APRSÉ PERDRE, PERD ON BIEN.
What to those who understand
Are to-day's enjoyments narrow,
Which to-morrow go again,
Which are shared with evil men,
And of which no man in his dying
Taketh aught for softer lying?
It was now early spring: the days were lengthening and were growing
soft. Lent (late that year) was nearly over. I had begun to think much
about the summer, and to wonder if I were to pass it in the city. There
was one thing that the winter had developed in me, and that was, a sort
of affection for my uncle. I had learned that I owed him a duty, and had
tried to find ways of fulfilling it; had taken a little interest in the
house, and had tried to make him more comfortable. Also I had prayed
very constantly for him, and perhaps there is no way more certain of
establishing an affection, or at least a charity for another, than that.
In return, he had been a little more human to me than formerly, had
shown some interest in my health, and continued appreciation of the fact
that I was in the house. Once he had talked to me, for perhaps half an
hour, about my mother, for which I was unspeakably grateful. Several
times he had given me a good deal of money, which I had cared much less
about. Latterly he had permitted me to go to church alone, which had
seemed to me must be owing to Richard's intervention.
Richard had been almost as much as formerly at the house: my uncle was
becoming more and more dependent on him. For myself, I did not see as
much of him as the year before. We were always together at the table, of
course. But the evenings that Richard was with my uncle, I thought it
unnecessary for me to stay down-stairs. Besides, now, they almost always
had writing or business affairs to occupy them.
It was natural that I should go away, and no one seemed to notice it.
Richard still brought me books, still arranged things for me with my
uncle (as in the matter of going to church alone), but we had no more
talks together by ourselves, and he never asked me to go anywhere with
him. At Christmas he sent me beautiful flowers, and a picture for my
room. Sophie I rarely saw, and only longed never to see Benny was
permitted to come and spend a day with me, at great intervals, and I
enjoyed him more than his mother or his uncle.
One day my uncle went down to his office in his usual health; at three
o'clock he was brought home senseless, and only lived till midnight,
dying without recovering speech or consciousness. It was a sudden
seizure, but what everybody had expected; everybody was shocked for the
moment, and then wondered that they were. It was very appalling to me; I
was so unhappy, I almost believed I loved him, and I certainly mourned
for him with simplicity and affection.
The preparations for the funeral were so frightful, and all the thoughts
it brought so unnerving, that I was almost ill. A great deal came upon
me, in trying to manage the wailing servants, and in helping Richard in
arrangements.
It was the day after the funeral; I was tired, out, and had lain down on
the sofa in the dining-room, partly because I hated to be alone
up-stairs, and partly because it was not far from lunch-time, and I felt
too weary to take any needless steps. I don't think ever in my life
before I had lain down on that sofa, or had spent two hours except, at
the table, in that room. It was a most cheerless room, and no one ever
thought of sitting down in it, except at mealtime. I closed the shutters
and darkened it to suit my eyes, which ached, and I think must have
fallen asleep.
The parlor was the room which adjoined the dining-room (only two large
rooms on one floor, as they used to build), and separated from it by
heavy mahogany columns and sliding-doors. These doors were half-way
open, and I was roused by voices in the parlor. As soon as I recovered
myself from the sudden waking, I recognized Sophie's and then Richard's.
I wondered what Richard was doing up-town at that hour, and so Sophie
did too, for she asked him very plainly.
"I thought I ought to come to see Pauline," she said, "but I did not
suppose I should find you here in the middle of the day."
"There is something that I've got to see Pauline about at once," he
said, "and so I was obliged to come up-town."
"Nothing has happened?" she said interrogatively.
"No," he answered, evasively.
But she went on: "I suppose it's something in relation to the will; I
hope she's well provided for, poor thing."
"Sophie," said her brother, with a change of tone, "You'll have to hear
it some time, and perhaps you may as well hear it now. It is that that I
have come up-town about; there has been some strange mistake made; there
is no will."
"No will!" echoed Sophie, "Why, you told me once--"
"That he had left her everything. So he told me twice last year; so I
have always believed to be the case. Since the day he died, the most
faithful search has been made; there is not a corner of his office, of
his library, of his room, that I have not hunted through. He was so
methodical in business matters, so exact in the care of his papers, that
I had little hope, after I had gone through his desk. I cannot
understand it. It is altogether dark to me."
"What can have made him change his mind about it, Richard? Can he have
heard anything about last summer?"
"Not from me, Sophie. But I have sometimes thought he knew, from
allusions that he has made to her mother's marriage, more than once
this winter."
"He was very angry about that, at the time, I suppose?"
"Yes, I imagine so. The man she married was poor, and a foreigner: two
things he hated. I never heard there was anything against him but
his poverty."
"How can he have heard about Mr. Langenau?" said Sophie, musingly.
"I think Pauline must have told him," said Richard.
"Pauline? never. She is much too clever; she never told him. You may be
quite sure of _that_."
"Pauline clever! Poor Pauline!" said Richard, with a short, sarcastic
laugh, which had the effect of making Sophie angry.
"I am willing," she said, "that she should be as stupid and as good as
you can wish--. To whom does the money go?" she added, as if she had not
patience for the other subject.
"To a brother, with whom he had a quarrel, and whom he had not seen for
over sixteen years."
"Incredible!"
"But there had been some sort of a reconciliation, at least an exchange
of letters, within these three months past."
"Ah!"
"And it is in consequence of hearing from him, and being pressed by his
lawyer for an immediate settlement of the estate, that I have come up to
tell Pauline, and to prepare her for her changed prospects."
"And what do you propose to advise?" asked Sophie, with a chilling
voice.
"Heaven knows, Sophie," answered her brother, with a heavy sigh. "I see
nothing ahead for the poor girl, but loneliness and trial. She is
utterly unfit to struggle with the world. And she has not even a shelter
for her head."
"Richard," interrupted his sister, with intensity of feeling in her
voice, "I see what you are trying to persuade yourself: do not tell me,
after what has passed, you still feel that you are bound to her--"
"_Bound!_" exclaimed Richard, with a vehemence most strange in him, as,
pacing the room, he stood still before his sister. His back was toward
me. She was so absorbed she did not see me as I darted past the
folding-doors into the hall. As I flew panting up to my own room, I
remember one feeling above all others, the first feeling of affection
toward the house that I had ever had. It was mine no longer, my home
never again; I had no right to stay in it a moment: my own room was not
mine any more--the room where I had learned to pray, and to try to lead
a good life--the room where I had lain when I was so near to death--the
room where Sister Madeline had led me to such peaceful, quiet thoughts.
I had but one wish now, not to see Richard, to escape Sophie, to get
away forever from this house to which I had no right. I pulled down my
hat and my street things, and dressed so quickly, that I had slipped
down the stairs, and out into the street, before they had ceased talking
in the parlor. I heard their voices, very low, as I passed through the
hall. I fully meant never to come back to the house again--not to be
turned out.
My heart swelled as the door closed behind me. It was dreadful not to
have a home. I was so unused to being in the street alone, that I felt
frightened when I reached the cars and stopped them.
I was going to Sister Madeline. She would take me, and keep me, and
teach me where to live, and how. I was a little confused, and got out at
the wrong street, and had to walk several blocks before I reached
the house.
The servant at the door met me with an answer that made me wonder
whether there were anything else to happen to me on that day.
Sister Madeline had been called away--had gone on a long
journey--something about the illness of her brother; and I must not come
inside the door, for a contagious disease was raging, and the orders
were strict that no one be admitted. I had walked so fast, and in such
excitement of feeling, that I was weak and faint when I turned to go
down the steps. Where should I go? I walked on slowly now, and
undecided, for I had no aim.
The clergyman to whom I had gone for direction in matters spiritual, was
ill--for two weeks had given up even Lenten duties. Anything--but I
could not go home, or rather where home had been. I walked and walked
till I was almost fainting, and found myself in the Park. There the
lovely indications of spring, and the quiet, and the fresh air, soothed
me, and I sat down under some trees near the water, and rested myself.
But the same giddy whirl of thoughts came back, the same incompetency to
deal with such strange facts, and the same confusion. I do not know how
long I wandered about; but I was faint and weary and hungry, and
frightened too, for people were beginning to look at me.
It began to force itself upon me that I must go back to Varick-street
after all, and take a fresh start. Then I began to think how I should
get back, on which side must I go to find the cars--where was I,
literally. Then I sat down to wait, till I should see some policeman, or
some kind-looking person, near me, to whom I could apply for this very
necessary information. In the meantime I took out my purse to see if I
had the proper change. Verily, not that, nor any change at all! My heart
actually stood still. Yes, it was very true: I had given away, right
and left, during this Lent: caring nothing for money, and being very
sure of more when this was gone. I was literally penniless. I had not
even the money to ride home in the cars.
Till a person has felt this sensation, he has not had one of the most
remarkable experiences of life. To know where you can get money, to feel
that there is some _dernier ressort_ however hateful to you, is one
thing; but to _know_ that you have not a cent--not a prospect of getting
one--not a hope of earning one--no means of living--this is suffocation.
This is the stopping of that breath that keeps the world alive.
The bench on which I happened to be sitting was one of those pretty,
little, covered seats, which jut out into the lake. I looked down into
the water as I sat with my empty purse in my lap, and remembered vaguely
the many narratives I had seen in the newspapers about unaccounted-for
and unknown suicides. I could see how it might be inevitable--a sort of
pressure, a fatality that might not be resisted. Even cowardice might be
overcome when that pressure was put on.
It is a very amazing thing to feel that you have no money, nor any means
of getting even eightpence: it chokes you: you feel as if the wheel had
made its last revolution, and there was no power to make it turn again.
It is not any question of pride, or of independence, when it comes
suddenly; it is a feeling of the inevitable; you do not turn to others.
You feel your individual failure, and you stand alone.
For myself, this was my reflection: I had not even a shelter for my
head; Richard had said so. I had not a cent of money, and I had no means
of earning any. The uncle who was coming to take possession of the house
and furniture, was one whom I had been taught to distrust and dread. He
would, perhaps, not even let me go into my room again, and would turn me
out to-morrow, if he came: my clothes--were _they_ even mine, or would
they be given to me, if they were? This uncle had reproached Uncle
Leonard once for what he had done for me. I had even an idea that it was
about my mother's marriage that the quarrel had occurred. And hard as I
had regarded Uncle Leonard, he had been the soft-hearted one of the
brothers, who had sheltered the little girl (after he had thrown off the
mother, and broken her poor heart).
The house in Varick-street would be broken up. What would become of the
cook, and Ann Coddle? It would be easier for them to live than for me.
They could get work to do, for they knew how to work, and people would
employ them. I--I could do nothing, I had been taught to do nothing. I
had never been directed how to hem a handkerchief. I had tried to dust
my room one day, and the effort had tired me dreadfully, and did not
look very well, as a result. I could not teach. I had been educated in a
slipshod way, no one directing anything about it--just what it occurred
to the person who had charge of me to put before me.
I had intended to throw myself upon Sister Madeline. But what then? What
could she have done for me? I had asked her months before if I could not
be a sister, and had been discouraged both by her and by my director. I
believe they thought I was too young and too pretty, and, in fact, had
no vocation. No doubt they thought I might soon look upon things
differently, when my trouble was a little older.
And Richard--I did not give Richard many thoughts that day, for my heart
was sore, when I remembered all his words. He had always thought that I
was to be rich; perhaps that had made him so long patient with me. He
had said I was not clever; he had seemed to be very sorry for me. He
might well be. Sophie had asked him if he were still bound to me. I had
not heard all his answer, but he had spoken in a tone of scorn. I did
not want to think about him.
There was no whither to turn myself for help. And the clergyman, who had
been more than kind to me, who had seemed to help me with words and
counsel out of heaven,--he was cut off from my succor, and I stood
alone--I, who was so dependent, so naturally timid, and so
easily mistaken.
It was a dreary hour of my life, that hour that I sat looking over at
the water of the pretty placid lake. I don't like to recall it. Some one
passed by me, gave an exclamation of surprise, and came back hastily. It
was Richard. He seemed so glad, and so relieved to see me--and to me it
was like Heaven opening; notwithstanding my vindictive thoughts about
him, I could have sprung into his arms; I felt protected, safe, the
moment he was by me. I tried to speak, and then began to cry.
"I've been looking for you these last two hours," he said, sitting down
beside me. "I came up-town to see you, and found you had gone out. I
thought you would not be likely to go anywhere but to see Sister
Madeline, and there the servant told me you had come this way. I could
not find you here, and went back to Varick-street, then was frightened
at hearing you had not come back, and returned again to look for you.
What made you stay so long? Something has happened. Tell me what you are
crying for."
I had no talent for acting, and not much discretion when I was excited;
and he found out very soon that I knew what had befallen me. (I think he
believed that Sophie had told me of it.)
"Were you very much surprised?" he said. "Had you supposed that you
would be his heiress?"
"Why, no. I had not thought anything about it. I am afraid I have not
thought much about anything this winter. I must have been very
ungrateful, as well as childish, for I never have felt as if it were
fortunate that I had a home, and as much money as I wanted. I did not
care anything about being rich, you know--ever."
"No, I know you did not. I was sure you would have been satisfied with a
very moderate provision."
"Oh, Richard," I cried, clasping my hands together, "if he had left me a
little--just a little--just a few hundred dollars, when he had so much,
to have kept me from having to work, when I don't know how to work, and
am such a child."
"Work!" he exclaimed, looking down at me as if I were something so
exquisite and so precious, that the very thought was profanation.
"Work! no, Pauline, you shall not have to work."
"But what can I do?" I said, "I have nothing--and you know it; not a
shelter; not the money to pay for my breakfast to-morrow morning. Not a
person to whom I have a right to go for help; not a human being who is
bound to care for me. Oh, I don't care what becomes of me; I wish that
it were time for me to die."
Richard got up, and paced up and down the little platform with an
absorbed look.
"It was so strange," I went on, "when he seemed this winter to take a
little notice of me, and to want to have me near him. I really almost
thought he cared for me. And when I was so ill last Fall, don't you
remember how often he used to come up to my room?"
"I remember--yes. It is all very strange."
"And some days early in the winter, when I could scarcely speak at
table, I was so unhappy, he would look at me so long, and seem to think.
And then would be very kind and gentle afterward, and do something to
show he liked me--give me money, you know, as he always did."
"Tell me, Pauline: did he ever ask you anything about last summer, or
did you ever tell him?"
"No, Richard, I could never have spoken to him about it; and he never
asked me. But I know he saw that I was not happy."
"Pauline," said Richard, after a pause, and as if forcing himself to
speak, "there is no use in disguising from you what your position is:
you know it yourself, enough of it, at least, to make you understand why
I speak now. I don't know of any way out of it, but one; and I feel as
if it were ungenerous to press that on you now, and, Heaven knows, I
would not do it if I could think of anything else to offer to you. You
know, Pauline, that if you will marry me, you will have everything that
you need, as much as if your uncle had left you everything."
He did not look at me, but paced up and down the platform, and spoke
with a thick, husky voice.
"You know it's been the object of my life, ever since I knew you, but I
don't want that to influence you. I know it is too soon, a great deal
too soon. And I would not have done it, if I could have seen anything
else to do, or if you could have done without me."
I must have been deadly pale, for when at last he looked at me, he
started.
"I don't know how it is," he said, with a groan, "I always have to give
you pain, when, Heaven knows, I'd give my life to spare you every
suffering. I can't see any other way to take care of you than the way I
tell you of, and yet, I have no doubt you think me cruel, and selfish,
to ask you to do it now. It does seem so, and yet it is not. If you knew
how much it has cost me to speak, you would believe it."
"I do believe it," I said, trying to command my voice. "I think you have
always been too good and kind to me. But I can't tell you how this makes
me feel. Oh, Richard, isn't there any, any other way?"
"Perhaps there may be," he said, with a bitter and disappointed look,
"but I do not know of it."
"Oh, Richard, do not be angry with me. Think how hard it is for me
always to be disappointing you. I have a great deal of trouble!"
"Yes, Pauline, I know you have," he said, sitting down by me, and taking
my hand in a repentant way. "You see I'm selfish, and only looked at my
own disappointment just that minute. I thought I had not any hope that
you might not mind the idea of marrying me; but you see, after all, I
had. I believe I must have fancied that you were getting over your
trouble: you have seemed so much brighter lately. But now I know the
truth; and now I know that what I do is simply sacrifice and duty. A man
must be a fool who looks for pleasure in marrying a woman who has no
love for him. And I say now, in the face of it all, marry me, Pauline,
if you can bring yourself to do it. I am the only approach to a friend
that you have in the world. As your husband, I can care for you and
protect you. You are young, your character is unformed, you are ignorant
of the world. You have no home, no protection, literally none, and I am
afraid to trust you. You need not be angry if I say so. I think I've
earned the right to find some faults in you. I don't expect you to love
me. I don't expect to be particularly happy; but there are a good many
ways of serving God and doing one's duty; and if we try to serve him and
to live for duty, it will all come out right at last. You will be a
happier woman, Pauline, if you do it, than if you rebel against it, and
try to find some other way, and put yourself in a subordinate place, or
a place of dependence, and waste your life, and expose yourself to
temptation. No, no, Pauline, I cannot see you do it. Heaven knows, I
wish you had somebody else to direct you. But it has all come upon me,
and I must do the best I can. I think any one else would advise the
same, who had the same means of judging."
"I will do just what you think best," I said, almost in a whisper,
getting up.
"That is right," he answered, in a husky voice, rising too, and putting
my cloak about my shoulders, which had fallen off. "You will see it
will be best."