through the dim light at me with every revolution.
Clara, seeing how frightened I was, hastened to reassure me by saying,
as she placed her arm around me—

“It isn’t anything but the bones, you know. We all look like that under
our flesh.” Comforting thought! It required a long time for me to
control myself so that I could enter into the doll-dressing with spirit;
and every now and then, as we cut, and planned, and sewed, especially as
the light grew dimmer, I turned my head over my shoulder, gingerly, just
enough to make sure that the “thing” was not striding toward me. Right
glad was I when we were called down to our weak tea, and over the honey
and hot biscuits I forgot for the time the agony of fear I had endured.
That night, however, the skeleton was “after me” all the time; and my
ineffectual struggles to get my long yellow hair out of its bony hands
woke me many times with agonizing cries. And all this because my young
imagination had been poisoned by ghost stories—the ghost always being
represented by a skeleton partially covered with white drapery. I
believe now in the “inquisition of science”;—that one of its most sacred
functions is to seize and punish any person found guilty of entertaining
the sensitive, unformed brain of the child with the horrors of the
grave, of death, of hell, or any of the unverifiable hypotheses of
theology and superstition, born of the general ignorance incident to the
childhood of the human race.




                              CHAPTER III.
                          DR. FOREST AT HOME.


 The doctor was about forty years old, but his hair was beginning to
turn gray and his fine head was a little bald upon the top. He was about
the medium height, muscular, with handsome broad shoulders, and very
slightly inclined to stoutness. He had fine grey eyes, which he was in
the habit of half closing when anything puzzled him. It was an
exceedingly benevolent and expressive face, which won utter confidence
at the first glance. He wore light, steel-bowed spectacles, which he
never removed, apparently, from one year’s end to another. In repose,
his mouth had an expression of severity; and when studying, he had a
curious habit of protruding his under-lip; but the moment he spoke this
mouth became handsome, expressing the large-heartedness and the ready
humor that made him a favorite with all who knew him.

About the old house of the doctor, there was a quaint and dignified air,
given by the books and numerous pictures, most of them quite old, and by
the heavy antique furniture, relict of a former generation. It was not
the air of wealth exactly, yet no one could suspect, from the general
appearance of things, that there was a chronic scarcity of money in the
family, and that the gentle Mrs. Forest had such sore difficulty in
making ends meet. This, too, when the doctor was the best physician for
miles around, and quantities of money were due him in all directions.
The truth was, he could not collect what was due him. Unless absolutely
driven to the wall, he could not ask any of his patients for money; and
when they wished to return equivalents for his services, in the shape of
corn, and apples, and potatoes, he said not a word until the cellar
became so full that Dinah rebelled. In the spring, when seed potatoes
gave out at planting time, every farmer knew where to make up his
deficit; though in such cases he never thought of paying the good doctor
money for them, but promised to return them at harvest time, not being
particular at all to consider that a bushel now was worth five or ten in
the autumn. Still, the doctor did not complain, being gentle to a fault,
though he took note of all things. As to his children, he confessed
frankly that he did not know how to bring them up, and when he was in
doubt about any matter of discipline, he generally let them have their
own way. An incident will illustrate his method: the large room where
Mrs. Forest and the twins slept was directly beside the doctor’s, and as
they did not like the darkness a lamp was always kept burning there. One
night when the doctor, having been up all the previous night, had gone
to bed early, he was prevented from sleeping by a tin-whistle in the
mouth of Leila. He called out to her to stop, as he wished to go to
sleep. Presently there came to the doctor’s ears a faint little “_toot!
toot!_” from the whistle. Linnie tried hard to hush her sister, and
reminded her of the voice from the next room. “Oh, its only papa!” said
Leila impatiently; which, the doctor hearing, caused him to investigate
the motive of the child’s remark, and philosophizing upon the subject,
he went to sleep finally to the accompaniment of the “_toot! toot!
toot!_” which Leila kept up until she was tired of it.

Mrs. Buzzell, Clara’s Sunday-school teacher, and an old friend of Mrs.
Forest, had a very tender spot in her heart for the doctor, whom she
regarded, and rightly too, as one of the best physicians in the world.
No one understood her internal perturbations as he did, and she took all
the medicines he prescribed with a faith that was somewhat remarkable,
considering that she had been under his treatment for twelve years and
more, and still required his services more than ever. Probably her
sublime faith was based on the conviction of the awful things that
_would_ have happened but for his medicines. She lived a lonely life by
herself, and was very fond of spending an afternoon at the doctor’s
house, and having long conversations on nothing in particular with Mrs.
Forest. Her visits were sometimes almost an infliction to Mrs. Forest,
who had a strong housewifely pride in nice teas, which the chronic
scarcity of money, before mentioned, rendered difficult to attain in
many instances. To be sure there was always bacon and a barrel of fine
hominy in the kitchen, which sufficed for Dinah’s southern tastes, and
the family could always fall back upon these if necessary, and the
latter at least was never absent from the family breakfast; but they
could hardly serve a respectable tea-table where cake and creamy hot
biscuits were a _sine qua non_ according to all good housekeepers.

On one occasion, just before breakfast, Mrs. Buzzell sent a note to her
friend expressing her intention to spend the afternoon with her, “if
agreeable.” Now it just was not “agreeable,” for the commissariat was at
a low ebb—lower, indeed, than it had ever been; but Mrs. Forest, of
course, sent back a polite answer expressing delight at the prospect of
the visit, not even dreaming, probably, of the conventional fib that her
answer contained.

While she was writing the reply for the messenger to take back to Mrs.
Buzzell, Dinah’s soul was being tried unusually in the kitchen by the
conduct of the twins, which reached a climax when one of them actually
threw a kitten into Aunt Dinah’s boiling hominy kettle. She was
long-suffering, though her threats were severe and frequent; but this
time her patience gave way entirely, and taking off a colossal
carpet-slipper she spanked the offending twin right soundly. Mild Mrs.
Forest hearing the uproar from the kitchen, sent Dan to bring the
children to her room. Both were howling at the top of their voices, for
one never cried without the other joining in on principle. Then she went
down to the kitchen and reproved Dinah for taking the discipline of the
children into her own hands. Dinah was too exasperated to be reasoned
with. She burst out—

“I bars eberyting wid dem chil’en, missus; but _I clar to God, I won’t
hab dem kittens in de hominy pot_!”

To the outside world, the Forest family was a model of domestic
felicity, and not without cause as family life goes; but Mrs. Forest was
very far from a happy woman. This was due partly to her delicate health,
which gave her a disposition to “borrow trouble,” and to look too much
beyond the grave for the happiness a stronger and more philosophical
nature would have created out of her really fortunate environment. At
times, she still suffered from the loss of the baby Arthur, though he
had been dead some eight years. The doctor could hardly understand this
as a normal expression, and she often accused him of a lack of sympathy.
He himself submitted calmly always to the inevitable, learned the lesson
that any misfortune afforded, applied it practically to his daily life,
and in no other way remembered a suffering that was in the past. His
wife, he said, had a passion for the “luxury of woe,” and this was a
diseased condition. Dan gave her a world of trouble. She had made an
idol of him from his birth, and it was indeed hard to feel that her deep
love for him was not sufficient to cure him of a single one of his bad
habits. Years of the most loving effort to make him take off his hat on
entering the house, had been unavailing; and he still tramped through
her tidy house with dirty shoes every day of his life, and though nearly
fourteen years of age, it is questionable whether he had abandoned the
charming habit of coming down stairs astride the baluster. He teased the
twins, worried Clara whenever an opportunity offered, went and came
without asking permission of his mother, and at table he was
distressingly awkward. On this particular morning the doctor said to
him, a little after sitting down to the breakfast-table and while he was
serving the hominy—

“Now Dan, my boy, I’ve been cheated out of my morning sleep by the
hubbub in the house, and my nerves are irritated; so you’ll save them a
shock and much oblige me if you will give me warning when you are going
to upset your glass, or wipe your knife off the table with your sleeve.”

Dan had more affection for his father than for any other being in the
world. He hung his head, but answered good-naturedly, “I’m not going to
do either this morning, sir.” During this reply he was vigorously mixing
a piece of very hard butter in the hominy which his father had just put
into his plate, and the result was the landing of his plate, bottom
upwards, on the floor by the way of his legs. Mrs. Forest uttered an
exclamation of despair; but Clara quietly rose, removed the _debris_,
and brought Dan another plate. This time, Dan was really distressed, and
his mortification was increased by the doctor’s laughing.

“Never mind, my son,” he said, putting his right hand kindly on Dan’s
shoulder. “This time it was more my fault than yours. I made you nervous
by my criticism.” The idea of Dan’s being nervous was an exquisite
compliment from its perfect novelty. The doctor saw that the boy for
once was greatly ashamed, and so he immediately changed the subject to
Leila, who sat in her high chair on Dan’s right. “So Miss Mischief,” he
said, “you set out to cook a kitten in the hominy this morning did you,
eh? I’m very glad you failed, and I advise you to not try it again.”

“I sall took ee titten to-maw-yer, I sall.”

“You will cook the kitten to-morrow, will you?” he said, repressing a
disposition to laugh. “Look here, Leila, if you try that again I hope
you’ll get a much larger dose of Dinah’s slipper, and you shall not have
a kiss from papa, nor come to the table with him for a whole week.”

“Poor kitty! her toes ache so,” said Linnie, who spoke quite plainly
compared with her sister, and whose heart also was more tender. The
doctor praised Linnie’s sympathy with the kitten, and while reading
Leila a little lecture on cruelty, the bell rang, and he was called off
to see a patient.

During the day Mrs. Forest consulted Clara on the subject of the
afternoon tea, for she was sorely perplexed and mortified, as she said,
because there was nothing in the house.

“Why, mamma, I don’t see why you should bother yourself. We have nice,
fresh, Graham bread, some delicious cheese, any quantity of fruit, and
Dinah can make some hominy. Mrs. Buzzell don’t ever taste hominy, and
she’ll be delighted with it, I know. Papa would find such food
excellent; and I am sure what is good enough for papa is good enough for
anybody in this world.”

“Yes, my child, it is _good_ enough, no doubt; but it is such an odd
jumble. Who ever heard of such a tea? You know Mrs. Buzzell’s appetite
is fastidious, and I like to have something savory for her. Of course
the doctor’s credit is good at the grocer’s, and everywhere, for that
matter, but I have never used it, and never intended to; but I think I
shall have to make an exception to-day. We _must_ have some butter and
some sugar.”

“Now, mamma, you know Mrs. Buzzell is always complaining about her
digestion. On principle, you should never give her anything but simple
food—just like this tea we are going to have; and I wouldn’t put the
cheese on the table either. It may destroy the effect of papa’s
medicines,” added Clara, laughing.

Mrs. Forest descanted with much bitterness upon the laxity of the doctor
in collecting the money due him. “Well, my child,” she said, after a
pause, “I must trust to Providence.” This intention she always expressed
after dwelling upon the doctor’s bad management and the exhausted state
of the larder; but she evidently thought there was great virtue in such
trust, as if Providence ought to be highly complimented by her
confidence. This consultation took place in the kitchen pantry, and was
finally ended by the entrance of Dinah with a slop-pail from the upper
regions, at the same time that a country wagon drove around to the
kitchen door.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                     ONE OF DR. FOREST’S PATIENTS.


 The doctor used to say that “Trust in Providence and keep your powder
dry” was a good injunction, but would be better reversed; and whatever
he believed, Clara subscribed to as if by instinct. So when her mother,
in the kitchen pantry, expressed her determination to trust to
Providence, Clara received it with a little scowl of impatience.

Dinah came into the drawing-room a few minutes later, and Mrs. Forest
and Clara followed her back to the kitchen. The wagon which had just
driven away contained some grateful patient of the doctor. He had left
with Dinah a half dozen nicely-dressed spring chickens, some golden
balls of fragrant butter, and two boxes of fresh honey in the comb. Mrs.
Forest looked silently at her daughter, every feature expressing, “You
see I trusted in Providence.” Clara laughed pleasantly, repressing the
temptation to remind her mother that the wagon must have been on its way
with the welcome treasures long before that decision to trust in
Providence was made; but she only said, “Now you can give Mrs. Buzzell a
nice attack of indigestion. O mamma! your desire to give her something
‘savory,’ as you said, is only a deep-laid scheme to increase papa’s
practice. I see it all now. Mrs. Buzzell is one of his few patients who
pay promptly!”

“Why! what levity!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest, who, now that her anxiety
about a respectable tea was removed, felt at peace with the world, and
her sense of the fitness of things was answered.

Mrs. Buzzell came in good season. She was a prim lady of sixty or more,
dressed in a neat black grenadine dress, open to a point from the
throat. This open space was filled in with spotless illusion lace,
fastened with a little jet brooch. Her white hair was beautifully rolled
in three puffs on either side of her head, and surmounted by a white cap
with a border or frill, and lavender-colored strings. She was a very
active, industrious person, though a sufferer from her ailments. During
the afternoon she spoke of her digestion several times. On these
occasions Clara made a knowing, mischievous sign to her mother, who was
dignifiedly oblivious, apparently, to what her saucy daughter was
thinking.

Clara set the tea-table herself with her mother’s choice old china,
which seemed to feel its rare importance only when arranged upon a snowy
cloth. After all Mrs. Forest’s anxiety, the tea was as delightfully
respectable as her heart could wish. The twins, however, set up in their
high chairs, detracted a good deal from the solemnity of the occasion,
for their behavior, always especially bad when “company” was present,
was sufficient to make Mrs. Buzzell’s cap-border stand up in
consternation. They kicked the under side of the table with the toes of
their little shoes, setting the cups dancing in their saucers, whenever
the supply of honey gave out and was not instantly renewed, or when
reproved by their gentle mother for the quantity of cake they thought
proper to discuss. Whenever their conduct became unbearable, a kind of
semi-yell from Dan distracted their attention for a few moments,
enabling the ladies to continue their mild comments upon the diseases
incident to children, and the superior taste of the new milliner’s
bonnets and caps.

Clara silently watched and anticipated the wants of the twins, wearing a
weary, responsible look, for they weighed upon her young life like the
world upon the shoulders of Atlas. Since they were babies, creeping
about, putting everything animate or inanimate into their mouths, and
calling every man papa who approached them, Clara had gradually assumed
more and more the care of them, being stronger in mind and body than her
mother. Her method of managing these irrepressibles, was very
reprehensible in one respect, but she had been led into it by the
necessity of some method, and the impossibility of moving the rebellious
little tyrants by any reasonable means. She had taken advantage of their
passion for doing anything they were forbidden to do, even though that
in itself were disagreeable to them. For example, after tea the great
desideratum was to get the twins upstairs to bed, for there was little
possibility of quiet conversation where they were. The doctor had just
come in, and was very contentedly sipping his rather insipid tea, and
gathering up what remained of the eatables, to the accompaniment of a
somewhat detailed account of Mrs. Buzzell’s “wretched digestion.”

“Now, Linnie,” said Clara, “you wish to stay down and play, don’t you?
but Clara is going upstairs.” It was never necessary to address but one
at a time, for whatever one decided to do was certain to be immediately
repeated by the other. By the time she had reached the stairs, Linnie
dropped her toys and started, Leila following closely, both determined
to perish rather than stay down-stairs, as they supposed they were
expected to do. Once arrived in the sleeping chamber, similar manœuvres
inveigled the twins into bed, and when they were finally sleeping, Clara
went down to the sitting-room. The doctor noticed her weary look, and
said, “My child, you have too much responsibility. Papa must try to send
you away to school. I have been thinking of your method in managing
those children. Surely you do not think you are right in controlling
them by such motives?”

“I suppose not, papa,” answered Clara, who had sat down on a stool at
her father’s side, and was “resting,” as she used to call it, in the
magnetic caresses of his hand upon her brown hair; “but it saves time.”

“Ah! my daughter. How many follies are committed under that plea! See
what you do by this course. In the first place, you cultivate obstinacy
in the little ones, which is bad enough, and then you dull the fine edge
of your conscience by doing what your better sense condemns, I am sure.”

“She is not so much to be blamed,” said Mrs. Forest. “It is one of Dan’s
tricks. She learned it from him.”

“What does papa’s girl think of that as an excuse?” he asked, studying
her fine face.

“I don’t think it excuses me, papa. I know it does not.”

“You are right. Dan should learn of you, not you of him, in matters of
conscience. I only wish he had your conscientiousness, and your love of
books, too. I never see him reading. I wonder where the young rat is
to-night.” Clara knew pretty well where Dan was, but for his sake she
kept silent. She was always merciful to his delinquencies; probably from
the fear that she did not love him as she believed a sister should love
her brother. No two children could well be more unlike; and for years he
had bullied her unmercifully, though he would not permit others to do
so, and his tough little fist was ready to the head of any urchin in
school or in the street, who dared to show the least disrespect for his
sister. He monopolized that matter himself, and carried teazing to cruel
extremes. She was easily irritated by him, especially in her earlier
years, and whenever he saw her becoming angry, it was a constant
practice of his to seize both her hands and hold them as in a vise,
mocking her impotent rage until it grew to murder in her heart. This was
a persecution so often repeated that it had completely destroyed all her
natural tenderness for him, which the sensitive child reproached herself
for, and sought to atone by treating him with great kindness.

Ah! what a nursery of crooked, abnormal motives the family often is! How
many really deep wrongs are done to impressible children, to which the
parents are utterly blind, because so ignorant of the laws of mental
development. When Clara’s troubles with Dan were unendurable, she had
sometimes gone to her mother. Once she did so, bursting out with, “_I
wish I could kill him_.” The mother was horrified; but, alas! only at
the language; not seeing beneath the surface what madness had been
induced in the child’s heart, nor inferring a necessary and adequate
cause. She only reproved Clara for such “dreadful words,” and sent for
Dan. “My son, why do you teaze your sister so? Do you not know it is
very wicked, and that if you are wicked you will never go to Heaven?” In
truth, she was utterly incapable of comprehending the difficulty between
the children, and as Dan was on his good behavior when his father was
present, and as all the family tacitly agreed to never trouble the
doctor unnecessarily, knowing that he ought to rest during the short
time his practice left him free, he never knew of this peculiar trial of
Clara’s until long after.

When Mrs. Forest would remind Dan of his danger of losing Heaven, she
naturally thought that it should have great weight with him; though if
she could have read his thoughts, she would have quickly seen her
mistake. Heaven, to Dan, meant a country

                  “Where congregations ne’er break up,
                  And Sabbaths never end;”

and though he thought such a dull place might do for girls and for
people like the widow Buzzell, he knew perfectly well that it was no
place for a live boy, who liked fishing and setting snares in the woods
much better than any congregation he could imagine.

But to go back to the family circle. When the doctor wondered where the
“young rat” was, Clara kept silent. Mrs. Buzzell hazarded the suggestion
that he might be off with those low Dykes—the Dykes being a family whom
nobody visited, and who were generally set down as “no better than they
should be.” This was precisely where Dan was at that moment, and the
attraction was possibly Susie Dykes, though he took no particular notice
of any one but Jim Dykes, who possessed a pair of old battered foils,
and with them gave the delighted Dan several desultory lessons in the
art of fencing. Jim being a great swaggerer, and a little older than
Dan, was mighty in his eyes; especially when he discoursed on the
“guards” and “passes,” his hat cocked over his left eye, his legs
straddled, and an unmanageable end of tobacco in his mouth.

“It is strange,” said Mrs. Forest, “what Dan finds so agreeable in that
family. I am sure I could not endure the house. Mrs. Dykes is a
slattern, and her children have no sort of bringing up, as I am told.”

“Why,” said the doctor, “I don’t see but Susie is a very nice girl. She
behaves very well indeed—totally unlike that uncouth brother of hers. I
like the pretty way she does her hair.”

“For my part, I distrust girls or women who please only men,” said Mrs.
Buzzell. “I’ve heard several men praise her looks.”

“I’m inclined to think that her charm is not so much in her looks as in
her good nature. She always smiles as if she were happy. The signs of
happiness rest one so;”—and the doctor sighed.

“Men,” said Mrs. Forest, who seldom generalized, “are unsatisfied unless
women are always gay and smiling; but how can we be? Household cares so
drag us down, and the care of children, especially two at a time, is too
much for any one.”

“Yet children used to be considered a blessing,” remarked the doctor,
and added humorously, “but I can see how any woman might be blest to
death by a too frequent repetition of this doubling extravagance of your
sex.”

Mrs. Forest was always annoyed at this suggestion, which the doctor
often teazed his wife with, just to see the expression of impatient
credulity on her face. She pretended not to notice it this time, but
answered, a little spiritedly, “So they are a blessing, of course. I do
not mean to deny that, but one may have many trials about them. I’m sure
I have my share with Dan. He is almost sixteen, and yet I am quite sure
he prefers to be ragged and dirty to looking like a gentleman’s son. It
does annoy me so to think I have no influence over him in this matter.”

“I think, mamma,” said Clara, raising her head from her father’s knee,
“that Susie Dykes will have more influence in that matter than you have.
He made a famous toilet to-day before going out. You should see his
room. It looks like an old cockatoo cage after the bird has been
bathing—only cockatoos can’t leave their towels and stockings scattered
over the floor.”

“Did he really change his stockings?” asked Mrs. Forest in amazement.
“Then there’s something wrong. It must be the first time in his life he
ever did such a thing of his own accord!”

When Mrs. Buzzell rose to go the doctor rose also, and, as usual,
gallantly accompanied her. The conversation on the way was a little
tiresome to the doctor, but his heart was far too kind to permit him to
show it, for he knew that he was much esteemed by this patient, and he
pitied her lonely life. In answer to her complaints about her digestion
he said, “And you ate honey and hot bread to-night. You should have
eaten only a crust of bread, and chewed it well.”

“Oh dear, no—that is, I am never troubled about what I eat at your
house. I can digest anything perfectly well there; but everything
disagrees with me at home. I have told you that often, doctor,” she
added, as if pained that he should not remember.

“Pardon me, I did not forget; but I thought I must take that with a
certain margin, as I am compelled to do much that my women patients tell
me; but I see I must make you an exception, and the result is that my
treatment can do you no good. You need more excitement—a larger life.
While you live such a lonely way, medicines are of little use. You see
the doctor is a humbug, more or less, and must be until he can prescribe
changes in the social conditions as well as of diet and climate. Anyway
considered, doctoring with drugs is more the business of the charlatan
than of the true scientist. The longer I live the more I see the folly
of patching up the stomach and the liver when the true disease is in the
soul.”

“Soul! why, doctor, I was afraid you did not believe in the soul.”

“But I do, only you Christians and spiritualists, so called, have such a
beastly material conception of soul that you can scarcely understand the
scientific faith. Be sure that I believe in the immortality of soul, but
I know that structure corresponds to function; that is the first law of
nature. Now the soul, as you conceive it, is not a spiritual conception,
but some kind of organization—a ghost, in short, having functions, but
the Devil himself cannot define its structure.”

“Well, I am not a scientific person, doctor, so I will not pretend I
know much; but I think I know that the only way to be happy is to keep
as near to Christ as we can.” After quite a long pause, during which
doctor and patient reached the little veranda porch of Mrs. Buzzell’s
home, she added, “Shall I keep on taking that cardiac mixture, or would
you recommend something else?”

“Nothing else,” he said, holding her hand a moment, “only a good-night
kiss from your doctor.” This he added gravely, and then pressed his
grizzly moustache lightly first upon one and then the other of his
patient’s faded cheeks. The prescription was quite new, though the
doctor had often kissed her forehead after sitting by her bed, talking
to her while holding her hand.

“Is this a general treatment?” asked Mrs. Buzzell good-humoredly; “or am
I an exception?”

“This is a special treatment, because specially indicated,” he said.
“You are thoroughly womanly in your nature, and you really need the
magnetism of affection. You suffer more from your secluded life than
most people would. Good-night; I will call soon,” and with that he left
her. To the ordinary observer Mrs. Buzzell passed as a formal prude,
cold and unattractive, but in reality, there was in her heart, an
under-current of refined sensibility. To be sure it would not have been
safe or prudent, at least, for any other man to attempt to kiss her
cheek as the doctor had done, but she knew there was no guile in his
heart, and she justly held his kindness and his deep sympathy with her
as a most precious treasure. Coarse men are wont to scoff at the
attraction women find in ministers and physicians, especially women
whose social conditions are unfortunate; but the solution is very
simple: physicians, at least, generally know more of human nature than
other men do. This is true, of course, only of those of the nobler moral
type. No others win the confidence of refined women, though their vanity
may blind them to the wide difference there is between ordinary and
extraordinary confidence, for every physician, if not every priest,
receives a certain amount of confidence from the nature of his office.
The physician of the high type to which Dr. Forest belongs, knows to a
certainty the amount of mutual sympathy existing between their women
patients and their husbands, when, as is often the case, there is no
verbal confession of grievances; and even when, if such grievances
exist, there is special care taken to conceal them. The kind-hearted and
high-minded physician, especially if he be a man of the world, as all
great physicians have invariably been, is the priestly confessor among
Protestants. He no more thinks of betraying the confidences of his
patients than the Catholic priest does those of the confessional. He is
not restrained from a feeling of honor—there is no restraint in the
case, for there is not the slightest temptation to talk of such
confidences. It is not in that way that the physician regards them. He
has received them by the thousand, and they excite no wonder in his
mind; besides, who could understand them as he does? He receives them
seriously enough, for whatever the cause, suffering is positive and
demands his sympathy, and the true physician accords it as by instinct.
To the vulgar, causes seem often very amusing. To the physician, he who
“dies of a rose in aromatic pain,” is none the less dead than if hit by
a cannon-ball.

When you see two men walking in the street, and another in front of them
trips and falls on the pavement, watch the effect of the accident on the
two men. If one guffaws with amusement, and the other rushes to the
victim, helps him up with grave ceremony and sympathetic words, you may
draw this conclusion: the first is an ignoramus, and very likely an
American; the other is a physician or a Frenchman; for as a rule the
French are incapable of seeing anything comical in an incident fraught
with danger to a fellow-mortal. Not that American men are less generous
and kind-hearted than other people, but they are ashamed of the
imputation of effeminacy, and consider it laudable to conceal the signs
of delicate sensibility.

Mrs. Buzzell could not probably have explained exactly what it was in
the character of Dr. Forest that made him seem so unlike all other men.
She would have naturally called it religion, only the doctor was most
unquestionably different, in his views of social morality and “saving
grace,” from all the devout people she had ever known. She thought
herself a very strict believer in orthodox dogmas, but in truth she
would herself have rejected any “scheme of salvation” that was not some
way capable of including him. Perhaps she could not see clearly how, so
she prayed for him constantly, and believed that God would never suffer
such purity of heart, and such devotion to everything good and true, to
go unrewarded. It was clearly “unreasonable.” She could understand, she
thought, how good works might not count much in themselves, but motives
could never go for naught; and the doctor’s motives were so nobly
superior that they _must_ come by the grace of God. So on that rock she
rested her fears for the doctor’s salvation.




                               CHAPTER V.
                             THE TATTOOING.


 Two years are passed, and nothing that very specially affects the
doctor’s family has happened. The twins go to school, quarrel with each
other, as sisters generally do, but they give Aunt Dinah less trouble.
They have grown far too considerate to attempt flavoring the hominy with
live kitten, an event which, for a very long time, she constantly feared
would be repeated. They are “as like as two peas,” according to most
people outside of the family, though in fact, with the exception of
their size and dress, they do not much resemble each other. Leila is a
natural egotist, and has everything pretty much her own way, for Linnie
has no rights which her more positive sister is inclined to respect.
Linnie, who is much more generous and affectionate than Leila, protests
loudly against the tyranny of her sister, “yells,” as Leila poetically
calls weeping, but in the end invariably yields.

Dan is about seventeen, and with Clara attends the village high-school.
His educational progress is of the same order as that which
distinguished him in the old district-school spelling class, where the
head was at the wrong end of the room! To his loving mother he is a
vexation of spirit, though he is less awkward at table, and he has
learned to take off his hat, and with great effort, and for a short
time, to behave “like a gentleman’s son,” as she says. Still he finds
Jim Dykes as irresistible as ever, for the two are now endeared by one
or two desperate encounters, wherein the “science” acquired from his
worthy teacher had enabled Dan to prove himself master. He was much
prouder of this than he would have been of any honor at the disposal of
the high-school, for the great bully, Jim Dykes, treated him with
distinguished respect.

One evening, when Mrs. Forest was sitting up for him, as she always did,
he came in very late. She reproved him for passing his time in low
company, whereupon he stoutly defended the whole Dykes family on general
principles. This he had never done before. She was seriously concerned,
and when she spoke of Susie Dykes, he answered insolently and went
upstairs in a huff. When the doctor entered, a little later, his wife
appeared at the head of the stairs, and asked him to come up to Dan’s
room, whither she had followed him, as she had often done, to offer
silent prayers at his bedside, when distrusting all mortal power to
guide him safely through the temptations of youth. He was sleeping, as
she expected; but she had been diverted from her pious purpose by a
sight that turned all her maternal solicitude into indignation and
refined disgust. The doctor followed Mrs. Forest into the boy’s room,
where he lay asleep, as stalwart and beautiful in form as any rustic
Adonis could well be. He had thrown the covering partially off, for it
was warm, and one of his incurable habits was to sleep entirely nude.
This the doctor said he had inherited from his old Saxon ancestry, who
always slept in that way.

The cause of his mother’s perturbation was soon perceived by the doctor.
This was a fresh tattooing on his left arm, extending quite from the
elbow to the wrist. It was abominably but clearly done, in blue and
scarlet, the design being two hearts spitted with a dart, between the
names DAN FOREST and SUSAN DYKES.

“The young donkey!” said the doctor, laughing; and on the way
down-stairs he added, “This young America is too fast for you, is he
not, Fannie?”

“I must say you take it very coolly, doctor. Such a shocking thing! To
think of his disfiguring himself for life in that way.” Mrs. Forest
looked in despair.

“My dear, there’s nothing to be done. You must accept the inevitable.
What astonishes me is the precocity of the rascal. See! nothing has ever
given that boy any enthusiasm in life. In school he’s a perfect laggard,
and though now past sixteen, cannot write a decent letter. He has idled
away his time, with no real interest in anything. Now, here is born in
him suddenly a new life, and it so charms him that he disfigures himself
for life, as you say, in order to immortalize the sentiment, not
questioning for a moment that Susan Dykes will remain so long as he
lives the same divinity in his eyes that she now seems. If we could only
utilize such forces when they appear! but under our present subversive
social system, they are as unmanageable as the unloosed affrites of the
_Arabian Nights_.”

Mrs. Forest looked bewildered. The doctor went on:

“Suppose this girl had been in Dan’s class and superior to him
intellectually (as she is in fact), and he had to recite every day with
her eyes upon him. Don’t you see what a spur it would be to his learning
his lessons? The strongest motive would be to distinguish himself, and
so win her admiration. Well, Dan is your idol, Fannie. I confess I know
nothing about him, nor how to help him; but for Clara I am decided.
She’s a child after my own heart, and, by Heaven! she shall have a
chance. She shall not be sacrificed for want of anything in my power to
do for her. She must go to school, Fannie. In a month the fall term
commences at Stonybrook College. There are no decent schools for girls,
but that I believe is about the best we have. Can you get her ready, do
you think?”

Mrs. Forest was amazed at this sudden decision, and she answered
despondently, “What _am_ I to do without Clara? she is so much help to
me.”

“I know; but we must not spoil the girl’s future. This is the beginning
of the age of strong women, and Clara is a natural student; besides she
has a noble head everyway. Time was when piano-playing, a little
monochromatic daubing, and an infinitesimal amount of book lore,
sufficed for a girl. That time is past. I want Clara to develop her
forces all she possibly can under the present social conditions. She
must be strong and self-supporting.”

“Why! don’t you expect her to marry?”

“No; that is, I don’t care. I’d as soon she would not. As things go,
sensible, educated, and self-poised women are better single than
married, even to the best class of men. About every man is conscious
that he’s a tyrant; but slaves make tyrants. If there were no slaves
there would be no tyrants, but a great republic of equals.”

“Why, doctor! Have I not always been a good wife to you?” and the tears
came to her eyes.

This was so unexpected, that the doctor felt inclined to laugh. He had
been looking into vacancy as he talked, not dreaming that he was
uttering words that could by any possibility be turned into any personal
application. He had forgotten for a moment the fact that Mrs. Forest was
like many women, who never fail to see a personal reflection in any
comment upon woman’s culture or condition, or upon anything unusual in
household management. Sometimes, for example, the bread bought at the
baker’s would prove unusually chippy and innutritious, but never could
the doctor remark the fact without hurting his wife’s feelings, as if
she had personally made the bread and staked her reputation upon its
giving perfect satisfaction. The doctor knew well this weakness, but had
forgotten it for a moment. Had he been looking at her while he talked,
he would have tempered his voice or words probably.

“A good wife, dear! of course you have,” he said, caressing her, “though
I have not quite forgiven you for doubling my responsibilities.”

This was the doctor’s one marital teaze, which was so comically
effective that he could not resist repeating it, occasionally, to hear
her defend herself with the ingenuous concern of one-half conscious of
being in the wrong, yet not knowing how. When this subject was
exhausted, and Mrs. Forest’s temporary grief also, the subject of
sending Clara to school was resumed. Mrs. Forest asked how it could be
accomplished. “It will cost so much,” she said.

“Why, I am as rich as a Jew, Fannie,” he replied. “Old Kendrick actually
paid me to-day all his long standing bill. You know I’ve just got him
through a horrid case of peritonitis,” he added, with an inward chuckle,
seeing that he had spoken ambiguously, and knowing that certain people
are always anxious to know the name of a disease, which generally
satisfies their curiosity in proportion to the incomprehensibility of
the term—“a serious case of peritonitis, and feeling very comfortable
to-day, but that his life was still in my hands, he had an access of
gratitude, and promised to pay me every cent as soon as he got out of
the house. I joked him and declared that my only sure way to get my fees
was to dispatch him speedily, which I seriously thought I would do on
reflection, as the settlement would be certain then. That joke did the
business; for he made me ring for the servant, whom he ordered to bring
him his writing materials, and then and there he made out a cheque for
the amount.”

“But, dear, you should first have a nice whole suit of clothes
yourself,” said Mrs. Forest.

“Oh no; I’ll get on well enough. I should feel too much like a swell in
a whole new suit.” In truth, the good doctor had not experienced that
luxury for years, and his appearance was not a great many removes from
the condition known as “seedy;” but thanks to Mrs. Buzzell’s devotion,
he was always kept supplied with elegant linen and hand-knit stockings
for summer and winter, which he always wore long and gartered above the
knee. In gloves he was somewhat extravagant, for he held that a
physician’s hands should be preserved sensitive and fine to the touch;
especially when he filled the office of surgeon as well as physician, as
most country doctors do.

Dr. Forest’s medicaments in all ordinary cases were of the most simple
kind, and his rival, Dr. Delano, and even old Dr. Gallup, were in much
better repute at the druggists than he was, for his heart was always
with the poor, and to these he generally furnished most of the medicines
himself. He understood well the weakness of uncultivated people, shown
nowhere more signally than in their faith in the potency of mysterious
drugs; and when he called for “two glasses, two-thirds filled with fresh
water,” he did it with an assumption of certainty that convinced his
patient that life or death might be in those words, “two-thirds;” and
when he emptied a harmless powder, perhaps of magnesia or carbonate of
soda, into one and stirred it carefully, and then some other equally
innocuous substance into the other glass, stirring each alternately, it
was with an air that said plainly, “Beware how you trifle with the time
and the manner of taking these!”

Though it can by no means be proved that the popular and almost adored
Dr. Forest gave bread pills and innocuous medicines generally, yet it is
exceedingly probable that he did, and his marvelous success goes far by
way of corroboration. Apparently, he knew just what to do in all cases.
Water he insisted upon so mercilessly that his patients became regularly
habituated to taking a warm bath while they waited for his visit. To the
questions of the better educated of his patients he used to say, “Lord
bless you, how do I know? Do you think medicine a science whose every
problem can be worked out by a formula like those of algebra or
geometry? We knew precious little of the absolute value of medicines
when all that is incontrovertible is admitted and all the rest rejected.
One thing is certain, there is nowhere on this two-cent planet at
present the conditions for perfect health, because there are nowhere the
conditions for perfect happiness. Bless your heart! instead of being
decrepit and played out at seventy or eighty years, we ought to be
teaching boys how to turn double-back somersaults, or making sonnets to
fresh and beautiful women who are great-grandmothers. Life, as we know
it now, is but a miserable travesty of the real destiny of our race when
we become integrally developed, and have brought the planet thoroughly
under our united control. If a physician is up with the science of his
time and a true man, about all he can say honestly is: keep your lungs,
skin, liver, and kidneys in working order, lead an active, temperate
life, possess your soul in quiet, and send for the doctor when you know
you haven’t done these and want to shove the responsibility off upon
him.”

He was severe to many of his patients, but so popular that he had to
manœuvre shrewdly to give the young Dr. Delano a chance to establish
himself. Among the poor, the old, and especially the forlorn, like poor
Mrs. Buzzell, he made his longest visits; and where he knew that love
and sympathy were “indicated,” he gave them freely, as in the case of
this lonely woman. He often caressed her thin hand after counting her
pulse, held his cool, soft, magnetic hand long upon her forehead;
sometimes closing her eyes thus while he talked gayly, told her comical
anecdotes in his life, which made her laugh, and so stimulated some
laggard function into working order.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                      CLARA AT STONYBROOK COLLEGE.


 “Stonybrook College” would have been more appropriately, as well as
more modestly, termed Stonybrook School at the time Clara entered it,
for it was hardly more than a high-school for girls, though it stood
well among institutions for the education of young ladies at a time when
the equal education of the sexes was deemed an utopian idea among most
people. It ranks much higher now that preparatory schools of a nobler
order have furnished a more advanced class of students, and so more
truly deserves the name, college. It stands upon the summit of a grand
swell of land overlooking a large provincial city. The grounds are
beautifully wooded, and laid out in handsome lawns, gardens, and groves.
It boasts a really promising botanical garden, and the practical
instruction of the young ladies in botany has always been well and
systematically conducted. Clara, after a short time, took the first
place in the botanical class, and in most of her studies.

There was one thing about this school which rendered it unpopular among
the superficial of society, who desire only that their daughters shall
secure the honor of graduating, quite independent of the fact of the
amount of culture that such honor should presuppose. Very many students
who entered Stonybrook College never graduated, and there was for a long
time a severe struggle between the president and certain of the board of
directors on the question of lowering the standard required for
graduation. The latter argued that the first requisite was to make the
school popular; while the former, a really learned and progressive
spirit, maintained that popularity secured by lowering the grade of
requirements would simply result in a primary school, by whatever
high-sounding name it might be called, and that this was not the object
of the founder, and moreover was the sure method to destroy the nobler
popularity that should be aimed at. The president and his friends
finally carried the day, and it was this fact that determined Dr. Forest
to choose this institution for his favorite child. She had now been a
student there two years.

It was June, and a Thursday afternoon holiday. Through the groves and
lawns the young girls promenaded in twos and threes, conversing with
that enthusiasm about nothing which none but girls are capable of. When
deeply enough penetrating into the grove to be out of sight of any
“stray teacher,” as they would somewhat disrespectfully say, they often
familiarly twined their arms about each others’ slender waists, and so
continued their walks, joining other groups from time to time. Their
conversation was of that lofty and learned order which girls from twelve
to seventeen, in female colleges, naturally assume. It may not be amiss
to take up a little time with a sample:

_Nettie._—“Still two whole months before vacation! I declare, I shall
die before the time comes.”

_Hattie._—“_I_ don’t think it seems so long. I do wish, Nettie, you had
taken geometry this term. You’ve no idea how nice it is.”

_Nettie._—“Thank you. Algebra is quite enough to drive me distracted.
You are one of the strong-minded, you know. You just cram a few of your
sines and cosines into my head, along with the surds and reciprocals
already there, if you want to see a raving, incomprehensible ‘idgeot,’
as you call it.”

_Hattie._—“I _never_ pronounced it so in my life. _You_ are the one to
mispronounce words, and to make mistakes too. Why, you’ve just been
talking of sines and cosines of geometry. Those are terms of
trigonometry. Don’t you know it?”

_Nettie._—“No; and what is more, I don’t care. If I had my way, I’d just
burn all the algebras in the college.”

_Carrie._—“I’m glad you haven’t your way, then. I think algebra
perfectly splendid.”

_Hattie._—“I like algebra too, but geometry is more interesting. I think
it perfectly lovely.”

_Nettie._—“I don’t believe either of you. Mathematics are a horrid bore
anyway.”

_Hattie._—“_Mathematics are!_ O shade of Goold Brown!”

_Nettie._—“Well, that ought to be correct. You wouldn’t say the
‘scissors is,’ would you?”

_Hattie._—“I would if I wanted to, _carissima mia_.”

_Carrie._—“You never call me _Carissima_, Hattie.”

_Hattie._—“You see, you are Carrie in the positive, not _cara_, so you
can’t be _carissima_ in the superlative. Why don’t you laugh at my pun,
you owls?”

_Nettie._—“You don’t give time enough. I was just bringing my powerful
mind to a focus on the punning point when you interrupted.”

_Carrie._—“I was thinking of the dear, kind, old Signore Pozzese.”

_Hattie._—“Mercy! Spare the adjectives. I had no idea you were so in
love with that precious Italian professor; but you need not set your cap
for him. He has no eyes but for one, and that is Signorina Clara.
Everybody can see he’s lost his heart to her.”

_Carrie._—“I can’t endure that Clara Forest. She puts on such airs of
dignity and general superiority. Why, here she comes! I hope she didn’t
hear me.”

Clara approached, reading aloud, but in a low monotone, from a little
book. She did not notice the trio until close upon them. They greeted
her kindly; and Carrie, who a moment before could not “endure” her, was
specially sweet in her manner. But we should not be too severe upon
Carrie’s hypocrisy. Most of us have been guilty of the same
inconsistency in one or another form. These were all nice girls, aye,
and bright girls too, naturally, despite their opinions upon algebra and
geometry. When we consider the paucity of conditions for high culture
that young women may command, we should wonder, not that they are so
frivolous, but that they so often rise above the petty ambitions of
fashionable life.

Clara passed on, after a few pleasant words, and sat down in a quiet
nook to finish her book. It was the _Jaques_ of George Sand; and as she
read on she was deeply moved by the masterly rendering of the hopeless
passion of the hero, and especially by his heroic sacrifice to his wife.
Being thoroughly absorbed by her reflections and emotions, she did not
hear the light step of Miss Marston, her favorite teacher, who came and
sat down beside her.

“My dear, what have you been reading?” she asked. Clara handed her the
book frankly, knowing well it would not be approved, for George Sand was
one of the tabooed authors in Stonybrook.

“I am grieved to find you reading such books, Miss Forest,” said the
teacher, looking very gravely at the pupil. Miss Marston’s home was in a
town near Oakdale, and she had known Dr. Forest by reputation quite
well. She knew of his omnivorous literary tastes, and was wondering if
his daughter had not possibly inherited them.

Clara answered, looking straight in Miss Marston’s clear brown eyes, “I
am sorry you are grieved—very sorry; but I cannot see why such a book as
this should be classed with those unfit to be read.” And she blushed
deeply, as girls will from a thousand different emotions.

“See how you blush while you say it,” said Miss Marston, in a tone of
real severity.

“I blush at everything,” replied Clara, angry at the weakness; “but I
would not say what I do not think—most certainly I would not to you.”

“Where did you obtain this book?”

“One of the students lent it to me.”

“Which one?”

“I must not say, because she asked me to not tell, and I promised. I
wish I had not, for I do not like to confess this promise to you.” Clara
was sorely troubled. She knew this teacher had a real affection for her,
as, indeed, all her teachers had, for she was frank and straightforward
always, never shirked any task, and was the life of all recitations in
which she took part. She asked questions and explanations innumerable,
and would never quit studying any difficult point until she had
thoroughly mastered it. Such pupils are ever the delight and the support
of the faithful teacher; and no matter whether personally sympathetic,
or charming in other ways, they are sure to be honored and treated with
great consideration by any teacher worthy of the name. There is no surer
test of a teacher’s utter incapacity than that his favorites are the
pretty, wheedling shirks of the classroom.

Miss Marston was silent for a little time after Clara’s expression of
regret, and then she said kindly, “That is well said, Clara. Of course,
you must keep your promise; but do you not see that you were wrong to
borrow a book which your fellow-student was ashamed to have known she
possessed?”

“I cannot say she was ashamed of having this book. I feel certain that
if she had read it as carefully as I have, she would not have made the
request. _I_ could never be ashamed to own such a book as this.”

“That is no argument. You are too young and inexperienced to judge of
books, and when your teachers forbid the reading of certain kinds of
literature, it is because they know that their influence is baneful.
Remember the old adage, ‘Touch pitch and be defiled.’”

“But I am sure this is not pitch,” Clara answered, spiritedly; “and I do
not think there is so much wisdom in that old saying—or at least it is
often misapplied. My mother used to make a great effort to keep Dan and
me from playing with certain children; but my father always declared
that we ought to play with poor, neglected children, who sought our
society; because, as he said, if our manners were more gentle than
theirs, the result would be a culture to them which we had no right to
withhold. When my mother quoted this adage, he used to say, ‘Pitch will
not stick to ice,’ meaning that the badness of these children would not
hurt us if we loved the good and the beautiful, and sought it
everywhere, as he had taught us to do.”

“Then you wish me to understand, I presume, that you set your judgment
against mine, and will read pernicious books if it pleases you to do
so?”

Clara looked hurt by this, and her faith in Miss Marston received a
shock. Why could not this good, wise teacher understand at once, without
so many words? By yielding graciously, Clara was sure of caressing words
and the old mutual trust. She was tempted to do so, because her love of
approval by those she admired was a strong passion. While different
motives struggled for control, she remembered certain words of Dr.
Forest, in his last conversation with her, in his study, the evening
before she left, when he had held her on his knees and talked to her
very seriously upon many matters, some of which he had never broached
before. “Be magnanimous always to those who fail,” he had said; but
Clara had never dreamed that one of her teachers would be “weighed in
the balance and found wanting.” She had at the time thought only of her
class-mates, who might fail in many ways. So when she spoke, as she did
after a little pause, she had determined to rise or fall in her
teacher’s estimation, as she must, by the expression only of the best
and most honest sentiments of her heart.

“You have been so good to me, Miss Marston,” she said, and her words
came with some difficulty—“you must know I am anxious to keep your good
opinion of me; but I must be true to myself, and I will. I _cannot_
think nor feel that this book is not good and moral. It has wakened my
best feelings. In the story the wife, Fernande, ceases to love her
husband, and loves some one else. The reader must feel the deepest
sympathy for poor Jaques, who dies that he may not stand in the way of
his wife’s happiness. I constantly felt, as I read, that if I were
Fernande, I would torture myself sooner than let myself grow cold to
such a grand, noble creature as Jaques. I am perfectly sure, if I were
ever in a like position, I should be much more careful to take the
wisest course from having read this book.”

“You are very different from other girls, Clara. It will not make you
vain to tell you that you are eminently superior to most of them; but I
fear you lack respect for your elders. You are self-willed; but I know
you wish to do right. We will say no more about it;” and she took the
young girl’s hand in both hers and caressed it softly. Love always won
Clara. She was a creature of tender emotions; to see Miss Marston
yielding touched her profoundly, and she said quickly, her eyes full of
tears, “I must do just right about this, or I shall be horridly unhappy.
You have known papa many years, and he spoke of you in the highest
praise; but I have found you nobler and better than even he could tell
me. You know he is what they call a liberal—a ‘free-thinker,’ as some
say—and he is so just and noble in all his words and acts that I believe
he must be right in his principles, though mamma does not think so. I
know that you too are a ‘liberal’”—Miss Marston started—“O, I know. I
have often heard you talking to other teachers, and I notice you take
the very views that my father does of many things. Now, I will tell you
what I will do. Will you promise me one little thing without asking what
it is?”

“That, I should say, is something for me to do instead of you.”

“Well, it is preliminary to what I am to do.”

“I never do that, Clara—well, yes, I promise you, provided always it is
not something absolutely absurd. What do you wish?”

“You said you had not read _Jaques_. I want you to read it carefully,
just as I have done, and then if, in your judgment, it is a bad book for
me to have read, I promise while I remain here to read nothing without
your permission.”

Miss Marston crammed the _brochure_ into her dress pocket, saying, “I
like your trust in me, but you will be disappointed. I shall be forced
to condemn, I know; but I will be fair; and now please to be careful how
you call me a _liberal_. It is a very equivocal compliment for a lady.”

“Are not angels liberals?” asked Clara, smiling, the little wrinkles
gathering about her pretty eyes as she spoke.

“I am not acquainted with the private opinions of that fraternity,” said
Miss Marston, wondering what next.

“Because if you are, I always call you a liberal.” Miss Marston smiled,
kissed Clara’s cheek, and walked on. She was a good little woman, who
had drank rather deeply at the bitter fountains of life. She was in a
safe haven now, and being a studious and conscientious teacher, did her
work nobly and well.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                       DAN’S BUSINESS OPERATIONS.


 Oakdale some years ago was a very old-fashioned village, built around
the traditional “common,” facing which were two taverns, one called the
“Rising Sun,” several country stores, a printing-office, many
residences, more or less elegant, and the Congregationalist church. The
Methodist was on a side street, and the Universalist, which had once
occupied a position on the common itself, had been moved off to satisfy
the tastes, and possibly the prejudices, of the citizens; for the
Universalist was not the popular church of Oakdale, though its preachers
generally “drew” well, the doctor said, among the floating population,
and those who stubbornly refused to identify themselves with any sect
whatever. Dr. Forest went sometimes to this unpopular church, but Mrs.
Forest was a staunch member of the Congregationalist—the only one having
any pretence to respectability in her eyes. In time Oakdale changed
wonderfully, and some two years after Clara’s entrance into Stonybrook
College, it had become quite a manufacturing centre, for the railroad
had brought new vitality into the old-fashioned town. It was now a city;
boasted two rival newspapers, three paved thoroughfares, and several
nice brick sidewalks. The doctor’s business shared the common
prosperity. Mrs. Forest delighted her soul in the multiplying cares
incident upon the gratification in some degree of her social ambition.
The twins were quite large girls, attending school in the village.
Leila, who boasted that she was the elder, as she was by an hour or so,
led her sister by the nose, figuratively speaking, being pretty and
selfish, and therefore a tyrant. These precious sisters quarreled from
their cradle up; yet they were attached to each other by a bond, not so
palpable but hardly less effective, than that uniting the famous Siamese
brothers, for they pined if separated for a single day; though their
reunion was often followed by a disagreement that ended in fiery
recrimination, if not in uprooted curls. Oh, those twins! Nature had
somehow so exhausted herself in producing their bodies that there was no
force left for their souls, which Dinah “clar’d to God” were wholly
wanting. This was not true of Linnie, at least, for she was generally
sweet in her temper, as well as kind and obliging, when in her best
moods.

The Dykes family had broken up—gone no one knew or cared whither, all
except Susie, who was left to shift for herself in the old house that
had been their home. Here the doctor found her one day, weeping for her
good-for-nothing brother, who, if report said truly, had good reasons
for not appearing in Oakdale. The doctor at once cheered her heart by
bidding her stop crying, and trust him as her friend. His kindness drew
from her the fact, that Mrs. Dykes was only her step-mother, and Jim no
relation whatever. Her father, a wretched victim of intemperance, had
been dead for years, and poor Susie’s condition was forlorn in the
extreme; and yet, for some reason which she did not explain, she seemed
exceedingly loth to quit the place and go with the doctor to his home.
He finally prevailed, however, and Mrs. Forest, who was first shocked at
the doctor’s step—he “would do such strange things”—soon found Susie
very useful, and the temporary asylum, that the doctor had asked his
wife to extend to the girl, grew finally permanent. To Susie it was a
new and better world; and as she loved Dan with all her lonely little
heart, she served his family with devotion. Everything belonging to him
was sacred in her eyes.

Dan, meanwhile, had disappeared some weeks from the paternal roof,
having given notice to his mother of his intention to leave a few days
before that event. Still she did not believe he could do such a thing,
and when it occurred, she was sorely troubled, though he was, as he
said, old enough to take care of himself. She had long since been
compelled to abandon her cherished hopes for her first-born. He could
not apply himself in school, and always laid the blame of his low grade
upon the teacher, or upon some circumstance for which he, Dan, was
wholly irresponsible. In the art of excuses he was perfect, and had been
from his earliest years. These he gave in a glib, ready manner, looking
up with frank eyes that never failed to deceive a stranger. He had as
many projects as there were days in the year. At one time he would be a
jeweler, and the doctor secured him a position where he might learn the
trade. This he gave up in a week, and so with many other schemes, until
his father was utterly discouraged; but he never uttered a word of
blame, knowing well that Dan could no more change his nature than could
the leopard his spots. When he left home, therefore, the doctor
comforted his wife, assuring her that it was a good thing for Dan to
strike out for himself, and that he was sure to return some day when she
least expected it; and so he did—horror of horrors! He turned up one day
on a peddler’s cart, and entering the house in his usual unceremonious
way, solicited patronage for his unconscionably varied wares. Mrs.
Forest came near fainting, but Dan greatly enjoyed horrifying her. He
was not so satisfied with the effect upon the doctor, who said kindly,
“My son, I would rather see you an honest peddler than a dishonest
statesman.” These words rang in Dan’s ears. It seemed, then, that he
could satisfy his father’s hopes for him by peddling Yankee notions and
tin kettles! Nothing that had ever happened to Dan had really touched
his self-conceit like this. He made no answer but a low whistle.

It was a quaint picture, there in the large old sitting-room. The doctor
sat by the grate smoking his little Gambier clay pipe, with a goose’s
wing-bone for a stem. Dan, rosy with health and strength, and long
riding in the open air, whip in hand, his pantaloons inside his
bootlegs, and Mrs. Forest hanging upon his muscular arm, a little pained
that her son seemed so indifferent to her tenderness—a tenderness so
great that she had not even noticed yet the disposition of the legs of
his trowsers! He got away from his mother’s caresses as soon as he could
without positive rudeness, for well he knew that there was “metal more
attractive” in the house somewhere; having kept up a correspondence with
Susie as well as was practicable with his being constantly moving from
town to town. His mother would have something brought in for him to
eat;—no, he would go into the kitchen and have Dinah give him something.
He would much prefer that. Mrs. Forest did not once think of Susie, or
perhaps she would have followed him. Certainly she would, had she known
that Dinah was making an elaborate search for eggs in the barn. So Dan
found Susie alone, and the meeting was very demonstrative, on his side
at least. He held her pressed like a vise in his strong arms, making her
both happy and wretched at once—happy at the rude proofs of his
affection, and wretched lest her love for him should be discovered.
Hearing steps he released her, and said he had come for something to
eat. Susie, too full of joy at meeting the one being in the world who
loved her, to know what she was about, brought Dan a plate of
soda-biscuits, and then stopped to look at him. He crunched two or three
between his strong white teeth, interspersing the operation with more
kisses, and then Dinah was observed approaching the house. Susie
disappeared into the pantry, conscious of the tell-tale blushes flushing
her whole face.

“Lor bress you honey, I’se glad to see ye. I knowed ye hadn’t runned
away.”

“You knew I’d turn up like a bad penny, Dinah. So I have, but I’m off
again directly. I say, Susie,” he called, “if I’ve to eat any more of
these crackers, do bring me some coffee, or a ramrod, or something to
help get them down.”

“Lor sakes! Massa Dan, who gived ye such trash?” and bustling about she
made him sit down, while she placed before him every delicacy she could
lay her hands on. Susie, meanwhile, went on with her work quite
unconscious of his presence, Dinah thought; but Mrs. Forest, coming in
soon after, did not fail to notice the flush on Susie’s face, and to
attribute it to Dan’s presence; so when he would not bring his peddler’s
cart around to the barn, out of sight of prying eyes, nor stay even an
hour longer, she did not press him much. Clearly he was better away, now
that Susie Dykes was a fixture in the family, but she insisted upon his
giving her a private interview after the doctor had been called away to
his patients. She talked to him of religion, of duty, urged him to give
up this peddling as unworthy of his talents, and above all things to
avoid low connections. Not one word did she utter directly of that which
lay nearest her heart, though Dan knew well what she meant by low
connections. In brief, he was bored by his mother’s “preaching,” though
he listened passively enough, but felt infinitely relieved when he
mounted his cart and drove off, covertly throwing a kiss to Susie, who
was watching him by the curtain edge of an upper window.

In fact, Dan had never led so free and easy a life before, and his
adventures furnished matter to delight Susie’s heart; for under an
assumed name he wrote her very constantly for a long time. After a while
he gave up peddling, and became a brakeman on a railroad. This for a
time filled his ambition, like a goblet, to the brim. But his income was
decidedly small, and would never permit him to put enough by to marry
Susie and run away with her, a feat he had long desired to accomplish.
Clearly New England was a slow place for making money, when a fellow had
nothing to commence on. If he only had this something to start with, he
would succeed in any kind of mercantile operation. He had a talent for
business. He had proved it by a successful enterprise when he was ten
years old. This enterprise was the buying of some young ducks with money
that the doctor had given him. They grew and flourished on corn and
other food that cost Dan nothing, and when they were ready for market,
he sold them to his mother at a high price, and ate them himself! This
operation had often been quoted by the doctor to dampen Dan’s ardor when
he wanted money to commence business for himself. The doctor knew the
volatile nature of his boy, and that he would not succeed unless
conditions were about as favorable as in the duck enterprise. Still the
good doctor had done much for Dan, being willing to buy him all the
experience he could possibly afford, and he regretted that this was so
little; but he must, as he told Dan, look out for his girls; boys could
rough it, and learn prudence and forecast by experience. This was on the
occasion of Dan’s next visit home, when he was wild with the desire to
set up a livery stable, with the secret idea of finally doing a “big
thing” in fast horses. This part, however, he concealed. The doctor
having been able to put by a little sum for his “girls” during the past
few years, was almost persuaded to yield and start Dan in his new
business scheme; but this time Mrs. Forest’s entreaties and tears
prevailed, at least for the time; not that she believed wholly that Dan
would fail, but keeping a stable was such a disreputable thing in her
eyes. It was so closely and inevitably connected with drinking and fast
young men, both of which, to her horror, she had found that he had a
taste for, though not as yet developed to any alarming extent.

When, therefore, the doctor got ready to give his final answer, Dan was
disposed to be quite saucy. He told his father that “other fellows” were
not expected to get a start in the world without help, and that if Clara
had wanted such assistance it would be forthcoming.

“Well, Dan,” replied the doctor, rising and falling softly on his heels,
as he stood with his back to the fire, in his little study, “I think you
may be right. If Clara wanted to go into the horse business on
graduating from Stonybrook, I think I should lay no straw in her way. By
Jove! I think she’d succeed, though.”

“Succeed!” Dan echoed, in contempt. This irritated the doctor a little.

“Yes, sir, _succeed_. I think she would. She has ten times the brains of
any young fellow I know. Women are going into business now-a-days, and
considering their want of business experience, their success is
marvelous. I can’t say I’d prefer the horse business for Clara, but I
hope to Heaven she will take up with something beside matrimony. Girls
have a poor show as things are, and a father feels bound to look out for
them first.”

“I don’t see it”—answered Dan, somewhat irreverently—“I think girls have
a much better show than we have;” and he sat down, with the back of a
chair between his legs, and went on: “I don’t see anything much easier
than to sit in the parlor, drumming on the piano until the richest
fellow comes along, then nab him.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Forest. “You envy them that fate, do you? How
would you like some rich woman to offer to give you her name, and to
keep you during good behavior; that is, as long as you remained devoted
to her, faithful, and the rest? What would you say to such an offer?”

Dan laughed aloud at the picture, but said, with some laudable
confusion, “If you want my honest opinion, sir, I shouldn’t like to
swear. I could stand the test.”

This answer took the doctor unawares, and he lost his gravity at once.
Besides, being a true believer in the absolute equal rights of all human
beings, the case had not seemed half so shocking as he would have it
appear to Dan. His conscience accused him, and he said, smiling, “Well,
my boy, I like your frankness. I heard a witty woman say once that if
men, with their present moral standard, were suddenly to be transformed
into women, they would all be on the town in a week. The fact is,
neither sex should be kept by the other. Independence, honest
self-support, by honest, productive industry, is the thing for women as
well as men;” and as the doctor turned to empty his pipe into the grate,
he asked Dan how much money he wanted to establish his livery business.
Dan explained, with minute detail, just how matters stood, how fortunate
the opening, how little the investment required, how certain the
success. The doctor promised the funds, confessing at the same time that
he had little faith, but that he could not endure that his son should
think his father lacking in the desire to help him. “I much prefer you
should think me a fool, my boy, than that you should believe me
cold-blooded and calculating in my dealings with any one.”

Now the thing was done, the doctor had to meet his wife and try to
convince her, what he did not believe himself, that he had acted wisely.
He failed miserably, and she wore an injured, martyr air for days, not
at all comforted by his justification, which was the old saw,
“Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.” Dan
would not be persuaded to change his mind and enter some other business.
He talked of horses till she was glad to drop the subject; and in three
months had lost everything. The doctor paid his debts, but said not one
word of reproach, and Dan went back to the railroad, fully persuaded
that he would have made money enough could he only have had more to
throw away.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                         PHILOSOPHY VANQUISHED.


 One night, some months before Clara’s final return from Stonybrook, the
doctor returned home weary and “cross,” as he said. To the twins this
used to mean that he was not in the humor to enjoy their clambering over
him; but they felt themselves young ladies now, and “cross” meant that
the doctor hoped they had done their piano practising during the day.
Their torturing the piano was something endless and excruciating, but
the doctor bore all domestic annoyances with the kind, long-suffering
spirit that characterized the good family man—the great man, indeed—that
he really was.

Women are beginning to see the folly of allowing their “lords” to write
the biographies of great men, and are gradually taking the task upon
themselves. When they do their full share of this work, there will be
found in history many pigmies that would have swelled to colossi under
the pens of their own sex; for their claims to the honor of greatness as
moral forces will be judged by the way they treat women, specially and
generally. A man may be great in a particular sense, if he is nothing
but a military or political leader, or profound as a scientist; but he
can never be great integrally as a man, if he lacks tenderness, justice,
or faith in humanity. Men who are very tender as lovers, and deeply
sensitive to the influence of women, usually have the reputation among
brutal men of being “hen-pecked”—a word never found in the vocabulary of
refined people.

On this occasion, as the doctor’s family sat down to tea, Mrs. Forest
enquired after the health of Mrs. Buzzell, whom the doctor had been
visiting regularly for many days. She was more comfortable, the doctor
said.

“I don’t think,” remarked Mrs. Forest, “that her illness would endure so
long if Dr. Delano attended her.”

“Oh, ho! A reflection upon my professional skill,” said the doctor,
wiping the creamy tea from his grizzly moustache; but he added,
laughing, “If there is anything Mrs. Buzzell enjoys, it is a good long
serious illness.”

“That is because you pet her so. I think she is a ridiculous old thing.”

“That is not kind, Fannie. I don’t see how you can speak so of a good
old friend like that. We ought never to forget that she is somewhat
enfeebled by age, and really has no one to care for her.”

“I don’t see that that is any reason why you should make a martyr of
yourself.”

“Oh, I do not. It is pleasant to me to see her faded eyes light up when
I enter the room. I know I am the medium of a great consolation to her;
and giving happiness should make us happy always.”

“Really! You are quite tender to your interesting patient.”

“Fannie, you disgust me,” he said, setting his cup down emphatically.
“If this infernal world chooses to be cruel and mean, to laugh at those
who are pining for sympathy and love—_you_ ought to be capable of better
sentiments.” The doctor added a more vehement word.

“What! profanity? You do pain me so by your violent way of speaking,”
complained the doctor’s wife.

“There!” said Leila, “papa is really getting cross;” and lancing a
confident saucy look at her father, whose crossness had no terrors for
her, she seized her gentler-willed sister and waltzed her out of the
room to the accompaniment of “Good riddance, you sauce-box,” from the
doctor, and a stately rebuke from Mrs. Forest. When they were alone,
Mrs. Forest repeated in other words her last remark to the doctor, who
answered—

“Yes, I know I am always giving you pain when I remind you of your want
of sympathy except for those who are a part of you. One’s children are
not all the world, and to love only them is narrow and selfish.
Suffering, wherever we find it, has claims upon us.”

“Charity begins at home,” said Mrs. Forest, sententiously.

“Yes; _begins_, but it should not end there. I have been wondering every
day why you do not go and see Mrs. Buzzell, knowing how lonely she is,
with no society but that of her old servant.” Now Mrs. Forest was indeed
intending to go and sit awhile with her old friend, and carry her some
dainties; but she did not feel in a gracious mood, and would not confess
it. She said rather, “She has too much of your society to miss mine, I
think.”

This was exasperating. The doctor rose, and Mrs. Forest touched the
spring of the table-bell. “Somehow you will forever dance in a pint-pot;
you cannot see anything in a broad light,” he said, “and Leila is going
to be just like you. She requires nice dresses, a little music, a little
flattery, a good deal of sentimental, unchristlike piety, and her cup
runneth over. A grand life, a grand emotion, will never come to her. It
would burst her like a soap-bubble, as it would you, to do anything not
set down as proper by your set.”

“I should like to know some of your women who see things in a broad
light. Who are they?”

“Well,” said the doctor, after a pause, “it is no use to cite examples.
Most of them have someway outraged Mrs. Grundy, and you would not
believe in them.”

“Yes; I suppose, in order to see things in a broad light,” said Mrs.
Forest, contemptuously pronouncing the words, “one must become
disreputable. Thank you; I prefer a good reputation, and what you are
pleased to call a pint-pot dance.”

“By ——,” exclaimed the doctor, excitedly, “I do believe the first
condition for the development of broad sympathies for humanity in a
woman’s heart is the loss of respectability as defined by hypocrites and
prudes.” Mrs. Forest looked horrified; but the entrance of Susie to
remove the tea-things in answer to the bell, prevented her reply. As
Susie went on with her work noiselessly, avoiding the slightest clatter
of cups and spoons, the doctor continued, watching her movements as he
spoke: “We should cultivate a feeling of unity with all nature, of which
we are a part. That will force us out of our narrow lives, and make
happiness possible to us only when all around us are happy. The
inculcation of this sentiment of unity is so important, that we cannot
overestimate it, for it will lead to grand association schemes for the
amelioration of mankind. There are people in this town to-day, who labor
hard from year to year, and yet want the conditions for a decent life;
children who never have the chance of seeing a fine picture, or wearing
a pretty suit of clothes.”

“I know that is very sad, but your free-thinkers do nothing for them. It
is the ladies of our church who carry food and clothing to the children
of the poor.” Mrs. Forest, as she said this, noticed something in her
husband’s face which made her add, “You know, my dear, I always except
you.”

“Why,” said the doctor, “here are the Unitarians, all free-thinkers,
according to your creed, for they do not accept your orthodox scheme of
salvation; but you can’t deny they do more for the poor than all the
orthodox in the country. Take the firm of Ely & Gerrish, one a Unitarian
and the other a Deist, as they call him; they have built a magnificent
home for their workmen, whereby they are provided with many of the
luxuries of wealth, and at about the cost of ordinary lodgings. How much
nobler it is to help people to independence than to inculcate the spirit
of begging, by your small charities!”

“We can’t all build workingmen’s homes, like Ely & Gerrish,” said Mrs.
Forest, “but that should not hinder us from doing what we can.”

“I admit the worthiness of your motives, and the temporary good you do;
but it is none the less true that it degrades the being to be the
recipient of charity. No; charity don’t work, as a social system. The
poor-house don’t work. The orphan asylum don’t work. Now, to one who has
the scientific method in his examination of social problems, the moment
a system don’t work, he knows it is wrong. Then the first duty is to
discover why it don’t, and substitute a better.”

“All of which is very easy—in words,” said Mrs. Forest.

“In words!” echoed the doctor. “Why, we are doing it literally every
day. Take the steam-engine and the telegraph. When the necessity arose
for more rapid transportation, we tried awhile to breed faster and
stronger horses, make better wagons and roads, but we found that did not
work, and so we substituted the steam-car and the railroad; so with the
postal system, the telegraph and the steam printing-press.”

Mrs. Forest saw that the doctor held a strong position logically, so she
waived the question by giving some final orders to Susie about work for
the next morning, and then dismissed her summarily. When she was gone
the doctor said, “Do you think you are as kind to that poor child as you
ought to be?”

“Dear me! what next?” answered Mrs. Forest, with a sigh. “Yes, I think I
am. I give her time to sew for herself, and she has a good home. I must
say she behaves remarkably well, considering her bringing up.”

“I am greatly interested in her,” the doctor said. “I wish Clara was
here. That’s a girl after my own heart, you know. Clara has the true
democratic—that is, the true human spirit. She would pity this lonely
Susie, and help her to have some object in life.”

“Object in life! Why, what better object can she have than to behave
herself, and be happy by doing her duty?” Mrs. Forest, with her “little
hoard of maxims,” was armed at all points. It was as hard to grapple
with her as with a porcupine. She was so utterly different from the
doctor in her way of looking at things, that it is hard to do her
justice. The doctor’s radical ideas had always alarmed her, and it had
troubled her exceedingly to find that Clara delighted in just those
radical notions that were her horror. It was clear, too, that Clara
wrote her mother from duty—short, dutiful, correct, and very commonplace
notes. To her father she scrawled long, rapid, charmingly frank and
interesting letters, signing herself always “_Papa’s Own Girl_.” To her
mother she invariably subscribed herself, “Your affectionate daughter,”
which indeed Mrs. Forest considered in rather more ladylike taste, but
she was a little jealous all the same.

When Mrs. Forest gave her opinion, in such a decided manner, about
Susie’s duty, the doctor paused awhile and filled his pipe in an absent
kind of way, holding his box of tobacco with some difficulty, so as to
not disturb “Hommie,” the cat, who would jump upon his knee whenever he
sat down. Mrs. Forest was never troubled with such familiarity on the
part of Hommie, so named by the twins in honor of his perilous adventure
in the hominy pot when a kitten. “Doing one’s duty,” the doctor said,
“is not all there is of life. This Susie must feel the need of friends
sadly. I wish you would take more interest in her, Fannie—talk to her
and gain her sympathy.”

“I don’t care to talk to her much, and she don’t care to hear me.”

“That is because you talk to her about saving her soul—a subject about
which she knows just as much as you do. Of course, it must bore her.
Talk to her of herself; get her to read, and to take interest in some
subject.”

“She’s not very intellectual,” replied Mrs. Forest, laconically.

“What!” said the doctor. “Why, she’s as bright as a dollar. See what a
fine head she has!”

“Very likely. I don’t believe in heads, as you do. Some of the most
stupid people I know are all head.”

“Ah! quality as well as quantity must be considered. In this case the
quality is good.”

“I have not much hope for her. To be sure she goes to church, but I
think it may be from the fear of displeasing me if she stays at home.”

“I am sorry she goes at all from that motive,” said the doctor.

“When Dan is here, she stays at home evenings, and I notice how she
looks at him. When he is not here she often goes out in the evening. I’m
sure I don’t know where she goes nor what she does.”

“Well, don’t be meanly suspicious. I know the girl’s heart is right.
What can you expect? You treat her like a menial, and she feels it. She
does your bidding because it means her daily bread, and because she has
lost her heart to Dan. Poor little thing! That’s the saddest of all.
She’s happy if she can only look at him; but otherwise finding no
companions, no sympathy here, of course she seeks the few acquaintances
she has outside, in the hope of answering this need—a need as imperative
as that for food or air. You will some time find that it is a misfortune
that you cannot take her into your heart and help her more. Let her
think that Dan is the only creature that cares for her, and she will
come to depend too much upon his regard, which I doubt not is already on
the wane.”

“Yes; I think he would like to erase that abominable tattooing. Silly
boy!”

“I’m not sure but that is the evidence of the best impulse that ever
swayed him.”

“Mercy! doctor, how can you talk so? How would you like your only son to
marry such a person?”

“He might do worse,” answered the doctor, decidedly.

This was too much for Mrs. Forest’s patience—too much for adequate
expression in decorous words; so she folded her sewing, and left the
doctor to the cat and his pipe.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                            THE LION’S DEN.


 Susie Dykes was a little woman even among the rather diminutive. She
had pretty soft grey eyes, a slender, well-shaped waist, and a wealth of
light yellow hair. The pretty and simple way she arranged it the doctor
had often noticed. She combed it straight back, twisted a part of it
into a heavy coil, which she passed over the top of her round head,
carrying the end back, and braiding it in with the rest to form a knot,
fastened low with a comb. It was a very pretty, Quakerish coiffure, but
very becoming. Considering the low family from which she came, the quiet
and even distinguished air about her was marvelous. Mrs. Forest could
not understand it, and so she refused to admit its existence. The doctor
always spoke to Susie with great gentleness; but as the twins snubbed
her, and his wife’s dignified coldness oppressed her heavily, he forbore
to be as familiarly kind with her as he wished, lest the contrast should
make her dislike his wife and daughters. But he went as far as he
thought prudent. Once he told her that her ears were as pretty as
Clara’s; a compliment that little Susie never ceased to be proud of.
Lately, by the doctor’s influence, Mrs. Buzzell, now recovered from her
illness, had become quite interested in Susie, and had helped her about
her wardrobe, which showed want of means, though not of mending, for
Susie was naturally neat about everything. Mrs. Forest gave her due
credit for this, knowing that the instruction that she must have
received from Mrs. Dykes was none of the best.

Poor Susie’s child-life had been a sad one, like the lives of the
children of the poor generally; and she was happier now than she had
ever been, despite the cold, unsympathetic relation she bore to Mrs.
Forest, whom she longed to love like a daughter; for whatever belonged
to Dan, was precious in her eyes. She was naturally very bright, as the
doctor said, but what little education she had received in a neighboring
district school had been painfully gained through the persecutions of
more fortunate school-mates, who, with the savage cruelty of children,
made sport of her poverty, not knowing what they did.

It is a folly, doubtless, to dress up little children like popinjays,
that they may outshine their companions, and thus cultivate their own
vanity at the expense of nobler feelings; but certainly it is a vital
wrong to send a child among his fellows in a mean and untidy attire. For
not having the philosophy of maturer years to support him against the
ridicule he excites, he is either humiliated and degraded by it, or else
moved to revenge or hate; and these feelings, if long entertained, crush
out the finer possibilities of his nature, and so in both cases he is
robbed and wronged. The ridicule and persecution that Susie had endured
had the usual effect upon the sensitive of her sex. She was humiliated,
and answered only with tears. She had never dreamed that she had
elements of real loveliness in mind and person, and when Dan first began
to notice her—he a proud, handsome fellow, belonging to the best of
Oakdale’s choice society—she was transported with joyful gratitude, and
would have laid down her life for him without counting it much of a
sacrifice.

When Dan failed in his livery-stable enterprise, he went back to the
railroad, and soon rose to the position of conductor, where he seemed
really to have found his level. He liked the position, gave good
satisfaction to the company, and received a very fair salary for his
work. Susie, meanwhile, loved him more and more, and longed for, yet
dreaded, his bearish caresses. The opportunity to see her alone did not
occur often, for he was home only on Sundays, and then she went to
church with Mrs. Forest. This annoyed Dan; and the obstacles in the way
of passing an hour alone with Susie were many, and almost
insurmountable. The twins, either one or both, had still the most
remarkable talent for being just where they were not wanted. He used to
send them away from the garden or orchard when he chanced to find Susie
there; but they were apt to tell of this, which troubled Susie, and so
he desisted. The last time he had tried to get rid of Leila, endeavoring
to show her that she ought to go and practice her piano studies, he
received the pert answer, “Thank you; I don’t play secular music on
Sunday.” Dan answered with a long crescendo whistle, and abandoned
tactics in Leila’s case. But fate sometimes gave him a few minutes with
Susie. On one occasion she had gone at Dinah’s request to bring pears
from the orchard—Dinah having very possibly an ulterior motive, for Dan
had been very gracious to the old servant lately. He followed Susie
after a few minutes—a very few—leisurely smoking a cigar.

As a specimen of a fine animal, Dan was certainly handsome; and this is
hardly doing him justice, for it must be admitted that very good
women—aye, and very superior women—have adored just such fine animals.
There must be some justification, which severe moralists cannot
comprehend, for action and reaction are equal. Dan was tall, his back
finely curved, broad shoulders, and his head was right regally poised
thereon. He had bright dark eyes, curly brown hair, a light, youthful
moustache and slight side-whiskers, and what would be called a fine
mouth, though not of the nobler type to which Clara’s belonged. Hers
might be termed sensuous, his sensual; yet perhaps the term is too
severe. It was pleasant to look at Dan’s mouth when he talked, and it
must be confessed that his kisses were found distractingly sweet to some
others beside little Susie.

On entering the part of the orchard where Susie was, he leaned against
the trunk of an old fruit-tree and called her to him.

“I must not stay long,” she said, looking up lovingly into his face, as
she stood before him. “Dinah will be waiting for these;” and she blushed
and dropped her pretty eyes among the fruit.

“Let her wait,” he said. “You don’t mind keeping me waiting, I notice;”
and throwing away his cigar, he drew her into his arms and kissed her
rosy lips again and again, holding her like a vise. Susie wished to
remain there forever, though she kept denying him her lips, and hiding
her face on his breast. That was at least one feeling; another was a
strong impulse to run away, but she dared not show this for fear of
displeasing him. When, therefore, Leila came running down the path
bareheaded, her hair streaming out on the wind, it was a relief to
Susie, though an exasperation to Dan.

As time wore on from Sunday to Sunday—for Susie counted time only by the
slow recurrence of these days—she began to be troubled a little about
Dan’s regard for her. To be sure, he always told her he loved her
dearly, and that she was “sweeter than a rose;” but he seemed to talk
less of their future, and his new life out in the world had changed his
manner to her, which was not so respectful as in the olden time. Ah! the
olden time, when Susie had been so ashamed of Jim and his ways, so
impatient of her rude surroundings, until Dan appeared and gladdened all
her life as the sunshine gladdens the little wayside flower. She had
never been troubled about his demonstrations then, and she passed in
retrospection the old days when the boyish lover had scarcely dared to
press her hand. She recalled continually one particular evening when he
had found her alone—the first and last time they had ever been alone for
a whole evening. That was the time when he gave her his first kiss—a
quick little touch on the cheek, not like the burning kisses he insisted
upon now. Where had he learned so much about love-making? He knew little
enough about it then, when, blushing even like herself, he had made her
promise to be his forever, and sealed the betrothal by that indelible
record upon his arm. Clearly there was a change in Dan, but Susie’s
heart refused to recognize it as a vital change. It was, indeed, the
same old drama, played over and over again since the world began—the
woman at home, dependent, busied with her little routine of duties,
cherishing and nursing her one tender romance; the man mixing with the
broader world, yielding to its varied attractions, taking and giving
love, or the mockery of love, wherever he can find it, and so daily
unfitting himself more and more for the rôle in which the home-keeping
woman has cast him. Susie waited and trusted, but life during the week
was very dull; the few acquaintances of her former life attracted her
less and less, and she ceased altogether to visit them. This time
happened to be a season of revivals, and Oakdale received a large influx
of the “spirit.” The twins became “serious,” much to the joy of Mrs.
Forest and—it must be confessed—the disgust of the doctor, who
entertained very phrenological views upon the subject of sudden changes
of nature. But under the influence of this seriousness, Leila, who had
the most serious attack, became suddenly gracious to Susie, and would
insist upon her being saved also; so she dragged her to prayer-meetings
in season and out of season, the latter being on Sunday evenings, when
Dan was at home. Dan could scarcely believe his senses when he found
that there was in this world anything that could charm Susie away from
him, even for an hour; so she had the satisfaction of witnessing another
revival, that of Dan’s flickering affection for his first love. He did,
indeed, seem to treat her with more softness, though he distrusted the
value of her piety, since it caused her to hold more strict views on the
propriety of vehement kisses. The twins, after a few months, lost their
passion for prayer-meetings entirely, but Susie kept right on, with that
sincerity and singleness of heart that characterized all that she did.
She had found sympathy among certain people of the church, though of
rather a stiff and at-arms-length kind; but in her own sincere devotion,
and in the reading of religious books, she found much consolation. Not
that she could understand them or criticise them; but when she came to
anything that breathed the loving spirit of Christ, it sank into her
lonely heart, and blessed her with something like peace.

One perfect moonlit evening, about a year after the events just
narrated, and only a few months before Clara’s final return from
Stonybrook College, Susie, returning home from some evening “meeting,”
unexpectedly met Dan. He drew her hand caressingly over his arm, saying,
as he turned to walk home with her, “Susie does not care for me any
more.”

“O, Dan!” she exclaimed, in an imploring tone, for her little heart was
full of its best emotions, and this want of faith in her love pained
her.

“Fact. She has become a saint, and so cares nothing for my kisses.”

“O, you wrong Susie, Dan. She does love you dearly.”

“I know. She says she prays for me, and I don’t believe in prayers.
Kisses are ‘indicated,’ as doctors say, in my case.”

“You do wrong to speak so, Dan. Surely it is good to pray when one is
lonely and sad. I try to be good, but I am not, very. I fear I shall
never go to Heaven.” Dan, for reply, gave his crescendo whistle, and
then said, stopping short in the bright moonlight, and looking down into
her face, “The idea of a good child like you troubling your little head
about Heaven. The domestic economy of that institution must be very
shiftlessly managed if such as you are not in great demand.”

“O, you must not talk so, Dan! I do so wish you could see religion as it
really is.”

“Fiddlesticks!” said Dan. “If I must be a spoon, I prefer to be made so
by a live woman, not a morbid longing to twang a golden harp.”

“Your father does not talk like that,” replied Susie, who was always
timid before Dan’s outbursts of humor, but the belief that she was in
the right made her bold. “I know he will not go to church, but he is so
good! and he never says anything against others going, if they find
spiritual food in what he says are dry husks to him.”

“He’s a fine old chap, no mistake about that, and he forgets more every
day than most people ever know; but he’s soft in spots. If I had only
known him when he was a young man, I should have helped him to cut his
eye-teeth.”

“Ah!” said Susie, “what you call his ‘soft spots’ are his noblest
qualities. What can be more benevolent and sweet than his treatment of
poor old Mrs. Buzzell?”

“Is that a conundrum?” Dan asked, in his rollicking way.

“He is so good!” said Susie, taking no notice of Dan’s levity; “and I
often think if he would join the church it would influence you——”

“No, it wouldn’t,” interrupted Dan. “I’m only sensitive to your
influence. You could do anything with me if you loved me as you once
did.” They had just entered the gate and stopped a moment under the
lilacs by the path. Susie looked up into Dan’s face and said, with a
voice that trembled, “It is cruel for you to doubt me. I have not
changed, unless”—“to love you more,” she would have said, but her words
were checked by the depth of her emotion.

“You do not show it, then.”

“O Dan! I pray for you always. I think of you every moment. How can I
prove it better?” she asked, with despairing tenderness.

“O, much better you can prove it, Susie;” and under the fragrant lilacs,
under the dear, bright stars, a thought blacker than mortal night
entered Dan’s heart.

“How do I know you pray for me?” he asked, caressing her hand very
softly. “I do not hear you. Come to my room and pray for me there, and I
shall believe you.”

“Do you really wish me to?” she asked, with a look that would have
softened any heart but that of this sleek young tiger, whose white teeth
glistened in the moonlight.

“I will,” she said simply, mentally reproaching herself for a momentary
suspicion that had entered her mind.

When Susie entered Dan’s room on her pious mission, he at once closed
the door and locked it. Susie protested earnestly, but the only reply it
elicited was a long-continued fit of subdued laughter which Dan indulged
himself in, tilting back his chair and holding his fingers interlaced at
the back of his head. Then he insisted upon a kiss as a preliminary.

“No, no,” cried Susie. “Open the door and let me go. O Dan, you were not
serious, after all. I wish I had not believed you;” and the poor girl
covered her face and sobbed.

“Serious? Never was so serious in my life, as I can prove to you; but
what is the use of praying for me if my heart is not in the right mood,
and nothing can do that but a kiss, though a hundred would make it
surer. How Susie must love me. She cries because I ask for one.” * * * *

Susie never prayed for Dan that night. Her prayers were all for herself.
Alas! that they should have availed so little!




                               CHAPTER X.
            CLARA’S RETURN—THE DRAMA IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY.


 The early days of September had come, and the day of Clara’s return.
Dinah had scoured every pot and pan until they shone like mirrors,
cooked the cakes and “lollypops” generally that Clara had liked so well
as a child, for she was still a child in Dinah’s thought, which took no
note of the changes that four years must bring to a young lady. She
longed for Clara’s final homecoming, for between the twins and her there
had always been a kind of feud, and they were, according to her, “no
comfort to the house;” and though she liked Susie very much, there was
nothing in the world so bright and lovely in her eyes as “Miss Clary.”

All was joy and bustle in the doctor’s house. The “fatted calf,”
figuratively speaking, was ready, and the best chamber, newly fitted up
for Clara, had received the addition of another bed, for Miss Marston
was coming with her, at the cordial invitation of the doctor and Mrs.
Forest. They wished to express their gratitude for her kindness to their
child during her term at Stonybrook, and as Miss Marston had
considerable curiosity to see the eccentric Dr. Forest, it was very
pleasant to accept the invitation. The friendship between her and Clara
had begun early after their meeting, and had soon ripened into a more
tender regard and confidence than either women or men often inspire in
each other. The result of Clara’s tactics regarding _Jaques_ had even
added to this mutual esteem, for Miss Marston frankly confessed that the
motive of the book was noble, and though she thought it too emotional
for young girls as a rule, admitted that it would do no harm to Clara,
because she was disposed to be a “philosopher and an observer,” as she
said. After this, Clara’s reading was never criticised. She was allowed
full range in the college library, and certain of the alcoves, seldom
visited except by one or two of the teachers, were familiar to her. She
had graduated with the first honors, and there were not a few tears of
real regret when she bade her school friends good-bye.

Clara had been home only once during her long absence, and the meeting
with the dear ones at home was a great joy. Miss Marston was introduced,
and then came the embraces: first the mother’s, then the twins, who were
astonished into silence by the queenly carriage and address of Clara.
Dr. Forest stood talking with Miss Marston, waiting his turn, and having
no eyes but for his daughter. She came presently, and Miss Marston
politely moved away. “The sweetest last!” whispered Clara, as her father
pressed her to his heart, answering only, “_Papa’s own girl_.” Here fat
old Dinah was descried in the dining-room, wiping her grinning face with
her apron. At a gesture from Clara she came to the drawing-room door,
and Clara submitted to be hugged, and kissed, and “bressed,” and cried
over till she cried anew herself. Miss Marston looked a little surprised
at this familiarity with a negro servant, until she recalled the fact
that the doctor’s family had lived many years in the South, where, there
being never a possible question of equality before the late civil war,
the negro was often petted even like much-loved brutes.

That evening there was a grand reception in the doctor’s old-fashioned
house, in honor of Clara’s return. Dan came in after all the friends had
arrived, and for a time he saw no one but Clara, who advanced to meet
him, offering him her hand affectionately, but instead of taking it, he
grabbed the whole stately person of his sister and gave her a most
bearish hugging and kissing, which embarrassed her somewhat, perhaps,
because she knew Dr. Delano’s eyes were upon her. She had just left his
side, and the few minutes conversation with him had given her a taste of
feminine power. She had seen in every look, and word, and movement, that
she impressed him deeply. After escaping from Dan’s grip, she glanced
back to Dr. Delano. His eyes were averted. Was it from disgust at Dan’s
rough way of meeting her, or from delicacy? At all events he seemed to
have dropped her out of his thoughts, and was apparently greatly
absorbed in conversation with Leila, and as he talked he occasionally
twisted the long ends of a fine dark moustache. He was a rather
distinguished looking man, perhaps a little too self-conscious, and old
in Leila’s eyes, though in the prime of life, being not much over
thirty.

Before Dan would let Clara go, he said, glancing at the piano, where a
quiet, graceful lady was just sitting down to play, “That washed-out
virgin is your divinity, Miss Marston, I presume.”

“Hush! brother. You will never speak so of her when she has once deigned
to notice you. No one escapes the magic of her style, I assure you.”

“I wouldn’t give a sixpence for one woman’s judgment of another, sis;
but I’ll try on the magic as soon as you like. See! there’s my _bête
noir_ making dead for me;” and leaving his sister to entertain Mrs.
Buzzell, he just nodded to her and went to Susie, who was sitting quite
alone in the corner of the room, pretending to be interested in an album
of photographs. He greeted her with a pleasant word, and her sense of
being neglected vanished instantly. Ah! is it counted a blessing to love
like this poor child? Sentimental or emotional people never count
themselves happy except when floundering in some sea of passionate
madness. Do they not deceive themselves as to the nature of happiness?
Is it well for any human soul to so depend upon another for every thrill
of pleasure; aye, to have the very literal beating of the heart, in its
normal way, dependent upon the smiles, the tender words, of any single
creature among all the good and beautiful beings that the world
contains? Be it wise or foolish, it is the fate of many people to love
in just this mad way; though it excites the contempt of those who can
regulate the play of their emotions as easily as we do the movement of a
clock by raising or lowering the pendulum.

Susie kept on turning the leaves of Clara’s album, though listening
intently to every syllable her lover uttered. Stopping longer over one,
he noticed it. “Clara’s tenth wonder, eh?” he said. “How do you like
it?”

“I think it very beautiful; don’t you?”

“Bosh! she has no color, no life,” he answered, glancing toward the
original. “Why, you are a thousand times prettier, Susie.” This made the
little heart very happy indeed; and she looked up into Dan’s face with a
loving, trusting pride, that touched him for a moment; the next, he was
forced to give his attention to Miss Marston, whose fine voice swelled
through the room in the _brindisi_ of _La Traviata_, the one bit of
Italian music that Dan happened to know well, and as he listened, he was
entranced. The voice seemed to upbear him as on wings. How passionately
the pale little woman sung. Could such a voice belong to the commonplace
lady he had thought Miss Marston to be? A few minutes later, when he was
presented to her, and her little white hand lay in his for a moment, he
longed to kiss it; and was consciously awkward as he spoke the words of
greeting. Miss Marston knew how to put him at his ease at once, he never
suspecting that she was exercising a common art among certain refined
people of society. She made him thoroughly satisfied with the way he had
deported himself, and he left her with a sense of delight, as if he had
covered himself with glory. He returned to her as soon as he could, and
scarcely noticed Susie for the rest of the evening. Susie waited until
sure that Dan had no thought of returning to talk with her any more, and
when she could no longer control her emotion from the company, she crept
away to her room, and cried bitterly, while the sound of music and
joyous laughter from below fell like mockery upon her lonely heart.

Dan’s infatuation for Miss Marston was sudden and irresistible, and soon
became evident to everybody. To Clara it was an evidence of appreciation
which she had thought him incapable of; and having no knowledge of his
relation to Susie, she was delighted, though in her eyes Miss Marston
was too good for Dan, and that he might win her seemed an absurdity. She
thought, however, with the faith in love that all women cherish, that
his admiration would have a softening and refining influence, which in
this case was much needed. Miss Marston was very gracious. She sang for
him whenever he asked her, and without the least effort charmed him in
every way. When he made her a compliment, instead of saying that she
hated flattery, as most country girls have the bad manners to do, she
smiled and thanked him. In truth, her whole air and manner was a
revelation of womanhood to Dan. He received her gracious politeness as a
sign of preference, and before a week had passed, Susie was a millstone
about his neck. She, meanwhile, half dazed with the knowledge of Dan’s
disaffection, and the fate worse than death that hung over her, went
about the house, pale, silent, brooding over the thought of death as the
only possible escape for such as she. Mrs. Forest was quite touched by
her sad face, treated her more kindly than usual, and even seemed
disposed to talk to her. She asked her one day why she never went to see
her friends, as she used to do.

“I have no friends,” Susie answered, with a stony expression that
alarmed Mrs. Forest. What could she mean? “It must be,” she said to
herself, “Dan’s attention to Miss Marston. Poor thing! I wonder if she
really expected him to marry her?”

By-and-by the quick eye of Dr. Forest detected Susie’s condition, and
his anger at his son was bitter and terrible; but he said nothing,
waiting for the end of the week, when Dan would come home for the
Sunday. Saturday evening the doctor came in rather late. He first went
into the drawing-room and staid a few minutes. Dan was basking in the
heaven of Miss Marston’s smiles. The parlor casement windows were open
on the southern veranda, where they sat breathing the odor of the
honeysuckles that climbed over the old wooden pillars. Clara was
scarcely less happy than Dan, for Dr. Delano had been exceedingly
agreeable that special evening, and she had just discovered that he had
a certain, as yet ill-defined, but wholly delicious influence upon her.
Mrs. Forest was delighted. Dr. Delano was a “party” after her own heart;
so she kept discreetly at the further end of the room, and engaged the
twins near her to the best of her ability, that they might not disturb
either the flirtation at the piano or that on the veranda. As the doctor
entered, Leila was teazing Clara about Dr. Delano, who had just left,
and there was no little spite in this teazing, for Leila had fallen in
the doctor’s eyes from what appeared to be a first class object to a
third class one at best, since the advent of Clara.

“Don’t mind her, sister Clara,” said Linnie. “Her nose is out of joint,
that is all.” Leila scowled without turning her head, and continued her
bantering, while Clara kept on improvising pretty variations upon
Weber’s _Dernière Pensée_. “Oh, are you not tired of that gloomy air?”
exclaimed Leila. “You ought to play something more gay, I should say;
perhaps, though, it is appropriate as a wail.”

“Your remarks are very silly, my child,” said Mrs. Forest mildly, “and
quite out of taste.”

“Well, it’s so dull here. One is overpowered by a great event like the
prospect of a marriage. I wouldn’t have Dr. Delano, though, if I was
dying to get married.”

“And pray why not, Miss Wisdom?” asked the doctor.

“Well, he’s too old, in the first place,” replied Leila.

“Old!” repeated Clara, leaving the piano and approaching the back of her
father’s chair. “He is not as old as papa, and I always wanted to marry
papa,” she added, laughing and caressing his head with both her hands.

“Why, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “You make such unaccountably
strange speeches.”

“My girl flatters her old papa, does she not, by comparing him to her
younger slaves?” As he said this he drew one of her hands round to his
lips and kissed it.

“Good-night!” said Linnie, going toward the door. “When Clara and papa
commence making love, I always leave.”

Leila enjoyed this sally immensely, judging by the peal of laughter with
which she greeted it. She kissed her mother, as did Linnie, and then the
doctor, who took the opportunity to whisper to her, “Don’t undress till
you hear me go up stairs. Then I wish you to come down and tell Dan to
come to my study.”

A few minutes later Leila bounced on to the veranda, exclaiming, “Papa
wants you, Dan, in his study. Quick!” and with this she disappeared as
she came.

The summons was so sudden that Miss Marston started; but Dan, knowing
the nature of Leila, did not apprehend that any one had fallen dead in a
fit, as he might otherwise be justified in supposing. He assured Miss
Marston that it was only Leila’s way, said he would be absent but a few
minutes, and expressed a hope to find her on his return.

Dan passed into the parlor through the glass door, meeting Clara, who
joined Miss Marston. He then remembered for the first time that Susie,
despairing probably of seeing him alone, had given him a note when she
had opened the front door for him that evening. He stopped by the parlor
door, out of sight of Miss Marston, and ran over it hurriedly. What it
contained was terrible enough; and the writing was blurred, evidently by
tears, but the effort the poor girl had made to cheat her breaking heart
into the belief that Dan still loved her, was lost on him. He was not
fine enough to understand it.

As Dan crossed the threshold of his father’s study, the doctor wheeled
round from his desk and rose, not offering Dan a seat. Dan saw with an
inward misgiving that a storm was threatening. It burst upon him without
the slightest preliminary.

“Young man,” the doctor said, with perfect command of his voice, “I
suppose you are aware of the condition of Susie Dykes through your
folly.”

Dan silently approached the mantle-piece, on which he leaned for
support, for he was profoundly agitated. The doctor, who noticed
everything, was moved at the signs of wretchedness his words had caused,
and he continued, less severely, “I am sorry for you, my son; but my
greater concern is about this poor girl. To a man it is nothing; to a
woman it is worse than death.”

Dan thought of the gracious being on the veranda, brilliant, refined,
unapproachable, but for whose favor he had dared to hope, and he thought
the misfortune was worse than death for him also; and as he waited,
chewing the end of his youthful moustache, his heart hardened toward the
poor girl who had so tenderly loved, so foolishly trusted him. But his
silence was exasperating the doctor, who, he well knew, would see but
one way to pay for his “folly,” as he had termed it. He said, therefore,
doggedly, without looking up, “What is done is done. I suppose you wish
me to marry her.”

“_I_ wish you to marry her, you young scoundrel!” replied the doctor,
livid with indignation at the heartlessness of his son. “If you have
lost all affection for her, does not your sense of honor prompt you to
make the only reparation possible, when you have done a wrong like this
to an innocent girl?”

“Innocent!” sneered Dan, “I’m not over sure about that, sir.”

Hearing loud words proceeding from the doctor’s study, and guessing what
might be the cause, Susie, pale and trembling, crept down the stairs,
which ended just at the doctor’s door. She heard distinctly these words
from the lips that were so dear to her, and unable to move hand or foot,
she sank down on the stairs. Poor girl! She had obeyed the instinct of
her tender heart, meaning, if Dan was suffering under his father’s anger
for her sake, to go and shield him, woman-like, and take all the blame
on herself. Upon this noble impulse Dan’s words had fallen like cold
steel upon her warm heart. Her wonder was overwhelming when she heard
the doctor reply in a clear, distinct tone:

“Great God! that from a son of mine! Cowardly, ignobly, seeking to cover
your baseness by degrading a weak young girl, whose only fault is loving
you a thousand times more than you deserve. You have sought her and
courted her favor ever since she was thirteen years old. Even as long
ago as that, you promised her marriage, and tattooed yourself with her
name as a seal of the promise. She never doubted your honesty for years,
and when, through her devotion for you and the Devil knows not what arts
exercised on your part, she sacrifices everything a woman can sacrifice,
you would basely desert her. I tell you it is the most damnable act a
man can perpetrate. Brute force and ignorance have oppressed woman in
all history, making her a slave to petty cares, denying her the
political and social equality that belongs by right to human beings, and
making her dependent like a slave. Of course this has cramped woman’s
free growth in every way, and the man who takes advantage of her
weakness, as you have done with Susie Dykes, deserves the execration of
all honorable men.”

“For God’s sake, father, don’t speak so loud!” cried Dan, who was in
mortal terror lest Miss Marston should hear.

“I will neither control my voice nor my indignation at your meanness.
The whole world deserves to know the base dog who would deceive and
betray a woman through her folly in loving him too well.”

“Hold, sir! I have some feeling as well as you, and I won’t stand any
more of this.”

The doctor moved toward the door, and Dan knew well it would not be easy
to escape; nor did he feel much inclined to try it, for he felt the
weakness of guilt. The doctor continued: “You will hear all I have got
to say, and then I have done with you. There can be no question in my
mind that this girl knows only you. Whom has she known, or sought, or
cared for, except you? But this, in my opinion, is of little importance.
The worst women are about good enough for the best of us. See how much
more generous they are! They, in the freshness and cleanness of youth
and health, take husbands who have consorted with the vilest, whose
blood is vitiated with foul diseases, though every woman feels that a
man’s standard of morality should be as high as hers. The sophisms that
men take refuge in, in this connection, are beneath the contempt of
common sense. Sir, you could in no way have made me despise your
character as you have by that one insinuation. Do I not know you, sir?
What are you that you should demand spotless innocence in a young woman?
In this matter every honest man is bound to believe the woman whose
repute is good. Does this girl confess to having been debauched by
others?” demanded the doctor, whose rage knew no bounds.

“Of course not. According to her, she is most immaculate; but I know
better.”

“Do you?” said the doctor, with fine contempt. “No man has a right to
make that statement of any girl of good reputation; and let me tell you,
for the benefit of your ignorance, that scientific men are not so
confident in such cases. You have graduated in the Jim Dykes school, and
all blackguards are wise on such subjects.”

Dan’s respect for his father was greatly tried. His way of showing
resentment was of the Jim Dykes order; and during his father’s outburst
he had been angry enough to have felled any other man to the earth. He
felt dimly something of his father’s moral force and the secret of his
power among men, as he had never done before. He felt abased before the
sublime justice of the doctor; but still the doctor, who understood the
heart so well, did not know of the new sentiment that Dan cherished for
Miss Marston, as for a superior being. He wished he could tell his
father. It would at least be a new complication that would interest him
as a philosopher, and perhaps make him less hard upon him. This passed
through Dan’s mind as the doctor continued, in a calmer tone: “But I
have said enough; more, perhaps, than you will ever understand. The
question now is, are you ready to make this girl the only reparation in
your power?”

“I am no hero,” said Dan, bitterly. “A little while ago it would not
have been so hard. You have wronged me in some things, though I know I
have not done right. Yes, I am ready to marry Susie Dykes to-morrow,
though I confess I would rather die.”

Here the door opened, and Susie, who had heard all, ashy pale and
trembling in every limb, confronted her lover, more dead than alive, and
scarcely able to articulate the words: “God forgive you, Dan, and make
you happy. You will never marry Susie Dykes;” and sinking down exhausted
from her emotion, the doctor caught her and kissed her forehead. “Brave
girl!” he said. “Are you really in earnest? Would you really refuse,
under such circumstances?” “I would die ten thousand deaths,” she cried,
“rather than permit him to make a sacrifice in keeping his word to me,”
and she motioned violently for Dan to leave her presence.

As he rushed from the room and from the house, covered with shame and
self-contempt, Dan was as wretched as his most murderous enemy could
have desired. When the door closed behind him, Susie sobbed bitterly,
and the doctor lifted her bodily and laid her on the lounge.

“I did not think you had so much character,” he said, laying his hands
on her temples. “You are a good girl, though you have thrown away your
heart and gone the way of many. You shall never want a friend, my dear
child. I shall stand by you. Now cheer up, and we will see what can be
done by-and-by.” As he said this, he mixed her a powder, not too
innocuous this time, and as he held it to her lips she moaned, “Oh,
good, kind, noble one, you would be kinder to me if you would help me
end my wretched life. Oh, do, doctor! Do give me something; I will never
tell that it was you.”

“Very likely not. You couldn’t very well, if it was an effective dose,”
said the doctor, trying to be gay for her sake.

“Oh! I mean when I am suffering—dying. Do you think I would tell? Oh,
you do not know me!”

“Nonsense, little one. Now, shut your eyes and let me hold my hand over
them. This powder will soon take effect. You are young, and the world
has need of brave hearts and willing hands like yours. Don’t _feel_
disgraced, and you will not be so in fact. Cultivate the thought that it
is not you, but conventional society that makes it wrong to have a child
by one you love, and right by one you loathe, if you happen to be
married to him. Remember this: grief does not last forever; and if you
are wise, this experience may prove a blessing to you—nothing like it to
show a woman the gold from the dross.” As he said this, music rang out
from happy voices in the parlor, for none but the actors themselves knew
of the drama enacted in the doctor’s study. Susie thought Dan was there
in the parlor, careless of her suffering, and she sobbed aloud in her
agony: “What shall I do? what shall I do?”

“Put your whole trouble on me. Go straight to bed, now, and take this
powder along, but don’t take it if you can get to sleep without it. I
will go and talk with Mrs. Forest, and see if she will help us.”

“_Us_,” repeated Susie, covering the doctor’s hand with tears and
kisses. “You are as good as Christ was, and if I live, I will show you
how I thank you for your goodness—how I love you for being so good to me
in this awful time.”

“Trust me, child. I shall be the same to you to-morrow and every day.
Bear up bravely, and all will come out right.”

Susie tottered up stairs and sought her little room. She threw herself
down by her bed, and wept and prayed, but no peace came to her troubled
soul. She forgot the doctor’s powder, and when she woke, it was nearly
daylight, and she was lying faint and ill on the floor beside her bed.
She took the powder then, and with great effort got her clothes off and
went to bed.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                            FAITH AND WORKS.


 The next morning the doctor found Susie weak and feverish, and forbade
her to leave her bed. He told her he had not been able to talk with Mrs.
Forest, but should do so the coming evening, and meanwhile Dinah would
be very kind to her and see that she did not want for anything. He was
deeply touched by her condition, seeing her lie there alone, pale and
suffering, with no woman’s sympathy to cheer her, though the house was
full of women; and he dwelt with some bitterness upon the fact that he
could not by a word bring his wife to his side in kindly, womanly faith
that his impulses were generous and right. Clara he knew he could
influence, but he wished her to act freely, and not through love for
him; therefore he determined to have a talk with Mrs. Forest first, but
meanwhile he had had a word with good old Dinah, and flattered her
exceedingly by saying, “Now, you know all, Dinah, and I count on your
help and discretion. You and I are the only ones in the house who know
this. Help Susie all you can, for my sake, and mind that you say
nothing. Are you sure you can keep the secret, Dinah?”

“Lor bress you, Massa! Massa knows Dinah can.”

“All right, Dinah. I trust you, and I go away feeling easier now;” and
he pressed the old servant’s hand cordially.

This interview had taken place while Dinah was putting the dining-room
in order; and while getting the hominy and coffee ready for breakfast,
she found opportunity to prepare Susie some traditional medicament and
carry it to her. Her heart was overflowing with real sympathy for Susie,
and her pride that the wise and great Dr. Forest had chosen to take her
alone into his confidence, made her feel exceedingly important in her
own eyes.

“Lor bress you, chile!” she said, her shining black face beaming as she
held the cup to Susie’s mouth, “Why didn’t ye tell old Dinah long fore
dis time? Dinah could a helped ye, mebbe. Not now. Massa’d kill me, now
you done gone told him; but cheer up, honey. Dem accidens will happen
mos all de time!”

Susie, weak and suffering as she was, could not resist a smile, and as
she drank the decoction Dinah had brought, she thanked her with tears.
It was the first woman who had come to her in her sorrow, and she did
not think of Dinah’s black skin, but silently thanked God for this
blessing.

The breakfast in Dr. Forest’s family was the pleasantest meal of the
day, for it was the only one when he was pretty certain to be present.
On this morning, however, there was something like a cloud over the
family circle, which seemed to oppress all except Leila, who chatted
gayly to, or rather at, Miss Marston. The latter did not respond
readily, and Leila turned her batteries upon Linnie, who was rather of a
sentimental turn, and fancied that she was a victim of heart disease.
Sentimental young ladies perfectly dote on heart disease. Linnie was
disgusted with the incredulity of the family about the cause of her
ailment. Even old Dinah had said, “Lor, Miss Linnie, you is growing like
a potato-vine, and dese pains ain’t noffin but de growing pains!” After
that Leila teazed her sister unmercifully about her “growing pains;” but
that being frowned down by the family, it was held in reserve for
private persecution. By-and-by Leila, finding the want of gayety at the
breakfast table quite oppressive, drew a long sigh as she laid down her
napkin.

“What is the matter, my child?” asked the doctor. Leila glanced at her
sister mischievously, tilting her head low on the left side, and
answered:

“Oh, I have got such a fearful pain in my diaphragm!” Miss Marston
laughed, not fully comprehending the malice of the young minx, but the
rest were very grave. Leila was impatient over mysteries, and clearly
there was something in the air on this particular morning, so she soon
began to probe the silence.

“I declare this breakfast is as solemn as a Quaker funeral,” she said;
and as no one made any remark, she asked where Susie was.

“She is quite ill this morning, my dear,” answered the doctor; “quite
ill. I hope you and Linnie will try to take her place until she is
better.”

“I will, papa,” replied Linnie; “and I will help nurse her too, for I
think Susie is really nice.” Then there was silence again until Leila
exclaimed, “Dear me! They say everybody have their skeleton closet. I
thought we were an exception, as we keep ours right out fairly in the
light. Why, it’s an age since I saw him. I must go up in the garret and
give the old darling a ‘gyrate,’ as we used to say. Do you remember,
Clara?”

“I remember many things,” replied Clara, with a dignity that was perhaps
a little sophomorical.

“O, do we? How antique we are getting.”

“Yes; I remember, for example, that there is a certain young lady who
will probably go on repeating a certain grammatical solecism until she
is gray,” answered Clara, alluding to Leila’s “everybody have.” Leila
made an indiscriminate onslaught upon grammars generally, during which
the doctor was called away to his patients, and the breakfast ended.

During the day Mrs. Forest, and subsequently Clara, visited Susie’s
room; but in both cases Susie seemed disturbed, and disinclined to enter
upon the details of her illness, and declared she wanted nothing. She
thanked them for their kindness, and once, upon some gentle word from
Mrs. Forest, she hid her eyes, which had filled with tears. Dinah was
the only welcome presence to the poor girl during that long, sad day,
and for obvious reasons.

Early in the evening Dr. Delano called, and made himself very agreeable
to all the ladies, and especially so to Clara, a little later, when they
had a long tête-a-tête on the old south-facing veranda. The sunset had
been magnificent, and as Dr. Delano was quite seriously enamoured with
Clara, he was gay, poetic, appreciative—everything that could charm
her—but she could say little in reply to his fervid eloquence, for she
had the disadvantage of being immeasurably in love, and consequently
felt a certain awkwardness, a triumph to Dr. Delano, growing sweeter and
sweeter every hour. It was her first romance. It was his—well, not his
first, certainly. _That_ was an early attachment to Ella Wills, his
father’s ward, and this night he told Clara the story of that romance,
showing her, of course, beyond a shadow of doubt, that _that_ was a very
insignificant passion—“as water unto wine,” was the way he characterized
it—comparing it to his present deeper and dearer love. Do not lovers,
not always, but very generally, tell this same old fib? The truth was,
he had adored Ella with all a boy’s enthusiasm, and she had flirted with
him persistently—“outrageously,” Miss Charlotte Delano, the doctor’s
sister, declared—and had escaped heart-free herself. So when he came to
tell her in words that his heart was under her feet, she affected the
most innocent surprise, and hoped she had not led him to suppose, etc.,
etc. In the end she somehow won his respect, for he did not curse her,
as rejected lovers do, at least in most novels. She wept very lavishly,
for she meant to keep him in reserve, and marry him finally, if no more
brilliant offer occurred, or if ever in danger of becoming an old
maid—that terror of women who have no serious object in life. When Dr.
Delano first began to mention Clara in his letters to his sister
Charlotte, which he did once as “the noblest and sweetest of mortal
women,” Ella felt personally affronted, and commenced at once to
speculate on the chances of winning him back, not once asking herself if
this “noblest and sweetest woman” had not already acquired rights over
the heart once so lightly rejected. She had not seen him since his
return from Europe, where he had spent three years in completing his
medical education.

Ella always played the kitten, though she was no longer a child, and a
very Methuselah, if age could be numbered by her conquests. She had no
heart to speak of, and less conscience, but she impressed every male
creature with a sense of childish, artless innocence. She was a
brunette, petite, with dark short ringlets about her small head, a peach
bloom on her cheeks, and a babyish, pouting mouth, whose sweetness
Albert Delano had found difficult to forget, or even to recall without
regret, until he had found in Clara something infinitely superior to the
sweetness and prettiness that had so charmed him in earlier days. This
something he hardly comprehended, though he owned its power to a certain
extent. It was soul, for want of a better name—a moral sweetness, a
divine, emotional sensitiveness, and a straightforward honesty of
purpose, that made you conscious, last of all, that she was beautiful in
person and exceedingly graceful in every movement.

This evening Clara remembered long after, as the happiest in her life.
The bright moon shone through the climbing foliage on the veranda,
carpeting the floor with soft mosaic patterns, through which the “mated
footsteps” of the lovers passed and repassed, talking in low tones of
the beauty of the scene, at intervals, when time could be spared from
the dearer theme of their perfections in each other’s eyes, and the
future that, before them,

                   ——“like a fruitful land reposed.”

Of course, they took no note of time, and Miss Marston, after talking
some time with Mrs. Forest, went quietly to her room. Leila fidgeted
about for awhile, and then exclaimed, crossly:

“I _don’t_ see why they wish to moon out there all night.”

“Why, Leila!” said Mrs. Forest, reproachfully. “I see nothing improper
in their enjoying each other’s society, and you should not speak in that
way.”

“She’s jealous,” remarked Linnie.

“You mean thing! I’m not,” Leila answered, in a high key, and then they
went to bed to fight it out in the ordinary sisterly way; and I take it
that sisters can be as caustic and insolently mean in their treatment of
each other as any kindred under the sun. In this case, however, Linnie
was really fond of her sister, and would have manifested it quite
lavishly by way of petting, but for being discouraged and called
“spooney” by Leila whenever she attempted any expression of sentiment.

Mrs. Forest waited awhile after the twins were gone, and then went to
the veranda and gave the lovers some friendly caution about the night
air. This duty discharged, and hearing her husband enter his
sleeping-room, she joined him there. He was very glad to see her, for he
wished to broach the subject of Susie’s condition, a task requiring
considerable diplomacy, for he knew Mrs. Forest would naturally be
merciless to one like Susie. But the doctor in his diplomacy, as Clara
said, did very well until he came to the diplomatic part, and then he
lost the first requisite, patience. He greeted Mrs. Forest very
pleasantly, and told her she never looked lovelier in her life.

“Ah! dear,” she answered, “it is very sweet to hear you say so, but”—and
she viewed herself composedly in the mirror of the doctor’s
wardrobe—“this glass shows me my wrinkles and my gray hair.”

“Well, your hair is beautiful, and I like these little crows’-feet at
the corners of your eyes; but this is not what makes your beauty in my
eyes—” and he came beside her, and put his arm around her—“it is the
softness and tenderness of expression in your face. You did not have
this as a girl.” Here was possibly the approach to the needed diplomacy.

“Yet you used to rave about my beauty; and how indifferent I was to it.”

“To which?”

“To your raving, to be sure.”

“Ah! of course.”

“See how my color has gone. I think I never was vain, but who can look
at such a reflection with any satisfaction? You are bronzed by exposure,
but that rather improves you, and I’m sure, as we stand here, you look
ten years younger than I do, instead of five older. That is because you
have had no babies.”

“Ah! Indeed!” exclaimed the doctor, with Pantagruelistic gayety. “I
thought they were all mine—all but that doubling feat. That was entirely
your invention.”

“For shame! Have you not teazed me enough with that. I think you are so
absurd. I wish you would never make such a remark again.”

“Well, then, I won’t; but the way you take it is so amusing. Are you
going to stay?”

“Do you wish me to?”

“Ah! That is not to be considered,” said the doctor, with his usual
gallantry, which was not gallantry at all in his case, but the simple
expression of his interpretation of woman’s most primitive right. “The
question is, do _you_ wish to stay?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You don’t come too often these days,” he said, toying with her ear.

“That is because I know that you are tired, and would rather sleep when
you have left your study.”

“Too tired, you think, to enjoy your presence?”

“Yes; you know I have not lost the girlish habit of liking to lie awake
and talk. You go to sleep the moment you touch the pillow. Ah, me! how
we change! I remember how you used to keep me awake with your ineffable
words and caresses! and I was so indifferent then. You loved me more
than I could possibly appreciate;” and she added, taking the hair-pins
from her silvery hair, and with a little sigh, “Ah! if I were only young
again!” For answer, the doctor sang the trivial words of Beranger:

                          “Combien je regrette
                          Mon bras si dodu,
                          Ma jambe bien faite
                          Et le temps perdu.”

“Translate your French. It is something shocking, no doubt.”

“No, indeed. But I could not do it justice. I promise to keep you awake
to-night though, for I must consult you about a matter of importance.”

“What is it about?”

“It is about Susie Dykes.”

“She does look ill, I think, and she has been so silent and moody
lately. You don’t think she has anything serious the matter with her, do
you?”

“Yes, serious enough. It is strange you have not guessed.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest, a sudden light breaking into her mind.
“You don’t mean to say——”

“Yes, just that,” interrupted the doctor, “and the agony of the poor
girl is dreadful. What is worse, Dan has put it out of his power to save
her from disgrace.”

“Dan!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest, in great disgust. “I don’t believe he
knows anything about it. The shameless thing! No doubt——”

“Now! now! Don’t go off at half-cock. He admits it all—did so in my
study last night, where he said he would rather die than marry Susie.”

“Oh, Heaven! How dreadful for Dan!”

“And you think only of him.”

“Only of him! Is he not my child? Is it not natural that I should think
only of him?”

“Many things are natural that are very selfish. Is Susie not somebody’s
child too as well as Dan? And what is his suffering compared to hers?
Will the world howl at him as a sinner, kick him down further into hell,
and abandon him with virtuous scorn? No, no; there’s plenty of girls
here in Oakdale, of good family too, who would marry him to-morrow for
all his damnable treachery to this poor girl, while the hypocrites,
drawing their immaculate skirts clear of his victim, wink at his act,
and distinguish it ‘as sowing wild oats.’ And you, my wife—you among the
number! You would send her out to die in the streets, would you?”

“I am sorry for her, of course. You know I am.”

Mrs. Forest was thinking of Clara’s prospects; of the aristocratic
Delanos, who were soon coming to Oakdale, and the event was important.
What would they say at Clara’s family supporting and harboring under
their roof a girl so disgraced? Mrs. Forest added, “But we cannot be
expected to be victimized because of her want of virtue. Of course she
cannot stay here.”

“Virtue!” said the doctor, with contempt. “Virtue, in any decent code of
morals, must include all the best qualities of the heart. You are one of
the soulless Pharisees who would cover it with a fig-leaf. I thought I
knew you better, Fannie. Some one says, if you would know a man, divide
an inheritance with him; but, by ——, after you have slept in a woman’s
arms twenty odd years, shared your fortune and all the joys and sorrows
of life with her for that time, a simple case like this arises when you
expect common human sympathy, and she fails you utterly.”

Mrs. Forest began to sob quietly, but finding to her astonishment that
this redoubtable weapon had lost its power over the soft-hearted doctor,
she was piqued, and hardened her heart like a flint. She began hastily
replacing her hair-pins in her hair. This was to punish him by depriving
him of her presence for the night, which she had so sweetly promised.
The doctor noted this movement, the critical moment, probably, if only
his diplomacy had been equal to the situation; but he was “a plain,
blunt man,” as Mark Antony says of himself, and he had already played
his last card. He knew it was hopeless. Mrs. Forest, gentle, mild,
pious, as she undoubtedly was, could not understand the doctor’s broad
love of humanity. She had no power of loving anything that was not
distinctly her own; but she was sure of her own integrity, and when told
by the doctor that there was no more virtue in her love than in that of
a hen for her chickens when she gathers her own under her wings, but
pecks away all others, even though motherless and dying for care, she
was not in the least disturbed; she was sure of her own position, and as
immovable as a rock. “Do as you like,” he said to her, giving up the
case, but determined to speak his mind freely; “do as you like, you and
the other godly who pretend to be followers of one who said, ‘Neither do
I condemn thee.’ Your respect for Christ is a common farce. It is merely
a thing of form and respectability. You don’t take the trouble to see
what manner of man he really was, or you would see how impossible it is
for you to have any sentiments in common with him. Was he not a radical,
sitting down with publicans and sinners, shocking all the conventional
morality of his time, befriending the needy, supporting the outcasts of
society, and a thorough despiser of all cant and hypocrisy?”

“I dislike to hear any one quoting Christ who does not believe in him,”
said Mrs. Forest very softly, but none the less angry for all that.

“Believe,” echoed the doctor. “_You_ are the real infidel. Do you
believe in the divine nature of Christ? Of course you do not; for if you
did, you would have more respect for his morality and magnanimity of
character. Do you believe in your heaven? You have no shadow of real
faith in it, and you know it in your own heart, for it is a place where
this same unhappy girl may be your equal or superior, according to your
own scheme of salvation; and you know you would prefer annihilation to
any such democratic mixing of saint and sinner. Do you think you can
make me think you believe in hell, when you coolly run the risk of its
terrors by turning against the suffering wretches whom Christ helped and
befriended? Oh, Fannie! you have no religion in your heart, for you have
no love for humanity; or, call it religion if you like, and say you have
no honest human sympathy, and no faith that can triumph over the little
expedients and conventional proprieties of the day.”

“I do not wish to manifest levity, but it does seem to me amusing to
hear _you_ talk of faith.”

At another time the doctor would have ceased in despair; but it is so
hard to believe absolutely that those allied to us by many tender ties,
can never respect our most sacred convictions; besides, the doctor’s
sense of human justice was outraged, and he had not yet given full vent
to his righteous indignation.

“I will not try to show you that I have a faith which you can never
comprehend. It would be useless,” he said, “but I can tell you, though
you could never persuade me to cant and howl among your pious herd, that
I respect Christ and his example as I respect the dignity of all
sympathy for human misery; and I shall prove it by standing by this
unhappy girl. I am none the less ready to do so because her suffering is
caused by a knave whom I had the misfortune to beget.”

“Why, I never heard any one utter such language!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest;
“but it is useless to reason with you, when you are in a passion. For my
part, I think ‘charity begins at home.’”

“Yes, I know you do; and according to your creed, it not only begins but
ends there also.”

“Would you sacrifice the prospects of your children to protect a
shameless girl?”

“I’d sacrifice anything and everything on earth to show my faith in the
triumph of justice. Besides, this girl is not shameless. She has a noble
nature. She told Dan to his face that he would never marry Susie
Dykes—this when she found he would marry her, but only as a duty. Yes,
madam, you can now measure my faith, which you despise, and see what it
is worth beside yours. Let what will come, I shall stand by this girl.
Life, with the consciousness that I have acted like a cur, is not worth
having. Now you had better go and pray for grace to do unto others as
you would have others do unto you;” and the doctor burst into a bitter
laugh, as the door closed behind her who had come with wifely tenderness
to sleep by his side.




                              CHAPTER XII.
             CLARA DECIDES BETWEEN RELIGION AND PRINCIPLE.


 Mrs. Forest had often had rather severe conflicts with her husband on
questions of morality and justice, upon which, in her mind, he held very
lax notions. This, however, was the first time they had been
diametrically opposed in a matter of actual practice, and she was
considerably disturbed, though she carried away the gratification of
having preserved that serenity of soul that naturally belongs to those
who are in the right; moreover she was somewhat piqued in her womanly
vanity, because the doctor had not desired her to stay sufficiently to
yield the point. But there was one deep satisfaction for her that atoned
for everything: Dan was in no danger of being compelled to marry Susie
Dykes. During all the first part of her conversation with the doctor,
she had mortally feared that he would insist on bringing this about.

As she descended the stairs, she found Clara bolting the front door. She
had just let Dr. Delano out, after bidding him good-night as many times
as lovers usually do, and was in a blissful state of mind. Her
beautiful, limpid eyes shone brilliantly through her long lashes, her
lips were crimson and dewy, and her whole being expressed the happiness
of the young, poetic enthusiast.

“Come and sleep with me, daughter. I wish to talk with you,” she said,
embracing Clara with more effusion than was her wont, and Clara saw that
some grief disturbed her mother. What could it be? Surely not
disapproval of her attachment to Dr. Delano, for had not her mother
smiled upon the happy lovers not an hour ago? This settled, in Clara’s
thought, there could be nothing serious in what her mother had to say,
and this special night she wished to be alone. There seemed lately no
time to think, to enjoy the delicious creations of a vivid imagination,
stimulated by a passion as real and sweet as it was dreamy and ideal.
The longing to be alone with her thoughts made her say, “Come into the
parlor, mamma dear, and tell me there.”

“No,” said Mrs. Forest, with the persistence of a child, “I want you
with me,” and she added, reproachfully, “Is it a sacrifice?” thus
forcing Clara to say what was not strictly true—“Certainly not, mamma
dear. I will go with you.”

Long into the night Mrs. Forest talked earnestly to her daughter. Clara
was shocked, as any romantic young girl would be, having the case
presented in its worst light—disgusted, indeed—but she was much too
severe upon Dan to please her mother. Clara was her father’s own girl,
as Mrs. Forest knew, and her heart was naturally inclined to pity Susie,
and she said to her mother in extenuation, “She is so young, you know,
and without any education, or she would know she could never win a lover
in that way.” This was a sign of wisdom that pleased Mrs. Forest.

“My daughter, I am sure,” she said, “would never be in danger of
forwardness and immodesty with gentlemen; and I will say here, my dear,
that much being alone with gentlemen before marriage, is very
injudicious, for the most honorable of them will take advantage of such
confidence.”

Clara was rather inclined to believe this, recalling certain passages on
the veranda that evening, but she was very silent on that subject. Mrs.
Forest returned to the subject of Susie, and labored to show the
importance of having her out of the house as soon as possible. “Your
father is so unreasonable. I really believe he thinks it our duty to
have her here. Why, I should die of shame to have the Delanos know it.
What would they think?”

“We must do right, mamma, whatever people think.”

“Yes, yes; but we can do right in a prudent way, and there is so much at
stake. Dr. Delano asked your father’s permission to address you only
to-day.” Clara knew this fact, but it was very agreeable to have a
second account of it. “Your father is so unlike the rest of the world. I
was shocked at his answer. Instead of thanking Dr. Delano for the honor,
as would have been the proper way, he answered brusquely, ‘Bless my
soul! Delano, it’s none of my business. I don’t see what the girl can
want with your ridiculous addresses, but that is her affair. You know I
advocate woman’s rights, and that includes her right to make a fool of
herself;’ and he actually laughed.” Clara asked anxiously how Dr. Delano
received it—that was the all-important part to her.

“Oh, he took it exceedingly well, I am glad to say. He held out his hand
to your father, and thanked him in a very gentlemanly style.”

“Did papa say any more?”

“Such a lot of nonsense! He said he had brought you up to be
independent. For my part, I think an independent girl dreadful. He said
he had told you what rascally dogs men were, and if this was the result
of his warning, why he must submit. You cannot imagine how mortified I
was. Your father was called away then, and I apologized to Dr. Delano
for his manner.”

“Why, mamma! the idea of apologizing for papa’s manner. I should not
think of doing Dr. Delano the injustice of supposing he could not
understand and appreciate my father. He speaks of him in a way that
charms me.”

Mrs. Forest kept on talking, making a mountain of the importance of
getting rid of Susie. She would, of course, be kind to her; all the
ladies of the church would do something for her; but Dr. Delano’s august
father and Miss Charlotte were coming, and they must never hear of this
terrible disgrace.

Clara was bewildered. Her education at Stonybrook had inculcated the
conventional respect for the proprieties; but now face to face with a
practical trouble like this, she did not feel like trusting entirely her
mother, who was the very soul of conventionality. She would see her
father, and then judge for herself; and with this decision she dropped
asleep.

In the morning Clara slept rather late, and when she went down-stairs
her father was gone. During breakfast Mrs. Forest had hardly addressed a
word to him. In her mind, there was a kind of lovers’ quarrel between
her and the doctor. There had been many of these in her married life;
but feeling conscious of her power when she chose to be gracious, it did
not trouble her much. She felt he ought to be punished, and rather
enjoyed his perturbation, not being sufficiently discriminating to
perceive how deeply he was disappointed in her want of sympathy with his
desire to help Susie in her strait. If Clara should fail him also, it
would go hard with poor Susie. He determined, however, to say very
little to Clara until he found how she would be disposed to act. This
was a most interesting point to him. How would his Clara face a thing
like this? Of course he might influence her through her love for him,
but he scorned to do that—she must act freely. If he saw her, he would
simply state the case and leave her to her own decision. The opportunity
occurred unexpectedly, for in his drive across the common, in the middle
of the forenoon, he overtook his daughter, who was out for a walk. He
drew up beside her and talked a few minutes, being careful to avoid any
expression as to how a woman ought to act to any sister woman in such a
case. He expressed simply his own feeling for Susie, and his
determination to stand by her. Clara listened silently, and walked home
turning the matter over in her own mind. She found herself unconsciously
calculating effects, after the manner of her mother, and was disgusted
with this evidence of meanness. When she reached home, Miss Marston and
her mother were in the drawing-room, where the latter had just informed
her guest of the scandal, regretting that anything so unpleasant should
occur during Miss Marston’s visit. Mrs. Forest was careful to avoid
mentioning her son as in any way implicated, but she was pleased to have
some one with whom she could talk of her troubles and cares—one, too,
who had sound notions upon moral questions. Miss Marston indeed was a
rigid moralist of the conventional school, not, indeed, from any
narrowness of heart, but through logical conclusions from premises
which, if not sound in principle, were at least well considered. Mrs.
Forest knew that the influence of her guest was very great over Clara,
because of her affection and admiration for Miss Marston, and so Mrs.
Forest continued the conversation about Susie after Clara entered. One
thing troubled her, however. Clara was ignorant of her mother’s
intention to shield Dan from Miss Marston’s censure; and she might, by
some ill-timed remark, let out the cat that her mother would so
carefully tie up. Tact was necessary, and she soon found a pretext to
send Clara to her room for something, and another pretext to follow her
and implore her to not mention Dan. What was the use? It could do no
good, and it was her duty to be kind to Dan as well as to Susie. Clara
said nothing, but pondered deeply over her mother’s ways of securing her
ends.

When the conversation was resumed, Mrs. Forest showed a remarkable
clemency toward Susie, especially after discovering that Clara had been
talking with her father during her walk. This was tact again. Clara had
somehow inherited her father’s tendency to radicalism, and might be
easily shocked into a heroic course toward her brother’s victim.

“I do not think,” said Mrs. Forest, “that we can do better than to get
her a place where she can be quiet; and as she is so very deft with her
needle, and can make herself useful in many ways, I do not think this
will be difficult.”

“This will be to fail her in what she most needs—sympathy,” Clara
remarked.

“My dear Clara,” said Miss Marston, “we cannot sympathize with folly
unless we are foolish ourselves. You know the meaning of the word
sympathy.”

There was a little too much of the dogmatism of the teacher in this to
please Clara, but she showed no displeasure in her very calm reply: “But
we can sympathize with suffering in all cases.”

“Yet even for her good,” replied Mrs. Forest, “we should show
disapprobation of her conduct. By being too lenient, it would lead her
to hold her act lightly, and open the way for its repetition.”

“Well, I think, mamma, with all proper deference, that your reasoning is
exceedingly weak. Will not one terrible lesson like this be enough for
any girl like Susie? Besides, you forget how many years it must be
before she can outlive her love for——” Mrs. Forest trembled; but Clara
saw the danger her mother dreaded, and continued, “for her betrayer, and
by that time she will become staid and prudent.”

“I think myself,” said Miss Marston, “that there is little danger of her
repeating her folly. She seems really a very modest young person. She
has undoubtedly fallen through an ill-directed affection. What sort of a
man is her lover, and where is he?”

Mrs. Forest did not dare meet Clara’s eyes during her quick answer, “Oh,
it is a young man in town. He does not seem to care anything for her.”

“I consider him an unprincipled wretch,” replied Clara, indignantly. Her
mother’s determination to screen Dan looked very ugly in her eyes. “Papa
says he offered to marry her,” she continued, addressing Miss Marston,
“but in a way that showed he considered it a great sacrifice; and she
was proud enough and womanly enough to throw his insulting offer back in
his teeth. I like her for that, and I think we ought to protect her
right generously. I mean to help her, at all events.”

“My child!” cried Mrs. Forest, in alarm. “You are so impulsive, so
imprudent. You will certainly be talked about.”

“I don’t think, mamma, that should make any difference when we know we
are in the right. I believe the right way is to find out what our duty
is, and then, to do it openly and fairly.”

“My dear,” said Miss Marston, “there are very Quixotic ways of doing our
duty.” She said this in a cool, decided way, that chafed Clara’s growing
heroic mood, and she replied, bitterly: “I could avoid these ways, I
suppose, by making bibs and baby things in secret, and sending them to
her anonymously, but I think that would be contemptible. I know if such
an awful thing should happen to any one of my dear friends, my equals,
or to my own sister, I should go to her and comfort her with my
sympathy; and if there is any goodness or nobility in doing so for a
dear friend, there must be still more virtue in such a course when the
object is a poor, friendless girl, deprived of all advantages of
education and social culture until she came here.”

“Very well reasoned,” said Miss Marston, ironically; “but I am sorry to
see that you forget how this young person has profited by the advantages
for social culture that she has already had in this family.”

Clara’s eyes fairly flashed, and Mrs. Forest saw that she was sorely
tempted to show Miss Marston what social and moral influence Susie had
been under through one member of the family at least; so she made haste
to answer soothingly, almost before the words were out of Miss Marston’s
mouth, “You are so young, my daughter, that it hardly becomes you to
seem to know so much more than your elders about what is right and
proper. I know your motives are generous, but you must not trust
yourself wholly in such a case as this. You are wrong in supposing that
showing open sympathy with a girl who has fallen from virtue, can do her
any good; and it certainly may injure you irreparably.”

“Your whole tone, mamma, is cold and calculating. This poor girl is
alone, and in an agony of grief such as we have never dreamed of. If
helping her bear up under her burden, must injure me, even irreparably,
as you say, let it do so. I do not want the favor nor the admiration of
the Levites and Pharisees who pass by on the other side. Besides, I do
not act alone. I have had the counsel of the clearest head I know, and
as noble a heart as ever beat.” Here Clara paused and sighed heavily,
almost overcome with a feeling of disappointment that Miss Marston
should manifest so little generosity, and one of sorrow also that she
had been compelled to express sentiments that must wound her much-loved
teacher and friend. As she expected, Miss Marston took refuge in
dignified silence, understanding herself, of course, as included among
the Pharisees and Levites. Mrs. Forest remarked that all experience
showed the feelings to be dangerous guides; as also were what were
loosely called principles; that the only thing that upheld pure morals
was religion, and therefore it was the only sure guide.

Clara had often seen this making religious duty an excuse for
selfishness, and she had a contempt for it as natural as was her
repulsion to everything dark and ugly. She replied boldly, “I hear much
about principles and religion, and I am compelled to judge them by their
fruits. My father, you say, has no religion. Surely principles are
better than religion, if one leads to helpful sympathy with all
misfortune, and the other to cold calculation of the effect of evil
tongues. I have thought over all the possible results, mamma, and I have
decided. I know one who will help Susie openly, and without either
calculation or shame; and I shall certainly follow his example, for I
will trust my father’s sense of right against the world!” and with this,
delivered very dramatically and rapidly, Clara left the room.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                            PAPA’S OWN GIRL.


 Not long after Clara left her mother and Miss Marston, she rapped very
softly on Susie’s door, not wishing to wake her if sleeping, and thus
oblivious for the time, to her misery. Thinking it was Dinah, Susie bade
the knocker come in. She was trying to dress herself, and sat by her
glass brushing her long light hair. Perceiving the happy sister of Dan,
resplendent in her youth and beauty, Susie buried her face with her
pretty round arms, and wept softly. Clara approached her, and patted her
white shoulder, saying, “Poor Susie! I have come to comfort you in your
trouble. I know all about it, and I am so sorry, but I blame my brother
far more than I do you;” at the mention of Dan, Susie sobbed aloud. “He
is so cruel to you after all your loving him.”

“Don’t blame him too much,” sobbed Susie. “He could not help it. If I
were handsome and educated like Miss Marston, he would love me always;
but it is so hard. I wonder why I cannot die. Every hour is harder and
harder to bear.”

Clara’s tender heart was profoundly touched. This was the first time she
had ever been brought face to face with real anguish, and she found it
more terrible than any romance had ever pictured it. She reproached
herself for ever thinking even for one moment of consequences, in view
of so plain a question of duty as trying to comfort this poor girl in
every possible way. Yet she hardly knew what to say or do in the
presence of such agony. She felt the necessity, however, of saying
something, and inspiration and hope came as soon as she saw her words
had any effect. “Don’t give way so, dear child, I beg you. Remember what
papa says, ‘Grief cannot last forever.’ Time will soften it all away,
and if you live a noble life after this, as I am confident you will, you
will have good and true friends. See how papa is going to stand by you;
and I am also, if you will let me.”

“If I will let you!” repeated Susie, raising her head. “What a good
angel you are! I am not good enough to deserve so much kindness.”

“Why, do you know, I think you are. I don’t think any of the family but
papa appreciate your sweetness and goodness. Now I want to tell you that
Miss Marston will never marry Dan. She would never dream of such a
thing. There is an idol in her heart enshrined, which no common man
could displace; but that is a little secret, and I only tell it to
reassure you. You are not going to sink down under this misfortune like
a common-spirited girl. Do you know I admire you so much for refusing to
be saved by Dan as a charity on his part? I’ve been thinking of it all
day. You can win him back if you will; I’m sure of it, and the way to do
it is to show him that he is not important enough for a woman to die
for—not important enough to destroy your happiness for all time either.
I tell you there is nothing so sure to win the love of men as to force
them to admire our strength and independence. The clinging vines become
very disagreeable and burdensome to the oaks after a time.” Clara said
all this smiling cheerfully, and not in a patronizing “I am holier than
thou” way at all. This won Susie’s heart, and gave her a first impulse
of hope.

“Oh, how good you are, Miss Forest. You come like warm sunlight into a
cold dungeon, and I bless you with all my soul. And how selfish I am to
let you stand all this time.” And Susie rose and begged Clara to be
seated, and excuse her while she finished dressing. Clara was struck
with the delicacy of feeling in this poor girl, and especially by her
good manners; and every minute in her presence increased her faith in
her natural worth. “If I had only been here,” she said to herself, “I
would have helped her to study and be interested in something in the
universe besides Dan, and this would never have happened.” Then a new
thought struck her suddenly, and she said, “What you want now is
distraction from the one subject that worries you. What do you say to
commencing to study seriously, and making me your teacher?”

“Oh, I will do anything in the world, and you shall never regret—” she
said, but broke down before she could finish, after a moment adding,
“never regret helping poor Susie. No one ever cared for me but Dan, and
it was natural that I should love him too well——”

“Don’t think of him just now any more,” said Clara. “Of course it was
natural. It is too bad that you have had so little chance for education,
but we will make up for lost time.” Clara remembered the delight she had
often experienced when, finding a pot-flower drooping, she had given it
water, and waited to see it slowly lift up its limp foliage, as if in
gratitude to the beneficent hand that came to its relief. How much
grander the pleasure in raising up a sorrow-burdened human soul, she
thought; and life seemed to have more scope and meaning to her from that
hour. She entered enthusiastically into her plan of teaching Susie, and
was delighted at the quick response it met.

“I have so longed to learn. I have tried to study grammar alone, but it
is very difficult to get on. I fear you will find me so ignorant that
you will give up in despair. I know so little of books; but I can read,
and write too, but I am a dreadful poor speller though. Dan used to
laugh at me so.”

“Did he? Why he was a perfect blockhead himself in school, and forever
at the foot of the spelling class.”

“Why, Miss Forest! I thought he was a beautiful writer and speller,”
said Susie, wondering if this could be so.

“Have you any of his letters?” asked Clara, laughing and thinking it
would be a good stroke of policy to show Susie that her tyrant was not
quite omnipotent in wisdom.

Susie produced from the bottom of a well-worn paper box, whose corners,
both of box and cover, had been carefully sewed together, a package of
letters, and handed it confidently to Clara, who took out one at random,
which was written while Dan was in the peddling business. It ran thus:


“MY DARLING SUSIE: I have gone all over this one horse town of Boilston
to-day, and have sold a peice of red coton velvit for a safer covering
and some pins and matches and that is all. To-morrow I shall be in
Marlboro and expect to do a big business. I have not written to the
governer yet because I want to show him I can live and succede to, away
from home, so dont tell whear I am til I come back whitch will be next
weak. Thear is a pretty little house here for sail and I mean to buy it
as soon as I get money enough. How would you like it as a present? Only
I shall expect you to take me as a purmanent border and I may be a very
dyspeptic one and hard to pleas.”


There was much more about the cottage, and many expressions of
tenderness and anxiety because he thought Susie did not fully return his
love. Clara sighed as she refolded the letter, to think that one of her
sex should be so deficient in culture as to take this effusion as a
masterpiece of composition; but it revealed the fact that Dan had loved
Susie sincerely in his way, and made her look very leniently upon
Susie’s inordinate faith in him.

“Are there any mistakes in that?” asked Susie, seeing that Clara was
silent.

“Yes, dear; plenty of them,” she answered, regretting her determination
to destroy any of the poor child’s illusions; but she had committed
herself to it, and so she pointed out the errors consecutively,
beginning with “peice” in the first line, and then she said, “You see,
if he had any serious education himself, he would not laugh at your
mistakes in spelling. Only ignoramuses are vain about small
accomplishments. I do not doubt in the least that your own letters were
superior to this.”

“Oh, I think not; but you can see for yourself. He gave them to me to
keep, because he is always going about. He always keeps my last till I
write again, and then returns it for me to keep—I mean he always did do
so—but he will never write me again,” she said, struggling with her
emotion, as she gave Clara one of her letters to Dan. Clara read with
quiet interest, forgetting all thought of the orthography in the simple
eloquence expressed in every sentence. Tears came into her eyes as she
read the closing paragraphs, “but I must not sit up later though I could
never wish to stop. It is so sweet to know where you are and to send you
words of love and then so much more sweet to know that you care for
them. I must be up early to help your mother who is so kind to me. I
keep thinking all the day that sometime she may come to like me and be
willing that I should be your wife though I know I am not worthy of so
high an honor. Your family would be ashamed of mine, Dan. This is a hard
thought, but it is not my fault, and I mean to be good and true always.
I read all the time I can get, and try to improve all I can. Do not
laugh at my spelling, dearest. Remember I never went to school steadily
but two months in my life. When we are together you will teach me, and I
shall show you how seriously I can study. Good-night, dearest one. I
kiss you in my thoughts and all my love and all my life are yours
forever.”

“Oh, how blind your love has made you, Susie. Why, this letter is
eloquent. If my brother had been capable of understanding your generous
sensibility, he would rather have sought to learn of you, than to have
presumed to be your teacher. There are errors in orthography, but not
half so many as there are in his; besides the sentiment of yours is
noble, and that of his is not. You spell beautiful with two ll’s, and
there are one or two other errors; but I believe they are all from
studying Dan’s ridiculous style. You write a pretty hand, and your head,
as papa says, is an excellent one. There is nothing to hinder your
getting a fair education. I will teach you the Latin and Greek words
from which ours are made up, also rhetoric, and history, and geography,
and we will study botany together. You will be charmed with botany. I
have all the text-books, and I want you to commence even to-morrow, so
that you can have no time to brood over your miseries. I know you won’t
do as silly girls do who, when persecuted for falling one step, think
they may as well go quite down to perdition. Remember, you are not
really degraded in my eyes, and I want you to take me into your heart as
a true friend.”

Susie at this knelt down beside Clara, and burying her head in her lap
sobbed anew, but quickly raised her head, saying, “I am only crying now
for joy, because God is so good in sending you to me. Never in this
world shall I forget the blessed help and comfort you bring to me. You
will go to a home of your own some day, and if you will have me, I will
come and take all your cares. I will keep your house. I will learn to do
everything; and oh! I shall love you to my dying day.”

“Dear, dear Susie!” said Clara, her own eyes full of tears as she bent
down and kissed Susie tenderly. “You would pay me too generously for
what gives me so much pleasure. I ask only that you will be happy and
make the best of everything. Do not kneel before me.”

“Oh, let me, do! It is natural for me, when I see anything so good and
beautiful as you are; but have you thought that others will not think of
me as you do? I am afraid you will pay dearly for your goodness to poor
Susie.”

“Have no fear. I despise cold, shallow-hearted people, and shall lose
the love of none but them. Papa will love me better, and that is
compensation enough for that which merits no compensation at all. His
approbation is worth more than that of all the world without it.” Clara
found Susie quite capable of appreciating the character of Dr. Forest,
and that raised her at once higher in her estimation. She talked with
her some time longer, and then rose to go; but just then she saw Susie’s
face blanch and her limbs shake. She had forgotten how great a strain
this long interview must have been to Susie in her weak condition, and
quickly atoned for her oversight, first by bringing her a cordial, and
then helping her to undress and put her to bed like a child. Susie
submitted like a tired baby. Her eyes were greatly swollen with weeping,
and for these Clara brought hot water, and laid a compress upon them,
saying, “Hot water, you know, is better for inflammation. That’s what
the new school says, and we belong to the new school. Papa is a radical,
they say; so are we. We believe in love, not in hate; in happiness, not
in misery;” and Clara kissed Susie and bade her good-bye, saying, “Now
go to sleep, if you can. Rest perfectly quiet. Trust to me and papa, and
all will be well. No, don’t say a word. I won’t be thanked and called an
angel, for I am only a girl like you, and in your place you would be
just as kind to me.”

Clara left Susie’s chamber in a most enviable frame of mind. She had
experienced a new pleasure from her course toward Susie, and in her
heart she wondered why all the world was not loving and kind, when to be
so created such deep satisfaction. “I think I did right too,” she said
to herself, “in instilling a little healthy poison into Susie’s mind
about Dan. If she can see a few of his meannesses, perhaps she will
suffer less from the ‘pangs of despised love.’” Still Clara was not
quite sure that she was right in lowering Dan in Susie’s estimation. On
general principles, she would have naturally opposed anything of the
kind; but Susie’s restoration to peace of mind and usefulness was the
one object to be gained. To this end her self-respect must be roused,
which could hardly be effected while she considered herself Dan’s
inferior intellectually. Clara determined to prove to Susie her own
innate strength, and humble Dan by showing him what a pearl he had
thrown away. This was a labor worthy of Clara, and she left Susie’s room
feeling that she loved all the world better for the course she had
taken, and her heart was so full of human sweetness that she poured it
out on everybody; on Dinah, whom she helped for an hour or two in her
household work; on her twin sisters, who were not inclined much,
especially Leila, to sentiment. Clara helped them both with their piano
practice, petted them, called them her darlings, and encouraged them in
every way. Linnie was touched by Clara’s kindness, and when she left
said to Leila:

“How sweet Clara is, isn’t she?”

“As honey and nectar,” replied Leila; “all of a sudden, too. I guess
she’s experienced religion,” she added, with her clear, metallic laugh.
Leila was like Dan in many ways. The spirit of devotion was apparently
wholly wanting in her nature. She was one of those whose doubting was an
offence to freedom of thought, and whom you would rather see canting
bigots than supporters of any principle dear to you. The doctor came in
some time before tea, and went directly to Susie’s room, where he
remained a full half hour. The change that he perceived in Susie was a
revelation to him of his daughter’s character that brought an infinite
relief, and more than justified all his hopes of her. As he went down
the family were going into the dining-room. Clara stood at the foot of
the stairs, waiting for him. He drew her head down on his breast and
caressed it fondly; then held it away with both hands, and looked
searchingly into her splendid eyes. This scrutiny evidently revealed
what he sought, for he said softly and slowly, dwelling fondly on each
word, “_Papa’s own girl_;” and then they joined the family in the
dining-room.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
               DAN’S MONEY RETURNED—THE DOCTOR CONQUERED.


 The twins, who were now about thirteen years of age, had great
difficulty in fathoming the secret regarding Susie, for, being the
youngest of the children, they were still babies in the eyes of the
family. They were not long in “nosing out,” as Leila called it, the real
difficulty, and they discussed the subject together in a naive way that
would have been amusing but for the heartlessness they displayed; still
it was the heartlessness of the kitten over the agonies of a captive
mouse, and perhaps implied no real cruelty of purpose beyond a certain
spitefulness that they were not considered of sufficient importance to
be taken into anybody’s confidence. Even Dinah snubbed them in a
supercilious way when they attempted to obtain information from her, and
they revenged themselves in a thousand nameless ways. Susie meanwhile
had recovered from her illness occasioned by the shock she had received,
and made superhuman efforts to win some little show of sympathy from
Mrs. Forest. Clara had talked Miss Marston over to her side in a
measure, so that she manifested a good deal of kindness to poor Susie,
whose position was very difficult to endure. The twins, taking their cue
from their mother, ignored Susie’s existence completely, more especially
Leila, who, though in the habit of shirking every duty upon the willing
hands of Susie, informed “Miss Dykes,” as she called her one day for the
first time, that she need not come into her room any more to do the
chamber-work. Susie looked at her with mild, sorrowful eyes, set down
the water she had brought, and left the room without a word. Linnie,
being softer in her feelings, said, “I think you are too bad, Leila. Did
you see how she looked at you?”

“No, nor I don’t care. She’s a nasty thing.”

“I don’t see much difference between her now and a week ago, when you
used to kiss her when you wanted her to do anything for you.” Leila
flared up, and a very sisterly fight ensued. Linnie was no match for the
hardheaded Leila in a contest of words, but in revenge, later in the
day, she told Clara how Susie had been treated. This happened to be a
good policy, though not intended as such. Clara drew her arm about
Linnie, saying, “I am glad, sister dear, that you show some feeling. I
knew you would, and I have wanted to take you into my confidence, for
you are more mature for your age than Leila is; but mamma thought it not
best. I think she is wrong, and I am going to tell you the truth. You
have guessed it already. Susie, you know, has loved Dan since she was
your age, and she has been foolish of course; but I want you to remember
that she was a poor, ignorant, neglected child, and Dan was engaged to
marry her. I blame him infinitely more than I do her. He was very
selfish and unprincipled.”

“So I think, sissy. I thought it must be Dan—the mean thing. I’m real
sorry for Susie; but what a goose she must be to care so for _him_.” And
so another friend was won over to Susie. Linnie grew immensely important
in her own eyes after this confidence of Clara, who told her, among
other pretty compliments, that she was “right womanly” in her
sentiments.

On one of those weary days, when Susie felt like destroying her life
despite the kindness and sympathy of Clara and her father, she received
a note from Dan. It was written in a cold, heartless style that she
could scarcely believe him capable of after all she knew of him, and
ended: “I don’t want you to be disgraced through me, and I am willing to
marry you. Name the time and place, and I will be on hand. It is no use
to palaver and swear I shall be supremely happy, and all that; but you
are ‘ruined,’ of course, if I don’t, and I’m willing to do it, and ought
to for the prospective brat’s sake, at least.” The letter enclosed a
cheque for fifty dollars. Susie regarded the money greedily. She had
never had half as much in her whole life, and this would buy so many
things she needed, and then she read Dan’s heartless letter again,
crying bitterly. Not one word of tenderness; nothing of the old love was
left, only pity and an offer to sacrifice himself to save her. Disgust
with her weakness, self-reproach, indignation, possessed her by turns,
and the result was sending back the letter and the cheque, with only
these words: “I can beg in the streets for myself or for your child much
easier than I can accept charity from you. O my God! that I should come
to this—to have money thrown at me like a bone to a dog, from one, too,
whom I have so loved and trusted. Believe me, the only favor I ask, is
that you may forget that I ever cared for you, for—

                   ‘I am shamed through all my being
                   To have loved so weak a thing.’”

When Dan received this, he was surprised, to say the least, and chewed
his moustache viciously. Beyond all his pique at the way his offer was
received, there was a dawning respect for the girl he had ruined, as he
thought; but Susie was not quite ruined yet, thanks to the generous
sympathy of Dr. Forest and his daughter; and losing her respect for Dan,
through finding out how soulless and unworthy he was, her heart-aches on
account of his faithlessness gradually began to subside. Pretty soon
another letter came, containing one hundred dollars in greenbacks. This
time he confessed admiration for her “pluck,” as he called it, but swore
that if she sent back this money he would burn it, leaving enough of the
notes to show her he had kept his word. This was why he had sent
greenbacks, which, if destroyed, could not be made good like a bank
cheque.

Susie resolved to show this letter to Clara, and ask her advice,
apologizing for not doing so with the first one. In fact Susie had
enjoyed, in a bitter way, her answer, knowing it would wound Dan’s
vanity, and she had feared that Clara’s advice would interfere with this
satisfaction. The letter was written in a moment of exaltation, and was
the wisest thing Susie could have done; but yet after it was in the
post-office and beyond recall, the poor girl suffered new tortures lest
her words should alienate him still further from her; for she had to own
that, after all, she had not utterly given up the hope that he was only
temporarily under some new influence, that made him act so dishonorably
toward her. Love is not only blind, but absolutely idiotic, in its
faith. When once we are even partially free from his gilded toils, how
wide our eyes are opened! How microscopic their power to detect and
measure infinitesimal quantities of meanness in the lover.

Clara was away when the second letter came, and Mrs. Forest and her
visitor were out riding. Just as she had folded and put away Dan’s
second letter, the doctor came in. He greeted her pleasantly, and threw
himself wearily on the lounge in the dining-room. Upon his inquiring for
Clara, Susie told him she was out. “But cannot I take her place, just
for once?” she asked. “You want your bath, I know, for you always say
that nothing rests you so much;” and not waiting for any verbal assent,
Susie ran and pumped the water from the rain-cistern into the bath-tub,
and added a pail of hot water from Dinah’s range. The bath refreshed
him, as it always did, and when he came back Susie had his pipe filled
for him, and a cup of fresh coffee beside it.

“What a grand sachem I am, to be so coddled by nice women. Now come and
talk to me, Susie,” he said, stretching himself on the lounge. Susie sat
down beside him on a low stool, and showed him Dan’s first letter and a
copy of her answer.

“Good for your answer, Susie. I rather like it, though it is a little
romantic. Yes, I like it; but your sending back the money—ah! that was
too romantic by far. He’s a spendthrift, and the best possible use he
can make of his money is to give it to you. Don’t you do it
again—hear?—if he sends you any more.”

Susie listened to the doctor, but could not tell him just then that Dan
had sent more, having stubbornly determined to refuse it, as she had the
first; but she would consult Clara first. Seeing her silent, the doctor
said:

                “‘Is there confusion in the little isle?
                Let what is broken so remain.’

“See! I am romantic, too. I also quote Tennyson. You’ve borne up
bravely, Susie, these last days, and by and by all will be right. I am
going to find you a place with some patient of mine, as near here as
possible.” Susie’s face beamed at this. She felt that she could not
possibly stay much longer in the doctor’s house, for she knew how Mrs.
Forest felt toward her. He left her no time to thank him before he
added, “I trust you are cultivating a healthy contempt for your rascally
lover?”

“Do you think he will never, never care for Susie any more?” she asked.
“See! he commences even this letter ‘_Dear Susie_,’” and she looked up
inquiringly to the doctor, who answered, after a long pause:

“What dry husks a hungry heart will feed upon! Pitiful, pitiful!” and
the doctor uttered a heavy sigh. “Why, no; he cares nothing for you
beyond a feeling of pity, which no one could possibly withhold who had
any natural feeling. I say this because the sooner you give up all hope
that his disaffection is an accident, the better it will be for you.”

“Yet only so little while ago he told me I was all the world to him.”

“And he wrote you often, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Sometimes twice a day,” said Susie, smiling through her tears.

“Well, when he did that he was in love. There is no sign of that
delectable state, so constant. You may lay it down as a law, _if a man
loves he writes_, and simply because he cannot avoid doing so. He _must_
be governed by the strongest impulse. When he is writing he does not
know when to stop, for being away from an object that strongly attracts
him, writing is the most effective solace. In fact, the amount a lover
writes is a very good barometer of the pressure he is under from his
passion.”

“But might he not be so busy he could not write?”

“He would take the hours for sleeping, because writing would be far
pleasanter than sleeping. Of course there are accidents, serious
illness, and so forth. I speak of natural, happy, passional attraction.”

“Why, I have not written myself sometimes because, indeed, I loved him
so much,” said Susie.

“Ah! I was calculating the motives of my own sex. I doubt if the Devil
himself could fathom all a woman’s motives.”

“I am sorry you think so, sir,” said the serious little Susie. “I mean I
could not write because I wanted so to keep his love, and feared to
reproach him, feared to be too loving, feared and distrusted my power
every way; and so I often tore up letter after letter—often brought them
back from the post-office door, and did not write perhaps for days; and
yet I loved him so, all the time, that I could not sleep.”

“Poor child!” said the doctor, taking her hand. “Don’t you see you were
but proving my rule, for in the first place you _did_ write continually,
according to your own confession; and then you remember I said _happy_
passional attraction.”

“Oh, yes. I see you are right. You are always right; but do you not
think love may sometimes return when once it goes out of the heart?”

“That’s a deep question, little woman—the rehabilitation of love. In
romances, it happens often enough; but I am an old fellow, and I never
knew a case in actual life. It is like small-pox, I suspect, and never
breaks out the second time.

“But people do love deeply the second time.”

“Yes. I see my comparison is not well chosen; well, like the water of a
river which never passes over its bed but once.”

While the doctor was conversing with Susie, Mrs. Forest was also engaged
in her service, though with motives wholly different from those
actuating the doctor, who talked to her to give her strength and
self-confidence. He had never taken the trouble to have her sit by him,
before the discovery of her sad condition, and seeing how deeply she
appreciated his attention to her, made the giving of it very pleasant to
him. Mrs. Forest, during her ride, called on old Mrs. Buzzell, who lived
a very solitary life with her one old servant, to see if she would not
receive Susie in her disgrace. Mrs. Forest was careful to mention all
Susie’s good qualities, and Mrs. Buzzell at first felt inclined to
assent because she was lonely, and had observed Susie with much interest
whenever she had visited at the doctor’s house, and felt quite attracted
to her; but some way she sniffed in the air that Mrs. Forest’s society
notions were at the bottom of this move of hers, and so her reply was
rather galling to one of Mrs. Forest’s refinement.

“Well, I will try to help her, and, as you say, no doubt the other
ladies of our church will do the same; but if your house is too highly
respectable to shelter her, of course mine is, and so there’s an end of
that.”

This was Mrs. Forest’s last call upon Mrs. Buzzell. Their friendship,
such as it was, had lasted twenty years, and thus it was brought to a
sudden end, by wounding each other’s vanity. While they confined their
mutual interests to gossip, and to superficial considerations of things
generally, they met as on a bridge; but when deeper questions arose the
bridge fell through, and they found themselves separated as by an
impassable torrent. When Mrs. Forest had gone, Mrs. Buzzell questioned
whether she herself had acted in a Christian spirit, and she was forced
to confess that she had not. She thought, indeed, that she was very
sorry, and anxious to apologize; but in fact her regret amounted to very
little, for she would have been drawn and quartered in her present mood
before she would have taken Susie in, after Mrs. Forest’s presumption.

This same day, in the early evening, after Clara was dressed for
receiving Dr. Delano, she sat awhile with Susie in the room of the
latter, and helped her in her first lesson; but they continually
wandered from the subject of nouns and articles to those lying nearer
the hearts of both. Still Susie’s recitation was very successful. She
concealed from her friend the painful effort it had cost to concentrate
her attention upon study, even for one minute, and hours had been
consumed in preparing herself so that she might not disappoint Clara.

“Now you are going to do splendidly,” said Clara, assigning her a
certain portion of history for the next day, to be read over and recited
in Susie’s own language, and a very short task in a text-book of
etymology. Clara had the true instinct of the teacher, and knew better
than to give long tasks to a beginner, lest they should discourage.
After this, Susie showed her Dan’s first letter and its answer, and
before there was any time for Clara to reprove her for returning the
money, she gave her Dan’s second letter, telling her at the same time
that she was resolved to refuse the money. Clara held the money very
closely, and said, “I shall not let you send this back. He is just
pig-headed enough to burn it as he threatens. I will write him that I
have seized it to prevent your returning it, and that I shall use it as
I think best.” This she did, and Susie was forced to yield, not being
sorry to have the responsibility thus completely removed from her own
shoulders. She then consulted Clara about going away, and this Clara
confessed was to be considered. “I do not wonder that you cannot endure
mamma’s coldness,” she said, “but do not think of it to-night. Dr.
Delano is anxious for our marriage to take place immediately, and _entre
nous_—that is, between ourselves—I am myself going to manifest what
mamma calls ‘indecent haste’ to get married, so that I may have a home
for you;” and Clara laughed gayly, to prevent Susie’s taking it
seriously, though in reality it was not wholly a pleasantry on her part.
The ring of the door-bell interrupted Clara’s speech, and she bade Susie
good-night tenderly, urging her to con over her lessons, and then go to
bed and sleep. Susie clung to her friend a moment, crying silently;
indeed, she cried so often that Clara found the best way was to not
notice it too much; but she said, “Would you like me to come back after
my friend has gone?” “Oh, do!” replied Susie. “Come and hear my lessons.
I must have something to do, or I shall go crazy. If I can only get away
from here——” “Yes, yes, I know just how you feel,” said Clara; “but it
will not be long. I am going to talk with papa, if I am up when he comes
home, and then I’ll come and tell you about it.” Susie begged Clara to
understand how deeply she regretted leaving her and the doctor, but he
would call on her, she knew. “And so shall I, every day of my life. Why,
of course I shall, to hear your lessons. But I must go now;” and with
another hasty kiss, after the manner of girls, Clara ran down-stairs.

Clara had thought to give Susie her sympathy and moral support in her
trouble, but she had not dreamed of ever really loving her as a friend.
And yet a week had not passed before she discovered qualities and
sensibilities in Susie that not only surprised her, but made her compare
most favorably with all the young friends Clara had known. The doctor
was delighted with the growing regard of his daughter for Susie, in whom
he had full faith. “Depend upon it, Clara,” he said, “Susie is a real
gem, and under your polishing, you will see how she will shine out
by-and-by. I think she will prove your best friend among women.”

The next morning the doctor had a long talk with his wife, who had
“pouted” him, as the French say, ever since their last stormy interview;
but he found it useless to try to move her. She was still as firm as a
rock, though manifesting it in a way that seemed very gentle; and by
appealing to his affection for her, by recalling the tenderness on his
part that had endured all through their married life, the happiness that
reigned in their home until he became “estranged” from her, as she said,
and especially by her tears, which he called cowardly weapons, because
she knew beforehand that he could not resist them—by all this she
succeeded in making the good doctor _feel_ that he was a brute, though
he knew perfectly well that he had acted only justly and honorably in
protecting a good girl in a disgrace caused by his own son. In the end
he petted and caressed her, and turned her tears into smiles that were a
triumph, but he saw in them only delight at his caresses.

That night Mrs. Forest appeared in the doctor’s room in a ravishing
night toilet that had been packed away in lavender since the days of
their honeymoon.

Is it possible that even virtuous married men are sometimes the victims
of artful women?




                              CHAPTER XV.
                   THE DOCTOR’S LETTER—DAN REJECTED.


 As Mrs. Buzzell was watering her house plants, a few days after the
visit of the doctor’s wife, a letter arrived for her, and her eyes
brightened, seeing the doctor’s handwriting in the superscription. She
was very familiar with this handwriting, not from letters,
indeed—nothing so romantic, but from his manifold medical prescriptions
for her dyspepsia. There was no person in the world she esteemed so
highly as she did Dr. Forest, and receiving a letter from him was a rare
delight; yet she did not open it at once, but kept on tending her
plants, which occupied a large table before the south window of her
sitting-room. She did not open it hastily, probably for the same reason
that has led many of us on receiving several letters, to leave the
specially coveted one until the last, or perhaps until we were quite at
ease and alone. At all events, Mrs. Buzzell waited until the flowers
were all watered, and the stray drops of water fallen on the square of
oiled cloth beneath the table carefully wiped up. Then she sat down, put
on her gold-bowed spectacles, opened her letter, and read:


“MY DEAR MRS. BUZZELL: I have wormed out of my wife this evening the
object and the result of her late visit to you. I can quite understand,
as I told her, why you should have refused her request.

“Now, you two women have danced in pint-pots all your lives, but with
this difference: you, because the tether of your education and
surroundings never permitted you to examine principles and motives of
action outside of a given circumference; she, because the pint-pot fits
her like a glove, and she measures the harmony of the spheres by this
beautiful fit. She has never tried to breathe the broader, freer
atmosphere outside, because her theory is, the pint-pot first and the
universe afterward.

“By the pint-pot you know I mean society. Mrs. Forest sees plainly that
no devotee of conventional morality can stand by a girl, especially one
who is poor and humble in social position, and give her moral support
through disgrace, without being ‘talked about’—that bugbear of little
souls. Fools will say it is countenancing vice. I appeal to you because,
from many sentiments I have heard you utter, I believe you capable of
defying shallow criticism when you know you are right. I know you have
broad and generous impulses, and you are young enough in soul and in
body [this was a Bismarckian stroke of diplomacy, but the honest doctor
never knew it] to obey them. You are the mother of no human child, but
childless women should be the mothers of the world—sad for all its
sorrows, glad for all its joys.

“Susie Dykes has more heart and brain than nine-tenths of the women I
know, and if we treat her right fraternally—as I intend to do even if
every one else abandons her—she will come out all right. She has not
fallen yet; for she respects herself, despite this misfortune. I can say
truly that I take pleasure in keeping this victim’s head above the muddy
swash of conventional virtue that would wash her under.

“Will you be my real friend, and stand by me in this work? There is
nothing like a good woman’s heart where such help is needed.”


The letter was well calculated to effect its purpose. There is nothing
like faith in the justice and generosity of human nature, to call these
qualities into action, even in the narrowest hearts. The doctor’s faith
in Mrs. Buzzell made her feel equal to facing martyrdom; and then she
was very proud of his appealing to her to stand by him when his own wife
failed him; so without delay she put on her old gloves and her antique
bonnet, shut her cat out of the house lest he should worry her canaries,
and marched straight over to Dr. Forest’s, and called for Susie Dykes,
without the slightest mention of the mistress of the family. Susie came
down to meet her with wondering eyes. What could it mean that the staid
and dignified Mrs. Buzzell should so honor her? She soon learned the
object of Mrs. Buzzell’s call, and that very night, having packed all
her worldly goods in two paper boxes and a bundle, she slept under the
roof of her new friend.

The fact of Susie’s condition soon leaked out, and the “muddy swash,” as
the doctor termed it, began to rise threateningly. Clara nobly sustained
her, went every day and heard her lessons, as she had resolved to do,
for having once decided upon the right course, she was indeed her
father’s own girl, and there was no thought of turning back. Susie’s
prompt response to Clara’s kindness, touched her heart, and gradually
the friendship for her _protégée_ grew into a deep and sincere
affection, nourished by the best feelings of both.

In the plants of Mrs. Buzzell’s sitting-room, in her garden, and in the
woods behind her house, there was ample means for botanizing, though at
first it was a hard task for Susie to study. The mental effort required
to distinguish the monocotyledonous and the dicotyledonous in the
specimens she and Clara gathered, seemed a mockery to her over-burdened
soul; but the struggle paid well. In a few weeks she became deeply
interested in all her studies, and her rapid progress astonished her
little circle of friends. Meanwhile, she carefully tended Mrs. Buzzell’s
plants, which after a time began to respond to the knowledge she had
acquired of their nature and different wants, and day by day she took
some new responsibility of household cares from Mrs. Buzzell, who, after
a month, could not have been induced to part with Susie. She took the
whole charge of the wardrobe of the coming waif, and the hard lines
about her mouth softened with the new, strange pleasure in the work that
awakened memories of nearly forty years before, when, as a young wife,
she had once, with loving care, prepared numerous tiny articles for a
baby that never wore them. They had lain ever since, packed away in
camphor, and no one had ever known the secret but her husband, now dead
many years. Many times she had been tempted to give them to this or that
friend, but her generosity could not quite overcome a sense of shame
that women always experience over a useless work of this kind; yet she
dreaded to have them found after her death, and there was a soft spot
somewhere in her old heart, that would not let her destroy them. One
day, therefore, with many misgivings, she unpacked with Susie the
antique, camphor-scented trunk, and told the little history of her early
married years, delighted only that Susie did not laugh at her. The idea
of the serious little Susie laughing at any human disappointment, was
simply absurd. She only said:

“It was too bad, when you were married to one you loved, and the baby
would have been so welcome.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Buzzell, kindly, “we’ll make this baby welcome in
spite of everything. We can’t understand all God’s ways; and who knows
but this may be a trial that will lead you nearer to Him who judges
hearts not as men judge, but as one who made them, and knows all their
secret springs?”

This little experience, which to Mrs. Buzzell seemed a most important
confidence, tended to develop all the dormant softness and tenderness of
her nature; and one day the little, old baby-wardrobe was brought down,
and her own wrinkled hands washed out the odor of camphor and the yellow
of forty years.

                  *       *       *       *       *

As Susie’s fate had been so well provided for, and especially as Miss
Marston’s visit was drawing to its close, Dan again appeared on the
scene. In fact he could no longer keep away from this woman who had
captured him, body and soul. He thought of her all the time, and the
fear that she might not return his love, made his days and nights
wretched. It was a new experience for Dan. Grief did not sit gracefully
upon him at all. It was an enemy whose blows his “science” could not
parry, and it made him furious, without leading him to reflect that he
had caused a thousand-fold keener heart-aches to poor Susie (even apart
from the special wrong he had done her by deserting her at a time when
no man of sensibility ever shows that his heart is growing cold), for we
can never suffer from failing to win love, as from the loss of it when
it has become necessary, not only to our happiness, but even to the
rendering of life tolerable. In his selfishness, Dan thought no
suffering could equal his, and he determined to know his fate before
Miss Marston left Oakdale.

One evening, therefore, he dressed himself with extraordinary care, and
sallied forth in the direction of his father’s house. As he drew near,
he heard Miss Marston’s adorable voice in the parlor, and instead of
ringing at the front door, he went around to the veranda, and waited
until the song ceased. Even then he had not the courage to approach
her—she might come out, he thought, and be pleased by finding him there.
Meanwhile he drank in greedily the sweet half-melodies, half-harmonies,
evoked by her beautiful fingers, as they strayed over the key-board of
the piano without any special aim, for she was evidently alone and
“fancy free.” Pretty soon he recognized a kind of phantasy upon an old
Scotch ballad, and then her voice swelled out in the first two lines of
“Comin’ thro’ the Rye,” and then stopped. Again she commenced:

               “Amang the train there is a swain,
                 I dearly love mysel’;
               But what’s his name and where’s his hame,
                 I dinna choose to tell.”

This verse she sang entire. “Why this special verse?” asked Dan’s heart,
for it was in the state when clinging to straws is perfectly natural. At
this juncture he made bold to enter by the French window, which was
open, and stood beside her. She attempted to rise, but he prevented it,
begging her to keep on playing—he had something to say to her, which
could be fittest said to music.

“So it is coming,” thought Miss Marston. “How shall I stave it off?”

If Dan had only read her thoughts as easily as she read his, he would
not have made the headlong plunge into a declaration of love, as he did,
without a moment’s pause. Miss Marston quickly interrupted him.

“You do me honor, Mr. Forest,” she said, rising and looking him calmly
in the face; “but——”

Dan was half mad. He thought he detected contempt in the way she
pronounced the word “honor.” He thought some one had been “poisoning her
mind” against him—by the truth in his case—and scarcely knowing what he
was saying, he blurted out this fear—thus, by a stroke of poetic
justice, revealing what the prudent Mrs. Forest had taken such infinite
pains to conceal.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Marston, coldly. “I never dreamed that, young
as you are, you could be so old in iniquity. I should much like to be
able to respect you for the sake of your estimable family; but if this
is so, and I see the truth of it in your face, let me give you a word of
advice: I am some years older than you are, and I think I know human
nature well enough to assure you that you will never win the love of any
true woman while basely deserting another, whose happiness”—and she
added in a low, withering tone, as she turned to leave the room—“and
whose honor you have placed in your hands.” The door closed behind her,
and Dan, in speaking of his sensations years after, remarked that you
could have “knocked him down with a feather.”




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                       THE VISIT OF THE DELANOS.


 Dr. Delano winced a little at the scandals circulating in the village,
for he heard the name of his betrothed constantly coupled with that of
the “fallen” Susie Dykes. Once he expressed a kind of gentle
remonstrance that she should visit Susie so often, but she replied with
such frank confidence, as if he could not possibly look at the matter
except as one of the very highest and best of earth’s creatures, that he
felt little in his own eyes, and dropped the subject. Still, he was a
good deal disturbed when his father and the stately Miss Charlotte
Delano appeared on the scene, coming from the centre of the _élite_ of
Beacon Hill, in Boston. While in Oakdale they were the guests of the
Kendricks, old friends of the Delanos, and the richest people in the
county. He knew that the Kendrick girls had cut Clara’s acquaintance
from the beginning of these scandals. One of these, Louise Kendrick, had
been Clara’s most intimate friend since their girlhood, when they used
to play with the skeleton in the doctor’s garret. Clara herself was
really distressed over her friend’s disaffection, and Mrs. Forest
regarded it almost as a calamity, and tortured Clara about it in season
and out of season. “I’m sure you might have expected it,” she would say,
in an injured tone. “Girls, who have a proper regard for their
reputation, shrink instinctively from those who have not.” These
speeches roused Clara one day, and she flashed defiance in a very
shocking way. “I begin to hate the very word reputation,” she said. “I
wouldn’t have it at the cost of being mean and heartless, like Louise
Kendrick.” Mrs. Forest was amazed, and asked her daughter what Dr.
Delano would say if he could hear her utter such sentiments. The answer
was very unexpected, and silenced Mrs. Forest effectually. It came like
thunder from a clear sky:

“I don’t know what he would say. I only know it wouldn’t require any
extraordinary amount of temptation to make _him_ fall, reputation or
not.”

This speech sounded very ugly to Clara when once it was uttered, but she
was very angry, and it could not be recalled, though her heart, if not
her head, accused her of a certain injustice.

The Delanos were not over-pleased that the male representative of the
family name and wealth, should marry out of their “set;” but they were
too well bred to not do honor, at least outwardly, to any wife he saw
fit to choose, provided she was of irreproachable character. They had a
natural contempt for country village scandals, and they saw there was
nothing really improper in Miss Forest’s befriending the “unfortunate
young woman.” It only showed an ill-directed enthusiasm, excusable in a
young lady educated quite irregularly, as they understood she had been.
Mrs. Forest, however, trembled for fear that what Mr. Delano and his
daughter would hear at the Kendricks about Clara’s late course, would
make them think unfavorably of the marriage; but her soul was at rest
when the grave old gentleman, with his daughter, called formally, and
thus recognized Clara as the son’s choice. After this formal call they
graciously accepted an invitation to spend the evening at the doctor’s,
one inducement being that he was absent in the first instance, and they
had not seen him. Mrs. Forest was in her element receiving these elegant
people. She had made the evening reception the study of days. On the
occasion she looked very handsome in a pearl-gray silk with white lace,
and her gray hair, in three rolls on each side of her face, surmounted
by a pretty cap. Clara wore a pretty evening dress of white, with
sleeves of illusion, puffed with narrow green velvet. As a finishing
touch, Mrs. Forest fastened a string of pearls around her daughter’s
neck, saying, “These, you know, are to be your wedding present from me.
You look exceedingly well, my daughter, and I want you to talk very
little this evening, and especially to avoid any of your father’s
radical expressions. I don’t want them to think you are——”

“Strong-minded,” said Clara, finishing the sentence. “I know you were
not going to say that, but you meant it. O dear! How different you are
from papa. I wonder how you two ever came to marry. Now _he_ would say
to me, ‘Be yourself.’ _You_ never said such a thing to me in your life.
I am not namby-pamby, and I cannot speak with the affected voice of
Louise Kendrick, who is your ideal; and I must say I am glad of it.
However, mamma dear, I will try to please you, and if papa don’t inspire
me, I shall be inane enough to gratify your taste.”

Dr. Delano came early, and had a _tête-à-tête_ with Clara before his
people arrived. He had never seen her neck and arms before, and his
expressions of admiration at their exquisite moulding were perhaps
intemperate, after the manner of lovers, but altogether delightful to
Clara’s ear. He was proud of her, he said, and wanted his father and
sister to see her looking as she did then; and certainly they must have
been lacking in appreciation, if they could fail to admire a girl so
beautiful as Clara was made by her charming toilet, the grace that was
incarnate in every movement, and by every feature of her face, enhanced
and glorified by the power of Love’s spell.

The evening passed very pleasantly until the subject of the late civil
war was mentioned, and then Mrs. Forest fidgeted, expecting every moment
some horrid radicalism from the doctor, who would not think like other
people! Clara, too, she feared would “talk,” and, according to her
creed, not only children, but young ladies, should be seen, not heard.

“Under all possible aspects,” the doctor said, on this occasion, in
reply to some opinion of Mr. Delano, “under all possible aspects, war is
a stupendous imbecility.”

“Then, sir,” replied Mr. Delano, “you would not justify defensive war.”

Mr. Delano was a retired cotton speculator. He was rather slight in
build, with small, keen eyes, set deep and near together; a high, thin,
Roman nose, thin lips, teeth of the very best manufacture, his face
clean-shaven, and his dress faultless in its elegance.

“No, sir, I should not,” the doctor answered.

“Yet it seems to me that the principle of giving your cloak also, to the
rascal who takes your coat, works very ill in practice, at least in
these degenerate days.”

“Ah! that may be. I certainly never attempted to carry it into practice.
If we have a barbarian people for a neighbor, and they organize an army
to destroy us, we must, of course, defend ourselves. We should have the
_esprit de corps_ which would rouse men, women, and children even, to
help crush the invaders in a single day; but this would not be organized
war, as generally understood. Moreover, if we had barbarian enemies, it
would be the wiser policy to conquer them by making them our friends;
and that is by no means an impractical policy, as has been proved by
history. Between civilized nations, this method of settling
difficulties, is an insult to the dignity of civilization. In the first
place, it never settles anything, any more than the duel does.”

No one seemed ready to defend dueling; and seeing a pause, Clara said,
“I think the history of horrid wars might end with this generation, if
only women could be inspired with a normal disgust for all kinds of
murdering.”

Mrs. Forest thought that was not so bad, if only Clara would say nothing
more radical. She herself believed that women would be the most
effective instruments, under divine will, of ending human butchery.

Miss Delano regarded Clara as if astonished at opinions in a young lady.
The old gentleman was evidently struck, for he deigned to reply to her
directly.

“Yet the fair hands of your sex, Miss Forest, even to-day, are engaged
buckling on the armor of their male friends.”

“I am sorry, sir, that this is true.”

“Your daughter seems to have opinions”—said Miss Delano to Mrs. Forest,
with whom she had been keeping up a separate conversation—“not common to
young ladies of her age.” This was really intended as a compliment, but
was not taken as such at the time.

“I hope I am not unpatriotic,” said Clara, looking straight at Miss
Delano with a frank, sweet expression. “I love my country; but I love
other countries also, and I have been taught to look upon the human race
as one, and not simply to confine my sympathies to the place where I
happened to be born. It seems to me clearly a duty to cultivate this
feeling of unity.”

“These sentiments do you honor,” replied Mr. Delano, anxious to draw out
this girl, who was not like any he had ever met; “but it seems to me
singular that you should have arrived at such conclusions at your time
of life.”

“It ought not to be singular, I think. I have heard the doctrines of
peace and the brotherhood of man presented by my father ever since I can
remember. It is perfectly impossible for me to see anything in military
glory worthy of admiration. To me, any honest laboring man is more noble
than the military hero, and I consider the sword a badge of disgrace. If
I were a man, I should be so ashamed to be seen with such a thing at my
side! Think what it suggests!” said Clara, with disgust in every feature
of her beautiful face.

“It is true, father,” said the son, “that this spirit in women would
soon put an end to war. We should hardly fight, if we thereby made
ourselves despicable in the eyes of those we love.”

“But this spirit among women, my son, would make cowards of us all.”

“That, I think, is a great mistake,” said Dr. Forest. “It might in time
make us forget how to use the sword and the bayonet dexterously—a
‘consummation devoutly to be wished,’ in my opinion; but, good Heaven!
sir, is the courage and manliness of men to be measured by their skill
in killing each other, as the valor of the savage by the number of
scalps he can show? He can brave death, if that be the test, in nobler
ways than at the hands of some mad, misguided brother.”

“Yet, in all examination of such questions, we must not forget that
human passions remain the same. In all ages mankind has shown a decided
tendency towards conquest.”

“Certainly,” replied the doctor, “human passions remain the same: that
is, no new faculties are created, and none destroyed; but their relative
activity differs with degrees and stages of development. You and I have
the same faculties that in the Apache express themselves in pow-wow-ing
and scalping, yet we neither pow-wow nor scalp: we have outgrown that
kind of gratification for the passion, but we still express it in
fighting. The time will come when we shall have outgrown that kind of
expression as well. The desire to triumph over obstacles, to succeed, as
well as the passion for organizing great enterprises, will always find
ample avenues of expression and gratification.” The doctor paused,
fearing to monopolize the conversation.

“I should much like to hear your views as to the way those passions can
be gratified,” said Mr. Delano.

“In many ways,” replied the doctor. “Suppose, instead of going into the
South to subdue and kill our fellow-men, we had organized our vast army
for the purpose of draining and reclaiming the Dismal Swamp. That would
have been a noble work. Where now that miserable tract is exhaling
poisonous vapors, it might be to-day yielding fruits and grains to feed
the children starving in our cities.”

“Why, this is constructive radicalism!” said Mr. Delano. “But while our
army were reclaiming the Dismal Swamp, the Southern army would have been
marching into our Northern towns and laying them waste!”

“No; I think,” said Miss Delano, “they would have been astounded into
very good humor, and would have at once set about adjusting our quarrel
amicably.”

“It is difficult to say,” said the doctor, “how our Southern citizens
would have taken the invasion of a nonfighting army. The slavery system
is a fearful drag upon the growth of the higher faculties. If we had
gone down there to build them railroads and school-houses, they might
have considered it very patronizing on our part. Slavery made white men
despise labor; so they would not have felt like joining in, perhaps,
like good fellows, though they were ‘spoiling’ for action, and their
chivalry, as they called it, dreamed only of military glory, as the sole
gentlemanly expression of their bottled-up forces. If they had respected
labor, they would have met us right fraternally; but then, if they had
understood the dignity of labor, slavery would have never been, and
consequently our civil war would have been avoided; so our speculation
is useless.”

“It is very interesting, at all events,” said Dr. Delano. “I confess
that the idea of a grand army to drain the Dismal Swamp inspires me. I
would join such an expedition with enthusiasm.”

Miss Delano suggested that such an army need not become demoralized for
the want of woman’s influence, because they could take women along with
them; and Clara drew a glowing picture of camp-life under such
conditions, with music and fancy-dress balls to inspire the workers
after the day’s labor, which, with an army of fifty thousand or more
perfectly organized, need not become drudgery, for each division could
be constantly relieved after three or four hours, which would constitute
a day’s work. “And then when all was over,” Clara continued, “when all
the glory was gained, you would have, in place of murders on your
conscience, the satisfaction of having created only pleasure, and
benefited all coming generations.”

“It would be a very economical campaign,” said Mr. Delano. “Your war
debt would be reduced to zero; for as the work would require several
years, you could carry on at the same time all the agricultural and
manufacturing operations necessary to support your army.”

“But the greatest economy,” said Dr. Delano, “would be the economy of
men. Citizens being the most valuable part of the body politic.”

“That is the best part of it,” said Clara. “You would have no bones
bleaching on some terrible field of glory; no mothers and wives and
orphans mourning for their dead. I think that ‘glory’ is a gilded snare
that catches only fools. There can be no true glory in a work that
shames humanity.”

“For my part, I should like to see war ended forever,” said Miss
Charlotte; “but I think preaching a crusade against glory will not do
any good.”

“If preached by women, it certainly will,” said the doctor. “As soon as
the rank and file, without which there could be no army, and
consequently no war, come to realize the contemptible position they
occupy as puppets in the hands of an ambitious glory-seeking few, they
will say No; and when, by general culture, they come to respect labor
and human rights, they will say, ‘We will do no murder; we believe in
labor—in building up, not in tearing down.’ Depend upon it, the solution
is simpler than politicians and demagogues have ever dreamed, and
nearer, too, for the growing moral sense of the age points directly to a
time when international disputes will all be settled by arbitration; and
when, if two nations are about to grip each other’s throats, all the
other nations, as by instinct, will unite and separate them.”

“How could they do that without fighting also?” asked Mr. Delano.

“Why, by mere remonstrance. Is there any person insensible to public
opinion? A nation is only a body of individuals. It could not stand
against the moral convictions of the majority of nations. It would be
simply impossible. If one man is foolish enough to fight a wind-mill,
like Don Quixote, you cannot suppose any nation of men would be.”

“I admit that,” replied Mr. Delano; “yet I am not convinced that we
shall ever arrive at that reign of reason; and your constructive army
does not seem to me to meet all the wants supplied by the destructive
one. There must be far more excitement in the latter.”

“But we must not forget that, as man reaches a higher state of culture,
he shuns violent excitement of all kinds—it has no charm for him.
Natural attractions constantly demand better and finer food for their
gratifications. To deny this, is like saying that because man loves
conviviality and exhilaration, he must always continue to gratify them
by the rum-shop and a free-fight.”

At this point in the conversation Miss Marston, who had been out of town
on a visit, came in, and entertained the company by her exquisite
singing, and soon after Dinah brought in a tray of dainties, and a
decanter of California wine. While the company were sipping the wine,
she reappeared with fruit. Her black face always beamed with delight on
“massa’s company.” The doctor made some kindly remark to her, as he
always did, and poured her out a glass of wine. Mrs. Forest was
unspeakably shocked. On this special occasion why could he not behave
himself properly? Dinah took the glass with thanks, and said, raising it
to her sable lips, “I hopes massa’l lib forebber.” This was her toast;
and grinning upon the amused guests, she courtesied to them and left.
The doctor thoroughly enjoyed this shock to conventional propriety.
Clara was not disturbed in the least, for whatever her father did was
right in her eyes. Mrs. Forest made some excuse to Miss Delano for what
she called the doctor’s “eccentricity.”

“Your family is Southern, I believe,” said Mr. Delano.

“I am,” said Mrs. Forest, a little proudly, “but my husband is not.”

“No,” said the doctor, “I am of the good old New England, witch-burning
stock; though I lived South many years.” Mr. Delano asked him if he did
not find his sympathies in this war rather on the side of the South. “No
more than with the North,” he answered. “I deplore it for the injury it
must do to the whole country and to the world at large. The moral sense
of the civilized world has a natural right to forbid anything so
imbecile as an appeal to arms.”

“Do you suppose, sir,” asked Miss Delano, “if you had taken the vote of
all the people of this country on the question of war or secession, the
majority would have decided for secession?”

“Most certainly I do, if you mean the people, madame, and not simply the
fighting portion. Men would not vote for war if it involved the
destruction of their mothers and sisters, daughters, wives, and
sweethearts, and women are said to be more tender towards those they
love, than men are.”

“I must say,” said Mrs. Forest, “I do not think any nation has a right
to declare war without consulting women—those who must be the greatest
sufferers in the end.” This was very bold for Mrs. Forest, who seldom
expressed opinions on such questions. This was just after the
emancipation proclamation, and the doctor remarked that the abolition of
slavery was a grand result, but even that was purchased too dearly.

“I never identified myself with the abolition movement,” said Mr.
Delano, not mentioning the fact that, as a cotton-broker, his policy did
not lie in that direction; “but slavery is a relic of barbarism, and
therefore out of place in the nineteenth century. Still you are right,
perhaps, that war does really never settle vexed questions. I foresee
confusion worse confounded in our future political relations with the
South.”

Mr. Delano and his daughter stayed quite late, and evidently enjoyed
their visit, and were more pleased with the family of Albert’s future
wife than they had expected. When they were gone, Mrs. Forest inwardly
thanked God that the conversation had been providentially prevented from
drifting into religion or woman’s rights, and went to bed in a very
serene state of mind.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                             COSTLY GRAPES.


 When Dan left his father’s house after his rejection by Miss Marston,
he was really wretched for the first time in his life; yet the
experience did not soften him as fine natures are softened by unhappy
love. Between his set teeth he called her hard names, and cursed himself
for giving her the opportunity to reject his offer. He passed Susie
during this walk, who, being surprised, looked up into his face with the
old light in her eyes. He met her eyes as we meet a stranger’s, without
a sign of recognition; whereat the poor girl’s limbs trembled, and
putting down her veil after passing him, she walked on blinded by her
tears.

In his frame of mind, Dan looked upon all women as his enemies, and
especially Susie, but for whom he might have won the queenly Miss
Marston. But for the recentness of his rebuff, he would have spoken
kindly enough to Susie, for he was capable of pity, and he had
considerable affection in his nature, though it was of the bearish kind,
wholly divested of that sensitive, tender element which, when a woman
has once known it, makes valueless all other love of men. It is not
found in common men, however, who are mostly capable of violent
demonstration, without any of that high sentiment which seeks only to
learn the real desire of the loved one, and then studies to gratify it,
finding keen delight in that, and that alone. It is true, also, that few
women are capable of inspiring such a sentiment, and so the world knows
little of the highest phase of the passion of love. Susie had never
known any love but Dan’s, and though it had occurred to her that there
might be kisses, for example, not so much like the pounce of a hawk upon
a pigeon, as his were, still she had loved him with all her heart, and
it was terrible, even when she knew he had ceased to love her, to think
that he could pass her in the street without a sign of recognition. But
Susie had outlived that experience, and with the certainty that he was
lost to her forever, and with time and the accession of new thoughts and
cares, and especially with the interest Clara had succeeded in awakening
in regular daily study, her grief lessened. There were, first hours, and
then whole days, when there were no heart-aches on his account. Over the
thought of this she would invariably rejoice, as over a great triumph,
until some treacherous retrospection of happier days quickened the old
tenderness into life—renewed agonies that she thought were quieted
forever, and revealed her situation as dreadful beyond mortal endurance.

After Miss Marston left Oakdale, Dan went home once or twice, but it was
like a strange place to him. His father, to be sure, treated him much
the same, and never alluded to Susie by any accident. Mrs. Forest pitied
him more than ever, and Clara was at least polite to him on all
occasions. He could see and feel, however, that his conduct was
detestable in her eyes, and as for Leila and Linnie, he considered them
of slight importance. One day he discovered that Clara knew of his
offering himself to Miss Marston, and of the galling manner with which
he had been refused, and this made him furious. Miss Marston, then, had
despised him too much to keep his humiliation a secret, as any honorable
woman would do under ordinary circumstances.

Miss Marston would indeed have been the last person to reveal such a
thing, but the day before her departure, in a long talk with Clara, she
expressed the desire that Clara would make it certain to Susie that Dan
was nothing to her. “You know,” she said, “how a person in her abandoned
condition would naturally feel toward one she supposed the cause of her
being abandoned. Do convince her that there has never been the slightest
encouragement on my part—no intimacy whatever between me and your
brother, no thought of correspondence, or anything of the kind;” and
then she told Clara of the last meeting with Dan, and expressed
unqualified disapproval of him altogether; at the same time sending kind
messages to Susie, and a present of a microscope for her botanical
studies.

“There is one thing I have wished to ask you, Miss Marston,” said Clara,
“but I have never dared to. Will you tell me just your true impressions
of Albert?” Miss Marston did not reply satisfactorily, and Clara,
putting her arm around her rather timidly, for the teacher that
expressed itself in every word and manner, still continued to awe Clara,
as it had done in Stonybrook, urged a reply. She had often noticed Miss
Marston studying Albert. The two were very polite to each other, but it
was easy to see that there was little true sympathy between them. Thus
urged, Miss Marston answered: “I have studied him carefully, because he
has your happiness in his hands. I confess I fear greatly that you are
not just the kind of wife he should select.” Clara was grieved, not
understanding Miss Marston, and she said quickly, “I have often wondered
that he should think so highly of me.”

“No, no. It is not a question of your worthiness. You are worthy, I
think, of any one—certainly of Dr. Delano; but there is a
self-sufficiency, well concealed by his culture, that will some time be
very apt to run counter to your ideas of justice and devotion. I only
say I fear, understand. I may be wrong; but I would urge you to avoid
the first misunderstanding. It would be hard, I think, for him to
examine himself with merciless justice. You have that power, which I see
you inherit from your father, who is a wonderfully superior man.”

“Liberally translated,” said Clara, smiling, “you think Albert a tyrant.
You do not understand him fully, I think, but I am glad of your frank
opinion. I shall be careful to be good and just to him, and I think I
shall never have cause to admire him less than I do now;” and Clara went
on revealing, little by little, to Miss Marston a sentiment so near
adoration that it almost appalled her, and convinced her still further
that such an exalted passion could never find full response, nor be even
comprehended by Albert Delano; but she said no more. The next day she
left Oakdale. Her trunk had been sent to the station, which was but a
short distance, and she and Clara were to walk. They passed Mrs.
Buzzell’s cottage, and Miss Marston gratified Clara greatly by calling
on Susie, and being really kind and friendly to her, a proceeding that
quite astonished Mrs. Forest when she heard of it.

As the weeks passed Mrs. Buzzell bravely stemmed the current of popular
disapprobation at her act of “countenancing vice;” for the consciousness
of doing right was enhanced by the good qualities she was constantly
discovering in Susie. Mrs. Buzzell’s temper, never very sweet, had not
improved by years of loneliness, and when criticised by her female
friends, she gave them back “as good as they sent,” to use her own
words; and so it came to pass that the piously-disposed ladies of the
congregation to which Mrs. Buzzell belonged, and which had barely
escaped receiving Susie as a member, had not the opportunity to
patronize Susie, and to extend charity to her in that condescending way
too well known to many an unfortunate. The continuance of such patronage
depends upon the utter humility of the recipient. She must confess
herself a vile sinner, be willing to take thankfully the position of the
lowest scrub, and express in every act that her patronizers are above
her as the stars above the earth. Let the victim dare to show any
ambition to regain her self-respect, any dissatisfaction because the
daughters of her patronizers treat her with contempt, while they smile
graciously upon the author of her degradation, and the patronage ceases
at once.

“This is the way society protects itself,” said Mrs. Buzzell to Mrs.
Kendrick, the banker’s wife, one of the would-be patronizers; “but is
there not something wrong in the system that blasts and destroys the
woman, while it winks at the sin of the man? I have come to see that in
most cases, as in this, for example, her fault is much less than his.
Man is taught self-dependence from the cradle; woman to depend upon man;
and when she does so to the utmost limit, trusting every hope of
happiness in his honor, this is a common result. We have called the
doctor a radical, and graciously excused his eccentricities because he
is so good a physician and so kind a man; but face to face with such
facts, I see he is nearer right than we are.”

“Your judgment is misled by your sympathies, Mrs. Buzzell,” said the
banker’s lady. “Do you not see that if unmarried mothers and their
children are to be respected, there is no safety for legal wives and
legitimate children? If society comes to recognize the position of
mistress as respectable, to be a wife will be a very questionable
honor.”

“Well, I sometimes think it is,” said Mrs. Buzzell, turning over in her
mind this new and practical view of the case, and forgetting, in a kind
of dreamy retrospection, that a moment before she had intended to smite
Mrs. Kendrick “hip and thigh.”

“They think we lose our youth when we begin to fade a little,” said Mrs.
Kendrick, “when in fact we are then more sensitive than ever to the
better part of love; and having a baby makes a very baby of a woman in
this respect. Do what we will, though, we cannot keep the very element
in a man’s love without which we don’t care for his love at all; and
children hardly prove the consolation we expect, except, indeed, when
they are babies. When they grow older they go from us, they wound us,
and seem to spend half their lives fighting against our desires. After
all, it is better to keep our thoughts beyond this world. I find,
myself, very little pleasure in it.”

It was very seldom that Mrs. Kendrick gave any expression to the dark
under-current of her life. She passed for a very happy woman, and Mrs.
Forest considered her position every way enviable. Her husband was rich,
as all husbands should be in her opinion, as a duty they owe to society,
and he was never known to be eccentric in anything. Mrs. Forest would
have found him perfect. As a young man he had been enthusiastic, loved
art and poetry, and talked of high purposes in life. He had even written
very fair verses himself, and his wife, before marriage and some time
after, had adored him; but he had in time so changed the diet of his
soul, that whereas it once seemed wholly to feed upon grand aspirations,
and upon the beautiful in all things, it now gorged itself upon bonds
and stocks, and assimilated vast quantities of the nutriment. His
romantic wife became practical too, but she was bitter over the loss of
her illusions, and turned the whole current of her life into social
ambition. She had the finest establishment in the county, and she seemed
to study day and night to show her husband how dependent she was upon
society—how little upon him—for her sum of happiness. For years they had
ceased to wound each other’s vanity, as married people do after the
romance is outlived and the conjugal yoke begins to gall them. It was
not worth the trouble. Society held them up as shining examples of
conjugal felicity. They always spoke of each other before the world in a
tone of reserve, as if the nature of their mutual relations was too
sacred to be questioned or discussed. And yet, with all this outside
homage and interior luxury, with all her fine carriages and horses,
elegant toilettes, splendid gardens and green-houses, Mrs. Kendrick
really found life a burden, as thousands of women do in her position,
not knowing that their trouble is the want of a wider sphere of action.

Mr. Kendrick must have been enormously rich. It was the wonder of all
the country round that so much money could be squandered without the
least effect upon the supply. Wise heads declared that Kendrick’s farms
and grounds were badly managed, and it was well known that,
notwithstanding the extent and cost of keeping his gardens and
green-houses, flowers had to be ordered from professional florists on
every occasion of a grand reception. Kendrick himself tried to take
interest in his winter-gardens. In one there was a large black Hamburg
grape-vine, bearing one magnificent bunch of fruit. He had watched this
from day to day, but he knew nothing of the art of cultivation under
glass, and was made to feel himself a very second-rate object when in
the presence of the head-gardener, who was a pompous and important
functionary. During the last winter Mr. Kendrick, in paying the coal
bill, took the trouble to glance over it. The winter was not yet ended,
and there were seventy-five tons of coal consumed for the hot-houses! On
this occasion Mr. Kendrick ventured to go to the head-gardener and
suggest mildly his astonishment at the consumption of coal. The
functionary pointed reproachfully to that bunch of black Hamburgs, and
Mr. Kendrick was silent.

On the occasion of Mrs. Kendrick’s call, she asked Mrs. Buzzell, as she
rose to go, if she could do anything to help her in the responsibility
she had assumed. “I want your sympathy of course,” replied Mrs. Buzzell.
“It is not pleasant to feel that you are condemned for doing what you
know to be your duty.”

“I certainly do not condemn you,” said Mrs. Kendrick; “but I could never
do myself what you are doing; and I think you would see your duty in a
different light if you were the mother of a marriageable daughter.”

“What then are we to do, as Christians, in cases like this?”

“Oh, I suppose there ought to be a respectable institution for them,
where they could find protection and work to do, and some provision made
for the education of their children. I would give something towards the
establishment of such an institution; but I could not afford to defend
openly a girl like this, as you are doing.”

“But don’t you see, that the religion of Christ plainly teaches us to
forgive the erring, and so help them to a higher life.”

“My dear Mrs. Buzzell, the Christian religion, as interpreted to-day,
adapts itself to the exigencies of society. That religion, as taught by
Christ and his apostles, would be as much out of place in our present
social system as a monk would be in a modern ball-room.”

When Dr. Forest called, a day or two after, Mrs. Buzzell told him of
Mrs. Kendrick’s speech. “She is more of a philosopher than I thought,”
he said.

“But don’t you think that a very shocking way to look at religion,
doctor?”

“Ah! my dear friend; it should never shock us to hear a truth. The only
real Christians, according to the original type, to be found to-day, are
among certain orders of the Catholic church, who literally ‘take no heed
of the morrow,’ never have ‘scrip in their purse,’ or a second suit of
clothes. They literally crucify the flesh, and study to be just like
Christ. Mrs. Kendrick is perfectly right. You see, in helping and
befriending one like Susie, whom modern society despises and neglects,
you are a very old-fashioned kind of Christian, though not necessarily
of the primitive type.”

“Well, if I can only be a Christian in the _true_ sense, whatever that
may be, it is all I ask for myself,” said Mrs. Buzzell, earnestly.

“And by that you mean pure in all your thoughts, and upright in all your
dealings, and nothing else.”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, that is what I call true morality. You call it by a different
name. We don’t differ so much. For bigot and infidel, we stand very
comfortably near together, I should say,” said the doctor, smiling. Mrs.
Buzzell saw she had admitted too much by that “nothing else,” but she
did not feel like arguing, and so turned the subject.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                          HOW DAN GOT MARRIED.


 With October, came busy days for Clara. Her mother was in a fever from
the fear that the wedding _trousseau_ would not be ready by the middle
of November, when the wedding was to take place. The twins sewed very
cleverly when the fit was on; but the fits were very uncertain, and Dr.
Delano very imprudently, as Mrs. Forest thought, would call every
evening of his life; but then, men were always so very inconsiderate,
she said. Little bundles of linen exquisitely made up, kept constantly
coming home from some mysterious laboratory. Mrs. Forest was silent,
though she recognized at a glance the deft fingers of Susie; but Clara
said they were made by her good fairy. One day, to facilitate the sewing
operations, Mrs. Forest offered the twins money if they would do certain
work. It had not the least effect. Leila explained shrewdly:

“You know, mamma, you will tell us just how to spend the money—so it
would be just like having you buy things for us.”

“It would be nice,” said Linnie, “to have just a little money to
squander.”

“And what do you do, pray, with all the immense sums you have wheedled
out of your father?” asked the doctor, laughing.

“I hope you are not so spooney, papa”—(spooney was a pet word of
Leila’s)—“as to think we squander it. Why, mamma always directs just
what we shall do with our money. She admits it is our money, and we can
do as we like with it; but you see, papa,” continued Leila, with a sly
little wink at her mother’s expense, “we don’t ever like, you know!”

The doctor laughed, and said: “Now, then, we’ll change the venue. How
much will you sew for by the yard—measuring every inch fairly with your
tape measure—provided you can do just what you like with your money?”

“Will five cents be too much, mamma?” asked both the girls in a breath.

“Not if you pay your board out of it, I think,” said Mrs. Forest,
smiling sweetly.

“No, no,” said the doctor, “we owe you board, and comfortable clothing
and education, from the fact that you were not consulted in the
unimportant matter of being born or not born. I assure you, it is folly
to squander money; but that is one of the things you must learn by
experience. I make you both this offer: five cents for every yard well
done and measured by your mother; and no one shall question what you do
with your earnings; five cents for every yard well done, and for every
dollar earned I will add fifty cents, because this is not shop-work, but
what would come under the head of ‘fine sewing,’ I believe.”

The effect was astounding. Mrs. Forest, before a week ended, had
positively to scold both girls for their assiduity, and Clara’s sewing
went on like magic.

On one of the Sundays between these busy days, Dan came home. He looked
worn and sad, Clara thought, and this was enough to move her gentle
heart. She sang to him a new song, and when she found a moment alone
with him, began to probe him in regard to his sentiments for Susie. She
thought the best thing in the world that could happen, would be the
marriage of him and Susie, being in a condition of mind herself to
consider marriage a panacea and the divinest of all blessings. Dan
expressed a desire to “do the right thing.” Clara snapped at this like a
hungry little fish at a bait. “Why not marry her at once, then?” Dan’s
reply was not wholly satisfactory, but sufficient to induce her to keep
Dr. Delano waiting for her that evening a full half hour, while she was
away, no one knew where, but in fact closeted with Mrs. Buzzell. The
next Sunday, finding home a little more pleasant, Dan appeared again,
and Clara was not long in bringing about a private talk. She repeated
her question, “Why not marry Susie?” Dan had, in fact, been thinking of
Susie with less hard feelings for her crime of loving him too well, and
standing between him and Miss Marston, as he thought. But Susie was the
only woman who had ever loved him, and he was tempted to do the “right
thing” if only to have some one to adore him! Generous man! But then it
must be admitted that he was under a spell he had no power to shake off.
Miss Marston had inspired a stronger passion in him than any one else
ever had, or perhaps could. He could not appreciate the latent qualities
in Susie’s character, and if he could, love does not deal with
qualities, as such. It is mind that does this, and Dan was a creature of
feeling, impulse, rather than of reason. Susie had loved him too fondly,
and only with very superior natures does excess of fondness make the
subject dearer. The great charm in Miss Marston was the impassable
barrier of her total indifference to him; but he could not see the
cause. She was superior to him, and that he knew; so, indeed, was Susie,
and just as far out of his reach by the superiority of her nature,
though not by circumstances.

Dan said this time, in answer to his sister’s question, half in fun,
half in earnest, that Susie didn’t care much for him, and that he had
“had about enough snubbing lately from women.”

“Oh, how little you know of women!” was Clara’s response.

Dan defended himself, and a lively discussion ensued, in which Clara
illustrated her position by an allusion to his old habit of holding her
hands and laughing at her helpless rage. “If you had known the nature of
girls you would never have done such a thing,” she said, “for it made me
hate you, and to this day I cannot think of it without indignation,
though we should not remember wrongs done us by children.”

“You were pert and saucy,” said Dan, “and put on airs of superiority,
because you got your lessons and were petted by the teachers.”

“And you wished to show your superiority in something, I suppose. Well,
we will not think of disagreeable things. You are my only brother, and
are going to be just and kind to Susie, so we shall never quarrel any
more;” and Clara, putting down all hard feelings caused by Dan’s
betrayal and desertion of Susie, passed her hand affectionately through
his arm, and then submitted to being hugged, though she could not
forbear a little resentment at his roughness. “No woman of refinement
will ever love such a bear,” she said.

“Nonsense! women like to be handled roughly.”

“That shows how much you know about it—about refined women, at least. Do
you think Miss Marston—”

“D—n Miss Marston!”

“I am ashamed of you.”

“Of course: you always were. Your big snob, Delano, would not say
‘mill-dam,’ I suppose. You’ll get enough of him, or I’m greatly
mistaken. _He_ is one of the kind that understands women, no doubt.”

Clara was very angry, but for Susie’s sake and the object she had set
her heart upon, she controlled the expression of it. She had succeeded
in making Dan promise to call on Susie that very evening, and both she
and Mrs. Buzzell had urged Susie to marry Dan if he proposed it, and he
had already assented. Clara went over to Mrs. Buzzell’s with Dan, and,
leaving him in the parlor, sent Susie to him, kissing her, and saying,
“You know it is not wholly for your own sake, dear, or we would not have
urged it.”

As Susie entered, he rose and took her hand. She gave his the faintest
little pressure, and left him no time for preliminaries, but said at
once, “You know the one cause that has made me yield, against my better
judgment, to the desire of your sister and my good friend, Mrs. Buzzell.
Understand well, I do so on this condition, which I imagine,” she added,
a little bitterly, “you will have no objection to—that you never
recognize me as your wife in any way. I, on my part, shall never claim
any legal rights any more than if you were actually dead.”

“That seems to me all bosh. We are not to live together, and that is
enough. Of course, I marry you because I wish to save you from bearing
all the brunt of the battle.”

“The worst is over. All that I can suffer from disgrace I have already
suffered; but I have not lost my self-respect, low as I may be in your
esteem; and I shall not, thanks to the noble hearts that came to me when
I thought God had forsaken me as well as you.”

When Susie said, “low as I am in your esteem,” she had had a sudden hope
that it might reveal his unnatural conduct toward her in so terrible a
light that he would hate himself, and exhibit some sorrow for the misery
he had caused, if not a desire to atone by trying to call back to her
his wandering heart—love is so blind, so foolish, in its way of hoping
against hope! She had decided that the marriage should be only a legal
act, to make her child what society calls legitimate; but oh! it would
have been so sweet to her to be forced to change that decision through a
tender appeal from Dan—through anything that showed he held her love
precious, and would not lose it after all; but no such sign came. He
only said, in a way that wounded her deeply, “I don’t see the use of
harping on what is past, nor in getting married, if you are not to have
the advantage of being known as a wife.”

It cost Susie a terrible effort to not spurn him and his offer with
contempt, for her mood was rapidly passing from the negative to the
positive; but she was in a peculiar position. Clara and Mrs. Buzzell
expected her to take a certain course, and she could make any sacrifice
rather than disappoint them. She said, therefore, very calmly, “I have
said that it is not for myself that I assent to your marrying me; the
child might not live; and then I should regret that you were obliged to
be known as the husband of Susie Dykes. Unless it lives, this ceremony
will never be made known by my consent.”

“No danger of its not living. That is not the kind that has a weak hold
on life. Well, have it all your own way,” he added, cowardly letting
every responsibility fall upon her.

Susie was sick at heart, and longed to end the meeting. She had heard
enough. She rose, to signify the fact. Dan took his hat, and, as he did
so, said, “There’s no use crying over spilled milk. We will be friends,
at least. Kiss me, Susie.”

“Why should I kiss the lover of Miss Marston? I confess I had rather
not. But do not think me angry, or that I have any desire to reproach
you. I know you could not resist a powerful attraction like that, and
from my very soul, Dan, I wish I were dead and you her husband;” and
controlling her emotion, she smiled and gave him her hand cordially. He
was tempted greatly to draw her towards him and kiss her, whether she
desired it or not; but something in her face he had never seen there
before—something of firmness and womanly dignity that awed him—prevented
him, and, pressing her hand hurriedly, he left the house. When he was
gone, of course Susie gave way utterly to her sorrow. She had thought
lately, that in her reading and study, in her work and in present and
prospective cares, she had finally escaped most of her suffering; but
this evening had revealed more clinging to straws, more feeding the
hungry heart upon dry husks, to use the doctor’s words. The process of
robbing the heart of its illusions is long and tedious. Let us have
patience with Susie. There is something rare and fine in her nature that
begins to show itself through all her hard conditions; and despite the
low surroundings of her childhood, she has grown already above that,
like the sacred lotus above the mud; and as the mud nourishes and
develops the beautiful lily under the sunbeam, so the sad memories of
Susie’s early life, aided by the vivifying influence of the kindly human
sympathy she has won, will nourish and develop a grace and beauty of
soul that will fit her for the work she has to do.

Passively, Susie submitted to the judgment of Clara and Mrs. Buzzell,
and a day or two later the marriage was to take place, in a distant town
at the terminus of Dan’s railroad route, where he had “six hours off,”
he said, and that was “time enough to do considerable damage.” Clara was
to accompany her friend, and to see her safely home again. She arrived
at Mrs. Buzzell’s some time before the train left, but found Susie
ready, even to her hat and gloves, but looking, as she declared, a
picture of gloom. She was dressed entirely in black.

“Well, then,” said Susie, trying to smile, “my looks do not belie my
feelings. I feel a presentiment that something bad is going to happen.”

“I begin to think,” remarked Mrs. Buzzell, as she insisted upon Susie’s
swallowing a glass of her currant wine, “that we have done wrong to urge
the poor child to this step. I’m afraid no good will come of it.”

“Come! let us be off at once,” said Clara, gayly. “I don’t like this
aspect of indecision in Mrs. Buzzell. It means anything but business.”

Dan came occasionally and sat near them during the journey. He said he
had “seen the parson and arranged everything all right.” Susie kept her
veil down all the time. On arriving at the terminus, Dan sent them to
the ladies’ room in the station, having some matter of business to
attend to, and then joined them and conducted them in a carriage to a
hotel, though the distance was exceedingly short, and into a fine
private room, where an elegant dinner for three was already waiting.
Clara tried to be gay, and really could have been so but for Susie, who
trembled like a leaf and looked very pale. Clara removed Susie’s hat and
shawl, and said a thousand reassuring words. Susie tried hard to
respond. Clara saw with pain the effort, and pitied Susie more than
ever. Here the waiter appeared, his napkin over his arm, and asked if he
should serve the dinner. Clara whispered to Dan to put it off, if he
could, a few minutes, and for mercy’s sake to say something comforting
to Susie.

“You may wait ten minutes,” said Dan to the waiter; “but bring the wine
at once.”

“Gay wedding, sis. Don’t you think so?”

“Oh, don’t mind my feeling a little ill,” said Susie, with an effort. “I
feel a little better already.” Dan expressed himself as being “hungry as
a wolf,” and no doubt he was. He had, in the simple ignorance of his
nature, thought a nice dinner would please Clara and Susie, and felt a
little savage to have it put off; therefore, more perhaps from hunger
than anything else, he went and sat down by Susie, and took her hand in
his. Tears, tears forever! What could the poor child do but cry? Dan was
a little touched, and made a very praiseworthy attempt to soothe her.

“Oh, I wish I could cry them all out,” said Susie, wiping her eyes. “You
are so good, both of you, to have so much patience with me. There!” she
said, laughing dismally, “I believe there are no more.”

When the champagne came—of course Dan had provided that—he poured it out
copiously and dismissed the waiter. He insisted upon both Susie and
Clara drinking, and, fearing to displease him, they assented. No sooner
were their glasses half empty than he refilled them; and then the soup
was served. With the second course the waiter brought more champagne,
and when he left Clara exclaimed, good-naturedly, “Mercy! Dan, you are
not expecting us to drink any more?”

“Why not? It seems we need something to keep our courage screwed up to
the sticking point.”

“Oh, our courage is in no danger of failing, is it, Susie? Think of it!
In an hour or so you will be a lawful and wedded wife; and oh! you don’t
know how much more _I_ shall respect you! Only a nice little bit of
juggling, and honor will come out of dishonor, like Jack out of his
box.” After awhile Susie talked a little, though she could eat nothing
after the soup. Dan’s spirits rose mightily with the second bottle of
champagne, and he began to be even sentimental to Susie, who took the
liberty, after a while, to beg him to not drink any more champagne.

“What’s two bottles of champagne on your wedding-day?” he roared. “Did
you ever hear how they drink whisky in Texas? A friend of mine was
traveling out there last winter, and he stopped at a half-way house, and
found they had not a drop; but they told him the widow Smith, living a
mile further on, had a barrel the Saturday before. He would get plenty
there. So he rode on, and driving up to the door, sung out. A woman
poked her head out of the door and asked what he wanted. He told her he
wanted something to drink. She told him she had not a thing to drink in
the house. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘they told me back here that you had a barrel
of whisky last Saturday.’

“‘Well, so I did; but what’s one barrel of whisky with five little
children and the cow dry?’” Dan laughed vociferously at his story, and
his guests laughed also, but more to please him, for they were both a
little serious over his drinking. They kept him, however, from ordering
a third bottle; but in revenge he visited the bar-room on their way to
the carriage, which was waiting at the door. On the way to the
minister’s house Susie whispered to Clara, without Dan’s perceiving it,
“I should have heeded my presentiment, and stayed at home.”

At the minister’s house they were shown into the parlor, where they were
kept waiting some time, Susie growing more and more agitated every
moment; but Dan seemed to be quite sober, and behaved very well until
the minister came. He was a tall, fat, pompous man, with a face that
repelled Clara instinctively. He noticed Susie’s agitation, and asked
some questions that Dan took offence at, but he really only
remonstrated, Clara thought, in quite proper terms, under the
circumstances; but the functionary grew very red in the face, and said:
“Your conduct, sir, allow me to say, is exceedingly improper. Allow me
to say, sir, I doubt if you are a fit subject for this solemn service.”

“I know my own business, and don’t want any palavering. You do your own
business, and I’ll do mine, without your preaching.”

“My business, as you call it, is not at your service to-day,” he said,
rising. “I order you to leave the house. I have nothing to do with low
ruffians.”

“You shall have something to do with a gentleman though, once in your
life,” said Dan, approaching him threateningly. Clara and Susie were
already in the hall. Clara called Dan imperatively, and proceeded to the
door, supporting Susie, who was ready to faint. They heard the minister
say a very insulting thing in reply to Dan’s threat, and the next moment
a fall like a sack of wheat was easily interpreted. Dan had applied his
“science,” and the fat man was sprawling on the carpet. Before any of
the family appeared, the carriage drove off. Dan raved and swore, though
he was sober enough so far as the effects of his drinking went. To
Clara’s utter astonishment, Susie seemed perfectly recovered from all
her anxiety, and even smiled.

“We can get the four o’clock train,” said Clara, looking at her watch.
“We will not wait for yours, as we intended.” Dan savagely changed the
order to the coachman. At the station Clara would not speak nor look at
her brother, with whom she was infinitely disgusted; but Susie shook
hands with him, and said, “I was ashamed of you for being so violent,
Dan, but I am happier than I have been since I saw you last.”

“I think you are a fool,” he said, sullenly.

“May be I am, dear, but I am not your wife.” She said this without the
slightest anger, and smiled on him like a seraph, as she entered the car
which was just moving.

Thus ended Dan’s marriage.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                       THE BABY.—LOVERS’ ADIEUX.


 The effort Clara had made to do a great service for Susie, had failed
dismally, and her mortification was intense, and for the first time she
was a little disappointed with Susie, that she could be so serene, and
evidently glad even, that the movement had failed. Clara’s refinement of
nature and purpose was shocked beyond expression by the coarse conduct
of her brother, and not until the doctor came home, late in the evening,
and after she had had a long talk with him, did she begin to feel the
least return of comfort. “My dear,” he said, “depend upon it, you ought
not to feel so mortified. Why, the dignity and real elevation of
character that this has revealed in Susie is a compensation for almost
anything that could happen. Don’t you see how this shows, beyond a
shadow of doubt, that she is no common girl?”

“I’ve known that a long time, papa. She surprises me every day. I shall
not be able to help her much more in her botany; nor in anything,
indeed. It is well I am going away, to save my credit. The dear girl
thinks me so proficient, that it makes me ashamed of myself. Oh, papa! I
passed at Stonybrook for a very satisfactory student; but if I had had
this experience with Susie before going there, I should have done
better. Susie has taught me what application means.”

Clara had not gone into the house on returning with Susie, but left her
at Mrs. Buzzell’s door. Susie, on entering, threw her arms around Mrs.
Buzzell, and laughed and cried together, and it was some time before she
could tell the whole story to her friend. The good old lady was
horrified at Dan’s treatment of the parson, but she was quite content at
the result of the expedition.

“God, who numbers the very hairs of our heads, Susie, is directing all
things for the best. If you bear your yoke bravely, you will be raised
up for some good work in the world. I wonder now, how I could have
entered into the scheme so confidently; but it was Clara’s enthusiasm. I
felt all the time that we might be just whipping the Devil around the
stump, and so we were.”

“I could have interfered,” said Susie, “between Dan and the minister,
and my appeal would have been heard; but something stronger than my
motive to do so, controlled me. I felt ashamed to marry Dan. It seemed
to me so unholy a thing, when he does not love me, but is thinking all
the time of another and dearer woman.”

“That shame was a noble feeling, dear; and shows me what your nature
really is, better than I ever knew it.”

The next day Clara went over as usual to hear Susie’s lessons. She found
her alone, by the table in the sitting-room, tearing apart and analyzing
flowers with her new microscope. As Clara entered she rose, and as their
eyes met, the owlish gravity of Clara struck Susie comically, and this,
in conjunction with the memory of yesterday’s proceedings, made her
burst out into a low, musical laugh, which Clara’s gravity could not
resist.

“Well, you are a study, Susie. I came over here from habit simply. I had
no idea you would have any lessons, and here you have already been out
botanizing alone.”

“Why, Clara, I have not felt so well in weeks and weeks. A great weight
is lifted from my heart. Dan is gone out of my hopes forever, and
henceforth I shall stand alone so far as he is concerned. He is free—and
oh, it relieves me so to think of that!”

“Well, dear, I guess you are nearer right than any of us. I felt a
little hard at you, coming home yesterday, for the triumph that I
detected in your eyes every time I looked at them. You are a strange
little being, but I am reconciled after a long talk with papa. He
applauds you to the skies; but let us get through with our lessons, for
he will be here by-and-by. Of course, he will keep the secret, and I
think there is no danger from Dan,” she added, laughing.

After the lessons were finished, Susie, obeying a strong impulse, poured
out her grateful heart to Clara for all her care and kindness. During
the conversation, Clara said: “When I am a married woman I shall be so
much more independent. No tongue will dare wag against me because I am
your friend.”

“It pains me more than anything else,” said Susie, “to think that being
my friend must injure you.”

“It cannot. It cannot injure any one to do what is decent and right.
Knowing you, dear, and befriending you in your trouble, has shown me
more of the world than I could have learned otherwise in an age. To be
sure it has destroyed some illusions. I shall not have Louise Kendrick
for bride’s-maid, but I’ve found her out, and that is something. Why,
you ought to see the letters she sent me constantly during the four
years I was at Stonybrook. Such protestations of unalterable friendship!
You, Susie, though you are no spoiled pet of fortune, like her, have a
heart that is worth ten thousand of hers. She is a mere fair-weather
friend, though I did not suspect it; but you, I know, would never fail
me.”

“How I should hate myself if I thought that were possible; but it cannot
be. My only trouble is, that I may never be able to be of any real
service to you. Do you remember the fable we read of the lion and the
mouse? How the mouse gnawed the meshes of the net, ‘and left the noble
lion to go where he pleased?’ Remember this, you precious girl, if you
are ever in trouble: _real, deep affection is capable of creating a will
that may work wonders even with the poorest means_.” Clara was struck
with Susie’s enthusiasm of sentiment, which at times found expression in
the most eloquent way; and she remembered these words and the manner of
their utterance in after years.

Not many days before the time set for Clara’s wedding, Dr. Delano
received a telegram from home. His father was dangerously ill and sent
for his son; so the marriage could not take place till January.
Meanwhile, and during the very last days of the year, Susie’s baby was
born. Mrs. Buzzell virtually adopted it at once. This little helpless
one, so charming in all its movements, Susie thought, lifted the last
burden from her heart caused by Dan’s unworthiness. She felt strong
enough to brave anything for its sake, and before it was a week old her
mind was busy with schemes for making money, that she might give it all
the advantages of education and culture. She held its tiny,
tightly-clinging fingers in hers, looked into its uncertain colored
eyes, and marveled, as mothers are wont to marvel, over a mystery as old
as nature, and yet ever charming, ever new. The desire to have Dan see
the baby often recurred to Susie. She felt more kindly towards him since
she had definitely abandoned all hope of his ever loving her again, and
since a new and infinitely tender, infinitely absorbing love had been
born in her own heart. She could not wholly share Clara’s intense
disgust for Dan’s conduct when they had last met, though she by no means
approved of it. She spoke to Mrs. Buzzell of her desire that Dan should
see the baby, and Mrs. Buzzell admitted that the wish was natural; but
even while they were considering the propriety of writing a note to Dan
the doctor called, bringing the news that his son had started for
California the day before. In a letter to his mother he had said that he
should not “come back in a hurry.” Susie was very silent. He had not
cared, then, to wait until his child was born—not even cared really
whether she or it, or both, lived or died. The next moment there came a
new feeling, and this was shame that she had loved so coarse a being. To
be sure, she had expressed the same thing to Dan in returning his money;
but this was partly real and partly the effect of exaltation of mood.
This time, the feeling was the result of pure reason, and it was
permanent.

If letters are Love’s barometer, as Dr. Forest once expressed it, Clara
must have been well satisfied with the fervency and sincerity of her
lover’s devotion, for he wrote continually. The letters were delivered
at eight o’clock in the morning—the hour when the doctor’s family were
always at breakfast—and though the postman’s ring was a very common
occurrence during this family reunion, it had never been so constant
before. Leila and Linnie, on sitting down to the table, used to amuse
themselves speculating whether it would occur before the hominy was
served all around, or during the second cup of coffee. When the ring
came, and Dinah marched through the dining-room to open the door, it was
a perennial joke with Leila to pass the honey or the sugar-bowl to
Clara, and when she good-naturedly refused them, apologizing for their
deficiency in sweetness. As Clara could not be teazed in the least, so
long as nothing disrespectful was said of her idol, it was wonderful
that the sisters could find so much pleasure in an endless repetition of
a childish pleasantry. On one of these occasions, when Dinah brought in
the regulation letter to Clara, Leila said:

“Papa, do you know how Dr. Delano commences all his letters to Clara?”
Clara looked a little annoyed as she put her precious missive in her
pocket for future delectation. Could it be possible that her privacy had
been invaded by her saucy sisters?

“Why, yes,” the doctor answered, humoring Leila. “I think I could guess;
that is, if it were any of my business.”

“Well, guess then,” said Leila, nothing daunted by the implied rebuke;
but seeing he did not try, she declared boldly that they all commenced,
“Essence of Violet and Consummate Sweetness.” This time there was a
general laugh, and Leila was satisfied over the success of a joke that
had been concocted hours before. On another occasion when the letter
came, Leila expressed the pious hope that Mr. Delano’s case was in the
hands of some physician less distracted and harassed for time than Dr.
Delano must be. “I’m sure his literary labors must weigh heavily upon
him, though perhaps he employs a stenographic amanuensis.”

One day, when the letter was brought in as usual, Clara said, “Why, this
is not for me!”

“What!” exclaimed Leila, “you don’t mean to say it isn’t from
_consummate sweetness_, do you?”

“No; but this seems to be addressed to you.” And she handed the letter
across the table to Leila, preserving the utmost gravity. Leila’s eyes
shone with delight, but she concealed that part of her sensation, and
only gave vent to her surprise. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there
are two persons in the universe that can command a letter from Dr.
Delano?”

“Let us hear what he says, my daughter,” said Mrs. Forest, gravely.

“Yes, do read it, Leila. No doubt it commences ‘Essence of Violet.’”

“No; I don’t receive love-letters, Miss Linnie.”

“You receive only such, I trust, as are proper to be read in the bosom
of the family. Are you very sure of it?” asked the doctor, who, from a
glance at Clara, suspected some practical joke upon Leila. Thus
badgered, Leila reluctantly unfolded her letter. The first word, which
she did not read out, caused the most rosy blush imaginable. The laugh
was at Leila’s expense this time, and the next day Clara’s letter came
to the breakfast-table without comment.

Once, during his father’s illness, Dr. Delano passed a night at Oakdale.
It was just cold enough to render the wood fire in the grate, pleasant;
for though midwinter, the weather was unusually mild, and the lovers
lingered in the parlor long after the family had retired. Every moment
was a delight to Clara, and everything the doctor could say possessed a
vital interest. He was pleased to commend the old parlor; no room in the
world, he said, had so great a charm for him. It was indeed a pleasant
old room, permeated and invested by a spirit of comfort and ease that
even the new carpet and heavy curtains, lately added by Mrs. Forest,
could not destroy. The tall, old-fashioned clock stood diagonally across
one of the corners, placidly marking the time and showing the phases of
the moon as it had done at least ever since Clara could remember. During
the evening’s conversation, Miss Ella Wills was mentioned, and, at
Clara’s request, Dr. Delano gave a minute description of all her
“points,” as he humorously called them.

“Why, she must be very beautiful!” exclaimed Clara.

“Not beautiful,” he said, “but very pretty. Clara alone, is really
beautiful. She is less than ‘moonlight unto sunlight,’ compared to you,
dearest.” And he spoke sincerely, though Ella had revived a little of
her old charm for him, and not without design on her part, for flirting
was her element; she had reduced it to a science; and then she saw in
Albert a very different object from the one she had once made her
victim. She had been at Newport on the occasion of his return from
Europe, and having a rich lion in tow—even the distinguished and very
elegant Count Frauenstein—she did not go home with the rest of the
family to meet him, it being the first of the season. She contented
herself by sending him kind messages, and soon after he established
himself for preliminary practice, in Oakdale, a town where the family
name had prestige and influence.

The affair with the count at Newport had not terminated to the
satisfaction of Miss Mills, he having soon transferred his attentions to
a New York belle, not rich, compared to Ella, and a “perfect fright,” in
the judgment of her rival. But even the new attraction was but a very
temporary affair. Ella was approaching the dreaded state which even
friends may designate as that of old maid, and she had just begun to
make up her mind to marry Albert when she heard of his engagement. This
was unexpected, but she said to herself, “Engagement is one thing, and
marriage another.” When he came home at the summons of his father, he
was so greatly changed, so infinitely improved, that flirting with him
had all the charm of novelty, beside the greater charm involved in the
fact of his indifference to the battery of wiles that had once been so
potent. She looked very young still. Her mind was youthful enough in its
character, and she had preserved all the innocent, kittenish ways that
are so irresistible to a certain class of men.

While Albert talked of his old flame, on the evening in question, Clara
listened intently, looking all the time straight into his eyes. At
length he asked her why she studied his eyes so earnestly.

“Do you not like me to study them?”

“What a question! But I wish to know what you are thinking. You told me
once you were afraid of my eyes.”

“That is what I am thinking to-night, Albert. They are surely the
brightest eyes in the world, as you know they are the dearest to me. I
can find no fault with them; and yet I have an indefinable fear
sometimes, when I look into them, as if they could be cold and cruel. I
reproach myself, but I tell you every thought. Ought I to tell you
this?”

“Yes, for I would hear all the voices of the sea, darling mine; but this
voice is a delusion. Albert can never be cold to you. You are his very
soul. He could die for you, and count it no sacrifice; and he only cares
for life that he may make yours beautiful.”

“Forgive me, beautiful eyes!” Clara said, tenderly caressing their lids.
“Can _you_ forgive me, Albert?”

“There is no such thing as forgiveness between lovers, for they can do
each other no wrong.”

“I dare not think how perfect my happiness is,” said Clara, fervently,
“and yet I can think of nothing else. I am constantly studying love. It
seems to me that all married people lose their illusions. Papa and mamma
were once romantic lovers. I have lately found a number of his old
letters. I could not resist reading some of them. They are the most
fervent and tender letters I ever read in my life—except yours,
dearest—and yet they are flung away

                  ‘amid the old lumber of the garret,’

like the oaken chest where Ginevra found a grave. It is strange! After
all that divine passion, they could be separated for weeks and months
without any suffering for the need of each other!”

“That change will never come to us, precious one. Love shall be tenderly
nursed; it will not flourish under coldness or inconstancy. It is too
tender a plant; only the ruder, coarser vegetation can outlive the cold
atmosphere of the frigid zones. With our love, precious one, there shall
be no winter. Can you not trust me?”

“Trust you? With all my heart, with all my soul I trust you. You know
everything about love and the mysteries of life; but one thing I want to
say. I want you to know all about me, dear one. I care nothing about
love except as we know it and feel it to-night. If Fate ever cheats us
of this, let us not live together and play that the dream still remains.
It would be a mockery that would kill me. I am strangely moved to-night.
With all my happiness, the thought _will_ come that you will change—that
I shall not have the power to keep the freshness of your love.”

“I defy augury, precious one. You are not quite well to-night. I am sure
of this, or I should be pained. If I change, it will not be your fault.
You are perfect. No one could love with so much infinite tenderness as
my darling. If I ever love you less, it will be because I have grown
unworthy of you, which the gods forbid. In a week—one short week—and you
will be mine, not more surely than you are now, but openly in the eyes
of the world.”

Dr. Delano was to leave in the early train, and it was decided to bid
good-bye in the old parlor, where the fire was burning low, for they had
sat late, forgetting how cold the room had become. Albert wrapped her
tenderly in her shawl, and the parting ceremonies commenced. It is a
very long process, as lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type are well
aware. They separated a few steps and said good-night, and then rushed
together for “one more kiss,” which was only the prelude to one more,
and that not the last. To the cold-blooded writers of romance, such a
parting calls up the vision of the two polite Chinamen, host and guest,
who could not allow themselves to out-do each other in etiquette. At the
garden gates of the host, they advanced and saluted, and retreated and
advanced again, until night came on, when their friends interfered and
dragged them apart!




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            CLARA’S WEDDING.


 Mrs. Forest was in her element preparing for the “show,” as the doctor
called the marriage ceremonies; but Albert won her heart by agreeing
with her in everything, orange-blossoms, church, and all. Discussing the
matter over for the twentieth time, she reproached her husband for his
imbuing Clara with his odd notions, and contrasted them with the love of
proper and conventional proceedings, which characterized the future
son-in-law.

“I wonder at him,” said the doctor, with some impatience. “He is the
only sensible man I ever knew who liked that sort of vulgar show. Men
generally submit because it pleases women; but to my eyes a young woman
conventionally gotten up as a bride, simply suggests a victim tricked
out for sacrifice.”

“How dreadful you are, doctor! You have such monstrous ideas; but I did
hope Clara would be sensible.”

“Oh, I’m going to be sensible, mamma dear. Albert is satisfied, and I
shall offer no further resistance. I submit even to the orange-blossoms,
though I can’t bear their oppressing odor. Papa has had his way about
the Unitarian minister, who has no church here, and so I shall escape
that part of the show, as papa calls it. There’ll be no kissing the
bride either, for that is a vulgar custom, no longer tolerated among
refined people. I wonder where the custom came from?”

“It is not easy to say where any custom originated. This one can be
traced back to feudal times, when the lord of the manor had the
first-fruits of everything, and took the brides home to himself for a
time, and the bridegroom was forced to submit.”

“Of course, they did not consult the bride at all,” said Clara.

“No,” replied the doctor. “That slaves have no rights which their
masters are bound to respect, is a logical deduction from the doctrine
that slavery is right. Women are beginning to see that they are slaves
in one sense. They are not permitted, legally or morally, to dispose of
their affections according to their tastes. When a man assassinates one
whom his wife regards too favorably to please him, he is generally
acquitted by the courts. Common sense would show that the wife had
sufficient interest in the matter to be consulted; but _honor_ does not
admit her rights.”

“That is perfectly right,” said Mrs. Forest. “If a married woman so far
forgets the duty she owes to society as to fall in love with any one,
she deserves no voice in anything.”

“That is simply the spirit of the inquisition, Fannie, and nothing else.
I have always admitted the importance of facts, in my reasoning. Now,
some of the best women in the world, and I believe the majority of all
that ever lived, have been attracted, in a greater or less degree, by
other men than their husbands. What will you do with the facts?”

“If any sensible woman is so unfortunate,” said Mrs. Forest, “she never
acknowledges it—never admits it, even to herself, that she loves in any
improper way. She can do this at least.”

“There you go again, Fannie! measuring the world with your six-inch
rule. If the world don’t square with your measurements, so much the
worse for the world. Women and men do not create themselves, nor the
motives that govern them. A motive does not determine human action
because it is weak, or ought to be weak, according to your measuring; it
controls from the mathematical law that the strongest _must_ prevail.
Suppose the attracting power to be two and the resisting force one; you
can tell beforehand what the result will be; therefore the folly of
blaming in such a case.”

“I might pity a woman who listens to the promptings of an illegal
affection, but I certainly should never admire her. How could I admire
one so weak as not to know that by the very fact of listening to
improper declarations of love, she always wins contempt, even from the
man himself.”

“Not always—not by any means always. If I should love a married woman,
and she should listen to my telling her of it, I should by no means
despise her. I should despise her if she insulted me by supposing I
wished her to do anything base or unwomanly.”

“Oh, you! You are an anomaly. You know I always count you out, when
speaking of general principles. The Lord only knows how far a woman
might go without being ‘unwomanly’ in your eyes.”

“Ah!” responded the doctor, with a peculiar accent, which was his way of
declaring that there was no more to be said upon the subject.

On the day preceding the important event, Leila and Linnie were running
here and there in a state of great excitement. They were for once
thoroughly interested in everything, and especially in their own
toilettes, if not in the bride’s, for they were to be two of the four
bride’s-maids. Mrs. Forest had determined that everything relating to
this event should be “respectable,” and she always pronounced the word
with severe certainty of what it meant. To be sure, to some persons the
term is vague and even unpleasant; but these were all ill-regulated
minds, according to Mrs. Forest, and she pitied them. After breakfast,
Clara made a long visit to Susie, cheered her by earnest protestations
of continued friendship, and by promises to write often. The pretty baby
was duly petted and caressed, and invited to “kiss auntie”—words of
recognition always infinitely sweet to Susie’s ear. The kissing
consisted in the baby’s smobbing its uneasy little wet mouth over
Clara’s face; not a very satisfactory operation, one would think; but
all the tender grace of the woman that had been developed by Clara’s
brave friendship for poor Susie, and by the deep love she cherished for
Albert, shone through the halo of happiness surrounding the brow of the
morrow’s bride.

The wedding-day dawned auspiciously, and the sun shone bright and warm,
though it was the middle of January. A full hour before the ceremony,
the twins had the bride dressed and paraded duly before the mirrors, to
see that her drapery fell with the proper grace, and that nothing was
wanting. Mrs. Kendrick had sent quantities of flowers for the decoration
of the parlor, and was herself to be present. Louise, finding that the
affair was going to be so “nice,” cried with vexation that she had
behaved so meanly to Clara.

Mrs. Forest came in just as the bride was dressed.

“Does she not look sweet, mamma,” asked Linnie.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Forest, hesitatingly; “but you are too flushed, my
daughter. Let me see if your corset is not too tight. No? Well, Linnie,
get her some lemonade—that is cooling.”

“Oh don’t, mamma! you distract me!” exclaimed Clara, scowling under her
orange-blossoms. “I do wish no one could look at me for the next ten
years. I feel so like a theatre-queen—so utterly ridiculous.”

Mrs. Forest was distressed. The twins uttered exclamations. “Why, she
has not said such a word before!” said Linnie.

“No; I meant to be very good, and what mamma calls sensible, but I am so
horridly nervous.”

“You are such an incomprehensible child,” remarked Mrs. Forest,
severely. “You are veritably _sauvage_, as the French say. This, the
supreme hour to all well-regulated young ladies, you seem to regard as a
misfortune.”

“Well, I do. I suppose I am not a well-regulated young lady, for I hate
the hot-house odor of these flowers. I hate myself, that I have
submitted to make a spectacle of myself. This is the supreme hour for
girls, is it? Well, I wonder that they have no more refinement.”

“What on earth do you set out to marry Dr. Delano for, I should like to
know,” said Leila, concealing her crossness with difficulty.

“Because I love him, you goosey! but it don’t follow, therefore, that I
like to make a guy of myself.”

“A guy! oh! oh!” exclaimed the much-tried sisters. “You never began to
look anything like half so sweet before.” Mrs. Forest stood in mute
bewilderment, and Clara began to relent.

“There,” she said. “It’s all over. I am sensible now, mamma—a perfect
stoic. There’s papa coming!” and opening the door herself, she threw
herself into his arms, and sobbed a little, though laughing at the same
time. “Oh, I can’t enjoy crying one bit, papa. I’m thinking all the time
of my orange-blossoms. Look, papa, and see if you haven’t crushed one of
the things.”

“Well, I _never_ saw anybody behave so!” exclaimed Leila, in disgust.
“If I ever get married——”

“Your conduct will be perfectly exemplary,” interrupted the doctor, and
then giving all his attention to Clara, he said, tenderly: “My poor
darling! They would have it so. They don’t understand papa’s girl. Her
poetry is inside, and this paraphernalia don’t fitly express it.”

“Now, doctor, you should not encourage Clara’s strange notions. There’s
a carriage. I must go. Do calm the child. She is not fit to be seen.”

“That’s just true, mamma. It’s exactly what I feel.”

“All this nonsense, besides being in bad taste, is against common
sense,” the doctor said, not noticing his wife’s flurry. “Marriage
festivals should take place after marriage, if at all, when the union
has proved a success, and there is something to rejoice over. _This_ is
like celebrating the purchase of a lottery-ticket.” Mrs. Forest left in
despair. The twins bore the “coddling,” as they called the father’s
tender manifestations to his favorite child, as long as they could, and
then they begged him to go, as they had “only a half hour to dress”; by
which they meant but a very small part of the operation, being bathed,
and coiffed, and dressed already, except for the robes and veils.

“Well, go on with your dressing,” the doctor said, provokingly. “_I_
don’t mind girls’ dressing, or undressing, for that matter. On the
whole, I rather like this flummery, and I think I won’t go without a
consideration.”

“I’ll give you two kisses, papa, if you’ll go this minute.”

“Oh, fie! You were always too mercenary with your favors, Leila. I’ll
take the kisses, though; but not for going.”

The doctor on leaving, went to his wife’s room, where she was fuming
because of his want of sense on such an occasion. “There is not ten
minutes,” she said, “and you have not done one thing toward dressing.”

“Bless my soul! I never once thought of it,” he answered. “Why, I’m to
put on that new claw-hammer. If I should fail to wear that, the earth’s
inclination to the ecliptic would be disturbed.”

“Do, for mercy’s sake, go, if you have any regard for me.” Thus appealed
to, the doctor sought his room. Once there, he surveyed the scene. Every
article was carefully laid out in the most perfect order. He had only
thought of the new claw-hammer, and here was evidently the preconceived
design for a perfect change of every rag. Every article was placed where
it should naturally come in the order of dressing. New toilet articles,
scented soaps, hot water—everything silently commanding him to fall into
line. First there escaped from the good doctor a smothered laugh; then a
protest, and then—submission to the letter. He set about the work of
rejuvenation with a perfect fury of dispatch, and when he found he
should be ready in time, the spirit of fun seized him. He kept opening
his door and bawling to his wife his distress at a thousand imaginary
oversights and delinquencies. Once he declared she had forgotten his
“pouncet box,” then his “hoops,” his “chignon,” his “chemisette,” his
“gored waistcoat,” and lastly, in an agony, he called for tweezers,
pretending he had discovered one hair too many in his “back hair.” But
finally he emerged radiant, and sought Clara at once. “Behold me, my
daughter!” he said in a tragic voice, applying a delicate, scented
pocket handkerchief to his lips. “Are you resigned to your fate now?”

“Why, we thought you were crazy, papa,” said Clara; “but how quickly you
have performed all this change. I must say you are looking magnificent.
You are one of the very few men I ever saw, who look well in a
dresscoat.”

“Well, I came to you for sympathy. Is this my reward?”

“I can’t pity you in the least, papa; you are too sweet.”

“Yes, I am,” he said, sniffing the perfume of his fine handkerchief.
“Here, take this, Linnie. I must go and see if I can’t find a
handkerchief that will not make me smell so much like a lady’s maid.”

Leila and Linnie both laughed. “You’ll have to smell sweet to-day,
papa,” they said, “for mamma has kept all your clothes in a drawer with
a perfume sachet, these two weeks!” He left the room to a perfect chorus
of laughter, and a few minutes later might have been seen in his study,
diligently puffing at his pipe, first for his own comfort, and then to
do what he could, at that late hour, to render negative the effect of
Mrs. Forest’s sachets.

Notwithstanding all the perturbation of Mrs. Forest, the whole “show”
went off in the most perfect order, and without the slightest
“impropriety” of any kind. Clara was not flushed, like a hoydenish
country bride, but looked very pale and “interesting;” while the
bridegroom, in every word and motion, was perfection itself in her eyes,
no less than in Clara’s, though judged from a very different standpoint.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                  THE NUCLEUS OF THE FLOWER BUSINESS.


 It is early in Summer. Mrs. Buzzell and Susie, now her trusted and
much-loved friend, are sitting on the little vine-shaded porch of her
cottage—not really a cottage, for it is at least an ordinary-sized
country house, strong and well built; but she herself always so
designates it. The baby, Minnie, is creeping over the porch floor,
crowing with infantine glee, and now and then climbing up by the knees
of Mrs. Buzzell, or by the railing which has been constructed to keep
her within bounds. The lower leaves and buds of the roses and
morning-glories, have suffered at her little hands, but she has learned
by this time that they are not good to eat, and so pulls them off and
scatters them in pure wantonness. The two women have been discussing a
letter just received from Clara.

For a time Clara’s letters were constantly arriving, not only to Susie,
to Dr. Forest, to her mother, but alternately to the twins. These
letters breathed the happiness that surrounded Clara like an atmosphere,
and was rather implied than directly expressed, except to Susie. Mrs.
Forest rejoiced that her eldest daughter was well established, and
secretly she was greatly relieved to have Clara’s fate off her mind.
There was no knowing, in her opinion, what Clara would have come to,
with her inherited tendency to freedom, so unlike other girls, if she
had not fortunately married young. Why, she might have become a
frequenter of conventions, an agitator of woman’s rights—that was indeed
what Mrs. Forest feared most—but, thanks to Providence, she had made an
excellent match, and the mother’s soul was at rest, or free to plan and
scheme for the respectable establishment of her two remaining daughters.

On this summer day, in the little shaded porch, Susie had read to her
friend, some portions of Clara’s last letter. Mrs. Buzzell sighed, and
said, “It is too exalted for this commonplace world. It will not last.”

“Oh, do not say that!” exclaimed Susie.

“I know it sounds like croaking, Susie, but you will see I am right. It
is always so. Clara worships that man, and we should worship nothing but
the Creator. When we do, we lose it. When mothers make idols of their
children, as her mother did of Dan, they die, or turn out like him. I am
glad you do not love yours unreasonably. It is auntie who is in danger
here,” said the good old lady, taking up the child and caressing it
fondly.

“I cannot believe it a crime to love—even to love inordinately, as Clara
does,” said Susie. “Her nature is peculiarly fervent. She told me once
that the look, the touch of Albert’s hand, made her tremulous with
emotion. If he should fail her, she would suffer more than most of us
could, I think.”

“Of course he will fail her,” said Mrs. Buzzell, with unusual feeling.
“Men never meet the demands of a nature like that. They think it
adorable at first, and then they grow indifferent. It is much better to
love in a calm way, and, like Mrs. Kendrick, to show their husbands that
heaven is not wholly confined to their smiles, nor hell to their
frowns.”

Susie was astonished at the fervency displayed by Mrs. Buzzell. “Could
this faded, gray old lady, have had her romance also?” Susie’s
reflections were interrupted by the doctor’s gig, which came almost
noiselessly around the corner, over the smooth, sandy road. He sprang
upon the porch with the supple nerve of a boy, and astonished Mrs.
Buzzell by kissing her right in the face of the village. “You two women
are as grave as owls,” he said. “What have you been talking about? Out
with it, Susie!”

“We were talking of love,” Susie answered, not intending to be specially
definite.

“Do ever two women talk of anything else, I wonder? Abusing us dogs of
men, I suppose. Can’t you furnish me with a cup of water and a little
piece of soap?” he asked, addressing Mrs. Buzzell. “I want to amuse the
baby.”

“We were regretting,” continued Susie, “that we are not able to love
sensibly and moderately. When we love with all our hearts, are we ever
fully met?—after the first, I mean.”

“With that first, you are satisfied, then,” said the doctor, taking a
piece of India-rubber tubing from his pocket, and blowing his first
bubble. For a time, all the attention was concentrated on the doctor’s
bubbles, some of which, by certain movements of his hands, he managed to
keep in the air a long time, while the baby crowed with mad delight. For
days after, the little thing amused everybody by her attempts to blow
bubbles with every stick or pencil she could get, and even labored very
hard to accomplish the feat with her teaspoon. When the doctor grew
tired of blowing, he resumed the conversation; but Minnie was
insatiable: no sooner was one bubble burst, than she cried for another,
but was finally pacified by having the tube and cup all to herself.
After sucking some of the soapy water into her mouth, and making a very
wry face, she succeeded in blowing some little ones on the top of the
water, and got very angry after the twentieth attempt to pick them out
with her fingers. Susie was scarcely less excited than the baby, over
the exquisite beauty of the soap-bubbles, and listened eagerly to the
doctor’s explanation of their colors and construction.

Seeing Susie so interested, he said, “It is a pity your studying was
interrupted. You have the spirit of the scientific investigator. I
wonder if I can’t manage to take Clara’s place?” he said, after a pause.

“Oh, your time is too precious, doctor,” said Susie.

“I couldn’t be regular, but I tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll have some
recitation ready whenever I come, I’ll give you a few minutes.” That was
enough for Susie, and from that time the doctor became her tutor, taking
up, first, chemistry and natural philosophy, and then other branches.
But this is wandering from the subject of conversation interrupted by
the blowing of bubbles.

“The truth is,” said the doctor, “women, in their love, do not fully
meet men. According to my experience, few women ever comprehend the
ardor with which men are capable of loving them. Now, the question is,
is it when they do, or do not, so respond perfectly, that women meet the
fate of Semele?”

“The fate of Semele?” queried Mrs. Buzzell.

“Yes; she loved Jove, and was utterly consumed for her daring.”

“I remember now,” said Mrs. Buzzell, smiling. “Why, her fate was not so
bad, for her suffering was but momentary. Her lover was a god. That must
be quite an advantage; and then he loved perfectly, and she also, I
suppose.” Mrs. Buzzell was in a complaisant mood, or she would not have
treated any heathen mythology so considerately. “I never thought of it
before in that light,” replied the doctor. “She must have been the only
woman whom any lover ever satisfied. Your sex is very exacting. You
expect men to keep up to concert-pitch all the time; but, you see, we
have to go out into the world and purvey for bread-and-butter. _Sine
Cerere et Baccho friget Venus_, you know.”

“_Sine Cerere_,” repeated Susie, laboring with the Latin, of which she
knew a little.

“‘Without corn and wine love freezes’ will do,” said the doctor.

“True,” said Mrs. Buzzell; “but it is just where corn and wine are
abundant, that you feed us on dry husks—not to mention that you seek
pastures new, for yourselves.”

“I see I must defend my sex,” said the doctor, with mock gravity. “Now
we do not feed you on dry husks, but we assume to know what is best for
you. Are we not your heaven-appointed keepers? You would live forever on
ambrosia, and that is not good for the constitution as a regular diet;
besides the supply is limited, I am sorry to say. The truth is, dear
ladies—I am serious now—you women have not yet found the secret of your
power. What we call the material forces, in the beginning rule the
world. Man gains his freedom first, then women, then children. Women are
not free yet. They should be independent, should travel, mix with the
world, conduct enterprises, and never be forced to marry from any
pecuniary motives. That is the way the ‘statelier Eden’ is coming back
to man. Man cannot be happy, and morally strong, until women have worked
out their social salvation. No one should stake everything on the throw
of a die. Women do that, and are taught that it is wise. They keep their
interests narrowed to a point, and what with petty household cares and
‘tying baby sashes,’ as Mrs. Browning says, they cease to grow, except
in one direction. They live as though they had but one organ, and that
the heart; figuratively speaking, I mean,” added the anatomist. “This is
their fate when they are sensitive and emotional. When they are colder
in temperament, they gangrene with social ambition; spend their lives in
scheming to out-do their neighbors in fashion and display. This would
not be possible if they had other resources, but they have not; because
at the start, they have no education to speak of, and few are interested
in any literature but that of novels and romances, which they waste time
over without much discrimination. Good Lord! what an amount of trash
they wade through! But then, very few people have the culture implied in
the art of getting the nuts out of a book without swallowing husk and
all. It is one of the last things learned by the student, and women are
rarely students.”

“So, in the end,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “man, mixing with the world and
interesting his mind with politics and science, finds his intellectual
needs supplied outside of home. Well, he has _other_ needs.”

“Yes, certainly. Home is the nucleus of all his affections; and because
it is the nucleus or centre, it should include the possibilities of
answering to the greater part of his needs. The woman who responds most
fully to a man’s various attractions, will keep his love fresh the
longest; but when she can respond to little else except his desire to be
petted and caressed, she is in danger of responding too fully to that,
and so clogs his appetite with her very sweetness.”

“Women learn this,” said Susie, “and that is why so many become
heartless flirts. Who can wonder?”

“That is true of some very lovely women; but not of the finest, Susie.
It would not be possible to you, nor to Clara.”

To be compared in any way to the superb Clara, was a compliment that
Susie was keenly sensitive to; and her love and gratitude grew with the
self-respect and womanly dignity that the nobler course of her few
friends, insensibly and continually stimulated into action.

When the doctor rose to go, Mrs. Buzzell detained him to look at her
flowers—“or rather Susie’s,” she said. The large table by the south
window was full of plants and flowers in flourishing condition. Two
orange shrubs, about three feet high, were loaded with young fruit; and
in another room, less warm, by an east window, were boxes of violets and
mignonette.

“I never saw any one succeed, as she does, with flowers. I never could
get violets or mignonette to blossom in winter. I see now, I kept them
too warm. Last winter, Susie sent bouquets of these to the new hotel,
and sold them at high prices.” “She must apply what she has learned of
botany,” said the doctor. “I see here, the result of what can be nothing
else than a scientific method.”

“And yet I confess my patience used to be tried a little last summer and
fall, over her persistence in dissecting plants and poring over books
about them. I think I was foolish, and am anxious to do a little
penance. I’ve been thinking seriously of building a conservatory on this
south side; using the window as a door. The village has grown so, there
must be quite a demand for flowers and plants in pots, and we are only a
few miles from the city, you know.”

“It is the best impulse you ever had, Mrs. Buzzell,” the doctor said,
very earnestly. “Susie has practical ideas, and this is the door to her
independence. Go ahead without any delay. I will put in some money with
pleasure, if you need it, besides giving twenty-five dollars out and
out. It is June now. By next winter she could have plenty of violets,
and that alone would pay well. I see she has a bed of them outside.
Where does she get her stock? I never knew violets so fragrant as these
are. The _Marie Louise_ violet, I see.”

“Oh, a root, a slip here and there. Everything she touches succeeds. She
is constantly bringing leaf mold from the woods. That is one of her
secrets. Her fragrant violets she ordered in January from Anderson. They
came in square pieces of turf.”

The doctor encouraged Mrs. Buzzell to such good effect, that in two days
the carpenters were at work, and in less than a month a nice
flower-room, twenty feet by twelve, heated by a little furnace in the
cellar, was in working order; only the furnace, of course, was not yet
needed. Susie had written to one of the great florists near the city,
and ordered some stock; and somehow her letter had elicited an offer of
any advice she might need. Besides this, the florist sent her a manual
on hot-house culture. This manual was a godsend to Susie. She wrote back
her thanks, and, probably, recognizing a soul in the business man, she
told him of herself and her hopes. After this there ensued quite a
correspondence. In November Susie’s violets were ready in masses, and
she sent him specimens, packed nicely in moss. To this he replied:

“Your success greatly surprises me, but your bouquets are awkwardly put
up—that is, wastefully, for ten violets are a generous number for a
small winter bouquet. You need a few lessons, and if you desire them
enough to come here, you can receive them in my establishment gratis. I
will admit frankly that your white Neapolitans are better than mine.
This is very remarkable, for it is a shy bloomer. I will sell all your
violets for you this winter, if you wish it.”

Susie’s heart leaped at the offer of instruction; and packing up all her
violets and many other flowers, that the florist might see them, she set
out on her journey, leaving many and oft-repeated directions about the
care of the conservatory, and very few about the baby; for Mrs. Buzzell
was not likely to neglect Minnie, as Susie well knew.

Arrived at the florist’s, Susie set herself at work as if her life
depended upon it. The florist was unusually interested in Susie, who
talked with him freely and with confidence. He gave her numerous
suggestions about her flower culture, and took her home with him to his
family, instead of letting her go to a hotel, as she intended, for she
had determined to stay a week. In the florist’s family Susie made more
friends; but there was a kind of incubus upon her all the while. How
could she know if they would be as kind to her as they were, if they
knew her history? At the end of the week, however, she felt that she had
made good use of her time. She had not contented herself with learning
the theories of flower culture, but had put her own hands to everything,
and familiarized them with operations destined to be of great service to
her. The florist had noticed that there was something peculiar about
this young woman, and shrewdly guessed that there was some secret
trouble in her life; but her earnestness and gentleness of demeanor were
greatly in her favor, and he was not sorry for the offer he had made
her, to dispose of all the violets she should produce the ensuing
winter, though that act would be of little service to him. It was, in
fact, a generous impulse to help the praiseworthy ambition of the young
florist, and Susie felt, rather than knew, this to be the fact, and
acknowledged it indirectly. When she shook hands with the florist on
leaving, she looked searchingly into his eyes and said, “I shall not
forget your goodness to me, an utter stranger to you. Your help means
more than you know.”

If we could read Susie’s busy thoughts, as she rode home communing with
her own soul, to use a trite expression, we should find them running
something in this wise: “This visit is a great step gained. I find I
need not be modest. I know a thousand times more of flowers than does
this great florist who has built up an immense and successful business;
and what he knows of practical details more than I do, I can learn
without the hard experience he has had. If I am prudent, I need not make
any ruinous failures. Oh, to be rich! To own my own house, my own
fortune, and never more be a dependent even upon the dearest and noblest
people in the world! I may; I _must_ accomplish this. I must! I must!
Minnie is bright and pretty. Better that she died than grow up poor and
ignorant, to do the bidding of others. I wonder if she will be really
intellectual—capable of being highly educated, capable of lofty
sentiments and principles. Ah! I am not proud that one like Dan is her
father, but not in all the world could she have better blood than that
of Dr. Forest. Great, noble, generous man! He knows I am grateful, but
he does not know I could kiss his feet, and not then express how I adore
his character. In his eyes, I am just as good, just as virtuous, as if
baby had never been born. In Mrs. Buzzell’s I am very dear, I know, but
still a Magdalen. She would stand by me during good behavior; he would
follow me with tender, helpful sympathy, if I should suffer any
degradation. He would never lose hope that I could rise and atone for
every folly. What a power there is in such trust. It must give the
basest nature a very passion to justify it. So will I justify it, or I
will die in the attempt. I could die any death much easier than I could
take any course that would make him feel he had been mistaken in me. Yet
they say he is not a Christian. He is irreverent. Mrs. Buzzell asked him
if he had never suffered gloomy, despairing moods, and he assured her he
had; but to her question, had he not, under such circumstances, felt the
instinct to pray to God, he looked her calmly, seriously in the face,
and said he should as soon think of finding relief in turning
double-back somersaults. That was just what he said, and she knew he was
perfectly truthful. He said, however, it was wise to pray, or go through
any innocent manœuvre that would insure relief; and then he showed how
the real method was distraction, as he called it—calling into action new
faculties of the mind, and thus resting the overwrought ones. I don’t
find it much use to pray. Praying cannot remove disgrace, and shame, and
suffering; but I trust in the unknown power that underlies all things.
That power must be God. Obeying our highest impulses is the only thing
we are sure is right. My highest impulse is to work for baby—to make her
life all that life can be to her. Yet I have one awful fear, whenever I
think of the future. When she goes out among children, in the streets or
at school, they will no doubt tell her she is a bastard! She may come to
me crying, and ask me what it means. Sometimes I think I would rather
she should die than grow up to find her mother—— Oh! no, no! That is
cowardly. I will make her respect me. I can read and study and educate
myself, so that she will be forced to respect me, whatever others say.
If I can only make money enough, I will take her abroad and educate her
there; but I will tell her all, just as soon as she can reason, and if
she inherits any of the soul of Dr. Forest, all will be well; but if she
should not be like him! If she should be like Mrs. Forest, or coarse in
soul like Dan——”

Thus thinking and foreshadowing, Susie reached home.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                            THE FIRST CLOUD.


 Dr. Delano, on taking his bride home, was somewhat surprised that Ella
had left—accepted suddenly an invitation to spend the winter in
Maryland, among some old friends of the family. Clara was hurt by this
evident desire to avoid Albert’s wife, but his vanity was secretly well
satisfied by the act. Ella could not stay and witness a happiness that
should have been hers. He excused her going, therefore, with a good
grace, and made Clara do so also, though the effort revealed a flaw in
the diamond, a touch of vanity she had not dreamed could exist in her
idol.

Mr. Delano received his daughter-in-law with a quiet, courteous
pleasure, that was evidently felt. Miss Charlotte’s manner was stately,
and just what it should be according to etiquette, though a good deal
out of harmony with Clara’s exalted happiness, which made her a little
impatient to see people so calm and self-possessed.

Mr. Delano, after his illness, yielded to the advice of friends and
retired from business. It had proved a very unwise step. He had given
all the best years of his life to acquiring wealth—in fact, to preparing
for the enjoyment of life; and lo! when the wealth was gained, the
enjoyment he had promised himself fled before him like the horizon
“whose margin fades forever and forever” as we move. He had been rich
enough all his life had he only known it, and the increase of luxurious
surroundings in his stately residence on Beacon street were no more than
Dead Sea apples in his mouth. During his active business life he had
constantly purchased books and extended his library. These also he was
to enjoy by-and-by, when he got leisure to read anything beyond the
daily papers. He had not counted the fact that there are many things
wealth cannot purchase, and among them is the capacity for ease.

On the wide and elegant balcony upon which his library opened,
commanding a view of a beautiful garden at the rear of the mansion,
there had been swung an elegant Mexican grass hammock for Mr. Delano’s
special ease when reading. The house was on a corner lot, and the
balcony was protected from the gaze of passers on the side street by
screens of fawn-colored gauze. The old gentleman often took a book and
lay down in his luxurious hammock, to see if he could not accustom
himself to enjoyment, but he never succeeded. His brain was a vast
cotton mart and exchange in full blast, and he longed every day to go
back to that business which he had spent his life preparing to escape.

The old adage that “habit is second nature” is a very true one, and was
illustrated perfectly in the case of Mr. Delano. His nature had come to
relish nothing in the world so much as the cares, schemes,
responsibilities, and the general excitement incident to money-making by
speculation. It had all the charm of gambling, without the moral obloquy
attached to it; though, to be sure, certain “crazy radicals” call it all
gambling, and to them, one appears as immoral as the other. It is
certain that any old gambler at _rouge et noir_, in Mr. Delano’s
situation, would have found the days drag on just in the same weary way.
The evenings, which Mr. Delano used to enjoy as a relaxation from
business, were now more wearisome than the days, and the coming of his
son and daughter-in-law was the signal for throwing the house open for
the reception of people that he dreaded. During these receptions he
moved uneasily through the drawing-rooms, principally occupied in
avoiding stepping on the trains of the ladies, and never knowing what to
say to their stereotyped, “How exceedingly well you are looking, Mr.
Delano.” The only compensation was to get some old broker or stock
gambler, who was bored to death like himself, into a corner, and talk of
“the trifling of adults,” which, according to St. Augustine, “is called
business.”

During the winter after Clara’s marriage, she saw a great deal of
Boston’s choice society, and to please Albert, who was very proud of
her, she accepted many an invitation when she would have enjoyed herself
much more alone with him, or, in his absence, a quiet hour with the old
gentleman, reading to him or talking, as his mood directed. As time
passed, Albert was less and less at home evenings, and seemed to find
attractions at his club, which secretly troubled Clara, but she uttered
no word of complaint, and only sought to make up for those attractions,
as best she could, when he spent his evenings at home.

In March, Ella came home. She was full of her pretty ways, and delighted
Albert by her multiform flattering attentions to Clara. “I was
afraid—you can’t tell how afraid I was—that you would never forgive me
for running off like a _sauvage_; but you have, have you not? I have
heard so much of your goodness from Albert. When he came home last
November he could talk of nothing but you—your grace, your beauty,
generosity, accomplishments. I declare I was quite bewildered. Will you
forgive me if I say I did not believe quite all he said? But I do now. I
believe every word since I have seen you.” Clara had her doubts about
the sincerity of Ella, but she would give no expression to them for fear
of being unjust; and as Miss Delano had never attracted her
especially—indeed, had never shown any tendency to real intimacy, though
she was polite and graciously kind—it was rather pleasant, therefore, to
Clara, who had been nearly frozen by a winter of Boston society, to be
thawed into spontaneous gayety, even by a gushing, superficial creature
like Ella. It was the first time since Clara’s school days that she had
given herself up to pure nonsense—to volumes of talk without meaning—and
it pleased at first simply by its novelty; and besides this, nothing
delighted Albert so much as the good understanding between his wife and
Ella. He encouraged every sign of intimacy between them, and this of
itself was motive strong enough to induce Clara to be exceedingly
gracious to his old friend. To please Albert in all ways constituted the
joy of her life, though the halo investing him was dimmed slightly, from
time to time, as she discovered little traces of ill-temper and
impatience at the smallest and most insignificant disappointments. Once,
for example, not long after Ella’s return, he complained of the coffee
at breakfast, saying pettishly, “I don’t see how any cook, with good
coffee and boiling water, can manage to make such a flavorless mess as
this!”

“It is one of your articles of faith, you know,” said Miss Charlotte,
“that a perfect cup of coffee is not possible on the Western Continent.”

Albert made no reply, which Clara noted as a signal manifestation of
self-control, for this was not certainly “pouring oil upon the troubled
waters.” In Paris, Albert had greatly appreciated the excellent quality
of the coffee, and had brought home with him a French _cafétière_, which
ever after appeared on the Delano breakfast-table.

“Why, my son,” said Mr. Delano, “I consider this coffee very good;” and
he sipped his with gusto.

“But it is not perfect; and there is no excuse for it, that I can see.
However, the toast is so infinitely worse, that I suppose the coffee
ought to escape comment.” Ella had the bad taste to laugh.

Miss Delano replied satirically, and in the same breath asked for more
toast.

“I should like to find one woman,” said Albert, “who could hear the
least criticism on any housekeeping detail without immediately taking it
as a personal matter. You did not make the toast, Charlotte, and why try
to make it out good when it is not, and force yourself to eat more than
you want, by way of argument? You must know that it is made of stale
bread.”

“I was not aware that toast is usually made of fresh bread,” said Miss
Charlotte.

“As a chemist, I can assure you that it makes the best, though stale
bread will do; but it does not follow that the older it is, the better.
If it did, then the loaves lately excavated at Pompeii would be just the
thing.”

“I think a chemist at the breakfast-table,” rejoined Miss Delano, “is
about as comfortable as the _memento mori_ of the ancients.”

“The Pompeian loaves,” said Clara, anxious to avoid any more unpleasant
words between Albert and Charlotte, “having been toasted to a cinder,
some two thousand years ago, would make a sorry toast, even if stale
bread is better than fresh.”

“So you find a flaw in my logic, do you? I forgot the original toasting.
It takes a woman to keep hold of all the intricate threads of the
logical web.” Clara looked at Albert, to satisfy herself that he was not
laughing at her, or at women in general, which was much the same thing
in effect.

“I always wanted to study logic, but I suppose I could not understand
it. I am a little ignoramus,” said Ella, with a pretty _moue_.

“I am sure you could learn logic or anything else,” said Albert, looking
very sweetly upon Ella. “If you could not, so much the worse for logic;”
and for the rest of the breakfast Albert devoted himself to conversation
with Ella. He seemed to be charmed with every insignificant thing she
said—laughed at jokes which were certainly totally innocent of any
spirit of wit. This did not escape Clara, and after the family rose from
the breakfast-table, she followed Mr. Delano to his private library,
where her presence was always a delight.

That afternoon Albert returned earlier than usual. Ella’s bright eyes
beamed upon him as he opened the hall door with the latch-key. She held
out both her hands to him. He pressed them gently, and as he released
them, asked where Clara was. He was thinking how gratifying it was to
have his coming always anticipated with pleasure. It flattered him that
Ella was always so glad to meet him; it was such a contrast to the old
times, when he hung upon every word and motion of hers. He remembered
her indifference to him then; and comparing it with her present
behavior, he could come to but one conclusion; and in that conclusion
there lay hidden a sense of triumph.

When he asked for Clara, Ella’s eyes fell with such a pretty gesture of
despair, that he regretted his question. Quickly regaining a pretended
lost self-possession, she replied, “She is in Mr. Delano’s library. She
reads there almost every day, and has for ever so long. I can hardly get
a sight of her.”

Albert knew that Clara liked to sit with his father, and that her
presence cheered and delighted him; and for this he was glad; but he did
not like her to neglect him, her husband, and on this special day too,
when he had left the house without bidding her good-bye. Clearly, she
was very remiss in not being in the parlor waiting for him, after he had
treated her to so much indifference! That is masculine logic. No?

Albert hung up his hat and light overcoat in the hall, and went with
Ella into the sitting-room, and begged her to excuse him for lying down
on the lounge, as he was tired and had a slight headache.

“I am so sorry! Can I not cure your head?” and sitting down beside him,
she laid her hand on his forehead, and passed her fingers through his
hair for some minutes. During the process Miss Charlotte entered
noiselessly. Ella started violently. “Don’t stop!” he said, aloud. “You
do my head good!” Miss Charlotte left the room.

“Why did you start so, Ella? I was surprised. It was bad, too, for
Charlotte is the first of prudes.”

“Oh, she will think me awful! I will go now; there is a step on the
stairs.”

“Sit still!” he said very positively, but in a low tone. “I hope it is
Clara. No, it is not,” he said, after a moment’s listening. “Well, go if
you must, and tell Clara that I am here; but I must pay this pretty hand
for charming away my headache;” and saying this, he opened it with both
hands, and placing its rosy palm upon his lips, he held it there for
some seconds with his eyes closed. Ella drew it away gently, and left
the room. He lay there still, with his eyes closed, enjoying sensuously
the magnetic thrill that Ella’s touch awakened, and wondering if, after
all, this were not the woman whom he should have married. It was a
dangerous speculation, as his own thought admitted; and then he thought
of Clara’s tender trust in him, and reproached himself as if he had been
guilty of betraying it. When he opened his eyes Clara stood beside him,
her eyes full of gentle concern.

“Why did you not come to me or send for me at once, Albert?” she asked
reproachfully. “I have just met Ella, who says she has been trying to
soothe your head. She looked flushed. Oh, Albert! can any one take the
place of Clara when you are ill?”

“No, dear one. How absurd.”

“Why did she look so flushed? What had you been saying to her? Forgive
me. I should not catechise you in this way.” Upon this, Albert rose and
took her very tenderly in his arms.

“What would become of me, dearest, if I should lose you?” she said,
raising her head from his shoulder and looking into his eyes almost
wildly.

“My child, what a question!”

“But answer me, Albert,” she said imperatively.

“I hope you would be sensible enough to forget that you ever cared for
one so unworthy of you,” he replied.

“Sweet words! Do you know, Albert, I could never be jealous of you?”

“Are you sure? They say if you can love you can be jealous,” he said,
bending his head on one side and searching her eyes.

“I am sure. Jealousy implies anger with the loved one, or hatred of the
rival. I could never feel either. I could only suffer;” and with a deep,
long sigh, she laid her head back upon his shoulder. Presently raising
it, she continued, “You said you learned abroad the meaning of the term
‘illusions,’ as applied to love. Except you, my father is the only
person whom I ever heard use it in the same sense. There is no word that
can supply its place. It implies the distinction between the love of
lovers and all other kinds of love, and more than that, it implies all
that is divine in loving. I think it hard to preserve these precious
illusions, but without them love would have no charm for me. I should
become a wretched wife.”

“But we will not lose our illusions, precious. What should come between
us? Are we not irrevocably bound to each other by the very act of
marriage?”

“No,” Clara said decidedly and with emotion. “We are only bound by those
very illusions. The divine spirit of Love makes and justifies marriage.
The body is nothing to me, when the soul is gone. You are a very elegant
man, Albert—elegant and beautiful in all eyes, but in mine you are
beauty and strength and tenderness in one. You are everything to me; but
your dear eyes, your lips, your eloquent tongue, would lose all their
charm, with the loss of the soul of all.”

“Why, child, you are trembling like a leaf. Are you quite well?”

“Albert, why did she look flushed?” and she looked appealingly,
searchingly into his eyes.

“I—I believe you are jealous after all,” he said.

Clara turned slowly and left the room without a word.

“Jealous, by Jove!” he said to himself when she was gone, and the idea
flattered his vanity as it would that of the commonest soul. Clara had
told him she could not be jealous, as the word is generally understood.
That she could only suffer; but the words meant little to him. She had
spoken the exact truth. In her venture, she had staked everything, and
believed, as all women do under the same circumstances, that
notwithstanding the coldness and indifference of married people, visible
everywhere to the most superficial observer, that it was the result of a
lack of wisdom—that love in all its divine freshness, could be
preserved. Albert had held the same opinion, and had often said the
danger lay in the first withholding of perfect trust. “Love should be
cultivated like the most tender plant,” he had said.

He mused over the matter for a half hour, and then went to Clara’s room,
where he found her, not “drowned in tears,” as he had anticipated, but
very calmly dressing for dinner.

“I was afraid my Clara was going to be silly,” he said, smoothing her
fine hair the wrong way, as men will, for it was rolled back at the
sides over a heavy twist, and, of course, his caresses endangered the
elegant finish of her coiffure, which had cost Clara more effort than he
knew.

“Smooth my hair back, dear,” she said. “Don’t you see the way it is
brushed?” and taking his fine hand, she passed it over her hair in the
right way.

“You mean I had better keep my hands away. Don’t you?” he asked,
pleasantly.

“No, no; only that you should not endanger the structure, or I shall
have it to do over again. You may pull my curls, baby. You can’t hurt
them.”

“Don’t call me baby. You know I hate it.”

“Excuse me. I am sorry you dislike it. There is no pet word that seems
so tender to me. I wonder what possible word could offend me, if you
found it a real medium of fondness?”

“Suppose I should call you ducky?”

“That sounds common and trivial; but if it served to express the
tenderness that the word ‘baby’ does to me, I should soon find it
adorable. Albert,” she said, after a pause, and with great enthusiasm,
twining her bare arms about his neck, “Clara loves you as you have never
dreamed of loving. Her love is greater than you need—greater than you
can possibly respond to—and one day you will find it a millstone around
your neck!”

“Well, that is pleasant. How long since you arrived at that astute
conclusion?” he asked, laughing, as if greatly amused. “I thought my
love satisfied you.”

“Do not speak in that tone. Do not make me regret wearing my heart upon
my sleeve. Your love satisfied me when I had not understood the depth of
my own; now, when a crisis comes, and you see me shaken like a reed, you
do not answer seriousness with seriousness, intensity with intensity.
You call me jealous, and treat me like a pretty butterfly woman, who
must be managed by her husband.”

“A crisis! I like that. You find me alone a moment with an old friend,
who happens to be a charming woman, and you call it a crisis!”

“I think a physician should reason more nicely than that; he should look
at effects. Was the princess in the story, who was made all black and
blue by sleeping on a crumpled rose-leaf, any the less black and blue
because it _was_ a rose-petal, and not a brush-heap?”

“There are some princesses who are morbidly sensitive. I would have them
harden their _epidermes_ a little.”

“I understand,” Clara said, deeply hurt, but controlling her emotion
through a sense of pride never before experienced in Albert’s presence,
for she had been as frank and trusting as a little child, not dreaming
that he could ever fail her in sympathy. “Perhaps,” she added, forcing
herself to smile, “I shall think best to commence the hardening process.
Go now, or I shall keep the dinner waiting.” Then followed a wealth of
cheap endearments and caresses on Albert’s part, which Clara responded
to mechanically. She was positively relieved when he was gone. She knew
well she had not exaggerated the importance of this first jar in the
harmony of her life with Albert, but just now there was no time to
think—no time to give way to tears that would have been a relief. She
bit her lips to bring the color into them, and felt, as she took her
seat at the table, that she bore well the scrutiny of Albert’s and
Ella’s eyes. Miss Delano was very grave, and rather more attentive to
Clara than usual.

Ella felt certain that there had been a “scene,” as she would have
called it, between Clara and Albert. She had betrayed her confusion to
Clara an hour ago on leaving him; but here was Clara all smiles and
self-possession. “Evidently she thinks me too insignificant to ruffle
the current of her bliss,” was Ella’s thought, and had been for some
time. It piqued her as it would any flirt; and the devil had possessed
her from the first to try if her old influence upon Albert was entirely
lost. This was the secret of her going from home when the happy couple
were to arrive. “Let him have enough of his village beauty,” she had
said. “By the time the spring comes he will find her society rather
tame.” To do Ella justice, she had not intended to create any serious
disturbance between Albert and his wife, though she could not forgive
him for marrying any one until he had made certain that his old love was
forever beyond his reach, and there was a secret spite in her heart when
she found the “village beauty” superior in culture and manners, as well
as in personal charms, to most of the women she had met. It was a
dangerous experiment, as it proved, her effort to discover the state of
Albert’s feeling towards her, for she had found herself thinking and
dreaming of him constantly, while he seemed still wholly absorbed with
his devotion to Clara. That day, however, had brought a little triumph
to the flirt.

Any disinterested observer would have pronounced the family dinner-party
a very happy one, and much interested in the various topics that were
discussed. How much we talk of candor and frankness, as if any one of us
ever admitted either, among the virtues of society. The frankness that
passes current as such, is but a base counterfeit, as any one may find
by circulating an infinitesimal quantity of the genuine metal. He will
be set down instantly as an uncomfortable Marplot. Little children alone
exemplify real candor, and how we adore it in them! But it doesn’t do
for grown people, any more than the religion of Christ, as taught by him
and his Apostles, will do, according to Mrs. Kendrick, for the
exigencies of modern times. There was Miss Delano presiding at the table
with suave good-breeding, while under the smile with which she served
the dessert to Ella, there lurked a deep contempt of that young lady’s
“ways” with Albert; Clara, apparently without a care and conversing
easily upon various subjects, was in fact suffering and longing to get
away; Albert’s light laugh and animated chit-chat, mostly with Ella,
concealed a dismal dissatisfaction with fate, that had made him appear
something less than absolute perfection in his wife’s eyes; Ella
appeared as gay as a bird and as transparent as crystal, yet she would
have cut off her little finger sooner than have her real thoughts and
feelings engrafted on the consciousness of those present. Mr. Delano,
indeed, had not much feeling of any kind except that of general
weariness, which he carefully concealed, and so was in some degree
masked like the rest.

After dinner Albert played backgammon with Ella, who affected to be very
fond of the game. Clara knew well that it was an affectation, for
whenever Mr. Delano proposed playing, Ella was very slow to respond. To
the old gentleman, this game was almost his only evening amusement, and
though Clara disliked it, she often played out of pure kindness to him.
Clara was by no means displeased that her husband’s society was
agreeable to Ella. It was natural and right; but this special evening
she would have been flattered by some devotion of Albert’s time to
herself. She was all gentleness and kindness, and feared, above all
things, being unjust or seemingly selfish, through her exceeding
fondness for her husband. “He will not play long,” she said to herself,
and sat down by Miss Charlotte with her sewing. When the game or games
were finished, Albert left the house, saying only that he was to meet
some board of medical men. Clara’s heart sank. She looked at him, and
his eyes met hers with the most ordinary indifferent smile, such as he
might bestow upon his father or Charlotte. She went to her rooms earlier
than usual, and sat for a long time musing before the fire of their
pleasant, private sitting-room. The reflection would come that, since
Ella’s return, Albert had cared less and less for that room. Until very
lately, he had always sought it immediately after dinner, whether Clara
was there or not, knowing well she would not wait long before seeking
him there. As she recalled every incident of the past month, little
events that had meant nothing at the time, were full of significance,
and her heart cried out in anguish with the fear that Albert was
changing. When he had left her before dinner, she had suffered a moment
of intense pain. He had not seemed to understand her, and for the first
time she felt that something had gone out of her life; and now, as she
sat waiting for him, she almost dreaded his coming. She did not wish to
conceal any little heart-ache from Albert: it was torture to think it
necessary. Why could he not soothe it away? Why should it not seem
important to him, whatever its cause? Was she indeed too sensitive? Yet
he had adored her for that very sensitiveness! She repeated his words
“morbidly sensitive,” and out of the fear to do injustice to him, tried
to believe that she was suffering some indisposition—that she was
nervous, and had exaggerated a very slight misunderstanding. Clearly she
_was_ nervous, and ought not to meet Albert until sleep and rest had
restored her. “I should not see him in this mood,” she said to herself,
as she entered her bedroom. “Oh, if I might have one right the Turkish
woman has!—if I might put my slippers outside my door, with the
certainty that it would protect me from all intrusion, even from that of
my husband!”




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                 THE INVITATION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.


 The first cloud obscuring the heaven of Clara’s perfect happiness as a
wife, had passed. The sun shone again, but never with its ineffable
brightness. Love’s perfect Eden was forever lost.

Dr. Delano and his wife had been keeping house a little over a year.
Clara performed all wifely duties with perfect care. She had been
apparently satisfied with Albert’s course to Ella. She made no
complaints, was cheerful always, received all his friends with a cordial
grace that pleased him well, and if her caresses had lost their old
tenderness, he had not wondered at the change—alas! he had not even
noticed it;—and yet Clara believed that the trusting, childlike
happiness that had been theirs at first, would, by some miracle, return.
She cherished this hope as the drowning cling to straws. Ardent and
romantic in her nature, feeling certain that her love was perfect and
could meet all the needs of Albert, she was terribly shaken by the
discovery that the petting, the flattery, the languishing ways of Ella,
charmed him more than anything else in the world. She did not blame him
nor Ella. It was inevitable that they should like each other, but there
were times when her life seemed unendurable.

Ella was often at the house, and Clara received her as she did many of
Albert’s friends, with whom she had no special sympathy; but when one
day Albert reproached her for showing no affection to Ella, and dwelt
upon Ella’s virtues, among which were her simplicity, her affection, her
childlike innocence, Clara’s patience gave way: “I do not love her,” she
said, “and you know it well. Why should I play the hypocrite? I will
treat her well, because she is your friend. We pretend that we have a
higher guide than mere conventional rules, which would forbid your ever
asking me to receive a woman who stands between me and your love. Ask no
more of me, Albert,” she said, with an expression he but partly
comprehended. “Ask no more of me, Albert, or I shall fail you, not only
in this but in all things.”

Sometimes the temptation was great to open Albert’s eyes as to Ella’s
childlike innocence, but Clara was really above using such a weapon
against her rival; besides, she doubted that they could be opened. Ella
was, apparently, without a single flaw in his eyes.

With the summer came the discussion of passing the heated term at the
White Mountains. Albert declared that Clara was looking a little
fatigued, and the change would give her tone and color. She received
this evidence of anxiety about her health with great pleasure. The
prospect of several weeks, in a delightful country, alone with Albert,
was in itself sufficient to bring color to her cheeks, and to reawaken
her fondest hopes. Mr. Delano, with Charlotte and Ella, were to spend
the summer as usual at Newport; but it happened that just before Miss
Charlotte announced to her father that her preparations were completed,
Ella decided to wait and join Clara and Albert in their trip to the
White Mountains. Miss Delano expressed unqualified surprise.

“I don’t know why you should be surprised. Am I not old enough to choose
for myself?”

“You are _old_ enough to be discreet,” said Miss Delano, severely; “but,
I can assure you, you are not.”

“I know. It is always indiscreet to do what you wish to.”

“No, Miss Wills; it is indiscreet to wish to do what good sense
condemns.”

“I’m sure I cannot see that good sense condemns my wish to go to the
White Mountains with Clara and Albert.”

“You mean with Albert and Clara. I would ask you if you have been
invited by Albert’s wife?”

Ella winced. She saw but one escape, and that was through a falsehood.

“Certainly I have,” she said, with effrontery.

“What is this?” asked Mr. Delano, slow, like most men, to understand the
disputes of women. Miss Delano having the issue clearly thrust upon her,
explained very succinctly.

“My dear Ella,” said the mild old gentleman, mildly, and as if a sudden
thought had struck him, “you know you were an old flame of Albert’s, and
you know he is a very hot-headed fellow. I think you _are_ playing with
the fire.”

The very mildness of the old gentleman was like tinder to flames, in its
effect. Ella answered insolently, and flirted out of the room. Under
such circumstances, she thought the best way to convince Mr. Delano and
his daughter that they had wronged her, was to show them that they had
made her ill. She stayed in her room two whole days, and by great
effort, refusing all food during that time, she succeeded pretty well.
During the second day she wrote the following letter to Albert:


“DEAREST FRIEND:—I am ill and suffering. It is useless to struggle
against fate. No one cares for Ella but you—no one understands her—and
they would have me think it wicked to see you. What does it matter that
we know our love is pure? They will not believe it. Let us submit to
fate, dear, dearest Albert. We had better not meet again, since we
cannot be understood. Though it breaks my heart to say it, _farewell
forever_!

                                                       “Your unhappy
                                                                 “ELLA.”


Whether Ella guessed what would be the result of this epistle or not,
she felt she had done a sublime stroke of duty. She had bade him an
eternal farewell, and if he did not abide by it, the fault was not hers.
Albert, of course, flew to the rescue gallantly, and that no time should
be lost, ordered the carriage for the purpose. He called for Ella, who
refused to see him; whereupon he called for his sister, and expended
considerable brotherly fury upon that staid maiden. She, on her side,
told him some very unpalatable truths, and gave him some advice, which
was yet more distasteful, and to which he replied angrily:

“You know no more of my wife than you do of Ella, whom you never
understood.” Miss Delano gave her views of Ella’s character and general
motives of conduct in most well bred but unmistakable terms, and ended
by saying, “If Clara Forest is a woman to be deceived by Ella Wills, to
‘love’ her as you say, then I am fearfully mistaken in the woman. The
truth is, you are using her love for you, to abuse her good sense.”

Albert did not fail to show that he had a profound contempt for such
ideas of love as might be entertained by prudes and old maids, though he
was too polite to use the latter term to any lady. People who are
married are apt to think that only they have any understanding of love,
just as parents presume that they are better qualified to bring up
children from the fact of their maternity or paternity, than others who
have no children; though all experience shows that the capacity to bear
children, by no means implies the capacity to rear them properly.

In this encounter of brother and sister, Miss Charlotte manifested the
calm dignity of one sure of her position, while Albert showed all the
blustering, virtuous indignation of the guilty man; however, in the end
he succeeded, not only in seeing Ella, but in bearing her away in
triumph.

Clara was sufficiently surprised when he arrived with his charge, and
supported her upstairs in an apparently dying condition, though she had
contrived to look exceedingly interesting in a white cashmere wrapper,
fastened at the throat by a huge scarlet ribbon, which made her pallor
more noticeable by contrast. The old family physician, Dr. Hanaford, had
been called in, but when he came the patient was gone. Mr. Delano
advised him to follow her. This Dr. Hanaford was much inclined to do on
learning that Albert was unaware that the family physician had been sent
for; and further, he did not wish to trust his patient in the hands of
young Dr. Delano, which proved that he did not understand the nature of
her case. Arrived at Ella’s bedside, he examined her tongue, her pulse,
and asked all the usual impertinent questions which doctors seldom omit,
even when summoned to prescribe for a sty on the eyelid. Ella, who had
never in her life been seriously ill, and knew well that she was not
now, winced under the doctor’s examination into her case, the gravity of
which he measured by his inability to comprehend it. By dint of nasty
medicaments, a low diet, and close confinement, he succeeded in a few
days in making Ella very comfortably ill, and she enjoyed greatly the
care and anxiety of her friends. Clara was wholly deceived, and nursed
Ella with the greatest care, but said nothing about her joining their
summer excursion. This vexed Ella, who was determined that Clara should
extend the invitation voluntarily. On the occasion of Dr. Hanaford’s
next visit, he recommended change of air. “Oh, doctor, I can’t go
anywhere,” she replied, languidly. “I don’t wish to move.”

“But, my dear Miss Wills, I advise it. It is the only thing for you in
your present condition.”

“Well, then, don’t send me to the sea-side. I hate the sea, and am
always made ill by being near it. Now, you will not, will you, dear
doctor?” she added, in her most caressing manner. “If you do, I will die
just to spite you.”

“No, my dear Miss Wills, I am rather inclined to think a mountain
region——”

“No, no; don’t advise anything to-day, doctor dear. Wait till to-morrow.
I have such a horrid pain in my side.”

“In your right side? That is a favorable symptom. The bile——”

“Oh, don’t. I haven’t any such horrid thing!” she said, insinuating her
little jeweled hand into his large palm by way of mollifying him. “What
hour will you come to-morrow?”

“At two o’clock.”

“Precisely? I cannot bear to wait for you a minute. It makes me _so_
nervous.” The doctor declared his intention to be punctual, which was
all Ella cared to know, and she was glad when he was gone. The next day,
a few minutes before two, she sent for Clara, pretending to need greatly
her soothing presence; and when the doctor came she insisted upon
Clara’s remaining. This was a part of her plot. Pretty soon she managed
to lead up to the subject of the proposed change of air by saying,

“Oh, I am such a trouble to you, Clara dear! but it will not be long.
The doctor is going to send me to the sea-side.”

“On the contrary,” replied the unsuspecting old doctor. “I wish you to
have the bracing atmosphere of the mountains.” Ella turned her head to
the wall with a weary sigh. The doctor expressed regret at recommending
anything contrary to the young lady’s inclinations. Clara herself had
not the slightest suspicion of Ella’s scheme, and from the goodness of
her heart said, “We are going to the White Mountains, doctor, and can
take her with us. I have no doubt that the mountain air will be better
for her than anything else.” This was a pure, generous self-sacrifice on
Clara’s part, costing more effort than any one could guess.

When Albert heard of the gracious offer of his wife, he was exuberant in
his thanks—called her his sensible, generous love, and was so
demonstrative in his tenderness, that Clara forgot to reflect that it
was all due to her making a sacrifice to Ella.

As the days passed, Ella grew tired of being desperately ill; so she
secretly threw away Dr. Hanaford’s medicines and ate everything that was
offered her. She wished to be ill enough to alarm Albert, and yet she
must contrive to look charming in his eyes, and the work required a good
deal of study. Pretty soon she left her bed, and spent her time in
planning ravishing convalescent _toilettes_, complaining to Albert all
the time of the dire condition of her health. On one occasion he found
her reclining on a lounge in a pretty white-and-blue gown, her hair
exquisitely dressed, and looking a picture of health. She complained of
“utter weariness”—would not talk further than to say she cared for
nothing in the world but to die and be out of everybody’s way. Of course
he called her endearing names, and begged her to live for his sake; he
could not endure life without her. Finally he persuaded her to eat some
delicious hot-house grapes he had brought her, and to consent to endure
existence a little longer!

During Ella’s illness Mr. Delano called upon her, and the day following
Miss Charlotte also. She was a very kind person at heart, though her
manner was a little of the forbidding style. She urged Ella to go home,
and talked to her of the danger and the impropriety also of courting the
affections of married men. Ella could not be angry, for Miss Delano’s
manner and accent on this occasion were really sympathetic and friendly.
Ella could now declare with a good grace that she was engaged to
accompany Albert and Clara to the White Mountains—that Clara had urged
it and desired it. Miss Delano was nonplussed, and soon after took her
leave.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                     A SPASMODIC MOVEMENT OF LOVE.


 A few days later, and when nearly all the preparations for the White
Mountain trip were finished, Clara expressed a desire to run home to
Oakdale for three or four days. It was a lovely morning in the last days
of June, and the scene was at the breakfast-table. Ella floated
languidly in at the last moment, in a lovely morning-dress of white
lawn, puffed and flounced, and with wide flowing sleeves that exposed
well her pretty arms. At her breast she wore a knot of narrow blue
ribbons and a little bouquet of fresh rosebuds. Her hair, which curled
naturally, she had brushed out and passed her fingers through and
through it, until it lay in innumerable fluffy ringlets and curls kept
back from her face by a wide blue ribbon, fringed at the ends and tied
in an elegant bow at the top of her head. “How pretty she is!” said the
eyes of Albert. Ella seated herself in her place languidly, as if life
were the very burden she pretended it was. “How pretty you look, Ella!”
said Clara, generously. “It does not seem as if you could ever grow
old.”

“Like you, for example,” said Albert, smiling.

“I know I am young enough,” replied Clara, “but I do not think I ever
looked as fresh as Ella does.”

“I am sure I would exchange all the freshness that you seem to admire so
much,” said Ella, “for a nose as elegant as yours.”

“Yes, I believe my nose is irreproachable,” replied Clara, smiling; “but
as a child, it was certainly a pug.”

“Like mine.”

“No, yours is not that by any means. I think you should be quite
satisfied with your person.”

Albert looked from one woman to the other. He knew Clara was several
years younger than Ella, and yet she looked older—an effect heightened
by her dress, a plain light gray with plain cuffs, and collar fastened
by a bow of rich black ribbon. Albert wondered why she would wear black,
when she knew he hated it. Clearly she did not study to please him, as
Ella did. He did not reflect, possibly he did not know, that Clara’s
little dower from her father had been exhausted, though managed with the
greatest care, and that it would scarcely have permitted her to dress
like Ella for a single year. Clara had never yet asked Albert for any of
the money that he spent freely upon his own dress, on his friends in
wines and cigars, at his club, and in many ways; and as he had several
times expressed surprise at the extent of the household expenses, she
had endeavored, in ways he never suspected, to reduce them. She may be
blamed, but she simply could not bring herself to ask him for any money
for herself. The old, perfect, childlike confidence was gone. She
thought, moreover, that a husband’s duty was to set aside for the
mistress of the house, a certain generous allowance for her personal and
household expenses; and not dole money out week by week, to meet current
expenses. It seemed to her very undignified, to say the least, and not
what her father would have done, as he had proved ever since the growth
of Oakdale and the increase of his practice enabled him to count on a
steady income. She did not, however, attribute Albert’s course to
penuriousness or selfishness, but simply to ignorance of the ideas of a
wife on this subject. Time would harmonize all this, she thought, if
ever the old Eden came back, with that divine mutual confidence that
makes it wise to express every thought freely and frankly. So she went
on from day to day managing Albert’s house with a rare skill, improved
by constant experience and a quick practical intelligence, receiving his
friends, gracing his table and his drawing-rooms with her sweet
presence, and in return receiving such attentions from him as his nature
suggested, when not absorbed by Ella’s charms, or by the claims of other
friends. She learned to be a hypocrite, as many a wife has done. If she
expressed the grief that was in her heart, even by a tone, a word,
Albert’s pleasure was affected by it. To be sure, his course was much
like that of a person holding your head under water, and then feeling
injured because you are so inconsiderate as to look strangled! At times
Clara felt as if she could go mad at Albert’s persistence in declaring
that his love had in no way changed. A thousand words and acts and
movements, proved his protestations utterly false; and between her
struggle to please him by liking Ella, whom any other woman of spirit
would have felt justified in hating, to attend to all the household
responsibilities, to show a smiling face when her heart was breaking, to
do strict justice to Albert and Ella in all her thoughts—between all
these trials, no wonder she looked old beside the rosy freshness of
triumphant love, that shone unclouded in Ella’s pretty face. No wonder
she desired to go home to her father—to one who never misunderstood her,
who never required her to conceal any thought or emotion—one whom she
could please wholly, by being herself in all things. Sometimes it seemed
that she could not wait one moment; that she must fly to him, whatever
the result. But when she mentioned this desire on the morning in
question, Albert was astounded. His gesture and words made her
indignant. She compared him mentally to her father. The expression of a
strong desire for anything, created in Dr. Forest an instinctive impulse
to help gratify it.

“I wish much to go,” she said simply, as if that alone should be enough.

“But at this time, my dear.”

“I will return in less than a week.”

“Indeed! You would go alone! Do you suppose I can permit my wife to go
home for the first visit after our marriage, without her husband? I
shall go with you, of course.”

Ella winced. Here was an evidence of the husband’s pride in his
position. Why, he was not fully hers, after all; and for the first time
she felt jealous of the wife. Very soon after she left the room.

Later, in Clara’s room, Albert came to her, evidently to talk over the
matter. She put her arms about him, and tried the little coquettish arts
that used to charm him, only to find for the twentieth time, with secret
mortification, that they had lost their power. Ella had the monopoly of
all pretty arts now. Clara knew it, and despised herself for the foolish
persistency of hoping against hope, lowering her dignity by seeking to
regain anything that such a kitten as Ella Wills could win; but it would
be worse than useless to show her feelings. Unhappiness was a crime in
Albert’s eyes, and he had not seen a tear in hers for many a month. In
answer to his question, what had given her such a sudden desire to go
home, she answered, “It is not sudden. I have been thinking of it a very
long time. I don’t think I am over well, and I so wish to see papa. I
cannot tell you how strong the desire is.”

“You have not mentioned being ill, Clara;” and with the fatality of many
people who wish to avoid a scene, he took the surest means to produce
one, for he added, “but you have no faith in me as a physician.”

“That is very unjust, Albert.”

“If you had any faith in me, you would tell me if you had symptoms of
illness.”

“Perhaps I should be more flattered if it were not necessary to tell
them.”

“I do not profess to be a magician, like your father,” he said,
ironically.

“This is a reflection upon my father,” replied Clara, indignantly. “It
is not necessary for me to tell you what I think of it. I am not alone
in the opinion that he is a very superior physician.”

“I did not mean it in the light of a reflection. I know he is a fine
French scholar, and keeps himself _au courant_ with the methods and
discoveries of modern science; but of course he is a graduate of the old
school.”

“The subject is painful to me, Albert. I am deeply mortified that you
should institute any comparison between yourself and my father in this
respect.”

“You seem pleased to treat me like a sophomore,” he said, angrily,
assuming an air of superiority that could not deceive Clara. “You will
pardon me for saying, that if this is good taste, it is at least
unwise.”

“Unwise?” echoed Clara, with disgust. “I deny that I even dreamed of
treating you with the slightest disrespect; but tell me, please, what
result I ought to fear.”

“Oh, nothing; my respect, my admiration, amount to nothing, of course;”
and Albert took out his cigar-case, and selecting a Havana, was about to
strike a match.

“Put away your match!” said Clara. “You have not my permission to smoke
in my room to-day.”

“Madame is obeyed,” he said, bowing and putting away his cigar. The tone
and manner of Clara were so strangely unlike all he knew of her, that he
was astonished into good-humored admiration.

“Respect is due to me from you, and all the world, until I forfeit it by
ignoble conduct. Your admiration I have thought and hoped I could never
lose, for no true man or woman can really love when that is gone;” and
as Clara said this, she glanced at her reflection in the glass.

“I think you are right, my dear,” he said, coldly.

“It is sad for a woman to lose what little beauty she has, for I think
the admiration of most men depends wholly on personal beauty.”

“No, Clara. It is happiness that most charms the lover.”

“Then, indeed, I have no chance, for I am not happy.”

“I was fool enough to think my wife ought to be happy.”

“No; the woman you love should be happy. I am proud of being your wife,
as you well know, but I would gladly change my state to that of your
mistress, could I regain what I feel that I have lost forever. Oh,
Albert! the world seems vanishing under my feet, when I think we have
come to this.”

There was something in the whole attitude of Clara, and especially in
the evidence of emotions long repressed, that filled not only the
husband, but the physician, with alarm and self-reproach, and he did
what all men do when unusually conscious that they are murdering by
inches the women who love them. He took her in his arms, covered her
with kisses, wept over her, called himself unworthy of a love so
divinely tender as hers, and when in some sentence Clara alluded to
Ella, he begged she would not mention the name of any other woman to
him. What were all the women in the world to him? He had been a brute to
even seem to put any other woman before her, or to do anything to cause
her the slightest pain. Clara nestled close to his heart, and sobbed
herself into a blissful state of trust and hope, as Albert went on. He
would never pay any marked attention to Ella since it displeased Clara.

Clara, too happy in being restored to her husband’s confidence, answered
generously, and through happy tears:

“No, dear one, you must not make her unhappy by an inexplicable change
of manner. Do you not think she is really in love with you?”

“There is no doubt of that,” he said, with a touch of vanity, for he was
but human, and to see this woman, who had caused him so many “pangs of
despised love,” now wholly and helplessly enamored of him, was a triumph
bearing in it a poetic justice, a healing sweetness, impossible to
resist. He had not desired that any one should occupy his heart but his
wife; for theirs had been a love worth preserving in its freshness. He
really desired so to preserve it; and therefore he would have been
consistent if, upon the first signs of Ella’s passion for him, he had
shown her something of his devotion to his wife. It might not have been
gallant, according to the creed of men, but it would at least have been
profoundly wise. Women instinctively yield to any securely enthroned
rival; perhaps men know this, and hence they so rarely show one woman
that they love any object specially, or even act in a manner that will
let such fact pass for granted. This is generally true of men in whose
temper there is a latent melancholy. They are passionately attracted to
their opposites, to those who are gay and happy, and therefore they
would fly from suffering, even when they themselves are the cause of it.

Clara found in the bliss caused by Albert’s spasmodic return to his old
tenderness, an adequate compensation for deferring her visit to Oakdale.
She expressed earnestly the wish to please Albert in all things.

“My darling,” he said, “you can please me always if you will remain in
this sweet mood. Only be happy, and there will be no more clouds.”

“But my moods, dear one, depend upon you. How can a dethroned queen be
happy? No: I mean,” she added quickly, “when her throne is in danger.
You _know_ I am not jealous and selfish. I would have all women love
you, and I would stay by myself without a murmur, if you wish to ride,
or walk, or flirt with them, for nature has made you very gallant and
fond of the incense of admiration. I only would feel certain that I hold
my old place—mine by right of loving you more than any other can, as you
have always admitted. There is something in the confident air of Ella
when she speaks to you in my presence, that distresses me; makes me feel
that you have not shown her my true place in your heart. Have you,
dearest?”

Albert knew he had not. To have said yes, would certainly have been
false, and he had a repugnance to direct falsehood. The position was
awkward, but he managed to satisfy Clara, and in a most heavenly frame
of mind she sent him to tell Ella that she had decided to put off going
to Oakdale for the present.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                        LETTERS.—A CONVERSATION.


                                               “OAKDALE, _June 25, 18—._


“MY DEAR GIRL: I have just come from Mrs. Buzzell’s. It is about the
happiest family I ever knew. The baby flourishes like a weed, and is as
pretty a child as you would wish to see, and actually resembles your
mother so much that everybody remarks it. This is a piece of poetic
justice that makes me grin with delight. She ignores still the existence
of Susie, the child, and good Mrs. Buzzell; but she is the only one who
hears anything from Dan. He is in San Francisco, and wears a huge
diamond. That is all I know of my only son.

“Susie’s new establishment for flower culture is a perennial delight.
She has written you, so you are doubtless posted as to the money she
made last winter. Everything promises well for the next. She is bound to
succeed, and if she had capital, could build up a fine business; but
what is better than all, is the fact that she has outgrown all her
heart-aches, and is really and truly happy. See, my girl, what we have
done for her! When we remember how ignorant she was, how deficient in
any moral or other training, and therefore how certain to be guided by
her emotions, if we had ‘passed by on the other side,’ like the rest,
she might have been damned beyond salvation; yet still I doubt it after
all. She reads a great deal, and is the best patron of the new
circulating library. ‘Give me a list of books,’ she said to me, ‘that
you know are good. If I select for myself I shall waste time, and I want
to make up for what I have lost.’ Some people would call this lack of
individuality, but the fact is, it is real wisdom. Life is too short to
read all the books of unknown and new authors. Let them sift through the
ten million general readers of the country. If anything is too big to go
through the sieve, there will be a noise about it, and then it is time
for the discriminate to take it up. Susie devours history, biography,
travels, and entertains me greatly by her fresh comments upon them. She
has not yet complained of my selection being too serious for her. You
see, I keep a copy of my lists, and when I think the pabulum too
nutritious, I throw in a few lollypops in the shape of novels, though I
don’t mean to include all novels under that head. Have you read George
Eliot’s last? I ask, because I would have you not only read, but read
very carefully, everything she writes. In my opinion she is the closest
observer and the profoundest thinker among women to-day. Susie has an
appreciation of her that is delightful to me. You know, of course, that
I am teaching Susie French and natural philosophy. Upon my word, I think
I missed my calling. I should have been a teacher of girls—women I
should say, for girls are only interesting because they are women _in
posse_.

“The great event in Oakdale is the arrival of the Count Von Frauenstein.
I met him at the Kendrick’s last night, and I like him more than any man
I ever met. That is saying a good deal, but I know when a man has the
ring of the true metal. He is a Prussian by birth, but no more belongs
to that country than I do to this 10 × 12 study. In fact, he is a
genuine cosmopolitan. He graduated at Cambridge, for his family took up
their residence in England when he was a boy; then he took a degree in
Philosophy in Heidelberg (which don’t count for much in my opinion),
then lived some years in France, where he was sent on some government
business. Some years ago he came into his inheritance, when he made for
this country for the purpose of investing it. Kendrick says he is worth
two millions to his knowledge, and much more in all probability.
Kendrick is laying pipe to interest him in the new insurance company,
but so far has only succeeded in getting him to help on the new
railroad.

“It was a very stylish affair, the Kendrick reception last night; music,
_chef d’œuvres_ of confectionery, ladies in _undress_, and all that.
Your mother was furious about the display of charms, and of course I
defended it—not on principle, but because she was too savage. Leila and
Linnie were invited, and they would have rejoiced in a state of
_décollété_ extending to their boots, I think. Your mother compromised
the matter with black lace, and so they still live. Frauenstein has a
fine voice, and Linnie was in the seventh heaven when she got a chance
to play him an accompaniment to a song from _Der Freischutz_.

“I never met a real lion in society before, and I studied both with
interest. This fashionable society is nothing, after all, but a kind of
licensed policy-shop. They want Frauenstein’s money, and Kendrick thinks
he has the best right to it because his cousin was Frauenstein’s
mother—an American woman; so you see he has blood! The Delanos are
related to him in about the same degree; so of course you have heard of
him. I like the count for one reason, and this is, that notwithstanding
the display and cajolery of the women, and the flattery of most of the
men, he had the good taste to talk with your old doctor more than to any
one there; so the race is not wholly degenerate! In politics he is
soundly radical, and hates war like a Quaker. He sees in it the
degradation of the people. It was refreshing to hear him talk. He says
the wealth-producers of the world are not dependent upon capital so much
as capital upon them, if they only knew it; for they have everything in
their own hands, and are slowly coming to realize the fact, and to see
how they can organize and accomplish great things. He was very eloquent
when the subject of education came up, and presented the whole matter in
a clear and new light to most of those who heard him. He said it was a
disgrace to the age that we have no text-book of morals for the public
schools; and as the various systems of religion have monopolized the
teaching of codes of morals, by shutting out all religious instruction,
we have shut out moral training as well. It is right to exclude all
creeds from schools supported by the people, but it is a great and vital
error to deprive the young of constant and unremitting instruction in
the laws that should govern human beings in their mutual relations. He
would have a text-book on morals compiled from the writings of all the
great teachers, whether pagan or Christian, excluding every myth and
unverifiable hypothesis. Such a book could be made as acceptable to all
religious sects, as works on arithmetic or chemistry now are. He talked
also of woman’s coming position as that of perfect social and political
equality. It is astonishing how radical Kendrick, old priest Cooke, and
many other out-of-her-sphere noodles, have suddenly become. Kendrick
actually assented to the very propositions he has repeatedly pooh-pooed
when presented by me. I made him feel a little uncomfortable by saying,
‘Mind, Kendrick! I shall see that you stick to that.’

“I come now to the important part of your letter. The old Serpent has
got into your Eden. Two things I would say to you as a preliminary:
first, don’t go off at half-cock. This is a common weakness of women.
Second, don’t expect better bread than can be made of wheat. Your Albert
is not so fine in nature as you supposed, or the fact of your being
unhappy, even disturbed in your mind about his affection, would be the
very strongest motive to self-examination. For myself, I don’t much
believe in marriage, any way: it don’t seem to work. If it could be
prevented until the age of forty or so, it would work better. If you
were an ordinary woman, I should recommend flirting; but that would be
useless in your case. So, my girl, I cannot help you as I would. I need
not dwell on my feelings in the matter. In such cases there is only one
physician, and he is the old mower with the hour-glass. Do not forget,
that although a woman, you are really a philosopher. Love is not all
there is of life; and as you depend less on its intoxication for your
happiness, the more smoothly will work the machinery of destiny, just as
the circulation of the blood is effected more normally when we trust to
Nature, instead of trying to aid her by counting the beating of our
hearts.

“The truth is, I am at a sad loss what to write you on this matter. I
feel sure that you will act wisely, and be unjust to no one. The best I
can do is to trust to your finer instincts. Action and reaction are
equal: so the doctrine of eternal rewards and punishments is true in
principle, though we look for heaven and hell in the wrong places. Be
sure that Nature always restores the equilibrium. This is always the
thought that I comfort myself with. It answers the place that praying
does to the devotee. Nature’s laws are immutable, and cannot fail us. Be
patient, dear girl, and know that there is one old fellow on whom you
can rely, no matter what may happen.

                                         “Yours, as you know,
                                                                 “G. F.”


To the ordinary observer, there might not seem to be anything in the
doctor’s letter to his daughter that should move her deeply; yet she
read all the latter part of it through blinding tears. She received it a
few days after her reconciliation with Albert, and answered it
immediately as follows:


“DEAR, DEAR PAPA: Your letter consoles and blesses me, but I almost
regret mentioning my troubles to you. I _feel_ how they sink into your
heart, and as I read I was filled with gratitude by the thought that you
are still strong and hale and may live as long as I do, which I
fervently desire. The very thought of losing you, is terrible. No one
can ever understand me like my good, my precious, father. Your character
is my ideal of all that is noble in manhood, and it was not wise,
perhaps, for me to marry, because I must measure all men by your
standard, and then be disappointed when they fall below it. I am
unreasonable. I should never expect to find any one with your sense of
justice, or with your delicate appreciation of everything fine in human
motives. I could never deceive you: you see below the surface. I can
deceive Albert, and do constantly, and hate myself for it. I can make
him happy by wearing a smiling face when my heart is as heavy as lead.
About a week ago we had an explanation. He confessed he had been wrong,
had neglected my love, and we cried together, and _played_ that all our
clouds had passed forever. I thought it was possible; but there is
something false and forced about our re-established happiness, that
mocks our once proud state like a beggar’s rags upon a king. Still, I am
much happier. I try to dress more showily. Albert likes the
lilies-of-the-field style of Ella. Think of your Clara’s pride! She
enters the lists in a toilet display to regain the admiration of her
husband. Is it not pitiful?

“O papa, what am I saying? I meant to write you such a happy letter, but
I fear the iron has entered my soul; yet I would not try, even for your
sake, to deceive you, and believe me, I am suffering very little now,
and I really think I shall recover my lost state. It is this hope that
sustains me; but if I am disappointed, I shall rise above it and live. I
am papa’s own girl, and more proud of being the daughter of such a man
than I should be in being the queen of the grandest monarch that ever
lived. If for no other reason than for your sake, I would bear up
philosophically.

              “‘What matters it if I be loved or not?
              And what if he who works shall be forgot?
              The work of Love is no less surely wrought,
              And the great world shall answer me.’

“Are not those grand words? They have just come to the surface of my
memory, like the artist’s negative under the developing solution. I mean
to keep them before me henceforth, like the _mene tekel_ on Belshazzar’s
wall.

“Good-bye, dearest father, mine. I have written myself into a horrid
mood. I have written to Susie, mamma, and others. Trust me, and believe
in the good sense of

                                                       “PAPA’S OWN GIRL.

“P. S.—I _can_ write a letter without a _post scriptum_. You will bear
me witness; but I must say just this: _do not be worried about me so
long as I am silent_.

                                                              “C. F. D.”


The next day the White Mountains party set out on their journey, where
we will leave them for the present and go back to Oakdale.

The time is sunset, and it is summer. A little child, whose flesh seems
moulded from its mother’s milk, is playing on the little green lawn
before Mrs. Buzzell’s porch. It is a creature of exuberant life, of
movement incessant, of inexhaustible joy. She has pure blue eyes, and
her hair is long, straight, and fine like spun gold. It dances and
streams out in the sunlight with the movements of her little frame, as
she dances, and laughs, and sings. At first, being carefully and very
coquettishly dressed by “Auntie,” and let loose upon the lawn, it was
joy enough to simply dance and carol in the sunlight, but soon this
ceased to suffice her. Her active brain and fingers must have more
positive occupation; and a few minutes later “Auntie,” coming out on the
porch, discovered the sprite pirouetting around her beautiful caladium,
a huge leaf-tip in each dimpled hand.

“Min! Min! what _are_ you doing?” The electric current of joy was cut
off instantly, and the child pouted:—

“I’m only dancing with auntie’s _cladium_.”

“Will you let my _cladium_, as you call it, alone? I won’t have its
leaves twisted to rags.” But further admonition was unnecessary, for
Minnie descried a well-known horse and “sulky,” and she ran toward the
gate, crowing at the top of her voice. The doctor jumped out of the
vehicle and took the child in his arms, saying, “Well, how is my little
Min to-day?”

“Auntie’s cwoss,” was the somewhat irrelevant response.

“Cross, is she?” he repeated, taking Mrs. Buzzell’s hand; “then Minnie
must have been a naughty girl.”

“No, se wasn’t naughty; an auntie nee’n’t be so _wough_” (rough).

She was one of those elfin creatures whose accents and gestures, and
charming self-asserting confidence that the machinery of the universe is
run for their special amusement, make it difficult to resist indulging
them in every way. Minnie made you laugh at her, and then she felt sure
of her victory over you. The only dispute Mrs. Buzzell and Susie had
ever had, was on Min’s account; the former declaring that Susie was not
quite tender enough to the child. Susie replied, “I think I love her as
much as any mother should. I shall devote my life principally to her
care and education; but I cannot spend so much time in amusing her as
you do, unless I neglect what is of far more consequence.”

Susie was reading when the doctor entered. She rose, and greeting him,
as she always did, with frank cordiality, held out her book. It was a
copy of _Roderick Random_.

“Doctor, you choose my serious reading, I believe with exemplary
discretion; but shall I waste my precious time and peril my immortal
soul over such trash as this? Trash is too flattering a name for it. I
must borrow yours. I call it, unqualifiedly, _rot_.” The doctor laughed,
and said:

“Why, you must have some light reading.”

“Thank you; but the levity of this is too great altogether.”

“You see, I don’t know much about modern novels; so after George Sand,
George Eliot, Thackeray, Balzac, and Dickens, I’ve reached the end of my
tether, and fall back upon the old standard stock.”

“Standard!” repeated Susie. “If this is a standard, I pity the dwarf
varieties.”

“You borrow your rhetorical figure from your business. It smells of the
shop,” said the doctor smiling.

“Listen! ‘O Jesus! the very features of Mr. Random! So saying, Narcissus
kissed it with surprising ardor, sheds a flood of tears, and then
deposited the lifeless image in her lovely bosom.’ Then,” said Susie,
explaining, “Mr. Random broke from his concealment, when Narcissus
‘uttered a fearful shriek, and fainted in the arms of her companion.’
Then Roderick, telling his story, says: ‘Oh that I were endowed with the
expression of a Raphael, the graces of a Guido, the magic touches of a
Titian, that I might represent the fond concern, the chastened rapture
and ingenuous blush, that mingled on her beauteous face when she opened
her eyes upon me, and pronounced, _O heavens! is it you?_’”

The doctor laughed like a boy. “Why,” said he, “I know any quantity of
young women who would read that with rapture.”

“And would they this?” asked Susie, reading the last sentence of the
book.

“Ah? I confess that is utter nastiness. Smollet! rot!”

“We have just finished Richardson’s _Pamela_, taking turns reading it to
each other while sewing,” said Mrs. Buzzell. “I can scarcely believe
that it is the same story that, in my mother’s time, was read aloud in
the best family circles. Why, I consider it positively indecent.”

“You musn’t think, doctor, that I am not glad to have read these books,”
said Susie; “they are very interesting, as showing the taste of a
century ago. It must be that we are now much more refined than people
were then.”

“Certainly we are,” said the doctor. “With the invention of the
steam-engine and the telegraph, our means of communication with each
other all over the world are immeasurably greater, and this is the
proximate cause of modern culture. Isolation of the community, the
family or the individual favors the savage state, while aggregation
tends to stimulate urbanity, generosity, and all our higher faculties.
See, therefore, how false the religious teaching that exalted hermits
and ascetics of all kinds. Self-torture the church considered
praiseworthy, and even to-day we hear of the ‘mortification of the
flesh,’ for God is still a being to be propitiated by the agonies of his
creatures. Wherever that conception of Nature or God prevails, we may
recognize the traces of the savage, and the absence of any real
vitalizing faith. The only living faith to-day you will find among those
called unbelievers or infidels—men devoted to the discovery of
scientific methods. To them Nature is never inimical to man.”

“_Is_ Nature never inimical to man?” queried Susie. “Does not the cold
freeze him, the sun scorch him, the water drown him, wild beasts devour
him, the earthquake and the lightning destroy him, as well as disease
and accident?”

“Ah!” said the doctor. “What do we mean by man? Do we mean the savage
who has command of a few of his forces, or the integrally-developed
human being, commanding all his forces, and through this command,
setting himself in harmony with Nature,

                “‘Like perfect music unto noble words?’

Man has not accomplished this, hence the use of faith. The best thinkers
to-day have the strongest faith that we are to obtain further and more
complete control over the elements; that we are to control the weather,
the climate, and make the planet a stately Eden, fit for the emancipated
human race. Is not that a sublime faith?”

“A much more difficult faith,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “than any I know of.”

“To me it is very simple; simpler far than all others,” said the doctor.
“No one can deny that the whole history of human beings on this planet
is a history of extending and harmonizing their mutual relations and
interests. See the savage. He is at war with all his kind, like the
beast, except, perhaps, a chosen female of his species; then, when he
has risen a little higher, he establishes a harmony of interest in the
family, the tribe, then throughout the race constituting the different
tribes, and so a nation is developed—at war, of course, with all other
nations, and calling all foreigners barbarians. Then nations recognize
each other, and evolve codes of international law, and cease preying
upon each other. Have we reached the acme of human progress? So
doubtless the savage thought when he had invented a stone knife to scalp
his neighbor. When the steam-engine was utilized, who was not satisfied
when news could fly over the country at the rate of thirty miles an
hour? Who then, except the scientist, would have believed that we should
literally ‘put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes?’ To me, and
many others, this increase of harmony among different peoples, points
unerringly to the time when the higher nature of man will rule, when his
intelligence will come to comprehend the harmony of all human interests,
and his affections embrace all mankind as brothers. This is our
millennium, Mrs. Buzzell—the reign of peace, harmony, and love.”

“Amen!” said Mrs. Buzzell, who was holding the sleeping Minnie in her
arms.

“We cannot really disagree,” said Susie, “whatever our different creeds,
if we only love God in the right way, and that is through faith in
humanity. It is because we have not sufficient faith in humanity, that
we are so selfish and dishonest.”

“That is very true, Susie; but we have not yet the conditions for
showing our faith. We shall finally, in the general, concerted action of
the world toward great ends. Our forces now are ‘like sweet bells
jangled.’ Melodies are first created, then harmonies, and lastly, grand
symphonies.”




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                              THE CRISIS.


 During all this summer, so fraught with wretchedness for Clara, Susie
was working with untiring energy, extending her arrangements for the
future. As an experiment, she set out, in an unused part of Mrs.
Buzzell’s kitchen-garden, a hundred young shade-trees of new and rare
varieties, among them the broad-leaved, rapidly-growing _Paulonia
imperialis_. She wisely foresaw that the taste for ornamental trees
would increase with the growth of Oakdale and surrounding towns; and
then in her thoughts she often saw Clara, her bright hopes wrecked, and
weary of life, returning to be helped and blessed by the very one who
owed her so much. Then Susie would lose herself in dreams of a vast,
successful business, built up all by their own hands, out of which there
would come health, and work, and interest in life, independent of the
cheating intoxication of love. It was in the midst of reveries like
this, that she received the following letter from Clara, dated at North
Conway, New Hampshire:


“MY DEAR FRIEND: Do you remember what you once told me about the fable
of the lion and the mouse? Oh, child! you are no longer the mouse as
compared to me, for you are strong while I am weak. Your wounds are
healed, but mine will never heal, for in my madness I am always tearing
them open afresh.

“I write you, dear Susie, because there is no one else on earth before
whom I can cast off all pride, except my father, and I would spare him a
little longer at least, because from my last letters he thinks matters
are improving. Judge for yourself. We are still here, though many of the
visitors are gone, because Albert and his friend are perfectly happy,
and I cannot possibly care whether I go or stay. I keep in my room much
of the day, while they ride, or walk, or dance, or play games, all the
day and evening, their bliss only marred by the sight of my thin, pale
face. Do you know the very hardest thing I have to bear is Albert’s
telling me that he has not changed, but loves me just as fondly as ever?
There is something like murder in my heart when he does this, essaying
by argument to show that it cannot be otherwise. Oh, Susie! how well a
woman knows that love needs no logic to prove its existence. Long ago he
reproached me for saying ‘where there is doubt of love, there must be
cause for doubt.’ When love is perfect, we can no more doubt its
existence than we can the presence of the sun at noonday.

“My old friend and teacher, Miss Marston, passed through here with some
friends, and stopped several days. I begged Albert to let me play while
she was here, the rôle of the happy wife. I think he regrets the change
in him, though he cannot resist the power that is leading him from me.
He seemed impressed by my stony, tearless face. In answer to Miss
Marston’s anxiety about my changed looks, I said I had been quite ill,
which, heaven knows, is true enough. I manœuvred in every way to prevent
her seeing the state of things. We actually rode and walked several
times without Ella. This made her pout and flirt with Colonel Murdock,
one of her admirers, which so alarmed Albert that he completely unmasked
all my beautiful acting. Miss Marston soon penetrated beneath the
surface. ‘Who is this Miss Wills?’ she asked. I told her the ward of Mr.
Delano, and an old and dear friend of my husband. ‘Is it possible’ she
asked, ‘that you do not see the nature of the attachment between your
husband and her?’ Still I played my part. I was the proud, happy wife,
confident of my husband’s affection. I know I made a pitiful figure.
Miss Marston divined the truth, and I expected every moment she would
burst out upon me, as she used to do upon her pupils, when guilty of
deceiving—an unpardonable offence in her eyes; but I think something in
my face alarmed her, and kept her silent. She was very tender to me, and
it was good to have her here. She was struck with the beauty of Albert.
He impresses every one the same way. His lithe, fine form, his handsome,
regular face, and long, dark moustaches, make him greatly admired by
women.”


Under a later date, Clara wrote in the same letter: “This morning Albert
received a telegram from Boston, demanding his presence immediately, for
his father is again very ill. I wished to go with him. There was not
time for Ella to get her half dozen ‘Saratogas’ ready. That was the
secret cause of his objection. She would not like him to take his wife
and not her! I cannot tell you how keenly I felt his willingness to
leave me behind—me, his once adored Clara, whose absence he could not
endure.

“Sometimes I think I am selfish, to burden you with my sufferings, but I
know you would have me do so, and you are right in saying it lightens
them to have them shared by sympathetic hearts. I have so much to bear!
Long since I have given up the idea of making Albert understand that my
trials are greater than I can bear. I gave it up when he came to me and
told me of Ella’s _unhappiness_ because of my coldness to her. Think of
it! I, with my breaking heart, must comfort the rosy, happy Ella, when
her little finger aches! I must do this or Albert is afflicted. I did
not do it. I treat her kindly, but I cannot love her, and never should,
under any circumstances. She is little, and soulless, and selfish. How
can such a woman touch my heart, when I have seen and appreciated the
noble generosity, the soulful delicacy of Susie? Of course Albert thinks
I am jealous without knowing it. Can you understand how he wrongs me? I
like him to flatter and caress women. It is his nature to be very
gallant, only I would know that I hold my old place in his heart, and
knowing I have lost it, I would not have him place another before me in
the eyes of the world. This he does constantly. For weeks I have
suffered a dull pain in the centre of my brain, and at times I fear I
shall go mad. I am relieved, actually, by Albert’s absence; for a time,
at least, I shall be spared the sight of his blissful expression when
Ella comes into his presence. Oh, Susie! grief like mine dries up the
fountains of my gladness at the happiness of others, and I long for
death as I have sometimes longed for Albert’s loving words and kisses,
as I knew them in our happy days. How often I think of poor La
Vallière’s words, referring to the king and Montespan—‘When I wish to do
penance at the convent of the Carmelites, I will think of what these
people have made me suffer.’

“Write me often, dear Susie. Your letters are my one comfort. The
thought haunts me that some crisis is approaching. It may be that there
is; that I have seen Albert for the last time; but I am so weary, so
anxious for rest, that I would pay for it with this or any sacrifice. Do
not afflict yourself too much on my account. Remember I still appear
regularly at table. I walk every day, and I am young, and can endure to
the end. With love to Mrs. B. and kisses to Min,

                                             “Lovingly yours,
                                                         “CLARA DELANO.”

Dr. Delano found his father very ill, and his few days of absence
lengthened into two weeks. He wrote occasionally to his wife, but every
day brought a letter, or a book or magazine, to Ella, which she never
read, being engaged in a flirtation that demanded too much dressing and
general attention to leave any time for reading. Clara sometimes thought
her husband must be crazy. He knew how fond she was of reading. As a
school-girl, he had constantly sent her magazines and periodicals, with
passages or articles marked which he wished her to notice particularly,
and he had told her afterward that he had loved her even then, and
thought of her as his future wife.

She often watched Ella in her display of feminine wiles, but could not
discover what there was to fascinate men. The subtle mystery escaped all
analysis in that case, as it ever does; but Clara, in her generosity,
believed there must be something beneath the surface-some hidden wealth
of sensibility, perhaps—which women could not discover. If Albert had
only trusted her as a perfect friend, and had not tried in any way to
deceive her when he became absorbed in his passion for Ella, she would
have met him nobly and suffered far less; but her pain had been tenfold
increased by his want of confidence in her sympathy. He did not and
could not understand her, and this discovery of his weakness was a blow
to her self-pride hardly less endurable than his submitting her to the
mortifying position of the neglected wife.

One evening, when he had been gone two weeks, Clara sat in her room
watching the rosy sunset haze on the old mountains, and thinking over
the events of her life. She had just re-read Albert’s last letter. The
words were there, but the soul was lacking. Later in the evening she
recognized Ella’s voice proceeding from a balcony beneath. A gentleman
was with her, and there could be no doubt that Ella was drawing him on
to make the greatest possible fool of himself. Clara heard her own name
mentioned by Ella in no flattering terms. Her companion opposed her
criticism quite generously, considering his position with regard to
Ella. Clara could not sit there without hearing everything, and there
was a temptation to do so, as any one can believe who has ever been
placed in a similar position. She, however, closed her window with a
little noise, and when she opened it again, all was silent. What she had
heard Ella say, was, that Dr. Delano’s marriage was a “veritable
_mésalliance_”—that there could “never be any real sympathy between
them.” Once Clara would have written all her thoughts freely to Albert;
now a seal was on her lips. Whatever she might say of Ella would be
attributed at once to her inability to comprehend Ella’s “childlike”
nature. Oh, it was hard to be forced to brood in silence over thoughts
and feelings that he, of all the world, should share with her.

That day Clara had received one of Susie’s long, nicely-written letters,
detailing little village events, the mild flirtations of the twin
sisters, the doctor’s sayings and doings, the ways and speeches of
“little Min,” and her own schemes and hopes for the future. “Dear
Susie!” thought Clara; “she knows I am unhappy, and so writes me every
day, hoping to bring some little sunshine into my life. Why, even Susie
shows more love for me than Albert. What is there in his letter? Only
the cool assurance that he has not changed—the stupid persistence that
the sun is shining, when all the world is wrapped in Cimmerian gloom. My
father would never consider me weak enough to be deceived by such
shallow pretence.”

Clara had gone to her room to answer Albert’s letter. For this purpose
she had given up joining a moonlight excursion to _Diana’s Baths_, a
wonderful freak of Nature where, in the solid granite, the trickling
water-drops of ages have smoothly carved out vessels of all imaginable
shapes, not a few greatly resembling the common bathing-tub. All these
vessels were overflowing with the crystal water of a mountain-spring.

Clara sat until far into the night, trying to write to Albert, and
knowing all the while that it would be just as well to be silent. And
yet she did write a long letter—a cry from an overladen soul that ought
to have moved a heart of stone. “I know not why I write,” she said,
toward the last of the letter. “My reason rebels against these frantic
attempts to patch together the fragments of the golden bowl. Love wants
its perfect illusions—wants and will have nothing else, these failing.
No wonder you try to deceive me when you see how my health and strength,
and all the little beauty I ever had, are failing under the griefs I
have borne so long. Believe me, dearest, I _do_ know I am wrong to write
you when I must burden you with sorrow you are powerless to alleviate. I
cannot blame you in my heart. It is not your fault that Clara’s love has
ceased to be the most precious thing in the world to you.”

To this there soon came the following reply:


“MY DEAR CLARA:—I wish you would give up studying the death of love, and
study its life. You brood over imaginary troubles too much. I wish you
could have children, but that will never happen, because you are too
unquiet in your temperament. You have no real cause for unhappiness. My
regard for Ella in no way interferes with that for my wife. You ought to
know that all real love ennobles. Albert never takes back any love that
he once freely gives, and my love for you has never suffered the
slightest change. Love is not a suffocating warmth, or at least, it
should not be.

“I send you some valerian powders. Take one every night at bed-time. I
am obliged to go out of town for a day or two on pressing business, and
then, dearest, I shall be with you in the flesh, as I am ever in spirit.

                                   “Always and ever yours,
                                                               “ALBERT.”


“Never suffered the slightest change!” repeated Clara, bitterly. “What
must he think of my common sense?” His words about children cut her to
the heart. She did not believe him, and she despised the whole heartless
tone of the letter.

The next morning Ella rapped at her door. She was in a very jaunty
traveling dress. She was in very high spirits, and made Clara think she
was going away “for good,” but finally stated that she was only going
down to Wolfboro’, on Lake Winnepiseogee, for a day’s visit. She would
return the next evening. The next morning a letter came. Clara did not
notice the postmark, and her heart leaped as she read, in Albert’s own
hand, “My precious one,”—the old words he had always applied to her. It
went on for three pages, in the lover’s most impassioned strain. The
first few lines revealed the fact that it had been written to Ella, but
Clara’s eyes were fascinated, and she read every word. He dwelt
continually upon Ella’s beauty, upon her lips, her “glorious eyes,”
everything, showing clearly and most unmistakably, that he was wholly,
desperately enamored. It was dated the same day and hour as her last
letter from Albert, which added, if possible, to the heartlessness of
his deception. It had perhaps been purloined from Miss Wills’ room, or
possibly Ella had dropped it, and one of the boarders, from some
justifiable motive, had sent it through the Conway post-office to Mrs.
Delano.

Clara sat for a long time with this letter before her, her hands and
feet icy cold. Shouts of gay laughter came up from the veranda. Were
they discussing the effects this letter would have upon the forlorn
wife? Clara did not believe human nature capable of heartlessness like
that. Doubtless the person who had found that letter and sent it to her,
had been disgusted at her blind faith, her submission to gross neglect
that would have roused any woman of spirit to open rebellion. Some woman
had sent this letter. The superscription revealed that fact. Poor
Clara’s thoughts were bitter indeed. She was not lacking in spirit, but
it was not her way to bluster and remind her husband of her rights as a
wife. He had failed to respect her position before the world, and for
this she could not forgive him. She knew well that we cannot command the
inward devotion of the heart; that this must be won by charm; and here
Clara felt that she was powerless. Still this could not excuse him for
deceiving or trying to deceive her. It was so like a common, coarse
man’s treatment of his peer. Though Clara felt like sinking utterly
beneath this blow, her native dignity supported her. After a while she
dressed carefully, and joined the groups below. Towards evening, gossip
was busy with the story that Dr. Delano and Miss Wills were stopping at
a hotel together at Dover. Clara traced the report to Colonel Murdock,
who had been absent for a few days, and had returned by the afternoon
stage. Clara found an opportunity to speak to him alone.

“I am told,” she said, “that this story about my husband is stated as a
fact in your possession.” Colonel Murdock bowed.

“Will you be kind enough to repeat it to me, if it is true? I charge
you, by everything you hold sacred, to tell me only what you know to be
_positive fact_.”

Clara was very calm, but there was something in her tone and manner that
would have exacted the truth even from the most untruthful. Colonel
Murdock had no disposition to deceive, and moreover, he was a very
honest man.

“Madam,” he said, “I am sorry to afflict you, but it is perfectly true.”

“_What_ is perfectly true? Do not mind afflicting me.”

“That I saw Dr. Delano and Miss Wills in Dover yesterday, at four
o’clock in the afternoon, riding together in an open carriage.”

“Might you not possibly have been deceived?”

“No, madam, it was your husband; and as for Miss Wills, she recognized
me. I may add that she told me distinctly, a few days ago, that she was
going to Wolfboro’ yesterday, which was a falsehood.”

“I thank you, Colonel Murdock, and beg you to excuse me for troubling
you,” and with a smile upon her lips, and a manner perfectly calm, she
left him, and soon after went to her room. It is folly to try to
describe the long horrors of that night. They had to be lived through,
and Clara counted the hours one by one, for she never touched her bed
nor dreamed of sleeping. Early in the evening she had packed her trunk,
carefully putting away in Albert’s, everything that belonged to him.
Some time during the night, she wrote a note to him. The stage was to
leave early in the morning. A little while before it started, she
ordered a cup of coffee and sent for the landlord. He came in bland and
smiling, and asked what he could do to serve her.

“Mr. Hammond,” she said, with the air of one confident of carrying all
points. “I must leave this morning, and I wish you to loan me fifty
dollars.”

“Well, madam, doubtless your husband——”

“No, no,” she said, cutting him short. “I must have it on my own
responsibility. Take my watch as security, and understand that my
husband is not to pay this under any circumstances. I shall return you
the money without delay.”

The polite landlord refused the security, and furnished the money. This,
with what Clara had in her purse, enabled her to just meet her traveling
expenses, and to pay the hotel bill of herself and her guest, Miss
Wills, which had been running since Albert left. A few minutes later,
after running the gauntlet of a few curious boarders lounging on the
veranda, the smiling landlord handed Clara into the coach with great
deference.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                       THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE.


 There was great excitement for the rest of the day in the Kearsarge
House, and when the evening coach brought Ella from the railroad
station, she was surprised at the coldness with which everybody greeted
her; but she was a rich heiress, and scandal handled her with gloves.
She explained to one or two, whose lead others would be likely to
follow, that her meeting with Dr. Delano in Dover was the purest
accident. “Why!” she exclaimed, “what else _could_ it have been?” and
this passed current, for Colonel Murdock had said nothing, except to
Clara, of his knowledge of Ella’s pretence that she was going to
Wolfboro’. Still, there were some who knew the secret of the letter, and
these avoided all further recognition of her, except a few fawners who
pretended that that part of the scandal was a pure fabrication. The next
day Albert returned, having waited over only for appearance’ sake, for
he might just as well have come with Ella. He went immediately up to his
rooms, and seeing no one, concluded his wife must be out riding or
walking; still it was strange, for he had written, informing her of his
intended return, and naturally she would have met him at the veranda.
Very soon he went to the office and asked the clerk where Mrs. Delano
was, but the answer being very indefinite, Colonel Murdock, who had just
bought a cigar, volunteered the following:

“Your wife, Dr. Delano? You have killed her, I think; but you’ll find
your sweetheart in the bowling-alley.”

Like lightning it flashed upon the doctor that Murdock had blabbed the
Dover affair. This explained the exceedingly cool air with which one or
two had returned his greeting on alighting from the coach.

“Insolent coxcomb!” growled Dr. Delano, ready to fly at the colonel’s
throat; but at the critical moment the clerk thrust a letter into his
face, and as he took it, the other left the office. The thought flashed
upon the doctor, at the sight of the superscription, that his wife had
left the hotel. He returned to his rooms, and shutting himself in,
opened Clara’s letter. At the sight of the enclosed one which he had
written to Ella, he bit his lip and turned pale. Clara had written him
the following:


“I enclose you a letter which was found, I suppose, by some one here. I
received it through the post-office yesterday. I enclose, also, the
hotel bill, which I have paid in full. As to the letter I do not blame
you, since it is the expression of a passion that controls you, and I
have not lost my faith in manhood because you have proved unworthy. I
believe there are men too honorable to call two women ‘_dearest_’ in the
same breath. If I did not, I should not be my father’s daughter.

“Surely, if there is crime in falseness, you stand accused before all
courts of Love; yet you well know that the greatest crime is robbing me
of the power to respect you. Love has conquered pride and even
self-respect, up to this time, and I have submitted to being made a
spectacle of pity and derision—I, the once adored, once honored Clara,
forced by you to play the rôle of the hoodwinked wife! When married
people desire to live together after they have outlived their illusions,
I think they ought to guard each other’s honor before the world.

“No matter now. I am going to one who never fails me; one who always
loves and caresses me, even when I commit the enormity of daring to
suffer. I shall never meet you again, if I can avoid it. Please have my
wardrobe, household linen, and whatever belongs specially to me, sent to
my father.

“You can get a divorce on the ground of desertion, if you wish to marry.
I am willing, and you need not fear that any one can persuade me into
opposing you. I sincerely wish you a long and happy life with one who
can always be happy, and not brood so much over imaginary troubles as to
prevent her being a mother—whose love will not be a ‘suffocating
warmth,’ but one to please you in every way.

“I thank you for sending the valerian powders. I think they were not
indicated in my case.

“I write with calmness, after many hours of self-examination and cool
reflection as to my best course. Rest assured that I shall not regret
the step that gives you cause for a formal divorce, for you have been
really divorced from me since the time when you took another to your
heart. The letter is very little to me—the spirit everything.

                                             “With kindly feeling,
                                                         “CLARA FOREST.”


Every word of this letter cut like a two-edged sword, and at the moment,
Dr. Delano felt that he could give his life to recall his acts for the
last few months. He had never dreamed that there was that in Clara which
would impel her to such a step. Truly she must have suffered, before
bringing herself to give up even the pleasure of ever meeting him again.
He did not accept the letter, however, as a true expression of the Clara
he had known. Of course she would long for his presence as days passed,
and then would be the time for him to write her to return. A little
scandal in a small country place could not injure him materially, but a
scandal in Boston such as would be caused by a wife leaving her husband,
would affect him very seriously—at this time, too, when his father, who
was very fond of Clara, was very feeble. He might do something foolish.

Finally, though Albert was much troubled in mind, he comforted himself
with hope; and when the first impulse of pity for Clara’s trials had
passed, he began to blame her for taking such a rash step and
endangering his good name before the world. This mood remained,
fortifying itself, until he became convinced that he had been treated in
a very shocking, even insulting manner. She would come back to him of
course, but he would dictate the conditions. This settled, he went to
find Ella. It was early evening, and she was walking in the maple
avenue. She was almost icy in her manner, and reproached him for writing
her to come to Dover.

“Why did you come, unless you wished to?”

“It was very unkind of you,” she said, not heeding his remark, “and it
has caused such a horrid scandal. I don’t believe I shall ever live
through it. Where is Clara?” He was silent, being a little disgusted
that at such a time, Ella should think only of herself. “Oh, you need
not tell me, if you don’t choose to. Oh, I wish I had never come to this
horrid place! and now, to make everything worse, you are all changed to
me.”

The ruling passion was still strong in Albert. He denied the assertion.
It was against his principles to change; and as their conduct had shut
them out from sympathy with all their surroundings, they naturally
needed each other, and parted for the night on the best of terms, after
deciding on the wisest plan to pursue. This was, for Ella to pass a
month with some friends in Rhode Island, until matters were settled,
while Albert was to go at once to Boston, and, by properly representing
the case, forestall criticism. Here we will leave them, and go to
Oakdale, to see what is passing in Dr. Forest’s home at precisely the
same hour.

The doctor’s family were assembled in the sitting-room, where the wood
fire had just been lighted in the grate, for the evening promised to be
chilly. Mrs. Forest and Leila were busily engaged with some needle-work.
Linnie was deeply absorbed in _The Woman in White_, and the doctor sat
silently watching the fire, forgetting to light his pipe, which had been
filled for some time. Upon this quiet tableau the door opened, and
Clara, pale as death and travel-stained, entered, and with one great sob
threw herself into her father’s arms. Mrs. Forest sprang to her feet,
exclaiming, “_Clara Forest! You come home like this, and alone! Where is
your husband?_”

Clara raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and, turning to her
mother, said, just above a whisper, and with great effort, “I have no
husband. I have left Albert Delano forever!”

Mrs. Forest, forgetting everything in her horror of a woman who has the
audacity to leave her husband, and such a model husband too, could not
control her indignation, and burst forth in cruel reproaches. The doctor
said nothing for a minute or so, but kept on soothing Clara. His
patience, however, could not endure his wife’s injustice. “Stop,
Fannie!” he cried. “You offend me beyond endurance. Our poor girl comes
to us ill and faint and weary of the world, and you receive her like
this! Good God! Where is your common sense? You should think of the
shock this tearing-away must cause her, and reserve your reproaches
until you know the circumstances.” Clara, who had been clinging to her
father, sobbing convulsively, now raised her head and commenced to
explain as well as she could, for speaking was almost impossible.

“My daughter,” interrupted the doctor, “you need not justify yourself to
me. Do I not know that it is natural for a wife to stick to her husband
through thick and thin? You are a warm-hearted, honest girl, and the
fact that you have left him, is enough for me. I know he has acted like
a brute.”

“Goodness me!” whispered Leila to her sister. “It’s papa’s own girl, you
see, and of course she can’t do anything wrong.”

“Hush!” answered Linnie. “I think he’s right this time, any way. See
those awful black rings around her eyes!” and Linnie, obeying a kind,
sisterly instinct, went to her sister and kissed her, saying, “I’m right
glad to see you, sissy; but you do look so tired. Dinah shall make you a
cup of tea, while I go and get you a warm bath ready.”

“There’s a good heart, Linnie,” said the doctor, caressing Linnie’s
cheek. “The bath is just the thing. We’ll try to make your sister forget
her troubles, won’t we?” Mrs. Forest sank into a chair and began to cry;
then she got up and embraced Clara, saying, in a stricken voice, “It is
dreadful! but God knows best why afflictions are sent upon me.” Leila
came last, and pressed her hard little mouth to her sister’s cheek,
thinking all the time what a dreadful fool Clara was, to leave such a
splendid fellow as Dr. Delano, and so rich, too!

That night Clara was in a high fever, and seemed to want no one near her
but her father; so at least he interpreted it, and sent all the rest
away. He did not enjoin her to keep quiet, as so many people do under
any similar circumstances. He knew there could be no greater harm done
by talking of her griefs than by silently brooding over them; and as it
would be folly to ask her to cease thinking of them, he allowed her to
talk on until far into the night, when the quieting medicine he had
given her commenced to act, and she sank into a heavy slumber, somewhat
comforted by the ever-ready sympathy that she knew could never fail her.
She was always as sure of it as that the day will follow the night. From
her earliest years she had been in the habit of going to him, instead of
her mother, with all her childish troubles. When these resulted from her
own wrong-doing, his tenderness was even greater. He never scolded,
never blamed her in these cases, but he did what was far wiser: he
showed her his own grief that she had been guided by her lower, instead
of her higher motives, and this, more than anything else could have
done, inspired her to resist temptation. Another principle was
continually impressed upon his children by the doctor: that yielding to
base feelings made the face ugly, and that constantly being guided by
kindness, love and charity, moulded all the features into beauty. Mrs.
Forest always doubted the efficacy of such teaching, and did not wait
longer than the next morning before telling him that Clara had never
sufficiently cared for public opinion, and that this had been constantly
fostered and strengthened by her father’s principles.

“When you remember,” said the doctor, “that I am seldom at home, that
you have had ten hours to my one to instil _your_ principles, you ought
not to complain. Fannie, dear,” he said, after a pause, and suddenly
changing his defiant mood, “let us do the best we can with life. Heaven
knows it is anything but a blessing to most of us.” This is what he
actually said, but there had been quite a different train of thought in
his mind. It had just escaped utterance, through one of those mysteries
of brain-action that control our motives. He had been about to say that
it had been better for her, and him also, if they had separated twenty
years ago; that nothing cramps the growth of all that is best in manhood
and womanhood like the forced intimacy of the marriage tie, when no deep
sympathy or mutual trust exists; that it is like preserving year after
year a corpse in your drawing-room with spices and perfumes, pretending
that it is only sleeping. He was glad he had not said it, for no power
of his could make her enter, even for a moment, the world in which he
lived; and it was useless, and worse than useless, to attempt it. He
left soon after on his round of daily visits to his patients, taking
with him a note from Clara to Susie, and a little later Mrs. Forest went
to Clara’s room. This was an interview that Clara dreaded, for her
mother would neither comprehend nor excuse her motives for the step she
had taken. Clara commenced by saying she was sorry that she had been
compelled to do anything that grieved her mother. As she said this she
rose and begged her mother to take the arm-chair in which she had been
sitting by the fire, wrapped in her mother’s “double gown.” Mrs. Forest
refused kindly, and brought a shawl for Clara’s shoulders, as the
morning was cold. Clara was touched by this kindness, which she
expressed by kissing her mother’s hand. Mrs. Forest wanted the whole
story. Clara commenced, but broke down after a few sentences. Mrs.
Forest soothed her a little, and then sat down quietly and commenced to
sew. One of her soothing remarks was that no doubt Albert would forgive
her for leaving him, and write for her to return.

“That will only show how little he knows of my father’s girl.”

“Your father’s girl,” said Mrs. Forest, with some heat, “was always a
Quixotic enthusiast, always holding notions and whims that no
sober-minded person ever heard of.”

“I don’t know that my ambition is to be sober-minded. Heads are very
good in their way, but as for me, I believe in hearts.”

“And no doubt you worried Albert to death with your romantic nonsense.”

“Did I?” said Clara, as if her thoughts were far away. “I wished him to
love me, mother dear. If that is being romantic, I am certainly guilty.”

“Of course he did love you, but you should not expect him to go into
transports every five minutes. It is foolish to expect that, after
marriage, and I think very bad taste to desire it. If you had a child to
occupy your attention, you would think less of continual demonstration
on the part of your husband.” Clara shrank lower into the folds of her
shawl. She was tired of the mention of this impossible baby.

“I am sure I would rather have my husband’s love than a thousand
babies.”

“A thousand! Very likely.”

“Well, one then. I am glad that I found out his indifference before any
such event happened; but Albert says I shall never have any children
because I am too nervous.”

“Does he? Well, I am sure that is very unkind indeed, when you have been
married so short a time. He had no right to say such a cruel thing.”
Clara wondered that her mother should give this such prominence. _She_
had been wounded by it, because of Albert’s coldness; otherwise it would
not have affected her, for it could not sound like a reproach. Mrs.
Forest did not seem to comprehend the distinction. She urged Clara, by
all the eloquence and argument in her power, to make up the quarrel with
her husband. She urged her to consider the disgrace of her step, the
wealth and standing of the Delanos, and the social advantages of such an
alliance. This failed to move Clara, for she had not a particle of
social ambition. Wealth sufficient to secure a pleasant home, with books
and flowers and ordinary luxuries, was all she wanted for herself
personally; but had misfortune deprived her of these, she would have met
it without a murmur, and worked night and day to make the deprivations
less hard for Albert to bear. This she expressed to her mother.

“Of course, any good wife would do that; but how much better,” said Mrs.
Forest, “to have wealth and the position that insures your reception in
the highest society.”

“The highest society, mother dear, I hold to be that of people of
thought and solid culture, and these are always approachable without
being heralded by the _fanfari_ of wealth and social position.”

“I presume you even regret the wealth of your husband, and dream of love
in a cottage,” said Mrs. Forest, with ill humor.

“How you do misunderstand me, mother dear,” said Clara, wearily. “When I
express the thoughts and convictions dearest and most sacred to me, you
take no notice of them. It was always so with Albert; but I would not
have asked even that he should understand me, if he had not grown so
cold. And then his persistent solicitude about Ella, his delight in her
conversation, which was like the chattering of a monkey, compared to
that of any serious person—”

“You mean, compared to yours.”

“Why, yes: what is the use of sham modesty in the presence of the truth?
She was _not_ my equal in anything. If she had been, I should wonder
less at his infatuation.” Here Mrs. Forest questioned Clara, and
extracted the Dover affair.

“Why, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “Why did you not tell me this
before? Why, child, I have been too severe. Of course you could not
endure such dishonor. Why did you not tell me at first of this?”

“Oh, I did not think that so important. Of course he did not intend it
should disgrace me. He did not mean it to be known, of course.” Mrs.
Forest was shocked beyond measure, and ran on for some minutes giving
vent to her indignation against Miss Wills. Clara assured her that Miss
Wills was guilty of no further impropriety than meeting Albert, and
added, “though that makes little difference to me; when Albert’s love
was gone, all was gone.”

Mrs. Forest was glad to have the assurance that Albert had not been
guilty of “absolute infidelity,” and saw the way clearly to a speedy
reconciliation. “Oh, mother,” said Clara, “you do not understand what
separates us at all. We are talking to each other in Greek and Sanscrit.
Do you not see, I cannot care so much for the body, because I care so
much more for the soul? The fidelity that came from love, would be a
compliment to me; but ought I to be flattered by a chastity that was
merely forced by a promise? Forgive me; you are too material to
comprehend that. No infidelity but one, could send me from Albert, and
that he has committed a thousand times. What should I go back to? I have
no husband, as I told you last night. To live with him, when he longs
only for the presence of another woman, shocks my sense of morality.”

“But you are married to him. You have a legal right to his property. The
law does not hold you as free, nor excuse him for not taking care of
you.”

“Then the law is a fool. I don’t care a straw for it. What right have I
to his property? I did not bring any of it to him. If he were my husband
in soul, there would be no degradation to my sharing it all with him;
but now to go back to his cold heart because simply he is obliged to
take care of me, or to avoid scandal! I beg your pardon. I would die
first. If I am to be kept, simply—for mercy’s sake let there be the
justification of mutual love.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “I never heard such words from a lady’s
mouth. Why, one would think you had no conception of the sanctity of
marriage.”

“Oh, mother dear, just now I called your views material, and reproached
myself inwardly for the rudeness,” said Clara, speaking with great
difficulty, “but, honestly, you do take a view of marriage that
horrifies me. There is no marriage when love is dead. I could not live
through such a solemn farce;” and Clara sank back quite exhausted, and
Mrs. Forest, trusting she would listen to reason when she grew calmer,
left the room.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                THE EFFECT OF DR. DELANO’S FORGIVENESS.


 As soon as Clara recovered her strength somewhat, she visited Susie
daily, and spent a great deal too much time with her, to please Mrs.
Forest. One day she found her in her conservatory, where the sashes were
all raised, busily planting young tube-rose plants in pots. “These,”
said Susie, “_must_ not flower until December;” and she spoke as though
the fate of worlds depended upon her success. “If you never go back,
Clara, we will build up a great florist business. We will not only sell
flowers, but shrubs, and shade-trees, and evergreens. See these little
junipers and spruces,” she added, leading Clara to the garden; “they
grow just perfectly. Oh, if I only had a thousand dollars! but I shall
make quite a little sum this winter;” and so she ran on detailing her
hopes and plans, and as she talked, she stooped among brilliant beds of
verbenas, and with her scissors commenced the most merciless onslaught,
cutting off every flower, and even all the stalks for some inches. Clara
uttered an exclamation at the devastation.

“You see I _may_ fail with my tube-roses, but I am sure of these. By
cutting back the plants, and making the earth soft and rich about them,
I force splendid cutting that will root easily, and make nice plants for
winter flowering. I have a cooler spot in my conservatory for verbenas.”

“Why, Susie, how much you know about the subject!” said Clara,
admiringly, as Susie went on with her work.

“I know a little about botany, you see, and I learned a great many
practical details at Anderson’s. You’ve no idea how kind he was and is
to me. He has engaged to buy every tube-rose, orange-blossom, camellia,
violet, and white-rose I can produce from October to April. I shall send
my first orange-blossoms in a few days. At Christmas every camellia will
bring fifty cents. I shall get forty-five if he retails them at fifty. I
only had thirty last winter, but I ought to have at least fifty this
coming winter, and the next winter, oh, Clara! I can have ten times that
number easily; but I want some one to help me. Mrs. Buzzell is growing
old, and cannot do as much of the house-work as she did, and I _must_
not neglect my flowers.”

“Why should I not come with you?” asked Clara, enthusiastically. “Susie,
I have an ‘impression,’ as the spiritualists say, that this is a
heaven-appointed way for you and me to work out our salvation together.
I can sell my watch, if necessary, though I would hate to do it. It is
an elegant chronometer, given me by father Delano. I am crazy to work,
Susie. Can I not do something now? Why should these fine verbenas lie
here to rot, and here you have sweet-mignonette by the yard, all in
blossom!”

“If I only had a place in the city for little bouquets, not the
conventional style, but sweet little ones for the hair and to wear at
the breast;” and while she was speaking, she took a spray of
scarlet-verbena, set it around with mignonette and a bordering of
apple-geranium leaves. “They ought to bring ten cents at this season—at
least five.”

“Why, Susie, they could be sold by the thousand. I believe Miss Galway,
my dressmaker, could dispose of any number. Let us set to work at once
and make up a hundred of them, and you take them to her to-morrow, with
a letter from me. I have her confidence, and can count on her assent.
Nothing will be lost anyway, if we fail.” Susie seized the opportunity,
and the work commenced. A layer of thirty just covered the bottom of the
basket Susie provided—a very ugly basket, that came from the florist’s
with Neapolitan violet roots. Five layers, one hundred and fifty
bouquets, were ready before Clara left, and the next morning, at ten
o’clock, were actually on sale in Miss Galway’s window, labeled “ten
cents each.” Susie returned in high spirits. She had found Miss Galway
charming. Two of the bouquets had been sold in five minutes. “Oh,
Clara!” she exclaimed, “if I had only known, I could have kept her
supplied all summer.” At the end of three days, Miss Galway wrote,
enclosing twelve dollars, the balance after deducting commission. “The
last of the flowers, Miss Galway said, had been sold toward evening, on
the Common, by her little sister, who was anxious to sell more.” They
had pleased Miss Galway’s customers, especially because of the rare
fragrance of the geranium. Susie sent more, but the stock soon
diminished, for she had not counted on this new market. The
apple-geranium became precious, and new plans commenced to mature in
Susie’s ever-active brain.

Meanwhile Mrs. Forest was anxious. Clara’s attention was being called
away from the one string her mother constantly kept harping on—the
reconciliation. Dr. Forest, however, encouraged the firm of “Dykes and
Delano,” as he called it, and promised to put some money into the
“concern.” He was delighted at Clara’s first successful idea. “What a
thoroughly woman’s way of doing things,” he said. “No man would ever
have had the cheek to impress a dressmaker into the flower business. Go
on; you two women have good business notions, and you are sure of
success.” Mrs. Forest heard these encouragements with inward pain, and
finally, when she could not endure the silence of Clara’s husband any
longer, she wrote to him herself. Her letter was a masterpiece of
shallow tact. What he read very plainly “between the lines,” was, that
he had only to whistle for Clara, and she would fly to him like a
submissive spaniel; though Mrs. Forest had by no means intended to make
him too confident. She had dwelt long upon the duty to society devolving
upon married people, and upon the necessity of circumspect conduct in
husbands. The answer came immediately, and was a triumph to Mrs. Forest,
who lost no time in bringing the matter up before the doctor and Clara.
That day Clara had felt wretched, and had kept her room. She had
suffered one of those inevitable relapses, which all those who have
“loved and lost” can perfectly understand. It is one of the tricks Love
plays us, to leave an impress of his own divine beauty in the heart,
through whatever form he has gained entrance there. Clara had been
mourning her dead for months, and the agony had only returned on that
day, as it had often returned before. The worst of it had been endured,
when her father came in in the afternoon. “To-day is a bad day for you,
darling, I see. Life is a grasshopper, isn’t it?” This was one of his
distortions of the text, “The grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire
shall fail.”

When Mrs. Forest came in, an hour later, Clara was lying on the lounge
and the doctor was reading to her. Mrs. Forest, feeling in a very
complaisant mood, and not wishing to present immediately the subject of
Albert’s letter, sat down to her sewing, and begged the doctor to go on
reading. He finished some ten pages of a critique on _Heat as a Mode of
Motion_, by Professor Tyndall.

“Well, I call that ponderous,” said Mrs. Forest, greatly relieved when
the reading ended. “Do _you_ really find anything interesting in that,
Clara?”

“Certainly I do, mamma dear. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it seems to me positive affectation. I can’t believe you
understand that explanation of expansion by heat.”

“But I do. I have read the original carefully. See!” and taking a lot of
spools from her mother’s work-basket, she piled them up compactly, their
sides all parallel. “Now imagine these spools the atoms of iron, for
example, as they lie when the iron is cold. Now a motion is set up among
these atoms. That motion is heat, and it changes the relative position
of the atoms in this way, or something like it, only I can’t make them
stand; but don’t you see, if I pile them so that their corners only
touch, they will occupy more space?”

“Well, yes. I think I see it somewhat mistily; but where did you read
this and other ponderous books like it? I think I remember you devoting
your time to novels, quite as naturally as other girls.”

“Oh, I read a great deal at Stonybrook. We had a blue-stocking society,
only we called it _The Bas Bleu Club_. We met every Saturday morning,
and darned our stockings to the accompaniment of such reading as this,
and the girl who read, got her own stockings darned that day for
nothing. One of our obligations was to let nothing pass until we
thoroughly comprehended it, and sometimes the matter would be so
ponderous, as you say, and our interruptions so numerous, that we got
over scarcely a page at a sitting; but we learned a great deal in that
way; even our crude guesses at the author’s meaning often led to the
truth, and our circuitous wandering had a comical charm about it.”

“And how many young ladies could be induced to spend their time so
seriously?”

“We commenced with over sixty, dwindled down to about twenty, and kept
that number very steadily. Miss Marston was the only teacher whom we
ever invited to join us. One of her tricks deceived us for a long time.
This was to pretend ignorance, and get the other _Bas Bleus_ to
enlighten her. When we found her out, we revenged ourselves by assuming
that she knew nothing, and so explained everything elaborately.”

“A secret society, no doubt,” said the doctor.

“Oh, yes. We were sworn to the deepest secrecy. We were required to
swear by the ‘_unholeyness_ of our stockings;’ and when any candidate
blushed and hesitated, there was a roar, and we mercifully changed the
oath to the ‘un-hole-y-ness of our future stockings.’”

“And pray, which way did you swear, my dear?”

“Now, mamma dear, that is personal,” said Clara, laughing. “When the
session was over, the stockings all nicely mended, and our heads well
crammed with scientific nuts for future digestion, the _Bas Bleus_ gave
way to the most unrestrained jollity. Miss Marston was perfectly
charming, and the greatest romp among us. Often, the next Monday in
class, listening to her demonstration of problems in trigonometry, we
could hardly believe that this grave personage was the _Bas Bleu_ who
had actually rolled on the carpet with us in the exciting exercise known
as _cat’s cradle_. But I’m sure no one ever peached, and I don’t think
she would have cared if any one had.”

“No,” said the doctor. “Those who have real dignity are never afraid of
losing it.”

“Young ladies’ schools of to-day are very different, I think, from those
of my time,” said Mrs. Forest. “The teachers I used to know never
descended from their dignity pedestal, and if they had I don’t think
they would have been able to get back again with the grace of Miss
Marston.” Here Mrs. Forest inquired particularly about the late visit of
that lady to the White Mountains, and this lead easily to the object
Mrs. Forest had nearest at heart. The doctor sat very quiet while she
urged Clara in the most earnest way, to make up her mind to be
reconciled to her husband. “You do not feel as I do in this matter,” she
said, appealing to the doctor. “I do so wish you did.”

“If I could feel it to be for the best, Fannie, I would use every effort
in my power to bring about a reconciliation.”

“Then why do you not do it?” Mrs. Forest asked, brightening up suddenly.

“Because, simply, I can’t believe it for the best.” Mrs. Forest’s
countenance fell. Clara sighed but said nothing while her mother talked
of Dr. Delano, wondering why she spoke so confidently of his sentiments
toward his wife. Mrs. Forest urged the natural goodness and uprightness
of Albert, his anxiety for his wife’s return, the blessedness of
forgiveness, and then the terrible evils that would result if idle
tongues were not made to cease their gossiping.

“Have I not been taught,” replied Clara, wearily, “to avoid doing wrong,
not from fear of punishment, but from the love of right, and faith in
the beneficent results of a wise course—to defy all scandal, if only I
was sure of being guided by my best feelings?”

“Our feelings are a blind guide,” said Mrs. Forest, reproachfully. “That
is your father’s teaching, and I must confess I don’t see the good
effects of it.”

“One good effect was going contrary to your advice, mother dear, and
befriending Susie Dykes.”

“The end is not yet,” said Mrs. Forest, sententiously, and apparently
much occupied with her sewing. “I believe such latitudinarian sentiments
weakened your chances of gaining the permanent respect of your husband.
Had you firmly insisted at first that you would not have that
ill-regulated Miss Wills in your house, your husband would have honored
you all the more for it.”

“I never should have dreamed of such a policy,” said Clara, very
earnestly. “If we had gone and settled in the Desert of Sahara
immediately after marriage, where Albert had never seen any woman but
me, to be sure, he might not have changed; but I am not proud of a love
that I cannot hold against all the flirts in the world. Miss Wills has
certainly a greater charm for Albert than I have, and I wish her joy of
her conquest. I’ve cried out about all the tears there are, as Susie
said of Dan, and I mean to be sensible, and see if I cannot live without
a husband who is the lover of another woman. I mean to go into the
flower business with good, true-hearted Susie Dykes.”

Mrs. Forest let her sewing drop, but seeing it was not wise to oppose
Clara on two points at once, she returned to Albert. He was, she said,
very anxious to atone for the past. He could never be happy as he was.
He had no deep regard for any one but his wife. Here Mrs. Forest
unfolded a letter. Clara’s heart beat violently. “Oh, if he does really
want me! if he does really love me!” cried she. “Convince me only of
that, and I will fly to him. I will humbly ask his forgiveness, and
devote every hour of my life to making him happy.”

“Well, well, do let us hear what he says,” said the doctor, impatiently,
seeing with alarm the excited condition of Clara. Amid the most perfect
silence, Mrs. Forest smoothed out her letter and commenced:


“MY DEAR MRS. FOREST:—You cannot doubt that I regret as much as you do,
the step my wife has taken, and I appreciate the sympathy you kindly
offer.

“In my opinion, Mrs. Delano is entirely unjustifiable in so rash a
movement. A wife should trust her husband until she has absolute proof
of his infidelity. Mrs. Delano will not pretend that she has any such
proof, though I admit indiscretion on my part. Tell her, if she will
return at once, before any more mischief is wrought by idle tongues, I
shall forgive her leaving me, and endeavor hereafter to avoid causes of
trouble between us. Until she returns there is nothing more for me to
say or do in the premises.

“Accept, dear madam, assurances of my profound respect.

                                                   “ALBERT DELANO, M.D.”


When Mrs. Forest ended, Clara was lying with her face to the wall, her
hand pressed tightly over her heart. Dr. Forest, looking intently into
vacancy, was whistling a low melancholy air. Clara turned her head, and
as their eyes met, gravity sat on both faces like a pall; but only for
an instant, and then both simultaneously burst into laughter; but
Clara’s tears flowed at the same time, and her whole frame was convulsed
hysterically.

“Fannie,” said the doctor, alarmed at Clara’s condition, “your letter is
too tragic, by far. Go quick and get me some brandy, and have Dinah
bring a hot foot-bath.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                       THE COUNT VON FRAUENSTEIN.


 The fragments of the golden bowl, to use Clara’s figure, could not be
patched together, and at last Mrs. Forest gave up all hope, and took
refuge in the consolations of religion, in a saintly, aggravating way
that was hard to witness. Whenever Clara proposed any change in her own
life, or even suggested anything for the comfort of the family, the
answer was invariably and with a martyr-like sigh of resignation, “Do
anything you like. I have no preference.” Therefore, as the autumn
advanced, Clara spent more and more time with Mrs. Buzzell and Susie.
One day the old lady said to Clara, “You had better come here and live.
Leila and Linnie are with your mother, and she does not need you. I am
really beginning to fear, now I am getting so old, that Min will be
neglected. Susie is perfectly absorbed with her potting, and rooting,
and slipping, and re-potting, and really she ought not to have any other
responsibilities. She used to help Mary a great deal, but now Mary
herself is bewitched, and likes nothing so well as ‘flower-work,’ as she
calls it. I expect nothing but that she will abandon the cooking and
washing, and take permanently to potting and rooting. If you were here,
you could keep Mary out of the clutches of that conservatory. Min will
be the next victim,” said Mrs. Buzzell, laughing.

“This morning I found her ‘helping mamma,’ as she said, and Susie
declared she was doing good service. This consisted in filling up small
pots with soil. The implement used, I noticed, was my big iron kitchen
spoon; but I said nothing. When I see a woman seriously working to gain
an independent position, I am always delighted. I never spent any money
in my life that brought me such pleasure as that which I invested in
that hot-house; and I’m going to do more, Clara, but, you understand,
that is a secret.”

“You have already proved yourself a noble friend to Susie,” said Clara,
warmly.

“Oh, she’s done more for me than I ever did for her. I have not had a
moment’s loneliness since she came, and my health has been better. Min,
too, is a great pleasure to me. Though the little rat will pull my
work-basket about, I notice she never touches a leaf or flower of
Susie’s plants, and it wouldn’t be healthy for her to do so, I suspect,”
Mrs. Buzzell added, smiling.

“It is wonderful,” said Clara, “that Susie has acquired such a knowledge
of flower culture. I don’t even now understand the secret of her
success.”

“The secret, my dear Clara, is the secret of all honest success—eternal
vigilance. She failed in several things at first. Her tube-roses, for
example, grew all stalks and no flowers. Then the insects troubled her.
She fought them by main force at first, but now she has made a
discovery—a vase of carbolic soap-suds did not quite meet her
expectations, so she added laudanum to it—pure empirical experiment, you
see. That was an improvement; then she put in the vase one of the
doctor’s nastiest old pipe-bowls, and really, I think that was a great
discovery. With a little mop she washes the bark of her plants with this
mixture; every day some plant is treated, and so she keeps all insects
at bay. She actually cried with joy when I promised to build the
hot-house. She had not dared to hope for so much, though she often asked
me how far I thought one hundred dollars would go towards building a
little one, ten feet square. You know I never spent the hundred from
Dan, which you gave into my keeping. She thinks it went into the
conservatory, but I put something with it and put it by for Min’s
education; but that, also, is one of my secrets.”

But the movement of our story is too slow. We will therefore make a
rapid dash over just one year. During this time, Clara, who had taken up
her residence with Mrs. Buzzell, suffered many a sleepless night,
thinking over her buried hopes, and sometimes feeling as if her life was
an utter failure; but the gloom was always dissipated with the hour or
so of pleasant morning work with Susie among the flowers, and with the
pleasant reunion afterward at the breakfast-table. Mrs. Buzzell, though
quite feeble, was always present in her arm-chair, wrapped in her shawl,
and Min, also seated in her high chair, joyous as a bird and as full of
animal spirits as a kitten, and of mischief as a young monkey. Her
special duty was to arrange a bouquet for the centre of the breakfast
table, having _carte blanche_ to use her own taste on the flowers and
leaves that her mother gave her for the purpose. Mrs. Buzzell used to
praise their arrangement without much discretion, but Min had learned by
this time to separate her scarlet and blue flowers by white ones, or
green leaves, and when she won a compliment from her mother she was
always delighted. On one of these occasions, Min sat pouting and would
not touch her food.

“What is the matter with my little pet?” asked Clara, twisting one of
the child’s long, golden tresses.

“I shan’t tell.”

Mrs. Buzzell looked at Min, praised the toast and the excellence of the
coffee, and then, as if suddenly noticing the bouquet, added, “and those
pretty flowers! How nicely Minnie has arranged them. Her taste grows
better every day.” Min’s appetite suddenly appeared; but Susie said, “I
do not much admire that character which manifests happiness only when
praised, and when the temper is not tried. Do you, Clara? I think that
is the strongest and best nature which finds its pleasure in making
others happy, and that temper is the sweetest which is sweet under
vexations.” Min knew this was aimed at her, and she suddenly turned the
subject of conversation.

“I used to fear,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “that my old age would be lonely
and cheerless; but God has been infinitely good to me. See what a
pleasant family I have about me, when I am weak and need so much care.
And with Min to bother me by asking questions I can’t answer, surely my
life lacks nothing. What do you think of it, Min?” she asked, addressing
the spoiled pet.

“I should think God _might_ be good to auntie, ’cause auntie is so good
to Min.”

“I think you had better not consult Min on points of faith and
doctrine,” said Clara. “She seems to inherit some of her grandpapa’s
heresies.”

“Auntie Clara, who is my grandpapa?”

“Why, your doctor, as you call him.”

“Is he? honest and true, Auntie Clara? Then I shall call him grandpapa.”

“No, no,” said Susie, with a faint flush on her face. “Call him just as
you do now.” She was wondering for the thousandth time how it would be
when Minnie commenced to go to school, for example. Children would tell
her of her father, and perhaps say ill things of her mother. Already the
child’s resemblance to Mrs. Forest was remarkable, and grew more marked
every day. The likeness consisted particularly in a kind of droop to the
eyelids toward the outer corners, giving a dreamy, refined expression.
Only a short time before, when Min was playing at the gate, a little
girl, one of Mrs. Kendrick’s guests, came and made her acquaintance, and
asked her to walk with her. Min ran and got permission of “auntie,” and
started off. They turned up shortly after on the doctor’s broad
door-steps, and Mrs. Forest, recognizing one of Mrs. Kendrick’s
visitors, made the children go in, and treated them to cake. She was
greatly struck by the rare beauty of the little blonde, and asked her
her name. “Sha’n’t tell,” was the reply, of course. The doctor came in a
few minutes later. At the sight of Min seated on her grandmother’s
knees, eating jelly-cake with great gusto, he burst out laughing. This
evidently displeased Min, and kept her from obeying her first impulse,
which was to run to “my doctor,” as she always called him. “How very
maternal you are, Fannie! Whose child is that?”

“She won’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Forest, “but she is one of Mrs.
Kendrick’s friends. Is she not lovely?” she added, toying with Min’s
rich, sunny hair. The doctor took the child and asked his wife to follow
him. Standing before the mirror in the drawing-room, he held the child’s
face beside his wife’s, saying, “Look at that child’s eyes, and then at
yours.”

“Good heavens, doctor! You don’t mean—”

“That it is your only grandchild!”

Mrs. Forest tied on Min’s hat, and suggested to the older girl that she
had better not bring the little one so far from home again.

“I sha’n’t come to see you again,” said Minnie, feeling her dignity
offended, “and I sha’n’t let my doctor come, either. My Auntie Clara
don’t send Minnie away.” And the child’s eyes filled, but she would not
cry. The doctor tried to pet her, but she drew away pouting. The doctor
looked out of the window as the little ones toddled down the street, and
then turning to his wife, tried to waken kindly feelings for Dan’s
child; but the seed fell on stony ground. While he was talking, a
carriage drove up to the gate and left the Count von Frauenstein. Mrs.
Forest was in a flutter. To be so honored by a rich and titled person
was a great event. Finding the doctor free, the count stayed to lunch,
and talked over great plans that were maturing in his mind. He had just
returned from Guise, in France, where he had visited the grand social
palace founded by a great French capitalist for his workmen. “I tell
you, Dr. Forest,” he said, with enthusiasm, “the age is ripe for a grand
spring toward social organization, and the sight of that palace of
workers inspires me with new hope. There are over a thousand people,
honest wealth-producers, surrounded by a sum of conveniences and
luxuries to be found nowhere else on the planet, even among the rich.”

“Why, I never heard of it!” said Mrs. Forest, pouring the count a glass
of wine, produced freely on this occasion in honor of the distinguished
gentleman. “I am greatly interested. What are some of these luxuries? Do
those workmen actually live in a palace?”

“Aye, madam. A magnificent structure it is, too, I assure you. It is
surrounded by groves and gardens and rich fields, through which winds
the River Oise. There are nurseries and schools on a magnificent scale,
for the children. There are swimming and hot and cold baths for all,
medical service of the best, a restaurant, a billiard saloon, a café, a
charming theatre, a library and reading-room, societies for various
objects, such as music and the drama, beside the board, composed of men
and women, who manage the internal affairs of the palace. All the courts
of the palace are covered with glass, and the various suites of
apartments open on corridors in these courts.” The doctor inquired about
the water supply, and the ventilation. The latter, the count said, was
effected by gigantic underground galleries, opening into the courts,
connected by tubes passing up through the walls and opening into each
apartment, where they were used mostly in winter, as every suite of
rooms was well supplied with windows on the courts, and also on the
exterior of the building.

“I am sure it must be a wonderful charity,” said Mrs. Forest.

“No, madam,” said the count; “every one of the advantages I have named,
and many more, are included in the rents, and Monsieur Godin, the
founder, makes six per cent. on the capital invested. It has been in
successful operation some twelve years.”

Further conversation developed the fact that the count was to leave the
next day to look after business investments in the South and West, which
might detain him some weeks, or even months, after which, he was
determined to see what he could do by way of a social palace for workmen
and their families. “Oakdale,” he said, “is not a bad field to commence
in. Your industries are growing, the population rapidly increasing, it
is a very healthy location, pure water, and a nice light soil. I don’t
believe in heavy soils. Scientific culture finds more scope and success
with a light one. The doctor was eager for the experiment. Before I die,
Frauenstein,” he said, “I hope to see a few children, at least,
surrounded by conditions for integral culture. Count on me for
everything in my power to aid the work.” Mrs. Forest was a little
shocked at the doctor’s addressing the count as simply, “Frauenstein.”
“It would seem to me, count,” she said, in her suavest tone, “that you,
with your wealth and social position, would find more pleasure in
building yourself a palace, where you could surround yourself with all
that wealth can procure.”

“My dear madam, what should I do for society?”

“Goodness gracious!” thought Mrs. Forest, “he is as crazy as the
doctor;” but she asked him to please explain.

“I am very familiar, madam,” he replied, “with what is known as the best
society, and of course there is much real refinement and much honorable
sentiment among its various members; but real nobility of sentiment, by
which I mean devotion to the broad interests of mankind, is very rarely
met, and least of all at the courts of rulers. They are all cramped and
degraded by petty aims, petty intrigues for personal advancement; and
above all, they are lacking the first element of wisdom—a belief in the
people. What is the aristocracy of birth, name, inherited wealth robbed
from generations of wages-slaves, compared to the grander aristocracy of
labor, which is as old as the evolution of man himself? My mother,
Kendrick’s cousin, you know, was the granddaughter of a day-laborer.
Kendrick wouldn’t mention it for his best span of horses, but I am proud
of it. So far as I know he is the only ancestor I have, who had an
honest right to the bread he ate. So you see, madam, I would do
something to atone for the sins of all the robber crew to which I
belong, and so shorten my prospective hours in purgatory. To be serious,
there is no congenial society for me anywhere, as life is ordered at
present. I must help to build up a society of men and women who can be
honest and free, because sure of the present and of the future for
themselves and their children. I found more intelligence, more faith in
humanity, and more freedom of expression among those workingmen at
Guise, than I ever met among any set of people in my life; and the
children, madam! O, the children! I can give you no idea of their rosy
health, their frank expression of advanced opinions, and their courteous
manners.” Mrs. Forest said that what she understood as “advanced
opinions” would be a very equivocal attraction in a child according to
her way of seeing things.

“But, madam, your way of seeing things,” said the count, courteously,
“would be different, if you had been trained to positive methods of
thought. I assure you, in any case, you would be charmed by the ease,
and grace of address of many of those children. Why it would make you
regret that you were not the mother of the whole three hundred of them!
There are prizes given them for politeness and grace of bearing.—Think
of it! There is the commencement of stirpiculture, and yet the stupid,
lunk-head scientists of the world, are giving _all_ their attention to
the fossils of a dead past. Depend upon it, madam, this world need not
be the vale of tears we have been taught to think. Life is what we
should study. Life is what we should love, and as a general rule, the
present is the best time to live;” and the count, praising Mrs. Forest’s
wine, and apologizing for making a monologue of what should have been a
conversation, bade her good-bye and left, taking the doctor with him.

The next day the doctor spent a full hour at Mrs. Buzzell’s talking to
Clara of Frauenstein and his grand social-palace scheme. Clara expressed
regret that she had not seen him. “Regret!” said the doctor; “you may
well regret, for you have lost a rare pleasure. When you see him you
will love him, and at first sight too. I am sure of it, for he is the
only man I ever met whom I thought worthy of you. He is coming back,
though, and then you shall see him. He’s a man after my own heart in
everything. He’s perfect; he’s without a flaw. I know him just as well
as if I had been intimate with him for years. Every thought and feeling
of the man is honest and true, and what is better than all, he has faith
in human nature.” Clara was interested, but the count was no vital part
of her thoughts as he was of her father’s, and besides her heart was
filled that day with its old pain. Albert had written, saying simply
that, as a year had passed, he thought he had a right to expect she
would have had time to reflect upon their mutual position, and that he
hoped she had decided to return. It was a very cold letter, but it moved
her deeply, and under the first impulse she wrote, sinking every thought
of pride, hoping only, blindly, that he would, by an impulse as simple,
and as frankly expressed as hers, prove that he loved her despite all
that had happened. She wrote:


“DEAR ALBERT:—Your letter moves me deeply, but it does not show me that
you have any tender thought of me, any motive of real love in saying you
expect me to return. Do you know so little of me after all, as to
suppose that I can be influenced by the wealth you speak of? Can you
doubt that I would rather be your wife were you poor and unknown, if you
only loved me as once you did, than to be your queen were you master of
the world, if I must see you seek in other women that which I alone
would give?

“Oh, Albert! why can I never make you see me as I am? I have no pride,
as you think; willingly would I prove myself the very queen of fools in
the eyes of the world—would kneel in the dust and kiss your feet, could
I thereby find that you love me with the divine tenderness that once
made my life. Dear one, what shall I say? What shall I do? I long, with
all my being, for the tender words you used to breathe so eloquently,
for the sight of your beautiful eyes, for your kisses and caresses. If
you do really want me—me, not your legal mate, but Clara—you will show
me this beyond the shadow of a doubt.

“I cannot tell you how I have suffered, and do suffer still, at times. I
pray only that I may wake from this long cold night of misery, and find
myself in the blessed warmth and light of that love which made me once
your proud and happy

                                                                 CLARA.”


To this letter he wrote, among other things not touching the subject
nearest Clara’s heart: “If you love me so ineffably as you would have me
think you do, I should like you to show it in the only possible way—by
coming home at once. As for me, I do not pretend to sentiment. We should
not trouble ourselves with riddles, dear Clara, but love where we may
beneficently, and as much as we can.”

To this Clara replied as promptly as to the other: “At last, Albert, I
fully understand you. You are true to yourself in this letter, and I
respect you for it. You might as well have told me in so many words, ‘I
do not want my love, but the mistress of my house.’ Well, Albert,
receive my final, eternal answer: _I shall never go back to you while I
live._ Again I assure you, I have no pride. I confess that my eyes are
red with weeping, for I have shed the first tears of absolute despair
that I ever knew. Until now there has been hope, however faint, but now,
every trace is gone. Hereafter, we will study the problems of life as if
we had never met.”

When Dr. Delano received this letter he knew that all was over, and
regretted that he had not played his cards better. He did not love
Clara, but he was proud of her, and knew that, as a wife, she was an
honor to him. He had not doubted seriously that she would return, and he
had intended to humble her by his forgiveness, and in the future make
her, through this lesson, a patient, dependent, and wholly exemplary
wife. Now there was no hope of this, and, to make matters worse,
Charlotte utterly refused to see Miss Wills. Mr. Delano died soon after,
leaving all his property to his son, except his daughter’s portion. He
had been kept in ignorance, on account of his illness and his very
nervous condition, of the breach between Clara and his son. He left her
his kindest wishes, and the hope that through her, the family name might
be preserved. After his death his daughter wrote a very kind letter to
Clara, manifesting a depth of womanly feeling which Clara had never
suspected could exist under the austere manners of Miss Delano. From
this there arose a correspondence between them, and the utter frankness
and sweetness of Clara’s nature, as it developed in this new relation,
had a great charm for Miss Charlotte. At first she tried to persuade
Clara to return to her husband; but having the whole case presented to
her in a simple and clear light, she finally approved Clara’s course.
She expressed herself strongly on the want of delicacy in men’s
treatment of women, and her own satisfaction that she herself had never
given any one of them the power over her happiness that Clara had. “Come
and see me,” she wrote, “whenever you are in the city. I like you and
trust you; and if you think a sour-tempered old maid worth cultivating,
it will be a great consolation to me.”




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                       OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.


 Events which could not be foreseen, were destined to work great changes
in the circumstances of several of our characters. One of these—the
death of good Mrs. Buzzell—we will pass over quickly, for it is not
specially profitable to linger over such scenes of bereavement as the
loss of a dear and true friend.

The rich Buzzells in Oakdale had never recognized her existence except
in a purely conventional way, and as they were only relatives of her
husband, she felt perfectly justified in disposing of her property as
she saw fit. She gave all her real estate in trust with “the firm of
Dykes, Delano & Company, florists, for Minnie, daughter of Dan Forest
and Susie Dykes.” “It is the best thing I can do for her,” she said, a
day or two before she died, while caressing the child, who stood by the
arm of “auntie’s” big chair. “It will make her independent, in a modest
way; so if she chooses to enjoy the luxury of living an old maid, she
can do so.”

“I sha’n’t be a ole maid,” said the young lady, replying to the first
intelligible words of Mrs. Buzzell.

“I suppose not, dear. You’ll give some man the chance to break your
heart. I only say you can if you wish,” said Mrs. Buzzell. Her furniture
and personal property she gave to Susie, and to the firm, a present of
one thousand dollars; and so, having set her “house in order,” as she
said, leaving a kind message for Mrs. Forest, who had so long neglected
her, and holding the hand of her well-beloved Dr. Forest, she dropped
into her rest, apparently without a shadow of pain.

Some two months after this event, Dr. Forest was roused from his warm
bed by a policeman, requesting him to go quickly to the station-house to
see if he could revive an unfortunate, who had just been dragged from
the icy river.

“Don’t wait for me,” said the doctor, coming to the head of the stairs
in his night-gown. “Go back, and have her stripped and put into warm
blankets. Lay her on her stomach and rub her till I come.”

The doctor found the rough functionaries at the police-station working
over the patient as he had directed, their sympathies being more active
from the fact that she was young, and evidently pretty; though not much
beauty could be recognized in the deathly pallor, the half-closed
eyelids, and the drenched and matted hair that clung to her face and
neck. The men pronounced her dead. “I hope not,” said the doctor,
hastily relieving himself of his overcoat and coming forward. “I think
we may revive her,” he said, after pinching her flesh and watching
intently for signs of circulation. He gave his orders quickly, and then
commenced the slow and difficult process of discharging the water from
the lungs and inflating them. To the squeamish, and to the unscientific,
the operations of the doctor with this ghastly, limp subject, would have
seemed unsightly; but no careful observer could have failed to admire
Dr. Forest, seeing him thus professionally absorbed. He was excited, as
you could see by the intense expression of his whole face, but
commanding every muscle perfectly, never hesitating, never making a
false or awkward motion, he continued his work for about forty minutes,
though it would have seemed much longer to a mere spectator. One of
these, the officer in charge, seeing no sign of life and becoming
impatient with so much apparently useless effort, said in a low tone,
“Oh, what is the use, doctor? Anybody can see she is dead.”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, without looking up, “your opinion don’t
amount to much in this instance. See! the color is coming; we have saved
her!” None but the quick, well-trained eye of the doctor could see any
change yet, however; but in a few minutes it was apparent to all. One of
the men recognized the young girl as one he had seen at “old mother
Torbit’s,” who was well known as the keeper of a disreputable house.
“Poor little woman!” said the officer. “It’s questionable whether we’ve
done her a favor. I think any very unhappy wretch has a right to seek a
short cut out of his misery.”

“Suppose the short cut don’t get you out of the misery,” said another
policeman, who was placing fresh bottles of hot water at the patient’s
feet.

“The world has a right to our lives,” said the doctor. “We have scarcely
a moral right to destroy ourselves, and certainly not while we are free
from hideous and certainly mortal diseases.”

There was little to be done after respiration had been restored to the
patient. In a few minutes she opened her eyes and drew the blankets
higher over her breast. One of the officers was struck by this movement,
and called the doctor’s attention to it, saying, “She has some modesty
left. She can’t be wholly lost.”

“Of course not, or she would not have attempted suicide,” said the
doctor; “but shame at exposing the person is no evidence of purity in
itself. It is a higher sense of purity that keeps men and women from
courses that degrade the moral nature.” After a while the doctor asked
if there were no better beds in the station than the one on which the
girl lay—a miserable old mattress, stretched on a rickety iron bedstead.
Being informed that there were not, except in the rooms of the officers,
the doctor made up his mind suddenly, and sent one of the men for a
hack. As he was wrapping another blanket around the girl, preparatory to
her removal, she looked around wildly, and exclaimed, “Oh, why did you
take me from the river?”

“My dear,” said the doctor, kindly, “I’m going to take you where you
will find sympathy and love, if you are only a sensible girl.”

“Oh, I was dead. I know I was dead, and it was all over;” and she sobbed
and moaned in a low tone that touched the tender heart of the doctor. He
said: “Well, my dear child, just consider yourself resurrected into a
new life. Shut the past all out. You have a good face, and a nice round
head. I shall expect great things of you;” and he smoothed back her wet
hair, in a gentle, fatherly fashion, that made her sobs break out anew.

Of course the doctor drove to the home of Clara and Susie. Where else
could he take a poor, abandoned woman for womanly sympathy and help?
Hearing the carriage drive up to the gate, and then the loud ring at the
door, Clara was alarmed. Throwing on her dressing-gown and putting her
bare feet in slippers, she ran down before the servant was out of bed.
Her first thought was that something had happened to her father. She was
quickly reassured when she opened the door. He had already dismissed the
hackman, and stood on the porch with his burden in his arms.

“Papa, dear! What is it? But come in quickly, out of the cold. I was
afraid something had happened to you.” The doctor laid the partially
unconscious girl down, as he said, “It is a poor girl, dragged from the
river to-night. The police-station is such a beastly place I couldn’t
leave her there.”

“We must get her into bed at once,” said Clara, opening the blankets
timidly to see the face. What bed? she was thinking. The one guest-room
was too immaculate for such uses—“too cold, too,” she said aloud. “I
think we must carry her to my bed. Is she—nice, papa?”

“She must, at least, be well washed _outside_,” said the doctor, with
grim humor, amused at the feminine scruple of his daughter.

“Well, papa, we’ll put her right into my warm bed. Won’t that be best?”

“Yes, dear. The warmth is what she needs, and your bed must be warmed by
a magnetism that should be good for a Magdalen.” Here the new servant,
Ellen, came in. Mary, Mrs. Buzzell’s old servant, had taken a vacation,
and was visiting her friends in a distant State. Ellen stared at the
muffled figure, but her amazement was intense when, in Clara’s room, the
partial removal of the blankets revealed a perfectly limp, nude form.

“Mother of God, doctor! Where are the craythur’s clothes?” Clara soon
produced a bed-gown, and wrapping her in this, placed her in bed and
revived her with stimulants. At this juncture Susie entered, and
dismissed Ellen. Then followed an amiable dispute between Susie and
Clara, as to which should watch with the patient.

“Well, my girls,” the doctor said, holding an arm about each and kissing
their foreheads alternately, “I will go home and get some sleep. You
will take good care of this poor child, and make her forgive us for
bringing her back to life. She came to, once, at the station, and
reproached us for taking her from the river. Keep giving her this wine,
a teaspoonful at a time, and by-and-by something more nourishing. I’ll
come over after breakfast. I’m afraid she may have a fever, and give you
a great deal of trouble; but I couldn’t—well, I couldn’t do anything but
bring her here.”

“You did perfectly right, papa, as you always do. Of course, this will
prove another blessing in disguise. Do you think she is conscious now?”

“Yes; she hears all we say, in a dreamy kind of way, I think.”

The two women sat by the patient until daylight. She had opened her eyes
many times, looking around as if wondering whether she was awake or
dreaming. At last, she looked at Susie earnestly for a long time, and
then began to cry. Susie comforted her in the kindest way, telling her
she was among friends, where she would find plenty to do, and need never
go back to her old life. Later in the morning she woke much refreshed,
after a long sleep. At first she thought she was alone; but hearing a
soft, low singing, she rose up in bed and saw a golden-haired angel, as
she almost believed, sitting on the carpet, turning over the leaves of a
picture-book. Seeing the stranger awake, the child climbed upon the foot
of the bed, folded her hands demurely, and looked into the new face.

“What is your name, little girl?”

“My name is Minnie, and I am my doctor’s pet.”

“Who is your doctor?”

“My doctor! Don’t you know? Why, he brought you here in his arms last
night. Mamma said so. Don’t you want to go down and see our
conservatory?” Min asked, after a pause, anxious to be quite hospitable.

“I fear I am too weak, you sweet little pet, but I should like some
water very much.”

“Well, my dear, I will bring you some,” said the little lady,
patronizingly, sliding down from the bed. Susie came back with Minnie,
bringing some wine gruel; and as she gave it, she asked the girl’s name.
“My name is Annie Gilder. I will tell you all about myself. I am not so
bad as you think I am. I will tell you all. Shall I?”

“Yes, if you like,” answered Susie; “as much as you like, or nothing. I
do not think you are bad. I am sure you love truth and honesty better
than falsehood and dishonor. Your face shows me that. This evening, if
you like, we will come and sit by you.” Annie expressed her gratitude in
a simple, touching way, said she was much better, and would soon be able
to work and be of some use in return for all the kindness she had
received. She expressed the greatest admiration for Minnie. She had
never in her life, she said, seen so lovely a child. “She will not tell
me her name,” continued Annie, “but she says she is her doctor’s pet.”

“She will be called Minnie Forest,” said Susie. “You may as well know
now as at any time, that her father is the doctor’s only son, and that I
was never married to him. You see I also have had my troubles, but I
have lived through them.”

“Oh, how you must have suffered!” exclaimed Annie. “I was not so brave
as you, was I? But oh! I felt that I must die, and be where I could
forget my awful suffering.”

“Don’t think of them any more,” said Susie, with feeling. “You can live
with us, and work with us in our flower business. Who knows what
happiness may be in store for you?”

In the evening the doctor called, having been unable in the morning to
do more than call at the door, when Clara told him that the patient was
doing well. At the sight of him, Annie seized his hand and kissed it
with tears. “I am glad already that you saved me,” she said; “and oh! I
feel that I am among blessed angels. I never met such dear, noble women
before. I wonder if there are any others in the whole world like them.
To-night I am going to tell them my history. Will you stay and hear it?
I should like to have you.” The doctor stayed, and that evening the
three friends heard a most pitiful story, which was very nearly as
follows:

“I was born in ——, about twenty miles from here. My father is a farmer,
and a deacon in the church. I am the oldest of six children. All my
early years were very sad. I had to work hard all the time, and went to
school only in winter, for I had to take care of the younger children. I
loved to go to school, but it was hard to keep up with my class, because
I had to stay home Mondays and Tuesdays to help about the washing and
ironing, and often other days also. I don’t know how I ever learned
anything, for my father would never let me have a lamp in my room when I
wished to study my lessons. It was very cruel in him, for I loved to
read and study, and during the day I never had a moment. He used to whip
me when I disobeyed him about borrowing books and papers to read. A girl
who lived near, used to lend me her _Waverly Magazines_. That was six
years ago, when I was ten years old. One day my mother told him; and he
came to my room in an awful rage, and burned them all, though I cried
and begged him on my knees to spare them, because they were not mine. It
was no use, and my friend was much distressed, for she used to keep them
all. I cried over it for days, and my mother was very angry with what
she called my silliness. She thought I ought to be a very happy girl,
but I was not. I could not be happy. Everything I wished to do was
discouraged in every way. They thought me wicked because I was
dissatisfied with the poor, cheap clothes my father allowed me; and I
was dissatisfied, for my father was not poor. He always had money in the
bank. I was never allowed a single pretty dress, like other girls, nor
to go to any of their parties. My father called them all kissing
parties, and both he and mother said they were ashamed of me because I
wished to go. Mother cared for nothing but work, and I could not take
the same pleasure in scrubbing and cooking that she did, though I did it
all the time, and would have willingly, if I could have been allowed to
read or to have any pleasures.

“In our school there was one scholar named George Storrs—the brightest
and handsomest of all. I think I always loved him since I was a very
little girl; but he never noticed me much until one year ago last
August, when one day, on my way to the village, he joined me, and we
walked together. The road lay through a beautiful wood, where there was
a pond close by the road, full of water-lilies. We stopped, and George
took off his shoes and waded in to get me some. Just as he came out with
them, I saw my father coming from the village, and only a little
distance from us. I screamed with fright, and flew into the bushes.
George followed me, and I told him my fears. He told me my father should
not hurt me, and I clung to him in an agony of dread. My father passed
as though he had not seen me; but oh, how I dreaded to go home that day.
I feared he would actually kill me in his anger. The state I was in, and
George’s kindness, made me tell him of my life at home. He pitied me,
and spoke tender words to me—the first I had ever heard. You cannot
wonder that I clung to his words, and loved him with all my heart. I
told him so. I could not help it. He said I was a good girl, and he had
always loved me, and some time he would help me to get away from home.
In a month he was to come to this place and work in the _Oakdale
Republican_ office as compositor. Three times after that I met him in
the same place, for my fears had been groundless—my father had not seen
me. George promised to write me, and he kept his word, and during a
whole year I was happy, in spite of everything. Of course, I had to have
him write me under a false name, and I had much trouble to get my
letters. There was no one I could trust, and a hundred questions were
asked whenever I wished to go to the village. I knew that my love for
George was the highest and noblest thing in my soul, and yet I had to
conceal it like a crime. Oh, it was so hard! My mother loves her
children, I know. She works hard for them; but when she gives them food
enough, keeps their clothes decent, and prays for them every day, she
feels that she has done all. I do not blame her in the least; but oh! I
should have worshipped her, if she had made me trust her like a friend.
She never told me of myself—of the changes that happen to girls at a
certain age; and when I passed that period I was horrified. I wondered
if it were not some dreadful divine punishment sent to me because I did
my hair prettily, and tried to manage, with my scanty materials, to make
my dress more becoming. For this I was considered bad and perverse by my
father. You may wonder at what I am telling you, but it is the solemn
truth. In my distress I went to Laura Eliot, a girl much older than
myself, who had for three years loaned me books whenever I went to the
village. I had never been intimate with her, for she had considered me a
mere child, I suppose, and loaned me the books because she was
interested in my passion for them. She told me very kindly many things I
ought to have learned from my mother, and after that, treated me more
like a friend. She lived alone with her father, who was a drunkard, but
a man of education, and she had been talked about. I think it was all
false. My father never found out about the books she loaned me, but when
he learned that I had called on Laura he was angry, and threatened to
cowhide me if I ever set foot in her house again; but I did not obey
him. I had made a large pocket that I used to tie on under my dress so I
could secrete the books. I read in this way a great many works of Scott,
Goldsmith, the poems of Shelley, Burns and Tennyson, and ever so many
novels. Laura gave me a little tin oil lamp, which I kept supplied with
oil out of money that I kept back cent by cent when I sold butter or
eggs for my mother. It was wrong, I know, but mother used to cheat
father in the same way. He never allowed her to sell butter or cheese
for herself, but it was the only way she could get any money. I kept her
secret, of course, for there was no sympathy between me and my father.

“One day, only two weeks ago, I went to the village against my mother’s
wish. I had urged her to let me go for a month in vain, and I could not
resist, for I knew there must be a letter from George. To my great
disappointment, there was only one, and it had been lying there over
three weeks. That night, after I went to bed, while I was reading
George’s old letters to make up my loss—they were all the joy I had—”
Here poor Annie broke down and cried bitterly. “Poor girl!” said Clara,
soothing her. “I am ashamed, papa, that I have ever been unhappy myself,
when there is so much misery in the world. Did you ever hear such
inhumanity, papa?”

“Yes,” he said, “I have heard many similar confessions in my life. For
cruelty, bigotry, tyranny to wives and children, commend me to your
ignorant, skinflint New England farmer.” Clara told Annie she was
exhausted, and had better rest. Susie had been crying half the time.

“Oh, let me finish, I beg you. There is little more to tell.”

“While I was reading my letters, my father, armed with his cowhide, came
in. I suppose he had seen my light shining through my window, though I
always curtained it carefully; and no doubt mother had told him of my
going to the village. He seized my letters, and read enough to know they
were from a lover. He commanded me to tell him who wrote them, but I was
angry at the idea of his coming to whip me like a child, when I was
almost sixteen years old. At my refusal, he dragged me from my bed in my
chemise and whipped me cruelly. It is two weeks ago, and you can see the
marks on me yet. My little sister, who slept with me, woke and screamed,
‘Don’t kill Annie! Father, father, don’t kill Annie!’ At which he laid
the whip over her and forced her into silence. I was so outraged that I
boldly told him I wished he were burning in the hell he always told me I
should go to. I told him to kill me—that it was all I asked of such an
inhuman father. This only made him more angry and his blows the harder.
Finding I would not tell him who wrote my letters, he left me,
commending me to the mercy of God. I told him I despised the God that
could be pleased with such as he. He said it was his duty to punish me
until he ‘broke my will,’ and that the next morning he should come
again.

“When the house was silent—I suppose two hours or so after he left—I
rose, and taking some matches, for he had carried my lamp away, I groped
my way down into the parlor, where my mother kept her purse hidden in a
chest of drawers. I stole two dollars, half of all poor mother had
secreted from my father.”

For some time Annie could not go on. The doctor felt her pulse, and
giving her some wine, allowed her to finish.

“I then went back, packed up some things in a paper bundle, and waited
until I thought it must be near dawn; and then I kissed my little sister
and stole out of the house. I walked five miles to the next town, where
the stage to this place passes through. The stage fare was just two
dollars, and that was all I had. At noon the stage stopped at a hotel,
and all the passengers, except a woman and her child, got out. She asked
me some questions, and gave me some bread and meat from her basket. When
I got here, and found the printing-office, George was gone, and there
was no one but a boy, who was washing the ink from his hands at a sink.
He could not tell me where George lived, and I was ashamed to go
anywhere to inquire for him. I was ashamed of my bundle, of my clothes,
of everything, and I was ready to sink with my misery. I knew not what
to do; but I could not stand in the street; so I walked away from the
village, crying bitterly under my old green vail all the time. I went
into a grove, which I have found since was Mr. Kendrick’s, and sat down
in a little summer-house and cried. I stayed there all night, and slept
a good deal, for it was not a very cold night; but in the morning I felt
cold and faint. Then I reflected that I could not tell George I had
stayed all night in the woods, like a vagabond, and the stage, by which
only I could have come, did not arrive except at night; so I wandered to
and from this grove all day. Oh, the long, wretched hours! You can
imagine them, but I cannot describe them by words.

“I found George. He was greatly surprised to see me, but not glad, I
knew. He walked across the Common with me, and I told him my story, or
some of it; told him I would find work. He took me to a hotel, the
cheapest, as I wished him to, and there left me to another night of
misery. The next evening he called, and there was something of his old
manner, in his words to me. He thought I could not get work, and that I
had better go home. That was dreadful—from him too. The next day, and
for over a week, I tried to get work. I asked the landlord to take me as
a chamber-maid—everything failed, and as I could not pay my board, one
evening, on going to my room, I found my few things at the door, and the
door locked. I knew not what to do, and not caring if I died or lived, I
walked out to the Common and sat down in the cold. While I was there, a
well-dressed girl spoke to me kindly, and asked me why I cried. I told
her in a few words, and she took me home with her, and was very kind to
me. I did not know what kind of a house it was. Old Mrs. Torbit was a
horrid woman, and laughed at me when I wished to work for her. I will
not say what she told me, but I did not listen to her. I was there only
one night and the next day. The second evening, as I was walking down
the stairs, George Storrs came out of the parlor. He looked at me with
horror, and then rushed out of the house. I flew to my room, and
throwing on my shawl and hat, rushed out and followed him, and overtook
him as he was crossing the bridge. I seized his arm in despair, but he
flung me off with reproaches, because I had not gone home as he advised
me. He would not believe I was innocent of bad acts in that house, and
while I was talking to him even, he left me without one word. Then I
knew beyond a doubt that he did not love me. He could be cold and cruel
too. My suffering, my tears, could not affect him, and then I determined
to go out of this terrible world. I stood there on the bridge, saying I
know not what, but loud enough I thought for the whole village to hear
me. O God! how I pitied myself. ‘Poor Annie! Poor Annie!’ I cried many
times, and then I threw myself into the cold river. I remember the icy
chill, the awful strangling, which seemed to last so long, and then a
terrible ringing in my ears, and I thought I was dying without pain. * *
That is all, dear good friends. The rest you know.”

The “dear good friends” then comforted her in every way they knew. Susie
and Clara, with tears, kissed her tenderly, and assured her they would
not fail her.

“Oh! if some good angel had sent me here to you!” said Annie. “If I had
only known anybody could help poor Annie, and feel for her as you do, I
should have been spared so much! See, I am worn to a skeleton, almost,
and when I left home I was not thin at all. Thank God! for the friends
he has sent me.”

“Dear girl,” said the doctor, with emotion, “I trust all your sorrows
are over. To-morrow I shall have something to tell you.” And with this
the doctor left her.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                          INTO A BETTER WORLD.


 The next morning, after hearing Annie Gilder’s story, the doctor sent a
written message to George Storrs, at his boarding-place. As it was
Sunday, the young man was free, waited on the doctor immediately, and
was shown into his sanctum. Dr. Forest was pleased to see a
fresh-complexioned, naissant-moustached, handsome young fellow, very
diffident in the presence of the popular physician. The doctor was in
his dressing-gown, and put the young man at ease, by asking permission
to continue smoking his pipe.

Young Storrs had not yet heard the name of the young woman who had been
rescued from the river; no one seemed to know where she was, and the
report was current that she had since died. He had a vague dread that
the victim would turn out to be one he well knew, and his conscience was
troubling him sorely. The doctor commenced by making inquiries about the
Gilder family in ——. The replies of the young man satisfied the doctor
that old Gilder was just such a man as he had inferred from Annie’s
statements; that she had been badly treated, and had good cause to be
dissatisfied with her hard life at home. Then the doctor told George
that this unhappy girl, still bearing on her flesh the marks of her
father’s cruelty, driven to seek refuge among strangers, and finding the
only friend she had in the world, him whom she had loved with all her
heart, turning from her in her homeless, penniless condition—that this
girl was the one who had tried to end her miseries by drowning herself.

George, on hearing the doctor’s words, turned away his face, overcome by
his feelings. As soon as he could command his voice, he expressed deep
sorrow for the unkindness he had shown to Annie, and declared he would
marry her at once, and atone for his conduct, notwithstanding that her
reputation was tarnished by the fact of being at such a place as old
Mother Torbit’s.

“Hold! young man,” said the doctor, who, knowing the habits of men, was
always impatient and disgusted at their complaining, in any way, of
woman’s frailty. “You cannot look me in the face, and tell me she is not
as chaste as you are, even if she has helped to build up Mother Torbit’s
business by the same acts that you have; but you have not heard all. She
was there only one night and the next day, and took no stock in the
business; but even if she had, do you not see that her soul is as white
as snow compared to yours? She was found destitute, homeless, abandoned,
weeping, on the Common. A girl spoke pityingly to her, and took her
home, out of charity. Annie Gilder, a mere child in years, was ignorant
of the nature of the house, and begged the old woman to give her work,
whereby she might earn her bread. That is why _she_ was there in that
house. Now what were _you_ there for? Were _you_ ignorant of the nature
of the house also? Had _you_ been turned out of doors on a cold winter’s
night because you had no money and nowhere to lay your head? Ah, Christ!
the inhumanity of men to women is enough to make fiends hide their heads
in shame. If the whole sex should go mad with vengeance, and murder us
all in our sleep, it would scarcely be an injustice to us. Your tears do
you credit, young man. I am glad to see them. This pretty, innocent
young girl, has won my heart. I have placed her with the two women in
this world whom I most honor, and hereafter her life, I trust, will be
happy.”

George begged the doctor to let him see her. He wished to go to her at
once and ask her forgiveness; and then he confessed to the doctor that
he had been ashamed of her poor attire; and carrying her awkward bundle
for her across the Common, he had met several of his friends, who
afterward quizzed and mortified him. The doctor saw how natural this was
in a handsome young fellow, just beginning an independent career for
himself, dressing like a swell, and feeling immensely important; but he
had not done with him yet. “You think, of course, that this poor child
is as ready as ever to fall into your arms; but perhaps you are
mistaken. She is among those who will teach her the worth of her beauty
and goodness, and open to her the way to earning an honest livelihood.
She is already deeply attached to her new friends, and has learned the
difference between the love that depends upon outside appearances, and
that which looks deeper. I trust that terrible struggle between life and
death in the icy river, has frozen out of her heart its old warmth for
one who could treat her as you have done; but I don’t like preaching,
young man. I’m no saint myself, and I see clearly that you were
controlled by motives which you did not create. You are young, and, with
your fine constitution, ought to live to old age. It remains to be seen
what you will do with the forces at your command.”

George saw that the interview was drawing to a close. Never in his life
had he so desired to stand well in the opinion of any one, as in that of
this frank, out-spoken, humane old man. Since he had been in Oakdale he
had heard innumerable anecdotes of the doctor, all showing the deep
admiration with which the populace regarded him; so in a moment of
enthusiasm, possible rarely except in youth, George laid his heart open
to the doctor; confessed his faults, his desire to follow the promptings
of his higher nature, and to do some good in the world. The doctor,
always sensitive to such moods, laid his hand kindly on the young man’s
shoulder, and asked him if he really wanted a field for heroic work, and
if he was equal to bearing the persecution of the world to-day for the
sake of helping on a noble cause. George was eager to prove himself
capable of any effort toward a noble end. “Then,” said the doctor, “make
yourself the champion of woman’s rights—woman’s social and political
emancipation. There are few young men in that field, and not one, sir,
who does not stand, morally and intellectually, head and shoulders above
the average young man of the period. You may think you cannot do much,
but you know the ocean is made up of drops of water. Advocate the equal
rights of human beings whenever you hear opposition. Go and hear
speakers on the subject; study it up well. My library is at your
disposal, and I will direct your reading.” George’s assent was earnest
and prompt. He showed, indeed, that he had given some little attention
to the subject, which pleased the doctor greatly, and he talked to him
then, more as an equal, and thus flattered the ambitious young fellow,
who went away carrying two of the doctor’s books under his arm, one of
which was Mills’ work on _Liberty_. “Read this first,” said the doctor.
“You can finish it this week. Bring it back next Sunday, and stay to
dinner with us.” When the doctor gave him his hand at parting, he told
him he might perhaps as well call on Annie that evening. “No doubt
she’ll be ready to forgive you,” said the wily doctor. “Women are more
merciful than men, and too good for us by half.” George thanked him with
emotion when he told him where Annie was, and went away in a much
happier mood than he had expected during one part of the doctor’s
sermon. As for the doctor, he was well satisfied with his Sunday
morning’s work. “It is with the young,” he said to himself, “that
reformers must work. New transit lines of thought in their brains are
easily established; while the brain in the old is like a dense forest of
fossil California cedars.” And so thinking, the doctor walked rapidly to
the home of his “girls,” as he called Clara and Susie. They listened to
the account of the interview with George Storrs with great delight, and
when they found he was coming that evening to see Annie, Clara clapped
her hands with joy. “Susie, dear,” she said, “we’ll wrap her in my white
cashmere dressing-gown, relic of former splendors,” she added, laughing.
“You shall do up her fine hair, and Master George shall see a creature
very different from that poor, forlorn girl who cried to him in vain for
help.”

“Was there ever a woman in this world,” said the doctor, laughing, “who
was not a match-maker at heart?”

“He don’t deserve her,” said Susie, warmly. “While I am arranging her
hair, I’ll give her a lesson in the art of receiving penitent lovers.”

“Well, Min,” said the doctor to the “long-haired angel,” as he sometimes
called her, “between these two match-makers, I shouldn’t wonder if we
had a wedding. What do you think?” Min climbed up on the doctor’s knees
while giving unqualified assent to the proposition of a wedding; her
idea of it, as further conversation with her showed, being a “frosted
cake with two birds on it.” This information Min had some way gathered
from her observations at the baker’s.

Whether Susie gave the lesson she proposed on the art of receiving
penitent lovers or not, it is certain that, after the meeting of Annie
and George, the course of love “ran smooth,” and the reappearance of
George thereafter on Sunday nights, was characterized by a very
exemplary regularity. Annie recovered safely from the shock to her
system, and proved a “blessing in disguise,” as Clara predicted. It was
in the busiest part of the season of winter flowers, and as Annie was
quick to learn, she proved a great help. As the poor girl’s wardrobe,
when she arrived, was of the paradisaic order, everything had to be
supplied mostly from Clara’s, as Susie was much shorter of stature than
Annie; and as Clara was rather of the heroic type of woman, there was
some merriment over the fit of her old dresses on the thin form of
Annie. Annie, however, was pleased with everything. To be among the
refined, cultivated, gentle people, that heretofore she had met only in
books, to be respected and loved by them, to be able to please those
about her, and have no fault ever found with her efforts to do so, and
then to be able to see George, to love him without shame or
concealment—all this was so different from the life she had known, that
at times she feared it could not be real; that it was a heavenly dream,
out of which sometime she might wake to the cold, hard world, in which
she had struggled and suffered. No wonder the poor girl’s heart went out
to her new friends, in a kind of affection bordering upon worship. One
fear alone remained, and this she mentioned to her friends: that her
father might find out where she was and force her to return, as she was
under age. To avoid this, the doctor had prevented her real name from
getting into the local papers, in the items about the attempted suicide;
and as Annie was anxious to let her mother know that she was well, and
above all things to return the two dollars she had purloined, she gave
her letter to Clara, who enclosed the money, and had the letter posted
in Boston.

Only one annoyance resulted from befriending Annie, and this was the
disaffection of the Irish servant, Ellen, who had heard outside, of the
“abandoned woman who had lived at old mother Torbit’s,” every item of
truth going hand in hand with a dozen falsehoods and exaggerations, as
is usual in such cases. Ellen declared very insolently to Clara, that it
was more than her char-_ac_-ter was worth to stay in the same house with
such a girl. Clara graciously condescended to explain that these stories
were false; and though disgusted, endeavored to awaken some better
feelings in Ellen, but without success. “Let her go, Mrs. Delano,” Annie
said, when she heard of it. “There is nothing she does that I cannot do.
I have stood at the wash-tub, at home, from sunrise till afternoon, and
then helped do the ironing the same day. If you can spare me from the
flowers, I will take Ellen’s place. It is not hard. Why, I have not
worked at all here. I have been playing the idle lady.”

“My dear child,” said Susie, “you have worked much harder than you will
by-and-by, and much harder than I ever wish to see you; but Clara, I
think we will dismiss Ellen. We can send out the greater part of the
linen, and I can do the rest.”

“I have never done any washing,” said Clara, “but I am a great
bringer-in, sprinkler, and folder of clothes. I used to do that for
Dinah; so count on me for that part. I do not like the system of
servants. It jars upon my nerves to have any one in the family who has
no interest in it. We have decided, Annie,” she continued, glancing at
Susie, “to make you a partner in our flower business, if, after a year,
you are as well pleased with us and the flowers as you are now.
Meanwhile, I see no better adjustment of matters than to pay you a
salary, as we are now doing.”

“Oh, you are too kind to me!” said Annie. “I do not feel that I can ever
deserve so much as you are doing for me.”

“Not too kind; that is absurd,” said Susie. “We both came into the
business without any capital but our willing hands. Why should not you,
also? Our idea is to build up a great industry for poor women who wish
to gain an independent position.” At this point in the conversation, the
doctor came into the conservatory, where the three women, and even Min,
were busily engaged. Susie was cutting tube-roses and other flowers,
while Min held a basket to receive them. The other two were making
bouquets. Clara told the doctor that the firm intended to make Annie a
partner.

“Well, that’s a good chance for you, Annie,” he said, as he shook hands
with her. “Have you quite forgiven me for that resurrection?”

“Indeed, sir, you know I am glad that I live, and every hour of my life
is pleasant to me. If some good angel had only sent me here that night
when I sat on the Common——”

“It was not written, Annie. By the way, have you paid that hotel bill?”

“Certainly she has,” answered Clara. “She paid it the first time she
went into the street.”

“You do not say who gave me the money,” replied Annie.

“Why, no one,” answered Clara. “You borrowed it, and have already paid
me. You need financial training, I see.”

“It is hard for me to feel that my work is worth anything,” said Annie.
“I am used to working for nothing, or for my board and clothes.”

“You must lose no time in learning,” said the doctor, “that labor has
made all the wealth of the world. Money is nothing but the
representative of that labor.”

“Have not gold and silver any value in themselves?” asked Annie.

“Intrinsic worth, you mean. Yes; and therefore they are not fit
representatives of wealth. Political economists are beginning to see
that there is no more necessity for money, the measure of wealth, to
have intrinsic value than that the yard-stick should be made of gold, or
set with precious stones. But I’ve no time to discourse on finance just
now—not time, at least, to make myself clear.”

“You forget, doctor,” said Susie, with some pride, “that we have been
reading up on this subject. We see clearly why children or savages
should be unable to comprehend abstract questions; and until they do,
they are swappers and barterers, not financiers. The savage wants bright
beads and gorgeous feathers for the buffalo robe he offers you. He deals
only with the concrete. Civilized people see the need of a medium which,
without value in itself, may simply stand as a record of the values
exchanged, the basis of the exchange being confidence in each other’s
honesty.”

“The question of money,” said Clara, “has always perplexed me. I have
worked out several systems in my mind; but when I apply them
hypothetically in practice, they don’t work perfectly. It is like the
clearing of algebraic equations by substituting _m_ + _n_ and _m_ − _n_
for the values of _x_ and _y_. All goes on smoothly, and you solve lots
of problems, until you come to one where your substituted values only
involve _x_ and _y_ more and more, instead of eliminating them. Just now
it seems to me that the government should issue all the money necessary
for the transaction of business, this money being simply a guarantee of
exchange based simply upon the national wealth and credit. But then, for
the balancing of accounts in our exchange with foreign nations, paying
interest on our bonds which they hold, we seem to need something else.”

“Hence the Board of Brokers,” said the doctor, “who grow rich on the
ignorance and mutual distrust between nations. You see that specie does
not solve your difficulty. A gold dollar has intrinsic value, and is
worth, actually, just as much in England or France as it is here; and
yet you attempt, when there, to pay your grocer or milliner with an
American gold dollar, and they refuse to take it; so you have to take it
to a broker, and suffer him to pocket a certain amount from you just for
giving you another piece of gold or silver of the same value! This is
simply the continuance of the old ignorance which made the Turks call
all other nations barbarians, as the Chinese do to this day. But despite
the pessimists, the world is improving. Railroads and steamships and
telegraphs are bringing nations daily into closer relations and mutual
interdependence. See! We have only just now effected a national currency
in this country. Before that, we had a most vile system. Bank-bills, of
banks located at Eastern commercial centres, were at a premium in the
West; while those of Western banks were at a discount, and frequently
refused, in the East.

“That was indeed a miserable system,” said Clara. “How often I have had
to wait in shops, while clerks pored over the bank detector, to find out
if my bank-note was genuine or counterfeit, or if the bank that issued
it was still in operation! and then the counterfeiters always managed to
keep a little ahead of the bank detector, which, of course, could not be
republished daily, and so keep ahead of the counterfeiters.”

“I am not so impatient over the slowness of progress as I used to be,”
said Susie. “Nations are only a body of individuals, and governments can
only improve gradually as the individuals improve. The important thing
always, is to give the children the conditions for development, so that
they may become good citizens, who are always a ‘law unto themselves.’”

“Yet,” said Annie, who up to this time had been silently listening, as
she went on tying tube-roses on the end of little sticks, “I think the
wickedest man I ever knew was an educated one—at least, far from what
would be called ignorant.”

“What Susie means by conditions for development,” said the doctor,
“comprehends moral training as well as intellectual. But you are opening
into deep waters. I must go, and leave you ladies to flounder about
alone.”

“Masculine presumption!” said Clara, smiling.

“Feminine assumption, rather,” replied the doctor. “I did not mean worse
floundering, because alone; but only less in quantity because one
flounderer the less. How quick women are with their suspicions. If the
management of affairs should get into their hands, as it is now in ours,
the compensation would be terrible.”

“Wouldn’t it?” said Clara. “We’d be fearful tyrants, having so old a
precedent before us, or rather behind us. We’d get all the wealth into
our own hands, and when our sometime lords wanted money, we’d ask how
much, and what for, and quibble about the amount, and recommend
home-made cigars instead of Habanas. We’d give them donkeys and a
side-saddle to ride on, lest immodesty and ambition should be fostered
by riding astride of fine horses. We’d have them do hard work all the
time, and yet we’d kiss only the hands that were soft and white. Then
we’d set up our ideal for male chastity, which should be almost
unattainable, through our own system of tempting them; and then we’d
laugh at the presumption of any who presumed to demand the same standard
for us. If they wished to vote, we’d howl at and persecute them for
getting out of their sphere, and show them they had no need of the
ballot, because we, their heaven-appointed protectors, represented them
at the polls.”

The ladies laughed, but the doctor’s face was quite grave. “That is
about what you would do, and about what we should deserve; so we will
take care that we rise together.”

“I should think—” Susie began.

“No, I will not hear what you think. I will have one right that you
tyrants are bound to respect, and that is the right to tear myself away
from your eloquence. Good-bye, flounderers!” and the doctor passed
rapidly out to the gate, Clara following for one more word, just to
teaze him. There was Min, demurely seated on the narrow seat of the
“sulky.”

“Minnie’s going to ride with her doctor, she is.”

“Is she, indeed? Here’s another tyrant of your sex,” said the doctor,
and hurried as he was, he drove the child around the Common, as usual,
before going his professional round.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                       THE DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.


 Another year has passed—a busy and prosperous year for the firm of
“Dykes & Delano, Florists.” Miss Galway, the modiste, still continued to
dispose of the small bouquets, and for two years, finding the supply
constant and the demand certain, she had devoted one of her windows
exclusively to them, furnished it with a little fountain, and given it
into the hands of the little girl, her sister, who sold a part of
Susie’s first installment on the Common. On the promise of Miss Galway
to devote the whole proceeds of this window to the education of the
little girl, our florists had agreed to continue the supply two years
more, though they now had their own showroom and order department in the
city, conducted by Annie, now Mrs. Storrs, assisted by another woman as
book-keeper; for the firm of Dykes & Delano were “sworn,” as the doctor
declared, to never employ a man when a woman could be found to do the
work required. The conservatory had been extended and supplied with new
heating apparatus. The wedding of Annie and George had taken place as
the doctor predicted, and Min had a lion’s share of the wedding-cake,
having munched it at intervals for a month after the event. She was now
nearly five and a half years old, for it was April, and somewhat more
than a year since Annie found her new and better world through the good
and great heart of Dr. Forest. George had kept his promise to the
doctor, to enter the lists as the champion of women, and under the
influence of his reading and the society of Annie’s friends, he had
greatly improved. His secret ambition was to become an author; and
though he continued to gain his bread as a compositor, and was expert in
the art, he spent all his spare time writing or studying. Annie proved
in every way a treasure to him, and had implicit faith in his success.
She wrote every week to “Madame Susie,” as she called her, or to Clara,
giving the most careful and minute account of the progress of her wing
of the business. Orders came in constantly, after the first six months;
and although the firm had opened business relations with a great English
nursery establishment in another part of the State, which supplied them
with young shade-trees, shrubs, and evergreens from rare foreign
invoices, they could hardly supply the demand. Ten acres of Minnie’s
legacy from Mrs. Buzzell had been put in order as a nursery, and the
propagation of shrubs and trees was progressing finely. Clara and Susie
became more and more enterprising and ambitious. The taste in Oakdale
and neighboring towns for lawn and park cultivation, was rapidly
increasing, and the young firm looked forward to getting their supplies
directly from England, instead of receiving them at second hand. One man
was now constantly employed in the nursery, and other help indoors and
out, when the busier part of the season demanded more hands.

One morning, as Clara was busy in the conservatory, Susie brought her
the card of a gentleman who was waiting in the sitting-room.

“Frauenstein?” said Clara, looking at the card, on which was written, in
pencil underneath the name, “sends his compliments to Mrs. Delano and
her partner, and would esteem it a favor to be admitted into her
conservatories.”

“Bring him in, Susie. I cannot present myself in the drawing-room in
this rig. Don’t you think I shall make an impression on his countship?”
she asked, glancing at her looped-up dress and bibbed apron.

“Why not? You are beautiful in any dress.”

“You wicked little flatterer! Well, send in his Exalted Highness, the
Count Von Frauenstein.”

Before Clara had scarcely glanced at the face of the count, she was
strongly impressed with the distinguished air of the man. He wore a
dark-blue circular, reaching nearly to the knee, and as he stepped
through the folding-doors into the broad, central passage in the
conservatory, he removed a very elegant shaped hat of soft felt, and
seeing Clara, bowed silently, with a simple, courtly air, seldom
attained except by men of the Continent. Clara returned the salute, but
remembering the European custom, did not offer him her hand.

“Madam,” he said, “I have had several glimpses of your flowers from the
outside, and I greatly desire to have a better view, if you will pardon
my presumption.”

“I am very glad to see you, sir,” Clara replied. “My father has often
spoken of you, for he is one of your ardent admirers.”

“He flatters me greatly. I am proud of his good opinion, for it is worth
more than that of other men.”

After passing, in a few minutes, those meaningless and unremembered
preliminaries, inevitable between those meeting for the first time, and
conscious of affecting each other and of being affected by a new and
strange power, the count said: “To-night I hope to meet Dr. Forest at
the Kendrick reception. You, madam, do not patronize the society here
much, I think, or I should have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
Clara’s perfect lips curled slightly, as she said, “No; I am nearly
always at home since I returned to Oakdale.”

The count had called for no other purpose than to delight his senses
with the sight of flowers, of which he was excessively fond; but
standing there among the magnificent array of colors, and breathing the
delicious breath of jasmines and heliotropes, he saw nothing, was
conscious of nothing, but the presence of a charming woman, whose every
movement, every outline, was a study, from the poise of her regal head
to the step of her beautiful feet. As the conversation continued, his
wonder increased that there should be found in an out-of-the-way,
unknown niche of the world like this Oakdale, a woman of such rare
intelligence, such grace of bearing, and that clear and concise
expression of thoughts, found very seldom among women, and not often
among men, except a choice few. Then there was a modesty surrounding her
like an atmosphere—not the modesty that is supposed to belong only to
refined women, but the modesty of the philosopher, and which is as
charming in men as in women, and equally rare in both. Yet she was
self-poised, sure of herself, and when she raised her long, dark lashes,
and flashed her splendid frank eyes upon him, he felt a diffidence in
her presence, arising from his keen desire to please her, and which was
as new to him as it was charming.

While they were talking, Min came to the door and stopped, watching the
count. As soon as he saw her, she made him a courtesy—a thing she seldom
did impromptu, though she practiced it often before Clara and with her,
Clara considering it an art, like musical execution, not to be attained
except by commencing early. Min somewhat overdid it on this occasion,
but the count returned the salutation very gravely and impressively. Min
laughed. This just suited her, for she was, as the doctor said, a born
courtier. “This is your brother’s child,” said the count, addressing
Clara. “Why, she is wonderfully beautiful!”

Minnie opened a conversation with the count, which soon developed so
many purely family matters, that Clara suggested her going away.

“Oh, do let me stay, auntie dear. I won’t talk so much any more.” After
a little silence on her part, during which Min watched the count as a
cat would a mouse, she asked, “Do you know what my name is?”

“I do. It is Minnie.”

“What is your name? please.”

“It is Paul.”

“Oh, that is a nice name. Paul, are you going to stay to dinner?” she
asked, insinuating her hand into his.

Both smiled at this outrageous freedom in the child; but Clara said,
“Minnie, you must know——”

“Now, auntie dear, _please_!” and she pressed her dimpled fingers
tightly over her lips, as much as to say, “Not one more word shall they
utter.”

“My child, auntie does not wish you to keep as silent as a statue, only
you must not do all the talking; that is impolite.” The count pressed
the little hand still resting in his, and the little hand returned the
pressure with interest, but fearing to be sent away, she maintained her
silence, evidently by a most gigantic effort, and the conversation
continued until Min, hearing the doctor’s gig drive up, flew out of the
conservatory like a streak. When she returned, it was in the doctor’s
arms. He set her down, and greeted the count with more deep heartiness
than Clara had ever seen her father manifest to any man, and this
cordiality was fully reciprocated by the count. “It does me good to see
you again,” said the doctor. “I was going to bring you to see my
daughter. You must know it has been a long-cherished desire on my part
that you two should meet. Knowing the opinions and tastes of both, I
could predict that you would find much to like in each other.”

“Permit me to say,” said the count, “that you do me great honor. I have
passed a more delightful hour than I ever expected to in Oakdale.”

“That is good!” said the doctor, delighted to discover an unmistakable
sincerity in the count’s face, and he looked towards Clara.

“I see you expect me to be effusive, also,” she said, blushing. “Well,
then, I am too embarrassed to be original. I can only echo the sentiment
of your friend, papa.”

“My doctor,” said Min, who could not keep silent any longer, “Paul won’t
stay to dinner; and we are going to have caper-sauce, and ’sparagus, and
pudding.”

“How can he resist such a _ménu_?” said the doctor, smiling, “but are
you not rather presumptive in calling the gentleman Paul?”

“No,” said Min, decidedly. “He calls me Minnie.”

“Indeed!” replied the doctor, amused at Min’s justification.

“We shall be very glad to have you dine with us,” said Clara, “if you
will do us that honor; and papa can stay also, perhaps.” But Von
Frauenstein, knowing his invitation was more or less due to Min’s
unofficial cordiality, declined, saying he was expected to dine with the
Kendricks, which was the case, though he would willingly have forgotten
that fact, had he felt perfectly free to obey his inclination. He added:
“But if you will permit me, I will call again to see your flowers. You
must know I have thus far given them no attention whatever.” The look
that accompanied these last words could not fail to flatter Clara. The
count had the most charming voice imaginable, perfectly modulated, and
in its low tones as indescribable as music itself.

Clara knew well, and every woman understands how, though it can no more
be expressed by words than can the sensation experienced at the sound of
delicious music, that this was not the last time she was to see the
Count Paul Von Frauenstein, and the certainty was a deep satisfaction to
her. As for him, as he walked away, breathing the delicate perfume of a
little bouquet in his button-hole that he had begged from Clara, he
wondered simply that there was such a woman in the world; but he, a man
of the world, acquainted with men and women of the best rank in many
countries—he knew well the secret of the charm that invested her: it was
her freedom—a quality found very seldom in women, and for the best
reasons. He met her as an equal on his own plane, and knew by instinct
that no wealth, no social rank might win her hand, much less her heart.
There were no outposts raised by feminine coquetry, to be taken by
storm, or by strategy. If she could love a man, she would turn to him as
naturally as the flowers turn to the sun. During the rest of the day,
the count’s thoughts continually kept wandering back to that pleasant
hour among the flowers; to the beautiful child, whose liking for him was
so quick and frank in its expression; and especially to Clara, a worthy
daughter, he thought, of one of the most admirable men he had ever met.
And he thought of her, and saw her mentally, in other lights than simply
as the noble daughter of an honest and clear-thinking man;—but of that
hereafter.

That evening the parlors of the Kendrick mansion were brilliantly
lighted. A pleasant wood fire burned in the open grates, and everywhere
there was a rich odor of flowers pervading the air. Mrs. Kendrick, still
young in appearance, wearing a black velvet dress with a train, and her
thin, white hands sparkling with jewels, received the guests in a rather
solemn manner that said, “Man delights me not, nor woman either;” but
the guests were in no way troubled, for they did not expect any
manifestation of exuberant cordiality on the part of any of the
Kendricks. There were but very few invited, all being “solid” men and
their wives, with the exception of the Forests. It was a special
gathering, having a special object—that of bringing Frauenstein and the
solid men together for a special purpose: namely, the springing of a
trap to catch the count’s money for a grand life and fire insurance
company, of which he was to be president. The count had often talked as
if he would some day settle in Oakdale, though the suave, impressible
cosmopolitan had talked the same thing from the Atlantic to the Pacific
coast, whenever he had been pleased with the enterprise, industrial
advantages, or location of places; but Kendrick did not know this; and
as the count’s only relatives in America were the Kendricks, except the
Delanos in Boston—and Boston the count hated—and as it was certain that
Prussia was no _vaterland_ to him, the chances did look rather bright.
But the idea of tempting Frauenstein with the presidency of a great
joint-stock insurance company, showed that Kendrick knew as little of
the man as Satan did of the One he took up “into an exceeding high
mountain.” Whoever is acquainted with the Mephistophelian penetration of
Satan, must wonder at the shallow device. How could temporal power
flatter One who said, “Blessed are the poor,” and taught that we should
take no heed of the morrow?

The count was apparently without any ordinary ambition. He had made his
immense wealth by what proved to be shrewd investments during and before
the war. He had bought and sold cotton, turned over gold in Wall Street,
bought stock in many enterprises, and instead of commanding two
millions, as Kendrick believed, he had actually at his control five
times that amount and more. Society, especially fashionable society, was
duller to him than a twice-told tale. He saw too well its miserable want
of high purpose, its petty jealousies and rivalries, its instinctive
worship of idols that to him were a vanity and vexation of spirit. One
thing his wealth gave him, and that he enjoyed—the power to utter
frankly his opinions on all subjects. No one criticised _his_
radicalism; in him, it was only charming eccentricity, at the very
worst. The only exception was Miss Charlotte, whom he had always highly
esteemed. They had been fast friends for many years.

When Mrs. Forest entered the Kendrick drawing-rooms, the first thing she
saw was Miss Charlotte Delano talking with Von Frauenstein. The latter
she expected to see; but Miss Delano’s presence was a surprise that gave
her great uneasiness. This, however, was of short duration. Both came
forward and greeted her; the count, with an easy courtesy, and
Charlotte, much to Mrs. Forest’s astonishment, rather more cordially
than ever before. The three talked together for a few minutes, until
Miss Louise Kendrick carried off the count to the piano. Then Mrs.
Forest sought to relieve her over-burdened spirit. Seeing that Charlotte
was not likely to broach the subject, she said:

“I have not seen you, Miss Delano, since the unfortunate separation of
Dr. Delano and my daughter. I can assure you it was as terrible a shock
to my family as it must have been to yours.”

“It is to be regretted, certainly,” answered Charlotte; “but I trust it
will prove for the best. I don’t think Clara is to be blamed in the
least.”

Now Mrs. Forest had counted on a right dismal, mutual howl over the
disgrace to the two families, and the sympathy she expected, from the
moment she saw that Miss Charlotte was not disposed to avoid her, was
totally wanting. Mrs. Forest began to fear that the whole world was
lapsing into loose and latitudinarian sentiments. Pretty soon the fact
was revealed that Clara had visited Charlotte in Boston since the
separation. By great effort Mrs. Forest concealed her annoyance. Clearly
there was a secret kept from her by the doctor, for, of course, whatever
Clara did he would know. To vex Mrs. Forest still more, Charlotte said
that she had never really been acquainted with Clara until the
separation, and that it was owing to the trial Clara had gone through
that they had been drawn together. Here then was an anomaly; the very
thing that had alienated her own mother from Clara had cemented the
friendship between Clara and Dr. Delano’s only sister! Mrs. Forest was
at loggerheads with herself and the world generally.

While the count played an accompaniment for a duet by the twins, the
solid men were talking in the further parlor, hidden from the piano by
one of the folding-doors. The principal one, after Kendrick, was Mr.
Burnham, one of the bank directors—a bald, clean-shaven, oldish
gentleman, whose whole air suggested stocks, bonds, investments, and
high rates of interest. He sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed
chair, for lounging or ease was something he had never cultivated. Like
Kendrick, making money was the only interest he had in life; not so much
from any miserly feeling perhaps, as from long habit of thinking and
scheming in that one narrow field. As many women grow by habit into
household drudges, until they come to feel uneasy in pretty dresses and
momentary release from the housekeeping treadmill, so these men felt
uneasy, and almost out of place any where but in the counting-room.
After a while the solid Burnham said: “I don’t see, Kendrick, that we
are to get a chance at the count to-night.”

“Upon my word,” said another, “he is as fond of woman’s talk as a
sophomore.”

“A wise fool, eh?” said Kendrick. “Yes, these foreigners are funny dogs;
but Frauenstein has a remarkably clear head, financially, though he’s
all wrong in politics—believes in female suffrage, for example. All the
women like him, that’s certain.”

“H’m! Not difficult to find a man agreeable who is a count and a
millionaire. Singular there should be so much attraction in a title in
this democratic country.”

“Frauenstein maintains that we are not a democratic country,” said
Kendrick; “that there never has been a democratic government in the
world’s history, because never one where all citizens have the ballot.”

“Haven’t they in this country? I should like to know,” said Mr. Burnham.

“Why, women have not, and they constitute more than half of the adult
citizens. I tell you, Burnham, you can’t argue that question with the
count. He’s armed at all points.”

“I’ve no desire to; but I don’t feel like waiting much longer for him to
get through his opera squalling and dawdling with the women.”

Now it was a part of Kendrick’s plan to broach the insurance scheme, not
in a set business way, but to spring it suddenly upon the count in a
general conversation when the ladies were present. He knew that many
men, ladies’ men especially, would be more vulnerable under such
circumstances—less apt to manifest any closeness where money was
concerned. The opportunity was soon found.

With the collation, or after it, coffee was brought in—a thing never
dreamed of at night, except when the count was present; then, indeed, it
was available at almost any hour, for he was, like most Europeans, very
fond of it. The solid men joined the group of three or four around a
table, where the count was sipping his _café noir_.

“Wouldn’t you like some cognac in your coffee, Frauenstein?” asked Mr.
Kendrick; and a glance at the waiter caused an elegant decanter to
appear. The count measured out two tea-spoonfuls. Kendrick and the other
gentlemen drank a tiny glass clear, and while Frauenstein was talking to
Mrs. Burnham and Mrs. Kendrick about the beauties and merits generally
of Oakdale, the solid men added valuable information about the increase
of population and the enterprise of the town. This led up to the subject
neatly, and Kendrick introduced the insurance scheme, and hoped the
count would examine it. “We ought to start,” he said, “with a capital of
half a million—say a hundred shares, at five thousand dollars each. The
truth is, everything is ripe for a heavy insurance business and the
capital can easily be doubled in a short time. The heaviest buyer would
be the president, of course.”

“That should be you, count,” said Burnham, rolling the tiny stem of his
glass, and looking boldly at a point between the count’s eyes. The
golden bait was not snapped at. On the contrary, Frauenstein threw cold
water on the project. He said he did not believe in private insurance
companies. The government should insure all its citizens. “Now this
scheme,” he said, “will benefit a few at the expense of the many. Make
it a mutual affair between all the house-owners in your town, and I will
‘go in,’ as you say.”

“How?” asked Kendrick, not liking to discourage any advance on the part
of the count, whom he had just pronounced sound on questions of finance.
“Give us your plan.”

“Well, issue for a month, in your daily paper, a call to the citizens to
prepare for taking steps to form a mutual banking and insurance company,
and announce a meeting at the end of that time, when they will have
discussed the matter very generally. Let the president and board of
directors be chosen by the popular voice. Trust the majority for knowing
who the honest men are. Let the shares be sold at one dollar, and
limited to ten for each buyer, until a certain capital is raised. Above
this amount, let any citizen deposit as much as he chooses, at the legal
rate of interest, for the banking business. I will take all the stock of
this part of the interest, if you like; for I am pretty nearly ready to
set on foot a grand enterprise here in your midst—or just over the
river, on the fifty acres of land I’ve bought there.”

By this time all were eager to know what the count’s proposition was;
but he did not show his hand at once. He was, in fact, waiting for Dr.
Forest, who, from the nature of his professional demands, was excused
for coming at any hour. Mrs. Forest and her daughters had already
retired.

Kendrick did not ask directly what the count’s enterprise was. He only
remarked upon the nature of the land, its soil and so forth, and while
he was talking, Miss Delano, who was seated next the count, pulled back
the little bouquet that was falling forward from his button-hole, and
said:

“How fragrant these are still! Where did you get them, Paul?”

“At your florists’ here—the firm of Dykes & Delano. I was in their
conservatory an hour or so, this morning, and had a very interesting
conversation with Mrs. Delano. Why, she is a very cultivated, very
charming woman. Why is it, Mrs. Kendrick,” he asked, looking squarely at
that lady, “that I have never met her at your receptions?”

Mercy! What a graveyard silence met this fatal question. Kendrick was
fidgety; Burnham annoyed that the conversation had drifted away from
business. Mrs. Kendrick, out of respect to Charlotte’s presence, could
not answer as she wished, so she looked into her coffeecup, and the
silence grew more and more oppressive. Charlotte did not consider
herself called upon to speak. At length Mrs. Burnham said, smiling: “You
ask, sir, for information, and I do not see why you should not be
answered. Since Mrs. Delano came back to Oakdale, she has not been
received in society.”

“Indeed!” replied the count, sucking the coffee-drops from his long,
silky moustache, and using his napkin. “Indeed! then all I can say is,
so much the worse for your Oakdale society. Madame, that lady’s presence
would grace any society, however distinguished.”

Mrs. Kendrick saw clearly, by the attitude and expression of her
husband, that he was expecting her tact to guide the conversation into a
smoother current; so she said quickly, and with some embarrassment, that
it was not so much the fault of Oakdale society as of Mrs. Delano
herself, who evidently wished for seclusion, and therefore her motives
should be respected.

This did not satisfy the count. He saw clearly the same spirit that he
hated and had fought all his life—the sacrifice of honest fraternal
feeling to conventional forms. He knew, without a word of explanation,
that this Mrs. Delano had offended society, and had been unforgiven; and
further, that this offence could hardly be her separation from her
husband alone, since such separations are of common occurrence. He knew
Dr. Delano, and after meeting Clara, he was at no loss to understand the
cause of the discord between them. He gave his opinions, therefore, very
concisely and pointedly, upon the folly and short-sightedness of
society, in refusing fellowship with any honest citizens whose education
and refinement gave them a natural right to admiration and respect; and
then he gave his opinion upon the special claim these women florists had
upon the community, because of their brave effort towards gaining an
independence through means which added much to the refinement and
education of the people.

“You are a true friend of our sex, Paul,” said Miss Delano; and
addressing Louise Kendrick, she added, “You know Frauenstein means
‘ladies’ rock,’ so he is rightly named.”

“And on such rocks,” said Kendrick, “I suppose they would build their
church.”

“There are not enough, unfortunately,” replied Miss Delano, “for a grand
cathedral, so we must build little altars here and there, wherever we
can find a Frauenstein.”

“You do me a very gracious honor,” said the count, “but one I am far
from deserving. I believe, though, I am always on the side of women as
against men. I see very few really happy women; and they never can be
happy, until they are pecuniarily independent. All fields should be
freely opened to them. They are quite as capable of enterprise as men
are, and of filling offices of trust. They should have the same
education that men have. Men should give their daughters money, as they
do their sons, and send them abroad to continue their education. Every
man knows how culture and experience adds to the attractiveness of a
woman.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Burnham, petulantly, “I don’t see the use of
bringing up our daughters to be modest and home-loving, if just the
opposite qualities are to be most admired.”

“My dear madam,” replied the count, “do you suppose a woman is less a
true woman and a devoted wife because of her culture and experience?”

This led Mrs. Burnham to say that every one was aware that Clara Forest
was well educated, and “considered” very superior, intellectually, but
that she had not certainly been a model wife.

“You are wrong,” said Miss Delano. “I find it very distasteful to me to
discuss such a subject, but it is my duty to say that my brother, and
not his wife, is at fault. The plain truth is, he did not show that he
could appreciate her devotion.”

“Why can’t they make it up, then?” asked Burnham. “It looks bad to see
wives cutting out in that way.”

“If women were independent, as I desire to see them,” said Von
Frauenstein, “there would be much more ‘cutting out,’ as you call it,
than you have any idea of. But, by the same token, it would make men
more careful to carry the illusions of love into matrimony.”

Here Dr. Forest was announced, and the conversation took a different
turn.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                      LEGITIMATE, OR ILLEGITIMATE.


 The doctor only stayed a short time, which was mostly employed in
discussing the famous enterprise of the great French capitalist at
Guise—the _Familistère_, or Social Palace. The count had been there on a
visit, and he was eloquent in the praise of the work, which he called
the most important and significant movement of the nineteenth century.
“It points unmistakably,” he said, “to the elevation and culture of the
people, and to a just distribution of the products of labor.” None
present, except the doctor and Miss Delano, had ever heard of the great
enterprise, and they listened eagerly, as if the count were telling an
entrancing tale of some other, and more harmonious world.

“It won’t work, though,” said Burnham. “The equal distribution of wealth
is a chimera.”

“But, my dear sir, it _does_ work,” said the count. “It has been in
splendid working operation several years, and pays six per cent. on the
invested capital. Do not lose sight of facts; and then, I did not say an
equal, but a _just_, distribution of the products of labor, or wealth,
for all wealth is that and nothing else. Depend upon it, we are living
in an age corresponding to that of puberty in an individual. There are
no very marked changes from childhood up to this period, except that of
increase in size; and then, everything being ripe for it, there is a
marvelous sudden transformation in six months or a year, and the child
assumes all the characteristics of the man or woman. Ask yourself why
the man who makes your plow, or tills your ground, should be inferior to
you who muddle your lives away in counting-rooms or offices? You can’t
answer it, except to say the chances ought to be in favor of the one who
has the most varied exercise of his muscles and mental faculties. I tell
you, with the increased facilities for education among the people and
for travel and intercommunication, they are beginning to feel their
power.”

“Building palaces and living in hovels begins to strike the workers as
something more than a joke,” said the doctor; “but up to this time they
have done it very composedly. They have woven the finest fabrics, and
clothed themselves and their children in rags, or mean and cheap
materials. Bettering their condition was next to impossible when they
had to work from sunrise to sunset to gain a bare living; but shortening
the hours of labor will work wonders. It will give men time to read and
improve their mental condition.”

“Yes, if it would only have that effect; but will it?” asked Kendrick.

“Of course it will not,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “There are the three
hundred workmen of Ely & Gerrish. They struck, you know, and got their
hours reduced to ten; and I hear that most of them spend their extra
time in bar-rooms and billiard-rooms.”

“Well, madam,” replied the count, “do you expect men who have been
drudges, to suddenly turn out philosophers, and give their spare time to
algebra and political economy? Why, many of them are no doubt so
degraded by their lives of unceasing toil, that the bar-room is a
culture to them, and getting drunk a luxury. But you must remember you
have not collected the facts upon which to formulate a judgment. I do
not believe the greater part of them, as you say, spend their time in
bar-rooms and billiard-rooms.”

“Oh, no doubt of it; no doubt of it,” said Burnham.

“My dear Kendrick, you must have doubts,” said the count.

“Not the slightest, upon my honor.”

“Well, then, let us decide it in the English way. We have had a bet, you
and I, before this. I’ll lay you three to one, on any sum you like, that
not one-third of these workmen spend more time in drinking-saloons or
billiard-saloons than they did before their reduction of hours.”

“Done!” said Kendrick, very sure of his money. “Let it be two hundred
dollars.”

“Oh, shocking!” said Mrs. Kendrick. “You are like two dissolute young
men. I do not approve of betting.”

“I don’t approve of it either, madam,” said the count, “but this is to
establish the honor of the ‘hodden grey;’ and to make the transaction
more respectable or excusable in your severe eyes, let us further
decide, Kendrick, that whoever wins shall donate the money to your new
hospital.”

“Oh, that will be nice!” said Mrs. Kendrick, brightening. She was one of
the board of managers, and had in vain tried to get her husband to
subscribe anything further than the pitiful sum of fifty dollars at
starting. The doctor also, highly approved of this disposition of the
money. He had long agitated the subject of a hospital, and Mrs. Kendrick
at last had come to be, he said, his “right-hand man.” He was one of the
committee to draw up the prospectus then under consideration. He wished
especially to have the hospital so organized that not only the poor
could avail themselves of it, but those in better circumstances—for the
private family, he said, was no place for a sick person. He could not
receive the necessary care without feeling himself a burden, which vexed
and irritated him, and so retarded recovery.

After arguing upon the method of collecting the facts about the
workingmen of Ely & Gerrish, and after calling out the count at some
length on the particulars of the working of the _Familistère_ at Guise,
the doctor left, and Kendrick and Burnham returned to the charge of the
insurance scheme. Burnham insisted that the growing enterprise of
Oakdale, and its steady increase of population, made everything
favorable for a “big thing” in the insurance line.

“I see,” said the count, “that you are not disposed to take my
suggestions about making your insurance a mutual thing among your
citizens. Now, the longer I live, the more I am interested in the
independence of the people. Your rates of insurance, in private
joint-stock companies, are too high for the poor man, who needs
insurance infinitely more than the rich do. Now, as for Oakdale
enterprises, I see none so worthy of consideration as this well-managed
flower business of Dykes & Delano. That is something worth taking stock
in.” Here Burnham turned away with ill-concealed impatience, not to say
disgust; but Kendrick, anxious to keep on the right side of his rich
guest and relative, said, smiling blandly:

“Well, count, one like you might invest in the Dykes-Delano paper, and
still have a balance for our little insurance enterprise.” The count did
not at all like the covert sneer in this speech. “Kendrick,” he said,
“your heart is as dry and crisp as one of your bank-notes. It is not
touched at all by the struggle of these women, while to me it is
inspiring. You never even told me of it, and I have had to learn the
facts outside. They commenced with absolutely nothing but a few plants
in a friend’s bay-window. One of them sold her watch and jewels, I hear,
to help build the second addition to the hot-house. I tell you, they
ought to be encouraged and helped in every way.”

“Pity they couldn’t have kept respectability on their side. That would
have been the best help,” said Mrs. Burnham. Old Burnham could have
choked her; not that he had more charity than his wife, but more policy.

“Respectability!” said the count, thoroughly aroused. “I wonder that
women do not hate the very word. No woman ever becomes worthy of herself
until she finds out what a sham it is—a very bugbear to frighten slaves.
No woman knows her strength until she has had to battle with the cry of
‘strong-minded,’ ‘out-of-her-sphere,’ ‘unfeminine,’ and all the other
weapons of weak and hypocritical antagonists. I tell you, a woman who
has fought that fight, and conquered an independent position by her own
industry, has attractions in the eyes of a true man, as much above the
show of little graces, polite accomplishments, meretricious toilet arts,
and the gabble of inanities, as heaven is above the earth. She is a
woman whom no man can hold by wealth or social position, but only by the
love his devotion and manliness can inspire.”

No dissenting word followed this burst, which was Greek to the solid
men. The count was a little daft anyway, on the subject of women,
according to them. Mrs. Kendrick, after a moment, offered some safe,
negative remark, and Burnham, anxious to neutralize the mischief his
wife had done, said he thought a woman might, at least some women might,
“work up” a business and yet remain feminine. Men were not so hard on
women, it was their own sex. This roused Mrs. Burnham, for she knew well
he talked very differently in the bosom of his family. She took up the
thread of conversation. “I am sure,” she said—and here occurred a little
jerky interruption to her speech, the cause of which no one knew but her
lord, who had kicked her foot under the table, which meant, in his
delicate, marital sign language, “Hold your tongue!” But like many of
the slaves, as the doctor called married women, she made up in
perversity what she lacked in independence; so glancing spitefully at
her “lord,” she continued, “I am sure I think women have a right to all
the money they can honestly gain, and if Miss Dykes had conducted
herself properly, I should have much sympathy with her success.”

“Was it her fault, Mrs. Burnham,” asked the count, “that the man who won
her affection did not marry her?——”

“My dear Louise,” said Mrs. Kendrick, begging the count’s pardon for
interrupting, “I think you had better retire. It is getting rather late
for you.”

“No; let her stay, my dear madam. I am not going to say anything that
the Virgin Mary herself might not hear. Let her stay. I see she listens
intently, and if to-night she gains a broader conception of the true
position of her sex, you will hereafter rejoice in the fact. She is a
pretty, a charming girl, just coming into the glare of the footlights on
life’s stage, with bandaged eyes. This is what you mothers all do; and
then if they stumble for want of eyes to see the trap-doors of the
stage, you blame them—not yourselves. Teach a girl to know herself—to
consider all her functions as worthy of admiration and respect; teach
her to be independent, proud of her womanhood, and she will turn as
instinctively from the seductive words of selfish men, as from the touch
of unholy hands. Now, this little woman, Miss Dykes, had no such
teaching, no knowledge of the world whatever, no standard by which to
measure the honor of men’s motives; and, for believing and trusting,
you, Mrs. Burnham, and other Christians, would stone her to death. But
Nature is kinder than you are, madam, for it pardons her weakness, and
compensates for her suffering by a most precious gift. Her child is one
of the very brightest and loveliest I have ever met.”

“It is certainly a very charming little thing,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “and
her mother’s conduct is now, I believe, every way exemplary. I am truly
sorry that her child is illegitimate.”

“Illegitimate!” repeated Von Frauenstein, as if speaking in his sleep.
“Why, all children must be legitimate. How _can_ a child be otherwise? I
must be a barbarian. I can see nothing in the same light that others do.
Well, by heaven! I’ll adopt that child, if her mother will consent. I’ll
take her abroad and educate her. I’ll give her my name, and present her
at a dozen royal courts. There’ll be no question then, whether she is
begotten by law or by the more primitive process of nature.” The company
were astounded.

“Good heavens, count!” exclaimed Mrs. Kendrick, breaking the silence
that followed this speech. “Would you really do such a thing?”

“Yes, my dear friend. I’ll do it—so help me God! and I’ll bring her back
to Oakdale, when her education is finished, a perfect queen of a woman.
You call her illegitimate, madam, and yet the time may come when you’ll
be proud to kiss her hand!”

Mrs. Kendrick rose from the table, and the others followed. Miss
Charlotte had retired some time before.

Kendrick, who could not imagine for a moment that the count was serious,
was disposed to take the matter as a good joke. “If your knightly
passion is the adoption of bastards, why have you never adopted any
before? I think this is the first. Isn’t it?”

“Yes; because I have never known a case where the mother, being poor and
uneducated, rose out of her disgrace so nobly. The doctor tells me she
is a great student—reads and studies regularly, while working like a
martyr to get the flower business on a safe footing. I mean to go and
see her to-morrow, and if she wants capital, I’m her man. It is just as
safe an investment as your insurance business, though it won’t pay so
high a rate of interest.” Kendrick could have strangled him. Burnham and
his wife retired with sufficient discomfiture for any amount of conjugal
infelicity. Burnham declared, as soon as the door closed behind the
happy pair, that but for her “gabble about those women, Frauenstein
would not have made such a fool of himself.” Mrs. Burnham assumed the
silent air of the martyred wife. So they went home to their grand house,
second only in cost to the Kendrick mansion, and laid their heads to
rest on two contiguous pillows, with as much justification for the
proximity as the law allows. Meanwhile a very similar conjugal harmony
expressed itself in the grander home of the Kendricks; but Mrs. Kendrick
did not play the rôle of the silent victim as Mrs. Burnham did. As her
husband was removing his cravat, she said, “Now here’s a fine mess
you’ve got into with the count.”

“_I!_ Well, that’s cool. What do you mean?” asked Mr. Kendrick, not for
information, as his wife knew; so she answered somewhat impatiently:

“You ought to know Frauenstein well enough to see that he would never
sympathize with any narrow social distinctions. He’s seen Clara Forest,
thinks her unjustly treated, and so he has gone over to the enemy.”

“Seen Clara? I should say he had seen the other, by the way he talked.
Shouldn’t wonder if he fell in love with that brat, and the mother too.”

“That’s as much as you know. Men never see anything. I’m perfectly sure
that he is smitten with Clara. That’s the way it will end. You’ll see,”
said Mrs. Kendrick, bitterly. She had long cherished the hope that
Louise might win the count; but she spoke very despairingly about it
now.

“Oh, I always told you that would never work. Men like that, know too
well what a woman is. Louise has arms and legs like spermaceti candles.”

“Well, I must say, for a father to speak like that, is shameful,”
answered Mrs. Kendrick.

“It’s all your own fault; you took her away from the high-school because
she got hurt a little in the gymnasium, and sent her to that namby-pamby
seminary of half idiots at Worcester. Didn’t I always want her to work
in the garden and in the hot-house, and develop her muscles? She’ll
always be sickly, just as she is now.”

“I’m sure she has had a great deal of exercise, and her health is as
good as mine was at her age, and she is not a bit thinner in flesh.” Mr.
Kendrick made no denial, and his wife continued: “Working in the garden
spreads out a girl’s hands, and makes them red; and what man, I should
like to know, ever likes hands and arms like a washer-woman’s? You were
always praising the smallness and whiteness of mine. I mean before we
were married, of course.” Still Kendrick was silent, but his thoughts
were very busy. Someway the world was out of joint, and he was wondering
if, after all, these radicals, with their talk about making women free
and teaching them to depend on themselves, were not pretty near the
truth. Here was Frauenstein, for example, rich enough to put a wife in a
palace, and surround her with attendants, and he was always admiring
women who worked. This he expressed to Mrs. Kendrick, and said that it
certainly was commendable in Clara, since she would be a fool and throw
away her rights as Delano’s wife, to take care of herself, instead of
coming home and living on her father.

“Of course,” said his wife; “and we ought never to have cut her. You
heard what the count said.”

“Who’s to blame for the cutting? Not I. Men don’t cut women, my dear.”

“Well, Elias, I think you can take the palm for sneaking out of a
responsibility. Men don’t cut women, indeed! I know they don’t; but they
insult them worse than we do. I know you bow as graciously to Clara as
if she were a duchess; but would you let Louise visit her? You know you
wouldn’t. That’s the way men take the part of women whom their wives and
daughters avoid.” Mr. Kendrick thought silence the best reply to this
just reflection of his wife. He thought he could trust her to bring
harmony out of the discord; for while he wanted to keep the count’s
money from straying away from the family, she, on her part, was equally
anxious to secure his name and rank for Louise; and he knew she would
hang on to that hope to the last.

The next morning, after breakfast, which had been a serene affair,
showing no trace of the perturbation of the previous evening, the count
drove over to the doctor’s. The doctor was out, but would return very
soon. Frauenstein waited, and spent the time mostly at the piano. The
twins were both delighted, though timid, especially in the presence of
such a lion. Linnie, after they had sung, asked him to say frankly what
he thought of their voices. “Do you allow your sister to speak for you,
Miss Leila?” he asked, turning his fine eyes upon hers.

“Yes—no,” blushing and laughing just like nothing in the world but a
young girl. “I mean yes, in this case,” she finally managed to say.

“Well, then, yours has most power, but it is wiry. Miss Linnie’s is more
flexible, more emotional. She feels more than you do, or, rather, more
than you _seem_ to, when she sings. If you were both equally to
cultivate your voices, and also continue your practice for the next five
years, Linnie would win more applause for her singing, and you for your
playing. That is my opinion; but I ought to add, as the French do,
_maintenant je n’en sais rien_.” Then the count made them both speak
French, he carefully constructing his sentences as much as possible
after _Fasquelle’s French Course_, which he knew was their text-book,
they having no idea of the reason why they were able to get along so
well with him. He understood their worst sentences like a Parisian. Any
foreigner who has been in Paris will understand that. He will recall
how, in his abominable murdering of the language, sentences which he
could not for his life have understood himself, written or spoken, were
instantly seized and graciously and gravely replied to, as if they had
been models of elegance. When the count finished singing a charming aria
in his best style, Linnie said, with enthusiasm,

“Oh, I wish my sister Clara could hear you sing!”

“She shall hear me sing,” he said, looking up to Linnie, who stood on
his left, with an expression in his face that she had never seen there.
It affected her senses like a caress.

Pretty soon the doctor entered; and after greeting the count, he said,
“What a fusillade of French! What a state of excitement these girls are
in! I believe you are bewitching them both, Frauenstein.”

“On the contrary, I am the victim of both, and I dare not stay another
moment. I have come to take you over the river. I want you to see my
fifty acres, on which I am going to build a social palace, if the gods
are propitious.”

It was a clear, balmy day in the first week of April that the count
sought this interview with the doctor. So far in his life, he had never
found a man who was so much “after his own heart.” He believed in him
fully from the first hour he conversed with him, since when they had
corresponded, expressing their views fearlessly; and thus far had found
them in perfect accord. To say they loved each other like brothers would
by no means express the sentiment existing between these two men, so
unlike in many respects, yet so closely in sympathy that thought
answered to thought like the voice of one’s own soul. During the drive,
for they went past the fifty acres away into the country, neither asking
for what reason, the count gave in detail his plans. “If I build this
palace,” he said, “I shall do it with this clear granite sand of the
river. I know the secret of making stones of it—bricks, we call
them—which, moulded in any shape, and tinted any hue, will last for
centuries. I can have a man here in three days to conduct the work. He
will guarantee that they shall be finished this summer. If I do it, it
shall be a magnificent structure, beside which the palace of Versailles
will seem the work of a ‘prentice hand.’ I can profit by the original
palace at Guise, and make it much handsomer, though that is truly
splendid. The apartments must be larger, and the whole should
accommodate about two thousand people. Now, I have already one industry
for its occupants. What is your idea for a second?”

“Making these very bricks,” said the doctor, “if only you have got at
the secret of their perfect durability, as you have, I know, or you
would not speak so positively. But this industry would not suit all. You
want one more.”

“Of course. One that will employ women. What shall it be? I have thought
of silk-weaving, for a certain reason of my own. It is proverbial, you
know, that those who make the silks, laces, and velvets—pure luxuries,
and the most costly—are the worst paid of any laborers in the world.
Look at Spitalfields, England, and Lyons, the great velvet manufacturing
centre of France. In India, those who make the fabulous-priced Cashmere
shawls are the most pitiably paid of all. I am willing, if necessary, to
lose a considerable fortune to prove that good wages can be paid to
silk-makers, and yet have a fair profit on the product. I should go into
that manufacture with some advantages. I have a first class steamer
already plying between San Francisco and China. I can get silk as cheap
as anybody.”

“Good!” said the doctor. “Let the third industry be silk-weaving.” The
count had not mentioned the first, but the doctor knew well he meant
floriculture.

“There’s only one thing lacking, doctor, and that is—the motive: the
motive for the first step. That depends——” And suddenly checking himself
and turning his horse in the road, he asked, abruptly, “Doctor, have you
ever been in love?”

“With a woman—no; with a man, yes.”

“I understand. You have met a man who responded to all the needs a man
could respond to, but never a woman to respond to what you need there.
That is my own case exactly, though I have loved, of course—few men
more, I think.”

“If men only knew,” said the doctor, “how they cramp their own growth by
making idols of women!”

“By idols, you mean slaves. Only free women are worthy of free men; and
the time is not come, though it is near, when they will be emancipated.
Then we shall see the dawn of the Golden Age. Men think they are free;
but they are bound by many shackles, only they have thrown off some
which they still compel women to wear.”

“And some they cannot throw off,” said the doctor, “until women are
recognized as their political equals. I have great patience with the
women; they are coming up slowly, through much tribulation.”




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                         THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP.


 On the way back to the village, the count left the doctor at the house
of a patient, and then he went after Min, intending to take her to ride;
but the time was all consumed in conversation with Clara and Susie about
the organization of the social palace. He was struck especially with the
practical ideas of Susie, and drew her out at length.

“Remember,” he said, “that nothing is absolutely decided yet; but when I
once decide, you will see a rattling among the dry bones of Oakdale. You
and Mrs. Delano will be of great assistance to me, but you cannot grasp
the thing in a manner sufficiently broad. You ought both of you to go
with me to Guise, and study up the details for a certain time. Could
either of you undertake that mission? We would take Minnie along, of
course; that will be the commencement of her education; and the very
best thing would be to leave her there in the schools until our own home
is ready. And here I want to say to you ladies, both of you—for this
child belongs, I see, hardly more to one than to the other—that whether
we build the palace or not, I want to adopt Minnie as my daughter, and
take charge of her education. Understand that I am serious; that I never
make a positive proposition until I have fully counted the cost, and
made my conclusions definitely.”

Susie listened to the count with breathless interest, and looked, almost
stared, at him with a painful intensity; then she took Min in her arms,
hid her face on the child’s breast, and wept silently. Min looked
wonderingly at the count, and then at Susie, and then at Clara, for
explanation.

“How would you like, Minnie, to have this gentleman adopt you as his own
little girl?” asked Clara.

“That would be _so_ nice, auntie! but will he ‘dop’ mamma and you too,
auntie dear?”

“Yes,” said the count, smiling; “I will, as you say, ‘dop’ your mamma
and auntie, if they wish. You will never lose any of your friends; but I
should want you, by-and-by, to go abroad and attend school. You will be
called Minnie von Frauenstein, and you can come home every year.”

“Oh, sir,” said Susie, “how _can_ you be in earnest? How can such a
blessed good fortune be in store for poor Susie’s child? I never dreamed
of her going from me yet for some years, and I did not know how much
pain the very thought could give me; but I can forget myself entirely
for her good. We are getting on well with our business, and I think we
could provide very well for her; but under your protection her
advantages would be greater than we could ever hope to give her.” And
after a pause, Susie rose and gave her hand to the count, saying, with
great emotion, “It shall be as you desire. I cannot thank you for the
honor you do me and my child—words fail me utterly.” The count said,
“You show the true feeling of the mother. Nothing shall be abrupt. You
have ample time to think it all over, and to change your mind, if you
wish. In a month we will consider the matter fully, and make our final
decision.”

To see so brilliant a future opened before the darling who had been
unwelcome in this world, and regarded in the eyes of all, except her
little circle of friends, as a child of shame and disgrace, no wonder
that Susie was overcome with her emotions. “Think, Clara,” she said,
throwing her arms around her friend, “think what you have done, you and
your noble father, for Susie! But for you, I might have been struggling
to gain bread for myself and Minnie, in the kitchen of some of these
women here who turn their eyes when I pass them in the street. I can
think of no harder fate than that.”

“Oh, you would have risen even without us, dear. Your heart of gold was
sure to be recognized, sooner or later.” Susie’s tears could not be
controlled, and apologizing for her weakness, she pressed the count’s
hand again and left the room. Minnie went with her, not exactly
understanding why her mother cried so. Pretty soon she came back, and
climbing up in the count’s arms, said, “I thought dear mamma was
unhappy, Paul; but she says she cried only ’cause she is so happy; and
she kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. I’ll give you just one of
them;” and taking his head between her hands, as she knelt on his lap,
she kissed it pretty much all over, ending with the lips.

“Mercy! Do you call that _one_, Min?” asked Clara. Min laughed, and
asked Paul if he liked kisses.

“That is a leading question, mademoiselle;” but seeing she would have an
answer, he said, “I know of but one thing sweeter than a little girl’s
kisses.”

“What is sweeter?”

“Why, a lady’s kisses.”

“Are they, Paul?”

“That is my opinion.”

“Well, that isn’t _my_ ’pinion.”

“You think chocolate drops sweeter. That is your ’pinion.” Min readily
assented, and Paul told her that he was going away the next day to New
York, and when he returned he would take her to ride, and be her “slave
of the lamp.” Of course the inquisitive child wanted to know all about
the slave of the lamp, but the count excused himself, and promised to
tell her the story of _Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp_, when they should
take their ride. Min reluctantly consented to wait for the story, and
then she asked “Paul” to stay to dinner. Clara answered, “Minnie, you
are insufferable. I was just on the point of asking the count to dine
with us. He will think all the hospitality of this house is confined to
you.”

“No, he won’t, auntie. There’s a lot o’ _hostality_. Isn’t there, Paul?”

“Now go instantly, Minnie, or you will find there is hostility in the
house,” said Clara, laughing. “Will you stay?” she asked the count. “I
ask you only for your society, for I fear we have nothing to tempt you,
gastronomically.”

“Madam, I shall be most happy,” he answered, “but I shall have to ask
you to excuse me immediately after, for I have a great deal to do.”

Min, who had got as far as the door, clapped her hands and shouted with
great satisfaction. She went now to carry the news to her mother, and to
“help,” for she considered her assistance very important. In fact she
could never see anything done without having a hand in it. Whenever the
cloth was laid, she must pull it a little this way or that, by way of
nice adjustment; so with the plates and everything she could reach.

Susie was a little anxious about the dinner on this occasion, and chose
to make the flower decorations for the table herself. Min succeeded,
however, in getting permission to make a little bouquet for “Paul,”
which she did not fail to inform him was her work as soon as he entered
the dining-room, where both the wide folding-doors were thrown open,
exposing a beautiful array of flowers and plants. The count’s place was
assigned him by Susie, on the opposite side of the table, in face of the
conservatory. The count was charmed with everything, and Susie, who was
at first a little embarrassed, soon gained perfect composure, as every
one did in his presence when he chose. During the dinner the
conversation was mostly about flowers, and the count said to Susie, “I
have been urging Mrs. Delano to invest more money in your business.
Nothing would give me more pleasure than to supply any amount you wish
for extending your operations. I speak in a pure business way, you
understand,” he added, fearing the implication of charity as a motive.
“I am perfectly satisfied that the investment or loan would be quite
safe. Mrs. Delano seems to hesitate. How is it with you, madam?”

“I do not hesitate in the least, sir,” she answered confidently. “I want
to import our stock directly from England; but heretofore we have not
had money enough to do so. We have orders now that we cannot fill, and
they are increasing daily, especially for certain shade-trees and
hedge-shrubs.” Clara was a little surprised at the daring spirit of
Susie, to whose lead in business, however, she always submitted. The
little woman was developing a most wonderful executive ability. She was
heart and soul interested in her business; and so it came to pass that
the count honored, what Mr. Kendrick called, the “Dykes & Delano paper.”

“I confess,” said Clara, smiling, “that I do tremble a little at the
idea of giving Madam Susie ‘a wider swing,’ as papa calls it.”

“Madam Susie,” echoed Min, “that was what Annie always called mamma.”

“And so does auntie also, when she speaks of her outside,” said Clara.
This relieved the count of an uncertainty, for he did not like to call
her Mrs. Dykes, and politeness forbade him to call her Miss. Not
noticing these last remarks, Susie said: “There has been a great demand
here for pot-plants this spring, and I must confess we ask outrageous
prices, but you see there is no competition, and as we’ve got so fine a
start, I do not fear a rival, unless some one appears with unlimited
capital.”

The count laughed. “Commercial magnanimity,” he said, “is a fiction, and
commercial honesty is little better than playing confessedly with loaded
dice; but it does me good, Madam Susie, to see women getting hold of the
dice-boxes that men have so long wielded.”

“Almost all men believe,” said Susie, “that women’s industrial and
commercial capacities are restricted by nature to very small, safe,
light, feminine operations, like the conduct of a peanut stand. Now I’ve
been haggling with Betterton, the importer, about hedge-shrubs for the
last month. He has made us his last offer, and I _know_ he thinks we are
at his mercy. To-night I give him my answer. I shall write, thanking him
for his slight concession in the matter of price, and decline, on the
ground that the firm of Dykes & Delano have decided to open negotiations
with foreign houses direct.” Susie’s eyes were bright with triumph.

“Good! Good!” exclaimed the count, as they rose from the table. “I
haven’t enjoyed such a satisfaction for years as that speech affords me.
Go ahead boldly. Upon my honor, I’d rather lose out and out a million
than to see you fail. But you must not fail. I pledge you to that amount
that you _shall_ not,” and he gave Susie his hand. Clara was very
silent, but Susie could not conceal her triumph. It beamed from every
part of her, like the light from a flame.

After dinner they walked through the conservatory, and over the nursery
plantation, where some men were engaged taking young pear-trees from
their “heeling-in” rows, and packing them in bundles for the buyers.
Susie looked at the little wooden labels tied on each tree.

“You wrote these?” she said. The man assented. “They are not written
distinctly enough. Please come to me to-morrow morning and I will give
you models.” She spoke in a low, decided, but respectful tone. The count
noticed everything. He talked with her a great deal, for he was greatly
interested; but he noticed meanwhile every movement of Clara, and joined
her in the walk back to the house, Susie remaining to look after
something that needed attention.

“You are a little troubled, I see,” he said, in a very gentle tone. “I
know exactly the reason. You do not feel so sure of yourself as Madam
Susie does, and you fear I may possibly lose money through your firm. I
wish to reassure you. I am a very cautious man in business. Everything
is favorable here. I admire your partner exceedingly. She is capable of
conducting enterprises to any extent. Let me advise you to trust her
head just as you tell me you do her heart,” and stopping in the walk and
turning his eyes full upon hers, he added, “Believe me sincere when I
say again, I would rather lose money in this woman’s enterprise than
gain any amount in any other. Do not think I could ever regret a loss
incurred here.”

“I do not think you will lose,” she said, “but the new responsibility
weighs upon me a little at first;” and her eyes, that had met his fully
for a moment, fell before the magnetic power of his. That moment decided
the location of the Social Palace. Not a word was spoken, not a glance
that could show that these two were ever to be dearer to each other than
friends; but some subtle movement in the brain destroyed the poise of
nicely-balanced motives, and Oakdale was destined to witness a mighty
enterprise.

The next morning Susie had decided upon a business trip to Boston; but
feeling the importance of her presence at home, she asked Clara to go
instead. Miss Charlotte Delano was to return by the first train, and so
Clara readily assented. That being settled, they talked of the count,
and rejoiced mutually over the prospect of extending their enterprise.
“This day,” said Susie, “atones for all I have suffered—for every tear I
have ever shed. I have been happy many times, but I have never felt the
stimulus of pride. To-day, oh, Clara, my friend, I am both proud and
happy, and my cup is full. Contrast this hour with that when you came to
my room at your father’s. Do you remember? I can scarcely believe I am
the same person. Still, whatever satisfaction I enjoy, whatever prospect
of future happiness, I owe all to your blessed father and you.”

“You will insist upon inflicting me with your gratitude. You make me
ashamed of doing so little. What was it, after all, but a little human
decency? Now, you shall not talk of it. Tell me of the count. He spoke
so admiringly of you. Are you not already in love with him?”

“I don’t know whether I could ever fall in love again. He seems to me
something to be adored by me, not loved, in the common sense; but though
my admiration for him is almost perfect, it will not be quite so, until
he does one thing more.”

“What is that, Susie?”

“Until he wooes and wins Clara,” said Susie.

“Oh, you dear girl! I believe you are capable of anything. If you loved
him, and could do so, you would sacrifice him to me.”

“I would; but there is nothing of that kind to be. We are to be, he and
I, good friends; but Heaven has designed him for you and you for him. I
feel sure of it.”

“Do you forget that you are talking to the legal wife of Dr. Delano?”
asked Clara, with a very confident voice at the beginning, but with
something very like a sigh at the end.

“Oh, well; Fate can tear down a shanty when it has a palace to build.”

The count left in the same train with Miss Charlotte and Clara, and
during the journey an incident occurred which should be mentioned,
because it shows something more of Clara’s nature. On changing cars at
the railroad junction, the two ladies took a seat, the count occupying
the one in front of them, and another gentleman, the one behind. This
gentleman was just putting away a time-table, which Clara politely asked
to see. The gentleman thereupon made some remark, which Clara answered,
and they continued talking for some minutes. Miss Charlotte was a little
shocked at such unconventionality. To her mind, it proved very
conclusively that Clara had no intention of making a soft impression
upon the count, else she would be more careful of her actions. The count
kept on reading his paper, not seeming to notice anything—not even the
fact that the stranger gave Clara his card just before he left the
train, whereupon she promptly returned him hers. Miss Charlotte could
not forbear remarking upon the strange proceeding.

“Why should we treat strangers with suspicion and reserve?” asked Clara.
“It is my ambition to be treated by strangers exactly as one gentleman
treats another; this is Susie’s idea, also, and Miss Marston’s.
Gallantry is a wretched substitute for that respect that comes from the
sense of equality.”

“You are right, madam,” said the count, with great earnestness, as he
folded his paper. “Every such act as this on the part of women, teaches
men a lesson—one they are slow to learn—that women are not necessarily
and by nature simply pretty, dependent dolls, to be flattered and
caressed——”

“And despised,” said Clara. “I have noticed always and without
exception, that the men who bow the lowest before us, pick up our fans,
when dropped, with the greatest alacrity, and make the most adulatory
speeches, are just those who respect us least. I can give you a good
illustration, Miss Charlotte,” continued Clara: “the last time I was in
Boston, as I was passing up Court Street, a poor old apple-woman had her
stand upset. There were many men passing, and I noticed that every one
of the elegant low-bowers, or fan-servants, passed on without the
slightest show of sympathy. One, only, a very young fellow, rather
poorly dressed, I found helping me set up the poor old woman’s stand and
pick up the scattered fruit.”

“Did you give him your card?” asked Miss Charlotte, smiling.

“I did; and allowed him to walk on beside me while I gave him my notions
of a true gentleman; and more, he has written to me twice. His name is
Edward Page. I will show you his pretty, enthusiastic letters; and still
more, Miss Charlotte, when I found he was a poor boy, struggling against
fate alone in Boston, I offered him, with Susie’s consent, of course,
constant employment with Dykes & Delano, and he is coming next week to
take the place.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the count. “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Delano, for
believing, heretofore, that Madam Susie had more business capacity than
her partner. You will always choose your assistants wisely. You will
make them devoted to you, and secure faithful work. This is the great
secret of success as a leader of industry.”

“I have been brought up so differently,” said Miss Charlotte. “The talk
of you radicals sounds to me as if it came from another planet; and
still I find I have to agree with you. I confess that when I have, on
the street, refused a courtesy from a stranger, as, for instance, the
offer of an umbrella in a shower, I have always felt a little mean.” The
conversation followed this strain until the train reached Boston; and
then the count left the ladies at the door of the carriage waiting for
Miss Delano.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                      THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP OBEYS.


 Miss Delano had persuaded Clara to defer her business in Boston until
the next day, and spend the intervening hours with her. “Albert seldom
dines at home,” she had said, “and he comes in, generally, late at
night; so you will not run much risk of meeting him.” Clara replied that
she believed she could meet him without the slightest discomfiture, and
would even like to prove it. While they were speaking the street door
opened, and a minute after Dr. Delano entered the presence of Clara and
his sister. He showed unmistakable signs of confusion when Clara rose
and greeted him with the simple friendliness of a common acquaintance.
At dinner he spent most of the time looking at Clara. She was gay and
chatty, handsomer than she had ever been. Was this the woman who had, as
it were, clung weeping to his feet, imploring the return of his lost
love? Was this smiling, happy woman, who sat facing him, discussing the
dinner with excellent appetite, and coolly talking of extending business
operations, the same soft, dependent, adoring creature who had slept in
his arms and lived only in the sunlight of his smiles and caresses? He
could scarcely believe it. Certainly he had never known her, then. This
could not be his wife: it was a grander presence, an imperial,
commanding woman, the glance of whose strong eyes, his own could hardly
support. She inspired him with something like awe; and just in
proportion as she seemed unapproachable, did the desire to approach her
increase. Clara noticed the interest she excited in him, but she read
his heart like an open book; she saw not love, not tenderness and
regret, but the hope of conquest. Had she read tenderness there, her
triumph would have been robbed of all its worth. This triumph was much
to her. This man had used her most helpless fondness as a weapon against
her, and had met her despairing tenderness with that mocking, superior
calmness that only indifference can create. It was sweet to her to be
able to meet his gaze proudly, to smile upon him, while her eyes said
plainly, “You are nothing to me now.”

During the evening Clara kept close beside Miss Charlotte. Dr. Delano
was vexed that he could get no moment alone with her. Of course he could
have asked for a private interview. Clara expected that he would; but he
could not bring himself to do this, and the only other alternative was
to go boldly to her room, after she retired. This he decided to do. It
was characteristically marital and wholly cowardly, though very natural
to such men as Albert Delano. Not two minutes, therefore, after Clara
entered her room, she heard a well-known step approaching. The instinct
of the slave for self-defence caused her quickly and noiselessly to
slide the bolt of her door. The act was hardly accomplished when he
knocked softly.

“Well?” with the rising inflection, was the only answer.

“May I come in, Clara? I wish to see you.”

“No, Albert, you cannot see me here.”

“Why?”

Clara felt the blood mount to her cheeks at his want of pride.

“I feel a repugnance to the idea of seeing you here. Is not that
enough?”

“Oh, do not be unreasonable,” he replied, concealing his anger, but not
his impatience; and with this he turned the knob. Up to this moment
Clara had secretly reproached herself for bolting her door, not daring
in her heart to really believe that he could be guilty of the baseness
of forcing himself upon her. All fear of being unjust to him, now
vanished like tissue in a furnace. She answered, with forced composure,
“Go down into the library, and I will join you there. You cannot see me
here, Dr. Delano.” He could not possibly mistake her meaning, and he
went without a word. “She shall pay for these airs,” he said to himself
as he retreated, determining to play the part of the impassioned lover,
which he believed she would never be able to resist. He thought he knew
her weakness; but his calculation was all wrong, since he failed to see
that her weakness had been her strength of love; but now her strength
was in the weakness of that love, and she was no longer the potter’s
clay in his hands that she had once been. The moment she confronted him
in the library he was conscious of her power, and felt that no acting
could deceive her. For a moment she stood silently looking at him, and
then she said, in a slow, measured tone, “I have had some hard thoughts
of you, Albert, but I never believed you could be guilty of such
baseness, as trying to force yourself upon me when I had told you you
were not desired.”

“Permit me to say that I have never had any hard thoughts of you, and
could not believe you would ever apply such a term to me. It does not
strike me as a crime to wish to see my wife in her room.”

“I am not your wife, and you know it; nor are you my husband.”

“The law would hold a different opinion; and, allow me to add, a
somewhat less sentimental one.”

“Was it ever our mutual understanding that we were husband and wife,
simply because of the ceremony of marriage?” asked Clara, growing more
calm as her excitement increased.

“Our mutual understanding had not, nor has it now, any power to annul
the fact.”

“Then let it be annulled as soon as possible. I have heretofore been
very indifferent whether you got a divorce or not; but, in Heaven’s
name, wait no longer, since you take so low a view of what constitutes
marriage. I have deserted you, you know,” she said, with a bitter smile,
“and that is ground for a divorce.”

“The complaint is already filed,” he answered, “but I think I shall stay
the proceedings.”

“Suppose you do me the honor to consult me in the premises.”

“I beg your pardon, Madam Delano. Will you favor me with your opinion on
this subject?”

“You cannot irritate me by your mocking tone. I have learned that
existence, and even happiness, is possible without your caresses.”

“So it seems, madam; and if it will do your pride any good, I will add
that I am very sorry for the fact.”

“I should be glad to know for a certainty, that you _are_ sorry for the
fact. It is not pride, Albert,” she continued, in a gentler voice, “but
the sense of justice, which makes me wish you to confess that you
cheated me, when you gave your love in return for mine. You never loved
me grandly—never comprehended how you were loved by me. I never left you
because of your infidelity; and for months I tried to reawaken in you
something of the tenderness for which I was almost dying. I would have
you admit this. Why should there be any misunderstanding? Why should we
quarrel like the vulgar, because we are no longer lovers? I can never
forget what you have been to me, and would remain your friend under all
circumstances.”

It seemed to dawn upon Dr. Delano’s mind that the woman for whom he had
thrown this pearl away, was very small beside her; but there was nothing
of the hero in his nature. He felt a momentary self-contempt at the
retrospect of his own conduct—at the cold, dictatorial letters he had
returned for Clara’s impassioned appeals; but he had gone too far for
anything now but a temporary reconciliation. He had already committed
himself to marriage with Ella, as soon as the divorce was granted. Of
this fact Clara was ignorant.

“I can scarcely believe that it is you, Clara, standing there and
discussing our future friendship so coolly,” he said.

“No; you think my natural place is at your feet. Love makes us
infinitely humble, infinitely dependent. Oh, Albert! you never saw
anything but the surface of things. I could not make you understand how
I have mourned my dead illusions. When I first knew that my heart had
cast off its anchorage in yours, I could have died from grief, only
grief does not kill the strong. Sleep but renewed my strength to suffer,
as I suffer now—not for the return of your love—I have outlived all
desire, all need for that—but from very pity for myself, thinking of the
long, long agonies I have endured;” and Clara hid her face in the arm
that rested on the mantel-piece and sobbed. This was the supreme moment
Albert had desired. He did not believe her own explanation of her
sorrow. He approached her triumphantly, and put his arm around her and
spoke gentle words.

“Thank you,” she said, releasing herself and smiling upon him. “You are
very kind to try to comfort me. It is over now;” and as he tried to hold
her, she gave him a chilling reproach—“Have you not understood what I
have been saying to you, Albert?”

“Oh, it is not true, darling; you have not ceased to care for me.”

“I care for you only as a friend. I told you I had outlived all my
illusions, just as positively as you had, when after a few months of
marriage you were wholly drawn to Ella. Let us preserve our mutual
regard by the utmost candor. We cannot deceive each other, and any
attempt to do so is an outrage upon truth and honesty. There is nothing
left of our mutual passion but a cold and bare skeleton, which we can
never clothe with the flesh and fire of life, do what we will. I would
not see you humiliate yourself;” and not wishing for a reply, she turned
quickly and left him. He stood gazing after her as if dazed. At last he
knew beyond question that this woman was beyond his reach. He had once
called her love a “suffocating warmth,” but even now, he could not see
how far she was above him, through her fervid sentiment of the passion
of love, and her grander idealization of its object, which had made her
faithful, not from any sense of duty or consistency, but from necessity.
To him, love was a luxury like rare wine, which might be substituted,
when wanting, by an ordinary quality. To Clara, love was her
religion—the one necessity of her higher life; and when its object
failed, her imagination constructed an ideal upon which her exuberant
fondness lavished itself in thought, for she never dreamed of the folly
of common souls, who satisfy the heart with stones when it asks for
bread.

The next morning Dr. Delano breakfasted in his room, and Clara and Miss
Charlotte had a long confidential talk over their coffee in the
luxuriant morning-room of the latter. Clara told her friend of the scene
between her and Albert.

“I have long given up hoping for a reconciliation,” said Charlotte,
“though it would be a great comfort to me. When he marries Ella, I shall
quit the house, though where I shall go is uncertain. Maybe,” she added,
smiling, “I shall yet go to live in that Oakdale Social Palace. Nothing
would irritate Albert so much, for he hates the count, though it would
be difficult to say why. I have always been deeply attached to him. He
is the most honorable man toward women I have ever met, and the charm in
his friendship is, that he never misunderstands you. This is why his
friendship is better than the love of ordinary men.”

During the conversation Clara asked her if she thought Ella really loved
Albert.

“No,” said Miss Charlotte, decidedly. “She is too selfish to know what
love means; but in her way she is fond of him, and will keep her empire
over him, by her coquetry with other men, principally. You lost your
power over him simply by loving him with too much devotion. He fretted a
good deal at first because you did not return to him. I told him you
would never return, for you had ceased to love him. Upon that he showed
me your letters. He could not bear any one to think him incapable of
doing just what he pleased with you. Those were the first genuine
love-letters I ever saw. I cried over them like a child; and my deeper
esteem for you dates from that time. They showed so unmistakably that
you cared nothing for Albert’s position or wealth. I had not counted on
so high a virtue, and could not understand why he should be so
worshipped for his gracious self alone; though, of course, he is a very
elegant man, and most women find him irresistible.”

Clara was rather silent. She was thinking of Albert’s vanity in showing
her passionate letters, simply to prove his power—to say virtually, “You
see her heart is under my feet.” There was something so indelicate, so
coarse in this, that it almost made her hate the thought of him.

While the ladies lingered over their coffee, Albert was in the library
walking up and down, fuming. He had worked himself into a very
unenviable state. He had not slept well during the night. It was a new
experience to be shut out from this superb woman, who was but a little
while ago so caressingly fond of him, so sensitive to his slightest
attentions. It was a humiliation that he could not endure with
equanimity, and when a little later she entered the library, a scene
occurred impossible to describe. Clara, with the fresh information of
his engagement to Ella, was amazed at the state he was in. In his anger,
he threw off every rag of decent reticence on the subject of his
feelings, and said, without shame, that there was no reason why they
should deny themselves the pleasure of being together, simply because
they were not so ineffably sentimental as they had been. As he spoke, he
was conscious of outraging all Clara’s high sense of refinement, and he
even enjoyed it as a kind of revenge.

“Stop there! Dr. Delano,” she exclaimed, with furious indignation. “You
compel me to despise you utterly. You talk to _me_ of pleasure in what
the soul can have no part. Oh, shame! shame! Until now I have never
known you. Your peers are not honorable and chaste women, but those who
may barter their favors, like merchandise, for wealth or social
position.”

“I am a physician,” he said, “and don’t pretend to understand so much
about soul as you do. I have found that, as a general thing, men are
men, and women are women. The natural functions exist, and demand their
natural play quite independent of any bosh about soul.”

Clara was never so amazed in her life. She was too excited to move from
the spot, and she gave vent to her horror of his baseness in most
unmeasured terms, ending a volley of eloquence with a fervent expression
of gratitude that there had been no children to perpetuate such moral
degradation.

“Children?” he sneered. “You need not count on their advent in your
case, under any circumstances. Children are born of the body, not of the
soul, or you might be the mother of an army of phantoms—the only kind
you will ever have. That I can promise you as a physician.”

“I despise your wisdom as a physician,” retorted Clara, her face
crimson. “You should have only brutes for patients. Children, in my
opinion, are not well born, who are not the offspring of the soul as
well as of the body. I have not the slightest fear that, if I should
ever—.” Clara stopped short, angry with herself that she should lower
herself to answer at all.

“If you should ever marry a soul, you mean you would prove very
prolific,” he said; but even he was conscious of going too far, and he
added, “but I am sorry my temper has made me say rude things to you,
Clara. I am really ashamed of myself, but I know you will not forgive
me. But no matter now. One thing you forget. The divorce I get from you,
not you from me, remember that. I shall be free to marry, ‘as though the
defendant were actually dead,’ but the defendant will ‘not be free to
marry until the plaintiff be actually dead;’ so the document will read,
madam,” and with these words, he left the library just as Miss Charlotte
entered. She asked him if he would be in at dinner. “I shall try hard to
do so,” he said. “I would not deprive madam of the pleasure of her
husband’s presence. Ta! ta! _mon ange_,” and he actually kissed his hand
to Clara, who stood staring at him as at a monster. When the door closed
behind him she told Charlotte all he had said.

“What then does a divorce mean?” asked Charlotte. “How can you remain
bound to him, when he marries another wife. It is not common sense.”

“No,” answered Clara. “It is not common sense; it is law, it seems;” and
she poured forth a storm of indignant protest against laws made by men
without the consent of women. Miss Charlotte replied:

“I wish I could see some of my friends, who say they have all the rights
they want, standing exactly in your place. It is enough to make women
insane with rage. Such injustice! such barbarous tyranny. My doubts are
all gone. The women’s-rights agitators are right. Don’t be surprised if
you find me hereafter a ‘shrieker,’ as the press insultingly calls those
women,” and looking at herself in the glass over the mantel-piece, she
added, laughing, “See! an old maid, somewhat over thirty-five, tall,
spare, with a thin, prominent nose. I should grace any suffrage platform
in the land.” Clara smiled, but she was too sad to enjoy the pleasantry
of Miss Charlotte, and soon after took her leave, and dispatching with
all speed the business of the flower firm, she was glad to get home to
Susie, in whose never-failing sympathy she found a rest, which grew more
and more to her with the experiences of life.

In a few days Von Frauenstein returned, and Min had her promised ride.
It was quite a long one, and part of the course was through the fine
grove of the Kendricks, which joined the doctor’s fruit orchard; and the
Forest family, by the invitation of the Kendricks, always used it as
freely as if it were their own. On this occasion Leila Forest was
leisurely sauntering through the central avenue with a book in her hand.
She looked up with a beaming face when the count stopped his horse and
greeted her; but seeing the child, whom she readily recognized, her
countenance fell. He did not appear to notice this, and asked her if she
would not join him in the ride. She declined with girlish stateliness.
He divined her motive instantly, and said, “Miss Leila, I think you do
not know this young lady by my side. Permit me to introduce you to
Mademoiselle von Frauenstein, my adopted daughter.”

“Ah!” was all that Leila’s amazement could find for expression, and the
count bowed gravely and drove on.

“She don’t like Minnie, does she, Paul? But Linnie does. Linnie comes to
see auntie, and she kisses me too.”

“Does she? Paul will remember that.”

When Leila reached home, she told her mother of the meeting in the
grove. Mrs. Forest was not inclined to believe the adoption of Minnie
anything but pleasantry on the count’s part, but she said it was very
unwise to refuse the count’s invitation to ride with him.

“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Leila, “of course I wanted to go; but I thought
you would never approve of it. I think he’s horrid to make so much of
that little crazy imp.”

“She is nothing but a baby,” said Mrs. Forest. “The count has certainly
a right to choose his acquaintances. My dear, I fear you did a very
unwise thing”—thrown away your chances, she would have said, if she had
expressed her thought exactly. Leila was puzzled. This was a new phase
of her mother’s character, or new, at least, to her, and she replied, a
little sourly, “Of course he has a right to choose his acquaintances;
but supposing he had been riding with the child’s mother? Why, I should
have felt insulted if he had recognized me.”

“Oh, now you are merely foolish. He would not do such a thing.”

“Why not? The child is no better than the mother, is she?” Mrs. Forest
assumed an icy silence.

Linnie, to whom her sister soon conveyed the intelligence of the meeting
in the park, took a very different ground. “You did right, sis,” she
said; “for if you had accepted the invitation against your sense of
propriety, he would have read your mind like a book, and despised you
for it, as he will now, no doubt, for your airs.”

“Well, that’s a comforting dilemma, I must say.”

“I don’t care, Leila. The truth is, Susie was not treated well, nor
Clara either. I like Susie. I’ve been there, lately, ever so many times,
though you needn’t tell mamma.”

“Goodness me! I thought so. You’re infected with the Forest radicalism
too. I wonder what _you’ll_ come to?”

“A sensible person, I think. I mean to. I would not have refused to ride
with the count. I should respect any one he chose to honor. Now you are
smitten with him; you can’t deny it. But I can tell you one thing: he’s
just as radical as papa is.”

“Well, men don’t like radical women for wives. They never choose them;
and if they do, they don’t like them long.”

“You mean Clara. Now, Miss Wisdom, I’ll give you a little file to gnaw:
There are three Forest girls in the market, or will be when Dr. Delano
gets his divorce; and if either of the three ever becomes the Countess
Von Frauenstein, it will _not_ be the least radical one.”

“Well, I’m sure _I_ don’t want the honor.”

“No, I understand exactly how afflicted you would be, if he should ask
you. Poor child! I hope you _will_ be spared that blow!” And Linnie
laughed in the most exasperating way.

Min was in a fever of delight during the ride. During the first part of
it the count had given her a very charming version of Aladdin; and when
he drove back to the town, he led her like a queen into the finest
ice-cream saloon, and seating her in a chair, took his place opposite to
her and said, as he removed his hat and gloves, “Now, my golden-haired
mistress, what will you have? Remember, I am your Slave of the Lamp.”

“Well, my Slave of the Lamp,” she answered, gayly, “I should like some
chocolate lady-fingers, and some strawberry ice-cream, and some
cocoa-nut pie, and some almonds, and—”

“Mercy!” exclaimed the count, laughing. “If you eat all that, instead of
taking you to the toy-shop for that doll, I shall have to stop at
Simpson’s, the undertaker, and have you measured.”

“Well. Is that the way Slaves of the Lamp behave, I should like to
know?”

“Now, Min,” said the count, “let us compromise. The Slave of the Lamp is
terribly afraid of your auntie, and so he must not make you ill. You
take the cream and the chocolate nougats, and the rest we will have put
in the carriage, for home consumption when the Slave is gone.”

“All right!” said the little girl.

When they reached home it required the count, Clara, and Min combined to
carry all her purchases into the house.

“Oh, auntie! auntie! See! I’ve got such a lovely singing-bird!” And she
insisted, whatever became of her other treasures, on carrying the cage
in herself.

“My child!” exclaimed Clara, amazed at the quantity of parcels and
boxes, “Surely you have not begged all these from the count?”

“Why, don’t you know, auntie, he’s my Slave of the Lamp? Everything I
want he has to get for me.”

“Be gracious to me, Mrs. Delano,” the count said, in his most winning
voice. “You do not know how much pleasure I have taken in gratifying the
caprices of this pet of yours. Do not chide us.”

“Oh, I will not,” answered Clara, smiling. “But what will become of Min,
if another spoiler is added to the list?”

“Depend upon it,” replied the count, “those children have the best
chance of being lovely in their lives, who are most caressed and loved
in their early days. ‘Spoiled,’ is generally only an excuse for not
studying children’s needs, just as parents deny them sugar on the ground
that it is not good for them, when everybody knows they require it ten
times as much as grown people.”

Clara offered no opposition, for these were her own opinions. She asked
the count in, and conversed some time with him. It was a conversation
full of charm to both of them, but Clara was at times troubled with a
vexing, ever-recurring thought. Von Frauenstein, master of human nature
as he was, studied in vain to get at the secret. At length he said:
“There is something that vexes you, and you are half tempted to tell me
about it; that is because you know me so little. Pardon what may seem a
vanity, but I am sure you will come to trust me with your confidence.
Nothing should be hurried, nothing forced, among friends. We have a
right only to what we can win; and there are some prizes too infinitely
precious to be lost by careless play.” He looked at her eyes a moment,
and then asked her to play. “I feel certain,” he said, as the music
ceased, “that you do not wish to sing for me. I have never heard your
voice.”

“You are a magician,” she replied. “You read my feelings so clearly that
I sometimes almost tremble in your presence. I have not heard you sing
yet, you know, and I much desire it.”

“Do you? That is very sweet. Let me try.” But when he had played the
prelude to a song he stopped short. His hands dropped from the
key-board. “I cannot,” he said, turning to her with eyes full of
unspoken words. “I am under a spell. Will you send for Madam Susie, and
let me talk business?” Clara assented, and a minute after Susie entered.

“Oh, madam,” he said, holding her hand, “I have the weight of Atlas on
my shoulders;” and placing her in an arm-chair, he took a seat near her.
Susie looked at him tenderly, like a divine little motherly soul as she
was, and going to him, said, “You are tired. Now, make yourself
perfectly at ease while you talk to me. I wish you would lie down on the
sofa here, and light your cigar.”

“I wish I could,” he said; “but somehow I cannot lounge in a lady’s
presence—not even when she desires it. It comes from my European
breeding; but I will take a cigar, if it is not disagreeable to you.”

“Papa always smokes here,” said Clara, “so you need have no hesitation.
We both rather like the odor of a nice cigar. I am very used to it, you
know——”

Like a flash it entered the count’s mind that Dr. Delano was the cause
of her preoccupation; and strange as it may seem, this was almost the
first moment that he realized her position with regard to that man. He
had never thought of her before as bound to any one, though he knew, of
course, the fact of her marriage. He gave himself, however, no time to
think of it, but commenced at once to “talk business,” as he had called
it.

“You know,” he said, “the Social Palace is passed the Rubicon, and with
me there is no turning back. To-morrow there will be fifty men at work
on a temporary building for the brick-making. The chief of that part of
the work, a man of immense executive ability, I sent here the day after
I left. He is at the hotel, and has done good work since he was engaged.
In three months we can commence the walls; but long before that, the
subterranean air-galleries, cellars, sewers, and so forth, will be
built. I have the general plan, which I brought from Guise, but as to
details I am less fortunate; besides, you know I am to make this on a
somewhat larger scale, though the original accommodates fifteen hundred.
I put the limit at two thousand for this. I want you ladies and the
doctor to go with me to-morrow and fix the exact location and position
of the palace, the manufactories, the gardens and pleasure-grounds, and
the nursery and conservatories.”

Susie’s eyes gleamed as he talked; when he paused, she jumped up and
walked the floor in excitement. “Oh, this is glorious, Clara! See what a
magnificent thing it is to have capital—no, not that, but to have the
soul to use it nobly for the amelioration of honest, laboring people.”

“You want to kiss me, Madam Susie. I see it in your eyes,” the count
said, laughing.

“That’s just my desire,” cried Susie; and coming beside him, she put her
arms around his neck and kissed his forehead. In return, he kissed both
her cheeks, saying, “You are my right-hand man, you know. I leave you
this plan to-night, which you will study, and here is a magazine having
a pretty full description of the original. In a short time I must go to
Guise. I shall take Min, my daughter,” he added, gravely, as if there
was no possibility of questioning his right, “and you must look about
for a nurse to take charge of her. I should think Linnie would like that
place; and understand, I have a special reason for hitting upon her. You
will go—that is, you _can_, can you not? You see, Min must go, for I
wish her to stay, if you are willing—not otherwise, of course; and as
this is a business expedition, you must be totally relieved from nursery
duties.”

Susie’s head fairly swam. “Yes, you can go as well as not,” said Clara.
“It will do me good to work into your place. I will commence with new
responsibilities at once, so I may be used to them. Young Page, the new
assistant, is going to prove a great acquisition to us.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said the count. “I must see him.”

“Can you not come back with us from the prospecting expedition,
to-morrow?” asked Susie. “You and the doctor, and take lunch with us. We
have taken Page right into the family, you know. He is really a nice
young fellow—so well bred and modest.” The count accepted, and then bade
the ladies good-morning.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                   THE COUNT’S SPEECH TO HIS WORKMEN.


 The next day was rainy, and the prospecting expedition, as Susie called
it, was deferred; the count meanwhile employed the time in completing
the purchase of a farm of sixty-five acres, adjoining his original
fifty, and now he held all the land he wanted. This farm was under
cultivation, while twenty acres of the other land was a forest of large
oak, chestnut, and maple trees. This was to form a pleasure-ground, for
which it offered singular advantages, since it had, near its centre, a
beautiful lake, fed by never-failing springs, in a hill on its further
and northern boundary. The following day was magnificent, and though the
distance was very short, the party set out about nine o’clock in an open
carriage, for the count never walked, except on pleasure excursions;
then he was equal to the strongest. He and the doctor occupied the front
seat, and the ladies the other. Pausing on the high ground that sloped
down to the bridge, they surveyed the scene before them. Along the
river, on the opposite bank, which was quite steep and skirted with
large trees, except immediately on either side of the bridge, there lay
a broad, level field, straight beyond which was the twenty acres of
forest, level at first, and rising gradually toward the north-western
hills. The count turned on his seat, and asked “Madam Susie” where the
palace should rise—“Speak, and I obey you; I and the other ‘slaves of
the lamp,’” he added, smiling.

“I would have it set back two-thirds the distance toward the wood,”
answered Susie, promptly. “The front, on right and left of the avenue,
extending from the bridge, should be a park and garden, in which should
stand first, after the bridge, the theatre.”

“Easy of access to our ‘transtevere’ neighbors. I see your idea; go on,”
said the count.

“I have no very definite ideas further,” said Susie, “except that I
would have the silk manufactory to the right or east, reserving the west
as much as possible for our view.”

“The brick-making establishment,” said the doctor, “could be placed
still beyond, further to the right.”

“Yes, I agree to all that,” said the count. “Now that lake in the woods,
I find is just high enough to carry the water to the third story of the
palace. You see there is land enough, so there is no object in having it
higher. I tested the water yesterday. It is perfect, and will amply
supply all our needs. Now, behind the palace are your nurseries and
gardens, and in these, and near the palace, we must build our grand
swimming-baths. I propose two apartments, one for women and children,
and the other for men. In the women’s there must be a movable platform,
like that at Guise, which will rise at one end to within six inches of
the surface of the water—made to rise by simply turning a bar.”

“That is for the little children,” said Clara. “How fine a thought that
was of Mr. Godin! In the centre of each bath we might have an island,
about twelve feet in diameter, for flowers.”

“A good idea; we will not omit that,” said the count. “The palace will
be four immense buildings, standing like a Greek cross, with a vast
glass-covered court in the centre, about two hundred feet square. Each
quadrangle also, will have a glass-roofed court, but not so large. The
great central court must be a grand hall for great celebrations. Now
what shall we do with the others? The corners of the four buildings lap
some ten feet, you understand, and communicate on every story by
passages or corridors.”

“One of these courts,” said Susie, “I would have for a winter
conservatory.”

“That is my thought exactly,” said the count, “and all things are
working together admirably. I have spoken for a palm-tree, fifty feet
high, and many years old, which is an elephant drawn in a lottery to its
owner, and which I can have for the tenth part of what it will be worth
for the centre of this court. It once belonged to Gouverneur Morris, of
Pennsylvania, I am told.”

“Why, I know the history of that tree,” said the doctor. “Is that
so? Can that be obtained? Well, how all things do conspire to
success when you operate on a grand scale! Now, in your great
subterranean-ventilating galleries, you are to place hot-air
furnaces for warming the palace. One of these galleries can run
directly under the court, and hot-water pipes, from a furnace
located directly underneath, can warm your conservatory, Susie.”

“The swimming-baths are the most difficult to warm, I think. The silk
works we will place nearer than we intended, and use the exhausted steam
of the engines for the purpose. Baths there must be in the palace as
well; but these swimming-baths I want to make a great feature. Nothing
is so refreshing after labor as a swim. It makes the body supple and
elastic. I don’t think water, as a moral agent, can be over-estimated.
Make a community thoroughly clean outside, and the inside will soon set
itself in harmony. People will never be moral so long as baths are a
luxury.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Susie. “I can’t believe I shall live to see all this; or
if I ever do see it really accomplished, I shall die of pure joy. Think
of it! Hundreds of poor families having all these luxuries, these
splendid conditions for culture and refinement, and all for no more
money than they now pay for their miserable tenements! _Can_ it be
done?”

“It certainly can,” replied the count; “and hereafter it will be by
labor organizations themselves.”

As they drove down over the old wooden bridge, the doctor remarked the
necessity of having a new one.

“Yes, I have already thought of that, doctor. I was closeted with your
town-council yesterday afternoon. I offered to build them a new iron
bridge—have it all completed in forty days. You see I have peculiar
advantages, for I am a large owner in the Phœnix Iron Bridge Works, in
the Schuylkill Valley, Pennsylvania. I proposed to your town council to
issue to me small notes, to the amount of fifty thousand dollars,
receivable for all taxes and town dues of all kinds. I will endorse them
myself, if necessary. With these I can pay the workmen.”

“That is a capital idea, Frauenstein,” said the doctor; “but you won’t
need to endorse them. Those notes will circulate perfectly. Everybody
wants the bridge. It has been discussed seriously for over three years.”

“When these notes come into the town treasury, it can burn them. They
can easily be all redeemed and burnt in the course of a year, and your
citizens will have their bridge without feeling the cost in the least.”

“Kendrick & Burnham, the bankers,” said Clara, “are members of the
council. They will of themselves turn the balance, for they know you
will have a good deal of banking business, which they expect of course
to do.”

“Exactly,” said the count; “you see how all things work for our
interest. I am promised an answer at their next meeting, which is
to-morrow night.”

Thus discussing the plans, the party drove to the edge of the forest;
and as there was no road through it, they walked to the lake on the
hill, following the course of a pretty brook that wound down through the
woods, across the land, and emptied into the river. It was noon when
they returned and drove to the spot where the temporary building for the
brick-making was going up. As the carriage approached, the “boss” of the
operations came forward and saluted the count with great deference. The
count gave him his hand cordially and presented him to the rest of the
party. “This is Mr. Stevens, Dr. Forest, with whom you will soon be
better acquainted. He is a scientific man, as well as an accomplished
artisan, and to him we look for the transformation of this sand into
stone bricks.” Then the count presented him to the ladies separately,
saying, “These are the heads of the firm of Dykes & Delano, Florists, of
whom you have heard.” He had not, in fact, but did not confess that, as
he took the offered hands of the ladies. “They will conduct the florist
and nursery industry of our future social palace.” While the count was
talking and listening to the conversation of the rest, his eyes were
busy with the scene before him. There, on piles of lumber, on the
ground, on carts, everywhere, the men, some alone, some in small groups,
were seated, each one with a long, narrow tin pail or kettle, out of
which they were eating their principal meal of the day. Frauenstein
looked at Clara. There was an appeal in his eyes that she understood.

“Mr. Stevens,” she said, “where you have so many workmen who will be
engaged here regularly for months, would it not be practicable to have a
table set for them in the building you are putting up? It would seem so
much more fraternal and——”

“Human, you would say, madam. Ah! madam, that is the way I ate my dinner
for years.”

“By ——, it’s a shame!” exclaimed the doctor.

The count asked permission of Mr. Stevens to speak to his men; and
driving near a group of three seated on a pile of boards, he said,

“My friends, I wish to ask you a question—not out of curiosity, believe
me, but from a motive which you will approve.”

“Go ahead, sir,” said one of the men, tearing off a piece of tough meat
with his teeth.

“I want you to make me an estimate of the cost, the average cost, as
near as you can come at it, of a workingman’s lunch, such as you are
eating to-day.”

“I think mine, boss, costs about as much as that you give your dog every
day,” said a low-browed rough man seated near the group addressed.

“Sure would ye spake to a gintleman like that, Mikey? It’s onmannerly in
ye, onyhow.”

“I’m not offended with Mike. I like his protest. He is not satisfied,
and that is the first thing we want when we propose a reform.” Here the
intelligence was in some silent, mysterious way communicated from man to
man that this black-gloved gentleman was the great capitalist, of whom
there were circulating fabulous stories about his untold wealth, and his
project of a Social Palace for workingmen. Many of them were
incredulous, and suspicious of the intentions of all capitalists; but as
the knowledge of the count’s presence spread, many of the men rose and
doffed their hats to him and his friends, as they gathered round the
carriage. After trying again, the count found the lowest average
estimate he could get was ten cents. They agreed that if they could have
the same for that amount, they should not bring their kettles. The count
and Mr. Stevens talked together in a low tone for some minutes; and then
the count, rising in his seat, removed his hat and gloves and commenced
to address the workmen. Suddenly every voice was hushed and every eye
intently studying the elegant face and form before them:

“My friends,” he said, “you know my name is Frauenstein, and you have
heard that I am a capitalist, which some of you take to be about
equivalent to ‘enemy.’ [Cries of “No, no!”] Now some of you, doubtless,
belong to the International Workingmen’s Association, and other labor
organizations, and you know, as well as I do, that no man can own a
million of dollars which he has earned by any industry of his hands.
[Cries of “Hear, hear!” and “That’s true!”] Some of mine I inherited;
but most of it I have acquired by investing it in great industrial
enterprises in various parts of this country, of which I am a citizen;
and some of it I have acquired in Wall Street, by what is called gold
speculation. You know that every dollar of this wealth is the
representative of a dollar’s worth of productive labor, performed by
laboring men like yourselves. I also have done some labor, actual
productive labor, and I think I should not exaggerate if I say that in
this way I have an honest title to about five hundred dollars! [Laughter
and cries of “Good for you, if you are a count!”] Yes, I am a count, as
you say, but I came honestly by that, if I did not by my property, and I
confess to a certain pride in my name, for it is an honorable one; but a
thousand titles cannot make a man a true nobleman. In my opinion, he is
noblest who most loves his fellow-men. [Great applause.] Now, my
friends, it is the desire of my life to do a great work for industry;
and understand well, I do not come to insult you with charity. Every
true man despises charity, and wants only a just and fair compensation
for honest labor performed. A man wants to have a home of his own;
leisure for studying social and political questions; he wants baths
whereby to keep himself clean; good clothes for himself and family; he
wants his wife freed from the wash-tub and the cooking-stove; he wants a
guarantee of support in sickness and old age; and especially does he
want to see his children educated, and brought up to be noble men and
women, who may be an honor to their country. [Immense applause.]

“Now, we propose within the next three years to offer all these
advantages, and many more which I have not time to name, to two thousand
people, or say five hundred families. When your bricks are done, you
will see rising on this spot of 115 acres, a grander palace than your
richest citizens have ever dreamed of. It will cost, with all the
improvements of the parks and grounds, and the silk manufactory, which
will be an industry to support the establishment, about $4,000,000, and
I mean that those who build it and those who come to live in it, shall
buy it and own it through the rents they pay. Say there will be one
thousand working adults earning, on an average, $300 a year. That will
be $300,000 a year, which will pay for the home in less than fifteen
years. There will be ample work in the silk manufactory and in the
cultivation of flowers for the women, and also for the children during
hours that may be spared from their schools. I think, therefore, fifteen
years is a fair estimate of the time it will take to purchase your
magnificent home. And here I want to say that no credit is due to me for
this idea. It is not mine, but that of one whose name you should teach
your children to pronounce with reverence, as soon as their lips have
learned to utter their first words. It is the name of a Frenchman, who
has done already for his workmen what I propose to do here. I allude to
Monsieur Godin, the great labor reformer and capitalist, in the town of
Guise, in France. [Immense applause, and cheers for Godin rent the air.]

“In a few days I shall put into your hands a pamphlet which I have
translated from a part of Monsieur Godin’s book, called _Social
Solutions_. That will give you a clear idea of the organization and
working of the first Social Palace ever founded. The second is the one
on which you are now engaged, and I am sure you will work with new
spirit now that you see what is expected of you. You are not working to
build a stately palace for the rich, while you keep yourselves and your
children in hovels, or mean tenement houses. The palace you are to build
is to be your own home and that of your children after you. A capitalist
builds this, but hereafter labor organizations will build them for
themselves, all over the world, until, as I hope, it shall become one
fair garden from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from China to
Gibraltar.

“Finally, I come to say the few words which I rose to say, for I did not
intend to branch out in this way, and cheat myself out of a few moments
of your valuable time! [Laughter and applause.] Your chief here, Mr.
Stevens, who is a labor reformer, and whom I trust you will come to love
as a brother [cheers for Stevens], thinks it practicable to construct in
this temporary building an oven and range, where every day a quarter of
an ox or so may be cooked, with loaves of bread and a plenty of good
coffee, and that this can be furnished you every day for ten cents
each.”

Here the count was interrupted by applause and the volunteering of the
men to build the range for nothing after working hours.

“That’s the right spirit, boys. I know you work hard, and I would not
ask it, nor would Mr. Stevens, but I will not dampen your ardor. It
shall be as you wish, and I will send you the bricks and lime to-morrow
morning. [Cheers.] Some of you are carpenters, and can put together with
these rough boards a couple or more long tables. The necessary crockery
and table-linen I beg you to allow me to present you, as an offset to
your giving your labor to making the oven and the tables. One thing
more, and I have done. I met yesterday in your streets, crouched on the
pavement, crying, a poor Chinaman, who can scarcely speak a word of
English, and who was suffering from hunger. I told him I would give him
work, and the way he received my slight kindness, touched my heart. Some
boys had been insulting the poor fellow in his poverty and wretchedness,
and I took the occasion to read them a lecture. I found out that the
Chinaman could cook and wash. Now, what do you say to his coming here to
do this cooking, setting the table, and keeping the table-linen clean?
[Applause and assent.] Meanwhile, you see, he can learn our language,
and I have no doubt he will prove very useful—perhaps he will take
charge of our great steam-laundry, which is to be a part of your Social
Palace, and which will free your wives from the wash-tub. [Great
applause.] I hope you will treat him well. Never by any carelessness
teaze him about his cue, which you know is an honor in the Chinaman’s
eyes. Respect, you know, always begets respect and confidence, and no
man is worthy of the name, who thinks he is better than another, because
he dresses differently or happens to be born in a different country.

“I said I would not offer you charity, and I will not; but when this
great Social Palace is finished, I will show you that, capitalist though
I am, I have one right that you are bound to respect. That right I mean
to exercise in organizing a festival and ball on a grand scale, to
celebrate the completion of our work; and if, after I have accomplished
all this, you will forgive me for being a capitalist, and consider me a
brother, I shall have all the recognition I desire. In conclusion, I
propose three cheers for the Social Palace, in the name of liberty,
equality, and fraternity.”

The three cheers were given with the most deafening enthusiasm. Then
followed cheers for the count, and the heartiest wishes for his health
and prosperity. Clara, and Susie, and the doctor, were as enthusiastic
as any of the men. They cheered and clapped their hands with the men all
through the speech, and the carriage turned away and drove off, amid
cheers for Dr. Forest, whom all workingmen recognized as a friend, and
then cheers for Dykes & Delano. To this Clara and Susie answered by
waving their handkerchiefs.

“I had no idea you could be so eloquent,” said the doctor to the count,
“though I was prepared for a telling speech the moment you opened your
mouth.” Susie was profuse in her demonstrations of admiration, but Clara
was silent.

During the drive home, the doctor took from his pocket a copy of the
Oakdale daily and read: “Dr. Forest presents his regards to his patients
of Oakdale and vicinity, and hereby announces that he will suspend his
medical practice from the first of May, 18—, until the completion of the
Social Palace, when he will take charge of the medical service of that
institution.”

“I fully expected that,” said Clara. “I knew papa would have a large
hand in that workmen’s palace; but what place are you to take, papa?
Just before the Chinaman appeared in the programme, I was counting on
your volunteering to take the office of _cordon bleu_.”

“Which I would do, willingly,” said the doctor, “if I could be most
useful there.”

“By the way, let us stop at the hotel as we are passing, and see what
_Too Soon_ is doing. That’s the name of our celestial brother,” said the
count.

In a small room in the upper part of the hotel, they found Too Soon
seated on the floor, busily sewing. As they entered, he rose and pressed
the count’s hand to his forehead, and then showed what he knew of
western etiquette, by bowing very low to the rest. It was very difficult
to talk to him, but by dint of pantomime and a few English words, they
found that Too Soon had sewed all night, and had nearly finished his
wardrobe, consisting of baggy, thick, linen trowsers and two nondescript
jackets. The count tried to convey to him an idea of the function he was
to fill over the river, but without success. However, after lunching
with Clara and Susie, he returned for Too Soon, took him in his
carriage, and drove to a hardware and crockery store, and then to a
dry-goods establishment, where he made all the purchases for the new
_cuisine_. The moment Too Soon saw the table-cloths, he showed by
pantomime that he wished to hem them. He understood, evidently, that the
count was going to establish a restaurant somewhere over the river; but
he was as devoted as a slave, and ready to do whatever was required of
him.

The work went on bravely. Stevens set every man at work who could drive
a nail, and in less than a week the building was in use. The cooking
arrangement was admirable. The tables built, Too Soon’s well-stocked
china closet filled and locked, and all the washing and other
paraphernalia ready for use. “To-morrow,” said Mr. Stevens to his men,
“lunch for fifty and over will be spread here. I expect the count will
be here. Understand you are all free to act as you usually do—take your
own lunches to the table, or bring nothing. A good plate of meat, with
gravy and potatoes, will be furnished for six cents; a large cup of
coffee for two cents; (Too Soon has already roasted it in the new oven,
which works to a charm,) and bread, as much as you want, for two cents
more. That makes ten cents. Too Soon will hereafter sleep here, and keep
all safe. There will be water and towels provided, so that every man can
make himself so presentable that any one, seeing him at table, will be
surprised if he don’t eat with his fork just like a gentleman. Now I
ain’t afraid of offending you. I am a workman like you, and used to eat
with my knife, which was all right when we had to use a two-pronged
fork, and I confess, boys, that I shall have no little pride to-morrow
at this lunch.”

“Boss, I guess some of us would know a silver fork if we had a good
square view of it,” said one of the men.

“All right,” said Stevens, laughing. “You know very well there are some
people who think a workingman must be a boor, anyway. Von Frauenstein is
not one of them, I promise you. On the contrary, he expects rather too
much of us.” The men said nothing; but evidently they determined, each
and every one, to perish rather than forget and put their knives in
their mouths. This piece of policy was rather nicely managed on the part
of Stevens, for there is nothing on which people, who have been deprived
of refined breeding, are so sensitive as this very subject of manners.

The next evening Burnham and his wife were at the Kendricks. Mrs.
Burnham enquired for the count.

“Oh, he’s running and driving everywhere,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “We
scarcely ever see him. He apologizes, and says he don’t like to make our
house a convenience; but I won’t hear of his going to a hotel, of
course.”

“Why, the whole town is talking of nothing but Von Frauenstein and his
great workmen’s palace,” said Mrs. Burnham; “and, do you know, there are
over fifty men at work already, and to-day they had a banquet. My boys
were over there, and all the afternoon they’ve been dinning _Too Soon_
into my ears. He wanted to know the names of everything, and it wasn’t
enough for them to tell him, but they actually helped him wipe his
dishes. I’ve forbidden them to ever go there again.”

“Oh, let them go,” said Burnham. “I haven’t seen Charlie so well for
months. The excitement is innocent, and much better than he will get in
the streets.” While they were talking, Kendrick was very unceremoniously
walking up and down the drawing-room with his hands behind him. Pretty
soon he stopped short before the company.

“Burnham,” said he, “we are old fogies. We’ve let the world get way
ahead of us. I saw a sight to-day such as I never expected to see, to
say the least.”

“Oh, you were over there too, were you? Do tell us about it,” said his
wife.

“Why there were tables set for over fifty—snowy linen, napkins, silver
forks, beautiful white china, and I’ll swear if most of the men didn’t
eat as decorously as those at my own table.”

“I shouldn’t have thought they would like spectators,” said Burnham.

“Spectators! Bless your soul! I was invited to lunch with them.”

“Goodness! Did you ever hear of such assurance! What did you do?” asked
Mrs. Burnham.

“Why, I accepted.” The ladies both uttered exclamations of amazement.
“What could I do? There was Frauenstein just about to sit down. I
couldn’t pretend I had lunched. Everybody knew better, and wherever
Frauenstein could hob-nob, I ought to be able to.”

“But you couldn’t eat anything, of course,” said Mrs. Burnham.

“On the contrary, I had a very satisfactory lunch. In the first place,
the coffee was as good as I ever tasted anywhere. The beef was roasted
to a turn, the gravy perfect, and the baked potatoes also; and as for
the bread, Mrs. Kendrick, I would much like to see as good in my own
house.”

“Why, how on earth could it be done? A Chinaman beggar couldn’t do all
that!”

“Yes, he’s a cook; besides there’s a French baker in the gang of
workmen, and he showed the Chinaman how to make the bread and the
coffee.”

“For my part, I think Frauenstein will get himself into a scrape. What
will Ely & Gerrish’s men say? There’s nobody to give them such a dinner
every day. Why, don’t you see it will raise wages?”

“Oh, no, Burnham; no gift about it. The men built the kitchen and tables
at odd hours, and they pay for the food just what it costs, with enough
over to make up the Chinaman’s salary.”

“Why, it is that horrid dirty Chinaman, I hear, that we used to see
about the street trying to sell matches,” said Mrs. Burnham.

“No dirt about him now. He had clean new clothes, his cue neatly
braided, and his skin, and even his nails, were as clean as yours or
mine.”

“And the conversation was very edifying, I suppose,” said Mrs. Burnham.

“Just about as good as the average. I’ll be blest if I haven’t heard
worse at my own table. To be sure, some of them spoke bad English. One
of them, at the further end of the table, where Frauenstein and I sat,
got up, and asked to speak, if his fellow-workmen and the distinguished
guests were willing.”

“That was putting it rather neat,” said Burnham. “He made a telling
speech in very good English.”

“Do repeat it,” said Mrs. Kendrick, as curious as if her husband had
just returned from a visit to the South Sea Island savages.

“Well, he said, among other things, that Count Frauenstein’s address to
them a week ago had touched them deeply, even independently of the
magnificent promise of the Social Palace, which was something they could
not yet realize as possible—touched them deeply because he had
recognized the dignity of labor, and the rights of laborers to a just
share of the products of their industry.”

“Oh, he’s filling their heads with that stuff, is he?” said Burnham.

“Not all stuff. No man could talk to men and win such unbounded
admiration without talking soundly. I tell you, I’m more than ever
convinced that we are old fogies. This laborer said workingmen knew
perfectly well they were far below the educated gentleman in refinement,
in manners, in culture—in everything, perhaps, but heart. He thought no
men had more heart than workingmen, and workingmen knew their true
friends just as quickly as they knew the true gentleman from the sham.
‘I felt,’ he said, ‘as the count talked, that I could not do enough to
express my gratitude that God had sent us so true and noble a friend—a
man disclaiming the idea of charity, and avowing that the best help a
workman could have, was that which gave him a field wherein he could
help himself. I felt, as he talked of our building ourselves a palace,
that I would work my own fingers off to build him and his a palace, for
he deserves it, God bless him!’ and the man sat down, quite overcome.”

“Oh, I wish I had been there,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “He must be a
sensible man.”

“Did Frauenstein say anything?” asked Burnham.

“Oh! He was on his feet like a flash. He said the man’s sentiments did
him honor—his emotion did him honor. With men having such comprehension
of their rights, and such faith in the honesty of their fellow-men, he
could trust the building of the palace. And then he drew a picture of
life in the Social Palace—the labor, which would not be drudgery, but a
pleasant exercise, that would preserve the health of both body and mind;
the nursery and schools for the children; the grand festivals in the
vast, glass-covered court, festooned with banners and garlands of the
flowers their women and children would cultivate; the music, the
societies, the theatre, where the children would learn elegance of
bearing and address—O Lord! Burnham, I never heard anything like it. You
see, he has studied this subject profoundly. If he succeeds, you will
see one grand thing—the happiness of the aged, for they will have a
sphere just as the children will. Now, life is organized for the
strongest—that is, for adults. No doubt about it. Children are not
happy, nor healthy, as a general thing. They are in the way; so are old
people. Well, he only made a little speech, ending with a depreciation
of war, and some touching remarks on the cultivation of the sentiment of
the brotherhood of man. War, he called a stupendous imbecility, as a
civilized way of settling disputes, and he offered a gracious tribute to
Christ and Dr. Forest.”

“Oh, shame!” exclaimed Mrs. Kendrick.

“I don’t mean, you know, that he mixed them together. He spoke of Christ
when talking of the brotherhood of man, and he said, but for Dr. Forest,
one of the best and noblest, as well as most learned men he had ever
met, the first Social Palace would have been built in some other place.
I never saw men so earnest. Why, they already adore the man. They would
do anything for him. He’ll get good work out of them, you may be sure.”

“Well, I should think he might, if in working for him, they are building
up a grand home for themselves,” said Mrs. Burnham.

“Cost $4,000,000, you say, Kendrick. I tell you, it will never pay,”
said Burnham. “So much ornament, you see. Now what on earth do poor
people want of an astronomical observatory, and a theatre, and library,
and billiard saloon? It’s all nonsense. Such people want nothing but a
decent home and decent things generally.”

“Well, that has been my view; but Frauenstein says you won’t know the
second generation of the Social Palace as what we understand as
laborers’ children.”

“But don’t you see, bringing them up in such luxury, baths, and
amusements, and accomplishments, and all that,” said Burnham, “they’ll
feel themselves too good to work?”

“That’s just exactly what I told Frauenstein; but he says they will
certainly have an attraction to luxuries, just like the rich, but they
will have another attraction the rich lack, and that is a love of labor,
not drudgery—you know the distinction he makes—a love of productive
labor, that will be second nature to them; so they will despise
idleness, and honor no one who leads a frivolous life.”

“Why, you are quite a labor reformer,” said Mrs. Burnham. “That Count
Von Frauenstein bewitches everybody.”

“Well, I see one thing. He is a happy man. It’s a luxury to see a happy
man. Now, I’m not a happy man. You are not a happy man, Burnham. We are
just business machines—animated ledgers, you might call us. Frauenstein
has the fervor, and enthusiasm, and freshness of a boy; so has Dr.
Forest and that man Stevens; and I swear, that Chinaman is happier than
I am!”

“Dear me, Elias!” said Mrs. Kendrick, not knowing what to think of her
husband’s mood. “I’m afraid you are not well.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve only been awfully stirred up, that’s all. If things
_could_ be so that a man could make a lot of people happy while putting
money in his own pocket, business would have more life in it.”

“Well, Kendrick, we’ll see how this thing works. Time enough to talk
then.”

“How about the bridge?” asked Mrs. Burnham.

“Oh, that’s settled; the notes are to be issued at once—are ready now, I
believe.”

“That is a good idea,” said Burnham. “I’m pleased with that; we shall
get the bridge and not feel it at all. That’s a sound idea of
Frauenstein. Well, maybe he’ll make his big scheme work, and get his
money back in fifteen years, but I don’t see it yet.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
         POETIC RETRIBUTION.—GROG-SELLERS INTERVIEWED BY WOMEN.


 On a perfect morning in early May, the very day of the departure of the
count and Madam Susie for France, a man prematurely old by dissipation,
and destitute through wasting his substance by gambling, approached the
town of Oakdale, which once had been his home. His last cent had been
spent to bring him to a railroad station some miles distant, and from
sunrise until ten o’clock he had walked, weary and almost fainting at
every step.

He arrived by the least frequented road, and when a few rods from the
house once owned by Mrs. Buzzell, he sat down under a tree by the
roadside. The birds were singing and chirping in the branches, the sun
was warm, and the air balmy and delicious. As he sat there, a little
child approached and stood silently regarding him with evident
curiosity. It was a lovely child, whose soft, golden hair descended to
her waist from under a quaint little mushroom-shaped hat of white straw.
She was dressed very coquettishly, her stockings nicely gartered above
the knee, short white dress with embroidered flounces, and pretty
bronzed gaiter-boots. Her dress was protected by a jaunty white apron,
with bib and pockets trimmed with crimson braid. Her blue eyes showed
traces of tears, and the man looking at the charming little picture
before him, soon discovered the cause—a dead canary-bird whose tiny
claws and yellow tail peeped out of one of her apron pockets.

“Well, I never before saw a little girl with a canary-bird in her apron
pocket,” he said, trying to smile.

“You never had a birdie die. _You_ never did; did you?” she asked,
almost ready to sob.

“No, I never had a birdie. I am sorry yours died.”

The child took the dead bird from her pocket, and sitting down on a
stone beside the man, caressed it and moaned pitifully, “Oh, birdie!
birdie! I am so sorry Minnie gave you chocolate drops! Oh, birdie!
birdie! How can I leave you in the cold ground! I shall never, never see
you again!”

The child’s distress touched the rough gambler’s heart, and he tried to
console her. “What a beautiful thing this child is! Some rich man’s
spoiled darling,” were his thoughts, and he sighed heavily.

“Poor old man!” said the little one, forgetting her own trouble for a
moment. “What is the matter?”

“Do you think me so old? How old are you?”

“I am six years old.”

“Six years old!” repeated the man, and then he asked her name.

“My name is Minnie von Frauenstein. I am Paul’s little girl, you know,
and he gave me my birdie. Oh, it sung _so_ sweetly! and I gave it
chocolate drops. Poor birdie! Minnie was so silly;” and the child sobbed
again.

Dan, for of course the reader has guessed that it was he, though he was
broken in spirit and weak and exhausted by fever and chills, from which
he had long suffered in the West, had yet in his degradation something
more of human softness than he had ever had in his strength. When this
beautiful little girl told him she was six years old, the thought
flashed upon him that his and Susie’s child would be, if living, about
this age; and something in her face appealed to him like a
half-forgotten picture. Mrs. Forest had never once alluded to Susie in
her letters, and in the short notes he returned, at long intervals, in
answer to his mother’s tiresome, pious communications, he asked no
questions, though he had often determined to do so, or write to his
sister, or even to Susie; but he had never done so. Susie might be gone
away or dead, for all he knew, and the child too. This one was no such
child as would spring from him and Susie, he thought. This was some
proud, petted beauty, whose birth had been heralded as a blessing, and
when she told him her name, his speculation ceased, but every word and
motion charmed him. She seemed like a creature of some purer, higher
sphere than that to which he belonged, and when he spoke to her he
softened his voice and manner as by instinct.

“I must bury my birdie and go back,” she said, “for I am going away with
mamma and Linnie and Paul. The ship is waiting for us, papa says, in
Boston, and it sails on the great ocean to-morrow morning. We are going
to France, you know, to the Social Palace.”

“Who’s Linnie? Not Linnie Forest?”

“Yes; Linnie Forest, my doctor’s girl. Don’t you know Linnie? She is my
nurse now.”

Dan saw at once that this Frauenstein must be some great nabob, or his
mother would never let Linnie go in such a capacity—a relative, he
thought, of that millionaire count, of whom he had heard in his youth.
As the child ran on, talking of many things, she mentioned her mother as
“Madam Susie.”

“Susie!” echoed Dan. “Is that your mother’s name? What is her other
name? I mean, what was it before she was married?” But he could get no
satisfactory reply. “Is this Mr. Frauenstein, then, your father?” he
asked.

“Yes,” said Minnie. “He wasn’t once, you know, but he made me his little
girl. He isn’t Mr. He’s Count.”

“Who is your real father?”

“Oh, we don’t ever speak of him. He was a naughty, bad man. He didn’t
love me nor mamma. He went off and forgot his little girl; but Paul
loved me, and is so good to me. He is my Slave of the Lamp, you know.”
Dan covered his face with his hands, and hot tears of shame and remorse
poured down his face. Minnie patted his head with her soft little hands,
and told him not to cry. “Come home to my house,” she said, “and we will
give you something to eat.”

“Thank you; I am not a beggar.”

“Well, you are poor, ain’t you?”

“Yes, poor enough, God knows.”

“Well, then, you can work for Auntie Clara while we are gone; and she is
such a darling auntie, and she is very kind to all poor people. So is
mamma too, and Paul, and Minnie is too.” While she was talking the count
approached, being anxious to know why she stayed so long. Dan rose
totteringly from his seat when the elegant gentleman appeared. “My
child,” the count said to Minnie, who ran towards him, “your mamma is
anxious about you. Go quickly and get ready. The train leaves in a few
minutes.” And taking her up in his arms, he kissed her tenderly. She had
not buried her bird. Her heart had failed at the last moment. She would
leave him with auntie, she said. As she ran back toward the house, the
count turned to the man and said,

“You look ill, my friend. You had better go to Dr. Forest, just across
the Common.”

“I know where he lives,” said Dan. “That is where I am going.” And the
count took the poor, broken-down man’s arm, though Dan tried to refuse,
and walked with him back to the Common, telling him on the way that Dr.
Forest would be able to set him all right, and then would give him work,
if he desired it. “Tell him Frauenstein sent you to him, and you will be
well taken care of. Or, better, come to the house with me. The doctor
may be there by this time.”

Dan declined as politely as he could. His emotions were varied, to use a
mild term, at being recommended to the charity of his own father by a
great nabob, who had adopted his child, and was just at that moment
starting on a European tour with that child’s mother. Dan supposed, as a
matter of course, that Susie had married this man. His head was in a
dazed condition, as, from behind a great tree on the edge of the Common,
he saw the party emerge from the house. Susie, and the child, and Linnie
received the parting embraces from Clara and the doctor, who then handed
them into an open carriage. The count lingered a moment at the porch,
holding Clara’s hand. Susie looked more mature, and much more beautiful
to Dan than ever before, and through her tears shone a radiant
happiness. The count came forward, embraced the doctor, jumped into the
carriage, which immediately drove off, Min throwing kisses to the doctor
and Clara till it was out of sight.

Shame, regret, self-reproach, and jealousy, gnawed at Dan’s very vitals,
as he stood there, a poor, forlorn wretch, witnessing a bliss that might
have been his, but for his own folly. He felt strangely attracted to the
beautiful child. He could feel still her little hand patting his head,
and pitying his sorrow. Surely if ever there was an exemplification of
poetic retribution, Dan Forest experienced it that day.

He stood supporting himself against the old tree for some time after his
father and sister entered the house, and then he went to his mother. She
wept over him, and accepted without question his representation of the
causes of his sad condition. According to this representation, he was
the innocent victim of an untoward fate. He said not a word about
gambling or drinking; and as he was certainly cadaverous in appearance
from his intermittent fever, as well as from hard drinking, she
attributed the effect wholly to the causes he assigned. She gave him a
biscuit and a glass of wine, and then made him take a warm bath, and don
the clean linen she prepared for him. While they were at lunch, the
doctor came in. He looked searchingly into Dan’s face as he held his
trembling hand, and the quick eye of the physician read the secret of
the terrible life his son had led; but he uttered no word of reproach.
He sat down to the table and listened, with Mrs. Forest and Leila, to
all that Dan had to say of the beauties of California, and the scenes
through which he had passed, carefully omitting those in which he had
played a disgraceful part, or presenting _his_ rôle as that of a third
party. Mrs. Forest thought the state of society must be dreadful in
California, and wondered that her son could live in such a moral
atmosphere!

On a subsequent and private examination, the doctor found Dan’s system
even more shattered than he had expected, and told him he must leave off
drinking, or there was no hope for him. Dan promised faithfully to
follow the regimen the doctor prescribed, seemed very reasonable and
grateful for his father’s kindness, and that very day, late at night, a
policeman brought him home in a beastly state of intoxication.

Poor Mrs. Forest had been touched to the heart that her only son should
have returned on foot, like a beggar, to the home of his youth, and she
had supplied him generously with money, a fact she now regretted. Dan,
in his weakness, illustrated well the truth of the old saying, _in vino
veritas_. He was maudlin to the last degree. He raved about his “dear
child,” his “beautiful Minnie”—how she looked with the dead canary in
her apron pocket, and how cruelly she had been torn from his protection
by that “swell, Frauenstein,” whose head he seemed very anxious to
“punch,” as he declared. Mrs. Forest was disgusted beyond measure by the
low words Dan used; but the doctor studied him, as the naturalist would
some strange species of animal. After Dan had wept copiously over the
wrong he had suffered in being robbed by the count of Susie’s love, he
ordered champagne and then “cocktails” of his mother, whom he took for
the mistress of an unmentionable resort; and then the doctor managed to
get him upstairs and on the bed, when he removed his boots and left him.

“How awful! How awful! What shall we do with him?” exclaimed the mother,
as the doctor re-entered and threw himself on the lounge.

“I don’t know, Fannie. He’s only one step from _delirium tremens_. He
ought to go at once to an inebriate asylum.” Mrs. Forest was shocked at
the idea. “It couldn’t be so bad as that. She would have a long talk
with him. Doubtless he had met old friends and they had induced him to
drink.”

“My dear, he is already over the bay. His nerves are shattered. He has
no power to save himself. Talk to him! I should as soon expect to stop
the thunder by beating a tam-tam.”

“I know. Those are your fatalist views. You don’t believe in free-will,
so of course you will say he can’t save himself.”

“What is free-will? One of our greatest scientists characterizes it as
the ‘lawlessness of volition.’ The will is not a faculty. It is simply
the state of mind immediately preceding action, and that state is
determined by motives; by circumstances and attractions which we do not
create.”

“Yes, we do. We create them in others. We constantly affect their
motives and their actions; and so we may act on ourselves, and change
our motives. We can make weak ones strong.”

“What do you mean by _we_ acting on _ourselves_? But I will not quibble,
Fannie. What is the result, when you put two pounds in one scale of a
balance and one pound in the other? Dan’s desire for the excitement
produced by alcohol is the two-pound weight; his resisting force is the
other.”

“I am sure there can be no pleasure in the excitement he is now under,
for example.”

“Oh, yes; a subverted pleasure. He felt himself a hero as he talked
about his wrongs, and he had strong hopes of conquering Frauenstein,
whom he thinks his enemy. You see it is insanity; but many insane people
are happy. This is often the case when insane enough to be ignorant of
their condition. Some madmen enjoy years of a triumphant career as
Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, and so on.”

“Well, then, you think Dan happy, and that we had better do nothing to
save him,” said Mrs. Forest, with a sad irony. “For my part, I shall do
all I can to avoid the repetition of this.”

“Do all you can, dear. You should know, without my telling you, how I
feel about our son; but I see no possible way to save him, except the
one I suggested. How do you propose to keep him from getting in the same
condition to-morrow?”

Mrs. Forest was silent a moment, and then she went quickly out of the
room. Pretty soon she returned. “Just look!” she said, holding some
crumpled money in her hands and counting it. “Two dollars and
eighty-four cents, out of twenty dollars that I gave him to-day. Well,
he can’t get any liquor to-morrow; that’s one satisfaction. Such a
shame! Such a disgrace to us!”

“Rather worse than Clara’s leaving Delano, eh?”

“Oh, don’t mock me, doctor. It is a hundred thousand times worse.” This
concession was quite new on Mrs. Forest’s part, and the doctor did his
best to comfort and reassure his wife. Dan, however, did come home the
next night in much the same state, after seeming so penitent, and
promising his mother that she would never see him intoxicated again. In
sore distress Mrs. Forest then went to Clara. It was the first time she
had crossed the threshold in seven years. Clara received her in the
sweetest, most filial way; took her all over the conservatories and
nurseries, and presented young Page to her. Mrs. Forest was greatly
pleased with this happy, modest young fellow. She looked at his fair
complexion, his light, boyish moustache just appearing, and thought of
her own boy, before the wicked world had degraded and ruined him. He
wore a straw hat, shading his girlish complexion, and a brown linen
blouse, buttoned to the throat. Mrs. Forest stayed and took lunch with
her daughter, when there appeared at the table three of Clara’s
flower-girls and this young Page, now divested of his blouse, which left
exposed a fine linen shirt, printed all over with dogs of every species.
It was a new experience for Mrs. Forest to sit down with working-people;
but then she was getting old, and had had strange havoc made lately with
all her “settled” notions of things. She watched these young people
narrowly; noticed how clean they were, even to their finger-nails, and
that their manners at table were unexceptionable. Clara called them her
children; and it was pleasant to Mrs. Forest to see the affection and
harmony existing between Clara and them.

During the lunch the conversation turned on the woman’s-rights
convention, which was to sit at Oakdale the following week. Mrs.
Kendrick had actually signed the call, and Mrs. Forest had been almost
tempted to do so, but that was before the count’s name had been added,
or she would not have resisted. These adolescents seemed to have very
decided views on the subject of equal political rights, especially young
Page. Mrs. Forest asked him where he obtained his first convictions on
this mooted question. “From my mother, ma’am,” he answered, promptly.
She had had at one time a very successful millinery industry in a large
village near Boston, and her husband ruined it through drinking. Mrs.
Forest did not see how the ballot in his mother’s hands could have
prevented her husband from drinking.

“I think, madam,” he replied, “that the ballot in the hands of women
would shut up the rum-shops. Would you not yourself vote to have them
all cleaned out of Oakdale?”

This was touching Mrs. Forest in a tender place, but the young man knew
nothing of her special interest in the question.

The doctor came in afterward, bringing Dan with him, and they held a
family council on the subject of his weakness. He defended himself for
awhile, declaring that he did not drink more than other fellows, but
finally he broke down like a child—confessed he could not resist
drinking, and said he meant to put a bullet through his head. Clara was
very gentle to him. She soon hit upon the strongest motive that could be
brought to bear upon him—his regard for Susie, and the hope that she had
not wholly ceased to care for him. He told his mother if she hadn’t
treated Susie like a dog, making her eat with Dinah instead of with the
family, he should not have been ashamed of his love for her, and would
have married her before ever Clara came home from school; by which all
understood he meant before the appearance of Miss Marston. Dan seemed
greatly relieved when he learned that Susie had gone abroad solely on
business, and that there was no idea of marriage between her and the
count, though he had adopted Minnie. Dan said if Susie would forgive him
and care for him, he could stop drinking; and Mrs. Forest, seizing this
hope, inspired Dan with it, though Clara said she did not believe he
could ever win her—certainly not as a dissipated man. Dan was pretty
sure of himself, and made a strong vow to abstain from drinking and
follow the doctor’s directions until he looked “a little less like a
corpse,” as he said. He seemed to be well pleased that Susie had not
seen him in his present condition. Of course the poor fellow was sincere
in his resolution; but in three days he came home reeling. Again Mrs.
Forest sought Clara for advice.

“I have thought of a plan,” said Clara, “that might do some good. If you
will go with me, we will visit every drinking-saloon in town; see the
keepers and appeal to them. Perhaps we can get them to promise to stop
selling Dan liquor.” But Mrs. Forest was not equal to the task. She said
she should sink with shame to enter such places. Clara urged her most
earnestly. “I am sure it will do some good at least. Mrs. Burnham,
perhaps, will go with us. You see how intemperance is ruining not only
Dan, but many young men. Burnham’s only son, not yet twenty, is a
drunkard. Now, Mr. Burnham goes for shutting up the drinking-places.
They are discussing this in the town-council, and the dealers are having
their fears aroused, and could easily be persuaded to make some
compromise. Do go, mamma! You would not see me go alone?”

“No, I would not; but——”

“How can you say ‘but’? I should think you would gladly make any effort
to save Dan.”

“Well, go and see Mrs. Burnham. Let us see what she says.”

“Why, mother dear, it is for you to go. You and Mrs. Burnham both have
sons ruined by drink. You can appeal to her as I cannot; and besides, I
am so driven by my business.”

Of course, any one who waits for others to move, can never be counted on
for any heroic work. Clara had to go to Mrs. Burnham herself. Mrs.
Burnham believed in the move, and said she would consult her husband.
She did so, and he told her to not “make a fool of herself,” which was
the best thing he could have done, for it roused a spirit of defiance,
and no sooner was he out of the house than she ordered her carriage,
drove over to Clara’s, and announced herself ready. On the way they
called for Mrs. Kendrick, who joined them, and Mrs. Forest also at the
last.

In some of the places they visited, they saw sickening scenes; but
Clara’s noble presence, her commanding eyes, her frank, womanly speech,
gave the rest courage. She asked in every instance for a private
interview with the heads of such establishments, and this interview was
often had, for want of a better place, in back rooms piled with casks of
liquor, demijohns, and bottles. Clara leading, the three elegant ladies
followed, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but rather to
the floor covered with sawdust, to absorb the tobacco-juice, ends of
cigars, and dirt. The air was sickening in the extreme. Clara laid the
case before the proprietors, appealed to their humanity, even when she
had little faith in the existence of the sentiment, and pictured to them
the suffering of mothers and wives and sisters, at the sight of their
loved ones ruined for all good in this world. Some of the men affected
contempt for any one who didn’t know “when he had got enough.” Mrs.
Burnham occasionally put in a word of indignant protest that the town
should allow poisonous liquors to be sold to young men, and boys in
their teens. At one place a burly-necked, brutal man told Clara she had
better go somewhere else to preach temperance, and suggested, with a
leer, that a good place for her talents was among the “shriekers” at the
approaching convention. When they left this place, their cheeks burning,
Clara said, “Which of you ladies will tell me you have all the rights
you want? These men, my friends, are your masters. These make the laws
that control your property and your happiness. These men would teach
_us_ our sphere, and make us forever dependent upon them, and the laws
they make without our consent.”

“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “I am so angry already that I could
burn up every rum-cask in town, and, I had almost said, these brutes
with it.”

“But don’t forget this, Mrs. Burnham: we are on a mission of strategy.
We are not the political equals of these men, and every sign of anger
you show, betrays your impotence to help yourself, and weakens our
chance of success. Here we are at the next saloon. Now do be calm, Mrs.
Burnham.”

It was a long and arduous task, but at last, without flagging, they
finished the rounds. A great number of the liquor dealers promised to
cease selling intoxicating drinks to those known as drunkards, or to
make an exception in the case of Dan and young Burnham. Clara often
asked them to promise “upon their honor,” which always flattered a
certain class of these men.

It was a good lesson in woman’s rights to these women who went with
Clara, and it greatly increased their admiration for her personally. The
effort did much more good than they expected; for though Dan, young
Burnham, and others, occasionally went home intoxicated, the occurrence
was rare, and gave Dan a chance to follow up his father’s treatment and
recover his health. The doctor, in the count’s absence, had the full
control of the works over the river, and after a month or so, Dan went
daily with his father, and becoming interested, did good service, in the
preparation of the parks and gardens.

Mrs. Forest was very grateful that Clara had persuaded her to go on that
“terrible excursion,” as she called it. “You are a noble girl, Clara,”
she said, with expansion, “and I feel that I have not always been just
to you. If I had my life to live over again, I should do many things
differently.”

“Oh, mother dear,” Clara replied, embracing her, “you have done the best
you could. Clara has no fault to find with her mamma;” and seizing her
mother in a weak moment, asked her, as a great favor, to attend the
coming convention!

“Well,” said Mrs. Forest, resignedly, “I will go. There can be no harm
in it. Many of our most respectable people have signed the call. But,”
she added, with a sudden sign of terror, “you don’t suppose I should be
called on to sit on the platform, or offer a resolution or anything, do
you?” Clara laughed. “Oh no, mamma. There will be no backwardness on the
part of women, to do all that is required. I myself am going to read an
address.”

“You, Clara! Well. I begin to believe it is ‘written,’ as the count
says, that you are to do everything you set out to do. I might as well
yield at discretion. The prospect of some time seeing you on a
woman’s-rights platform used to be my nightmare. That also is ‘written,’
you see.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                         PROGRESS OF THE WORK.


 During the spring and summer the work over the river went on so grandly
and surely, that the most skeptical doubted no longer that the great
enterprise would be accomplished. Bricks, of many shapes and colors and
forms, were ready by hundreds of thousands. The forest was laid out in
broad winding avenues, according to the plan; the water-main from the
lake was laid, the sewers and drains leading to the river in their
places, the great subterranean galleries for ventilation constructed,
the cellars completed, and the broad stone foundations of the immense
palace and buildings were all completed. Every mail from France brought
letters from the count giving the most minute directions, and so
harmoniously did everything work, that scarcely a day’s labor was lost
by any change of details in the plan. The bridge had been completed long
ago, and Oakdale was well pleased with the light, elegant structure
placed there as if by enchantment. For when the piers were laid, the
railroad disgorged at the station, one evening, a quantity of
strange-looking iron-ware, every part made exactly for its place and
fitted to its neighbor part. Some strangers, men from the Phœnix Works,
accompanied the charge, and in an incredibly short space of time, lo!
the bridge was laid and carriages bearing curious visitors and heavy
carts were passing over it. The jocose Social Palace laborers declared
that they passed over the river to their work in paddle-boats one
morning, and at night returned by the bridge!

The scrip issued by the town authorities to aid the building of the
bridge, passed everywhere without question, from the banking-house of
Kendrick & Burnham to the farmer’s stall in the Oakdale market. In fact,
the people rather preferred it to “greenbacks,” though at first they had
eyed it suspiciously, and asked questions. Then it came to be called
“Bridge Scrip,” and the “count’s money,” and was everywhere the text of
crude, or deep, financial theories. Said Kendrick, one of the
town-council, “This paper is out to the amount of fifty thousand
dollars. The taxes have just been collected, but the people took no
pains to pay their taxes with it. They did so only in a few cases. I
don’t see why it might not be kept forever in circulation.”

“Only,” said another, “we stand committed to burn it as fast as it comes
in.”

“Of course. I know that, and don’t intend to prevent it; but I only say,
why would anything but good come by keeping it in circulation? The men
who built the bridge are paid. Von Frauenstein was paid by this paper.
He has got it all paid out to his workmen. The scrip has done its work,
and it still keeps on working. I only ask, why not let it work for
us—that is, the town? It is not only as good as it was at first, but a
good deal better, for the town is rich, as everybody knows. What do you
think about it, Dr. Forest?”

“I? I think specie basis all rot. It is simply a relic of barbarism—when
there was no commerce, only barter. Then, when civilization advanced a
little, and men wanted to sell their ivory, and the buyer had not
rhinoceros hides, or whatever was wanted in exchange, there arose the
necessity for something, to give in exchange for the ivory, that would
buy what the seller wanted. Naturally the first money was bright beads,
bright metal coins—things of intrinsic value. As civilization
progresses, barter ceases, and commerce commences. We have arrived then
at the conception of value, and use a mere symbol of it. We don’t want
money now that has intrinsic value, any more than we want a figure nine
with nine positive strokes in it, or a yard-stick made of gold.”

“But you must have a basis of wealth,” said one of the listeners. “I
know we don’t want coin for business purposes. It is unhandy and
cumbrous. The commerce of to-day could not march a step without
bank-notes and checks. Now the United States issues our paper-money; but
it must keep specie in its treasury vaults to the amount of the paper
issued, according to some.”

“Which it does not do,” said the doctor, “and everybody knows it. You
are mistaken in supposing that. It is required simply to keep a certain
specie reserve; that is all.”

“Why don’t we bust up then?” asked an awkward new-comer, who felt the
heavy responsibility of citizenship.

“We can’t ‘bust up,’ my friend,” said the doctor, with a very broad
smile, “because we have a much better foundation for this paper-money
than rhinoceros hides, wampum, or gold coin. That foundation is the
wealth of the nation, and the credit of the people.”

“I don’t understand,” said Kendrick, “how you would fix your basis.”

“My idea,” said the doctor, “is that of many who have studied the
subject profoundly: that the basis should be the cereals and certain
other commodities necessary to the support of life and comfort. Average
their prices during twenty years, in order to get at your unit of value,
or dollar.”

“Ah! but that of necessity would fluctuate; one year is fruitful,
another unfruitful.”

“But the averaging process would preserve the equilibrium,” replied the
doctor; “and gold! you forget how that fluctuates. Why, the discovery of
a cheap method of extracting the gold from quartz and gold-bearing
sands, liable to happen any day, through our constantly-increasing
knowledge of chemistry, and your gold would become ten times as
plentiful as it is now. You see that is not the scientific basis. The
scientific basis should be the products of industry: the wealth of the
nation.”

“My dear friend,” said Kendrick, “this question of a proper circulating
medium has bothered philosophers from the foundation of the world, and
we shall not be likely to settle it in ten minutes on a street corner.”
Kendrick had good reasons for being puzzled. As a banker he was getting
into deep water; but no alarm had been sounded yet. As he took the
doctor’s arm and walked toward the new bridge, the doctor said:

“Nothing tends more directly to the demoralization of the people than a
fluctuating currency. It upsets all our ideas of probity. A man buys,
for example, a quantity of cotton to-day for a thousand dollars, payable
in three months. In three months gold has ‘gone up,’ as they say, and
instead of paying one thousand, he has to pay eleven or twelve hundred.
You see the result is disgust, distrust, and loss of nice moral balance.
A state of things making an inflated currency possible, creates our
stock and gold gamblers—makes men see little harm in influencing
Congress to favor great monopolies that oppress and rob the people. From
this, only one step to corrupting Congressmen with shares in enterprises
which they have then a direct interest in favoring. Now what must be the
effect of this on the laboring people, who are beginning to see where
they stand? I tell you they are everywhere being roused to desperation.
Go into any of the labor organizations here, and listen to what is
openly said. If you don’t come away with a vivid impression that this
deep muttering foretells a coming storm, all I can say is, you can’t
read the signs of the times.”

“I’ve thought of all this, doctor, but what can we do? Leave off banking
and all other business, and go to building social palaces? I think I’ll
wait and see how this one works after a few years. How do you know these
workingmen will be better satisfied? They want luxury and idleness.
That’s what they want.”

“Well, Kendrick, you might sympathize with them a little in that. But
that’s all rot. The workman will be well pleased when he has a good
home, which he can purchase with his rent; when he has real luxuries for
himself and family; when he sees his children being nobly educated; and
above all, when he knows he will have a pleasant home for his old age,
or if he dies before that, that his wife and children will be well
provided for. To not believe that, is to believe in the natural
depravity of the human heart.”

“Well, I swear, the longer I live the more doubts I have on that point,”
said Kendrick, rather ambiguously.

But while men talked and speculated, they watched with eager interest
the development of Frauenstein’s great project. Stevens, the doctor, and
all the chiefs of the operations, declared that their men worked with a
devotion unparalleled. The social lunch became the rule, and the men
ceased carrying their tin-kettles almost without exception. Too Soon had
as much as he could manage among the brickmakers, and so the doctor put
up another temporary building, about half-way between the site of the
palace and the woods, and a similar lunch provision to that for Stevens’
men, was established for the others. Too Soon, however, could not be
outdone, or even rivaled, by any one the doctor could find. The Chinaman
became a favorite with the men and with the idle boys, that were at
first a pest around the building, attracted by the unusual state of
things, or by the chance of getting something to eat, in exchange for
taking a turn at chopping Too Soon’s cold meat and vegetables, for he
was an economist by the transmitted instinct of generations. He saved
his gravy and dripping, and produced a hash every other day, which
became famous for its excellence.

Too Soon was wonderfully neat and methodical. He would not do the
slightest thing for the boys until his work was all done; but when they
had helped him clear the tables, wash the dishes, lock them away in the
pantry, and sweep out the place, he would entertain them by the most
wonderful jugglery or slight-of-hand feats. He spun tops up inclined
planes, and strings, made paper butterflies, that, under the influence
of his fan, acted for all the world like live ones endowed with reason;
and Young America soon learned that it was in its very swaddling-clothes
in the art of kite-flying. Too Soon was now a hero, and the boys fully
atoned for their former meanness to him, when he was a forlorn wretch in
their streets. They would do anything so that he could get his work
done. Sometimes they actually crowded him away from his wash-tub, and
rubbed out the napkins and table-cloths themselves. The way he dampened
his clothes, preparatory to ironing them, was great fun. To this end he
used to fill his mouth with water, and, by some trick they never could
imitate, send it out over the linen in a fine mist. One or two of them
partly learned the secret, and astonished Biddy at home by what they
knew about clothes-dampening.

Times were good in Oakdale. The only trouble was with certain great
manufacturers, whose men would desert and go over the river to work even
for less wages, because it was “jolly” there, as they said. Men came
from neighboring towns and besieged the doctor for work, or, failing,
took the place of deserters in the window-sash and blind factory of Ely
& Gerrish; and so hundreds of families moved into the town. Ely &
Gerrish, however, did not lose many of their workmen, for they had
provided some years ago a “workmen’s home,” a very superior
tenement-house, which had been constantly full of tenants; but some
other firms had to stop business.

The bet between the count and Kendrick was decided after considerable
difficulty in getting at the facts, in which they were finally aided by
a commission appointed by the town-council, who were persuaded that
statistics of this nature would be valuable. Kendrick lost, and the
hospital profited accordingly.

“I’m very sorry, Elias, that you did not win,” said Mrs. Kendrick.

“Are you? I should not have supposed it possible. All you women are so
devoted to Frauenstein.”

“If you had lost, you know the hospital would have received twice as
much,” said Mrs. Kendrick.

“I thought it mighty strange,” said Kendrick, “that you could be on my
side against the count. That explains.”

During this conversation Mrs. Kendrick asked her husband if he did not
believe that the count had put money in the flower firm of Dykes &
Delano.

“Of course I do. Clara has been rushing things since he left. There has
arrived invoice after invoice of foreign trees, which she has set out as
thick as reeds in a swamp; and she has a dozen men there at work all the
time, beside the women she employs.”

“The trees and shrubs, and all the new hot-house plants, are for the
grounds and hot-houses over the river, I am told,” said Mrs. Kendrick.
“I wonder you don’t go and see them. I never saw anything so fine in my
life.”

“Oh, I don’t care to. It would only make me more disgusted with this
affair of ours, that costs so much, and gives so little satisfaction to
anybody.”

“Well, you don’t manage it right. You should have somebody who
understands it. I wish I could do it myself, or make Louise interested;
and she would be, if they were where they could be seen, or if you had a
place for them clean enough to wear a decent dress into, or wide enough
to pass through without knocking down the pots. I’m sure I can’t bear to
go into it. I’d rather have a little twelve-foot conservatory opening
from my drawing-room than all your hot-houses, even if they did produce
five bunches of grapes with only seventy-five tons of coal! That little
room opening out of Clara’s dining-room is perfectly lovely—one mass of
color and perfume; and then the oiled floor is so clean, and the place
so roomy! Why, you can sit there with the largest arm-chair!”

Kendrick said that nothing ever pleased his wife, and he meant to give
up the hot-houses. They were a great expense for nothing. Mrs. Kendrick
was sure she hoped he was not keeping them up for her sake; and after a
good many cutting speeches on both sides, they ended in secretly pitying
each other, seeing that they obtained so little pleasure out of this
world. Then they gravitated into an indifferent conversation about the
convention, and Mr. Kendrick inquired about Clara’s address.

“I must confess it was very interesting,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “She was
applauded a great deal. I enjoyed the whole convention very much.”
Kendrick told her she was becoming radical. “I think men are greatly to
be blamed,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “for the little interest we take in
great questions. You, for instance, never talk to me of them. Why, I
actually did not know that women voted in Wyoming Territory. I was never
more astonished at anything than at a letter which Clara read from one
of the judges there, about the women jurors. It seems they give the
greatest satisfaction, except to the rumsellers and dance-house keepers.
Did you know this fact?”

“On the contrary, I read in the paper lately that most of their
decisions have been set aside.”

“Well, this letter was written only three weeks ago, and the judge says
everything favorable; that the morality of the place is greatly
improved; that before the women sat on juries it was almost impossible
to convict men for murder or manslaughter, and the laws against
drunkenness and gambling were disobeyed with impunity. Now this is all
changed, and he says particularly that not a single verdict, civil or
criminal, has been set aside where a part of the jury has been composed
of women. What do you think of that, Elias?”

“Why, my paper must have lied. I have long thought a man might almost as
well do without a metropolitan paper. They don’t seem to be conducted in
the interest of any decent principle. But I don’t understand about those
Wyoming juries. Would you really sit on a jury? I assure you, men
consider it a great bore.”

“I can’t say I should like to; but don’t we owe it as a duty? Whatever
is a duty should be done, whether agreeable or not.” Kendrick’s secret
thought was, that such a sentiment of devotion to duty, would certainly
tend to promote justice; but on that subject he said nothing. He asked
his wife how she would vote intelligently for political measures? How
she could decide, for example, whether free-trade or protection was the
right principle.

“How does the plantation hand decide that, Elias, and the ignorant
foreigner? I should not dare to vote as carelessly as they do. For my
part, I think it a great responsibility.”

“Well, how would you decide?”

“I should certainly study up the subject, and if I had not time for
that, I would go to the wisest and most upright man I knew, and ask him
to instruct me on the principles of free-trade and protection. That is
what _I_ should do.”

Kendrick pondered over this naive speech of his wife for a long time.
Any person who could take that trouble to do the best thing for the
interests of the country, might, he thought, have as good a right to
political freedom as the newly-enfranchised slaves! But then, even he
was becoming tinctured with radical ideas.

Not long before Susie’s return, she wrote to Clara a long letter,
describing life in the Social Palace at Guise. “I am,” she said, “so
impatient of this slow process of communicating my thoughts and
feelings, and I long to sit down by your side and talk a few volumes.
Truly I am a fortunate being, in having the rare advantage of coming
here. It is something to think of with pride and delight, as long as I
live.

“The people who live here are most of them nothing but poor, uneducated
working people, and you can tell at a glance those who have but just
arrived from the older residents. A single year, surrounded by such
order and beauty, such social advantages of every kind, works wonders.
The women at first, some of them, set up their cook-stoves, and wash and
cook in their apartments; but the first time they take their linen to
the laundries, they see the advantage of washing there, and the custom
is soon established. So of cooking; they find that the great public
kitchen, cooks better than they can, and they are glad to send there for
their soups and meats, which are so cheap, that it does not pay to broil
themselves over their own stoves. This, alone, is a most important thing
in the emancipation of women. Mr. Godin has thought of everything. But
the nursery and the schools! Oh, Clara, I wish you could see them. I
said everything was free; there is one exception. No one can keep his
children out of school. Every child is bound to have a good practical
and industrial education.

“One thing struck me as strange: all drink wine at dinner, even to the
small children; but for these it is diluted with water. Yet I have not
seen a case of intoxication since I have been here—not even in the café
and billiard-room, where there is much discussion and lively
conversation. The best comment on the temperance and order of the place,
is the fact that there has not been a single police case in the
Familistère since it was founded, and yet there are over a thousand
people living here.

“I sit in the council of twelve (women), whenever they meet, so that I
may learn how they conduct business. There are often very spirited
discussions, but never disorder or any discourtesy. This council directs
the internal interests, nurseries, schools, oversees the food and other
supplies, but it is not limited to these; it can discuss all matters. By
natural attraction, it is found the women’s council gravitate to this
business. Sometimes the council of twelve men meets with and deliberates
with the council of women.

“One thing strikes every visitor: the exquisite cleanliness of the
apartments, the windows, the corridors, the courts, the schools, and the
gardens and parks. Then, too, there is very little illness among the
children. Why should there be? They have the conditions for growth and
happiness. In the nursery of some seventy _poupons_ (three or four years
old), and nearly as many nurselings, there is no racket, though plenty
of play and laughter. All these pretty babies go to bed without rocking,
and without crying, and wake in the morning the same way, waiting each
his turn to be bathed, and dressed, and fed. These are their first
lessons. If a new-comer sets up a ‘howling,’ as Min says, all the rest
look at him with wide open eyes, and he can’t long stand against the
public opinion of his peers! Their pretty little iron cribs, canopied
with snowy muslin, have each a sacking bottom filled with bran; over
this the sheet goes. Let me tell you how these beds are kept sweet and
fresh. Any moisture in this bran immediately forms a lump, which is
taken out, and after a few days, more or less, the whole is replaced by
fresh bran. The _nourrisons_, or nursing-babies, are very fond of
watching the _poupons_, in the same immense room, and only separated
from them by a little railing. They see them march to music, and try to
imitate their little gymnastic exercises. Their ambition is to become
_poupons_, which they do at about two years, or a very little over. One
indispensable qualification for this promotion is, that they shall have
learned to keep themselves clean—to use their neat little earth closets
adroitly, like their big comrades, the _poupons_! The _poupons_ are
marvelously accomplished in the eyes of the _nourrisons_. In their turn,
the _poupons_ look up to the _bambins_. Oh, it is such a delight to see
all these blessed, happy children! All the way up from the nurse’s arms
to the highest classes, they are disciplined and educated for a high and
useful career. It is instilled into them from the first, that they must
respect the rights of others: the infant should not cry, because he will
disturb his little comrades who wish to rest! In eating, he must not be
greedy, for that offends the good taste of his companions, or robs them
of their share. In meeting any one in the grounds or courts, he must bow
gracefully, for all have a right to courteous treatment; and so on all
the way through, the rights of others are respected. There are no
punishments, except withholding the disorderly or refractory child from
the organized plays and sports in the parks and ground. This is found
all potent. But I could go on all night. Let me sum it all up in this:
Monsieur Godin has discovered and applied the laws of social harmony,
and therefore he deserves immortality.

“I see very little of the count. He is very busy. One day he is in
Paris, the next in London, and so on; though he is kind enough to write
me very often. Min is in the _bambinat_ all day. She is perfectly happy,
and the whole _bambinat_ does her reverence as a distinguished visitor!
She is learning French as only children can.”


Clara constantly received letters from Susie; long, delightful letters,
full of enthusiasm, and tenderness, and hope for the future; but the
count was silent. He did not even mention her in his letters to the
doctor, and although this pained her, there was a possible meaning in
it, sweeter than all the conventional remembrances in the world. Once
only he wrote: “I have not written to you, dear friend, from a motive
you may regard as very boyish; but I should never attempt to express
anything but the exact truth to one like you: the reason of my silence
is simply, not knowing what to say. Would you believe me so much a
child? I can only answer: you are responsible. You have thus affected
me. When I am in your presence, I can talk of indifferent subjects. I
cannot write of them.

“There is a mystery in my life, or rather in my character—a riddle I am
waiting for you to read. I am tempted to disclose it, and yet dare not;
therefore I sit with the ink drying on my pen.

“I believe in you in all ways. I trust your delicate insight to
understand even this awkward attempt to approach you, as I trust your
generosity to deal patiently with my weakness. You also have been
silent, my friend, and sometimes I am vain enough to ascribe that
silence to a like cause with mine; but I dare not be too bold. There are
some hopes that must not be rashly cultivated; their disappointment
would destroy my power to do the work which no other can do for me. In
two weeks, if the gods are kind to me, I shall stand in your presence.

                                     “Believe me, with sincere devotion,
                                                 “PAUL VON FRAUENSTEIN.”


This, to some, might seem a very singular missive from a man of the
world like Frauenstein—a man sure of himself, confident of his power,
and accustomed to the caresses of women. But there are others who will
understand from it, that Paul was deeply in love; and that just in
proportion to the strength of this passion in certain high natures,
while there is any doubt of its meeting a perfect response, there is
always great weakness, and a humility that creates self-distrust. The
fear that his love might fail to awaken a perfect response, at times
overwhelmed him and made him as weak as a little child. He had wooed
other women boldly; but this one, he could not approach. To trouble her
serene soul with his passion seemed like an impertinence. He saw
himself, like Adam in Paradise, standing naked and trembling before a
divinely superior being, who held his fate in her hands. He could do
nothing but wait some sign from her—some unmistakable, slight sign, that
so gracious a lady must know well how to convey. Could she hesitate
because of a dead legal tie? That should not hamper free expression of
sentiment in a grand, self-poised woman, the daughter of such a man as
Dr. Forest, though it might hinder the fruition of hopes. Busy as Paul
was with his pressing responsibilities, it was impossible to banish the
thought of Clara from one of his waking moments. Between him and every
object, her fair face appeared, and the memory of her tender eyes, her
entrancing smile, the play of her mobile features, and her soft voice,
were dearer far to him than all the realities of life. “Some time she
_must_ love me!” he said. “A grand passion cannot exist when one object
is passive. It is not her beauty that draws me; it must be love
answering unto love.”

About the time Clara received her first letter from the count, there
arrived a formidable legal document from Boston—a copy of Dr. Delano’s
divorce. What he had said to her during their last interview, proved no
idle prediction. Clara ran her eye down the page of “legal-cap” until
she came to the last paragraph, which read: “_And it is further ordered
and adjudged that it shall be lawful for the said complainant to marry
again, in the same manner as though the said defendant were actually
dead; but it shall not be lawful for the said defendant to marry again
until the said complainant be actually dead._”

“This, then, is law,” thought Clara. “No wonder Charlotte said it is not
common sense.” She showed the instrument to her father, but he hardly
glanced at it. He was very glad. “That’s one good piece of business
finished,” he said. He was full of care and anxiety about the work under
his direction, and talked only of that, so Clara forbore to call his
attention to her own vexation. In her ignorance of legal forms, she
regarded this as a perpetual barrier to her ever marrying. A little
while ago, she would have given herself but slight trouble about such a
thing, being quite persuaded that she would never love again. It was
different now. The letter she had just received from Von Frauenstein
opened a new world to her—a world never to be entered. It was like
shipwreck in full view of the Happy Isles.

Whenever Clara recalled this divorce, she felt humiliated, wronged, the
victim of a hideous farce. How could she be bound to one who was free to
marry again, “in the same manner as though” she were actually dead? The
question recurred continually, and day by day it seemed more difficult
to speak to her father about it; and then he had no power to change the
decree, and why trouble him for nothing? Meanwhile Albert made prompt
use of his freedom. He married Ella and established her in the family
home. Miss Charlotte then quitted it, as she had determined, and went to
live with the Kendricks in Oakdale, until she should decide on a
permanent residence. Ella pouted terribly at the conduct of Miss
Charlotte, in leaving the very day after the wedding, for her presence
was necessary to give tone to the union. There had been ugly stories
abroad about her and Dr. Delano, connected with his separation from his
wife; and the departure of Charlotte, especially her going to Oakdale,
where Clara lived, seemed to confirm them. Many of the older
acquaintances of the Delanos “put on airs,” to use Ella’s expression,
and were at best only coldly polite; and so it happened that her triumph
in marrying Albert was robbed of all its sweetness.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                            AN HONEST WOMAN.


 A year had passed since the count’s return from Guise, and still he and
Clara had not spoken of that which filled them, and made the music and
the poetry of their lives. To Clara’s heart there never came a doubt
that she was loved. To doubt Paul would be to lose faith in the
operation of natural laws. True, they had not confessed their love in
words, and though it was sure to come, Clara almost dreaded it, as
though it might break the spell that surrounded her like an atmosphere.
He was in all things her ideal: high in sentiment, devoted to humanity,
and, like her father, appreciative of all things, impatient of nothing,
because he exemplified a grand faith in the “mills of God”—in the
ultimate triumph of the best. When you gained his friendship you forgot
his rank and wealth, and thought only of the man. No one ever felt the
grasp of his hand without a sense of pride—that honest pride experienced
in awakening an interest in one superior to his kind. When he spoke to
you, it was impossible to avoid feeling flattered. He gave you his whole
attention for the time, and his fine eyes rested on your features as if
they would let no slightest movement or expression escape, and at the
moment, you were compelled by a power over which you had no control, to
express the highest and best that was in you; and then his beauty was
something exceptional, for it delighted men almost more than women.

After his return, he had been more with Clara, though not much alone.
The something that he had remarked as troubling or oppressing her, he
still noticed with great pain; but he could not ask her for her
confidence. Some time, he knew, she would give it unsolicited, and
meanwhile he refrained instinctively from pressing himself too much upon
her notice, leaving her time after time with a mere pressure of the
hand, more delightful in its magnetic effect than all the caresses of
the many women he had known. In his creed, it was woman’s prerogative to
call; the lover’s to answer. By no sign yet had Clara shown him that she
desired or needed more than she received; and nothing could have been
more impossible to a nature like his, than to sue for any grace for his
own sake; so he waited, and he prevented himself from too great anxiety
by forcing all his energy into his great work. He had brought with him
from Guise several of the most accomplished workmen, who had aided in
the building of the _Familistère_, and the enterprise went on rapidly
and surely. The walls of the palace and buildings were all completed,
and the palace was to be ready for its occupants in the early fall, and
the great inaugural festival was set down for the following June; both
the count and the doctor agreeing that the time for a public jubilee was
not when the palace was done, but when the schools, the theatre, the
library, and all the details of the new social life were in full working
order.

With the count’s retinue came, also, or rather returned to this country,
the only remaining member of Von Frauenstein’s family, the son of his
father’s sister, named Felix Müller. He was an accomplished gentleman,
about forty-five years old, who had lived many years in New Orleans, and
had lost his fortune during our civil war. He was a scientific chemist
and geologist, and Paul wished him to direct education in the Social
Palace; so he came with that view, if the prospect should please him. He
always considered himself more an American than anything else, being,
moreover, a naturalized citizen; and he had made himself very obnoxious
to the government minions in Berlin, on account of his doings and
sayings as a leading member of the _Internationale_. He was threatened
with arrest and imprisonment, when his cousin Paul came to the rescue,
and smuggled him out of Berlin and into Guise, where he studied the
organization of the _Familistère_ with great enthusiasm.

The count’s responsibilities in directing the Social Palace enterprise
often took him away for several days at a time. Now, whenever he was
absent, he wrote to Clara. He knew she read whatever he wrote with
interest, and it was much to connect himself with her thoughts in any
way. In one of these letters he said: “There can be no real satisfaction
except in the divine joy of love’s perfect answer to love’s needs. When
one is longing for the touch of magnetic hands, and for words that are
like caresses, the gratitude of thousands whom he has made happy, the
adoration of the world even, falls upon his heart like the tongue of a
bell in an exhausted receiver. What if a man gain the whole world, and
lose his own soul—if he gain all things except the one blessing which
alone could answer the cry of his heart! I am without soul, without
inspiration, almost without hope to-day, or I could not write in such a
strain to you. Do not heed it. Do not let your pure heart be troubled by
my raving. You know I trust you, and whatever you think, or feel, or do,
will be wisest and best.”

To this Clara wrote, by the next mail: “If I could reproach you for
anything, it would be for daring to say you are ‘without inspiration,
almost without hope.’ I know it is only a mood, that has passed long
before this. I know well that you are happy, for you can have no real
doubt that Clara loves you with all her heart. See how presumptuous she
is!

“If words can make you happier, dear Paul, frame any declaration, even
the most extravagant, and I will make it my creed.

“You should know that I have passed a terrible ordeal, that left my
heart torn and bleeding; and one like me does not recover rapidly from
such a shock. The first moment my eyes rested upon you, I read, as in an
open book, what my father in other words predicted long ago—that you
were my destiny: that you could waken every possibility of tenderness,
of devotion, of high purpose, of which I am capable; and I knew well
from the first, how strongly you were drawn toward me. Yet had you wooed
me then, as lovers woo, I should have hidden myself from you, if for
nothing else, for the pleasure of torturing myself, so strangely
subversive does the power of love become by the wrongs it may have
suffered! But you did not do this. In no way have you ever offended me,
even in the slightest word, or tone, or motion. In all things you are
adorable in my eyes. Surely _you_ can understand—if not, there is no one
else but me who can—that love may sometimes be too intense, too deep for
any of love’s ordinary expressions. I am only waiting for a saner
moment, a more simple and common impulse; and therefore, when I can, and
as soon as I can, I shall hold out my arms to you.”

When Clara next met Paul, three days after he received this letter, she
was riding over the river with her father and Susie, and met him
returning. Clara’s quick eyes divined, in his, an expression of
triumphant happiness which was entirely new to them. She allowed her
hand to rest longer than usual in his, though in the presence of others.
Both those hands were gloved, but the warmth and magnetism with which
they were charged would have passed through a substance much thicker or
more obdurate than kid. That evening he called on Clara, and found Miss
Delano with her. Miss Delano had just returned from Boston, and, in
speaking of her brother, she said he was almost morose over his
disappointment in not having an heir. “He is the last male member of a
long line,” she said, “and I don’t believe he will ever have children.
To be sure, he has been married to Miss Wills only about a year and a
half.”

“Nature seems to have a spite in such cases,” remarked the count, “when
the family name is represented by only one man. If I were you,
Charlotte, I would marry. You are still young, and a son of yours might
continue the name.” The count offered it as the most natural suggestion
in the world; but as Miss Charlotte was inclined to treat it as a joke,
he appealed to Clara. “I quite approve of it,” said Clara. “Miss Delano
should marry.”

“You think,” replied Charlotte, “that it would teach my brother a
lesson. He has a great contempt for old maids, and,” she added,
laughing, “I believe he would have a poor opinion of any one’s taste who
should choose me for a wife.”

“And then, if the rest should happen!” said Clara, “I confess I am
wicked enough to take a certain delight in the thought. It would be what
papa calls poetic justice.”

“I know my cousin Felix might become strongly attached to you,” said the
count, addressing Charlotte. “He is very fond of talking of you to
me—says he should never imagine you to be over thirty.”

“So you have been talking of my age. What impertinence!”

“He asked me your age,” replied Paul.

“Did you tell him I was sixty?”

“I told him your exact age, thirty-six. That is really just the flower
of life, and it may be written that the family name shall be continued
through you, though perhaps Müller would have objections to adopting any
other than his own. There is no justice in a woman’s losing her name by
marrying.”

“Well, I don’t think I would ask him to change his, on the slight and
frail expectation of future heirs; that is, supposing there was any
question of marriage, which is absurd,” said Miss Charlotte, blushing
like a girl in her teens. That blush was a revelation to Paul; but he
quickly changed the subject by asking for music. While Clara was
singing, and while he was listening too, his mind was busy with a
matrimonial scheme for the benefit of his cousin and Miss Delano.

One evening a few days later, after Paul had left, Susie scolded Clara
for being so cold to him.

“Cold! Susie. Why, it seems to me that every word, every tone and look
of mine in Paul’s presence, shows clearly that my heart is under his
feet, as the Irish song has it.”

“Well, dear, they don’t show any such thing. He loves you with
adoration; but he is too proud to accept any love that can be won by
begging.”

“It is just that spirit in Paul that makes me worship him. Oh, Susie!
you do not know what he is to me. You cannot know, even after all I have
told you. He knows I love him. Why, child, I have fairly, frankly
confessed it in a letter not yet two weeks old. He understands me.”

“I’m sure I would not make _such_ a man unhappy. He is the only one I
ever met whom I would marry instantly, whether I loved him or not. If he
wanted me, I should say: take me. You deserve all things, and the
greater includes the less.”

Clara looked at little Susie, as she spoke in her earnest, soulful way.
“Are you very sure that you do _not_ love him, Susie? You have been with
him more than I have. Happy woman! to be taken to Europe by him. Why, he
has actually kissed you! I don’t know what would happen, if he should
kiss me.”

“Would you ‘dissolve into an Israelite?’ as Linnie says. By the way,
have you not noticed the flirtation going on between young Edward Page
and her?”

“Yes; I spoke to the witch only to-day, and she told me that her heart
was breaking for the count, and she was only flirting as a ‘mockery to
her woe.’ I think mamma is well pleased. She has no longer high ambition
for her girls; satisfied if they can only marry honest, temperate men.
Poor mamma! She is so changed. Think of her going to our convention and
listening to my address! She is by no means converted, but she can look
at reforms now without any contempt. She said it troubled her, in spite
of herself, to see me there making myself so public, and in the
committee-room being addressed by men, entire strangers. She would have
felt different if I were married. A husband always gives countenance and
support to a woman.”

Susie laughed, and asked Clara what she answered. “I told her I was
going to be married, and, making her promise to keep it a profound
secret, I told her, to the Count Paul. ‘Has he asked you, my dear?’ she
said, greatly excited. ‘No, mamma,’ I said, ‘I told you I was going to
marry _him_.’ I do love to astonish mamma. Then I told her it would
burst upon her some time; that there would be no pomp of circumstance,
only just the steps necessary to make it legal. I am sure, conventional
as she is, she would be so overjoyed at being the mother-in-law of Paul,
that she would say nothing if the marriage ceremony should consist in
jumping over a broomstick!”

“Well, now, to change the subject, Clara, what am I to do with Dan?”

“I cannot advise you, dear. He acts like a very goose.”

“I pity him so. He loves me as much as he can love; but it is only a
feverish desire, not a sentiment having only my happiness at heart. He
should respect me because I have grown beyond him, but he does not. It
has no effect to tell him that I have not the slightest inclination to
marry him. He doesn’t believe it. He thinks I can love him just as of
old, if I only will; but I cannot _will_, and I have told him so. It
makes him crazy to hear Minnie call Paul her papa. He is not glad, as I
am, at the advantages the child has in being adopted by such a man.”

“It is too bad, Susie; but do not be induced to marry him out of pity. A
woman wrongs herself when she does that.”

“There is no danger. The very thought is horrible to me; but what a
position I am placed in! Here is your mother, coming here nearly every
day, and treating poor Susie like a daughter, because she thinks, of
course, I shall marry Dan. Oh, it is simply dreadful!” said the good
little Susie. “She has taken so to Minnie too.”

In fact, everybody did that, and especially was Min popular among the
children. She went everywhere to their parties, and picnic excursions,
and everywhere introduced a new play, which she called the “Social
Palace game.” One day when she had collected about a dozen children and
twice as many dolls, on the front porch, and was marshalling them in
true autocratic style, Dan came through the gate and sat on the steps.
Min told him she could not have anybody in the Social Palace who was
idle.

“Well, then, if that’s the case, you may give me some office.” Min
looked at him a moment, her chubby hands in her apron pockets, like a
stage soubrette, evidently studying what place he was fit to fill in the
play.

“You are so big,” she said, “I don’t know what to do with you.” But a
lucky thought struck her, and she told him he might be _Monsieur Godin_.

“Well, what does _Mongshure Godang_ do?” he asked, trying to imitate her
French pronunciation.

“Why, don’t you know? He does everything. He is the chief.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But that is a pretty difficult part for me.”

“Oh, no; you just sit there on the steps, and whenever you see a chicken
come in under the gate, you go and drive him out. The chickens, you
know, are the bad people who want to ruin the Social Palace.”

Dan promised, immensely attracted to the child and all her ways, and
thinking how he was wronged, because she was not taught to call him
father, or to know that he was so. Min then went on with what she called
“ognizing.” The little dolls formed the nursery, the big ones the
_pouponnat_. This girl must be head-nurse, this first-assistant-nurse, a
larger girl leader of the exercises in the _pouponnat_, and so on. She
made them all call her, as she had been called abroad, Mademoiselle von
Frauenstein. There were three little boys present, and one of these she
made head-gardener, and set him at work, with the next in size as
assistant, in the flower-garden, with her little hoe and rake. The
other, a very little boy, complained that she gave him no place.

“You wait till I _ognize_, and I’ll put you somewhere,” said Min; but
pretty soon he got tired of the tediousness of the “_ognizing_” process,
and called loudly for office.

“Well,” said Min, “you may go into the _pouponnat_ as the biggest
_poupon_, marching at the head. That will be quite nice.”

But the little boy thought the honor of head _poupon_ a very
questionable one, especially as the _poupons_ were all big dolls, whose
marching powers he held in contempt, and he told her so in very plain
words. Then the autocrat informed him that he “shouldn’t be nothing;”
whereupon he raised a revolt, and Min announced that there would be no
more Social Palace that day. She was highly disgusted at the rebellion
of her subjects, and even scolded Monsieur Godin for the lax manner in
which he had repelled the encroachment of the enemies, who constantly
were allowed to come under the gate.

“I know I haven’t done very well,” he said, humbly, “but I am a novice;
never played Social Palace before, ’pon my word.”

After the children were gone, he called her to him, and tried to
interest her and make her like him; but she submitted to his kisses with
a bad grace.

“Don’t you know that you are my little girl?” he said.

“Yours! Is your name Paul von Frauenstein?” she asked, with withering
scorn. Dan confessed it was not.

“Then I am _not_ your little girl, for I am Paul’s; and you are a saucy
man, and I don’t like you;” and with this she shot into the house,
leaving Dan a prey to very bitter reflections. The result was his going
to Susie, and reproaching her for teaching “his child” to hate him.
Susie was offended at being obliged to justify herself against such a
charge.

“I have never said the slightest word that should even make her
indifferent to you. You can have her confidence if you can win it. I see
no other way.” Dan could not control himself. He burst forth in a
torrent of complaints at Susie’s coldness, and at her being unwilling
that his child should love him. Then he became serious, and played the
rôle of mentor—told Susie what was best for her to do, which was, of
course, to marry him forthwith. “Don’t you see, Susie, that is the only
thing to do. That will make you at once an honest woman in the eyes of
the world, and we can bring up Minnie like a lady, and no one will dare
to treat her with disrespect.” This was too much for even Susie’s sweet
temper.

“I wonder at your assurance,” she said. “You, who trampled my love for
you under your feet, who deserted me in my agony of disgrace, when I had
not one friend in this world—you, who had not the manly decency to
conceal your love for another woman when I was in such a condition, by
the basest, most sacrilegious act of treachery a man ever perpetrated;
then after all that, leaving me for six years to fight the battle alone,
never during that time sending me one word of sympathy, or even taking
the trouble to enquire whether I, or your child, or both, were dead;
after all that, and after by toil such as you never dreamed of, and by a
long and unremitting struggle, I have conquered independence, won
friends among the noblest and best, and compelled even my worst
slanderers to respect me and my child, _you_—_you_ come to me and offer
to make me an honest woman, by the offer of your debauched self. If that
is honor, give me dishonor for the rest of my life.”

Dan raved and threatened, still talking in a very authoritative style
about his child.

“Thank Heaven! she is not your child, she is mine. There’s one bit of
justice which the law offers to a dishonored mother. _My child is mine!_
You cannot take her from me, as you could if I should marry you. What do
you suppose I care for a lost honor that can be restored by any jugglery
of law? Now drop that subject forever, if you wish me to retain the
least friendliness toward you. I should not dream of marrying you—no:
not if you were to become emperor of the world.”

Three days afterward Dan was brought home by two policemen from one of
the lowest dens of the town, where he had been robbed of purse, cravat,
handkerchief, and hat. In a day or two, by the united efforts of the
family and friends, he was forced to consent to be taken to the
Binghamton Inebriate Asylum. The doctor went with him, treated him very
kindly, and labored to show him that by staying two years, leading, as
he would, a temperate life, he might entirely overcome the passion for
intoxication. “It is most important, you see, my son, for you are still
a young man, and you may yet be useful to the world.” Dan was much
affected when his father left him, and promised to follow his advice,
and turn his attention to some scientific study. He expressed sorrow for
having given him so much trouble, and added, “I ain’t worth saving, I
fear. If you had drowned me like a blind kitten, when I was little, you
would have done the best thing for me.”

“Oh no, Dan. Don’t feel that way. Your life has not been in vain, and I
have by no means given you up. When I’m an old codger, with one foot in
the grave, I believe you will be my comfort, and atone for all the
heart-aches you have caused me.”

“God knows, I hope so,” said Dan fervently; “for no scapegrace of a boy
ever had a better father than I have.” This was the first and only manly
speech Dr. Forest had ever heard from Dan, and it touched him deeply.
When he was gone, Dan spent an hour or so walking rapidly back and forth
through the fine grounds of the Asylum; and then he went into the
billiard-room, and began to make the acquaintance of the patients. He
was quite astonished, and immensely gratified, to see that they were not
low fellows, but, on the contrary, real gentlemen in appearance and
manners, almost to a man. Dan, conscious of looking very “shaky,” from
his late three-days terrible debauch, made some apology to a
fine-looking fellow who handed him a cue and challenged him to a game of
billiards. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself to make any apologies,” said the
gentleman, laying his hand kindly on Dan’s broad shoulder. “We are all
drunkards here, every one of us!” After this Dan felt at home, and began
to enjoy himself far more than he had ever done before. For the first
time in his life, he spent several hours a day reading, and at last
conquered a real love for it; also, he became, from the loosest, most
uncertain and unsatisfactory of correspondents, a very tolerably
exemplary one. He wrote every week to his father, and quite often to the
other members of the family, giving long accounts of life in his asylum,
and talking hopefully of the future. “Don’t forget to tell mother,” he
wrote, after he had been there about six months, “that there is a little
decanter of brandy kept here on the mantel-piece, with a wine-glass
beside it, and that I have never once tasted it. I want you to tell her
this, because it will please her. You, sir, will understand very well
that it don’t prove any remarkable virtue, for you understand the
philosophy of drunkenness. Your real victim don’t drink for the taste of
liquor, but, as an old soaker in California used to say, ‘_for the
glorious refects hereafter_.’ So, when you haven’t enough for these
‘glorious refects,’ you find it mighty easy to resist a single glass.”




                              CHAPTER XL.
                       UNDER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.


 One beautiful day in August, about a month after the events just
narrated, Miss Charlotte came over to see Clara. She was looking quite
radiant with some new happiness, and Clara noticed that the plain
Quakerish knot in which she was wont to confine her really pretty dark
hair had undergone considerable change in its structure. It was less
rigidly twisted, and from the mass depended several natural curls. She
wore a pretty silver-gray barêge, flounced to the waist, and with the
upper skirt open, short, and looped up at the sides with ribbon.

Seating herself in an arm-chair, she said, “Now stand right there,
Clara—no, just behind a little, and fan me while I tell you something.”
Clara obeyed.

“Dear me! How shall I ever commence? I begin to repent.”

“Take your own time, Miss Delano. I will wait as long as you wish.”

“No; I won’t wait. If I do, I shall never tell you—_The old maid is
going to make a fool of herself. There!_”

“Oh, that is splendid! You are going to marry Paul’s cousin Felix. This
is most agreeable news. From all I hear of him, he is an admirable
gentleman.”

“Yes; but I wish he’d cut off that terrific Blue-Beard moustache. Do you
like moustaches? I can’t endure them. They are too signal a confirmation
of Darwin’s Origin of Species, according to which I believe we lose our
hair as we advance to higher types. Is that so?”

“Papa says,” replied Clara, laughing, “that the coming man’s head is
going to be as smooth as an ostrich egg; but I think, myself, the
moustache will change. I think it is ugly just in proportion as it hides
the contour of the lips.”

“I see you are thinking of Paul’s blonde, silky affair. Well, that is
very different. It stays where he puts it. At table a little twist of
his fingers, and his mouth is free; but Felix—well, I’m sure I must be
in love with him, or I should never have consented to marry him after
seeing him eat soup every day for a year.”

Miss Charlotte then told Clara they were to be married in a month, and
move into an elegant suite of apartments in the left wing of the Social
Palace. She was going to Boston in a day or two, to choose the most
charming furniture she could find. Felix was to organize the schools,
and she was to have a share of that work. The idea of having something
useful to do, seemed to inspire her. “In my old life,” she said, “I used
to spend days and days helping to get up articles for fairs for
charitable purposes; but there was never the right kind of satisfaction
about it.”

“How could there be?” asked Clara. “Charity is an insult to human
nature. What we want is to give the poor the conditions for a
comfortable, independent life. Now my mother and Mrs. Kendrick have won
a reputation for benevolence on about the poorest stock of virtue
imaginable; though of course they have acted from good motives. They
ride around in their carriages among the poor, and carry food and
clothing—cast-off garments of their own children and themselves. My
father has been trying for years to get the ladies here to establish a
_crèche_, as they do in foreign cities—a place for poor women to leave
their little children when they wish to go out to do work. This would
enable them to keep their elder children in school, instead of at home
to nurse the little ones. Then he would have them establish some
industry by which the poor women could earn money; but he could never
get them to do it.”

“No,” said Charlotte; “women’s lives are so narrow, their ambition so
dwarfed, that most of them actually enjoy going in their carriages and
rich clothing into the homes of the poor and patronizing them. I confess
I always felt like a fish out of water, and generally contrived to give
money, and let somebody else do the rest. You may palliate wretchedness
by charity, but you can never raise the condition of the poor by it.”

“Dependence and degradation are synonymous,” said Clara; “and now you
see why this workingmen’s palace is a mighty work. There, for their
labor, all the industrious can have comforts and luxuries beyond even
the power of the rich to enjoy, while their rents go to pay for their
homes.”

“Oh, it is a noble work!” exclaimed Miss Delano. “I am catching,
imperceptibly, the great enthusiasm of Paul and Felix. I see what must
be the educational influence of these daily baths, these walks in
beautiful gardens and groves, with music, and rare green-houses filled
with exotics, the splendid schools, the reading-room, the library, the
societies. Why, it is enough to inspire the coldest and most selfish
heart.”

“And you see clearly, if all this was given to the people as a
charity——”

“Why, it would not have a thousandth part of the good effect. The hope
of owning all this, will so elevate the honest pride of these people,
give them such strength and courage to work. Why, they will not care how
much rent they pay.”

“No; the count says the great trouble will be, that these laborers will
deny themselves leisure and proper clothing, and put everything into
their rents; but he is sure that it would not be well to have them own
it too soon. They will be so much better able to appreciate and enjoy
the ownership after ten or fifteen years, when the new and better
educated generation will come on the stage to help preserve the order
and prosperity of the institution. It does my heart good that you are
going to live there and help on the education.”

“Oh, you needn’t say anything to inspire or encourage me. I tell you I
am a radical, a social reformer of the deepest dye,” replied Miss
Charlotte gayly, as she took her leave.

Later in the day Paul came. He walked with Clara and Susie through the
green-houses and nurseries, now largely occupied by the stock for the
Social Palace. Already thousands of trees had been set out in the new
grounds, and were doing well, while the great conservatory in the court
of the right wing was being rapidly filled, under Susie’s direction. The
great palm, of historical fame, was in its place, having borne its
journey in May without the slightest injury. The great pink blossoms of
Susie’s banana-trees had long since fallen, and the bunches of young
fruit were ripening, while the rich perfume of exotics in great variety
filled the air. Passing back to the house, through the old conservatory,
the little one first built, and which Susie kept now only for flowers in
blossom, the count expressed great admiration for the two quite large
orange-trees, laden with blossoms, and he asked her how she managed to
make these flower so long after the usual time. “Why, it is very
simple,” said Susie; “by keeping them back; that is the technical term
for denying them water and plenty of sunlight. Then when you are ready,
you bring them right under the glass, in a warm room, and sprinkle them
lavishly every day at sunset. They can’t resist; they are powerless, and
must send out their blossoms, whether they like it or not.”

When they re-entered the house, Susie left them. The count stayed only a
short time, during which Clara tried to overcome her repugnance to speak
of the divorce—that hideous divorce, that was ever in her thoughts; but
she could not. If anything outside of themselves could have broken down
the invisible barrier that separated these two, Min on this occasion
certainly would have accomplished it. As Paul rose to go, she climbed up
on the head of the sofa beside where he stood, and taking the ends of
his long moustache in her dimpled hands, she pressed her little lips to
his very demonstratively. Then jumping down with a bound, she ran to
Clara, and standing on tip-toe beside her chair, she kissed “auntie,”
laughing, as she exclaimed, “Oh, auntie, am I not good?”

“Why, my child, are you specially good just now?”

“Because I’ve given you the _sweetest_ kiss! Oh, you don’t see,”
persisted Min. “Why, I’ve given you Paul’s own kiss, and you didn’t know
it!”

“You insufferable magpie!” exclaimed Clara, blushing in spite of
herself. “Go away now and don’t come back—hear?” Min, much discomfited,
shot a Parthian arrow as she edged toward the door, where she turned
while hunting for a chocolate-drop in the bottom of a little white
paper-bag, and having crammed it into her mouth, said, “I don’t care, I
don’t; auntie don’t like Paul’s kisses, but Min does; so!”

The count laughed quietly, and commenced at once to talk of some new
plans for the stage of the theatre. “May I bring them for you to see
this evening,” he asked.

“I should like to see them; but do not make any excuse to come. Come
freely whenever you wish. That will please me best.”

“I thank you. That is very gracious, but the margin is wide—whenever _I_
wish. You do not know,” he said, passing her hand to his lips, “how
boundless and insatiable are _my_ wishes. I even wish to create wishes
sometimes; but that is when I am not wise. You know the one supreme
desire of my heart, embracing and holding in abeyance all others, is
that I may be worthy of Clara. The dear words that you wrote me, the
written page just as I saw it, is burned into my memory. I can imagine
no sweeter praise than that ‘in no way have I ever offended you in the
slightest word, or tone, or motion.’ You see how I remember.” He would
have said more, but Clara was troubled. He could almost hear her heart
beating as she answered, without looking directly in his face, as she
spoke, “And yet it was only a negative praise. It seems to me there were
other words more worthy of remembering.”

“You are right; but not even a lover’s vanity could justify him in
repeating those.”

“You have no vanity, Paul. You have _no_ imperfections; or if you have,
it will be my fault if you ever manifest them—no, I don’t mean that: I
mean if you ever manifest any faults, they must be new possibilities
created by my folly. No—don’t answer. Go now and return by-and-by.” Paul
kissed her hand again, and with the pressure of his lips came the words,
just above a whisper, “_Tu es adorable_.”

“Oh, he’s getting very bold,” said Clara to Susie, who entered the
moment the count left, and she involuntarily looked at the fingers of
her right hand.

“Because he kissed your hand? Oh, that is nothing for a gallant
foreigner. It is, indeed, only a mark of respect and obedience, such as
that due to queens.”

“But he said ‘Thou art adorable.’ Surely that is more than a gentleman
would say to a mere queen,” replied Clara, delighting, like all those in
love, to linger over the trifles that make up their bliss, when they are
so fortunate as to have a friend wholly worthy of confidence.

“Did he say ‘_tu es_,’ really? Then you are lost,” replied Susie,
laughing. “He must feel very sure of his position, or he would never
dare _tutoyer_.”

“Oh, Susie!” said Clara, embracing her friend, “I am going to be
wonderfully sweet to Paul to-night—that is, if I can. He is coming
back.”

“Are you? I doubt it. You are so cold to him. I would not be so cruel as
you are. I should appreciate such respect, such delicacy. Most men, when
you show them the slightest favor, behave like bears.”

“Do I not know that well? If men only knew where their power lay! You
know papa says, in the Golden Age women will always take the initiative
in love. You believe that, Susie?”

“If the coming man is to have a head like an ostrich egg, I think he’ll
be incapacitated for gentle, seductive arts,” said Susie, laughing.

“When you speak of women taking the initiative in love, vulgar people
think you mean proposals of matrimony, or caresses at least. The
initiative is that which the word implies—the first movement; it is but
the slightest thing. When Paul has pressed my hand, I have always drawn
it away after a few seconds. He is waiting for me to leave it in his
just one second longer. I have never given him a really tender glance.
If I were to do so, the ‘bear,’ as you say, would instantly be
developed; though I should not apply that word to him. He is the perfect
gentleman in everything. He _could_ not offend. I mean to speak to him
about that hateful divorce, which forbids me to marry ‘until the said
defendant be actually dead.’ I say I mean to; but I have not the
slightest certainty that I shall have the courage. I don’t believe you
can imagine how I feel about it.”

“Yes I can, dear. Don’t trouble your precious soul about it. Only be
sweet and good to Paul, and everything will be well. You are not going
to wear that dress? Do put on that lovely white organdie. Will you? I
will loop up the skirt with ivy.”

The vision that met the count’s eyes as he entered Clara’s parlor must
have charmed the most fastidious taste. The white, gauze-like organdie
was looped with ivy by Susie’s cunning hand. It was that rare,
silver-edged ivy, with a light crimson flush in some of the leaves. Over
the low corsage she wore a Louis-Quinze basque of white duchess lace,
the graceful folds of which fell over her exquisite hands that were
without ornament of any kind. In the coronal roll of her hair, which
fell in many curls from the mass behind, she wore a tiny bouquet of
mignonnette and white Neapolitan violets, relieved by a border of green.
The basque was closed at top of the corsage with a beautiful cameo of
her father’s head in profile. Paul knew she had dressed for him, and the
thought was delicious. He expressed warmly his admiration for her
toilet—a thing foreign gentlemen are as careful to remember as Americans
are to forget; not that they are not sensitive to the beauties of
woman’s dress, but it is a habit with very many to ignore the fact that
dress can enhance beauty; and then, perhaps from a feeling of delicacy,
for American gentlemen are among the most refined in their sentiments
toward women. With the older civilizations, dress is a pure art, and
artistic effects are always a fit subject for study.

Edward Page and Susie were present when the count entered, but after a
half hour or so Susie left, and the young man soon followed. The
conversation then turned upon the engagement of Miss Delano and Felix
Müller. “It will be a very happy union,” said Paul. “If the theory of
opposites hold true, they are well suited to each other, and they are
certainly much in love. They are constantly together. They sit up
evenings after all are abed, and then take long strolls in the park
before breakfast. It is a most happy courtship. They are both among
friends who give them full sympathy, and there is never a straw in the
way of their bliss.”

“The old adage, then, about the course of true love, is likely to prove
false in this instance,” said Clara; and then changing the subject
abruptly, as women are wont to do—when they see fit—she asked the count
if he had brought the theatre plans.

“Ah! I forgot them. From the time I left you until I returned, I don’t
think I was once conscious of the existence of business. Are you
disappointed?”

“In what? In which?” asked Clara, a little mischievously, perceiving
that his question was susceptible of ambiguity; but she repented in a
moment, seeing how gravely the count regarded her, and added, “I know
you mean the plans. I don’t care to see them to-night. I wish you would
sing to me.”

Paul sat down to the piano almost hurriedly, and as his deft fingers ran
over the key-board, he said—the music making his low words even more
distinct—“Hear what Paul says to his love.” He looked at her as she
stood on his left, but her eyes were studiously fixed upon his hands.

The consciousness of a well-trained voice, able to express with divine
eloquence words that may not be fitly spoken without music, is perhaps
the proudest gift a lover can possess. Paul played the prelude once, and
then repeated it, as if waiting for the certainty of self-control. The
music he was playing Clara had never heard; but she knew that it was his
own; for there was a certain latitude of interpretation in Paul’s style,
when playing his own compositions, which he would not presume to
attempt, in following the masters. Paul sang the words of some poet
unknown to Clara.

             “O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!
             Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,
             But I that worship may not kiss her feet.

             “O mountain airs! where unconfined float
             Her locks ambrosial, would that I were you,
             To wanton with the tangles of her hair.

             “O leaping waves! that press and lip and lave
             Her thousand beauties, when shall it be mine
             To touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?

             “But she more loves the blossom and the breeze
             Than lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,
             O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”

The last line of each stanza was repeated. Clara realized that Paul had
never sung to her before. “I don’t like your song,” she said, but
doubtless with that glance which, according to her confession an hour
ago to Susie, she had never given him; for he rose with a cry of
tenderest passion, clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips long
and silently upon her hair, holding her head the while softly against
his breast. Clara heard his heart beating loud and fast. There they
stood. Neither could desire to speak or move. It was heaven enough to
know that the supreme moment that revealed them fully to each other, had
come at last. From this close embrace to the folding-down of Love’s kiss
upon the lips, in “perfect purple state,” as Mrs. Browning says, “the
transition was easy,” which Mrs. Browning does not say. The kisses of
these two were different from nearly all others. It was soul meeting and
mingling with soul, and the sensitive lips were only the medium. That
may seem obscure to philosophers who are always seeking in vain for the
seat of the soul. Lovers of the nobler and finer type, emotional beings,
who will not have their altars profaned by the contact of unholy
offerings, never have any doubts about soul. To them it is not an entity
which may be found here or there; it is life—the one thing infinitely
precious, and they are not to be disturbed by nicely-studied
definitions. Are not lovers of this rare type the truest philosophers?

It is like an impertinence to try to describe the unutterably perfect
state of Paul and Clara as they stood there by the piano. A cynical
observer would probably have said that they uttered more nonsense in the
short space of ten minutes than he would have believed possible; but he
would only thereby show his ignorance of the mysterious power they
possessed of

                “Kissing _full_ sense into empty words.”

After a time, Susie’s light step was heard passing the partially-open
door, and Clara called her and said, as she entered, “Come and see how
cold and cruel I am to your friend.”

“Oh, this is too good!” exclaimed Susie, embracing both with effusion.
“My cup of joy runneth over. If you and Paul had not turned to each
other, as naturally as flowers to the light, I should have lost faith in
providence; but I never had any doubt. But come, my precious lovers, you
will grow faint on your diet of the ineffable. I knew by intuition that
you two would find your souls to-night, and so I have prepared a little
feast in honor of the occasion. Edward and I, I mean, but it is not
quite ready yet. In about fifteen minutes I shall call you. Into that
fifteen minutes you have full liberty to crowd all the bliss you can. I
know your capacity in that direction must be miraculous,” she added.

“What could be so gracious as this dear girl’s sympathy?” exclaimed the
count, bending down and kissing her forehead.

“Why, when we love our friends dearly, we must naturally enjoy most that
which makes them most happy. _C’est bien simple_,” said Susie, and with
that she left.

When Paul and Clara entered the dining-room they were amazed at what
Susie had accomplished. The folding-doors of the conservatory were flung
wide open, revealing that fairy-like effect which all have noticed who
have seen foliage and flowers lighted from beneath. The light of the
central hanging-lamp was dimmed by the light of numerous sections of
wax-candles, set in the earth under the plants and small trees. In the
dining-room the table, decked with flowers, was laden with a choice
collation.

“Am I in the land of fairies?” asked the count.

“How have you done all this in so short a time, you darling Susie?”
Clara asked. “Why, it is like enchantment!”

“Why, we have had time enough,” answered Susie, glancing at young Page,
who stood by the folding-doors enjoying the effect of the surprise. “We
commenced,” he said, “when we heard the count’s beautiful song.” “Yes,”
said Susie, “we knew then it was time to prepare for the bridal feast.”

“You see, Paul,” said Clara, “you are Orpheus, working magic through the
music of your voice.”

“May I not meet the fate of Orpheus,” said Paul; “but I think I should
be more patient than he was when his Eurydice was coming out of Hades.”
Clara looked at Paul thinking her own sweet thoughts.

“Now you must be just as happy, just as free, as children; yes, a
hundred times more happy. We are all lovers. I am in love with several
people, and Edward, he is also, but with one especially. Is it not so?”
Susie added, turning to the young man, who blushed as prettily as a girl
as he answered, “I should be very sorry to contradict Madam Susie.”

“That is not a frank admission.”

“Then I admit frankly.”

“That is as it should be,” said Paul. “I sympathize with Claude
Melnotte, who would ‘have no friends that were not lovers.’”

“Oh, we must have some of that delicious _Sauterne_ that _we_ brought
from France,” said Susie, addressing the count. “Red wine alone will
never answer.” Edward disappeared in search of the wine.

“Why, Susie is as happy as we are, one would say,” said Clara.

“You think nothing but the prospect of marrying Paul ought to make any
woman happy.”

“How sweet she looks, Paul!” said Clara, her whole face breaking into
dimpling smiles. “I should think you would want to marry Susie too.”

“I do, of course,” answered the count gallantly; “but you know the
wicked world has such prejudices! Susie had trouble enough abroad to
convince people in hotels and _auberges_ that we required separate
apartments;” and he laughed, remembering certain scenes that had caused
her vexation.

“Well, you know that was all Min’s fault; she was forever in your arms.
Here comes our _Chateau Yquem_. What! who on earth can be ringing the
door-bell at this hour?”

“I know that is my father,” said Clara, going to the front door. Edward,
for some reason, disappeared at the same time.

“Now tell me what I am here for,” said the doctor, after laying down his
hat and saluting the friends. “I sat in my studio for an hour, and
resisted the impulse to come over. It is ten o’clock, and you know I
never came here, or anywhere, at such an hour, unless I was called.”

“Well, you were called,” answered Susie, who loved to nurse little
superstitions.

“Count, what do you think of it?” asked the doctor.

“I will not say it is impossible for us to act upon each other at a
distance. I have known several instances that would seem to prove it.”

“We were so happy, papa,” said Clara, putting her arms around her father
tenderly. “I think my own joy must have filled the world like an
atmosphere, and so it embraced you, and you being a ‘_sensitive_,’
responded.”

“Papa’s own girl is radiant to-night,” he said, kissing her. “I never
saw you look so well,” and glancing at the conservatory and the table,
and then at Paul, he read the mystery. “Why this is very irregular,” he
added, gayly. “Are my paternal rights to be disregarded? Are you going
to marry my girl without my consent?”

“I trust not, sir,” said Paul, confidently.

“Oh, do you not know, papa, I cannot marry any one?”

“Why not, pray?” But as Clara did not answer her father’s question,
Susie explained the clause in the divorce.

“Why, this is what has troubled you, darling,” said Paul, in his
tenderest voice. “Be reassured. It is only a form. By marrying you might
be liable to a charge of contempt of court, the penalty of which is only
a fine. No one ever notices this injunction; at least, I never heard of
a case.”

“Is that all?” asked Clara, amazed and almost ashamed that she had been
so long disturbed by a mere bugbear. “But women are so ignorant of legal
matters.”

“The Social Palace will make a wiser generation of women,” Susie said.
“The children will learn politics in their cradles.”

“And _bambins_ will commence to exercise the franchise by balloting for
their little industrial leaders,” said Susie. “But come, our _Chateau
Yquem_ is waiting. There is only one thing wanting. If these two dear
ones could only be married to-night, and have the bother all over!”

“Papa,” said Clara, “I must have inherited from you my repugnance to
ceremonies. I would never get married in the world, if it wasn’t for my
love for Paul,” she added, looking at him.

“We will have no ceremony, dear one,” he said. “The marriage contract,
duly attested, is all that is necessary; besides, any one can perform
the marriage ceremony. It is not necessary that it should be a priest,
for marriage is a civil contract.”

“Why, let us draw up the contract now,” said Susie, forgetting the
waiting _Sauterne_. “Here is my desk and all proper materials.”

Paul did not need any urging. The contract was duly signed in less than
ten minutes. As Clara signed her name, she exclaimed, “Why, I am a
victim to a conspiracy! My consent to this precipitate act has not been
even asked.”

“But there is your name,” said Paul. “It is too late for retraction. I
shall at once assert my prerogatives.”

“Come, my children!” said the doctor, “let us have a gloriously radical
marriage ceremony, after our wicked latitudinarian hearts.”

“Oh yes, do, Clara; just to make Susie happy. Here is Edward come for
another witness.”

“You know my sentiments on this matter,” said the count, addressing the
doctor. “As any one may perform the ceremony, I should choose you from
all the world.”

Clara would have postponed further action after the signing of the
marriage contract, but there was no resisting the enthusiasm of Susie,
the doctor, and Paul. Susie would have them married in the little
conservatory, among the flowers. And so it happened. There was no need
of orange-blossoms, for the happy lovers stood beneath the two
blossom-laden orange-trees, that dropped their fragrant petals on the
united hands of Paul and Clara, as the doctor said, in his deep, solemn
voice, “Paul von Frauenstein, do you take this woman to be your lawful
and wedded wife?” Clara was a thousand times more deeply affected than
she had been at her former marriage, when her heart was in rebellion all
the time against the “show,” as the doctor called it. She sobbed in the
doctor’s arms for some time, and his own eyes were hardly dry. At last
he said, handing Clara over to Paul, “I will not comfort your sorrowing
wife any more. _That_ is one of your prerogatives, unquestionably.”

“Sorrowing, papa; what a word,” replied Clara, looking divinely
beautiful through her tears at her father, and then at Paul. “If this is
sorrow, may I never be comforted;” and then, while the rest left the
conservatory, she listened to words from Paul, which were far too sweet
for repetition.

Susie was wild with delight. She poured out the choice _Sauterne_,
proposed toasts, made everybody reply, and was so gay in her _abandon_,
that her friends scarcely knew her.

In the midst of the hilarity there was heard in the hall the patter of
little feet, and the next moment Min, aroused by the unusual noise,
opened the door, in her long white gown, looked at the lighted
conservatory, and then at the _convives_, exclaiming with a very grave
air:

“What is all this row about? I should like to know.”

“You little ghost!” said the doctor. “Where do you come from?” Min
curled herself up in the doctor’s arms, and then directed her attention
to the attractions of the table.

“Min, somebody is married to-night—can you guess who?” asked Susie,
colloquially if not grammatically.

Min looked at Edward. “It isn’t you,” she said, “’cause Linnie isn’t
here.”

“Ah! a cat out of the bag!” said the doctor, noticing the vivid
reddening of the young man’s fair face.

“And it isn’t you, auntie, ’cause you don’t like Paul’s kisses.”

“Oh, but I do, Minnie. I have found out how sweet they are,” replied
Clara, archly.

“Well, you were a long time finding out,” said the spoiled pet, changing
her place to Paul’s lap.

It was difficult to get Min back to bed, but the promise of a ride with
Paul the next day finally proved a sufficient inducement. Edward left
soon after Min, but it was some time after midnight when the doctor took
his hat to go. Clara handed Paul his.

“What!” exclaimed the doctor. “You to be sent away, Paul? That is
wrong.” Susie wickedly confirmed the sentiment, but Paul, noticing a
kind of distress in Clara’s face, said, as he held her a moment in his
arms, “We do not recognize rights, dearest. All the events of this
evening, so crowded upon each other, have quite unstrung your nerves.
See, doctor, how cold her hands are!”

“Well,” said the doctor, taking his daughter’s hand, “you are
right—right, I mean, in leaving all things to her; but you know how
instinctively women cling to precedents. You may find this a dangerous
one.”

“I have no fears,” replied Paul, embracing Clara tenderly. “Does she not
love me? and is not love sure to respond to love’s needs? Her desire is
mine always.”




                              CHAPTER XLI.
                       AFTER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.

               “What I do and what I dream include thee
               As the wine must taste of its own grapes.”


The doctor, on his way home, saw a light in the printing-office, which
was at the corner where he separated from his newly-made son-in-law; and
at the latter’s suggestion a notice of the marriage was left there for
the morning paper. So the next morning, as Mrs. Kendrick, Louise, Miss
Delano, Felix, and the count, sat down to the table, they were
electrified by the exclamation, “Good God!” proceeding from Mr.
Kendrick, who came forward to take his place at the table.

“What is it? Do read it?” said Mrs. Kendrick to her husband, whose eyes
were riveted on the morning paper.

“Married—Sept. 10th, at the residence of the bride, the Count Paul von
Frauenstein to Clara Forest Delano——” Kendrick stopped short and looked
at Paul, who was very composedly taking his cup of coffee from Mrs.
Kendrick’s trembling hand.

“What silly joke is this?” he asked, addressing Paul.

“My dear sir, I beg you to not consider it a joke. It is a genuine
announcement of a genuine fact,” replied the count, with a serious
gravity that could not be mistaken.

“But you slept here last night. I heard you come in.”

“So did I,” said Miss Delano, “but it was shockingly late—late enough to
have accomplished any folly, I should say; marriage among the rest.” But
Charlotte felt secretly hurt that when she had given her confidence
freely to Clara the day previous, Clara had withheld hers. Louise turned
very pale, but sipped her coffee without any serious manifestation of
the rage she felt.

“My dear cousin, I give you joy!” said Felix, grasping the count’s hand
warmly, and adding, in French, “I must suppose you have good reasons for
keeping your confidence from me.”

“The very best reasons, my dear Felix—reasons certain to prove
satisfactory,” said the count, in English.

“Good God!” said Kendrick again. “I never heard of such a thing.
Married, and then go home coolly to your bachelor quarters!” This was
spoken in a very incredulous style.

“Even so,” replied the count, throwing back his head and laughing at the
inordinate excitement caused by a simple event. “We have not yet
completed our domestic arrangements; but to save my honor in your eyes,
Kendrick, I should add that my leaving was at the desire of the bride,
whose wishes, according to my code, should be the law of a gallant man.”

“I like that, Paul,” said Charlotte, not daring to look at Felix, but
meaning her approbation to be a lesson for him. Paul’s answer to Felix’s
question had convinced her that the marriage was an impromptu one;
therefore her heart lost all its hardness towards Clara, and she added,
“I will call on the Countess von Frauenstein this morning.” Paul thanked
her with his lips, but still more cordially with his eyes.

“_I_ shall do no such thing,” said Mrs. Kendrick, whose face had been
flushed ever since the reading of the marriage announcement. “I think,
when people marry, they should show decent respect to——”

“To their friends, madam,” said the count, rising from the table. “Are
you so unquestionably a friend of my wife that she has wronged you by
not asking your presence at the ceremony? Did you give her your womanly
sympathy when your ridiculous Oakdale aristocracy frowned upon her, in
her days of sorrow?”

All this was said in a very low, quiet tone, but it cut Mrs. Kendrick
like a two-edged sword. She saw she had been too hasty, and a glance at
Kendrick, who seemed ready to faint, terrified her, recalling, as it
did, the fact that he had told her the bank could not tide over its
present crisis without the aid of the count.

“Pardon me, count,” she said, rising. “This was so unexpected, so
alarming, I may say, in the way it burst upon me—of course I know you
will do things differently from other people. I shall, of course, be
happy to call on your wife. I will go with Miss Charlotte and your
cousin. Do you forgive me?” she asked, offering him her hand. The count
had noted well Kendrick’s anxious look at his wife, and though he
despised the policy of Mrs. Kendrick, which forbade her the pleasure of
enjoying her spleen, he answered, urbanely,

“Certainly, madam. Excuse me, also, for alluding to an unfortunate
omission on your part, which I am sure you regret; but I beg you to not
call on my wife as a concession. If you do that, our friendship ends
there.”

Before Miss Charlotte and the Kendrick party set out for their call on
Clara, Miss Charlotte took care to post a copy of the paper to her
brother, with the marriage notice duly and conspicuously marked. It
reached him the next morning. His surprise was great, and his feelings
of a very mixed character. He naturally thought that, in justification
to himself, Clara should have married some very common kind of man; and
then her winning the love of one so high in the social scale was balm to
his vanity, and a just punishment to Ella, who hated Clara, as little
minds do hate those they have wronged. He had come to despise Ella for
her mean spite against Clara, shown unqualifiedly whenever he had spoken
a word in praise of her; and his home was anything but a happy one. He
found out, as many a man has done before, that Ella having become his
wife, considered him her inalienable property, and only a subject for
consideration when there was no other man about upon whom to lavish her
smiles and pretty coquetries. Why should she dress for him, or practice
her winning graces on one who was hers already, and that forever? In
short, he learned by bitter experience the difference between a true,
loving, devoted woman, whose sweetest smiles and gentlest words were
ever for him, and a mere thing of fashion and convention called a wife,
but no more a real wife than the first eye-winking doll in a
shop-window. If any power on earth could have annulled the past, and
given back Clara to his arms, after six months of Ella Wills, he would
have been a happy man; but he made the best he could of his life, and
was not unreasonable over Ella’s faults, except when she spoke ill of
Clara, as she did on the occasion of his reading the notice of her
marriage. Not knowing of Ella’s former flirtation with the count at
Newport, and her extreme vexation at that time over her signal failure,
he set down everything she said to her spite against Clara.

“He hasn’t much pride, if he is a count,” she remarked, “or he wouldn’t
take up with anybody’s cast-off wife.”

Dr. Delano was disgusted. He replied savagely, and a stormy scene
ensued, in which both descended to the bitterest recriminations. They
mutually confessed that their love was a farce, and then they separated
coolly, the doctor going to his office and Ella to discuss a love of a
ball-dress with her _modiste_.

The marriage of the count was a nine-days’ wonder in Oakdale, and there
was terrible commotion in the breasts of scheming mammas, some of whom
found a large grain of comfort in the fact that “Louise Kendrick must be
terribly cut up.” And she was indeed, poor girl! and her chagrin was all
the more bitter from the consciousness that her hopes had been built on
a foundation of the most flimsy nature. There is very little true
sympathy in the world for hopeless love; many people, indeed, who pass
as educated or cultivated are capable of reproaching the unhappy lover,
or even laughing at him, thus showing themselves, in refinement of
sentiment, on a plane with the barbarian. Sympathy of a common and lower
type is everywhere freely given to heroic suffering; but if any one
would know which of his friends not only loves him most sincerely, but
has the highest and finest nature, let him make an unqualified fool of
himself.

Despite the portentous rumors touching the unsoundness of the great
banking-house of Oakdale, it weathered through the storm, and the
Kendricks and Burnhams held their heads as high as ever. As long as
Oakdalers might have seen any future possibility of a marriage between
the count and Kendrick’s daughter, the recovery of the bank’s credit
might be comprehended; but as things happened, it remained a mystery,
rather augmented than lessened by the fact that there had been a “run”
on the bank very soon after the marriage. And the wonderment of Oakdale
had an extraordinary vitality. Why, among all the wealth and beauty of
the town, had the count chosen the radical daughter of the arch-radical
Dr. Forest; and a woman, too, with a history, a thing so deplorable in a
lady? In a less advanced age it would have been set down to witchcraft,
or Satanic interposition; but the thing was done, and there was no way
of escaping the inevitable. Those who had exchanged courtesies with
Clara after her separation from Dr. Delano, took consolation in the fact
that they ought to be on the cards of the count thereafter; those who
had not, said spitefully, that no doubt the count would take up his
residence “among those working-people over the river,” where the cream
of the town would scarcely care to visit.

It did not become known who the “officiating clergyman” was, in the
marriage that excited such commotion, for the notice in the paper had
barely announced the fact and the place of occurrence, and no one would
have dared to ask such a question of any of the interested parties.
Indeed, minor circumstances sank into insignificance beside the one
marvelous fact that Clara Delano, whom society had dared to snub, had
suddenly risen to such an enviable position in the social scale. Poor
Susie Dykes, as the bosom friend of Clara, rose mightily in importance
also; but the Priest and the Levite were deterred from approaching her
now, from consciousness of their past attitude toward her, or rather,
from the fear of inconsistency—that bugbear of little minds. The most
conservative, however, were pretty ready to admit that the kick-her-down
policy was not the wisest after all, and that love and sympathy might be
due even to a “fallen” sister.

But even the excitement caused by the marriage of the count and Clara,
and the influence it promised upon the fate of Susie, could not long
hold the attention of Oakdale from the mighty enterprise “over the
river.” Architects and builders came hundreds of miles to see the great
work, whose renown was daily widening and extending. Oakdale palatial
residences sank into insignificance beside the vast pile. Capitalists
looked on with wonder, and great manufacturers grumbled at the growing
discontent of their workmen over the high rents they had to pay for
their poor accommodations. The Social Palace workmen talked with outside
laborers, and the natural result was dissatisfaction. Ely & Gerrish took
the wisest course—they, who less than the other manufacturers felt the
need of conciliating their employés, having years before built improved
homes for them. This firm called their workmen together, and urged them
to wait patiently, and see how the Social Palace worked. No one could
say yet that it would not be a failure. To be sure, that in France had
worked well, but French people were very different from free Americans!
If this enterprise worked, of course it would become universal in this
country; and from what they, Ely & Gerrish, had already done, their
workmen might expect them to try to keep up with the demands of the
time.

Other manufacturers were not so fortunate. They were insolent to their
workmen when the latter grew discontented, and the result, in some
cases, was disastrous to their industries, and provocative of hatred to
the millionaire, whose wealth enabled him to ride over smaller
capitalists rough-shod.

“You see,” said the doctor, to one of these, “our financial and
industrial system is a regular cut-throat affair. Anybody who can see an
inch before his nose must admit that in order to carry on that system
successfully, you must have but two classes—masters and slaves. The
moment you give the people schools and newspapers, you teach them
revolution against a state of things which keeps them poor while their
labor makes others rich.” In fact, it was very little consolation to
talk to the doctor, though in the end he never failed to show that if he
had sympathy for the laborer, he had also for the small capitalist, and
could see exactly his difficulties and vexations. Burnham seemed
wonderfully interested in the great subterranean galleries for
ventilating the Social Palace, and these were his theme whenever he
talked of the great enterprise. “This question of ventilation is an
important one,” he said. “It’s safe to say that, up to this time, no
architect has ever successfully ventilated even a schoolroom; but I
believe this Frauenstein, or Godin before him, has hit it.”

“Is it true,” asked a listener, “that he is going to put hot-air
furnaces in these galleries under the palace, and so heat up the whole
thing at the same time he carries in the fresh air?”

“Yes, that’s so. He went yesterday to New York to make arrangements for
the furnaces.”

When the silk industry was in operation, Mrs. Forest and the twins went
over to see it. Linnie had for some days declared that she was going to
learn silk-weaving, and when she saw the actual operation she was fully
decided. The factory was a beautiful building, only a little less ornate
than the palace itself, and Mrs. Forest was so charmed with the polished
oiled floors, the immense, deep-set windows, and the exquisite
cleanliness of everything, that she pronounced it “so unlike a factory!
Why, I almost want to weave silk here myself,” she said. Leila declared
if Linnie came to weave, she also would. “It will be setting a good
example, you know, for the independence of young ladies,” she added,
half in irony. Mrs. Forest did not fail to remark that a great many of
the weavers were quite respectable young girls, and finally she gave her
consent that Leila and Linnie should learn—there could be no harm in it.
They were already both engaged to teach in the Social Palace schools,
but these would not be organized yet for two months. The doctor’s
apartments were already selected, and Mrs. Forest went to see them on
this day. She had not expected to find them so grand.

“What do you think now, mamma?” asked Linnie.

“Why, I suppose we shall only reside here temporarily. We are not to
give up our house,” said Mrs. Forest, very gently but positively.

“Oh, the house will be given up,” said Leila. “I expect you, mamma, will
become one of the council of twelve. I shall see you presiding, no
doubt, and gravely giving the ‘casting vote.’ What a woman’s righter
you’ll become,” she added, laughing. “There’s no use trying to resist
such an outside pressure. We’ll all have to become radical reformers
like papa and ‘Papa’s Own Girl.’”

“Papa’s Own Girl” was in a state of beatitude these days, that shone out
from her beautiful face, and lent a divine softness and tenderness to
her every word, and act, and motion. Susie, who loved to give wings to
her imagination, declared to Clara that there was often a halo about her
head, like those crowning the saints in the pictures of the old masters.
Paul, when absent now, did not sit with ink drying on his pen. He wrote
freely, from an overflowing, all-absorbing happiness, great enough to
fill even his great heart; and if he hesitated now when writing his
beloved Clara, it was not for lack of words, but rather from the
impotence of all possible combinations of words, to express the half
that he felt. The first letter that he wrote her after their happy
union, or parts of it, may be given here, for the benefit of lovers;
others may find it extravagant and out of character as an expression of
the passion of love in a practical, philosophical gentleman like Count
Frauenstein, and so they can pass it over unread:


“DEAR HEART:—Ah! dear indeed, since it has answered mine. Jean Paul
sighed that he had lived so long and had never seen the sea. Like his
longing was mine, to find my love—and I have found her! For me there is
no more sighing—never any more; for I have seen the sea, the broad, the
deep, the infinite. It broke upon my vision with a sweet surprise, and
my mind and heart went out to measure it; but I knew that on and on,
beyond the purple limits, it still extended in its earth-embracing
mystery. Erewhile I had heard but its far-off echoes answering to the
whisperings of my heart, as one who listens to the sea-shell. But now my
eyes have seen its changing beauty. I have heard its murmurings and its
laughter. I have swayed with its flux and reflux; and its waves—ah!
dear, they have overflowed my soul! Everlasting sunlight is spread upon
its bosom, on which I have floated into rest. The sunshine is abiding. I
have taken it away in my heart—my satisfied, contented heart—and the
music of its waves I shall hear forevermore! * * * All things should
bless you for loving me, since with the remembrance of that sweet loving
with which my heart is full, I touch more tenderly even the dear earth
that has been made young again for me. It seems as if every one should
notice that something has happened to me; as if the little children
should gather about me, believing that I could bless them; as if the
flowers should turn to me for sunlight. Oh, what have you done to me, my
darling, that I am so happy and so strong, that I have such tenderness
in my heart, and that such heavenly peace sits upon my forehead. * * *

“I try in vain to still my beating heart into some more temperate mood.
They might as well have attempted to presume upon sanity who were
visited with the Pentecost.” * * * * * *


The next day Paul wrote:


“To-day, love, the furnaces for our Social Palace are on the way to
Oakdale. For three days I have been attending to the most prosaic
details of business, feeling myself all the while a thing distinct and
apart from the mortals with whom I discussed smoke-flues, heating
capacities, and combination-boilers! I believe I have accomplished
everything with an exemplary sanity; though as I talked I found myself
surprised, from time to time, that none of these business men discovered
the great mystery of my other and deeper life, which I know my whole
manner and expression might have betrayed.

“Yesterday being Sunday, I stayed nearly all day in my room, that I
might luxuriate in my happiness. For a long time I lay on my lounge in a
half dream, my heart, and lips, and my whole body thrilling with the
very memory of your kisses and caresses. With what difficulty I rose to
write you. It was so sweet to simply remember!

“Do you know, sweet one, that I am yours by the most absolute surrender
of myself to you—not a surrender once for all, but a surrender repeated
with every pulsation of my heart. It seems to me that I never lived
until I knew you; all before that seems to me a vague, half-forgotten
dream; yet I realize that for years I had been trying to work out some
plan that might leave the world better for my single effort, but I
needed an inspiration that would not come to me. I stood within the
great temple of humanity, and studied the mummeries of the priests, and
the silent, unsatisfied seeking of the devotees. When I felt your divine
presence there, the atmosphere was no longer cold to me; and when your
lips had touched mine, the fretted arches of the temple burned—a fire
was lit upon the altar, every symbol became life-giving, and the miracle
was wrought for me which I had waited for so long in vain.

“To me now everything is endowed with new life, and every human face,
however coarse or degraded, wears a new significance.

“This evening I visited an industrial reformatory home, instituted by
some good Unitarian women, for the reclamation of ‘abandoned girls.’ I
gave money to the fund, and the matrons called the girls together, that
I might speak to them. It was a task to make up my mind to stand before
them, until I thought of my precious one, and the brave step she took,
when a young lady ‘just out of school.’ That gave me my text. I told the
story of dear Susie’s struggle and her final victory. I was played upon
like a musical instrument by the magnetic force of those two hundred
unhappy young girls. Nothing else can or could explain why I stood there
and talked as I did—of what? Can you imagine? I talked of love, the
subject that lay nearest their hearts, for they were women—of its
beautiful mission in this world. I said women fell never from love, but
from the want of it, and that by love alone could either women or men
become a blessing to their time. As my audience became affected, many of
them to tears, my own eyes became so dim that I could hardly see the
faces before me, and then I knew I was eloquent. I described the love of
a true, great-hearted woman, and the miracle her love could work in
man’s heart. I told them that the love of such a woman made the glory of
my life, and to it they were indebted for the inspiration that made me
come among them to speak words of encouragement. I said that, with such
a love in my heart, every woman was sacred in my eyes, even though
covered with rags and shame. I dwelt long upon the fatal error of any
woman considering herself lost, whatever had been her history, or
however great her degradation. ‘Never,’ I said, ‘allow priest or layman,
friend or foe, to convince you that you are not capable of a good and
happy life, while there is yearning in your hearts, as I know there is
in every one of them, for a love such as I have described. It is a vile
insult to human intelligence to presume that any one loves evil rather
than good, or prefers the pity to the respect of mankind.’ I then
appealed strongly to their womanly pride and ambition, urging them to
study earnestly in the classes established in the institution, promising
to return in a year, and, if the directors would permit me, (here I
obtained ready permission from the ladies on the platform) distribute
certain prizes to those who had made the most progress in their studies
and in their general deportment, and certain other prizes to all who had
made any meritorious effort. The value and kind of the prizes being
determined after some discussion with the ladies, I went on, and showed
them the high importance of study as a discipline to the mind, and the
value of education generally. I pointed out, in plain, simple language,
the prospect opening before women through the recognition of her equal
rights as a citizen, for I am always anxious, when talking to women, to
show them the moral and political power they may wield by the ballot,
this being the primal means to put them in the proper position to
exercise a vast influence necessarily dormant without it.

“I was pleased to see the intense interest in the faces of these young
women. I am sure I awakened them to a sense of innate womanly dignity,
which cannot be crushed out by sudden misfortune, and to a firm resolve
to work their way up to a better and more honorable life. There was
great enthusiasm when I finished, and one sweet, silver-haired old lady
came up and kissed me, with the natural simplicity of a little child. I
was very proud of that. She then spoke of me to the girls, in a way that
made me feel guilty, because I was not a perfect saint; and then calling
one of the girls to the piano, I listened to some very pleasant singing
by the whole company, and retired, feeling that I had deserved the
approbation of her who is the joy and blessing of my life.” * * * * * *




                             CHAPTER XLII.
                     A VISIT TO THE SOCIAL PALACE.


 Nearly a year has passed, and it is summer again. Changes unheard of
have been wrought over the river. The great palace dedicated to
industry, rears its proud head toward the heavens, and joy and peace and
plenty reign within its walls. Every apartment and every shop has been
occupied over six months, and the tenants are voluntarily doubling and
trebling their rents, for in this way they are paying for their
magnificent home. The organization of the industries and of the domestic
life, modeled after that of the great _Familistère_ at Guise, must be
scientifically adapted to the true laws of social harmony, for all the
machinery works quietly, regularly, and satisfactorily. There is plenty
of suggestion and lively discussion, but there is no discord. Even the
narrowest and most selfish have learned that the happiness and continued
prosperity of the individual lies in, and is indissolubly interwoven
with, the happiness and prosperity of the whole.

As we cross over the neat iron bridge, we stop to admire the scene
before us. On either side of the broad avenue leading to the palace, are
green lawns, decorated with parterres of blossoming flowers, young trees
and flowering shrubs, and winding roads and walks. To the left, beyond
and stretching out of sight, are fruit orchards, fields of grain, and
gardens in perfect order and luxuriant growth. On the left of the
central avenue, and not far from the bridge, stands the pretty theatre,
in colored bricks and very ornate in its style. Children from six to
sixteen are passing in, for this is the last rehearsal, but one, of a
great spectacular entertainment, to be given to-morrow afternoon, and
repeated in the evening. To-morrow is the children’s festival, which
will end the grand inaugural celebration, beginning to-day—promised long
ago to the workmen of the Social Palace. The count had intended to give
this festival outright, as a testimonial to the devotion and enthusiasm
with which the men had conducted their work; but they got together and
discussed it, and ordered it in a better way, as he himself was forced
to admit. At the last meeting of the two councils of directors (twelve
of the ablest men and twelve of the ablest women chosen by ballot by all
the members), they had united their session, and decided to advertise
the festival widely, and to count on paying all the expenses with the
proceeds of the refreshments, the entrance fee to the evening inaugural
ceremonies in the grand central court, and the tickets to the grand ball
that was to follow. The count was to make up the deficit, if there was
any, and none but members of the Social Palace were to receive
everything free on that day. Stevens, who had sent for his family and
taken up his residence in the palace, was an influential member, and his
prediction that even the great court, capable of seating five thousand,
would not hold all who would come, proved correct. The day dawned
magnificently, and extra trains on the several railroads were filled
during the whole two days, and thousands came and went who did not stay
to the evening celebration, but were shown over the palace and grounds,
and lavishly patronized the luxuries furnished by the restaurant and the
wine-cellar.

But we have just crossed the bridge, and are passing the theatre. Going
in with the young actors are their big brothers—young men dressed in a
very elegant and jaunty uniform. These are the corps of Social Palace
firemen, whose ostensible office is a sinecure, but they are the
conductors of all the muscular work at festivals. They are
stage-dressers, ushers, box-keepers; and on this occasion, with Too Soon
dressed in gorgeous Oriental costume, they wait upon the little tables,
scattered everywhere in the vicinity of the palace; in arbors, and
wherever there is a shady spot.

The grand façade of the palace, with its great arched doorway, presents
an imposing appearance. The main color of the large bricks that compose
the walls, is light granite gray, but the facings and arches of the
doors and windows are of a dark slate tint; while in the walls, high up,
are set in, like mosaics, smaller, brilliant-colored bricks, forming
three words that resemble a mediæval illuminated missal. One of these
words, reaching more than half-way across the face of the left wing or
quadrangle, is LIBERTY; on the middle building, the word EQUALITY; and
on the right wing, FRATERNITY.

The café, restaurant, and billiard-room, as well as the great public
kitchen, are in one building, behind the rear quadrangle of the palace,
and connected with it by broad covered corridors on two different
stories. On the left of this rear quadrangle, and connected with it in
the same way, is the fine building containing the nursery and
_pouponnat_ below, and above, the _bambinat_ and schools; still beyond,
or to the left of the school building, and joined to it, are the fine
swimming-baths, fed by the brook, and heated in winter by the exhaust
steam of the silk factory, which, on after consideration, was placed at
the left of the palace, instead of at the right, as first intended.
Still beyond these buildings are stables, carriage-houses, and the steam
laundry; and still further, are the gasometer and the _abattoir_. From
these buildings on to the forest, and extending right and left over a
broad area, are nurseries filled with plants, shrubs, and young trees;
and here also are located the hot-houses and green-houses of the Social
Palace. Finally, beyond, are the rising, wooded hills, now transformed
into a beautiful grove with shady walks and carriage-roads extending to
and around the lake on the summit. This is the grand resort of the
children for picnics, boat-rides, fishing, and for skating in the
winter. The most serious punishment of the children for idleness or any
misconduct is the deprivation of this pleasure, which is allowed the
first sunny afternoon of every week.

Flags and streamers are flying on the palace roof to-day, and music from
bands in the open air adds its charm to a scene too inspiring for
description. To-day the shuttles of the silk-looms are silent. The
brick-making establishment is represented by a single guard, relieved
every two hours; for there must be some one there, as in the silk
factory, to answer the questions of visitors. All the workmen are in
their holiday dresses, and joy and happiness are on every face. Large
numbers of the Social Palace occupants—all who are willing to assume the
responsibility of making the visitors comfortable, or to assist in their
entertainment in any way—wear a little badge bearing the words “Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity.” When they wish to escape being constantly
appealed to for information, they hide their badges for a time; but it
is rarely done, for they are as proud as princes of their magnificent
home and its surroundings.

Inside the palace, in private apartments, young girls are busy laying
out their dresses and finery for the evening ball which is to commence
at ten o’clock. No single Cinderella is to stay at home for want of the
proper accoutrements. The fairy godmother, in the form of Susie and the
count’s munificence, has already been working magic in the way of simple
but beautiful ball-dresses, and flowers have already been provided with
lavish hands. Not only is the inauguration to be celebrated, but another
great event, which as yet is a secret to the greater number; and those
who know, will only give hints of the birth of a child, the first that
has seen the light in the Social Palace.

By three o’clock in the afternoon not only strangers, but all Oakdale,
seems to be on the ground, or enjoying the marvels in the interior of
the palace; and carriages and pedestrians are still swarming up the
great avenues.

Mrs. Kendrick and Louise, with Mrs. Burnham, have been all the afternoon
with Mrs. Forest and her daughters, or with Charlotte and Felix. The
doctor has spent all the time he could spare from his various
responsibilities in the direction of the festival, with his well-beloved
Clara, who is somewhat indisposed, but in an ever-present and still
ever-promising state of happiness such as rarely falls to the lot of
women. Not a cloud has ever darkened the sky of her married bliss. She
is grown even dearer to Paul than ever, and to her he is still the hero
of her dreams. There is little danger that the illusions of love will
not endure in this case; not because, after a year, they are more
ineffably tender to each other; not because there may be new ties to
bind them, but because Nature has attuned them to each other

                 “Like perfect music unto noble words.”

The apartments of the count are in the right wing of the palace,
directly under the word FRATERNITY, emblazoned on the outer wall. The
doctor’s are adjoining, on one side, and those of Felix and Charlotte on
the other. Charlotte’s marriage had proved a very happy one, despite the
croaking of her brother and certain of her old friends. On this
afternoon, as Felix was absent, the doctor brought Charlotte in to dine
with his family and their visitors. There were no signs of dinner as she
entered, but in an incredibly short space of time Dinah, in a
gayly-trimmed head-dress, and a ruffled white apron spanning her ample
proportions, produced a very elegant repast, without the slightest sign
of flurry or over-heating manifested in her shining face.

Mrs. Forest saw that her visitors marveled at this suddenly and easily
prepared table, and she explained:

“We scarcely ever do any cooking. When the table is set, Dinah brings,
or has brought, from the great _cuisine_ whatever we want. It is under
the control of our French citizens—we are all fellow-citizens, you
know,” said Mrs. Forest, by way of parenthesis, and with a comical
smile, “and nobody can cook as they do.”

“And so you are actually free from all the trouble of marketing and
overseeing the cooking,” said Mrs. Kendrick; “but is it not very
expensive?”

“On the contrary,” answered Mrs. Forest, “if we were to furnish all
these materials, buying them at retail, and Dinah were to cook them,
which she could hardly do in a whole day, even if she knew how, it would
cost almost twice as much, calculating, of course, for the waste which
cannot be avoided in a private family. Many a woman here used her
cook-stove at first, but as the palace is all heated by the furnaces in
winter, and the kitchen-stove fire not needed, they soon gave it up.
Now, even the very poorest go or send their children to the _cuisine_
for whatever they want. After dinner I will show you our wine-cellars.
They are well stocked, and the very poorest may drink them. The count
has contracted with certain great vineyards in France to supply us. They
are of several prices; some very good ones at ten cents a bottle, and
fair light kinds for six—half bottles at five and three cents. You know
it is his belief, and also the doctor’s, that children should be
accustomed to drink wine, diluted with water, of course, as the best and
surest means of preventing drunkenness.”

“Do you really believe that, doctor?” asked Mrs. Burnham, who was
naturally greatly interested in the subject, on account of her son’s
intemperance.

“I do believe it,” he replied. “Who are the people whom we call
‘shoddy,’ and who make themselves ridiculous by overdressing? Naturally,
they are those who have been deprived of the luxury of dress in their
youth. Who are the gormandizers? Certainly not those who have been
accustomed to plenty of excellent food from their childhood. Then again,
the miser, who lives deprived of all the luxuries of life, that he may
gratify an abnormal passion for hoarding away money; he is in all cases,
I believe, one who has been deprived of money in his youth, or may be he
has inherited the passion from some unhappy parent. The same law should
apply to drinking, though there is another cause at work here, too
frequently overlooked: the passion for stimulation or exaltation. That,
in my opinion, will vanish when we have a social life that answers our
demands for natural excitement—society, music, games, dancing, dramatic
acting, scientific pursuits, and flirting I will add, Miss Louise, for
your sake, for I know you think I was going to leave out something
important.”

Louise blushed very prettily, and disclaimed all such shocking thoughts.

“Yet,” said Mrs. Burnham, “you certainly have some members who are
addicted to drinking.”

“True, but there are no liquors sold in the café or billiard-rooms, and
account for it as you can, men are not apt to get drunk on wine. To be
sure the men wanted liquors sold in these rooms, and they voted for it
pretty largely.”

“Why, what hindered it being brought in then?” asked Mrs. Burnham.

“Why, don’t you know the women vote here as well as the men?” asked
Linnie, glancing at her mother. “I certainly voted against it, and so
did mamma, and Leila, and just about all the women.”

“Mamma is a female suffrager now,” said Leila, mischievously. “She is
one of the council of twelve elected by universal suffrage.” Mrs. Forest
reproved her daughter’s garrulity, looking herself a little foolish,
remembering her own stricture in times past, upon the claims of the
women’s rights agitators.

“What are the functions of these councils?” asked Mrs. Kendrick.

“The twelve men,” said Mrs. Forest, “manage the industrial and financial
matters, the buying of supplies, and so on. We attend to the working of
the domestic machinery, the nursery and the schools, report on the
quality of the supplies, call general meetings of the women, and discuss
all matters. Nothing is done as a duty, and for nothing but the honor,
except our work as councils of direction. So far, we have not seen fit
to ask for pay, but our duties are not onerous. We sit an hour every
week.”

“Well, I must confess this Social Palace is the most wonderful thing,”
said Mrs. Kendrick. “If the people were all educated—of our own class,
you know—I would try to have Mr. Kendrick sell out and come here to
live.”

“Bless you!” said the doctor. “Wait till you see our rising generation,
who are being educated here; I was going to say you wouldn’t know them
from gentlemen and ladies; but you would, by three signs: superior
refinement, superior education, and superior recognition of the rights
of others. You’d better come as soon as there is a vacancy, but there
are, at least, now on the books, a hundred applicants, and as the first
applying have the first chance, yours are rather small.” Mrs. Kendrick
thought there was a slight malice in the doctor’s tone.

“One word more about intemperance,” said Mrs. Burnham. “Any of your
members can go to Oakdale and get liquor. Now that your son is gone, and
that Clara has moved away, the liquor dealers have broken their
promises. I believe my poor boy will be quite ruined. I have been
thinking of consulting you, doctor, about taking him to Binghamton.”

“The worst thing about that inebriate asylum there,” said the doctor,
“is that there is no industry for the inmates. They actually spend days
carving sticks and bits of wood; but still, as it is the best thing that
offers I should say send him there at once.”

“So should I,” said Mrs. Forest. “I believe our son is quite cured of
his habit. There is a decanter of brandy standing in the sitting-room
all the time, and he has not once touched it. You know he is coming home
on trial. We expect him next week.” And the mother’s face lighted up
with joy at the thought of the restoration of her first-born.

“You were going to ask, Mrs. Burnham,” said Charlotte, “what we do when
our members come home intoxicated. We say nothing, unless they disturb
the quiet of others, or unless their families complain to the council.
When this occurs, or any act of disorder militating against public order
and morality, the council publish a bulletin of censure, and place it on
the bulletin-board, where all the acts of the board, and all general
notices, are placed. At first the name is not mentioned, but
accompanying the censure is an expression of deep regret and the offer
of sympathy to help the culprit reform.”

“We have, so far, had but four cases,” said Mrs. Forest. “Our council
attends to these questions. This bulletin-board is a terror to the
disorderly.”

“And very naturally too,” said Charlotte, “for it contains the decisions
of the council they have chosen by their own votes.”

“We hear all sorts of stories outside,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “One is,
that the _bambins_ study politics, and learn the uses of the ballot; but
of course that is a mere joke.”

“Not wholly,” replied Mrs. Müller, or Charlotte, the name by which we
have known her. “The children all have daily exercises in the open air,
and even the little tots six, seven, and eight years old do quite an
amount of useful work. They go out in bands of ten or twenty each, under
a little industrial chief, girl or boy, chosen by themselves, by ballot.
They have regular ballot-boxes.”

“Then they do learn the use of the ballot-box even at that absurd age.”

“Oh yes. Why not?” answered Charlotte. “The head-gardener, or his
assistant, Edward Page, provides them with little hoes and rakes, or
other small implements, and points out the work to be done. Then the
chief sets them to work after his or her example, and sees that the
gardener’s instructions are carried out to the letter. For this work,
chiefs and laborers receive five cents an hour, which is their own
money, and they can squander it just as they please; but as all the
candies are of a simple and healthy kind, they can’t hurt themselves.
Some of them save their money. The height of their ambition is to amass
a fortune of one dollar. That takes twenty days, for they are not
encouraged to work more than an hour at a time. They show real judgment
in choosing their leaders, and these little leaders are very careful to
please their constituents. So, in this way, almost from the cradle they
begin to learn the principles of popular government. Why, they use the
terms ballot, nominee, majority, candidate, constituent, just as
intelligently as other children do doll and hop-scotch!”

“Well, it is plain to be seen that girls brought up so will never
discuss the right to a voice in government. It will seem as natural a
right,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “as that of breathing.”

“True,” said Mrs. Forest, “and I wish we had all been brought up so. If
we had, it is my opinion that there would not be a house of ill-fame or
a drinking den in the town. But let us go into the nursery.”

The doctor excused himself, and the ladies, all except the twins, went
by themselves. Mrs. Forest led them through the long, well-lighted
corridor, to the angle of the left wing, and seating them and herself in
an elegant elevator, descended to the floor below, and then passing
through the central court and the covered way leading to the school
building, on the lower floor, they were shown into the nursery and
_pouponnat_. Susie, who was one of the council of directors, was there,
giving some directions or suggestions. She was dressed in a
gossamer-like organdie, and wore fragrant flowers in her blonde hair and
on her breast. The ladies noticed that Mrs. Forest and Charlotte gave
their hands to Susie cordially, and therefore they followed the example.

The nursery and _pouponnat_ were in an immense, high-studded,
well-lighted and well-ventilated room. The floors were waxed or oiled,
and here and there were bouquets of flowers in pretty vases, on
wall-brackets. There were also busts and pictures. Everything was
exquisitely fresh and clean. The _pouponnat_ was separated from the
nursery by a little balustrade, and the _poupons_ were marching to the
music of their own songs, keeping time meanwhile with their little hands
to an accompaniment on a piano played by a young girl who was one of
five who conducted the _pouponnat_ exercises two hours every day. There
were about eighty _poupons_, and some fifty babies, who were watching
the _poupons_ with great interest. There were toys of every kind, and
little swings and various furniture for light gymnastic exercises. While
the visitors were looking on, one of the _poupons_, marching somewhat
awkwardly, fell and hurt his head. He uttered a loud sob and ran to the
young girl, who took him in her arms and “kissed the spot,” in a
motherly fashion, and sent him back to his place in the ranks after a
very short term of consolation.

Mrs. Kendrick remarked the child’s restraining himself from crying.

“They very rarely cry when they are hurt,” said Susie. “If any child
‘yells,’ as Min calls it, the others stare at him, and he cannot brave
the public disapprobation of his peers. This is a thing that we have all
wondered at. Children are not very sensitive to the criticism of grown
people. They can only understand the motives and feelings of their
peers. You see there is plenty of sound, of prattle, but no racket. It
is the same thing in the nursery at Guise. There is no punishment there
nor here for crying, and yet they do not cry unless they are suffering.
Their wants, all of them, we try to supply; and if they moan and cry, we
know they must be ill.”

“Yet certainly that is not natural,” said Mrs. Burnham. “Children do cry
when nothing is the matter with them.”

“Their wants cannot be supplied in the isolated home,” said Susie, very
earnestly. “They suffer from lack of amusement, and especially for the
society of those whom they can understand—their peers. It is difficult
for those to understand this who have not seen the working of a
well-organized nursery. When the mothers try to keep their little ones
at home longer than a few hours, they worry and fret until they have to
bring them back. The nurslings stay here all night for the most part;
the _poupons_ sleep at home. All the food for both these departments is
supplied free. It is kept warm all day, and for the babies all night.
There are several wetnurses, and mothers who have not weaned their
babies come at intervals and nurse them, and take them home generally at
night. All is free. The mother can have her little ones here a part or
all the time, or keep them at home all the time. But there is not a
_poupon_ in the place who does not pass some of the hours of the day
here.”

“When do they reach the distinguished honor of becoming _poupons_?”
asked Louise, smiling.

“You may well say honor,” replied Susie. “It is the ambition of the
babies to enter the _pouponnat_. This they do when they can walk well,
and have learned to keep themselves clean. The _poupons_, in their turn,
aspire to become _bambins_, where they have higher exercises, and
commence the Froëbel exercises, slate exercises, and reading. The
nurslings are promoted when about thirty months old, and the _poupons_,
at from four to five years old.”

“Well, I must say I never saw children so happy—did you, Mrs. Burnham?”

“Never. Modern progress will eliminate the mother altogether by-and-by,
I suspect.”

Some of the babies were crowing in their nurses’ arms, some sleeping in
their elegant little cribs, canopied with snowy muslin, many playing and
rolling over each other on the floor, or practising their first steps in
the “walker,” an elliptical platform on castors, surrounded by a double
railing just high enough for the little toddlers to cling to and lean on
as they walked around between these railings. The first lesson in
politeness, Susie said, was to wait in their cribs in the morning until
their turn came to be bathed, and dressed, and fed, and the next to pass
each other in the “walker” without jostling or crowding.

“I see you have no rocking-cradles. How do you get all these children to
sleep?” asked Mrs. Kendrick.

“It is one of the prettiest sights you ever saw,” said Mrs. Forest, “to
see these children all put into their little beds at night without
rocking, and there singing themselves to sleep without any crying.”

“You don’t really mean to say they do that?” asked Mrs. Burnham,
incredulously.

“They certainly do, all of them, after they have been here a short time.
The gas burns low all night, and the little ones who do not sleep all
night are fed, of course.”

“Well, wonders will never cease,” remarked Mrs. Burnham, who then
inquired how this forest of little cribs were kept so perfectly sweet
and fresh. One of the nurses showed these beds. Each one had a sacking
bottom, holding about a bushel of wheaten-bran, over which was laid a
little blanket. Any moisture penetrating this bran formed at once a
solid lump, which was removed, leaving the rest all dry and clean. Fresh
bran was added from time to time. Each bed had a soft little pillow, and
plenty of covering.

Other visitors came and went, while these stayed, determined to see if
everything was really as marvelously satisfactory as people said.

Here the nurses prepared to take their charges, or numbers of them, into
the swimming-baths, where the company followed them, wondering more and
more.




                             CHAPTER XLIII.
                 THE INAUGURATION OF THE SOCIAL PALACE.


 “Have you noticed,” asked Mrs. Kendrick of her friend, “how deliciously
cool it is in here? and yet this is one of the warmest days of this warm
summer.”

“It is always cool here compared with other places,” replied Mrs.
Müller. “Great buildings, you know, keep their own temperature very
evenly all the year round; and then these walls being of great
thickness, and having an air-chamber between the outer and the inner,
neither heat nor cold affects us greatly. Everybody was astonished at
the small amount of coal used last winter in heating the building. The
mercury in the great court hardly ever went down to fifty degrees.”

The little ones were greatly delighted with their baths, which were in a
large one-story brick-building, covered with a handsome glass roof. The
floor of the bath in the children’s room was brought up to within about
three inches of the surface of the water at one end, and sloping down to
two feet below at the other end. At the shallow part the babies rolled
about and splashed and crowed, while they continually tried to dare
deeper and deeper water, imitating the _poupons_ and the _bambins_, some
of whom, Min among the rest, swam like little South Sea Islanders.

Passing from this room into the next, through a thick partition some
seven feet high, the visitors were in the presence of some two or three
hundred bathers, men and women, dressed so exactly alike that it was
often impossible to tell one sex from the other. At the upper end, where
the visitors entered, the water was deep, for swimming; while further
down, beyond the island, the water was shallow enough for the most
timid. Mrs. Forest explained that there were an unusual number of
bathers to-day, because of the hot weather and because of the coming
ball, this being the first part of the toilet of the dancers. Some took
flying leaps and dives from different stages of a platform at the deep
end of the bath, according to their temerity; and some of the boldest
were women. Sometimes young men and maidens—Linnie and young Page were
among these—leaped or dived together, holding each other’s hands,
disappearing under the water, then reappearing and swimming a race to
the little island. This was some ten or twelve feet in diameter, and
covered with plants in luxuriantly-flourishing condition. Great African
lilies opened their creamy spathes to the sun, and extended their
enormous leaves over the edge of the island. In the centre of the island
was a tall fern, and smaller ones at its base. This island was entirely
left to the mercy of the bathers; but as there were always some, and
even many, every day, it was kept in perfect condition.

“Oh,” said Louise to her mother, “how grand this is! I would rather live
here than in any place in the world!”

After a hasty survey of the laundry, cuisine, café, and other adjuncts,
our visitors went back to the palace through the nursery, for Mrs.
Burnham would have “one more peep at those happy babies.” But many of
them were now in their garden, playing on the lawn, watching the
beautiful birds in a large aviary, or talking to the parrots. There was
a balcony, protected by a balustrade, extending across the garden end of
the nursery, and the little ones who could walk were continually passing
through the glass doors on to this, where they could see the birds and
flowers, and the sports of the children.

On returning to the doctor’s apartments, Mrs. Kendrick found a messenger
with a note from her husband, saying that Dr. Delano and his wife had
arrived from Boston, intent on visiting the evening ceremonies at the
Social Palace, and that they would probably expect something to eat.
Mrs. Kendrick asked for her carriage.

“You will return with them?” said Mrs. Forest. “You may as well bring
them and your husband here at once. They can just as well dine here, if
they have not dined.”

“Of course,” said Charlotte. “I will order dinner for them in our rooms
while you are gone. Louise wants to go home and dress, I know, for she
means to dance at the workman’s ball.”

“My child, is that so?” asked Mrs. Kendrick, gravely. “Why, you have no
escort!”

“Oh, Felix will take care of her. He dances, and I do not,” replied Mrs.
Müller.

The three suites of apartments of the doctor, Paul, and Felix, extended
through the wing from front to back, where they opened on the court of
the quadrangle. In this court was the magnificent winter conservatory of
the Social Palace. All these three suites of apartments were very
elegantly furnished, especially those of the count, who could find
nothing too rich or magnificent for the home of his precious Clara. On
this second floor, around the three sides of this court, were the
apartments renting the highest, being more spacious in their character.
Every tenant had the right to finish or decorate his interior as he
chose. He could fresco, or paper, or wainscot it at his pleasure. The
count and Felix had had theirs frescoed by a skillful foreign artist;
but most of the occupants were quite satisfied with the elegant
“hard-finished,” tinted walls of their homes.

In about an hour the visitors returned, bringing Dr. Delano and his wife
and the two “solid” bankers. Louise was in a state of great excitement.
There were to be many Oakdalers at the ball, but none, so far as she
knew, of her own particular set, except the count, and he would probably
only dance once, and then retire to his “idol.” But Louise was seized
with a democratic mania. She was anxious to see how young men who
actually worked all day would deport themselves in white kid gloves, and
she told Ella she expected rare amusement. Ella decided that it would be
exceedingly “nice,” and only regretted that she was in her traveling
dress.

As the party drove over the bridge, Ella was amazed at the sight of the
magnificent structure before her, and asked what it was.

“Why that is it,” replied Louise.

“It?” fairly screamed Ella. “Do you mean to tell me that is your
workingman’s home? You can’t make me believe it.”

“You should have been with us to-day,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “The outside
is nothing to the spacious elegance and comfort inside; and it is so
deliciously cool there!”

“I should think it would be stifling like a big hot-house, under those
glass roofs of the courts,” said Dr. Delano, addressing Mrs. Kendrick.

“Oh no; in the first place, those roofs are very high, and have
openings, and then great volumes of air are constantly coming in from
the underground ventilating galleries; besides, I am told that all
immense buildings, like St. Peter’s at Rome, keep their own temperature
very evenly all the year round.”

“That a workingman’s home!” repeated Ella, as if dreaming. “Why, the
finest mansions in Boston would be lost inside of it!” And she sank back
in the carriage as if exhausted. Such a palace for mere laboring people
seemed to shock her sense of the fitness of things, like the sight of
hippopotami on a grand banqueting-table.

Felix was waiting to receive them at the grand entrance; and giving the
carriage into the hands of one of the uniformed young men, he conducted
his guests up the grand stairway, decorated with huge vases of flowers,
along the corridor into his own apartments. Louise begged Charlotte to
take them at once into the back parlor opening on the great
conservatory. The long folding windows were open, and through these they
passed on to the balcony surrounding the conservatory on three sides;
for it extended quite through the end of the quadrangle toward the
south-east, where it ended by a double wall of glass. Dr. Delano seemed
struck dumb by the magnificent spectacle before them. The air was laden
with rich perfumes, and the colors of the foliage and flower, were
dazzling in their beauty.

“This,” said Charlotte proudly, “is our tropical conservatory. There are
several others in the nursery grounds. The whole is under the head
direction of Madam Susie, but there are many skillful florists under
her.”

The great palm stood in the centre, and reared its huge trunk and
wide-spreading fronds toward the glass dome, which the rays of the
setting sun still emblazoned. The wide passage around this centre was
laid in handsome colored tiles, like all the floors of the balconies, so
that water could not injure them. The visitors looked down from the
balcony on to this walk, where people were continually passing. “See!”
said Dr. Delano, calling the attention of Ella. “Do you see those two
young ladies in white under the palm-tree?”

“No—where? There are so many.”

“Why, there on your right, in ball-dress, with their cavaliers. Those
are the Forest girls—twins, you know. How very pretty they look!”

“I must say this is magnificent!” exclaimed Kendrick, who was studying
the conservatory, being much interested in the subject, from his own
experience. Plants seemed there to forget what latitudes they were born
to. Huge century plants from Mexico crowned vases set on high pedestals,
and spread out their long polished leaves, as if enamored of their
foster climate. Around these pedestals climbed the many-tinted velvet
foliage of the lovely _Cissus discolor_. There were poinsettias from
Australia opening out their giant crimson bracts, the papyrus from
Egypt, clerodendrons, and a wonderful variety of caladiums, whose broad
leaves reflected the most brilliant colors. There were climbing plants
in great number; large orange-trees, filled with flowers and fruit that
had been growing under Susie’s care at her old conservatories;
banana-trees, on which hung heavy clusters of ripening fruit;
pineapples, in the sunniest spots; and every plant, every leaf, in that
vast court seemed to have found its own conditions for perfect growth.

“My dear Charlotte,” said Felix, with the tenderness in his gray eyes
that is seldom wanting in young husbands, “is not the dinner waiting?”

“Yes; but I cannot drag these people from the balcony by main force.
See! they are clear out of sight, on the further balcony.”

At this juncture some officials entered the conservatory, and at a given
signal Felix gathered in his guests, and every window opening on the
balconies was closed, while the promenaders below were warned to leave
immediately, or take a drenching. From behind the French windows
Charlotte’s guests watched the artificial rain-shower which burst up
from the hose, capped with rose-sprinklers, even to the very roof, and
descended gently for some minutes on balconies, windows, walls, and on
all the masses of foliage below. In a few minutes several women, armed
with mops of white cotton waste and a bucket, passed round on the
balconies and removed the water. Mr. and Mrs. Müller then succeeded in
getting their guests to the table, which was spread with a profusion of
delicacies and luxuries, and adorned with flowers. They were delighted
with everything, and the same, or fuller, explanations had to be given
as those at the doctor’s table some hours before. By special request,
Too Soon had been sent from the restaurant to attend Felix’s table. The
only assistance Charlotte had in her simple household duties, as she
explained, was a young girl whom she had taken from an orphan asylum in
Boston, and who was attending the Social Palace school. To-day, of
course, she had a holiday.

The sight of the gorgeous Oriental, and his quaint polite ways, amused
Ella and Louise greatly. Albert went into ecstacies over a _sole au
grattin_. “When I want a sauce like that,” he said, “I have to go to the
Parker House, though I have a cook at sixty dollars a month, and furnish
him three assistants. I may add, that not even at the Parker House have
I ever tasted mushrooms so delicious as these.”

“You ought to live here, Albert,” said his sister; “because you are such
a _gourmet_. Mushrooms are a perfect drug here, and we sell them by the
ton. You see they grow under the flower benches in the dark. This is one
of our great industries. Children pick them and pack them, and they are
also very skilful in the handling of our cut flowers. They earn a great
deal of money, though they all attend the schools. This is the one-thing
obligatory. Every child must be kept at school.”

“What do you think, Müller,” asked Burnham, “about the occupants paying
for this establishment?”

“Why, we shall do it without a doubt, in less than ten years. The
profits from the stores and the _cuisine_ alone more than pay for
running the establishment. On many of the articles of food there is
absolutely no profit. This is to encourage the poor and the unskilled
laborers, who do not earn so much, of course, as the skilled laborers;
but then their wives, being relieved from nursing and cooking, can help
them put money in their rents. There are about two hundred women
employed from two to eight hours a day in the nurseries and schools, in
the stores, café, laundry, and in taking care of the flower business,
and keeping the palace in order. Then there are many more in the silk
factory and in the dairy.”

Burnham asked what the articles of food were that were furnished at
cost. Felix and Charlotte enumerated: crushed wheat, certain fruits,
hominy, milk, beef soup, Graham bread, mashed potatoes, plain roasts,
and some others.

“Why,” said Kendrick, “that is a sufficient diet for any one. The
economical can easily live on that, and make the support of the
institution out of those who indulge in luxuries.”

“That is true,” replied Charlotte, “and we think it quite just. There is
such a spirit of good-fellowship and honest enthusiasm here, that all
goes on admirably. Our wheat and beef, we raise on the farm, and if any
choose to live on simple fare, which is always excellent of its kind,
they can do so on much less than one-half what it used to cost them.”

While they were talking, the great conservatory was suddenly lighted up,
and Louise and Ella precipitately sought the balcony. The walk below was
quite dry, and filled with promenaders, while the crystal water-drops,
that still hung on the great palm fronds, glistened like diamonds in the
brilliant light.

While the gentlemen lingered over their wine, a grand swell of music
echoed through the palace, announcing that the time for the inaugural
ceremonies in the great central court had arrived. Felix and Charlotte
then led their guests down one flight of stairs and into this court, and
seated them on the platform reserved for the musicians and speakers, and
for a few specially-honored guests.

The scene presented from the platform of this vast glass-roofed court
was one of dazzling splendor. It was lighted by scores of gas-jets,
projecting all around from the base of the three tiers of balconies or
galleries, on which the apartments opened, now crowded with spectators.
The centre was also filled with seats, not one of which was empty. Over
the centre of the platform were gracefully draped flags of many
countries, conspicuous among which were the tri-color of France and the
“star-spangled banner.” These flags were draped around an immense shield
of delicate green mosses, in which were set a mosaic of half-opened
rosebuds, tube-roses, white-violets, and scarlet-verbenas, forming the
motto, “_Attractions are proportional to destinies_.” Opposite the
platform, on the further side of the court, filling the space between
the two upper balconies, was another flag-draped shield of the same
kind, bearing the motto, “_The Series distribute the Harmonies_.” Long
chains of rare flowers, looped with gay ribbons, completely festooned
every balcony, the slender iron supports of which were covered with
winding garlands of natural flowers. The whole air was deliciously
perfumed. Great vases of flowering plants decorated each end of the
platform; and scattered among the audience were women in ball-dress,
their shoulders draped with brilliant opera-cloaks. On either side of
the court, half-way between the display of flags, were the words, in a
mosaic of flowers, “_Liberty, Equality, Fraternity_,” the first word
being on the lowest gallery, and _Fraternity_ on the highest. Murmurs of
admiration were heard everywhere among the immense audience. Suddenly
the court rang with shouts of applause, and the band struck up “_See!
the Conquering Hero Comes_.” The count had entered the court. Ascending
the platform, he advanced to the front and waited until the applause had
somewhat subsided. He looked quite pale when he commenced:


“Friends, fellow-workers, and citizens:”—after a pause, which became
even painful, he laid his hand on his breast, saying—“Can you bear with
my weakness when I confess that my heart is too full for utterance? To
say that this is the proudest hour of my life, seems to me but a lame
and impotent phrase. No words that I am able to combine, are adequate to
express the emotion that fills me to-night. But as I am expected to
speak, I will not disappoint you, and will do the best I can; and as
there are many strangers present, I must endeavor specially to make
myself intelligible to them. To you, my fellow-workers, I need only say
that the first Social Palace of America is finished, and I think it does
honor to the hands that have built it.” [Here the count was interrupted
by cheers and protests against his modesty in giving all the credit to
the workmen.]

“You do me personally too much honor. It is not much to advance capital
for the building of an institution like this, following the example of
one of the noblest lovers of humanity, who did _his_ work without
precedent, and against opposition and discouragement of every kind.
[Cheers for Godin.] This palace is built on the model of the first one
ever founded—that at Guise, in France. That has been in successful
operation now for several years, and I wish every capitalist within the
sound of my voice to note well the fact, that it is a perfect financial
success, paying six per cent. annually on the capital invested, which is
as much as any commercially-honest capitalist in France expects to
make.” Here the count gave a detailed description of the organization
and working of the Social Palace system, and then he continued:

“You have gone over the palace and the grounds to-day; you have seen the
flourishing industries, you understand the provisions made for the
children, the sick, the aged and infirm, and you can judge whether this
institution furnishes the proper conditions for moral and intellectual
growth [prolonged cheers]; but you may not yet be able to comprehend
what the children of these industrious men and women will become, when
they have grown up under the influence of the means for education and
artistic culture which this grand institution supplies. They will
despise drudgery by instinct, for it leaves the form bent and awkward,
and the mind cramped and divested of beauty; and just as certainly will
they honor labor as the great natural function of the human race,
distinguishing it from the brutes. The reason why labor has not been
honored heretofore, is because it has always been confounded with
slavery or drudgery. With the abolition of slavery, we are just
beginning to learn that man is not to be adapted to labor, but that
labor, through machinery and scientific organization, is to be adapted
to man.

“The primal object of society should be to make perfect men and
women—perfect citizens. This cannot be accomplished without scientific
training for the mind, and the free and harmonious development of the
muscles through labor, with gymnastic exercises and games for the
development of those muscles not brought into play by the ordinary
industrial occupations. When a man continues many hours a day using only
one set of muscles, as the blacksmith his arm, he must do it at the
expense of grace, and strength, and beauty, which we should be taught to
seek as a duty to ourselves and to our fellow-beings, since we have no
moral right to transmit disease and ugliness to posterity. [Cheers.] No
one should dream of finishing his education until he dies. Besides the
exercise of the muscles by industry, every human being should have time
during the twenty-four hours, for amusing games, for bathing, for
dressing elegantly and becomingly, for social converse, for music or the
drama, for regular study and drill in classes, and finally for sleep.
All this may not be accomplished for the wronged and cheated adult
generation of the present; all this and more will be the proud heritage
of the children growing up under the blessings of a nobly organized
social and industrial life. [Great applause.] Children growing up under
such conditions, will be strong and beautiful, tender and wise. They
will be strong through constant exercise, a varied and plentiful diet,
and the natural stimulation of happiness. They will be beautiful,
because to develop their bodies harmoniously will be the object of
scientific study; and their faces will be beautiful because they will be
moulded, not by anger, and cunning, and selfishness, but by generosity,
candor, and love. They will be tender, because they will be taught to be
proud of exemplifying the devotion of love, the grandest of all our
passions, for it is the only one that exalts us to the dignity of the
creative mood. Finally, they will be wise, for they will have acquired
the sentiment of the brotherhood of man.

                               “‘Wisdom is humanity;
             And they who want it, wise as they may seem,
             And confident in their own sight and strength,
             Reach not the scope they aim at.’”

Such enthusiastic and long-continued applause followed the count’s
address, that he came forward again, and said:

“This time, my friends, I will forgive you for taking more notice of me
than I deserve, since it reminds me of a duty I owe to you. I wish to
say to the thousands here present, and especially to the capitalists who
may hereafter engage in the building of Social Palaces, that their task
will be an easier one than they suppose; because men and women will work
for their establishment with the same single-hearted devotion with which
they have worked for this. I have been often pained to see the
sacrifices that these noble workers have made. I doubt if one-half of
them have taken the allotted hour at noon for their lunch; and I have
seen carpenters, cabinetmakers, and decorators, seize a spade and dig in
the trenches, rather than be a moment idle, when their own special work
was interrupted by any accident; and be it said to the honor of labor,
that the men who have done the most skilled labor on this palace, have
never failed in equal respect toward those who have done the most
mechanical and unskilled portions. A spirit of fraternal good-fellowship
and unity of purpose has, so far as I know, characterized these men
throughout every hour of the work from its commencement. This spirit is
based on the sentiment of equality, the recognition of human rights
everywhere, and is most significant, for it is full of promise for the
future success of our great effort. And here I will mention one thing,
not out of malice, but simply as a lesson. I am accused of advocating
the ‘leveling’ principle. ‘Frauenstein, you are a leveler,’ said a
friend to me to-day. Well, there is some truth in that: I would bring
all the races and individuals on the globe up to the highest level; but
I should be very sorry to do anything toward bringing my artisan friends
down to the physical, intellectual, or moral level of certain
aristocrats whom I know. [Laughter and applause.] It is undeniably the
fact, that to-day the soundest views on education, on politics, on
finance, on social organization, are supported, not by those who hold
themselves above their kind—the drones of the community, who feed on the
mechanic’s labor—but by those who have an honest right to everything
they own, and much more. The more I associate with laborers, even those
who have had little advantage from schools, the more I am struck with
the saving virtue that is in them. I confess I am almost disgusted with
the very word aristocracy, for it has been vilely degraded, until it is
applied only to those who would be ashamed to do an honest day’s work of
any kind. And what is this aristocracy? What are these _parvenues_ of
two hundred years, who would cry down the nobler aristocracy of labor,
which is as old as civilization itself?”




                             CHAPTER XLIV.
                         THE BIRTH OF THE HEIR.


 After the count’s speech, there was a quartette performed by pupils of
the school, and a solo by Leila, Linnie playing the accompaniment. Her
cold, correct soprano voice was heard very distinctly throughout the
great auditorium. She pretended to be very indifferent to the applause
that followed, but secretly was much flattered. Mr. Stevens followed
with a very neat practical speech on the subject of what he called
penny-wise and pound-foolish investments of capital, and several times
“brought down the house” by his quaint way of turning sentences. The
audience were in a joyous humor when he ended, and called loudly for
their great pet at public meetings, Dr. Forest. He said:

“My friends, I thank you for calling me, though I was intending to come
without any invitation [laughter], for I have two announcements to make
to you. During the latter part of the eloquent address of my
son-in-law—That is pure vanity on my part. If he were not so
distinguished a man, I should probably say, During the latter part of
the address of Mr. Frauenstein.—[Great laughter and applause, during
which the doctor tried to continue.] I was going to say, and would say,
if you would only stop your noise and listen [more uproarious laughter],
that three rich and honorable gentlemen in the audience sent me a note
for the Count Frauenstein, asking for an appointment to-morrow morning.
It is a profound secret, and so I will make no scruple in telling you
that they propose a joint-stock company for the building of another
Social Palace, in a neighboring town. [Applause.] I tell of this to
please you, and then to make them feel somewhat committed to the
enterprise, so that they can’t back out so easily. [Laughter.] That, you
see, is killing two birds with one stone, as the physician said who had
two patients in the same street. [Laughter and applause.]

“Now, some of you being strangers may not understand, seeing the
familiarity with which my fellow-citizens treat me, that I am a very
grave and dignified person——”

The roars of laughter that greeted this quite prevented the doctor from
continuing, and Mr. Kendrick, liking well to see the audience amused,
rose and begged permission to corroborate the doctor’s statement by an
anecdote. “Some years ago,” he said, “being seized by a sudden and
severe illness, I sent for my friend Dr. Forest. He came, examined my
pulse and my tongue, asked the ordinary impertinent questions, and
seemed to study the case very seriously. Then he said, ‘Kendrick, I
don’t see what the devil is the matter with you, _but I’ll give you an
emetic on a venture_.’”

As soon as the noise subsided a little, the doctor adjusted his
spectacles and said:

“Allow me to say, my friends, in defence of my professional skill, that
I was not wholly without a certain spiritual insight into my friend’s
case at that time. Knowing that his phrenological bump of Alimentiveness
was seven plus, and considering that lobsters had just appeared——”

The doctor could not go on for the uproarious merriment, which was
increased by the fact that Kendrick was a thin little man, with no
appetite to speak of, and so the sentence was never finished. When he
resumed his address, he went on in a far more serious strain:

“I have been asked many times to-day, if we do not suffer here from want
of privacy. One lady told me she would like to live here but for the
terrible ‘mixing up.’ Now that lady lives in one of the most crowded
streets of one of our great cities. She cannot step into the street
without entering a promiscuous throng. Here, she would meet only honest
people, and her purse would be quite safe. The truth is, there is here
the utmost enjoyment of privacy. There is but one law, and that is
liberty. All the cooking, washing, and ironing, may be done in
individual homes or in the cuisine and laundry, just as the people
prefer. There is, however, a remarkable unanimity in preferring the
latter. The world has generally believed that women are by nature
devoted to the cooking-stove, the wash-tub, and the cradle. We have
found out positively that this is a mistake. [Applause.] It may be
different in a state of nature—among the Otaheitans, for example—but
certainly I never found a civilized woman who did not wish to get away,
even from the cradle, a few hours during the day. Why, one civilized
baby is capable of turning an isolated household into a pandemonium
[laughter]; and how many of the very tenderest mothers are worn out with
the care of a single infant. The child, however small, pines for the
society of other children, and this is really the secret of many a
‘cross baby.’ The baby, by crying, is only expressing the fact that its
wants are not supplied. Explain it as you can: cross babies cease to
bear that reputation when they are accustomed to our nursery; and when
brought home, if kept after a certain time, they fret and worry until
carried back among their baby companions. Now, if the children did not
prefer the nursery, but cried to go home, we should not decide that they
were naturally depraved, but that there was a screw loose in the
organization of the nursery. We do not accept the doctrine of total
depravity. We know that if we give an acorn its proper conditions, it
will become a beautiful tree. If we wish a chicken to grow into a strong
and perfect fowl, we study what its wants are, and then supply them; and
but for the interference of theology, I think mankind would have
discovered, a little before this time, that human nature is no more
naturally bad than an acorn or a chicken. We are depraved only through
the want of conditions for the normal and harmonious growth of all our
parts. But theology itself is finding out that it cannot preserve its
rigidity in the face of the progress of the age. I find there are many
priests who are very excellent men [laughter and applause]; but then,
these have rotated out of theology into common sense. You will find some
to-day who would rather see a Social Palace founded than a mill for
grinding out parsons, or, to speak more respectfully, a theological
seminary. A clergyman told me to-day that he was greatly pleased with
our Social Palace, but he regretted to see that we had provided a
theatre. You can judge what a labor I had with that individual.
[Laughter.] I would rather build stone-wall all day, than have another
two hours’ struggle with that man’s powerful but theological intellect.
[Great laughter.] Of course I had to go back for my premises among the
monsters of antediluvian times, where theologians and scientists differ
radically as to the conditions of our ancestors. [Laughter.] You see
that is such uncertain ground, that one can bully just as much as the
other. In short, I attempted to show that theological mind, that human
nature was decent enough to prefer beauty to ugliness, virtue to vice,
and that what he called depravity, was only false development, through
the want of the right conditions for true and healthful development.

“Do you suppose we are willing, or that we can afford, to have our
children pining in the Social Palace for amusement, and being driven to
seek it in the questionable resorts of the city? It is to avoid this,
that we have billiards and other games, and musical and dramatic
societies. It is to avoid this, that we have a library and reading-room.
Our theatre is a special pride. You all know how irresistibly the young
are attracted to dramatic performances; and out of our respect to human
attractions, we have built the theatre, and furnished it with an
extensive wardrobe of historical costumes and all stage appointments.
Those pupils take the first rank for polite address and grace of
bearing, are rewarded by becoming members of the dramatic company; and
there is no honor more coveted and ardently sought for, than this. Many
strangers in these grounds to-day have remarked the polite and easy
address of some of the boys and girls, who have sacrificed voluntarily
their play to answer the questions of visitors, to bring them delicacies
from the restaurant, or to show them over the grounds. [Applause and
cries of ‘That is true!’] It gives me pleasure to hear you acknowledge
this so readily. These boys and girls are competitors for dramatic
distinction, and if any of them manifest very marked and promising
histrionic talent, they will be furnished with the means to continue
their studies here and abroad. To-morrow, at the one o’clock matinée,
and at the evening performances, you will have an opportunity to judge,
from what the dramatic company has accomplished in six months, whether
or not it promises well for the future.

“The theatre and the opera are two of the greatest moral educators of
the world, and they should in every community be under the control of
the highest and most cultivated of the citizens. When controlled by the
impulse of avarice alone, they are sure to become degraded and fail in
their high mission, which is to stimulate the imagination to a love of
heroism and virtue, and to cultivate and develop artistic taste. Mark
well that the drama and the opera are democratic in their principle;
rank is gained by study and high merit, and woman is recognized as man’s
equal, and receives equal or even higher compensation for her labor.
Equality, you know, is one of our watchwords; and our institution is not
a sham, but a real republic, where the voices of all citizens over
sixteen years of age are heard in the making of our laws and
regulations. This, in the opinion of some people, is too early an age
for the exercise of the ballot; but it must be remembered, that long
before that age, the children are thoroughly acquainted with its use,
and with the general principles of democratic government. Woman’s
political duties are not onerous, and so far as I know, though every
woman votes, not one has yet ‘unsexed’ herself. [Great laughter and
applause.] You know certain weak, unscientific men, are dreadfully
afraid of that calamity. [Laughter.] One reason may be that our voting
is not conducted in dirty halls nor rum-shops.

“The education of the children from infancy up, is all free, and
supported by our shops and industries. Every orphan will be adopted,
educated, and tenderly cared for, as will the sick, the aged, and the
infirm; not as a charity, mark well, but as a natural right. We have
educational classes for adults, and they are well attended, while the
education of the children embraces a wide range of scientific and
industrial training. You have seen to-day in the lowest class of the
school proper, nearly a hundred children engaged in what are called the
Froëbel exercises—seated at their long tables constructing houses,
fences, furniture—innumerable tiny objects, with their blocks, and
sticks, and plastic clay. Some of them already show great skill.
Visitors called their occupation play. So it is, but a most important
play; so organized that skill and artistic taste are gradually
developed, through friendly emulation and the natural love of beautiful
forms.

“The right education of children is the most sacred duty of the world.
Remember, you who have these dear little ones under your care to-day,
how you fill their tender, impressible minds with effete creeds and
unverifiable hypotheses. You may think you are doing them good,
forgetting that we have seen the dawn of the scientific method of
investigation, and that hereafter these children will rise up and
reproach you for wasting their precious time. Teach them to see God, not
as a greater man, subject to anger, repentance, and the various passions
of men, but as the invisible, and to us, incomprehensible, power behind
what we call phenomena. The religious aspiration is the aspiration
toward universal harmony, and is literally, as well as in principle, the
highest part of man. It is most normally excited by the study of
nature—the mysterious laws that we see governing the springing grass,
the unfolding flower, the growth and development of the child, and the
great kosmic forces that control the movements of the planets, and suns,
and systems of the universe.

“We are standing on the threshold of a brighter era for mankind, as I
believe I can see, and I am not alone in this faith. Since the great
success of the labors of M. Godin in France, we may confidently assert
that the laws of social harmony have been put into practice; but it is
to the coming generation that we must look for more significant results,
for higher harmonies than we can effect—cramped and robbed of our
birthright, as we have been, by false and imperfect conditions for the
free development of our physical and mental powers. We look to the
educational system of the Social Palace for the working out of the grand
problem that we have stated; and hence the advent of every child here
will be a signal for rejoicing, for he is born into conditions that
should make him

                    ‘Grow in beauty like the rose,’

and become a blessing to the world.

“And now, my friends, thanking you for your courteous attention to what
I have said to you, and out of respect to the thousand youthful feet
that are impatient to open the ball, I will end my remarks by the
announcement of a joyful event. The birth of the first child in the
Social Palace, occurred this morning at sunrise: a happy omen for our
inaugural festival.”


At this announcement the air was filled with long-continued shouts of
applause and cries of “Whose baby is it?” “Tell us whose child it is,”
“Is it a boy or girl?” “Of course it is a girl,” said a man in the
audience. “No boy would dare to take precedence here.”

Ella looked at Dr. Delano, and whispered, “I’ll bet anything it is the
count’s!”

“Nonsense! There hasn’t been time enough.”

“Yes, there has,” said his wife, with the confidence of those most
interested in being certain concerning such matters.

The people would not be satisfied. They called loudly for the doctor,
who at last came forward and said:

“It is _our_ baby. It is the child of the Social Palace. Every man is
its father, every woman its mother, and every child its brother and
sister. I will add that it is a strong, beautiful child, perfect in all
its parts; but as you will not be satisfied with this, I will say
further that it is the son of my dearly-beloved daughter and the Count
von Frauenstein.”

“There, I told you so!” said Ella. Dr. Delano sat like a stone, and paid
not the slightest heed to his wife; not even when she added maliciously,
“You see some people are not so wise as they think they are!”

The demonstrations of delight at the announcement of the birth, were
nothing to those that followed the knowledge that the idolized
Frauenstein was the happy father. The immense audience rose to their
feet—even strangers, who neither knew nor cared anything about it,
caught the infection—and waved handkerchiefs, and the shouts, “God bless
the child!” “Long live Frauenstein!” “Long live the heir!” rolled
through the corridors of the immense building, even to the ears of
Clara, who lay in her luxuriant curtained bed holding her precious
treasure in her arms, listening to words from Paul that were but the
voice of her own heart.

Min sat in an arm-chair nodding, worn out with the excitements of the
day, among which had been two rehearsals at the theatre, for she was to
play a little part at the coming matinée, and this baby, over which her
delight knew no bounds. She was fast asleep when Susie entered with the
doctor.

“Clara,” she said, bending over her friend, “he was there on the
platform! He heard it all! and I know perfectly well, by the way his
wife spoke to him, that she said, ‘I told you so.’”

Clara’s sweet face lighted up with a momentary triumph, and then she
said softly, “I am very sorry for him.”

“You wish everybody in this world had a baby, don’t you, Clara?” said
the doctor. “You see you bear ‘anger as the flint doth fire,’ as Brutus
says.”

“Well,” answered Clara, taking the doctor’s hand, and looking up into
his face tenderly:

“_Am I not Papa’s Own Girl?_”


                                 FINIS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.