HERMIA SUYDAM
GERTRUDE FRANKLIN ATHERTON
AUTHOR OF “WHAT DREAMS MAY COME”
THE CURRENT LITERATURE PUBLISHING CO
NEW YORK, SAN FRANCISCO, LONDON, AND PARIS
COPYRIGHT, 1889.
THE CURRENT LITERATURE PUBLISHING CO.
[_All rights reserved._]
Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.—A SECOND AVENUE HOUSEHOLD.
CHAPTER II.—JOHN SUYDAM GIVES HIS BLESSING.
CHAPTER III.—BROOKLYN AND BABYLON.
CHAPTER IV.—IN THE GREEN ROOM OF LITERATURE.
CHAPTER V.—THE SWEETS OF SOLITUDE.
CHAPTER VI.—SUYDAM’S LEGACY AND HERMIA’S WILL.
CHAPTER VII.—A HEROINE IN TRAINING.
CHAPTER VIII.—HERMIA DISCOVERS HERSELF.
CHAPTER IX.—HELEN SIMMS.
CHAPTER X.—A MENTAL PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY.
CHAPTER XI.—A TAILOR-MADE FATE.
CHAPTER XII.—THE CLUB OF FREE DISCUSSION.
CHAPTER XIII.—OGDEN CRYDER.
CHAPTER XIV.—IN A METROPOLITAN JUNGLE.
CHAPTER XV.—A CLEVER TRIFLER.
CHAPTER XVI.—A LITERARY DINNER.
CHAPTER XVII.—AN ILLUSION DISPELLED.
CHAPTER XVIII.—A BLOODLESS ENTHUSIAST.
CHAPTER XIX.—TASTELESS FRUIT.
CHAPTER XX.—A COMMONPLACE MEETING.
CHAPTER XXI.—BACK TO THE PAST.
CHAPTER XXII.—QUINTARD IS DISCUSSED.
CHAPTER XXIII.—PLATONIC PROSPECTS.
CHAPTER XXIV.—AN UNEXPECTED CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XXV.—THE POWER OF PERSONALITY.
CHAPTER XXVI.—HERMIA HEARS THE TRUTH.
CHAPTER XXVII.—FIVE POINTS OF VIEW.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—TWO HISTORIES ARE ALMOST FINISHED.
CHAPTER XXIX.—AN EPOCH-MAKING DEPARTURE.
CHAPTER XXX.—THROUGH THE SNOW.
CHAPTER XXXI.—THE DYKMAN REPRIMAND.
CHAPTER XXXII.—FUTURITY.
CHAPTER XXXIII.—CHAOS.
CHAPTER XXXIV.—LIFE FROM DEATH.
CHAPTER XXXV.—IDEALS RESTORED.
CHAPTER XXXVI.—AN AWAKENING.
CHAPTER XXXVII.—THE DOCTRINE OF THE INEVITABLE.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.—BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXIX.—THE REALIZATION OF IDEALS.
_FROM HERBERT SPENCER’S CHAPTER ON “THE WILL.”_
_To say that the performance of the action is the result of his free
will is to say that he determines the cohesion of the psychical states
which arouse the action; and as these psychical states constitute
himself at the moment, this is to say that these psychical states
determine their own cohesion, which is absurd. These cohesions have been
determined by experiences—the greater part of them, constituting what
we call his natural character, by the experiences of antecedent
organisms, and the rest by his own experiences. The changes which at
each moment take place in his consciousness are produced by this
infinitude of previous experiences registered in his nervous structure,
co-operating with the immediate impressions on his senses; the effects
of these combined factors being in every sense qualified by the
psychical state, general or local, of his organism._
HERMIA SUYDAM
CHAPTER I.
A SECOND AVENUE HOUSEHOLD.
When Crosby Suydam died and left exactly enough money to bury himself,
his widow returned to New York, and, taking her two little girls by the
hand, presented herself at the old Suydam mansion on Second Avenue. “You
must either take care of us or see us go to the poor-house,” she said to
her brother-in-law; “I am not strong enough to work, and my relatives
are as poor as myself.” And she sank into one of the library chairs with
that air of indifference and physical weakness which makes a man more
helpless than defiance or curse. Did John Suydam still, in his withered,
yellow frame, carry a shrunken remnant of that pliable organ called the
heart? His brother’s widow did not add this problem to the others of her
vexed existence—she had done with problems forever—but in his little
world the legend was whispered that, many years before, the last
fragment had dried and crumbled to dust. It must be either dust or a
fossil; and, if the latter, it would surely play a merry clack and
rattle with its housing skeleton every time the old man drew a long
breath or hobbled across the room.
John Suydam’s age was another problem. His neighbors said that the
little yellow old man was their parents’ contemporary. That he had ever
had any youth those parents denied. He was many years older than Crosby
Suydam, however, and the world had blamed him sharply for his treatment
of his younger brother. Crosby had been wealthy when he married, and a
great favorite. Some resentment was felt when he chose a New England
girl for his wife; but Mrs. Suydam entertained so charmingly that
society quickly forgave both, and filled their drawing-rooms whenever
bidden. For ten years these two young people were illuminating stars in
the firmament of New York society; then they swept down the horizon like
meteors on a summer’s night. Crosby had withdrawn his fortune from the
securities in which his father had left it, and blown bubbles up and
down Wall street for a year or so. At the end of that time he possessed
neither bubbles nor suds. He drifted to Brooklyn, and for ten years
more, struggled along, at one clerkship or another, his brother never
lending him a dollar, nor offering him the shelter of his roof. He
dropped out of life as he had dropped out of the world, which had long
since forgotten both him and his unhappy young wife.
But, if John Suydam had no heart, he had pride. New York, in his
opinion, should have been called Suydam, and the thought of one of his
name in the poor-house aroused a passion stronger than avarice. He told
his sister-in-law that she could stay, that he would give her food and
shelter and a hundred dollars a year on condition that she would take
care of her own rooms—he could not afford another servant.
It was a strange household. Mrs. Suydam sat up in her room all day with
her two little girls and in her passive, mechanical way, heard their
lessons, or helped them make their clothes. Her brother she met only at
the table. At those awful meals not a word was ever spoken. John, who
had atrocious table manners, crunched his food audibly for a half-hour
at breakfast, an hour and a half at dinner, and an hour at supper. Mrs.
Suydam, whose one desire was to die, accepted the hint he unconsciously
gave, and swallowed her food whole; if longevity and mastication were
correlatives, it was a poor rule that would not work both ways. She died
before the year was out; not of indigestion, however, but of relaxation
from the terrible strain to which her delicate constitution had been
subjected during the ten preceding years.
John Suydam had her put in the family vault, under St. Mark’s, as
economically as possible, then groaned in spirit as he thought of the
two children left on his hands. He soon discovered that they would give
him no trouble. Bessie Suydam was a motherly child, and adversity had
filled many of the little store-rooms in her brain with a fund of
common-sense, which, in happier conditions, might have been carried by.
She was sixteen and Hermia was nine. The day after the funeral she
slipped into her mother’s place, and her little sister never missed the
maternal care. Their life was monotonous. Bessie did not know her
neighbors, although her grandparents and theirs had played together.
When Mrs. Suydam had come to live under her brother-in-law’s roof, the
neighborhood had put its dislike of John Suydam aside and called at
once. It neither saw Mrs. Suydam, nor did its kindness ever receive the
slightest notice; and, with a sigh of relief, it forgot both her and her
children.
A few months after Mrs. Suydam’s death another slight change occurred in
the household. A fourth mendicant relative appeared and asked for help.
He was a distant cousin, and had been a schoolmate of John Suydam in
that boyhood in which no one but himself believed. He had spent his life
in the thankless treadmill of the teacher. Several years before, he had
been pushed out of the mill by younger propounders of more fashionable
methods, and after his savings were spent he had no resource but John
Suydam.
Suydam treated him better than might have been expected. These two
girls, whom a malignant fate had flung upon his protection, must be
educated, and he was unwilling to incur the expenses of a school or
governess. The advent of William Crosby laid the question at rest. John
told him that he would give him a home and a hundred dollars a year if
he would educate his nieces, and the old man was glad to consent.
The professor taught the girls conscientiously, and threw some sunshine
into their lives. He took them for a long walk every day, and showed
them all the libraries, the picture galleries, and the shops. In spite
of the meanness of her garb, Bessie attracted some attention during
these ramblings; she had the pretty American face, and the freshness of
morning was in it. Poor Hermia, who obediently trotted behind, passed
unnoticed. Nature, who had endowed the rest of her family so kindly—her
father and mother had been two of the old dame’s proudest works—had
passed her by in a fit of abstraction. Under her high, melancholy
forehead and black, heavy brows, stared solemnly a pair of unmistakably
green eyes—even that hypocrite Politeness would never name them gray.
Her dull, uninteresting hair was brushed severely back and braided in a
tight pig-tail; and her sallow cheeks were in painful contrast to the
pink and white of her sister’s delicate skin. Her eyelashes were thick
and black, and she had the small, admirably shaped hands and feet of the
Suydams, but the general effect was unattractive. She was a cold,
reserved child, and few people liked her.
The professor took the girls to the theater one night, and it was a
memorable night in their lives. Each was in a fever of excitement, and
each manifested it characteristically. Bessie’s cheeks were flushed to
her eyelashes, and she jerked the buttons off both gloves. Her gray eyes
shone and her pink lips were parted. People stared at her as she passed
and wondered who she was. But for once in her life she was blind to
admiration; she was going to see a play! Hermia was paler than ever and
almost rigid. Her lips were firmly compressed, but her hands, in her
little woolen gloves, were burning, and her eyes shone like a cat’s in
the dark. They sat in the gallery, but they were in the front row, and
as content as any jeweled dame in box or parquette.
The play was Monte Cristo, and what more was needed to perfect the
delight of two girls confronted with stage illusion for the first time?
Bessie laughed and wept, and rent her gloves to shreds with the
vehemence of her applause. Hermia sat on the extreme edge of the seat,
and neither laughed, wept, nor applauded. Her eyes, which never left the
stage, grew bigger and bigger, her face paler, and her nostrils more
tense.
After the play was over she did not utter a word until she got home; but
the moment she reached the bedroom which the sisters shared in common
she flung herself on the floor and shrieked for an hour. Bessie, who was
much alarmed, dashed water over her, shook her, and finally picked her
up and rocked her to sleep. The next morning Hermia was as calm as
usual, but she developed, soon after, a habit of dreaming over her books
which much perplexed her sister. Bessie dreamed a little too, but she
always heard when she was spoken to, and Hermia did not.
One night, about three months after the visit to the theater, the girls
were in their room preparing for bed. Hermia was sitting on the
hearth-rug taking off her shoes, and Bessie was brushing her long hair
before the glass and admiring the reflection of her pretty face.
“Bessie,” said Hermia, leaning back and clasping her hands about her
knee, “what is your ambition in life?”
Bessie turned and stared down at the child, then blushed rosily. “I
should like to have a nice, handsome husband and five beautiful
children, all dressed in white with blue sashes. And I should like to
have a pretty house on Fifth Avenue, and a carriage, and lots of novels.
And I should like to go to Europe and see all the picture-galleries and
churches.” She had been addressing herself in the glass, but she
suddenly turned and looked down at Hermia.
“What is your ambition?” she asked.
“To be the most beautiful woman in the world!” exclaimed the child
passionately.
Bessie sat down on a hassock. She felt but did not comprehend that
agonized longing for the gift which nature had denied, and which woman
holds most dear. She had always been pretty and was somewhat vain, but
she had known little of the power of beauty, and power and uncomeliness
alone teach a woman beauty’s value. But she was sympathetic, and she
felt a vague pity for her sister. She thought it better, however, to
improve the occasion.
“Beauty is nothing in itself,” she said, gently; “you must be good and
clever, and then people will think——”
“Bessie,” interrupted Hermia, as if she had not heard, “do you think I
will _ever_ be pretty?”
Bessie hesitated. She was very conscientious, but she was also very
tender-hearted. For a moment there was a private battle, then conscience
triumphed. “No,” she said, regretfully, “I am afraid you never will be,
dear.”
She was looking unusually lovely herself as she spoke. Her shoulders
were bare and her chemise had dropped low on her white bosom. Her eyes
looked black in the lamp’s narrow light, and her soft, heavy hair
tumbled about her flushed face and slender, shapely figure. Hermia gazed
at her for a moment, and then with a suppressed cry sprang forward and
tore her sharp nails across her sister’s cheek.
Bessie gave a shriek of pain and anger, and, catching the panting,
struggling child, slapped her until her arm ached. “There!” she
exclaimed, finally, shaking her sister until the child’s teeth clacked
together, “you little tiger cat! You sha’n’t have any supper for a
week.” Then she dropped Hermia suddenly and burst into tears. “Oh, it is
dreadfully wicked to lose one’s temper like that; but my poor face!” She
rubbed the tears from her eyes and, standing up, carefully examined her
wounds in the glass. She heaved a sigh of relief; they were not very
deep. She went to the washstand and bathed her face, then returned to
her sister. Hermia stood on the hearth-rug. She had not moved since
Bessie dropped her hands from her shoulders.
Bessie folded her arms magisterially and looked down upon the culprit,
her delicate brows drawn together, her eyes as severe as those of an
angel whose train has been stepped on. “Are you not sorry?” she demanded
sternly.
Hermia gazed at her steadily for a moment. “Yes,” she said, finally, “I
am sorry, and I’ll never get outside-mad again as long as I live. I’ve
made a fool of myself.” Then she marched to the other side of the room
and went to bed.
* * * * *