A Broken Circle.
Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Granger lost no time. He who
had been the most leisurely of men, whose composure and
deliberateness of manner had often given him the appearance of
haughtiness, was now possessed by a spirit of ceaseless activity.
His slow and dignified step became prompt, he spoke more quickly,
his misty eyes cleared up, and a color glowed in his swarthy
cheeks.
There was no more lounging on a sofa, and reading; no more
theatre nor concert; no more lingering in picture-galleries, and
looking about with that fastidious, dissatisfied expression of
his till his eyes lit sparkling on something that pleased him; no
more dreaming along, with a cigar in his mouth, under the trees
at twilight. He was busy, happy, and full of life.
It did not take long to complete his arrangements. Like Madame
Swetchine, he thought those obstacles trifling which were not
insurmountable.
The family found themselves infected by his cheerfulness. Mr.
Lewis's lugubrious visions of wooden arms and legs, and patches
over the eye, he swept away with a laugh. The wistful glances,
often dim with tears, with which the ladies looked at him,
following his every step, listening to his every word, he chid
more gently, and also more earnestly.
"How women can weaken men with a tear or a glance!" he said. "It
will be hard for me to leave you. I love you all. I have been
very happy here, and hope to be as happy here again. But I must
go. I can't see poor men leaving their families, and boys torn
away from their homes, and not go. I should never again respect
myself if I staid at home. But there is something else. The
feeling that draws me is something that I cannot explain. It is
irresistible. The breeze has caught me, and I must move. Margaret
has a smile for me, I know. It's in her. She comes of a Spartan
stock."
Could she disappoint his expectation? No. Henceforth, at whatever
cost to her, he should see no sign of weakness. But, oh! she
thought, sometimes those who stay at home fight harder battles
than those who go.
"And my little girl," said the father. "She wants me to have
beautiful gold straps on my shoulders, and splendid large gilt
buttons on my coat."
Dora was enchanted. Soldiers were to her the most magnificent of
beings. "Yes, papa! And little gold cuffs to your sleeves, and
stripes on your pantaloons."
"Precisely. And a sword, and a belt, and spurs at my heels, and a
feather in my hat. Papa will be as fine as a play-actor. And in
order to have all these things, my pet is willing that I should
go away awhile?"
The child said nothing, but looked steadily at her father. The
smile still lingered on her lips, but large, slow tears were
filling her eyes.
"Not for a very great while," he added. "You know we must pay in
some way for all we get. You pay money for your dresses, and
study for your education, and for these shoulder-straps of mine
you must pay by letting me go a little while."
{453}
The child struggled hard to keep down the swelling in her throat,
and dropped her eyes to hide the tears in them.
"I guess, papa," she said, nervously twisting his watch-chain as
she leaned against him, "I guess it's no matter about the
shoulder-straps. I'd rather have you without' em."
He tried to laugh. "And the feather, and the sash, and the sword,
and the spurs, do you forget them?"
She broke down completely at that. "I don't want 'em; I'd rather
have you than everything else in the world!"
"Even than stripes on my pantaloons?"
"O papa!" she sobbed, "what makes you laugh at me when I'm most
dead?"
"Margaret," exclaimed Mr. Granger, "don't let this child miss
me!"
"Not if I can help it," she replied.
He was to do staff duty till the bloom of his ignorance should be
rubbed off, Mr. Granger said. One whose sole idea of a
_wheel_ was that it was something round with spokes in it,
whose only _forward_ had been learned of the dancing-master,
and who knew no worse _charge_ than the grocer's--such a
person could scarcely be expected to lead men in battle array. He
was going down there to get some of the little boys to teach him
drill.
It was impossible to resist his delightful humor. Even Mr. Lewis
relented.
"If ever the doing of a thing could be forgiven for the sake of
the manner in which it is done," he said, "then I could forgive
you. But I can't promise to turn back all at once from
bonny-clabber to new milk."
"Oh! scold away," was the laughing reply. "I begin to think that
there is a certain pleasure in being abused in a discriminating
manner."
"Your going to Fortress Monroe helps to reconcile me," Mr. Lewis
continued. "It's a pleasant place, and a strong place. My wife
calls it Fortissimo. I supposed that you would insist on going
straight to the front to do picket-duty, or post yourself in a
tree as a sharpshooter. I'm glad to see that you've got a little
ballast left aboard. I wish that Mr. Southard were to be with
you, instead of going to New Orleans at this time of year. I
spent a year at New Orleans when I was a young man, and I know
all about it. It isn't a city, it's a deposit. You have to hold
on with hands and feet to keep from being melted away by the
heat, or washed away by the water."
"O the oleanders!" sighed Mrs. Lewis in an ecstasy.
Almost before they knew, Mr. Granger was gone. They had heard his
last pleasant word, met his last smile, and seen the carriage
that bore him away disappear down the street. Both Mr. Southard
and Mr. Lewis accompanied him as far as New York.
When they had seen him off, the three ladies returned to the
parlor, and the servants went sorrowfully back to their places.
The neighbors who waved him away left their windows, and the
friends grouped on the steps and the walk went each his way.
Dora, repulsed by Miss Hamilton, went to Aurelia for comfort.
Margaret walked uneasily about the room, putting books in their
places, pushing intrusive vine-leaves out the windows, arranging
and rearranging the curtains. Then she seated her self by a
table, and began cutting the leaves of a new magazine.
{454}
Presently Mrs. Lewis approached her, and after leaning on the arm
of her chair a moment without being noticed, touched her on the
shoulder.
"Margaret," she said, "why will you be so terribly proud? I think
you might be willing to shed tears when Aurelia and I do. Why
shouldn't you grieve over the absence of your friend? He is a
kind and true friend to you."
Aurelia rose quietly, and led Dora from the room.
Margaret persisted a moment longer in her silence and her
leaf-cutting. But the book and the knife shook in her hand, and
presently dropped from her grasp. Turning impulsively, she hid
her face in that kind bosom, and sobbed without control.
"He will soon come back, I am sure of it," Mrs. Lewis said
soothingly. "And you know we shall hear from him constantly. We
all feel bad. Mr. Lewis choked up whenever he thought of it, and
the only way he had of turning off his emotion was in scolding. I
dare say his last word to Mr. Granger will be an abusive one. And
you are almost as bad."
"I can't bear to be misunderstood, and watched, and commented
on," Margaret said, trying to control herself. "Most people seem
to think hate more respectable than affection, and if they see
that you care about a person, they sneer."
"I know all about it, dear," Mrs. Lewis said. "You can't tell me
anything new about meanness and malice. I have suffered too much
from them in my life. But we are friends, real friends, here. We
respect each other's reserve. But too much reserve is not good
nor wholesome."
Margaret looked up, and wiped her tears away. "How you help me!"
she said. "I don't feel very bad now," with a faint smile. "It is
suppression that kills me. If we could say just what we think and
feel, and act with perfect openness, how good it would be!
Looking back, my life seems to me a cemetery of stifled emotions.
My heart is full of their bones and ashes. It's an awful weight!
You are very good, Mrs. Lewis. You do beautiful things sometimes.
I grow fonder of you every day. By and by," smiling again, "I
shall not be able to do without you. And now, that poor child! I
must go to her. Wasn't I cruel to put her away? But it is very
hard to have to comfort others when you are yourself in need of
comfort."
The next day the two gentlemen came home with the last news of
Mr. Granger, and they spent the evening more cheerfully than they
could have expected. Mr. Lewis had apologized for his rudeness to
the minister, and had begun to perceive that Mr. Southard had, as
he said, some grit in him. So they were all harmonious enough.
"Mr. Granger's generosity of disposition would lead him to danger
unnecessarily, if he were not warned," Mr. Southard said, as they
sat together that evening. "I talked to him very plainly about
it. There is sometimes an unconscious selfishness under those
impulses. Exulting in the sense of their own fearlessness, men
put themselves in peril, without thinking what others may suffer
in their loss, and that the real good to be attained does not,
perhaps, counterbalance the evil done. All that is accomplished
is a generous deed."
"It is something to accomplish a generous deed," said Miss
Hamilton. "I own, I have not the highest admiration for that
'rascally virtue' of discretion."
"But when the real cost of that 'sublime indiscretion' falls on
some other than the hero, then I object to it," said the minister
firmly. "And Mr. Granger agreed with me."
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There are times when to hear those dear to us praised is painful.
It oppresses the heart, by placing the beloved object too far
above us. But a gentle blame, which hints at no serious fault,
while it does not wound our feelings, soothes our sense of
unworthiness, and, without lowering the friend, brings him within
our reach. Listening to such gentle censure, we get a comfortable
human feeling toward one whom we were, perhaps, in danger of
apotheosizing.
Speaking of the much that they would hear from these soldier
friends of theirs, both Margaret and Mr. Southard urged Mrs.
Lewis to resume her long unused pen. It seemed that every one who
had the talent to do it ought to preserve thus some of the many
incidents of the war. But she was resolute in refusal.
"Of writing many books there is no end," she said. "And I have a
terrible vision of a coming deluge of war-literature. Everybody
will write, soldiers, nurses, chaplains, (all but you, Mr.
Southard!) philanthropists, novelists, rhymsters--all will write
without mercy. The dilemma of the old rhyme will seem to be on
the point of realization:
'If all the earth were paper,
And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we do for drink?'
"No, don't ask me to join in that rout. Besides, no one but a
scribbler knows a scribbler's afflictions. No 'Heavenly Goddess'
has yet sung those direful woes. First, there is the printer. You
spend all your powers on a certain passage which is to
immortalize you, and under his hands, by the addition, or the
abstraction, or the changing of a word, that passage has taken
the one step more which carries it from the sublime to the
ridiculous. Put in a fine bit of color; he changes your umber to
amber, and the picture is spoilt. Refer to the well-known fact
that Washington Allston put a great deal of character into the
hands and feet he painted, and this fell patriot drops the
Allston, and gives the credit to the father of his country. Then
there are your dear friends. They know all your virtues, so their
sole effort is now to find out your defects. It won't do to
praise you, lest you should become vain; so, with a noble regard
for your truest good, they dissect your writings before your
eyes, and prove clearly their utter worthlessness. Then, there
are your gushing acquaintances who want you to write about them,
and tell you their histories, insisting that they shall be put
into print. As if you should carry cherry-stones to a
cherry-tree, and say, Here, grow cherries round these! If you
should answer ever so humbly, Thank you! but I grow stones to my
own cherries, such as they are, people would be disgusted. Of
course, if I had a great genius, it would scorch up all these
little annoyances. But I have only a pretty talent. Perhaps the
worst is, that they will apply your characters. When I was a
girl, I wrote a rhymed story, and everybody pointed out the hero.
I stared, I bethought myself, I re-read my romance. Imagine my
horror when I found that the description fitted the man
perfectly, even to the wart on his nose. Then, not long ago, I
wrote a little idyl addressed to my first love, and my husband
came home with the face of an Othello. You know you did, Charles.
The fact was, I never had a first love!"
Mr. Lewis laughed. "And she twitted me with Diana. Diana was a
tall, superb, serene woman whom I got acquainted with in
Washington, before I was married. I admired her excessively. I
didn't know that she was a goose. I would talk, and she would
listen, and smile at all my jokes; and I thought that she was
very witty.
{456}
I spoke of books, and she smiled and said 'Yes!' and I was sure
that she was a well-read person. I ranted about music, and she
smiled and said 'Yes!' and I was positive that she was a fine
musician. Presently I began to grow bashful in the society of
such a superior woman. I couldn't talk, so she had to. Well, at
first I admired her simplicity, then I stared at her simplicity.
And at last I saw that there was
'No end to all she didn't know.'
"One day I'd been there, up in the parlor, and when I left, she
went down to the door with me. There was a large hat on the
entry-table, and we heard a man's voice in the sitting-room.
"'Who's talking with pa?' she asked of a servant.
"'Daniel Webster, miss,' was the answer.
"Daniel Webster was my hero. If our hats had been of the same
size, I would have swapped fervently, though mine was new, and
Daniel's a little shabby. I remembered what somebody had said of
Samuel Johnson; and pointing to the table, I exclaimed with
enthusiasm, 'That hat covers a kingdom!'
"Diana looked at it with a mild, idiotic perplexity, and
stretched her long neck to see on the other side. 'Hat covers a
kingdom,' she repeated vaguely to herself, as if it were a
conundrum.
"'When it's on his head!' I cried out in a rage.
"'Oh!' she said, and smiled, but without a particle of
speculation in her eyes.
"I bounced out of the house, and I never went to see Diana again.
Shortly after, I met that little woman, and I married her because
she is smart."