for my heart was touched by her anxiety. "I can tell you truly that I
have never really wanted to marry Katie, though once or twice I have
thought of it. I have always admired her, as every one must. She is a
lovely girl; and seeing so much of her as I have, it might have come to
something in time, if it had not been for Eleanor."
"If it had not been for Eleanor!" My mother was too well-bred to repeat
my words, but I saw them run through her mind like a lightning flash.
She looked for a moment as if she thought I was mad, then in another
moment she remembered that she had heard love to be not only mad but
blind. Her own Cupid had been a particularly wide-awake deity, with all
his wits about him; but she bowed to the experience of mankind. From
that hour to this she has never breathed a word which could convey any
idea that Eleanor was anything but her own choice and pride as a
daughter-in-law.
The Beechers got up a very properly commonplace wedding, after all,
though nothing to what my wedding ought to have been. Eleanor herself,
like many prettier brides, was little but a peg to hang a wreath and
veil on. Her younger sisters did very well as bridesmaids. The only will
I showed in the matter was in refusing to ask Phil Day to act as best
man, though I knew it was expected of me. I asked Herbert Riddell; and
the good fellow performed his part admirably, and made the thing go off
with some life. I verily believe he was the happiest person there. They
only had a very small breakfast for the nearest relations, my mother
remarking that we could have something larger afterwards; but the church
was crammed. The thing I remember best of that day, now fifteen years
ago, was the expression on Mrs. Day's and Katie's faces. It was not
pique--they were too well-bred for that--nor disappointment--they were
too proud for that, even had they felt it. And I don't believe that
there was any deep disappointment, at least on Katie's part. I had made
no undue advances; and she was far too sensible and sunny-tempered a
lassie to let herself do more than indulge in a few day-dreams, or to
wear the willow for any man, even if he were a good match, and had
pleased her fancy. She married, as every one knows, Herbert Riddell, and
made him a very good wife. But neither mother nor daughter could quite
keep out of their faces, wreathed in smiles as befitted the occasion,
the look of uncomprehending, unmitigated amazement, too overpowering to
dissemble. I suppose it was reflected on many others, and I remembering
overhearing Aunt Frances severely reproving Aunt Grace for so far
forgetting herself as to utter the vulgar remark that she "would give
ten thousand dollars to know what Roger was marrying that little fright
for."
The Roger Greenway and Eleanor Beecher of ten years ago are so far past
now that I can talk of them like other people. That Roger Greenway
ranked so low in his class at college is only remembered to be cited as
a comfort to the mothers of stupid sons--Roger Greenway, now the coming
man in Massachusetts. Have I not made a yacht voyage round Southern
California, and is not my book on the deep-sea dredgings off the coasts
considered an important contribution to the Darwinian theory, having
drawn, in his later days, a kind and appreciative letter from the great
naturalist? Do I not bid fair to revolutionise American agriculture by
my success in domesticating the bison on my stock-farm in Maine? Have I
not come forward in politics, made brilliant speeches through the State,
and am I not now sitting in Congress for my second term? The world would
be incredulous if I told them that all this was due to Eleanor. She did
not, indeed, know exactly what deep-sea dredging was; but she said I
ought to do something with my yacht, and had better make a voyage, and
write a book about it. She is as afraid, not only of a bison, but of a
cow, as a well-principled woman ought to be; but she said I ought to do
something with my stock-farm, and had better try some experiments. She
is no advocate of women's going into politics; but she said I was a good
speaker, and ought to attend the primary meetings. And when I said the
difficulty was to think of anything to say, she said if that were all,
she could think of twenty things. So she did; and when I had once
begun, I could think of them myself. I have had no military training;
but if Eleanor were to say that she was sure I could take a fort, I
verily believe I could and should.
Not less is Eleanor Beecher of the old days lost in Mrs. Roger Greenway.
As she grew older she grew stouter, which was very becoming to her, as
she had always been of a good height, though no one ever gave her credit
for it. Her complexion cleared up; her hair was better dressed, and
looked a different shade; and she developed an original taste in dress.
She developed a peculiar manner, too, very charming and quite her own.
She showed an organising faculty; and after getting her household under
perfect control, and starting her nursery on the most systematic basis,
she grew into planning and carrying out new charities. The name of Mrs.
Roger Greenway at the head of a charity committee wins public confidence
at once, and, seen among the "remonstrants" against woman's suffrage,
has more than once brought over half the doubtful votes in the General
Court. Every one says that I am unusually fortunate in having such a
wife for a public man, and my mother cannot sufficiently show her
delight in the wisdom of dear Roger's choice.
Eleanor would never let me do what she called "pauperise" her family;
but I found Mr. Beecher a good place on a railroad, over which I had
some control, which he filled admirably, and built a new house to let to
him. I helped the boys through college, letting them pay me back, and
gave them employment in the lines they chose. The girls, under
pleasanter auspices, turned out prettier than their eldest sister, and
enjoyed society; and one is well married, and another engaged.
Katie Day, as I said before, married Herbert Riddell. She was an
excellent wife, and made his means go twice as far as any one else could
have done. She and Eleanor are called intimate friends with as much
reason as Phil and I had been. I don't believe they ever have two words
to say to each other when alone together, but then they very seldom are.
Eleanor is always lending Katie the carriage, and sending her fruit and
flowers when she gives one of her exquisite little dinners; and Katie
looks pretty, and sings and talks at our parties, and so it goes on to
mutual satisfaction.
We all have our youthful dreams, though to few of us is it given to find
them realities. Perhaps we might more often do so, did we know the
vision when we met it in mortal form. I had had my ideal, a shadowy one
indeed--and never, certainly, did I imagine that I was chasing after it
when I followed Eleanor down the fir-tree walk. "An eagerness to share
the overflowing gifts of fortune with others--a respectful tenderness
for those who had but little--a yearning sweetness of sympathy that
should disarm even envy, and give the very inequalities of life their
fitness and significance." Had I ever clothed my fancies in words like
these? I hardly knew; but as I watched my wife in the early days of our
married life, shyly and slowly learning to use her new powers, as the
butterfly, fresh from the chrysalis, stretches its cramped wings to the
sun and air, they took life and shape before me--and I felt the charm of
the "ever womanly" that has ever since drawn me on, as it must draw the
race.
Did Eleanor's love for me spring from gratitude for, or pleasure in, the
wealth that was lavished on her with a liberal hand? Who shall say? A
girl's love, if love it be, is often won by gifts of but a little higher
sort. But if it be worthy of the name, it finds its earthly close in
loving for love's sake alone; and then it matters not how it came, for
it can never go, and the pulse of its life will be giving, not taking.
To Eleanor herself, sure of my heart because so sure of her own, it
would matter but little to-day if I had loved her first from pity. That
I did not is my own happiness, not hers.
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF A WALL-FLOWER
It would never have occurred to anyone on seeing Margaret Parke for the
first time, that she was born to be a wall-flower,--plainness, or at
best insignificance of person, being demanded by the popular mind as an
attribute necessary to acting in that capacity, whereas Margaret was
five feet eight inches in height, with a straight swaying figure like a
young birch tree, a head well set back upon her shoulders--as if the
better to carry her masses of fair hair--an oval face, a straight nose,
blue eyes so deeply set, and so shaded by long dark eyelashes, that they
would have looked dark too, but for the sparkles of coloured light that
came from them, an apple-blossom skin, and thirty-two sound teeth behind
her ripe red lips. With all these disqualifications for the part, it was
a wonder that she should ever have thought of playing it; and to do her
justice, she never did,--but some have "greatness thrust upon them."
Margaret's father, too, was a man of some consequence, having a
reputation great in degree, though limited in extent. He was hardly
known out of medical circles, but within them everyone had heard of Dr.
Parke of Royalston. His great work on "Tissues," which afterwards
established his fame on a secure basis, lay tucked away in manuscript,
with all its illustrations, for want of funds to publish it; but even
then there were rooms in every hospital in Europe into which a king
could hardly have gained admittance, where Dr. Parke might have walked
in at his pleasure. So brilliant had been "Sandy" Parke's career at
college, and in the Medical School, that his classmates had believed him
capable of anything; and when he married Margaret's mother, a beauty in
a quiet way, both young people, though neither had any money, were
thought to have done excellently well for themselves. Alas! they were
too young. Dr. Parke's marriage spoiled his chances of going abroad to
complete his medical education. When he launched on his profession, it
was found that many men were his superiors in the art of getting a
lucrative practice in a large city; and, at last, he was glad to settle
down in a country town, where he had a forty-mile circuit, moderate
gains, and still more moderate expenses. His passion was study, which he
pursued unremittingly, though time was brief and subjects were scanty.
Mrs. Parke was a devoted wife and mother, who thought her husband the
greatest of men, and pitied the world for not recognising the fact. She
managed his affairs wisely, and they lived very comfortably and cheaply
in the pleasant semi-rural town. Could the children have remained babies
forever, Mrs. Parke's wishes would never have strayed beyond the limits
of her house and garden; but as they grew older, and so fast! ambition
began to stir in her heart. It was the great trial of her life that with
all her economy, they could not find it prudent to send the two oldest
boys to Harvard, but must content themselves with Williams College. She
bore it well; but when Margaret bloomed into loveliness that struck the
eyes of others than her partial parents, she felt here she must make an
effort. Margaret should go down to Boston to see and be seen in her own
old set, or what remained of it. Mrs. Parke was an orphan, with no very
near relations, but her connections were excellent, and her own first
cousin, Mrs. Robert Manton, might have been a most valuable one had
things been a little different. Unfortunately, Mrs. Manton, being early
left a widow, with a neat little property and no children, and having to
find some occupation for herself, had chosen the profession of an
invalid, which she pursued with exclusive devotion. She had long ceased
to follow the active side of it--that of endeavouring to do anything to
regain her health; having exhausted the resources of every physician of
reputation in the New England and Middle States, among them Dr. Parke,
who, like the others, did not understand her case, and indeed had never
been able to see that she had any. She had now passed into the passive
stage, trying only to avoid anything that might do her harm. She never
went to Royalston, as there was far too much noise in the house there to
suit her, but she felt kindly towards her cousin's family, and when she
was able would send them pretty presents at Christmas. More often she
would simply order a box of confectionery to be sent them, which they
ate up as fast as possible, Dr. Parke being inclined to growl when he
saw it about.
Cousin Susan had rather dropped out of society, though the little she
did keep up was of a very select order; and Mrs. Parke knew better than
to expect her to take any trouble to introduce Margaret into it. The
bare idea of having a young girl on her hands to take about would have
sent her out of her senses. But she lived in her own very good house on
West Cedar Street, and though she had let most of it to a physician,
reserving rooms for herself and her maid, surely there was some little
nook into which she could squeeze Margaret, if the girl, who had a
pretty talent for drawing, could be sent to Boston to take a quarter at
the Art School. Mrs. Manton assented, because refusing and excusing were
too much trouble. Mrs. Parke had also written to an old school friend,
now Mrs. David Underwood; a widow, too, but still better endowed, who
had kept up with the world, and went out and entertained freely; the
more, because her son, Ralph Underwood, a rising young stockbroker, was
a distinguished member of the younger Boston society. Mrs. Underwood had
visited the Parkes in her early widowhood, when Ralph was a little boy
and Margaret a baby, and had been most hospitably entertained. Of course
she would be only too glad to do all she could to show her friend's
pretty daughter the world, and show her to it.
Now, if Mrs. Parke had sent Margaret down to Boston a year sooner or a
year later, things would doubtless have taken quite another turn, and
this history could never have been written. But the year before she was
still feeding her family on stews and boiled rice, to lay up the money
for Margaret's expenses, and working early and late to get up an outfit
for her; which objects she achieved by the autumn of 188-. What baleful
conjunction of planets was then occurring to make Mrs. Underwood
mutter, as she read the letter, that she wished Mary Pickering had
chosen any other time to fasten her girl upon them, while Ralph growled
across the breakfast-table under his breath, "At any rate, don't ask her
to stay with us," must be left for the future to disclose. Mrs.
Underwood eagerly promised anything and everything her son chose to ask,
and as he sauntered out of the house leaving his breakfast untouched,
and she watched anxiously after him from the window, the important
letter dropped unheeded from her hand, and out of her mind.
Margaret came down in due season, bright and expectant. Cousin Susan was
rather taken aback at the girl's beauty, partly frightened at the
responsibilities it involved, partly relieved by the thought that it
would make Mrs. Underwood the more willing to assume them all. Margaret
went to the Art School, and got on very well with her drawing. She was
much admired by the other girls, who were never weary of sketching her.
They were nice girls, though they did not move in the sphere of society
in which they seemed to take it for granted that Margaret must achieve a
distinguished success; and even though she was modest in her
disclaimers, she could not help feeling that she might have what they
called "a good time" under Mrs. Underwood's auspices.
Mrs. Underwood for more than a week gave no sign of life; then made a
very short, very formal call, apologising for her tardiness by reason of
her numerous engagements, and proffering no further civilities; and when
Margaret, in a day or two, returned the call, she found Mrs. Underwood
"very much engaged." But in another day or two there came a note from
her, asking Margaret to a small and early dance at her house, and a card
for a set of Germans at Papanti's Hall, of which she was one of the lady
patronesses, and which Cousin Susan knew to be the set of the season. In
her note she rather curtly stated that she had settled the matter of
Margaret's subscription to the latter affairs, and that she would call
and take her to the first, which was to come off three days after her
own dance. Margaret was pleased, but a little frightened; there was
something not very encouraging in the manner of Mrs. Underwood's note;
though perhaps it was silly to mind that when the matter was so
satisfactory,--only she did hate to go to her first dance alone. She
longed even for Cousin Susan's chaperonage, though she knew her longings
were vain; Mrs. Manton never went out in the evening under any
circumstances, and told Margaret that there was no need of a chaperon at
so small an affair at the house of an intimate friend, and that she
should have that especially desirable cab and cabman that she honoured
with her own custom, whenever she could make up her mind to leave the
house. It would, of course, be charged on her bill; after which piece of
munificence she washed her hands of the whole affair.
Margaret set out alone. It was a formidable ordeal for her to get
herself into the house and up the staircase, and glad was she when she
was safely landed in the dressing-room, though there was not a soul
there whom she knew. Her dress was a pink silk that had been a part of
her mother's trousseau; a good gown, though not at all the shade people
were wearing now; but Mrs. Parke had made it over very carefully, and
veiled it with white muslin. It had looked very nice to Margaret till it
came in contact with the other girls' dresses. She hoped they would not
look at it depreciatingly; and they did not,--they never looked at it at
all, or at her either. She stood in the midst of the gayly greeting
groups, less noticed than if she were a piece of furniture, on which at
least a wrap or two might have been thrown. She found it easy enough,
however, to get downstairs and into the reception-room in the stream,
and up to Mrs. Underwood, who looked worried and anxious, said she was
glad to see her, and it was a very cold evening; and then, as the
waiting crowd pushed Margaret on, she could hear the hostess tell the
next comer that she was glad to see him, and that it was a very warm
evening. Margaret was softly but irresistibly urged on toward the door
of the larger room where the dancing was to be; but that she had not the
courage to enter alone, and coming across a single chair just at the
entrance, she sat down in it and sat on for two hours without stirring.
The men were bustling about to ask the girls who had already the most
engagements; the girls were some of them looking out for possible
partners, some on the watch for the men by whom they most wished to be
asked to dance; but no one asked Margaret. The music struck up, and
still she sat on unheeded.
The loneliness of one in a crowd has often been dwelt upon, as greater
than that of the wanderer in the desert; but all pictures of isolation
are feeble compared to that of a solitary girl in a ballroom. Margaret's
seat was in such a conspicuous position that it seemed as if all the
couples who crushed past her in and out of the ballroom must take in the
whole fact of her being neglected. There were a few older ladies in the
room, but these sat together in another part of it, and talked among
themselves without paying any heed to her.
At first she hardly took in the situation in all its significance; but
as dance after dance began and ended, she began to feel puzzled and
frightened. Did the Underwoods mean to be rude to her, or was this the
way people in society always behaved, and ought she to have known it all
along? Ought she to feel more indignant with them, or ashamed of
herself? If she could only know what the proper sentiment for the
occasion might be, it would be some relief to feel miserable in the
proper way. Miserable her condition must be, since she was the only girl
in it.