A YOUNG CYNIC.
Mrs. Maxon sat on the pleasant veranda of her home, at Elm Hill, with a
snowy piece of needlework in her hands.
Mr. Maxon lounged back in a rustic chair, smoking a fragrant cigar.
Dolores swung lazily in a hammock near by, a beautiful picture of
indolent repose.
From within, floated a rarely musical voice in snatches of song:
The day is drawing near, my dear,
When you and I must sever;
Yet whether near or far we are,
Our hearts will love forever,
Our hearts will love forever.
O sweet, I will be true, and you
Must never fail or falter;
I hold a love like mine divine,
And yours--it must not alter,
O, swear it will not alter.
She sang the simple words to a light flowing air, with a rippling
accompaniment. Then, suddenly striking rich chords of harmony, she broke
into a song that might have served well as a passionate response to the
other ditty:
I will be true. Mad stars forsake their courses,
And, led by reckless meteors, turn away
From paths appointed by Eternal Forces.
But my fixed heart shall never go astray.
Like those calm worlds, whose sun-directed motion
Is undisturbed by strife of wind or sea,
So shall my swerveless, and serene devotion
Sweep on forever, loyal unto thee.
I will be true. Light barks may be belated,
Or turned aside by every breeze at play;
While sturdy ships, well manned, and richly freighted,
With broad sails flying, anchor safe in bay.
Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and unshaken,
Stands all unmoved, while ebbing billows flee,
So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken.
I will be true, though thou art false to me.
"How wonderfully Lena's voice has improved during the last year;" Mrs.
Maxon said, with motherly pride, as the song ceased. "And she sings,
too, with great feeling; do you not think so, Miss King? She seemed to
throw so much intensity into those words just now, as if they came from
her very heart."
"She has a remarkably magnetic voice; and one that stirs the best
impulses of her listeners," Dolores answered. "I am peculiarly
susceptible to different kinds of music. A violin appeals to the
artistic and spiritual part of me. A pipe-organ stirs the dramatic and
sorrowful side of my nature. A violin lifts up my thoughts towards the
Celestial City that awaits me. An organ makes me wonder why this tragic
life was ever thrust upon my unwilling soul. Helena's voice affects me
in still another way. Whenever I hear her sing, I feel a curious
uprising of all my mental powers, of all my moral forces. It seems to me
there is nothing I can not do, and be. It is only one voice in a
thousand which can affect me in this manner."
"I understand what you mean," Mrs. Maxon replied. "I have heard nearly
all our public singers, and among them all Emma Abbott's voice possessed
for me more of this peculiar quality, which you rightly term magnetic,
than any of her no doubt greater rivals. I think it is derived from the
electric temperament of the singer; and it is almost always associated
with an unselfish nature. But what ever its cause, it is a great gift."
"Yes, and one which no amount of training or culture can supply if it is
denied by nature. But do you know, I feel provoked with Lena, when she
wastes the music of her lovely voice on such sentiments as those songs
contained?"
"There you go prancing off on your hobby again," laughed Helena, who
emerged from the house just in time to hear Dolores's closing sentence.
"Can't you let me sometimes indulge in a little sentiment in my music,
dear?"
"And what nobler themes for song can you find, Dolores?" Mrs. Maxon
asked gently, "than love, faith, and loyalty. They are the foundations
of the world and society."
"But it seems so foolishly absurd for two people to swear to love each
other forever!" Dolores continued, with a touch of scorn in her voice.
"No doubt they often believe it possible, but one or the other is sure
to falter; and then a broken oath renders the human weakness of change a
sin. I do not believe that two people should pledge themselves to love
forever. We cannot compel a sentiment or an emotion to remain with us,
after it chooses to depart. We can, of course, compel ourselves to live
up to its requirements, through principle, though this would be dreary
work, I fancy. Yet it is the situation of half the married couples in
the world. Love flies, and takes with him all the real pleasures they
found in each other's society. Yet they plod along, in a compulsory
sort of fashion, doing their duty--ugh; it is horrible to think of.
Society is all wrong."
Mrs. Maxon dropped her work and looked at Dolores with a compassionate
glance.
"You must admit that there are many exceptions to your rule, Dolores,"
she said. "Surely your month in our home ought to convince you that love
has abided here through many years."
"Yes, I am very sure of that," Dolores admitted. "But your life is an
exceptional one in this respect. You know the old mythological tale of
the creation of souls? An angel stands beside a liquid sea, dipping in a
long pole. Upon its point he brings up a perfect globule: it contains
two souls--affinities. He gently shakes the pole--and one half rolls
away: he shakes it again, and away rolls the other in an opposite
direction. Day and night, for weeks, months, years, centuries, he plies
his task, while the separated globules increase, and multiply, and go
rolling about the world seeking their affinities. So innumerable in
numbers, and so similar in appearance, it is no wonder if mistakes
occur in the selections they make. The only wonder is, that one in a
million actually finds its own half. You, madame, are an illustration,
that such a miracle is possible, and I congratulate you. But the dreary
outlook remains for the majority."
Mr. Maxon removed his cigar and laughed heartily at the young lady's
bright response.
"You are incorrigible," he said. "Mrs. Maxon, it is useless to endeavor
to worst Miss King in argument. Just wait till Prince Charming appears,
however, and see how easily he will convince her that their souls were
originally one perfect globule. And she will promise to love, honor, and
obey, forever, without a murmur."
"Never!" cried Dolores, springing to her feet. "I will never become the
wife of any man--I have solemnly sworn it. I would as soon be sold into
slavery. I can imagine no fate more humiliating to a proud woman, than
that of a neglected or unloved wife," and she abruptly entered the
house.
There came a time when she realized the possibility of a fate more
humiliating.
That night, as Mrs. Maxon sat in her room alone, overlooking some linen,
Dolores tapped gently at her door.
She came forward in answer to Mrs. Maxon's bidding, her lovely hair
flowing over her white garments, her face pale with suppressed emotion.
"Mrs. Maxon, I have brought you my mother's diary to read," she said. "I
think it will help you to better understand my ideas on the subject of
marriage. No eyes save my uncle's and my own have ever perused its
pages. But I want you to see it--that you may understand me more fully."
And, placing the little journal in Mrs. Maxon's hand, she glided away.
The following morning Dolores received a letter which brought the most
unexpected changes in her life. This was the letter:
"N. Y. CITY, July 30, 18--.
"MISS DOLORES KING:--
"It is quite possible you may have heard your uncle, Mr. Laurence,
speak of Sarah Winters. I was at one time an intimate friend of
your mother's before her marriage. After her death I called twice
to see you, her baby orphan. Then I married and lost track of you
during several years. Recently the news of your uncle's death and
your second bereavement reached me accidentally. I made inquiries
and learned that you had graduated from Madame Scranton's Academy,
and, though possessed of a competence, that you were entirely
without a home. Now I will tell you my object in addressing you.
Several years ago I was left a widow, and without means. During my
youth and early married life, I had lived much abroad. I was
familiar with the Old World, and understood all the ins and outs,
so to speak, of travel. And the idea suggested itself to me that I
might bring my knowledge to a practical use. Consequently I became
a professional chaperone for parties of ladies who desired to go
abroad and see the greatest amount possible of the Old World, with
the least expense. For a stated sum, I agree to conduct parties all
through the most desirable portions of Europe, pay all the bills
incident to travel, and return them safely to their native land. In
ten days I sail with my fifth expedition--which consists of twenty
ladies, for all of whom I vouch as to character and respectability.
Would you not like to join us? I am anxious to renew my
acquaintance with you--the orphaned child of my old friend and
companion. For information concerning me, I refer you to Smith &
Millet, Bankers; the Rev. Dr. Bradly, Rector of St. Paul's," &c.,
&c.
Then followed a long list of references, together with the terms for the
expedition. The letter was signed Mrs. Sarah Butler.
Dolores passed the letter to Mr. and Mrs. Maxon for their perusal and
opinion. "I remember hearing my uncle speak of Mrs. Butler," she said.
"Her husband was a miserable drunkard, and wasted all her property in a
dissipated career. I should love dearly to go abroad; it has been the
dream of my life."
Accordingly, Mr. Maxon dispatched one or two letters of inquiry
concerning Mrs. Butler, and received replies corroborating all her
statements. And Dolores decided to accept this opportunity for travel
under such excellent guardianship.
Since the death of her uncle, the future had seemed to her a shoreless
sea--a waste of water with no green island in view. She had not found it
possible to make any plans, but had accepted each day as it came, not
daring to look beyond. Now she was thankful that another had planned for
her. She wrote her acceptance to Mrs. Butler, and in a few days went out
from the sweet rest and seclusion of this ideal home--forever.
She wept violently when parting from Helena, and clasped her again and
again to the heart that would one day hate her with all the fury of a
desperate soul at bay.