AUNT MARIA'S DICTUM.
Our lovely moon of moons had now waned, and the time drew on when, like
Adam and Eve, we were hand in hand to turn our backs on Paradise and set
our faces toward the battle of life.
"The world was all before us where to choose." In just this crisis we
got the following from Aunt Maria:
_My Dear Eva_:--Notwithstanding all that has passed, I cannot help
writing to show that interest in your affairs, which it may be presumed,
as your aunt and godmother, I have some right to feel, and though I know
that my advice always has been disregarded, still I think it my duty to
speak, and shall speak.
Of course, as I have not been consulted or taken into your confidence at
all, this may seem like interference, but I overheard Mr. Fellows
talking with Alice about looking for houses for you, and I must tell you
that I am astonished that you should think of such a thing. Housekeeping
is very expensive, if you keep house with the least attention to
appearance; and genteel board can be obtained at a far less figure. Then
as to your investing the little that your grandmother left you in a
house, it is something that shows such childish ignorance as really is
pitiable. I don't suppose either you or your husband ever priced an
article of furniture at David and Saul's in your lives, and have not the
smallest idea of the cost of all those things which a house makes at
once indispensable. You fancy a house arranged as you have always seen
your father's, and do not know that the kind of marriage you have
chosen places all these luxuries wholly out of your reach. Then as to
the house itself, the whole of your little property would go but a small
way toward giving you a dwelling any way respectable for you to live in.
It is true there are cheap little houses in New York, but where, and on
what streets? You would not want to live among mechanics and dentists,
small clerks, and people of that description. Everything when one is
first married depends on taking a right stand in the beginning. Of
course, since the ruin that has come on your father, and with which you
will see I never reproach you, though you might have prevented it, it is
necessary for all of us to be doubly careful. Everybody is very kind and
considerate, and people have called and continue to invite us, and we
may maintain our footing as before, if we give our whole mind to it, as
evidently it is our duty to do, paying proper attention to appearances.
I have partially engaged a place for you, subject of course to your and
your husband's approval, at Mivart's, which is a place that can be
spoken of--a place where the best sort of people are. Mrs. Mivart is a
_protégée_ of mine, and is willing to take you at a considerable
reduction, if you take a small back room. Thus you will have no cares,
and no obligations of hospitality, and be able to turn your resources
all to keeping up the proper air and appearances, which with the present
shocking prices for everything, silks, gloves, shoes, etc., and the
requirements of the times, are something quite frightful to contemplate.
The course of conduct I have indicated seems specially necessary in view
of Alice's future. The blight that comes on all her prospects in this
dreadful calamity of your father's is something that lies with weight on
my mind. A year ago Alice might have commanded the very best of offers,
and we had every reason to hope such an establishment for her as her
beauty and accomplishments ought to bring. It is a mercy to think that
she will still be invited and have her chances, though she will have to
struggle with her limited means to keep up a proper style; but with
energy and attention it can be done. I have known girls capable of
making, in secret, dresses and bonnets that were ascribed to the first
artists. The puffed tulle in which Sallie Morton came to your last
German was wholly of her own make--although of course this was told me
in confidence by her mother and ought to go no farther. But if you take
a mean little house among ordinary low classes, and live in a poor,
cheap, and scrubby way, of course you cut yourself off from society, and
you see it degrades the whole family. I am sure, as I told your mother,
nothing but your inexperience would lead you to think of it, and your
husband being a literary man naturally would not understand
considerations of this nature. I have seen a good deal of life, and I
give it as the result of my observation that there are two things that
very materially influence standing in society; the part of the city we
live in, and the church we go to. Of course, I presume you will not
think of leaving your church, which has in it the most select circles of
New York. A wife's religious consolations are things no husband should
interfere with, and I trust you will not fling away your money on a mean
little house in a fit of childish ignorance. You will want the income of
that money for your dress, and carriages for calls and other items
essential to keep up life.
I suppose you have heard that the Elmores are making extensive
preparations for Sophie's wedding in the Fall. When I see the vanity and
instability of earthly riches, I cannot but be glad that there is a
better world; the consolations of religion at times are all one has to
turn to. Be careful of your health, my dear child, and don't wet your
feet. From your letters I should infer that you were needlessly going
into very damp unpleasant places. Write me immediately what I am to tell
them at Mivart's.
Your affectionate aunt,
MARIA WOUVERMANS.
It was as good as a play to see my wife's face as she read this letter,
with flushed cheeks and an impatient tapping of her little foot that
foreboded an outburst.
"Just like her for all the world," she said, tossing the letter to me,
which I read with vast amusement.
"We'll have a house _of our own_ as quick as we can get one," she said.
"I think I see myself gossipping in a boarding house, hanging on to the
outskirts of fashion in the way she plans, making puffed tulle dresses
in secret places and wearing out life to look as if I were as rich as I
am not, and trying to keep step with people of five times our income. If
you catch Eva Van Arsdel at that game, then tell me!"
"Eva Van Arsdel is a being of the past, fortunately for me, darling."
"Well, Eva Van Arsdel Henderson, then," said she. "That compound
personage is stronger and more defiant of worldly nonsense than the old
Eva dared to be."
"And I think your aunt has no idea of what there is developing in
Alice."
"To be sure she hasn't; not the remotest. Alice is proud and sensible,
proud in the proper way I mean. She was full willing to take the goods
the gods provided while she had them, but she never will stoop to all
the worries, and cares, and little mean artifices of genteel poverty.
She never will dress and go out on hunting expeditions to catch a rich
husband. I always said Alice's mind lay in two strata, the upper one
worldly and ambitious, the second generous and high minded. Our fall
from wealth has been like a land slide, the upper stratum has slid off
and left the lower. Alice will now show that she is both a strong and
noble woman. Our engagement and marriage has wholly converted her, and
she has stood by me like a little Trojan all along."
"Well," said I, "about this letter?"
"Oh! you answer it for me. It's time Aunt Maria learned that there is a
man to the fore; besides _you_ are not vexed, you are only amused, and
you can write a diplomatic letter."
"And tell her sweetly and politely, with all ruffles and trimmings, that
it is none of her business?" said I.
"Yes, just that, but of course with all possible homage of your high
consideration. Then tell we can find a house. I suppose we can find nice
country board for the hot months near New York, where you can come out
every night on the railroad and stay Sundays."
"Exactly. I have the place all thought of and terms arranged long ago. A
charming Quaker family where you will find the best of fruit, and the
nicest of board, and the quietest and gentlest of hosts, all for a sum
quite within our means."
"And then," said she, "by Fall I trust we shall find a house to suit
us."
"Certainly," said I. "I have faith that such a house is all waiting for
us somewhere in the unknown future. We are traveling toward it, and
shall know it when we see it."
"Just think," said my wife, "of Aunt Maria as suggesting that we should
board so that we could shirk all obligations of hospitality! What's life
good for if you can't have your friends with you, and make people happy
under your roof?"
"And who would think of counting the money spent in hospitality?" said
I.
"Yet I have heard of people who purposely plan to have no spare room in
their house," answered Eva. "I remember, now, Aunt Maria's speaking of
Mrs. Jacobs with approbation for just this piece of economy."
"By which she secures money for party dresses and a brilliant annual
entertainment I suppose," said I.
"Well," said Eva, "I have always imagined my home with friends in it. A
warm peculiar corner for each one of yours and mine. It is the very
charm of the prospect when I figure this, that, and the other one
enjoying with us, and then I have the great essential of "help" secured.
Do you know that there was one Mary McClellan married from our house
years ago who was a perfect adorer at my shrine and always begged me to
be married that she might come and live with me? Now she is a widow with
a little girl eight years old, and it is the desire of her heart to get
a place where she can have her child with her. It will fit exactly. The
little cub, under my training, can wait on the table and tend the door,
and Mary will be meanwhile a mother to me in my inexperience."
"Capital!" said I. "I am sure our star is in the ascendant, and we shall
hear from our house before the summer is through."
One day, near the first of October, while up for a Sunday at our country
boarding-place, I got the following letter from Jim Fellows:
_My Dear Old Boy_:--I think we have got it, I mean got the house. I am
not quite sure what your wife will say, but I happened to meet Miss
Alice last night and I told her, and she says she is sure it will do.
Hear and understand.
Coming down town yesterday I bought the _Herald_ and read to my joy
that Jack Fergus had been appointed Consul to Algiers. To say the truth
we fellows have thought the game was pretty much up with poor Jack; his
throat and lungs are so bad, and his family consumptive. So I said when
I read it, 'Good! there's a thing that'll do.' I went right round to
congratulate him and found three or four of our fellows doing the same
thing. Jack was pleased, said it was all right, but still I could see
there was a hitch somewhere, and that in fact it was not all right, and
when the other fellows went away I staid, and then it came out. He said
at once that he was glad of the appointment, but that he had no money;
the place at Algiers does not support a man. He will have to give up
his bank salary, and unless he could sell his house for ready money he
could do nothing. I never knew he had any house. Heaven knows none of
the rest of us have got any houses. But it seems some aunt of his, an
old Knickerbocker, left him one. Well, I asked him why he didn't sell
it. He said he couldn't. He had had two agents there that morning. They
wouldn't give him any encouragement till the whole place was sold
together. They wouldn't offer anything, and would only say they would
advertise it on his account. You see it is one of those betwixt and
between places which is going to be a business place, but isn't yet. So
he said; and it was that which made me think of you and your wife.
I asked where it was, and he told me. It is one of those little streets
that lead out of Varick street, if you know where that is, I'll bet Mrs.
Henderson a dozen pair that she doesn't. Well, I went with him to see it
when the bank closed, for I still thought of you. By George, I think you
will like it. It is the last house in a block, the street is dull enough
but is inhabited by decent quiet people, who mind their own business. Of
course the respectable Mrs. Wouverman's would think it an unknown horror
to live there; and be quite sure they were all Jews or sorcerers, or
some other sort of come-outers. Well, this house itself is not like the
rest of the block--having been built by this old Aunt Martila, or Van
Beest, or whatever else her name was, for her own use. It is a brick
house, with a queer stoop, two and a half stories high (the house, not
the stoop), with a bay-window on the end, going out on a sort of a
church-yard, across which you look to what is, I believe, St. John's
Park[1]--a place with trees, and English sparrows, and bird-houses and
things. Jack and his wife have made the place look quite cosy, and
managed to get a deal of comfort out of it. I wish I could buy it and
take my wife there if only I had one. This place Jack will sell for
eight thousand dollars--four thousand down and four thousand on
mortgage. I call that dirt cheap, and Livingstone, our head book-keeper,
who used to be a house-broker, tells me it is a bargain such as he never
heard of, and that you can sell it at any time for more than that. I
have taken the refusal for three days, so come down, both of you, bright
and early Monday and look at it.
So down we came; we saw; we bought. In a few days we were ready, key in
hand, to open and walk into "Our House."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] It _was_; but alas! since the recent time of this story, insatiate
commerce has taken the old Park and built therein a huge railway freight
depot.