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Transcriber's note:
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Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
WAS IT RIGHT TO FORGIVE?
A Domestic Romance
by
AMELIA E. BARR
Chicago
Monarch Book Company
Publishers
Copyright 1899, By
Herbert S. Stone & Co
CHAPTER I
Peter Van Hoosen was a result of Dutch Calvinism, and Dutch industry
and thrift; also, of a belief in the Day of Judgment. The first
motives were inherited tendencies, carefully educated; the last one, a
conscious principle, going down to the depths of his nature and
sharply dividing whatever was just and right from whatever was false
and wrong. People whose religion was merely religiosity thought he
took himself too seriously; but if they had a house to build, they
wanted this man--who worked in the great Task-master's eye--to lay its
foundation and raise its walls. So that, as a builder in stone, Peter
Van Hoosen had a wide local celebrity.
He was a strong, loose-limbed man, with a swarthy face and straight
black hair, a man of sturdy beliefs and strong prepossessions, yet not
devoid of those good manners which spring naturally from a good heart.
Among his fellows he was grave and silent, and his entire personality
had something of the coldness and strength of the stony material with
which he worked. In his home there was a difference; there his black
eyes glowed with affection, and even when a young man, his wife and
his little children could lead him. As he grew older, and years and
experience sweetened his nature, he became large-hearted and
large-minded enough to feel that beyond certain limits there was a
possibly lawful freedom.
These hours of expansion were usually those spent with his daughter
Adriana. He had two other daughters, and three sons, each of whom
had done virtuously in their own way; but in Peter's estimation,
Adriana excelled them all. She was the child after his own heart. In
her presence, he felt it good to be hopeful and kind. She led him
to talk of everything that was interesting humanity; she asked his
opinion on all subjects. She constantly told him how wise he was! how
clear-sighted! how far-seeing! She believed he ought to have been at
the head of great affairs, and sometimes Peter could not help a
little vague regret over the blindness of destiny. In short,
Adriana always brought to the front the very best Peter Van Hoosen;
she made him enjoy himself; she made him think nobly of himself; and
is there any more satisfactory frame of mind? After an hour in
Adriana's company, Peter was always inclined to say:
"Well, well, Yanna! In the Great Day of sifting and sorting, I know
that I shall be justified. My well-limed mortar, my walls plumb and
strong, my day's work of faithful service full rendered, will be
accepted of my Master. And you too think so, Yanna."
"I am sure of it, father. It is not the kind of work we do; it is the
way in which the work is done. I will risk my word, that you took as
much pains with John Finane's little dairy as with Mr. MacArthur's
fine mansion."
"I did, Yanna. There is not a poor stone in either," and when he said
the words, Adriana looked straight at him, with eyes full of
admiration.
It must be explained, however, that if Adriana Van Hoosen was a
remarkable girl for her position, she had had remarkable advantages.
Her birth was fortunate in its time. She did not come to her parents
until their struggle with poverty was long over; and before she was
ten years old, four of her brothers and sisters had married and made
homes for themselves. George and Theodore had gone to Florida, to
plant pineapples, and were making the venture pay them. Her sister
Augusta was the wife of John Van Nostrand, a man growing rich in New
York, by the way of groceries and politics. Her sister Gertrude had
married a cousin who was a florist; and in watching the rose houses
and bunching violets, they also were doing well and putting money
away. Her youngest brother, Antony, was yet unmarried, but he had been
long in California, and there was no reason to suppose he would ever
return to the East.
It happened thus, that Peter and his wife found themselves alone with
their youngest child, and the great tide of parental love turned
actively towards her. They did not cease to love the absent, but the
best love delights in service, and there was now none to serve but the
charming child who stood in the place of the dear ones scattered so
far apart. They began early to notice her beauty, to repeat her bright
sayings, to assure themselves that they had been trusted with an
extraordinary charge. The child also had the courage which accompanies
a strongly affectionate nature; she did not fear to ask for all her
desires; and as love gives gladly to those who trust it, she always
won what she asked for. To his elder daughters, Peter had not been
generous in the matter of dress, but Adriana had not only plenty of
gowns, she had also all the little accessories which are so dear to a
girl's heart. But whatever style or whatever color was prominent,
Peter enjoyed every change. Sometimes he was tempted to tell her how
pretty she was, and how proud he was of her, but he always "thought
better of it"; and yet, Adriana knew right well that her father
considered her the most beautiful girl in America, and that he was
delighted if he met an acquaintance, rich or poor, to whom he could
say, "My daughter Adriana, sir."
However, though Peter was proud enough of his girl's beauty, he was
far more elated over her mental aptitudes. She excelled all others
easily; she carried off every prize in her classes; she came home to
him one day with the diploma of her accomplishments in her hand. He
was too proud to find the words suitable for his satisfaction; for, in
a certain sense, it was his own diploma also. He had studied with
Adriana constantly. He had heard her lessons, and talked them over
with her, until they were as familiar to him as to her. As he walked
about his room that night, so happily sleepless, he examined himself
in history, geography, science and mathematics; and he gave Peter Van
Hoosen the credit he honestly deserved:
"Even I have not done badly," he said. "I am a great deal more of a
man than I was four years ago. Now, Yanna and I are going to have good
times. She wants to learn music. Very well, she shall learn it. And we
will read and study books that are something above the general run of
school books." He sat down to the thought, let his hand fall upon his
knee, and peered into the future with the proud glance of one who
knows his strength, and foretells his own victory.
In the morning he had a disappointment. Adriana wanted to go to
college. To learn music was not all she desired. There were other
things just as important--repose and dignity of manner, a knowledge of
dress and address and of the ways and laws of society; and these
things could be learned only by personal contact with the initiated.
So she said, "Father, I wish to go to college." And after a short
struggle with his own hopes and longings, Peter answered, "Well, then,
Yanna, you must go to college."
She had been there but little more than two years when she received
the following letter from her father: "Dear Yanna. I took your mother
into New York yesterday. We went to see a famous doctor, and he told
her that she must die; not perhaps for weeks, or even months, but
sentence of death has been passed." Peter did not add a word to this
information. He would not tell Adriana to come home; he wished her to
have the honor of giving herself a command ennobled by so much
self-denial. And as he expected, Adriana answered his letter in
person. Thenceforward, father and daughter walked with the mother to
the outermost shoal of life--yes, till her wide-open eyes, looking
into their eyes at the moment of parting, suddenly became soulless;
and they knew she was no longer with them.
After a few days Peter said, "Yanna, you must go back to college." But
she shook her head resolutely, and answered, "I am all you have. I
will not leave you, father. We can read and study together."
"That would make me very happy, Yanna. And you can have a good music
teacher."
"I do not want a music teacher, father. I used to think I was an
unrecognized Patti; now I know that I have only an ordinary parlor
voice. I measured myself at college by a great many girls; and I found
out I had been thinking too highly of Adriana Van Hoosen. My friend
Rose Filmer--and twenty others beside her--can sing pieces I have not
even the notes for. Rose plays much better than I do. She is cleverer
with her pencil. She always does everything just properly, and I
scarcely ever miss making a blunder. If I were only like Rose
Filmer!"
"Come, come! that is a girl out of a book."
"No; Rose is a girl out of New York. I am a girl out of Woodsome
village. There have always been a city and a country mouse, father.
And they are both good in their own way. But I could not be Rose
Filmer unless I had been rocked in Rose's cradle."
The name "Filmer" was a familiar one to Peter; for the Filmers were
Van Hoosens on one side of their house; and he wondered if this clever
Rose Filmer was not the descendant of the old Dominie Filmer who had
preached in Woodsome when he was a boy. Certainly his father had built
a stone wall and a dairy for a Dominie Filmer who was connected with
the Van Hoosens on the mother's side. He thought of this coincidence
in names for a few moments, and then dismissed the subject. In the
morning, however, it was revived in a double manner. Adriana had a
long letter from Rose Filmer, and Peter one from Mr. Filmer, asking an
estimate for building a stone house from enclosed plans. Thus the
conversation of the preceding day set the door open for the Filmers to
enter the Van Hoosen home.
Rose's letter was full of their intention to build a summer residence
"so delightfully near to Adriana." She professed to think it a special
providence in her behalf, and to care only for the movement because it
brought her back to "her dear Adriana." "I who adore the ocean," she
continued, "who feel my soul throb to its immensity, am content to
dwell on the placid river bank, if, by so doing, I may have the joy of
my dear Adriana's presence."
It was a charming thing that Adriana believed fully in this feminine
affection, and that even Rose deceived herself as completely. Girls
adore one another until they find lovers to adore; and there is a
certain sincerity in their affection. All the following year, as the
great stone house progressed to its completion, Rose wrote just such
letters to her beloved Yanna as she might easily have written to the
most exacting and devoted lover; and neither of the girls imagined
that they were in a great measure the overflow of a life restrained on
every other side. To the world, Rose made every effort to be the very
flower and perfume of serenity and self-poise, and thus to set herself
free to her friend was like drawing a good full breath after some
restraint had been taken away.
There had been a possibility of a break in this union of souls, just
when Peter accepted the contract to build the Filmer mansion. Adriana
thought it best to speak of her father's work on the new house; and
she did this with the simplicity of one who states a fact that may or
may not have been understood. Rose was at first a little indignant.
She went to her mother with Adriana's letter in her hand.
"She is the daughter of a builder, of a common stone-mason," she
cried, "and she never told me until she was obliged to. Mamma, I am
disillusioned. I can never trust any one again. In her place, I
should have felt it a point of honor not to hide my low birth. Really,
mamma, you must excuse me if I weep a little. I am so disappointed--so
wronged--so humiliated in Yanna's treachery."
"Nonsense, Rose!" answered Mrs. Filmer. "The girl behaved in the most
natural manner. Society would be very disagreeable if people were
required to go up and down telling who and what their fathers and
grandfathers were. Did you ever ask her the question?"
"It was not my place to do so, mamma. I told her all about you, and
Harry, and even papa. She was always talking about her father. She
said he was such a noble old man--that he studied with her--and so on.
Could I imagine a man laying stones all day, and reading Faraday and
Parkman with his daughter at night? Could I, mamma?"
"I should not trouble myself about the girl's father, if I liked the
girl. You see, Rose, it is always foolish to make acquaintances upon
unknown ground. The Hamilton and Lawson girls were in your classes,
and you knew all about them. Friendship with their families would have
been prudent, and I advised you to make it."
"I could not, mamma. The Hamiltons declined to be at all familiar with
me. As for the Lawsons, they are purse-proud and dangerous. Jemima
Lawson has a tongue like a stiletto. She is slangy, too. She called
her allowance her 'working expenses'; and she had dreadful private
names for the girls she disliked. Miss Lawson you simply could not be
civil to; if you were, she immediately began to wonder 'what you
wanted from her?'"
"What dreadful creatures!"
"Now, Adriana Van Hoosen had a good name, she dressed well enough, and
she really loved me. How could I imagine she was lowly born?"
"Does it matter, Rose?"
"Yes, for she lives quite near to our new house. In fact, her father
is building it; and I have asked her so often to come and stay with me
in New York, that I cannot, without a quarrel, ignore her in the
country."
"In the country, one does not need to be particular. It is rather nice
to have a friend in the village who can bring the news. The long
summer days would be insupportable without the follies and misfortunes
of our neighbors to discuss. Then, if she is pretty and presentable,
she will be useful in lawn and tennis parties. I would not mind about
Miss Van Hoosen's father. Fathers are not much, anyway; and
fortunately she has no mother to annoy us. That makes a great
difference. A vulgar mother would be an insurmountable objection. Is
Miss Van Hoosen pretty?"
"Yanna is lovely. And she has a fine manner. Our art professor once
said to me, 'Your friend Miss Van Hoosen is a gentlewoman with a great
deal of background.' I do not know what he meant, but I am sure he
intended a great compliment."
"Oh! he meant intellect, emotions, and such things. I am not so sure
of Miss Van Hoosen now. There is Harry to be considered. He might fall
in love with her. That would be inexpedient--in fact, ruinous."
"Harry fall in love! How absurd! Have not the prettiest girls in our
set swung incense before him for five years? Harry glories in his
ability to resist temptation. He knows that Eve never could have 'got
round' him."
"She ruined Adam in about twenty-four hours. It would have taken Eve
about one minute to 'get round' Harry. The boy is really very
impressionable."
"Mamma! What a huge joke! Harry impressionable!"
"He is, I assure you, Rose. I presume I know my own son."
"Well, at any rate, he is not worse than the rest. Young men nowadays
neither love nor hate. Their love is iced on prudence, and their
hatreds have not a particle of courage. I wish I had been born one
hundred years ago. I have the heart for a real man."
"You flatter yourself, Rose. You are the very triumph of respectable
commonplace. And as for one hundred years ago, the follies of that
date were just as innumerable as our own."
"You think I am respectably commonplace, mamma. Then let me tell you,
I must be a consummate actress. I do not think you know Rose Filmer. I
do not think I know her myself. I hope I have some individuality."
"Individuality! There is nothing more vulgar. I hear Parry with the
carriage; will you drive with me?"
"No; I shall answer Adriana's letter, and get the subject off my mind.
It is so much easier to know what you dislike to do than to be sure of
what you like. Where are you going?"
"To McCreery's. I want some lace."
"Do buy the real article then. It is the chic thing now, to wear real
lace, and it does look supreme, among the miles of imitation that are
used."
Then Rose went to the library to answer Adriana's letter. It pleased
her to think it an important decision, and she sat some time with the
pen in her hand, and a judicial air on her beautiful countenance. For
she was undeniably a very attractive girl, as she sat in the sunshine
that morning, deliberating on Adriana's "deception"; there being to a
practiced observer many alluring contradictions in her face and
manner. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat, her eyes almond-shaped,
blue and limpid; her cheeks and chin dimpled; her mouth rosy and full;
her figure supple; her feet small, finely dressed, and quite in view;
her whole appearance that of a lovely innocent girl, on the threshold
of life. But this exquisite seeming contained possibilities of evil,
as well as good. Her dress was full of studied effects, her manners of
attitudes and languors; and her charming way of dropping her blue
eyes, and then suddenly flashing them open, was a conscious, and not a
natural, grace. Even her sweet credulousness had in it an equal
capacity for seductive wilfulness and petulance. Nor was she
unconscious of this double nature within her; for she had often said
to Adriana, "I feel as if there were twenty different girls in me--and
the majority of them bad."
Social life, however, so far, had had a salutary effect on her. She
had become more equable, more dependent on the approval of others,
and less liable to unconventional self-assertions. Nothing, indeed,
could have been better for Rose Filmer than the tight social rein
of a set which conscientiously tried to be both religious and
fashionable. She was compelled to honor _les convenances_, and to
obey them; compelled to suppress her spontaneity--which was seldom a
pleasant one--and to consider the feelings of others, as well as
the wishes of her own heart. At college she had been remarkable for
her self-willed personality; one season in society had taught her a
decent self-restraint. Consequently, she deliberated well the answer
to her friend's letter.
"If I want to break with her, I have now an excellent excuse," she
thought. "I could tell her that, though I have a soul above noticing
the accident of birth, my whole nature declares against deception.
There are a dozen moralities in the position, and I could retire
wounded and innocent, and leave her altogether in the wrong. But do I
want to break with Yanna? Would it be to my advantage? I think not.
The girls in our set do not like me. Julia Mills the other day called
me 'a little hypocrite' to my face. She did it with a laugh, but all
the other girls laughed too, and it was not pleasant. Yanna believes
in me. Then next summer we shall be at Woodsome, and mamma is right
about the long, tiresome summer days. Yanna was born in the village;
she knows every one, gentle and simple, and what is the use of
neighbors if you cannot gossip about them?
"Besides," she continued, "I have now three lovers, and I have not one
girl friend with whom I can talk them over--all the girls in our set
are so jealous of me--and Yanna would like to see my love letters, I
have no doubt. I wonder if she has a lover yet! I suppose not, poor
girl! Then there will be fun in watching Harry. Whether he be utterly
heartless, or, as mamma thinks, 'very impressionable,' he cannot meet
Yanna day after day without some consequences. I think, upon the
whole, it will be best to keep friends with Yanna." And having come to
this decision, she raised herself from the reflective attitude into
which she had fallen, and going to a table wrote as follows:
"My Beloved Yanna: Did you really think that your lowly birth could
change my love for you? No, no! Whether my Yanna be princess or
pauper, is no matter to me. I only long for our new house to be
finished, that I may have you more constantly near me." Then she
hesitated. She was on the point of saying she had long known of
Adriana's low birth; but she felt sure Adriana would ask her the "how"
and "when" of her information; and there was absolutely no good to
accrue from the falsity. But though she wrote eight pages of gushing
affection, she was not satisfied; she had not been able to choose her
words with precision, and far less able to prevent an _aura_ of
patronage which Adriana was as quick to feel as a barometer to answer
the atmospheric changes.
"I will not take any patronage from Rose Filmer," she muttered; and
then she flung Rose's letter into the fire; "I want nothing from her.
Oh! I must answer this letter at once; I could not eat my dinner if I
were so much in debt to my self-respect." So Adriana laid away her
sewing, and wrote:
"Dear Rose: Thank you for your overflowing letter. It is very kind
of you to overlook what you call the 'accident' of my birth. But I
cannot let you entertain the idea that I think it an 'accident.'
On the contrary, I regard my birth as the well-considered
ordination of Almighty God. I was not an 'accident' to my good
father and mother. I was placed in their care, because the
All-Wise considered the Van Hoosen home the best possible place
for my highest development. I think it is time people stopped
talking about the 'accident' of birth; and I am sure, as soon as
you regard birth in its proper light, you will do so. Your love
for me has led you likewise into a very stupid assertion about
'loving Yanna the same whether she was princess or pauper.' My
dear, there is no question of either. I am as far removed from
pauperism as we both are from royalty. Our mutual liking has stood
a number of little shocks, and I have no fear it will go to pieces
on my father's trade. He is building you a handsome house in the
most honorable manner. He was pleased to have the contract to do
so, and Mr. Filmer was equally pleased to secure his work. That is
the position, as I understand it. Suppose we say no more on the
subject; it will be so much nicer to write about your balls, and
fairs, and parties. From what you say, I think charity must be the
gayest of all the virtues; certainly it cuts the most considerable
figure of any during the New York season. I am sure you enjoyed
the private theatricals; for we all like occasionally to play a
part not our own. And so you are going to the seaside this summer?
Will you bathe? That is one of the things vanity would forbid me
to do, except in private. It is true, Venus rose beautiful from
the sea; but no mere mortal woman can do so. Do you not think,
that for a distinctly levelling process, sea bathing is supreme?
Life is very even and quiet here; when Woodsome Hall is finished,
we all hope it will make a difference. Is it to be 'Woodsome' or
'Filmer' Hall? Mr. Filmer had not decided when he was here last.
Dear Rose, do not let us have any more misunderstandings, and send
me a real nice letter soon.
"Yours lovingly,
"Adriana Van Hoosen."
This letter did not please Rose any better than her own effusion had
pleased Adriana; and for a little while there was a coolness between
the girls. They wrote to each other with accustomed regularity, but
their letters were set to a wrong key, Adriana's being specially
independent in tone, as if her self-esteem was perpetually on the
defensive. But life is not an exact science, something is always
happening to change its circumstances, and feelings change with them.
The following spring the new Filmer house was finished and ready for
occupancy; and the village newspaper was busily blowing little
fanfaronades of congratulation to Woodsome; and of welcome to the
coming Filmers; and by that time Adriana and Rose were also eager to
see each other again.
"I wonder if I ought to call on Rose," said Adriana to her father, as
she laid down the paper announcing the long heralded arrivals. "I
believe it would only be good form to do so."
"Under the circumstances, I would not call first, Yanna. Keep your
place, until you are asked out of it."
"I am quite willing to do so. My own home is a very good place,
father."
"Home is a blessed freedom, Yanna. At your own fireside, you can be a
law unto yourself. You can speak the thing you like, from morning to
night."
"The papers say the Filmers are Woodsome people. Do you remember
them?"
"I never saw the present Mr. Filmer until I made my contract with him.
I can just recollect his father, old Dominie Filmer, in his flowered
dressing-gown, and his velvet cap. We did not sit in his church; but
Adam Kors talks a great deal about him. He says he preached sermons
hard to understand, and full of sharp words. I dare say he was a good
man, for Adam tells of him being puzzled and troubled at living longer
than the orthodox Scriptural three-score-years-and-ten. But he died at
last--pretty well off."
"Most ministers die poorly off."
"Dominie Filmer was wise in his generation. He not only looked for
mansions in the sky, he had also a reasonable respect for the land
around Woodsome--and for shares in the railways, and things of that
kind. But no one in his day could speak ill of him; and his children
and grandchildren speak very well of him. And this friend of yours,
Rose Filmer, will be his granddaughter."
"Yes. I hope she will call soon. If she delays too long, it will be no
kindness. If she does not call at all, I think I shall hate her."
"No, Yanna. Anger and hate are not for you to bother with. They are
such a dreadful waste of life. Why should you let a person whom you
dislike, or despise, take possession of you, and of your mind, and
occupy your thoughts, and run your precious time to their idea? That
is a poor business, Yanna."
Here the conversation ceased, but the next morning Adriana was on the
watch for her friend. And about noon Rose came. She was driving
herself in a pretty dog-cart, for she had determined as she dressed
for her visit, to take no servant. She did not know what kind of a
house Adriana lived in, or in what situation she might find her. For
Rose's experience of life had not given her any precedent by which she
could judge of the social environments of a stone-builder; and she
said softly as she pinned on her hat: "Yes, I shall go alone. It will
be kinder to Yanna. Servants will talk. They might even wonder if she
is not one of our relations; these Woodsome people have made such a
stir about our being 'native.'"
She drove well, and was charmed and excited by her rapid movement down
the hills, and through the wooded lanes. Entering the village, she
asked for Mr. Van Hoosen's house, and it was readily pointed out. She
was a little astonished. It was a roomy, colonial dwelling, surrounded
by well-kept grounds. Horse-chestnuts arched the wide avenues, and the
house stood in a grove of flowering fruit trees. A boy who was rolling
turf took her horse's head, and she stepped to the spotless door
stone, with a decided access of affection. Adriana came running down
the stairs to meet her. They kissed each other, and buried in the kiss
all their small differences and offences.
"What a charming old house, Yanna!" cried Rose.
"What a perfect costume you have on, Rose!" cried Adriana.
"I knew you would like it. Put on your hat, Yanna. I want you all day,
and all day to-morrow, and every other day you can spare."
"I must tell father. I shall be delighted to go with you, Rose; but I
cannot do so without his knowledge."
"Certainly. I saw an old gentleman tacking up vines, as I drove
through the garden."
"That was father."
"You can find him in two minutes and a half, I know."
In very little more, Adriana came back with the old gentleman. He
looked so kindly at Rose that she could not help being pleased, and
she set herself to win the old Dutchman. She made him talk about his
flowers, and she listened with that air of being charmed and
instructed which even when it is merely a cultivated grace is an
irresistible one. She praised Yanna. She said with a frank enthusiasm,
"I love Yanna dearly," and while entreating for her company she
acknowledged "it was a great favor to ask."
Peter said "it was." He assured Rose that Yanna "was the sunshine of
his life, but that to make them both happy, he would gladly give up
his own pleasure." She thanked him with many pretty speeches, and when
Adriana came down ready for her visit, Peter helped the girls into
their seats, and put the reins into Rose's hands. Then he watched them
out of sight, with a face beaming with satisfaction.
From this excited and exalted tone, it was impossible to fall at once.
Rose gave herself up to it. She patted Yanna's hands; and as they went
through the woods kissed her many times. Then the new house was to be
gone through, and exclamations and adjectives were the only possible
speech, so that everything naturally enough conduced to an emotional
condition. At last Rose said, "I have not shown you my apartments yet,
Yanna. They are a picture in pinks;" and she led her into a suite that
was lovely with peach-bloom papers and hangings, with snow-white
willow chairs cushioned with pink silk, and pink silk draperies
trimmed with white lace. "I have chosen for you the room just across
the hall," she added, "so we shall be very near to each other. Listen!
that is the lunch-bell. Come and see mamma. In the afternoon we can
talk over things."
Mrs. Filmer was very pleasant and good-natured. She chatted with the
girls, and ate a salad, and then went away with her housekeeper: "Only
a part of the house is in order yet," she explained to Adriana; "and
neither workmen nor servants seem able to do without me. What will you
girls talk about until seven o'clock?"
"Oh!" cried Rose, "we shall have a long, delightful afternoon." And
probably to Rose it was delightful, for she told Yanna the tale of
ball-rooms, in which Rose Filmer had been chief among a thousand
beauties; she showed the photographs of many youths, who were her
adorers; and she read specially eloquent sentences from her many love
letters. Indeed, after a long session of this kind, Rose said
heartily, "I declare, I have not had such a sweet time since you left
me at college. But really we must rest an hour before dinner. I always
do. Come, I will take you to your room."
Adriana was glad to rest, and the soft, dim light of the carefully-shaded
room tempted her to complete physical relaxation; but her mind was
actively curious and alert. She had been hearing of a life entirely new
to her, "a pretty lute-string kind of a life, quite within the verge of
the Ten Commandments," she thought; "yet I do not believe it would please
me long. Its feverish unrest, its small anxieties and petty aims have told
already on Rose. Her mind has sunk to the level of what engages it. She
no longer plans for study and self-improvement; she talks of her duties
to society instead, and of its claims upon her. After all"--she thought
a few moments, and then added emphatically--"_after all, I am satisfied
with my lot!_ Even upon the testimony of so prejudiced a witness as
Rose, fashionable life is not a lofty thing. Its two principal standards
appear to be money and smartness; and I do believe the world has a far
higher ideal. It is only a very small minority who worship the great
goddess Fashion, and the image which the Parisian Jupiter sends over
here; the true _elite_ of the world have always been those whose
greatness was in themselves. There's father! In any kind of clothes, or
in any company, he would always be one of the _elite_. I never could
be ashamed of him. But I might be, if I saw him haunting the gay places
of the world, criticising ballet girls, and shuffling cards." She
indulged this train of thought, and lived over again the fantasy of
life Rose had shaped in her imagination.
A knock at the door roused her from it. A maid was there with some
flowers, and an offer of her services, if Miss Van Hoosen wished them.
The flowers were welcome, but the service would have been an
embarrassment. Adriana knew her good points, and was quite able to do
them justice. In her case, it was not the modiste that made the
woman.
When she was dressed she went to the drawing-room. It was full of
flowers and bric-a-brac, but there was not a book to be seen. No one
was in the room; no one was apparently downstairs; she was evidently
early, which at least was better than being late. So she walked about,
looking at this and that, and speculating as to where the _curios_
came from, and what queer histories they might have. Opposite one
entrance to the parlor, there was a large mirror, and before this
mirror a small gilded table. As Adriana passed it, she noticed that it
held a portfolio; and the ribbons which fastened it being untied, she
threw back the cover, and saw that it was full of photographs. Some
faces were young and pretty; others, middle-aged and old, graven all
over with the sharp tools of worldly strife, sorrow, thought, and
experience of various kinds. The aged faces pleased her most; they
were not merely calendars of so many years old, they had most of them
a story to tell.
Presently she came to the pictured face of a young man which was very
attractive. The countenance was full of force, and though the
personality was at a stand-still, "pulled up" for the second in which
it was taken, it was both an expressive and an impressive personality.
For the bit of prepared paper had caught something of that _fiery
particle_, that "little more" which in the real man was doubtless a
power going from him and drawing others to him, in spite of their own
resolves and inclinations.
She held the photograph in her hand, and looked earnestly at it. As
she did so, Harry Filmer stepped between the folds of pale blue plush
which shielded the doorway. He stood motionless and watched Adriana.
The mirror showed him at a glance beauty of a high and unusual kind.
He took rapid note of every element of it--the thick dark hair drawn
backward from the broad white brow--the white drooping eyelids,
heavily fringed--the richly-colored oval face--the bow-shaped
lips--the rounded chin--the straight white throat--the tall figure
robed in soft, white silk, with purple pansies at the bosom and
belt--and most of all, the air of freshness and of grave harmonious
loveliness which environed her. He could have gazed his heart away;
but in a few moments Adriana felt the unseen influence and turned. The
presentment was still in her hand; the living man stood before her.
She put the picture back into the portfolio, and advanced a step or
two. Harry bowed, and was at her side in a moment.
"I am sure you are Miss Van Hoosen," he said, with a pleasant smile;
"mother told me about you. And Rose has told me a great deal about
you. So, you see, we are old acquaintances. Is it not a most perfect
day? Have you been riding, or walking? Or has Rose kept you all day
'talking over things'?"
He was really nervous under Adriana's smiling eyes, and he felt it
easier to go on talking than to take the next step. Fortunately Rose
entered at the proper moment, and put every one conventionally at
ease. And if people eating a good dinner together cannot get agreeably
familiar, then there is something radically wrong with one-half the
company, and perhaps also with the other.
Now, women are undoubtedly different beings in the presence of men.
Adriana was a new Adriana to Rose. She was more mentally alert, more
assured and dignified in manner, and she even contradicted Harry in
many things. But then she had an agreeable way of dealing with those
from whom she disagreed; and Harry was only stimulated by her
opposition to his views. The dinner went delightfully to the chatter
of tongues and the light clash of crystal and china, and when it was
over, Harry exclaimed:
"What a charming meal we have had! I had almost forgotten how very
pleasant it is to eat with one's own family!"
"Quite as pleasant as to dine at a club, I should think, Harry," said
Rose.
"Talking of clubs, it is the ladies who run clubs nowadays, Miss Van
Hoosen. Has Rose told you how many she belongs to? Most of the married
men I know have had to resign their memberships; the candle cannot be
burned at both ends, and, of course, the ladies' end must not be put
out."
"Clubs are a new-fangled notion to women yet, Harry. They will soon
tire of their own company. You may be sure of that," said Mrs.
Filmer.
"Not so very 'new-fangled,' mother," continued Harry. "Women's clubs
have existed for centuries in Persia and Turkey. They call them 'The
Bath,' but the 'bath' is only an excuse for getting together to talk
gossip, and eat sweetmeats, and drink coffee. And if you like, I will
lend you Aristophanes, mother, and you may read what came of women
imitating such masculine ideas among those clever old Greeks."
"I have no time to read such ancient books. And they would have to be
very clever Greeks indeed to write anything the New York women of
to-day would care to read. My dear Harry, they are a few thousand
years behind the time."
"Harry forgets," said Rose, softly, "that if one of a family have to
retire from Club pleasures, justice decides against the man. It is not
a matter of courtesy at all; men have had their day. I assure you,
Woman is the Coming Man."
"Oh! I think we may claim club privileges on much higher grounds,"
said Adriana. "Every woman's club has before it the realization of
some high purpose, or the redressing of some wrong. I never heard of a
woman's club in New York on the oriental plan of tattle and gossip and
eating sweetmeats."
"Two of the clubs to which I belong," continued Rose, "have very
important subjects under discussion. One is the _Domestic Symposium_,
and we consider topics relating to Household Economy. At present, we
are trying to solve the Servant Girl Question."
"Oh!" cried Harry, with a hearty laugh, "if you indeed solve that
problem, Rose, men will give you the suffrage, and leave the currency,
and the tariff, and all such small financial and political questions
to you."
"Thanks, Harry! It is likely we may voluntarily take them into
consideration. This is an age of majorities. If we accomplish the
suffrage, women will have a majority on all questions; and the
reduction of man becomes a mere matter of time. I was going to
remark, that another of my clubs occupies itself with the criticism of
the highest poets of the age."
"Who are they?" asked Adriana.
"That is the point we have been arguing all last winter. We have had
difficulties. Mrs. Johnstone Miller raised objections to the
consideration of any but American poets; and it took two months'
sittings to settle that question. You would be astonished at the
strength of some people's prejudices!" ejaculated Rose, holding up her
pretty hands to emphasize her own astonishment.
"Not at all," answered Harry. "They call their prejudices 'principles,'
and then, of course, they cannot be decently relinquished."
"Mrs. Johnstone Miller is a very superior woman. It is a great thing
to hear her criticise Longfellow, Whittier, Eugene Field, Will
Carlton, and the rest. I am sure she believes that she could easily
excel each in their own department, if she were not prevented by her
high-bred exclusiveness."
"Not unlikely, Rose; there is no impertinence like the impertinence of
mediocrity."
"_Mediocrity!_ Why, Harry, Mrs. Johnstone Miller is worth all of three
million dollars, and it is very good of her to interest herself about
literature at all." And with these words Mrs. Filmer rose, and Harry
gave her his arm, and the little party strolled slowly round the
piazzas, and so through the blue _portieres_ into the drawing-room.
And as Adriana did so, she had a vivid memory of Harry Filmer as she
first saw him, standing between the pale draperies. They had
emphasized his black hair and eyes and garments very distinctly; for
the young man was physically "dark," even the vivid coloring of his
face being laid upon a skin more brown than white.
Mrs. Filmer made herself comfortable in the easiest of easy chairs,
and began mechanically to turn and change the many rings upon her
fingers; the act being evidently a habit, conducive to reflection or
rest. She told Harry to "go away and smoke his cigar"; but the young
man said he "was saving the pleasure until the moon rose; and in the
meantime," he added, "he should expect the ladies to amuse him. Rose
was talking of the greatest poets of the age," he said, "but I am
wondering what possible use we can have for poetry. Our age is so
distinctively material and epicurean."
Then Adriana asserted that it was precisely in such conditions poetry
became an absolute necessity. Poetry only could refine views that
would become gross without it; and give a tinge of romance to manners
ready to become heartless and artificial. The discussion was kept up
with much spirit and cleverness, though diverging continually to all
kinds of "asides," and Mrs. Filmer, with half-closed eyes, watched and
listened, and occupied her mind with far different speculations.
Then there was some music; Rose played in her faultlessly brilliant
manner; and Harry sang _The Standard Bearer_, and Adriana sang a
couple of ballads. And by this time the moon had risen, and Harry
brought woolen wraps, and the two girls walked with him, while he
smoked more than one cigar. At first, the promenade was to a quickstep
of chatter and laughter; but as the glorious moonshine turned earth
into heaven, their steps became slower, their laughter died away,
feeling grew apace, speech did not seem necessary, and a divine
silence that felt even motion to be a wrong was just beginning to
enthrall each young, impressible heart.
At that moment Mrs. Filmer broke the dangerous charm by an imperative
assertion that "it was high time the house was locked up for the
night. She had been asleep and forgotten herself," she said, and there
was a tone of hurry and worry in her voice. So emotion, and romance,
and young love's dreaming were locked out in the moonshine; and there
was a commonplace saying of "good-nights." At their bedroom doors,
Rose and Adriana kissed each other, and Rose said:
"I have been thinking of poor Dick Duval. Poor Dick! He loves me so
much!"
"Then love him in return, Rose."
"Impossible! He is poor."
With a sad smile, and a deep sigh, Rose shut her door. It was
characteristic of her, that she had not thought of Adriana and Harry.
But Harry could not sleep for thought--for a sweet, pervading,
drifting thought, that had no definite character, and would indeed
have been less sweet if it had been more definite. He could only tell
himself that he had found a new kind of woman; that her beauty filled
his heart; and that her voice--whether she spoke or sang--set him
vibrating from head to feet.
As for Adriana she was serious, almost sorrowful, and she wondered at
the mood, finding it nevertheless quite beyond her control. Had she
been wiser in love lore she would have feared it; for there is a gloom
in the beginnings of a great love, as there is gloom in deep water; a
silence which suspends expression; an attitude shy and almost
reverent, it being the nature of true love to purify the temple in
which it burns.