"All, then, has come to an end; and I feel as if I had buried every
sweet day we lived together!" These were Adriana's first thoughts in
the morning. However, she had slept heavily, as God often permits
those to sleep for whom sorrow lies in wait; and she was stronger to
bear the burden of the days before her. They were very dreary and
monotonous for many weeks; for the fall was a wet and sunless one. Yet
it was not the heavy atmosphere and the melancholy heavens that
depressed her; it was rather the mental and moral drizzle of the
household; and for this she was herself much to blame.
She restrained all confidence; she would not talk to her father or
brother about the Filmers; she responded to no effort to amuse her,
and she would not permit herself to weep. And as tears and laughter
and mutual confidence are the means appointed to stay life's overflow,
and to give the full heart ease, she missed the natural comforters of
her position. And as she gave no confidence to Antony, Antony also
kept his hopes and doubts, his joys and sorrows, to himself. If
Adriana had spoken to him of Harry, he would have gladly discussed
with her Rose's heart-breaking ways with him--her advances and
retreats, her kindness and her cruelty, her love and her disdain.
But brother and sister alike kept silence, and Peter did not feel at
liberty to comfort uncomplained-of suffering; nor yet to offer advice
in circumstances of which his children presumed him to be either
ignorant or unsympathetic. Nevertheless, he suffered both mentally and
really with them; for most houses adopt more or less of the mental
aspects of the dwellers in them, and the old happy contentment which
had filled Peter's home with sunshine in all weathers was invaded by
many shadows. The order of his life was broken-up, and its very
pleasures were robbed of their sweetness. Dinner-time, and bed-time,
and all the times and seasons of domestic existence went on
undisturbed; and the books were brought out, and Peter read aloud with
even an exaggerated interest; but the heart was out of all Adriana's
duties and amusements; and Peter, try as he would, felt it difficult
to control a feeling of anger against the strangers who had entered
his home only to make those he loved miserable.
For a month Antony vibrated between Woodsome and New York; but finally
he resolved to stay in the city. He said something to his father about
"western securities, and the opportunity he had for making money in
them," but both Peter and Adriana knew that his real object was Rose
Filmer. His desertion had, however, one good result, it made Adriana
feel that she must resume her old companionship with her father. She
could not now suppose that Antony was with him, or that her father was
with Antony, or if they were really together, slip away to her own
room, on the presumption they did not want her company in order to
discuss the country, or the horses, or the best time to plant.
She accepted the duty with much of her old, sweet cheerfulness. "We
are alone again, dear father!" she said, "and I am going to see how
happy I can make you." And Peter's swift acceptance of this promise,
the joy on his face, his ready oblivion of all her neglect, his eager
interest in all she proposed, went to her heart like the wine of
gladness.
"Suppose I teach you chess, father!"
The proposal made Peter happy as a child. He answered that there was
nothing he wished to learn so much. He said he would go to New
York that very day for the men and the board--Staunton men and
board--nothing cheaper. He kept his word. He brought back the plain,
sensible pieces and their mimic battle-field in his hands. He was
as enthusiastic a pupil as any teacher could desire, and yet he was
brimming with conversation of all that he had seen in the city,
and on the train, and the ferry boats. And at last, when the little
table was drawn to the hearth and the two sat down to the game, it
was wonderful to see how eager and how receptive he was!
"It is the grandest bit of play in the world, Yanna," he said, when at
last the pieces were reluctantly restored to their box. "You have
given me one of the happiest evenings I ever had in my life!" and his
eyes shone with love and gratitude. "My girl is the best of all girls!
May God Almighty bless her!"
And without extenuations or exceptions, Adriana had also one of the
happiest evenings of her life. No one can gain a great victory over
self and not be happy. Adriana walked upstairs erect, with a smile on
her lips, and a glow in her heart, such as she had not felt for many
weeks. She undressed with her old alertness and method; she knelt down
in happy confidence, feeling that she could ask to be made happy when
she had made others happy.
From this brave new beginning, there was no back-sliding--or at least
none that Peter was permitted to feel. For Adriana was ashamed of
herself when she realized how much of the pleasure of other lives she
had sacrificed to her own selfish sorrow. Peter appeared next day to
be ten years younger. Betta was bright and busy as a summer bee; the
two old house-dogs came back confidently to the rug before the fire;
the stable-man got a smile through the window, and then ventured to
ask a favor for his wife.
"How cruel I have been!" she said. "How much happiness for others I
held in these two hands--and then withheld!" and she spread out her
palms, and tried to realize how full they were, and how niggardly she
had been of the God-given blessings in them.
But she was no longer so. Whatever effort it cost at first, to put
aside her own pain and disappointment, gradually became easy. She did
not forget; she only compelled memory to take counsel with justice and
generosity. The past, which had usurped the places of both present and
future, was gradually relegated to its proper domain; and in the
exercise of the willpower necessary for this control of her daily
life, she resumed the power to control those higher conditions which
relate to the moral and mental existence. In a week the nobler
influence ruled, and the ignoble atmosphere of self rarely chilled
that confidential communion which ought to exist between all the
members of one household.
So the time went on, until it was nearly Christmas. Then, one morning,
destiny knocked at Peter's door, and let in Miss Alida Van Hoosen. She
had always been accustomed to call about the New Year, but her visit
so much earlier was unexpected, especially as they had been informed
some weeks previously by the "Woodsome Local" that Miss Van Hoosen
had left her beautiful home for her winter residence in New York City.
But her visit, though unexpected, was very welcome to Adriana. For she
liked her cousin, and she was heartily glad of any social event to
break the monotony of her daily life.
"I saw Cousin Peter in the village as I came through it," said Miss
Alida. "What do men find to talk about? They never seem to be bored in
the stupidest place."
"Oh, cousin, I am so glad to see you! I did not expect you so soon."
"The logic of events, Adriana! And you cannot oppose their arguments.
Selina Zabriski has made up her mind to go to Florida. Now, as you
know, I have stayed with Selina for sixteen winters; and her absurdity
throws me out into space, as it were."
"Are you coming back to the country?"
"To the country! In December! No, Adriana. I have rented Selina's
house, and her man-servants, and her maid-servants, her dogs and her
cats, her carriages and her horses; and I want you to come and stay
with me. Will you?"
"Cousin! It will make me the happiest girl in the world to do so. Do
you think father will be willing for me to go?"
"Fathers are persuadable. I have some excellent arguments. I want you,
at once, though."
"I shall be glad to go at once. Still, father will be very lonely. I
ought to think of that."
"Cousin Peter will not let his loneliness interfere with your
pleasure, or else I do not know Cousin Peter. And also I think Antony
Van Hoosen would be better here than haunting operas and theatres,
and every spot by night and day, where Rose Filmer beckons him. Oh! I
know that Filmer girl; and the more I think of her the less I think of
her. She has Antony's heart under her foot, and she turns and turns
her French heel on it, as if it were a worm. But if Antony must be in
New York, he shall have a home from which he may command the Filmers.
At least, I shall offer him this advantage."
"Command!"
"I think so. If there is one thing Emma Filmer aspires to, longs for,
covets, and hankers after, it is to step within the charmed chalk
circle, which encloses the central reserve of what she calls
'society.' Selina Zabriski is one of this potent reserve, and your
poor cousin has a kind of, a sort of, a power in it. Oh! I know Emma
Filmer! And Henry Filmer, also--poor fellow! In New York we don't
think much of husbands, but we don't often drive them to writing books
about--_civilization!_"
She was silent for a moment or two, then she resumed: "When I was a
slip of a girl, Adriana, I had a 'thoughtful' feeling about Henry
Filmer. The old Dominie used to say to me, 'Henry is a good lad,
Alida, and there is a kind of providence in the way your lands lie.
Land and love is fair matrimony, you may depend upon that, Alida.'"
"Then, cousin, did you once intend to marry Mr. Filmer?"
"As I say, I had got as far as 'thinking.' But Henry Filmer wrote
poetry, and I am not poetical. Emma Colbert set his poems to music,
and sang them! What man could resist such tactics? With her 'Ohs!' and
her 'Ahs!' and her tinkling piano, she took him captive. Poor Henry
Filmer! I do not suppose she has sung him a single poem since they
were married. So, you see, I might have been your mother-in-law."
"Cousin Alida!"
"Yes, it is better 'cousin'. But there is no need to 'keep from' me. I
used to see young Filmer and you driving and walking together, and as
I have my eyes, and my senses, I may say, as Corporal Nym said in a
delicate matter, 'There must be conclusions!' Well, I cannot tell!"
Then Adriana opened her heart. This kindly brusque woman had evidently
in the past suffered something from Harry's mother. That made an
instant sympathy between them; perhaps, indeed, Alida had divined the
trouble, and had told her own experience to induce Adriana's
confidence. At any rate, she gave it freely. She made nothing better,
and nothing worse, as regarded Mrs. Filmer's opposition; but she did
unconsciously idealize Harry, and she did make excuses for his
pusillanimity.
Miss Alida was disposed to encourage this attitude. In the first
place, she found it agreeable to be in opposition to Mrs. Filmer. In
the second, she had set her wishes on this union of the two branches
of her family. In the third, she had been pleasantly impressed by
Harry's face and manner. She, therefore, encouraged Adriana's
apologies. She said, in the present day it was a wonder to find a
young man disposed to put the welfare of his family before his own
gratification; and though she admitted Harry to have been prominently
"gay," she considered his attitude as natural an expression of
disappointment as Adriana's gloomy melancholy had been. "You went to
the house of mourning, Adriana," she continued, "and Harry went to the
house of feasting; and, my dear, I boldly affirm that in some cases
the house of mourning is just as selfish and wicked as the house of
feasting. When did you hear from Rose? Has she written to you
lately?"
"Yes; but her letters are different. They are not less kind; but they
are less confidential."
"Well, I admire that she writes at all. When I was a girl I durst no
more have written to a person whom my mother did not approve than I
durst have lifted the fire in my hands. Does she say anything about
Antony?"
"Sometimes she fills her letters with Antony; again, she never names
him. Her letters have a strange tone, I may say, an indiscreetness
that amazes me."
"She is indiscreet. I hardly know how to say softly enough the words
necessary to explain this condition; but the fact is, she ought not to
touch wine, and she does touch it. A certain Mr. Duval has a bad
influence over Rose Filmer. I never see them together but there is a
champagne glass in proximity. Dancing leads them to the wine, and the
wine leads them to the dance; and the reiterated transition becomes
disagreeable to the onlookers. One night last week I saw Antony go to
her, and after a perceptible word of import to Duval, take Miss Filmer
away on his arm. The affair was so rapid that few saw it; and
fortunately, those few supposed it to be a love quarrel between the
men. But I, who am a looker-on in Vanity Fair, often see more than
meets the eye; and in this case I had a family feeling both as regards
Rose and Antony. In fact, I had gone to that ball specially to observe
them."
"Where was Mrs. Filmer?"
"Mrs. Filmer was devoting herself to a titled English lady. Harry was
talking with a pretty widow. None of Rose's friends, but myself, saw
the embryo tragedy. My dear, we are finite creatures, but the tricks
we play before high heaven are infinite in their folly and variety. I
see Cousin Peter coming. Stand to your wishes, Adriana; and teach your
tongue to say what it really wants."
There was little need for this encouragement. Peter understood what
was required of him, and before Miss Alida had finished her request,
he was looking into Adriana's face with a smiling assent. Certainly
the assent implied much self-denial; but not altogether self-denial.
He was pleased that his daughter should have this great social
pleasure; the more so, that she had been practically ignored in all
the village festivities. Her education, her tastes and her manner were
out of order with the smartness and giggling, setting the tone of the
usual sleigh-rides and ice-cream parties. Even the literary society of
Woodsome felt ill at ease when airing its learning before her. She had
been educated above her surroundings, and it was less unkindness than
a principle of self-defence which made her surroundings shy of her.
In some respects Peter was much gratified, then, at the invitation.
Miss Van Hoosen was the bright particular star of the local
celebrities of Woodsome; for though her residence was some miles
beyond the village, she owned much property in it; and her influence
was marked, and always favorable. For himself Peter had never boasted
of their cousinship; but he could not help being a little uplifted at
Adriana's recognition. And if he thought of the gratification he would
find in just naming the affair, in an incidental way, before Bogart
and others, it was a bit of pride so natural and so unselfish as to
merit a smiling toleration.
It was then decided that Adriana should go to New York on the
following Monday; and Miss Alida went cheerfully away with the
promise. "I hope to have Antony to meet you," she said, as they
parted, "for I shall write to him this very night." And then turning
to Peter she added, "I look forward with great delight to this new
experience; for I have a large maternal instinct, and I intend to make
myself believe that I have a son and daughter to settle in life."
"I hope that your intention will bring you nothing but pleasure, and
that it will end well."
"I know not, Cousin Peter." Her face became thoughtful, and she added,
with some seriousness:
"The thing we intend is sure to bring with it lots of things we did
not intend, and often of far superior importance; but----"
"Our times are always in His hand. We do not shape our own destiny,
cousin."
"Oh, indeed! I should like to dispute that point with you; but the
train is no respecter of persons, so we must let its settlement wait
on our convenience."
With these words she waved an adieu to Adriana, and Peter drove her
away. Then Adriana sat down to try to realize the change that had so
suddenly come over her circumstances. Her first thought was the glad
one that she had voluntarily made her father happy before this
invitation came. How mean she would have felt if she had not done so!
He might then have been pleased to get rid of her sad face and
melancholy ways; and she could not have written to him about her
pleasures in New York. She would have been ashamed to do so. And on
many other accounts, she understood at this hour that unselfishness
pays no one so well as it pays those who practice it.
It was Friday afternoon, and the interval was full of pleasant talk
and anticipations; though naturally on the Sabbath the tone of both
was subdued to the day and its holy observances. In the bare old Dutch
Reformed Church, Adriana was an object of interest to the maidens
worshipping there; almost as much so as if she were going to be
married. A strange destiny had fallen upon this girl, who had been
their playmate and schoolmate, and they could not help wondering what
quality she possessed capable of attracting to her so much good
fortune. She was pretty, but then they also were pretty; some of them
lived in larger and finer homes than Adriana's; and as for her plain
tweed gowns, they thought their own styles far superior.
"It must have been something she learned at college," said one
speculative girl, in their future discussion of this subject. "No,"
said another, "it is the Dutch in her. Mother says the Van Hoosens
have always stuck together. There never was a poor one among them, or,
if there was, they all helped him until he could stand on his feet and
fight his own battle."
And certainly Alida Van Hoosen's interest in Antony and Adriana--only
very distant relatives--seemed to warrant this explanation. For a
good family tree has far-spreading branches and roots, and the
crown of leaves on the topmost branch, and the tiniest fibre that
offshoots from the trunk, are part and parcel of the same life. And
no other tree is just like it. Now, Alida Van Hoosen was one of those
women who ripen well and improve by keeping--a much sweeter woman
at sixty than she had been at forty; for though age turns a
frivolous nature into a hard one, it makes a serious woman tender and
tolerant and humanly sympathetic. And Miss Alida, having wearied
her capacity for travel and change, was fortunately in need of a
living object on which to bestow her time and her affections. So
that the unlooked-for appearance of Antony, and the handsome
appearance of Adriana, allied with circumstances so singularly fitting
into her love of race and family, supplied her with an interest
promising to be both sufficiently active and sufficiently lasting.
"Here am I," she said to herself, "provided by my good fortune with
two sons and two daughters, just at their most interesting age; all
their childish tempers and troubles over, their education finished,
and their love affairs pleasantly tangled up. I am grateful to Peter
Van Hoosen and Henry Filmer for finding me a vocation so suitable for
my age and my position as the good genius of the Van Hoosens." And
with this pleasant idea underlying all her other ideas, she awaited
the arrival of Adriana.
Monday morning proved to be fine and frostily exhilarating; and Peter
took his daughter to the train in a cheerful mood. He knew better than
to offer her advice about a life of which he was entirely ignorant;
besides, he had faith in Adriana's religious nature and clear
judgment; and he felt it to be sufficient as he held her hand at
parting to say: "Be a good girl, Yanna, 'unspotted from the
world'--you know what that means, my dear. And try to do something for
Antony."
She smiled assent to both commissions, and with this comfort at heart,
Peter drove leisurely home, and began to settle his life to its new
order. He was resolved to work more in his barn and his greenhouse,
and to begin writing a little book, which he had long contemplated,
upon the culture of bulbs. On the whole, he was sure he could manage
to enjoy his solitary life very well; for love destroys all egotisms;
it can be happy in the happiness of others.
Antony was the first person Adriana saw when she reached New York. He
had come with the carriage to meet his sister, and he was smiling a
welcome to her, before he had any opportunity to speak it. "What do
you think?" he said to Yanna, as soon as they were together. "Cousin
Alida sent for me on Saturday, and when I answered her note, she
entreated me to be her guest during this winter. She told me she
expected you to-day, and that a gentleman in the house was necessary
for comfort and safety--and respectability. She pretended to be afraid
of burglars and servants, and made out such a hard condition for
herself and you that I finally consented to accept her invitation. But
I am afraid I have done a very foolish thing."
"Indeed, you have not, Antony. You are looking pale and ill; certainly
you want some one to care for you. What is the matter, dear brother?"
"Nothing."
"Do you mean Rose Filmer, when you say 'nothing'?"
"Far from it. Rose is everything."
"You love Rose so much? Tell me about it, Antony. It will do you
good."
"I love Rose so much, Yanna, that I only live to love her."
"Well, then, you will soon meet her often, and under very favorable
conditions. She will be sure to visit me, and in the quiet of Cousin
Alida's house you may influence her when you could not do so in a
crowd."
"I have thought of that. And, oh, Yanna! you must help me to keep my
Rose sweet and pure. She has so many temptations; she is so weak, and
you are so strong. Surely you will help me to help Rose!"
"With all my heart. Miss Alida told me----"
"Do not mind what you are told--the dear girl is in danger, and I love
her all the more. Oh, Yanna, the love has got into my soul, and
whatever Rose is, or whatever she does, cannot affect it. Deep down,
below all the folly and cruelty she is sometimes guilty of, she loves
me. Do I mind, then, the accidentals of her position? Not at all. Her
heart is mine. Some day she will find that out. I am not to be
discouraged by pouts or tempers--no, nor yet by graver faults."
And Yanna felt at once that there was no reasoning with a love like
this. Also, it had her most living sympathy. Just in this unreasonable
way, she would fain have been loved herself. She looked with
admiration on the man capable of it. As he talked of Rose, of her
beauty, her sweetness, her facile temper responding to every breath of
opinion, to every whim and wish, he talked with an astonishing
eloquence; for the highest poetry is struck from the eternal strings
of the human heart, and every word Antony said came thrilling from
them. It was evident that he had learned this eloquence in the school
of pain; Yanna could see through his shy, sensitive, uncomplaining
manner that he had suffered, and was still suffering from the
conditions he described so graphically.
"We are at home," he said at length. "And, oh, Yanna! it has done me
so much good to speak to you. I have never said a word to any one
before. I felt this morning as if my heart must break."
"Come to me with every fresh joy or sorrow, Antony. What is a sister
for? See, there is cousin at the door!"
"Welcome, children!" was Miss Alida's cheerful greeting. "Was the
train late? I expected you an hour ago. In fact, I have been looking
for you, Adriana, ever since last Friday. Come, I will show you your
room. I am sure you have a headache, they heat those cars so
ferociously. Did Antony attend to your trunks? Is it not a charming
day? And after lunch we will go out and do some shopping. There is
always shopping to do--that is the one interest never lacking. How is
Cousin Peter? Did he fret at parting with you?" So she talked, as she
stirred the fire, and pointed out the comforts of the apartment ere
she left her guest to rest and refresh herself.
When the door closed, Adriana sat down with her hat in her hand, and
looked around her. The house was large, lofty and furnished with all
the splendid taste of the present era; and its atmosphere was
singularly quiet and cheerful. It gave her that sense of contentment
which comes from satisfied ideals; and she wondered vaguely at the
chain of circumstances which had brought Antony and herself under
Madame Zabriski's roof. Antony in no way appeared out of his place;
and yet culture, in its educational sense, had done nothing for him.
But he possessed naturally that serene, self-contained, courteous
manner which is the essence of good breeding; and in outward aspects
he had been wise enough not to trust his own judgment, but to wear
what his tailor decreed. Antony, therefore, was well-dressed, calm and
leisurely; the latter excellent society trait having been acquired to
perfection in the long, hot days of ranching life, when lounging was
the only thing possible, and a very little exertion went a very long
way.
As for herself, Adriana had no fears. She anticipated no social
contingency to which she would not be equal; and she found in her
relationship to her hostess all the surety she needed for her
position. But she did consider the propriety of rich costumes in rooms
so magnificent, and admit that Miss Alida's proposition concerning
shopping was a necessary one. So the time went swiftly by, as she
noted down her own ideas on the subject; for in spite of all her
efforts, her mind would wander. She thought of Harry, she thought of
Rose, and she wondered how and when they would meet. So before she had
completed her list, the lunch bell rang; and she saw Antony at the
foot of the stairs waiting for her. He looked at her with proud
satisfaction, and slipping a piece of paper into her hand said: "You
will want lots of fine things, Yanna; you must let me get some of them
for you."
When they entered the dining-room there was an old gentleman
present--a fiery professor of some kind, who was sipping his bouillon,
and contradicting Miss Alida with an apparently equal satisfaction.
She seemed to be enjoying his unconventional manner. "Professor," she
was saying as they entered, "you seize every opportunity to lecture
the universe. Will you regard my adopted children? They are Mr. Antony
and Miss Adriana Van Hoosen--cousins, sir, and a little more than
cousinly." He bowed to the young people, smiled, nodded, and then said
brusquely to Miss Alida:
"Dutch, too, I perceive."
"Pure Dutch, Professor. Look at them. They may be descendants of John
de Bakker, or of Madame Wendelmost Klaas; or they may be of the same
blood as the Cromelins, Laboucheres, and Van Overzees, for aught even
your wisdom can tell. For the race is pure on their side."
"And all is race. There is no other truth; because it includes all
others. I admire the Dutch, madame; and I am lost in wonder when I
consider Holland."
"You may well be that, Professor," cried Miss Alida, as she lifted
daintily for him a Joseph-portion of the tempting salad, "for the
sublime thing about Hollanders is that they have created a country for
themselves. If you had ever stood on the town house of Leyden----"
"I have stood there."
"And what did you see?"
"I saw streets, where there was once the open sea. I saw cornfields,
where fish had once been caught. I saw an orchard, where there had
once been an oyster-bed. I saw a fair province, covered with a web of
silvery waters."
"And yet they say that Dutchmen are prosaic and phlegmatic! Holland is
in itself a poem!"
"Yes," said Adriana, "for some poet must have seen beneath the salt
waves the land flowing with milk and bristling with barley."
"And then," added Miss Alida, all aglow with enthusiasm--"and then
came the heroes! and they dived into the turbid waters and brought the
vision to the light of day."
"Very good!" said the Professor; "but what I like about the Hollanders
is their religion. Holland was nothing till all of a sudden the Gospel
made it sublime. The Hollanders knew the worth of their souls. In
their politics, they thought of eternity--a thing statesmen do not
usually take into account; and seeking first the kingdom of heaven,
they struck such bold strokes for freedom as would make common heroes
falter."
"Yes," answered Miss Alida, "the Dutch are a religious people, but
they have always hated religious rituals. You could not get Antony and
Adriana Van Hoosen, after all their American generations, to take an
interest in church millinery and such trivialities."
"Race! race! my dear madam. The Dutch do not comprehend the truths
hidden in symbols--that is all."
"But why," asked Antony, "should we have symbols when we may have
realities?"
"Why? why? Always why! I think I will write a grand treatise on the
Martyrs and Heroes of Holland."
"Better, then, begin at once. Miss Witsus contemplates just such a
book. She tells me that she is certain she can write it."
"Let her cherish the simple faith to the latest day of her life. Do
not encourage her in any audacious attempts to reduce it to practice.
She will only lose a pleasant illusion. For my part, I spoke
presumptuously, and I most humbly repent it."
"Let us change the subject. How do you feel about the elections,
Professor?" asked Antony.
"I take them as I take the weather, or any other matter beyond my
control."
"The principles of Democracy----"
"Oh, sir!" interrupted the Professor, "the principles are all right;
the trouble is in reducing them to practice, for Democracy degrades
statesmen into politicians."
"The trouble is," said Miss Alida, laughing, "we want more Dutchmen in
office. They have some fixed ideas about religion and politics, and
they stick to them like grim death."
"Dutch again!"
"Yes, sir. And I may tell you that I am thinking of founding a Woman's
Holland Society. Have you any idea of the wealth and intelligence
united in the Men's Holland Society of New York City? Do you know how
they honor their noble fatherland? They eat, and drink, and make
merry; or they interest themselves in preserving a few old relics. But
if the Dutch women form a Holland Society, the Dutch men may prepare
to give, and to do, or else to take a lower place. The Dutch Women's
Holland Society will found schools and orphanages, and look after the
sick and the stranger within our gates. They will encourage Dutch
talent and Dutch cleanliness; and stand up for the plain, primitive
religion."
"My dear madam! Has the millennium indeed arrived?"
"There is something in the idea, however, Professor?"
"Yes; but we must leave it for future discussion. I have a dear friend
waiting for me in your outer vestibule."
"A dear friend of yours! And waiting for you in the outer vestibule!
Why did you not bring him in? You must have known that he would be
welcome."
"My friend is my dog Sultan; a noble mastiff, a thorough gentleman,
a Republican and Protectionist of the proper sort. He allows no
strange dogs to prowl about the place, and grub up his buried bones.
Cats, in his eyes, are unfit to cumber the earth. Cows and other
dogs he does not permit even to look over the fence. A dog of worth;
and when I come again, I will introduce him to you; but for the
present--adieu!"
They sat still a little to praise the Professor, and then the ladies
prepared for their afternoon shopping. They were full of anticipation,
and Adriana was radiant with those pleasant hopes that only stir the
heart of youth. Among the silks and laces, the gowns and cloaks and
trimmings, they had some happy calculations; and when they left Arnold
& Constable's, it was already dusk and cold. They passed out of the
store quickly, Yanna looking straight before her, and having her muff
raised slightly towards her face. So neither of them saw the young man
who bent eagerly forward from a passing hansom, and looked at them
with amazement, and yet with an intense interest.
It was Harry Filmer on his way home; and if the driver had not known
his home, he would certainly have passed it, so astonished was he at
what he had seen, and so lost in speculation as to how such a thing
could be.
"Whom do you think I met driving with Madame Zabriski this evening as
I came home?" he said to his mother and Rose, as soon as an
opportunity offered.
"Madame Zabriski's friends are called legion," answered Mrs. Filmer;
"but I am sure we know no one who is on driving terms with the proud
old woman."
"Nevertheless, it was a great friend of yours, Rose--in fact, it was
Yanna Van Hoosen."
Mrs. Filmer turned round and looked at her son with scornful
incredulity. "The thing is absurd!" she said. "You have been mistaken.
Miss Van Hoosen has quite a common face."
"It was Yanna," persisted Harry, sulkily. "I should think I know
Yanna when I see her. I have good reason to do so. Her face was clear
as light against the winter gloom. I can tell you, it gave me a
shock."
"In the Zabriski carriage? I cannot understand it. Was Madame Zabriski
with her?"
"I have never seen Madame Zabriski except at the opera. Women look
different in their carriage wraps."
"I am almost certain that I heard, or I read, that she had gone with a
party to Florida. You are sure it was Miss Van Hoosen?"
"Positive."
"Then," said Rose, "I think Yanna is acting very strangely. Why has
she not written to me? I sent her a long letter last week, and she has
not answered it. However, I shall probably see her brother this
evening, and he will tell me whatever there is to tell."
Thus it happened that Antony received a smiling invitation that night
into the Filmers' opera box; and that he was translated into the
seventh circle of delight by Rose's amiability and preference. To
other visitors she was delightfully cordial, but she kept Antony at
her side, and treated him with a familiar confidence she gave to no
one else. Even Mrs. Filmer was more polite. She had noticed between
Antony and her daughter a very intimate and apparently interesting
conversation, and she perceived that Rose was much impressed by its
tenor; and that she treated her lover with an unusual consideration.
It was therefore likely that something strange had occurred; and she
wisely accommodated herself to the mood it had induced.
But there was no conversation on the subject until they were at home.
Then Mrs. Filmer, in her dressing-gown and slippers, went to Rose's
room to receive her confidence. The girl was sitting half-undressed
before the fire, with a soft, happy expression on her face. She sighed
and smiled when her mother entered, and then began to uncoil her hair,
and to spread it loose over the back of the chair on which she sat.
"It is too long, Rose," said Mrs. Filmer, passing the shining locks
through her fingers. "You ought to have it cut a little."
"So many things ought to be done that are neglected. You came to hear
about Yanna, eh, mamma?"
"What did Mr. Van Hoosen say?"
"Yanna and he are both staying with their cousin, Miss Alida Van
Hoosen--you know papa sold her some land in Woodsome last summer. Miss
Van Hoosen has rented the Zabriski house, with all its belongings,
servants, carriages, opera box, etc."
"Now I begin to understand. This Miss Van Hoosen and Madame Zabriski
have been friends since their school days. They are together every
winter; and every one thinks it necessary to speak of their 'lovely
friendship,' and so on. And so she is a relative of the girl you know?
Why did you not tell me this before?"
"They are only cousins--distant cousins--and Yanna never said much
about her. We often passed her house when we were driving; and if we
saw her at the window, or in the garden, we bowed to her. She appeared
to be a very good-tempered old lady, and she must be so, for she has
invited Yanna and her brother to stay with her until Easter."
"Well! Wonders never cease! It may, however, be a good thing for you,
Rose. This lady must know many of the Zabriski set; and she will
doubtless give some entertainments to her cousins. And somehow you are
not popular with our own acquaintances, so that it would be a little
triumph for you to step up from among them. I should go and see your
friend in the morning."
"I intend to do so. I promised her brother I would be there early. He
said he was sure that Yanna had written to me."
Then she rose, laid down the hairpins she had been idly fingering, and
going to a closet, took out of it a bottle and a small wine glass.
Mrs. Filmer instantly arrested her hand. "What are you doing, Rose?"
she asked, angrily. "You took enough wine before coming upstairs. Do
you know that Harry said to me yesterday, 'Rose takes too much wine
for a young girl; she will spoil her complexion.'"
"Tell Harry to mind his own complexion. I really have a pain--an
indigestion, mamma. I always suffer from it when I eat a lobster
salad, and I foolishly ate one to-night. I am only going to take a
teaspoonful as medicine."
"Why, Rose! My God! Rose, it is brandy! Give the bottle to me at once!
What do you mean? Are you mad?"
"Not at all. I am only tired to death, and not well."
Mrs. Filmer had the bottle in her hand, and she sat down with it, and
began to cry hysterically. The fear, the doubt, that had been for some
time couchant, hushed, hidden, had suddenly sprung like a wild beast
at her heart. She felt as if she must choke, but in the midst of her
anguish, she clung to the bottle with the desperation of a mother who
holds back death from her child.
For some minutes Rose stood watching her, not affected by the grief
she witnessed; only conscious of an indifference she could not master,
and whose foundation was anger and annoyance. But when her mother had
sobbed her passion of grief away, and lay white, still and exhausted
in her chair, Rose went to her side, and kissed the tears off her
cheeks, and said with an accent of deep injury:
"Mamma, dear mamma! You are making your head ache for nothing at all.
Every one of the girls I know take a teaspoonful of brandy now and
then, when they are tired and sick. Harry does the same thing very
often. Why should he blame me? And then for _you_ to act as if I had
committed some dreadful crime! It is too bad! You might have faith in
your daughter. No wonder so many people treat me shyly, when you come
to my room to insult me. Oh, mamma, it is too cruel! It is too cruel!
It is, indeed!"
Then mother and daughter wept together, and things were said between
them far too sacred to be put into words--confessions, that had no
articulate form; promises, that were never to be broken; sympathy,
alliance, love invincible, hoping all things, believing all things!
And when at length "good-night" was kissed, not spoken, there was an
air of solemnity on Mrs. Filmer's face that the world had never seen
there, not even in church; and Rose was white as a lily, and her fair
head drooped, and her heart was heavy, though not quite uncomforted.
Long after her mother had gone away, the girl sat quiet as a stone,
half-undressed, with sleep far from her eyes and her conscience wide
awake; and it was not until the clock of a neighboring church struck
three that she roused herself and began to finish her preparations for
sleep.
"It is so hard to be good, and yet I do so long to be good!" she
muttered; and then, because it had been her life-long custom, she fell
upon her knees and clasped her hands; and a sacred fear suddenly
encompassed her, and she was quite silent. Nevertheless, the
struggling soul--sleepless and foreseeing--cried out to the
All-Merciful; and so, though she knew it not, she prayed.