Miss Alida might well congratulate herself on the interesting
entanglements which she had voluntarily brought into her own placid
life. Day by day, they grew into her heart, and gave that human zest
to her employments and amusements, that their mere forms could never
have done. A ball-room in which Rose was to watch, and Antony was to
advise or sympathize with, was something more than a space for
dancing. In the theatre or opera, there was a personal drama under her
observation, in which she played no subordinate part; and even at her
own fireside and table, she found that in many ways she could direct
and advise and control events, to the end she thought most desirable.
For she had definitely made up her mind that the marriage of Rose to
Antony would be the girl's salvation; and she was resolved to
accomplish it. That Mrs. Filmer actively, and Mr. Filmer mildly,
disapproved the union only filliped her design onward to its
completion. She believed Emma Filmer's affections to have "undergone
the world" and become dead to all but worldly considerations of
position and money. And as for Henry Filmer's opinions on any living
question, she thought it might be as profitable to consult a mediaeval
ghost. In both of these conclusions she was wrong; but it would have
been very difficult to have convinced her of her error.
Adriana's affairs in some respects gave her less trouble. Adriana felt
no special interest in any of the gentlemen inclined to feel a
special interest in her. Only to Professor Snowdon did she show
herself in that sweet home abandon which was her great charm; to all
others, she was grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool. The ordinary
young man was a little uncomfortable in her presence. She had none of
the ready platitudes which were the current coin of his conversation;
and in the spaciousness of her nature, he got bewildered and lost.
This attitude was a trifle provoking sometimes. "You are too
large-minded, Adriana," said Miss Alida to her one morning, as they
sat talking. "That comes of measuring yourself by Cousin Peter all the
time. But though it is right that old people should think for
themselves, youth ought to be conventional. What harm is there in
dancing? And why can you not go to the Filmers' dance?"
"There is not, perhaps, any harm in the act of dancing; but father
says no one can dance and think at the same time, and that way
mischief lies. When you dance, your brains are in your toes, and you
let consideration slip. You are at the mercy of your emotions also;
and that is a kind of thing to rot the moral fibre. I quote father,
and you need not hold up your hands at my 'consideration.' As for
going to Mrs. Filmer's, I have a personal reluctance to do so. She
practically bowed me out of her house not so long ago."
"But Rose did not know it. And Emma Filmer is a woman of the world,
and appreciates people according to the company they keep. As far as I
have known her, she periodically deserts her old friends for more
eligible new ones. She thought she had done with you, and she wished
to be done with you, because you interfered with Harry."
"So, then, if I go to Rose's dance, she will be sure I have done so
for an opportunity to interfere with Harry once more."
"Then go for that very purpose. I would. I am provoked to death with
the young man. He has refused all my invitations--very sorry to do
so--but--"
"But he did not want to come. He evidently does not care to meet me
again. It is very humiliating."
"He _fears_ to meet you again. And I think, Yanna, you made him drink
a very humble cup. Men do not readily forgive such wounds to their
self-esteem."
"Harry has disappointed me. I hear nothing good of him."
"I wouldn't quite believe all Rose said on that subject. It is true
that he is running a fast rig with a lot of gilded goslings, whose
money came from industrious, economical ancestors. And it is also true
that Harry has but a small inherited income, and must depend largely
upon the results of his transactions in Wall Street; and that,
therefore, he is simply going to poverty in very swagger company. But
nothing else will cure him of his folly; not his father's advice, nor
his mother's tears, nor love, nor honor, nor any good thing. Only
poverty cures extravagance. Some day he will doubtless be sorry
enough. Harry's great want in life is a friend who will make him do
what he can do."
"It is a want we all share."
"Then be a friend, and make me do what I can do."
"You can do the thing you sketched out for yourself and others to
Professor Snowdon. Bring together all the pure Dutch gentlewomen you
know. Then begin your benevolent Holland Society. You are a fine
organizer, and excel in setting every one around you either to work or
play."
"Now, Yanna, it is my turn. Your duty is to forgive Emma Filmer, and
to do good to her just because she did evil to you--which is a nice
way of saying, go to the Filmer ball, and be as lovely to Harry as
possible."
"You know father does not like me to go to dances; and Mrs. Filmer
will not understand my presence in the light you put it. She does not
think I have been badly used, and she would not consider my being
'lovely to Harry' a kindness. I would rather talk no more on that
subject."
"Very well." Miss Alida said the words with an air of disappointment,
and then walked to the window to recover herself. In a few minutes she
turned round, and said pleasantly:
"What will you do with your afternoon, Adriana?"
"I thought of going to see sister Augusta. I have not been near her
for nearly two weeks. Antony spoke of one of the children being
unwell."
"Would you like me to drive you there? I can do so as I go for Mrs.
Daly."
"No, cousin. Augusta would think I was putting on airs, and would
scold me for it. I will take the cars or walk."
"Give my remembrance to her, and ask if she will join our society."
In half-an-hour Adriana was ready for her visit, and Miss Alida
watched her going down the avenue, walking swiftly and erect, with her
head well up, and her neatly-folded umbrella in her hand. The
afternoon was bright and pleasant, warm for the season, and Adriana
was much exhilarated by the walk, when she reached her destination.
It was in that part of Second Avenue which still retains many traces
of its former aristocracy,--a brick house at the corner of a street
leading down to the East River. The whole first floor of the building
was occupied by her brother-in-law's grocery, the dwelling was
immediately above it. An air of definite cleanliness pervaded the
stairway to it, and as soon as she entered the house the prim
spotlessness assailed her like a force; the presence of a wind could
not have been more tangible.
Augusta herself, with her fair, rosy face, her smoothly braided hair,
and her exquisite, neat dress, might have been the genius of domestic
order. Her whole house had the air of having been polished from one
end to the other; and the table-cloth in which Augusta was darning "a
thin place" was whiter than snow, and ironed as if for a palace. She
kissed Adriana with affection, but also with that air of superiority
which her position as an eldest sister gave her. Then they sat down
and talked over their home affairs--of the brothers in Florida, who
were doing so well, of their sister Gertrude, who had bad health, of
Antony, of their father, and of John Van Nostrand's election to the
Assembly. In a little while, the children came in from school--six
rosy, orderly boys and girls, who knew better than to bring in a speck
of dust, or to move a chair one inch out of its proper place.
The eldest girl soon began to lay a table with the utmost neatness and
despatch, and the eldest boy having said a short grace, all sat
quietly down and waited for their portions. Then Augusta put aside her
sewing, and standing among her children, cut them beef and bread, and
poured into the christening cups of each child its measure of milk;
while they talked gaily to her of their lessons and their play. One
little girl showed her the medal on her breast, and received a smile
and pat on her curly head for the honor; and a little lad of ten years
old shyly exhibited a tear in his jacket, which he had got in a fight
about his skates. The mother heard what he had to say, and looked
gravely at him. "Did you whip Gustav Bok for changing your skates?"
she asked. "Not to-day, mother; but I will whip him to-morrow." "After
that I will mend your coat," she answered. "You must, of course,
punish him, Adrian." The little dialogue was a matter only for Adrian
and his mother, the other children took no part in it. The whole scene
was one of unconscious beauty, and Adriana thought she had never
beheld anything fairer than Augusta among her children, with the loaf
of bread or the pitcher of milk in her hands. So confidently were the
little faces lifted to her; while her countenance--large, fair, and
benignant--looked a blessing into each.
Suddenly, as Adriana watched her, she remembered her cousin's message,
and gave it. Augusta listened to the proposed plan of the new society
with patience, but without a shadow of interest; and when Adriana
ceased speaking, she waved her hands slightly, and answered:
"You see for yourself. I have my children, and my house, and my good
John Van Nostrand to look after. With my cleaning, and my baking, and
my sewing, and my cooking, these hands are full. Shall I neglect one
duty, which is my own duty, to do another duty I know not who for? No.
I will not do that. It is very well for Miss Van Hoosen, who has no
duties such as I have, to look after the poor Dutch women and
children, and the stranger Dutch who come here and who have no
friends. I say it is right for Miss Van Hoosen, and for you also,
Adriana, if you are not going to marry yourself to some good man. What
for do you not marry yourself?"
"Good men are now scarce, Augusta."
"It is now, as it ever was, and always will be; good and bad men, and
good and bad women, and as many good as bad. In our family, it is so,
is it not? Theodore got himself a very good wife, and I have got
myself a very good husband."
"But what of Gertrude?"
"Gertrude does very well. She does not see more faults than she can
help. Wives should remember they have eyelids as well as eyes."
"Is Gertrude's husband kind to her?"
"Can I know? If Gertrude has picked up a crooked stick, she does not
go about telling everybody so."
"Then there is brother George. He is making money, but you can tell
from his letters that he is not happy with his wife."
"I am not sorry for George," answered Augusta. "When you were at
college, George came here, and he told my John about his wife. He
thought she had money, and she thought he had money, and both of them
were mistaken; so--as my John said to me--when the rag doll and the
stuffed elephant got married, they found each other out. But John and
I married for love; and so must you marry, Adriana."
"There is so much trouble in any marriage, Augusta." And Augusta again
waved her hands over her boys and girls, and answered with unspeakable
pride: "There are the children! Husbands you must take your chance
with; but the little children! You make of them what you will."
"Then you will not join Cousin Alida's club?"
"I will not. John has three clubs; and the money is spent, and the
time is spent, and who is the better for it? I have my own club with
my boys and girls; and for them, all I can do is too little."
As soon as the short winter afternoon began to close in, Adriana bade
her sister "good-bye," and turned westward. She took the quietest
streets, and felt a little thrill of vague wonder and fear, as she
puzzled her way through Gramercy Park and Madison Square to Fifth
Avenue. There she encountered life and bustle, and the confusion of
many vehicles of many kinds going northward. As she waited for an
opportunity to cross the street, some one came to her side; some one
said:
"Yanna! Dear Yanna!"
"Harry!"
The recognition was instant; they met before they knew it, in each
other's eyes; hand slipped into hand, and almost unconsciously Harry
led her across the street. Then he leaned towards her and whispered:
"At last, dear Yanna! At last!"
"But why not before, Harry? It is your fault."
"Ah, I have been so weak! I have been so wicked, Yanna. Pass it by
without a word. No words can explain or justify me. I have nothing to
trust to but your gentleness and love. Do you yet love me?"
She looked at him, and he understood the light on her face, and the
heavenly smile on her lips. It grew dark, but they knew it not; it
grew cold, but they felt it not; the busy thoroughfare became empty
and still, but they were aware of nothing but the song in their
hearts. What they said to each other they could not afterwards
remember at all. In the delicious, stumbling patois of love, so much
was said, and so much understood that was beyond their power to reduce
to mere syllables. Only, when at last they parted, a great weight had
been rolled from each heart.
For Harry had spoken freely, as soon as he found Yanna willing to
listen. All his burdens and temptations, his remorses, his resolutions,
and his inevitable slips again and again into sensual mire were
confessed; and in spite of all, he had been made to feel that life
still had the lustre of divine dignity around it, and of divine duty
before it. He left Adriana full of hope, and she stood a minute at
the door to listen to the clear ring of his steps on the pavement; for
steps are words, and Harry's steps were those of a man who has been
turned into the right road, confident and purposeful.
Then she ran lightly to her own room. She stood quiet there, with
clasped hands and radiant face, and told herself in so many audible
words: "He loves me yet! He loves me yet! Oh, fluttering heart, be
still! Be still!" And constantly, as she bathed her face and dressed
her hair and put on her evening gown, she chided herself as tenderly
as a mother the restless babe she loves, saying softly, "Be still! Be
still!" And she was lovelier that night than she had been for a long
time, for since her parting with Harry at Woodsome, her life had been
out of harmony; but now heart and life were in tune, and she could
live melodious days once more.
After leaving Adriana, Harry walked rapidly towards his home. He did
not think of calling a cab; there was a necessity for motion in his
condition, and walking is the natural tranquillizer of mental
agitation. He had not gone far before he met Antony Van Hoosen. Now,
the young men were still warm friends, though the exigencies of
society had kept them more apart than at first seemed necessary. But
Harry affected a set of young men outside of Antony's toleration; and
their social engagements very rarely brought them together. At this
hour, however, Harry was particularly delighted to meet Antony, and as
they were in the neighborhood of a good hotel, he urged him to enter.
"Let us dine together, Antony," he said. "I want to tell you something
particularly good--for me. I have just left Yanna."
Antony heard him with singular indifference. "Harry," he answered, "I
will go with you, for indeed I have something particular to tell you.
I wish I could say it was good, but it is not."
"Then do not tell me anything about it, Antony. I am so happy
to-night."
"But I ought to tell you. It relates to your sister."
Harry was instantly speechless.
"Will you come back with me to Miss Van Hoosen's? We can reach my room
without disturbing the ladies."
"No. If you are not cold, we will walk here. What have you to tell me
about Rose?"
"You know that I love her?"
"I have known that a long time."
"Well, every man loves in his own way; and mine is a way you may not
understand. However, I cannot live if Rose is long out of my sight;
and so I have seen some things--Oh, dear Harry! need I tell you?"
Harry shook his head, and was gloomily silent.
"I saw Rose go into Delmonico's this afternoon, after the matinee.
There was a person with her who has often been with her lately--that
is, when Rose is without Mrs. Filmer's company."
"Who is he?"
"I do not know him. I have not liked to ask any questions about him.
He is tall, with a supple, languid figure. He has the face of a fallen
angel, handsome and wicked. I have noticed his eyes particularly,
because, though he is dark as a Mexican, the eyes are a calm frosty
blue--cold and cruel."
"I know whom you mean. His name is Duval. So Rose was with him
to-day?"
"You see what a position this confidence places me in--an informer
against the girl I would die for. But I do not speak without good
reason. I followed them into the restaurant. They had a bottle of
champagne; then this scoundrel rang for another, though it was evident
Rose had already taken quite enough."
"Well, Antony? Speak out, man."
"I went up, then, to Rose. I said, 'Miss Filmer, I am sent for you.
You must return at once. There is no time to lose.'"
"Well?"
"She trembled, and asked: 'Is my father ill? Has anything happened to
Harry? What is the matter, Mr. Van Hoosen?' And I said, 'You had
better hasten home, Miss Filmer.'"
"What did Duval say?"
"He bowed and palavered, and got out of the way as quickly as
possible. Poor little Rose was sick and white with fear; he understood
my meaning well enough. I left Rose at her own door. I did not wish to
explain to Mrs. Filmer then. But I must speak to you, Harry, for Rose
is in danger. I love her, and will devote my life to her welfare. She
loves me, though she will not trust her heart when it tells her so.
To-morrow I am going to see your father and mother, and make an offer
for your sister's hand. But I find it impossible to point out the
danger in which this dear little Rose lives. Yet they should know it,
for, oh, Harry! her salvation may depend upon their knowledge, and
their willingness that she may be taken out of temptation."
"Can you do this?"
"I can."
"Will you do it?"
"I will. I shall live for her, and her alone."
"Pardon me, Antony, if I suggest that cash may have a great deal to do
with this proposal."
"I am rich. I shall spend all I have to save her. I shall take her to
Europe for a year. All that love and money can do to make her strong
shall be done."
Then Harry let his hand seek Antony's hand, and they understood each
other, without words. But Harry was very unhappy and also very angry.
His betrothal to Adriana had been interfered with because it was
supposed to be inimical to the social interests of his sister; and now
the joy of his reconciliation to his love was shadowed by Rose's
misconduct. Yet he felt that some steps must be taken at once to
prevent the evils which would certainly result from her selfish
weakness, if it were unchecked. For, after all, the sin resolved
itself into the black one of selfishness; Rose was determined to have
the pleasure she desired, though she should tear it through, the
hearts of all who loved her, though it should bring her personally
only misery and shame.
Such thoughts were natural enough to Harry, and they irritated as well
as wounded him. It scarcely needed his mother's look of reproach and
querulous question as to "why he had forgotten the dinner hour," to
make him speak the truth, with almost brutal frankness.
"Where is father?" he asked, impatiently.
"Your father has been all day hard at work in the Astor Library. He
came home perfectly worn out, and had his dinner served in his study.
He did not feel able to dress for the table to-night."
"It is perfectly absurd. Father has some duties to his family, I
think. For instance, if he would remember he had a daughter. Where is
Rose?"
"Rose is with that angelic young person, Miss Van Hoosen. And it is
not your place to call your father 'absurd.' Some day, you will be
proud of him."
"My dear mother, Rose is not with Yanna."
"_Yanna!_ Rose told me that she was going to the matinee with Miss Van
Hoosen. I suppose she is spending the evening with her also."
"Rose is at home. She was brought home by Antony Van Hoosen, in a cab.
He took her from that fellow Duval. They were taking wine together in
a restaurant. Now do you understand?" He spoke with gathering passion,
and Mrs. Filmer looked frightened and anxious, but she answered
scornfully:
"No, I do not. You must speak more plainly. Is Rose sick? Is she hurt?
Why should Mr. Van Hoosen interfere with Miss Filmer?"
"Mother, go and ask Rose 'why.' I cannot say what I intended to say. I
shall go to father; perhaps I can talk to him, if he will listen to
me."
Mr. Filmer was surrounded by slips of paper which he was arranging
with so much absorbing interest that he did not at once look up. But
as Harry remained standing before him, he said fretfully: "I have to
arrange these data while the facts are fresh in my mind. What do you
want, Harry?"
"I want to tell you about Rose, sir. You must put down your data and
listen to me. It is the most important duty you have."
Then the attitude of the elder gentleman changed as quickly as a flash
of light. He cast the slips of paper upon the table; his thoughtful
countenance became alert; he turned round, faced his son, and asked,
sharply: "What do you want to say about your sister?"
Then it was as if some seal had been taken off Harry's heart and lips.
He spoke from the foundations of his being; he said: "Sir, my dear
sister is on the way to mortal and immortal ruin; and both you and
mother shut your eyes to the fact. I also have refused to see what
others see. I have said to myself, when mother speaks, when father
speaks, it will be time enough for me to do my part. Sir, Rose takes
too much wine; she takes it at improper times, and with improper
people. This afternoon Mr. Van Hoosen found her with that nephew of
Folletts--you know the man."
"Richard Duval?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go on, Harry. Tell me all you know. What had Antony Van Hoosen to do
with the matter?"
"He saw that she was taking too much. And he loves Rose better than
his own life. So he invented an excuse to get her home."
Mr. Filmer bit his lips passionately, and Harry saw that he was
disposed to settle his anger upon the innocent. "Sir," he said,
"Antony did our family a great kindness. I met him on the avenue
afterwards, and we had a long conversation. He is coming to see you
in the morning. He is anxious to have the right to watch over Rose--to
protect her----"
"God in heaven! Has not Rose a father, and mother, and brother?"
"We have hitherto done nothing to help, or to save, the girl. We have
each and all trusted to the power of social laws and judgments. Mother
and I have certainly suspected, feared, divined something wrong for a
long time; and we have both acted as if we thought by ignoring the
danger we could destroy it. Antony loves her better than we do. He is
ready to marry her at once. He will take her to Europe, and watch over
her constantly, until the temptation is dead, and the memory forgotten
by every one."
"Harry, we do not want a stranger to do our duty, do we? If Rose is to
be taken away, her father and mother are the proper persons to go with
her."
"Not in this case, father. When a man of Antony's spotless character,
good lineage, and great wealth makes Rose his wife, every one's mouth
will be shut by the honor done her. People will recall the old reports
only to say, 'There must have been a mistake! Rose is so excitable!'
And no one will eventually, in the face of such a fact as her
marriage, trust their own sight or memory about what they think they
have seen or heard. If you are Rose's friend, my dear father, listen
to what Antony Van Hoosen says, and make Rose marry him."
"Make? Who can make a woman do what she is resolved not to do?"
"Then, let us go back to Woodsome; there we may be better able to
protect Rose from herself and others."
"Yes. We can go back to Woodsome."
"But even that will not be sufficient, sir."
"Do you think I am unaware of my duty, Harry? If Mr. Van Hoosen is
willing to devote his life to watching and guarding Rose, what am I
capable of? I, her father! I will leave my studies; I will put every
thought out of mind but Rose. The Saviour who went out into the
wilderness after the stray lamb shall be my example. All the other
ninety-and-nine interests of life shall be forgotten, if so I may
accomplish this one." He rose as he said the words, and stooping to
the table, swept the slips of paper into an open drawer; and his face,
though solemn, was full of light and purpose.
"We should have spoken plainly to each other before this hour, Harry,"
he said, "and you were wrong not to have come to me before. A matter
of such vital importance ought not to have been trusted to the
peradventures and influences of society. We ought to have looked the
danger in the face; we ought to have acknowledged it to each other,
and never suffered the possibility of such a sorrow and shame to have
become even a probable event."
"My dear father, it is not surely too late. I will help you in any way
I can." And then Mr. Filmer's eyes met his son's eyes, and, oh, how
well they understood each other!
"And the way being the way of duty, Harry," he answered, "we shall not
miss it; for duty is the commandment exceeding broad."
At this point Mrs. Filmer entered, and Harry, after placing her in a
chair, left the room. For a few minutes she sat quiet, looking into
the fire with that apathetic stare which follows exhausted feeling.
Then Mr. Filmer put his chair beside hers, and taking her hand, said:
"My dear Emma, we must bear and fight this trouble together. Harry has
told me all. And I do think, if Mr. Van Hoosen will marry Rose, it is
the very best thing for the dear girl. He will take her to Europe,
into entirely fresh scenes,--and marriage buries so many imperfections
and offences."
"Pray, what has Mr. Van Hoosen to do with Rose?"
"He wishes to marry her. He wishes to have the right to watch over and
protect her."
"Mr. Van Hoosen marry Rose! What an idea! Rose is exceedingly angry at
him. She says he interfered with her in the most unwarrantable manner,
and frightened her until she has been quite sick from the shock."
"He did well to frighten her. On that awful road leading down, and
down, nothing but a fright will arrest attention. If Rose will not put
herself in a loving husband's care, then we will shut this house and
go to Woodsome to-morrow night."
"Such nonsense!"
"I say, we will leave New York to-morrow night for Woodsome, or else
we will take the next steamer for Europe. There are these two
alternatives; these two, and no other."
"And you will permit your daughter to marry the son of the mason who
built our house?"
"The mason who built our house is of my own kindred. He is as fine a
gentleman as ever I met. He is honorable and well cultured; and his
son, Harry says--and he knows him well--is worthy of his father."
"Nevertheless, Rose will not marry him. And as for breaking up the
house now, it is not to be thought of. People will say that we had
been compelled to do so, either by Rose's misconduct or else by our
own poverty. It is simply ruinous to our social standing to leave the
city now."
"If Rose is not inclined to marry Mr. Van Hoosen, we shall leave the
city to-morrow evening. For I do not believe I shall be able to afford
the European alternative. At any rate, not for a few weeks; and those
few weeks we must spend in Woodsome."
"You are simply talking, Henry."
"To-morrow, I shall simply act. I do not often go against your wishes,
Emma, but in this affair, as surely as I live and love, I will take my
own way! What did Rose say to you? What excuses did she make for
herself?"
"I think there has been a great deal too much made of the affair.
Rose says, Adriana Van Hoosen had partly promised to go to the
matinee with her, and she went to ask her to redeem her promise
this afternoon, as Irving was in a Shakespearean character. But
Adriana had gone out--gone to see her sister, who is married to a
Dutchman keeping a little grocery on Second Avenue. So then Rose
intended to come back home, but met Mr. Duval, and he persuaded her to
go to the matinee with him. After they came out, they went into the
restaurant for a cream and a glass of wine, and while they were
taking it Antony Van Hoosen came to her in a hurried manner and told
her she must return home at once. Rose was terrified about you. We are
all terrified about you, when you are out of our sight--studying so
much as you do, we naturally think of apoplexy, or a fit of some
kind,--so the poor girl feared you had had a fit, and she was too
terrified to ask questions."
"But why did she not see you as soon as she came home? for Harry says
you did not know she was home until he told you."
"She says she ran upstairs to take off her bonnet, and that she felt
suddenly so ill that she lay down a moment to collect her feelings
before seeing any one; and that she fell asleep, or into a faint--she
does not know which. She had hardly come to herself when I spoke to
her. The poor child has been crying her eyes out, and for a little
while she could say nothing but, 'Oh, mamma, is not this dreadful,
dreadful!' And when I told her you were not sick at all, and none of
us were sick, she was naturally very angry at Mr. Van Hoosen for
frightening her in such a way; and I think myself it was a very great
impertinence."
"Emma! Emma! You know it was a kindness beyond the counting. If Mr.
Van Hoosen had not brought her home, would Mr. Duval have done so?
Dare you think of the possibilities of such a situation? As for me, I
count Antony Van Hoosen to have been a friend beyond price. A man able
to meet such an emergency, and brave enough to face the responsibility
he assumed, is a noble fellow; I care not whose son he is. I hope, I
pray, that Rose may not fling her salvation from her."
"But, my dear Henry, if she does, it will not do; it really will not
be prudent to leave New York till the proper time. I promise you to go
with Rose wherever she goes."
"I shall take her out of the way of temptation. When a poor, weak soul
is _in_ temptation, it is too late to reason or entreat; and Rose will
not be frightened again. She must marry Mr. Van Hoosen, or else we
shall return to Woodsome to-morrow. That is all about it."
"I cannot be ready to-morrow. It is impossible to move at a moment's
notice."
"I was at Woodsome last week, and the house is warm and comfortable.
Every necessity can be procured in an hour. I will stay with Rose, and
you can return and arrange for the transmission of your dresses and
such other things as you wish to remove. You know how to manage well
enough, Emma."
"To overdo is always a man's way; and I tell you in this matter, to
overdo is to underdo."
"I am sure I am right, Emma. Ask your heart, and tell me honestly if
you think Rose is in danger or not?"
"I will watch her carefully."
"Then you think she is in danger?"
"Oh, Henry! Henry! What can I say? How can I tell? I love Rose so
dearly! I love her so dearly!"
"So do I love her! I am sorry that I have not looked better after our
little treasure."
"But I cannot--I cannot let her marry. I cannot give her up--and to
that man!"
"If we have been recreant to our duty, Emma, and he is willing to
assume our arrears, and do it for us in the future, we deserve to
endure loss and obligation because we did not honor our office as
parents."
"I am sure I have never had a single thought but for my children."
"Well, well! In the morning we shall perhaps understand things better.
Trouble, like a turbid river, runs itself clear in the night."
They talked thus for hours, but nothing further was reached. And Rose
was just as wretched and restless. As they passed through the
dining-room, which was under Rose's room, they heard her slowly pacing
up and down the floor, though it was then long past midnight. For
Rose's conscience was still very quick, and she was quite capable of
estimating the sin and folly of her afternoon's escapade, so that the
tide of self-reproach went on rising, until she could not struggle
against it. A disgust of all things, but especially of herself,
darkened both the past and the future; and she felt the wretchedness
of a combat where defeat had followed defeat, until her thoughts were
all remorse. Those few hours of the past afternoon--dull enough while
she possessed them--returned to her memory only to make her feel how
much more they might have given. She had disappointed and deceived her
mother to obtain them, and what had they brought her? Nothing but an
intolerable shame and remorse.
Spiritually, she felt a prostration worse than death. She told herself
that she had prayed, that she had asked God to help her, and that he
had not done so. If God had so willed, it need not have been thus with
her. But alas! accusing God brought her no comfort; her conscience
continually reminded her of what she had done, and what she had left
undone--of her selfishness--her lost time--her idle languors--her
hypocrisy--her rebellion against God,--all these sins she realized,
and she hated herself for them.
Still, this very activity of despair was hopeful; for it is not
despair, but the sombre inertia of despondency, that is fatal to
improvement. It was the happiest thing in the world for Rose that she
was capable of being unhappy. For when she met with herself thus, she
felt the need of meeting with God. If she had suffered less, she might
have been content to leave God in heaven; but this utter sense of
misery and weakness made her at last fall humbly before "the Father
which is in heaven," and murmur, "Have mercy upon me!" And with that
prayer, she slept.
Very early in the morning Antony called on Mr. Filmer. But there was
no need to apologize for the hour. Mr. Filmer was possessed by the
necessity for rapid action, and he welcomed Antony the more warmly for
his promptitude.
"I am a lover, Mr. Filmer," said Antony, "and you know lovers run
ahead of the clock. I love Miss Filmer most sincerely, and I desire to
make her my wife. Of course, this desire implies the means to support
her in the position to which she has been accustomed, and I have
therefore brought you this schedule of my income to examine."
Mr. Filmer lifted the paper and read its contents with the caution and
respect the circumstances warranted. He laid it down with an air of
pleasure and astonishment. "This is an extraordinary record of
property for so young a man as you are, Mr. Van Hoosen."
"I have had extraordinary good fortune, sir. As you see, my share in
the hotel, of itself, insures Miss Filmer's adequate support; and I am
desirous to make over to her absolutely, for her own use in any way
she wishes, the income from the Aladdin Reef mine. It is now worth
from eight to ten thousand dollars yearly. I only ask that our
marriage may not be delayed, as I desire to go to Europe early in
April; and if I could take Rose with me, I should count myself the
most fortunate man in the world."
"You have my full consent to all you desire, Mr. Van Hoosen. Perhaps I
ought to say something about Rose. Do you know my daughter well enough
to make her your wife? She is not without faults, sir."
"Neither am I without faults, Mr. Filmer. I think perhaps those who
have something to forgive may love the best. If Rose will take me with
my faults, I shall be most favored and fortunate."
"Then, Mr. Van Hoosen, go and ask her."
"Sir, I will call this afternoon for her answer. It may be that in the
interim you can say a word in my favor; and I must not lose a single
aid to success. I had hoped to have won her without calling in the
question of my wealth, but there are now reasons which seem to make
delay inadvisable. Therefore, I must gain all I can from any
circumstance."
"I shall say everything in your favor that is possible, sir; but at
the last, you know, it is Rose that must decide."
Still Mr. Filmer was well aware that Antony had acted with great
discrimination. No one is insensible to the power of wealth and all
that wealth can give, and Antony's fortune was sufficiently large to
command respect. When Mrs. Filmer followed the suitor, she found her
husband walking excitedly about the room.
"Do you know, Emma," he said, "that Rose has the opportunity to make a
stupendously fortunate marriage? The man is worth a couple of
millions, and his property is of that kind that grows while he sleeps
and plays. He owns half of one of the largest hotels in this country,
ranches and cattle, and a good deal of excellent mining stock. He has
real estate in most of the growing towns on the Pacific coast, and a
lot of property in San Francisco. Why, the man actually proposes to
settle about ten thousand dollars yearly on Rose, to simply do as she
likes with. I am amazed! I am grateful beyond measure!"
"The idea! Who could have imagined that man owning anything of
consequence? And yet, he always had that air of sublime indifference
which rests itself upon a good bank account. I do hope Rose will be
reasonable."
"He wishes to marry immediately, for he desires to take Rose to Europe
early in April, for a year's travel. The prospect for the dear girl is
all we could desire--and such a good, honorable, strong man, Emma! He
will be Rose's salvation. I am sure he is a lover that even her good
angel would approve."
"We shall see. Rose will need some management. She is often very cross
in the morning, and disposed to dislike every one."
This morning, however, Rose was in her sweetest and most obliging
mood. Something of the night's struggle yet lingered in her subdued
and conciliating manner; and Mrs. Filmer fortunately chose the subject
most suitable for the condition--her daughter's weary look, and the
necessity for some rest. "Your father was talking seriously about
going back to Woodsome," she said. "I never saw him more determined
about anything."
"That would be so ridiculous! You never would do such a thing, mamma,
not for two or even three months?"
"He spoke of going in a day or two. He finds the city's noise and
exigencies very trying. But you need not go, unless you desire."
"And pray, who would chaperon me?"
"Perhaps Miss Alida Van Hoosen."
"Oh, mamma! You know she has Yanna with her; and besides, their way of
living is unutterably dull and stupid--lectures and concerts, and
such things. I could not endure it, and they could not endure me."
"Your father had an offer for your hand this morning; but, of course,
you will refuse it."
"Of course I shall if the offer came from Antony Van Hoosen, as I
suspect it does."
"The man really thought that his enormous wealth would count with you;
for he must have known it could not affect your father."
"His enormous wealth! Pray, when did Antony become enormously
wealthy?"
"He must have been rich for some time. Your father says he brought him
the evidences of millions--fancy it, Rose, _of millions!_ And he
offered to settle a large yearly income on you, just to do as you
please with."
"He did?"
"Yes."
"Hum--m--m!"
"Your father was quite firm with him. He said the decision was yours
entirely, and that he would have to take your 'yes' or 'no' in the
matter."
"I should think so! The idea of going to father at all!"
"As for that, it was right to show your father his position. Money is
such a wonderful thing! I am sure I wish I had some of his millions!
For, do you know, Rose, Harry's rapid life lately has been a dreadful
thing for us. I relied upon Harry doing as much as he always has done,
but my hopes have all been vain. He talks about the depression of
business; but, my dear, it is the expansion in his own life. Club
after club, and all of them cost a living. And then he has other
expenses, which I do not care to name to you. I think Harry has been
cruelly forgetful of us. Just look at that pile of bills on my table.
They make me sick."
"Why do you not carry them to papa?"
"They are bills for costumes and such things. Your father would take a
fit over them. Harry has always helped me out of such dilemmas before.
But he has been running an awful rig this winter."
"It would have been better if he had married Yanna."
"Do not name the girl. I wish I had never seen her. And now, her
brother wanting to marry you! It is too absurd!"
"I--do--not--know--about--that. You say _millions_!"
"Millions! That is what your father told me, and he saw the vouchers
for them. People like the Van Hoosens, with all that money! and _we_
on the verge of bankruptcy!"
"Most of the Van Hoosens are rich. Look at Miss Alida. Father says no
one can keep an acre of land for her. Where is Antony's property?"
"It is in San Francisco, chiefly. My dear, he owns half an hotel, and
has nothing to do but sit still in New York, or Paris, or anywhere,
and get the results sent to him. And he has property in mines, and
cattle, and land, and lots of real estate, all down the Pacific coast.
The man is vulgarly rich."
"Antony is not vulgar, mamma. One ought to give even the devil his
due. I have often noticed him in a room, and he wears a dress suit as
well as any one. Besides, you know, he really does belong to a very
good old family."
"Well, he is going to Paris, London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Rome, and
I know not where else; so he will doubtless acquire some foreign
polish. He is an old friend of the California grand dame who queens it
over the American colony in Paris, so he is sure to be a great
favorite at the French court. Oh, it takes Europeans to appreciate
California millionaires."
Rose was silent for a long time, and Mrs. Filmer took out her
accounts, and laid a file of bills at her side, and then began to add
up her check book, and to look very grave and hopeless over it.
"I do not wonder your father talks of Woodsome," she said, "and I am
sure we have had very few entertainments, and have been as economical
as possible; yet I do believe my bank account is overdrawn. Can you
remember the amount of your last check, Rose?"
"No, I cannot, mamma. Millions are a great deal of money."
"I wish we had a quarter of only one million. We should be happy, and
free from care."
"Why does Antony want to be engaged when he is going away for a year?
A girl would not wait that long for him, unless she were awfully in
love--or had no other offer."
"Well, Rose, it is funny, and presumptuous, and impatient, and
thoroughly manlike, but this lover of yours wants to be married at
once and take you to Europe with him. I suppose he thinks you will
make a very lovely bride, and so add to his eclat."
"Nothing as selfish as that ever entered Antony's head, I am sure. He
is not mean or conceited; he is just troublesome and interfering. I
suppose I would make a lovely bride!"
"An exquisite one."
"Some people think brides ought not to wear diamonds."
"Diamonds and white satin would be the proper thing for you. I dare
say you could outshine any bride that ever knelt in Grace Church, if
you wished to do so; but there are lots of things that go to a wedding
besides white satin and diamonds. I must go and talk with Madame
Celeste about her bill. It is shameful! It is simply outrageous! Will
you drive with me? You were saying you wanted a new pair of dancing
shoes. We can get them if they are really necessary; if not, Rose, I
must ask you to do without them; our shoe bill is already frightening
me."
"I do need them, mamma; but I shall not go out this morning; I have a
slight headache, and I want to think a little."
Mrs. Filmer then rose in a hurried, preoccupied manner, but at the
door she turned, and with her eyes still on her shopping list said,
"Do not wait lunch for me. I may go into Cousin Martha's for lunch. I
shall be near her house; and, Rose, I would not read much; your eyes
look like one of your bad headaches."
"Mamma cares for nothing but the house and the bills!" thought Rose,
as the parlor door closed upon her. "One would imagine such an offer
as Antony's was worth a little talking about. But she always did
dislike Antony--from the first--and I am sure I do not know why,
unless because he is Yanna's brother. Well, Yanna is tiresome; that is
the truth! No wonder mamma does not like her. And what Harry sees in
such a cold, stately, pious girl, I cannot understand! I think I will
go and make myself look a little pretty. One likes to leave a fine
impression, even on a lover that is to be refused. But shall I say
'No' to Antony? To have millions of money! and diamonds to my heart's
content! and the finest wedding of the season! and a year's European
travel! and how the Greyson, and the Helper, and the Manton girls will
envy me! and lots of others--and Dick! I do not care a cent for Dick!
he sneaked away like a dog when Antony spoke to me. I hate Dick! I
shall never notice him again. He will doubtless get an invitation to
my wedding from some one, and if he feels heart-sick, it will serve
him right."
To this soliloquy she slowly mounted the stairs to her room, and there
she stood a few minutes, considering. The result of this reflection
was the withdrawal from her drawers of an exquisite gown of pale gray
cashmere, and a little tippet of Delhi mull and Valenciennes lace. The
ineffable softness and repose of this combination pleased her. "I look
my sweetest in this gown," she thought, "and Antony has never seen it;
but it will suit him, I know."
Indeed, the dress affected Antony like a contrition and a confession.
She looked, oh! she looked everything he could desire or imagine!
And as Rose was always sensibly affected by the dress she wore,
she naturally toned herself to her lovely and gentle appearance. The
dress was in every way a fortunate one. It put Rose in the proper
mood, and it gave Antony the proper courage. The one advantage
reacted on the other; and Rose suffered her heart and her best
instincts to lead her. For Antony brought to this question all the
force of his character; he pleaded eloquently, with love in his eyes
and on his tongue; nor did he neglect such material advantages as his
wealth and his ability to grant her every one of her wishes gave
him. He was perhaps disappointed that they had so much influence; but
he was a patient, self-relying man, and he told himself that he
must be grateful for Rose as she was, and trust to the future for
the Rose that he foresaw as possible.
So he took things on their present level, and talked so enthusiastically
that Rose caught the mood from him, and their happy faces, leaning
towards each other, shone with the thought of the joy before them. For
Antony's desire--like all strong hopes--had fulfilled itself by its
own energy. His love found its way to his face and to his gestures,
made him expressive and impressive, and gave him that quality few can
resist, which we call "presence."
So they knew not how time went, until Mrs. Filmer came home, weary and
cold and heart-anxious from a round of profitless shopping and visits.
The first glimpse of the lovers was joyfully reassuring. She gave a
little gasp of relief, and had some difficulty to preserve her usual
equanimity. Indeed, she could not do so, when Antony, holding Rose's
hand, came to her and begged a little love for himself and a blessing
on her daughter's love for him. She was compelled to sit down and cry
a little, but she said her tears were tears of happiness; and she was
very gentle, and lovable, and sympathetic.
Then they went together to Mr. Filmer's study. But this day he was
neither reading nor writing; he was simply waiting the logic of
events. And oh, how welcome were the intruders! for when the load fell
from his heart, he knew by the release how heavy it had been. He rose
and met them half-way; he kissed his daughter and his wife, and shook
hands with Antony; and then, while the tears were in his eyes, and the
smile on his lips, he said, with a little dramatic gesture:
"Still in immortal youth, Arcadia smiles!"