It was the susceptible time of the year for plants, for birds, for
maids: all innocent natural impulses respond to the subtle influence of
spring. One may well gauge his advance in selfishness, worldliness, and
sin by his loss of this annual susceptibility, by the failure of this
sweet appeal to touch his heart. One must be very far gone if some note
of it does not for a moment bring back the tenderest recollections of
the days of joyous innocence.
Even the city, with its mass of stone and brick, rectangles, straight
lines, dust, noise, and fever of activity, is penetrated by this divine
suggestion of the renewal of life. You can scarcely open a window
without letting in a breath of it; the south wind, the twitter of a
sparrow, the rustle of leaves in the squares, the smell of the earth and
of some struggling plant in the area, the note of a distant hand-organ
softened by distance, are begetting a longing for youth, for green
fields, for love. As Carmen walked down the avenue with Mr. Lyon on a
spring morning she almost made herself believe that an unworldly life
with this simple-hearted gentleman--when he should come into his title
and estate--would be more to her liking than the most brilliant success
in place and power with Henderson. Unfortunately the spring influence
also suggested the superior attractiveness of the only man who had
ever taken her shallow fancy. And unfortunately the same note of
nature suggested to Mr. Lyon the contrast of this artificial piece of
loveliness with the domestic life of which he dreamed.
As for Margaret, she opened her heart to the spring without reserve. It
was May. The soft maples had a purple tinge, the chestnuts showed color,
the apple-trees were in bloom (all the air was full of their perfume),
the blackbirds were chattering in convention in the tall oaks, the
bright leaves and the flowering shrubs were alive with the twittering
and singing of darting birds. The soft, fleecy clouds, hovering as over
a world just created, seemed to make near and participant in the scene
the delicate blue of the sky. Margaret--I remember the morning--was
standing on her piazza, as I passed through the neighborhood drive,
with a spray of apple-blossoms in her hand. For the moment she seemed
to embody all the maiden purity of the scene, all its promise. I said,
laughing:
“We shall have to have you painted as spring.”
“But spring isn't painted at all,” she replied, holding up the
apple--blossoms, and coming down the piazza with a dancing step.
“And so it won't last. We want something permanent,” I was beginning to
say, when a carriage passed, going to our house. “I think that must be
Henderson.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed. Her sunny face clouded at once, and she turned to
go in as I hurried away.
It was Mr. Henderson, and there was at least pretense enough of business
to occupy us, with Mr. Morgan, the greater part of the day. It was not
till late in the afternoon that Henderson appeared to remember that
Margaret was in the neighborhood, and spoke of his intention of calling.
My wife pointed out the way to him across the grounds, and watched him
leisurely walking among the trees till he was out of sight.
“What an agreeable man Mr. Henderson is!” she said, turning to me; “most
companionable; and yet--and yet, my dear, I'm glad he is not my husband.
You suit me very well.” There was an air of conviction about this
remark, as if it were the result of deep reflection and comparison,
and it was emphasized by the little possessory act of readjusting my
necktie--one of the most subtle of female flatteries.
“But who wanted him to be your husband?” I asked. “Married women have
the oddest habit of going about the world picking out the men they
would not like to have married. Do they need continually to justify
themselves?”
“No; they congratulate themselves. You never can understand.”
“I confess I cannot. My first thought about an attractive woman whose
acquaintance I make is not that I am glad I did not marry her.”
“I dare say not. You are all inconsistent, you men. But you are the
least so of any man in the world, I do believe.”
It would be difficult to say whether the spring morning seemed more or
less glorious to Margaret when she went indoors, but its serenity was
gone.
It was like the premonition in nature of a change. She put the apple
blossoms in water and placed the jug on the table, turning it about half
a dozen times, moving her head from side to side to get the effect.
When it was exactly right, she said to her aunt, who sat sewing in the
bay-window, in a perfectly indifferent tone, “Mr. Fairchild just passed
here, and said that Mr. Henderson had come.”
“Ah!” Her aunt did not lift her eyes from her work, or appear to attach
the least importance to this tremendous piece of news. Margaret was
annoyed at what seemed to her an assumed indifference. Her nerves were
quivering with the knowledge that he had arrived, that he was in the
next house, that he might be here any moment--the man who had entered
into her whole life--and the announcement was no more to her aunt than
if she had said it rained. She was provoked at herself that she should
be so disturbed, yes, annoyed, at his proximity. She wished he had not
come--not today, at any rate. She looked about for something to do, and
began to rearrange this and that trifle in the sitting-room, which she
had perfectly arranged once before in the morning, moving about here and
there in a rather purposeless manner, until her aunt looked up and for
a moment followed her movements till Margaret left the room. In her
own chamber she sat by the window and tried to think, but there was no
orderly mental process; in vain she tried to run over in her mind the
past month and all her reflections and wise resolves. She heard the call
of the birds, she inhaled the odor of the new year, she was conscious
of all that was gracious and inviting in the fresh scene, but in her
sub-consciousness there was only one thought--he was there, he was
coming. She took up her sewing, but the needle paused in the stitch, and
she found herself looking away across the lawn to the hills; she took up
a book, but the words had no meaning, read and reread them as she
would. He is there, he is coming. And what of it? Why should she be so
disturbed? She was uncommitted, she was mistress of her own actions. Had
she not been coolly judging his conduct? She despised herself for being
so nervous and unsettled. If he was coming, why did he not come? Why was
he waiting so long? She arose impatiently and went down-stairs. There
was a necessity of doing something.
“Is there anything that you want from town, auntie?”
“Nothing that I know of. Are you going in?”
“No, unless you have an errand. It is such a fine day that it seems a
pity to stay indoors.”
“Well, I would walk if I were you.” But she did not go; she went instead
to her room. He might come any moment. She ought not to run away; and
yet she wished she were away. He said he was coming on business. Was it
not, then, a pretense? She felt humiliated in the idea of waiting for
him if the business were not a pretense.
How insensible men are! What a mere subordinate thing to them in life is
the love of a woman! Yes, evidently business was more important to him
than anything else. He must know that she was waiting; and she blushed
to herself at the very possibility that he should think such a thing.
She was not waiting. It was lunch-time. She excused herself. In the next
moment she was angry that she had not gone down as usual. It was time
for him to come. He would certainly come immediately after lunch. She
would not see him. She hoped never to see him. She rose in haste, put
on her hat, put it on carefully, turning and returning before the glass,
selected fresh gloves, and ran down-stairs.
“I'm going, auntie, for a walk to town.”
The walk was a long one. She came back tired. It was late in the
afternoon. Her aunt was quietly reading. She needed to ask her nothing:
Mr. Henderson had not been there. Why had he written to her?
“Oh, the Fairchilds want us to come over to dinner,” said Miss Forsythe,
without looking up.
“I hope you will go, auntie. I sha'n't mind being alone.”
“Why? It's perfectly informal. Mr. Henderson happens to be there.”
“I'm too stupid. But you must go. Mr. Henderson, in New York, expressed
the greatest desire to make your acquaintance.”
Miss Forsythe smiled. “I suppose he has come up on purpose. But, dear,
you must go to chaperon me. It would hardly be civil not to go, when
you knew Mr. Henderson in New York, and the Fairchilds want to make it
agreeable for him.”
“Why, auntie, it is just a business visit. I'm too tired to make the
effort. It must be this spring weather.”
Perhaps it was. It is so unfortunate that the spring, which begets so
many desires, brings the languor that defeats their execution. But there
is a limit to the responsibility even of spring for a woman's moods.
Just as Margaret spoke she saw, through the open window, Henderson
coming across the lawn, walking briskly, but evidently not inattentive
to the charm of the landscape. It was his springy step, his athletic
figure, and, as he came nearer, the joyous anticipation in his face. And
it was so sudden, so unexpected--the vision so long looked for! There
was no time for flight, had she wanted to avoid him; he was on the
piazza; he was at the open door. Her hand went quickly to her heart
to still the rapid flutter, which might be from pain and might be from
joy--she could not tell. She had imagined their possible meeting so many
times, and it was not at all like this. She ought to receive him coldly,
she ought to receive him kindly, she ought to receive him indifferently.
But how real he was, how handsome he was! If she could have obeyed the
impulse of the moment I am not sure but she would have fled, and cast
herself face downward somewhere, and cried a little and thanked God for
him. He was in the room. In his manner there was no hesitation, in his
expression no uncertainty. His face beamed with pleasure, and there was
so much open admiration in his eyes that Margaret, conscious of it to
her heart's core, feared that her aunt would notice it. And she met him
calmly enough, frankly enough. The quickness with which a woman can pull
herself together under such circumstances is testimony to her superior
fibre.
“I've been looking across here ever since morning,” he said, as soon as
the hand-shaking and introduction were over, “and I've only this minute
been released.” There was no air of apology in this, but a delicate
intimation of impatience at the delay. And still, what an unconscious
brute a man is!
“I thought perhaps you had returned,” said Margaret, “until my aunt was
just telling me we were asked to dine with you.”
Henderson gave her a quick glance. Was it possible she thought he could
go away without seeing her?
“Yes, and I was commissioned to bring you over when you are ready.”
“I will not keep you waiting long, Mr. Henderson,” interposed Miss
Forsythe, out of the goodness of her heart. “My niece has been taking a
long walk, and this debilitating spring weather--”
“Oh, since the sun has gone away, I think I'm quite up to the exertion,
since you wish it, auntie,” a speech that made Henderson stare again,
wholly unable to comprehend the reason of an indirection which he could
feel--he who had been all day impatient for this moment. There was
a little talk about the country and the city at this season, mainly
sustained by Miss Forsythe and Henderson, and then he was left alone.
“Of course you should go, Margaret,” said her aunt, as they went
upstairs; “it would not be at all the thing for me to leave you here.
And what a fine, manly, engaging fellow Mr. Henderson is!”
“Yes, he acts very much like a man;” and Margaret was gone into her
room.
Go? There was not force enough in the commonwealth, without calling out
the militia, to keep Margaret from going to the dinner. She stopped a
moment in the middle of her chamber to think. She had almost forgotten
how he looked--his eyes, his smile. Dear me! how the birds were singing
outside, and how fresh the world was! And she would not hurry. He could
wait. No doubt he would wait now any length of time for her. He was in
the house, in the room below, perhaps looking out of the window, perhaps
reading, perhaps spying about at her knick-knacks--she would like to
look in at the door a moment to see what he was doing. Of course he was
here to see her, and all the business was a pretext. As she sat a moment
upon the edge of her bed reflecting what to put on, she had a little
pang that she had been doing him injustice in her thought. But it was
only for an instant. He was here. She was not in the least flurried.
Indeed, her mental processes were never clearer than when she settled
upon her simple toilet, made as it was in every detail with the sure
instinct of a woman who dresses for her lover. Heavens! what a miserable
day it had been, what a rebellious day! He ought to be punished for
it somehow. Perhaps the rose she put in her hair was part of the
punishment. But he should not see how happy she was; she would be civil,
and just a little reserved; it was so like a man to make a woman wait
all day and then think he could smooth it all over simply by appearing.
But somehow in Henderson's presence these little theories of conduct did
not apply. He was too natural, direct, unaffected, his pleasure in being
with her was so evident! He seemed to brush aside the little defenses
and subterfuges. There was this about him that appeared to her
admirable, and in contrast with her own hesitating indirection, that
whatever he wanted--money, or position, or the love of woman--he went
straight to his object with unconsciousness that failure was possible.
Even in walking across the grounds in the soft sunset light, and
chatting easily, their relations seemed established on a most natural
basis, and Margaret found herself giving way to the simple enjoyment of
the hour. She was not only happy, but her spirits rose to inexpressible
gayety, which ran into the humor of badinage and a sort of spiritual
elation, in which all things seemed possible. Perhaps she recognized in
herself, what Henderson saw in her. And with it all there was an access
of tenderness for her aunt, the dear thing whose gentle life appeared so
colorless.
I had never seen Margaret so radiant as at the dinner; her high spirits
infected the table, and the listening and the talking were of the
best that the company could give. I remembered it afterwards, not
from anything special that was said, but from its flow of high animal
spirits, and the electric responsive mood everyone was in; no topic
carried too far, and the chance seriousness setting off the sparkling
comments on affairs. Henderson's talk had the notable flavor of direct
contact with life, and very little of the speculative and reflective
tone of Morgan's, who was always generalizing and theorizing about it.
He had just come from the West, and his off-hand sketches of men had
a special cynicism, not in the least condemnatory, mere good-natured
acceptance, and in contrast to Morgan's moralizing and rather pitying
cynicism. It struck me that he did not believe in his fellows as much
as Morgan did; but I fancied that Margaret only saw in his attitude a
tolerant knowledge of the world.
“Are the people on the border as bad as they are represented?” she
asked.
“Certainly not much worse than they represent themselves,” he replied;
“I suppose the difference is that men feel less restraint there.”
“It is something more than that,” added Morgan. “There is a sort of
drift-wood of adventure and devil-may-care-ism that civilization throws
in advance of itself; but that isn't so bad as the slag it manufactures
in the cities.”
“I remember you said, Mr. Morgan, that men go West to get rid of their
past,” said Margaret.
“As New Yorkers go to Europe to get rid of their future?” Henderson
inquired, catching the phrase.
“Yes”--Morgan turned to Margaret--“doubtless there is a satisfaction
sometimes in placing the width of a continent between a man and what
he has done. I've thought that one of the most popular verses in the
Psalter, on the border, must be the one that says--you will know if I
quote it right 'Look how wide also the East is from the West; so far
hath He set our sins from us.'”
“That is dreadful,” exclaimed Margaret. “To think of you spending your
time in the service picking out passages to fit other people!”
“It sounds as if you had manufactured it,” was Henderson's comment.
“No; that quiet Mr. Lyon pointed it out to me when we were talking about
Montana. He had been there.”
“By-the-way, Mr. Henderson,” my wife asked, “do you know what has become
of Mr. Lyon?”
“I believe he is about to go home.”
“I fancied Miss Eschelle might have something to say about that,” Morgan
remarked.
“Perhaps, if she were asked. But Mr. Lyon appeared rather indifferent to
American attractions.”
Margaret looked quickly at Henderson as he said this, and then ventured,
a little slyly, “She seemed to appreciate his goodness.”
“Yes; Miss Eschelle has an eye for goodness.”
This was said without change of countenance, but it convinced the
listener that Carmen was understood.
“And yet,” said Margaret, with a little air of temerity, “you seem to be
very good friends.”
“Oh, she is very charitable; she sees, I suppose, what is good in me;
and I'll spare you the trouble of remarking that she must necessarily be
very sharp-sighted.”
“And I'm not going to destroy your illusion by telling you her real
opinion of you,” Margaret retorted.
Henderson begged to know what it was, but Margaret evaded the question
by new raillery. What did she care at the moment what Carmen thought of
Henderson? What--did either of them care what they were saying, so long
as there was some personal flavor in the talk! Was it not enough to talk
to each other, to see each other?
As we sat afterwards upon the piazza with our cigars, inhaling the odor
of the apple blossoms, and yielding ourselves, according to our age, to
the influence of the mild night, Margaret was in the high spirits which
accompany the expectation of bliss, without the sobering effect of its
responsibility. Love itself is very serious, but the overture is full
of freakish gayety. And it was all gayety that night. We all constituted
ourselves a guard of honor to Miss Forsythe and Margaret when they went
to their cottage, and there was a merry leave-taking in the moonlight.
To be sure, Margaret walked with Henderson, and they lagged a little
behind, but I had no reason to suppose that they were speaking of
the stars, or that they raised the ordinary question of their being
inhabited. I doubt if they saw the stars at all. How one remembers
little trifles, that recur like the gay bird notes of the opening scenes
that are repeated in the tragedy of the opera! I can see Margaret now,
on some bantering pretext, running back, after we had said good-night,
to give Henderson the blush-rose she had worn in her hair. How charming
the girl was in this freakish action!
“Do you think he is good enough for her?” asked my wife, when we were
alone.
“Who is good enough for whom?” I said, a yawn revealing my want of
sentiment.
“Don't be stupid. You are not so blind as you pretend.”
“Well, if I am not so blind as I pretend, though I did not pretend to be
blind, I suppose that is mainly her concern.”
“But I wish she had cared for Lyon.”
“Perhaps Lyon did not care for her,” I suggested.
“You never see anything. Lyon was a noble fellow.”
“I didn't deny that. But how was I to know about Lyon, my dear? I never
heard you say that you were glad he wasn't your husband.”
“Don't be silly. I think Henderson has very serious intentions.”
“I hope he isn't frivolous,” I said.
“Well, you are. It isn't a joking matter--and you pretend to be so fond
of Margaret!”
“So that is another thing I pretend? What do you want me to do? Which
one do you want me to make my enemy by telling him or her that the other
isn't good enough?”
“I don't want you to do anything, except to be reasonable, and
sympathize.”
“Oh, I sympathize all round. I assure you I've no doubt you are quite
right.” And in this way I crawled out of the discussion, as usual.
What a pretty simile it is, comparing life to a river, because rivers
are so different! There are the calm streams that flow eagerly from the
youthful sources, join a kindred flood, and go placidly to the sea, only
broadening and deepening and getting very muddy at times, but without
a rapid or a fall. There are others that flow carelessly in the upper
sunshine, begin to ripple and dance, then run swiftly, and rush into
rapids in which there is no escape (though friends stand weeping and
imploring on the banks) from the awful plunge of the cataract. Then
there is the tumult and the seething, the exciting race and rage through
the canon, the whirlpools and the passions of love and revelations of
character, and finally, let us hope, the happy emergence into the lake
of a serene life. And the more interesting rivers are those that have
tumults and experiences.
I knew well enough before the next day was over that it was too late for
the rescue of Margaret or Henderson. They were in the rapids, and
would have rejected any friendly rope thrown to draw them ashore. And
notwithstanding the doubts of my wife, I confess that I had so much
sympathy with the genuineness of it that I enjoyed this shock of two
strong natures rushing to their fate. Was it too sudden? Do two living
streams hesitate when they come together? When they join they join, and
mingle and reconcile themselves afterwards. It is only canals that
flow languidly in parallel lines, and meet, if they meet at all, by the
orderly contrivance of a lock.
In the morning the two were off for a stroll. There is a hill from which
a most extensive prospect is had of the city, the teeming valley, with
a score of villages and innumerable white spires, of forests and meadows
and broken mountain ranges. It was a view that Margaret the night before
had promised to show Henderson, that he might see what to her was the
loveliest landscape in the world. Whether they saw the view I do not
know. But I know the rock from which it is best seen, and could fancy
Margaret sitting there, with her face turned towards it and her hands
folded in her lap, and Henderson sitting, half turned away from it,
looking in her face. There is an apple orchard just below. It was in
bloom, and all the invitation of spring was in the air. That he saw all
the glorious prospect reflected in her mobile face I do not doubt--all
the nobility and tenderness of it. If I knew the faltering talk in
that hour of growing confidence and expectation, I would not repeat it.
Henderson lunched at the Forsythe's, and after lunch he had some talk
with Miss Forsythe. It must have been of an exciting nature to her, for,
immediately after, that good woman came over in a great flutter, and
was closeted with my wife, who at the end of the interview had an air of
mysterious importance. It was evidently a woman's day, and my advice was
not wanted, even if my presence was tolerated. All I heard my wife say
through the opening door, as the consultation ended, was, “I hope she
knows her own mind fully before anything is decided.”
As to the objects of this anxiety, they were upon the veranda of the
cottage, quite unconscious of the necessity of digging into their own
minds. He was seated, and she was leaning against the railing on which
the honeysuckle climbed, pulling a flower in pieces.
“It is such a short time I have known you,” she was saying, as if in
apology for her own feeling.
“Yes, in one way;” and he leaned forward, and broke his sentence with
a little laugh. “I think I must have known you in some pre-existent
state.”
“Perhaps. And yet, in another way, it seems long--a whole month, you
know.” And the girl laughed a little in her turn.
“It was the longest month I ever knew, after you left the city.”
“Was it? I oughtn't to have said that first. But do you know, Mr.
Henderson, you seem totally different from any other man I ever knew.”
That this was a profound and original discovery there could be no doubt,
from the conviction with which it was announced. “I felt from the first
that I could trust you.”
“I wish”--and there was genuine feeling in the tone--“I were worthier of
such a generous trust.”
There was a wistful look in her face--timidity, self-depreciation,
worship--as Henderson rose and stood near her, and she looked up while
he took the broken flower from her hand. There was but one answer
to this, and in spite of the open piazza and the all-observant,
all-revealing day, it might have been given; but at the moment Miss
Forsythe was seen hurrying towards them through the shrubbery. She came
straight to where they stood, with an air of New England directness and
determination. One hand she gave to Henderson, the other to Margaret.
She essayed to speak, but tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled;
the words would not come. She regarded them for an instant with all the
overflowing affection of a quarter of a century of repression, and then
quickly turned and went in. In a moment they followed her. Heaven go
with them!
After Henderson had made his hasty adieus at our house and gone, before
the sun was down, Margaret came over. She came swiftly into the room,
gave me a kiss as I rose to greet her, with a delightful impersonality,
as if she owed a debt somewhere and must pay it at once--we men who are
so much left out of these affairs have occasionally to thank Heaven for
a merciful moment--seized my wife, and dragged her to her room.
“I couldn't wait another moment,” she said, as she threw herself on my
wife's bosom in a passion of tears. “I am so happy! he is so noble, and
I love him so!” And she sobbed as if it were the greatest calamity in
the world. And then, after a little, in reply to a question--for women
are never more practical than in such a crisis: “Oh, no--not for a long,
long, long time. Not before autumn.”
And the girl looked, through her glad tears, as if she expected to be
admired for this heroism. And I have no doubt she was.