Rose's happiness was now running at full tide, and she was carried
with it, amid the sympathies of those who loved her and the
congratulations of all her acquaintances. Mr. Filmer abandoned his
great book until after the marriage. Harry took pride in introducing
his future brother-in-law to his best club acquaintances, and then was
agreeably surprised to find Antony's financial standing well known to
the magnates of the money world. Mrs. Filmer spoke with well
controlled elation of their satisfaction in the intended marriage, of
the bridegroom's fine character and great wealth, and of the old Dutch
ancestry which he shared with Miss Alida and the eminent Van Hoosen
family.
On Antony's side, the marriage gave equal satisfaction. Peter had a
pleasant memory of the bright girl; and Adriana thought far more of
Rose's good points than of her evil ones. With Miss Alida, she
planned all kinds of sweet surprises for the bride elect; and busied
herself continually concerning the details of the ceremony and the
preparations for it. And without a word to each other on the subject,
there appeared to be a tacit agreement among all who loved Rose
that she was not to be left to herself; and that all temptation must
be kept out of her path. This was an easy thing to do under the
circumstances; there was so much shopping to attend to; and there
were the wonderful wedding and travelling costumes to prepare, and
the dresses of the eight maids to be decided on, and all the exact
paraphernalia of a fashionable wedding to accomplish. Rose was
wanted everywhere. She had suddenly become the most important
person in her little world. Her tastes and inclinations settled all
disputed points; and perpetual offerings, of many kinds, were made
to her.
Indeed, each day brought her some token of remembrance or congratulation
from relatives and acquaintances; and Antony's gifts realized all of
even Rose's exacting ideas concerning the proper evidences of love.
Certainly, if jewels could typify affection, Antony's must have been
very great; for when at length the bridal satin and lace were
assumed, her favorite gems fastened its veil, and glittered in her ears,
and sparkled round her throat, and clasped her snowy belt. There was a
crowded church to witness the wedding, and the atmosphere was sensitive
with interest and pleasure, with the odors of flowers, and the
bright reverberations of joyful music. Antony, also, on this occasion,
was singularly handsome--as a man ought to be on his wedding day; he
walked as if he were all spirit, and too happy for words. And yet many
remarked his emphatic speech in the bridal ceremony; his serious
assumption of all it demanded; and the proud tenderness with which
at its close he turned to Rose and said, "My wife!"
So the affair was handsomely and happily over, and Peter Van
Hoosen--who stood by his son's side--admitted that it was "a very
pretty spectacle." And yet, even while it was in progress, his memory
had gone back with a graver pleasure to his own marriage with Antony's
mother. He remembered her as young and as fair as Adriana, standing
in her gown of white muslin, with no ornaments but the white roses in
her hair and the pretty Bible in her hand. Loving and proud as Antony
was that day, he had been equally so; and the bare kirk, and the
solemn charge of the minister, and the kindly smiles of the friends
who stood by them, seemed even at this hour just the kind of marriage
he would prefer, if he were a young man again with Antony's mother
beside him.
There was a grand wedding breakfast, at which Miss Alida took a
prominent part; and then the young couple went off to sea together;
and the company sighed and departed; and when the sun set, the bridal
day was quite over. Mr. and Mrs. Filmer sat talking, a little sad, and
yet gratefully satisfied. Harry was with Miss Alida and Adriana, and
disposed to talk of his own marriage. Nobody wanted dinner; they had a
cup of tea by the parlor fire, and as they were drinking it and
talking over the events of the day, Professor Snowdon came in.
"Well, well!" he cried, rubbing his hands gleefully, "the great
performance is over; and it is evident the modern bride and bridegroom
profit by the old stage direction: '_Flourish of trumpets! Alarum!
Exeunt!_'" Then he looked at Peter, who was Miss Alida's guest for the
night, and Adriana said: "This is my father, Professor."
"I am glad to see you, sir. What were you talking of? Do not let me
interrupt the conversation."
"I was talking, as old men will talk, of their youth, and of my own
marriage in the old Dutch kirk at Woodsome."
"I thought so. I meet many old men, and all of them, no matter how
successful their later years have been, like best of all to talk of
their life in childhood and early youth upon some farm; to recall the
'--whistling boys and lowing cows,
And earthy sounds of cleaving ploughs;'
or the
'Youthful love and maidens gay,
And bliss that found its wedding day,'
and when they do so, a different look comes into their faces, and
their laugh grows young again--that is the strange thing. And I
myself, I too, remember love in my sweet youth."
"If any one has ever loved," said Peter, "he cannot forget. Nothing
goes to heaven but love."
"Is it not heaven? We have a way of inferring that heaven is far off
and walled in, but really all eternal things are so very near to us
that a single step, a sudden 'accident' brings the disembodied spirit
into an immediate recognition of them."
"Then," said Harry, clasping Adriana's hand, "let us live now, for
time is short."
"No, sir," answered the Professor, promptly, "man has forever."
"If in spiritual things, we could only see with our eyes and hear with
our ears!" said Miss Alida.
"And if so, madame, what grace would there be in believing?"
"Who does believe?" asked Harry. "The great German philosopher,
Frederick Gotfield, says, all religions are alike dead, and there is
no faith left in the heart of man; no, nor yet capacity for faith."
"Well, Mr. Filmer, the disciple is not above his master. If you sit at
the feet of Mr. Frederick Gotfield, you cannot rise above his doubts
and scoffing."
"Harry does not sit at the feet of any such master, sir," explained
Adriana.
"I am glad of it; for Mr. Gotfield is not in search of salvation; his
way leads--but we will not talk of him. Oh, for a generation perplexed
with no vague fears, worn with no infinite yearnings, perfectly happy
and healthy, and aiming at the noblest ends! How good it would be!"
"However," said Harry, "whether we believe or not, we can love."
"Then love wisely. I have read that St. Bernard thought that at the
Last Day we shall not be asked what we have done, nor yet what we have
believed, but _what we have loved_. That will indeed be a supreme test
of character."
Harry became very thoughtful, and clasped Adriana's hand tighter; and
just then Miss Alida's lawyer called, and she was compelled to leave
her company for a while. So the Professor and Peter began to talk of
Free Will and Calvinism, and Harry and Adriana withdrew to the
curtained window, where they sat in happy silence, listening to that
speech which is heard with the heart, and yet dimly conscious of the
argument in progress. This way and that way it veered, Peter holding
grimly fast to his stern plan of sin and retribution; the Professor
doubting, qualifying, extolling free grace, and averring he would
"consider the burning of all Calvin's books to be most justifiable
Libricide"--making the statement, however, with such sweet, calm good
nature, that it was impossible to be angry, even had Peter desired to
be so. But Peter was far too firmly fixed on his foundation to feel
anger; his opposition took the form of a sublime confidence, and he
closed the discussion with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm it was
impossible not to respect.
"Say what you will about the deadness of our faith, Professor!" he
cried, "there is life in the old kirk yet!"
He rose to his full stature with the words, his face kindling, and his
head thrown back and upward with the aspiring assertion. Adriana felt
the magnetism of his faith and stood up also, and the Professor
answered, gently:
"Mr. Van Hoosen, I respect your sentiments with all my intellect and
all my heart. One thing in your sturdy creed makes it omnipotent--the
utter absence of such an enfeebling thought as that this life was
meant to be a pleasure-house. How, indeed, could it fit into your
creed? and yet, to make life happy, to have pleasure, is not this the
question of existence to a majority?"
"Duty, not pleasure, was John Calvin's central idea. We are to obey,
not to grumble, or to desire. We are to receive all life's ills as
plain facts of discipline:
'Willing from first to last to take
The mysteries of our life as given;
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst in an undoubted heaven.'"
Then Miss Alida's entrance broke up the conversation, and the
Professor bade them "good-night." And in some way he made them feel
that he had received help and strength, and not merely pleasure, from
the interview. The clasp of his hand went to the heart, and both in
his eyes and in Peter's eyes there was that singular brilliance which
is the result of seeing, as in a vision, things invisible.
Suddenly every one was weary. Harry went away with the Professor,
promising to come early the following evening, which was to be the
last of Adriana's visit. The next day she would return to Woodsome
with her father, and her trunks were already packed for the flitting.
However, a week or two later Miss Alida was to follow her, and in the
interval Adriana looked forward with some pleasure to a life of
reflection and rest. She meant to cast up accounts with herself, and
see whether she had been a loser, or a gainer, by the winter's
experience.
The next morning both the ladies were silent and weary, and not
inclined to movement. They preferred to dawdle over their coffee, to
wonder whether Rose was seasick, and to discuss the smaller details of
the ceremony, that had been too insignificant for the first prime
criticism. Then the newspaper accounts were to praise and to blame,
and the morning passed in a languid after-taste of the previous day.
In the afternoon the sun was bright and warm and New York in one of
her most charming moods. "Let us have a last drive in the Park," said
Miss Alida, "for we shall have to content ourselves with woodland ways
and dusty roads for the next few months. Put on your hat and your new
suit. We may meet Harry, and if so, we can bring him back with us."
Full of pleasant expectations, Adriana dressed herself in the
sunshine, and came downstairs in an unusually merry mood. Miss Alida
looked curiously at her. "How fond she is of Harry!" she thought, "and
he is not worthy of her." But worthy or unworthy, it was evident that
Adriana was watching for and expecting her lover. "It is so
unreasonable of me," she said to her cousin, "for I told Harry last
night that I should not leave the house to-day. He wanted me to drive
with him, and I said, 'No.' My last drive with him was so happy I
feared to spoil its memory. One never knows what might occur to do
so--a shower, a cold wind, a bit of temper, or a tight shoe, or
something, anything, for which neither of us would be responsible."
"To be sure!" answered Miss Alida, vaguely. She had a feeling that
Adriana had a feeling, and that there was an unacknowledged
presentiment between them. So they drove, and drove, and Adriana's
high spirits suddenly left her. Miss Alida also became quiet, and the
hour grew monotonous and chilly and gray, and as the best carriages
were leaving the drive she gave the order to return home.
They were nearing the Plaza when Miss Alida directed Adriana's
attention to an approaching carriage. It was in a glow of color, and
as it drew nearer the colors became robes and wraps of gorgeous
shades, and reclining among them was a certain well-known operatic
divinity. Harry was with her. His eyes were looking into her eyes, and
his whole being was absorbed in the intoxicating sensuous loveliness
of his companion. He never saw Adriana. She looked directly at her
recreant lover, and he never saw her. There was no need for words. The
event was too positive and too flagrant to admit of doubt or
palliation.
"To-morrow I shall go to Woodsome," said Adriana, as they stood a
moment in the hall; "to-night, dear cousin, make an excuse for me, if
you please."
But Miss Alida followed Adriana to her room and answered: "Make an
excuse for you! Nonsense! See Harry, and tell him what you saw. I hate
those sulky quarrels where people 'think it best to say nothing.'"
"How can I tell him?"
"The plainest way is the easiest way. Tell him you saw him driving in
the Park, and ask him very sweetly whom he was driving with. If he
tells a lie----"
"I will not tempt him to lie. What could he do else?"
"I would humble him to my very feet."
"Then I might as well say, 'Farewell forever,' for a man at my feet
could never be my lover and husband. Oh, cousin, I must say 'farewell'
in any case. I am so wretched! so wretched!"
"Poor girl! I have always told you not to put your trust in a broken
reed--alias man. You did so, and you have got a wound for your pains.
But, Yanna, my dear, what is now the good of crying for the moon; that
is, for a man who is not a broken reed? I advise you to see Harry."
"I cannot. See him for me. Please."
"What am I to say? You know how apt I am to speak the uppermost
thought."
"You will say nothing wrong. Do not tell father anything."
"There I think you are wrong. Cousin Peter has intuitive wisdom--woman's
wisdom, as well as man's craft."
"However, say nothing to-night. Make some excuse for me; for I must be
alone."
So Miss Alida left the sorrowful girl; but as she disrobed herself,
she muttered: "What a miracle of ill-luck! I thought something
unpleasant would come of Yanna's high spirits--the girl was what the
Scotch call _fey_. Harry Filmer is a born fool, and a cultivated
fool, and a reckless fool, and every other kind of a fool! Indeed, he
is not _a_ fool, he is _the_ fool of the universe. Everything in his
hand, and he could not hold it! I will give him a lecture to-night--if
he comes to-night, which I doubt. That siren has him in a net, he will
go to the opera to see her dance; he will forget Yanna, and then,
to-morrow, he will talk of a headache--or an important engagement--and
Yanna will despise him far more than if he told the whole truth.
To-morrow, of course, for I am sure he will not come to-night; and it
is Yanna's last night in the city, too. Men take the heart out of you
if you mind their goings-on."
Miss Alida was right. Harry did not call, and Peter sat and talked
with Miss Alida, worrying a little all the time about his daughter's
sickness. And he was glad when Yanna sent to ask him if he could be
ready for the early train; for Peter felt that the end of the visit
had come, and that no pleasure could be obtained by drawing out what
was already finished. So, while it was yet very early in the morning,
Peter and Yanna went away; and Yanna was unavoidably sad, and yet, in
the midst of her sadness, she was conscious of that strange
gratification which we may call a sense of completeness. Even to the
painful events of her visit, it gave her that bitter-sweetness that
all experience when they watch a lover out of sight or the last red
spark die out of the gray ashes that were once love letters. One
chapter of life was finished. Yes, she told herself, quite finished in
some respects. She had watched Harry leave her in a way that she felt
must be final. And Antony and Rose had gone to their own life. When
they returned, Antony would be changed, and Rose would be changed,
and she also would be changed. Nothing could ever again be just as it
had been.
A few hours after Peter and his daughter had left the city, Miss Alida
was sitting with an open book in her hand. Her life had not been
without love and lovers, and she was remembering rather than reading
when she saw Harry coming up the steps to the door. She knew that he
expected to take lunch with Adriana and then go with her to the
Railway Station; and she smiled faintly at the disappointment in store
for him. As he came near the parlor door, she let her eyes fall upon
the book, and she did not lift them until Harry said:
"Reading, Cousin Alida! Pray, what interests you so early in the
day?"
"For my sins, I am reading a philosophical novel. Our very story-tellers
are getting serious and instructive; and as I read for amusement, I
shall turn to Talmage's sermons."
"Where is Yanna?"
"Yanna left for Woodsome early this morning. She is at home by this
time."
"That is too bad! She promised to let me go to the train with her."
"She expected you last night."
"I could not possibly come. I was ever so sorry."
"Why could you not come?"
"I was engaged--unexpectedly--and I was not feeling right. You know
very well there are things that a man must attend to, whether he wants
to do so or not."
"Harry Filmer! You are a worse moral coward than the first of your
kind. You cannot even say: 'The woman beguiled me.' Generally
speaking, a man in a mess can get out of it by throwing the blame on
the woman with him."
"Oh, if it comes to that, I hope I am not cad enough to put my sin on
any woman. How much do you know, Miss Van Hoosen? Who has been telling
tales?"
"We were in the Park yesterday afternoon, and we met you driving
with----"
"I know. Was Yanna with you?"
"Yanna was with me."
"Confusion! What did she say?"
"Not much. She went home by the first train this morning."
"She will never forgive me!"
"I should say, never."
"I did not mean that. She will be angry, of course, but she will not
be angry forever. I am awfully sorry to-day. But how can I tell her
so? What would you do? Come now, cousin, you are a sensible woman, and
you know men must have a little latitude--and really, I was caught so
suddenly--and if you would listen, you would understand that there is
some excuse for me."
"None at all, sir! What is temptation for but to resist?"
"I thought I would just take a short drive, and be here to dinner, but
I was not very well."
"You mean that you dined and drank wine with Madame Z----, and that
you could not come afterwards."
"She would not let me leave her, and so----"
"I thought you would get as far as Adam before you were through with
your apology. 'She would not let me!' Just so."
"It is too bad to take me up so quickly, when I am distracted with
shame and sorrow. What shall I do?"
"I would advise you to go to Woodsome and tell Yanna so. She may
forgive you, but I doubt if she will ever love you again."
"She cannot help loving me. And if she loves, she will forgive."
"Do not be too sure of that. Yanna has the stubbornness of the Dutch
moral character, and her conscience is strictly Calvinistic. She finds
it very hard to forgive her own little peccadillos."
"Are you also angry, cousin? You have seen life, and you ought to make
allowances."
"Right is right, Harry Filmer; and wrong is wrong, even to me; and I
am angry and greatly disappointed with you. I have looked forward with
so much pleasure to your marriage with Yanna, for you see, sir, it was
to me not only a union of hearts and hands, but a union of lands.
Yanna is to have all I possess, and if you inherit your father's land,
old Peter Van Hoosen's estate will be nearly intact again. Now that
simple, conscientious old Dutchman is my hero. His likeness hangs in
my private sitting-room, and I have constantly promised him that I
would try and put the land he loved all right before I joined him. You
need not look at me, Harry, as if you thought I were crazy. I can tell
you that there is a motive in working to please the dead, which
working for the living has nothing to match. Anyway, they are not
always overturning your best-laid plans."
"I was only astonished, cousin."
"Whenever I manage to buy back an acre, I feel it to be a joy beyond
most earthly joys to stand before the mighty-looking old burgomaster
and say: 'Another acre put right, Father Peter.' And the canvas
speaks to me, and I dream of the old man, and I know that he knows;
and that is all about it! So then, you see, I am not the only one you
have disappointed. I am sure your ancestor is thoroughly ashamed of
you this day."
Miss Alida spoke with a singular calm intensity, and Harry was
affected by it. Some one tugged at his heart-strings whom he had never
before thought of, and he said humbly: "I am sorry! I am very sorry! I
will go and see Yanna to-day."
"Not to-day. Wait a little. Write to her first. She must have time to
understand herself. I expect my friend Selina Zabriski to-morrow, and
after her arrival I shall not be long in the city. When I return to
Woodsome, I will speak to Yanna for you. I do not say she ought to
forgive you, but I will ask her to do so. And I do not thank you,
Harry Filmer, for making me plead such a case. And you need not thank
me, for I am afraid there is more expediency than sympathy in my
offer."
Fortunately, a man's own soul is his best oracle, if he will but
listen to it; and Harry's inmost feeling was that he ought to go and
see Yanna. He went by the first train, the next morning; and walking
up to the Van Hoosen house, he came unexpectedly upon Peter, who was
standing by a large oval bed of magnificent tulips.
"Sir," said Harry, "I want to speak to you. I must tell you something
at once, or perhaps I may not have the courage to tell you at all. I
have offended Yanna; and she has a right to be very angry with me. I
made an engagement to dine with her on the last evening she was in the
city, and instead of keeping it I went driving with another lady, and
afterwards dined with her. I have no excuse to offer. I was simply met
by a sudden temptation, and conquered by it. But I am sorry. I repent
the folly most sincerely; and as far as I can promise for myself, I
will never repeat it."
Peter stood looking at the young man. He spoke with a nervous
impetuosity, as if he feared he might not say all he wished unless he
said it at once. His handsome face was flushed and serious, his voice
full of feeling; and the hurry of his journey added to his general air
of uncomfortable solicitude. There was something very attractive about
the penitent youth; and such anger as Peter had felt melted under the
warm, anxious gaze which accompanied his entreaty.
For even while Harry was saying: "I have no excuse to offer. I was met
by a sudden temptation and was conquered by it," the voice of the
inner man was thus instructing Peter: "Brethren, if a man be overtaken
in a fault, ye which are spiritual restore such an one in the spirit
of meekness; considering thyself, lest thou also be tempted!"[1] So
that, when Harry ceased speaking, Peter put out his hand to him and
said:
[1] Galatians 6, 1-2.
"Let us walk down the avenue, Harry. It is evident that while you were
going quietly on your way, thinking no evil, temptation, for which you
were quite unprepared, presented itself, and before you knew, you were
in the dust, fallen. Well, then, you were 'overtaken in a fault,' and
the large charity of the Law of Christ tells me that in such case the
sinner is to be forgiven. It tells me, also, to forgive in the spirit
of meekness; for anger is sin, Harry, and sin cannot drive out sin. I
like your confession of fault; it comes from a desire to be true; and
I do not think you will find Yanna more unforgiving than you
deserve."
"I will try not to err in the same way again, sir."
"Do not; for just as a noble character is slowly elaborated by a
constant repetition of virtuous acts, so a base character is the
result of a perpetual repetition of unworthy ones. You cannot,
therefore, afford to do things which compel you to say frequently: 'I
have sinned, and I am sorry.'"
"I trust that I know the value of a good character, sir."
"Indeed, Harry, character pure and high is the best thing a man can
have. To have got it is to have got all; to have missed it is to have
missed all."
"I had no pleasure in my fault. I should have been infinitely happier
with Yanna."
"Pleasure seekers are never pleasure finders. Pleasure seekers are
always selfish; and self never yet sufficed for self. The essence of
all sin is the making of self the centre, round which we would have
everything revolve. To be delivered from this desire is the
turning-point in moral progress and in spiritual renewal."
"I will try and do my whole duty in the future. I will, sir!"
"Duty! that is the great law. But it must be an ever-present
consciousness. It must lie close to all your thoughts. It must haunt
your very being. And I can tell you, Harry, that your sensual nature
will shrink from such company. But be not discouraged, for when duty
has become an habitual law, then obedience to it will be a choice and
a delight."
"Will you say a word to Yanna for me, sir."
"I will walk with you to the door. That will be sufficient. Speak for
yourself; you speak to a tender heart."
So they walked together through the garden, Peter delaying a little at
the various beds of spring blossoms, for he wished Adriana to see that
he had quite forgiven Harry's offence, and taken him into favor again.
And such forgivenesses are better thus understood; nothing is gained
by discussing faults which are admitted, and for which there is no
apology but the pitiful one of an unconquerable temptation. Peter's
talk was of the flowers, and of the fine spring weather, but Harry was
hardly conscious of what he said; for he felt that his future had been
brought to the fine turning-point of a single word. Would Yanna speak
it?
Peter led him into the parlor and called Yanna. Then he said something
about the strawberry beds and left the lover to plead his own cause.
There was a few minutes' delay, which Harry employed in walking about
the room; then the door opened, and was softly closed, and Yanna stood
in his presence, pale as a lily, but lovelier in his sight than she
had ever before been.
He held out his hands to her. His eager face was a prayer. And though
she stood very still, her heart was stirring and throbbing and sweetly
urging: "_Forgive him! Forgive him!_" Then her eyes filled with a
soft, blue light; and a smile that you might have felt in the dark
spread like sunshine over her white face--and her hand clasped his
hands--she was within his arms--something wonderful and instantaneous
took place--everything was confessed in a look, and forgiven in a
kiss, and love was satisfied without a word.
And the bliss and the strength of the next two hours convinced Harry
that he could no longer bear to be separated from a woman so near to
his best self, and so necessary to it. He prayed Yanna to marry him at
once, that day--well then, that week--or, if not, then certainly that
month--when Miss Alida came back to Woodsome, and not a day later. And
just how it happened neither knew, but when Harry went back to New
York it was with Yanna's promise to make their wedding day at a very
early date.
On the journey he naturally thought of his mother, and he resolved to
face her anger at once. "The day has been fortunate; I will take all
it can give me," he said. And so, as soon as he reached his home, he
inquired for Mrs. Filmer. She had been making calls all the afternoon,
and the woman who can return from that social duty in a state of
serenity has not yet been evolved from nineteenth century conditions.
Mrs. Filmer was not only tired, she was cross. "I feel as if I had
been turned into a pincushion," she said. "All the afternoon the wind
blew the dust into my face, and the women pricked me in every place
they thought a pin-point could hurt. They have condoled with me about
Rose's marriage until I could scarcely keep the tears in my heart, and
congratulated me on it until my face burned like a flame. I never
before knew that words could be stillettos. But if you had only been
with me, Harry, it would have been different. Where have you been all
day? I called on Miss Van Hoosen, and she had not seen you."
"I have been to Woodsome."
"It was unnecessary. Your father was there two days ago. All is ready
for us."
"I went to see Yanna. I want to induce Yanna to marry me very soon--in
fact, this month."
"I must be going crazy. Another marriage this month! Another marriage
into that Van Hoosen family! I will not hear of such a thing! I will
not listen to you! It is outrageous!"
"I feel that Yanna is necessary to my best interests. She keeps me
right. I am ashamed to say that I fell under the Z----'s spell
again last Thursday. I lost money, too, after the opera, at cards; I
lost far more than money--I lost my veracity, my honor, and my
self-respect. Yanna only can keep me out of temptation."
"It seems even she fails."
"You ought to be glad, mother, that Yanna is willing to marry me, and
help me to do what is right."
"I am profoundly sorry and angry. Pray, where are you going to live?
That woman shall not enter any house of which I am the mistress. I
will have nothing to do with her--nor with you either."
At this point Harry heard his father going through the hall. He called
him into the room and re-stated his intentions.
"Well, Harry," answered Mr. Filmer, "if you choose to make your mother
ill and miserable, I cannot prevent you doing so. But it does occur to
me that we have had quite a surfeit of the Van Hoosens lately."
"You ought not to speak of Antony in that way, sir. You know the
circumstances."
"I think perhaps I do _not_ know them. I think perhaps that your
mother was right, and too much was made of the circumstances. However,
I must say that I do not feel equal to another wedding. My work has
been thrown back and out of order, and I did hope and look for a
little peace and comfort now."
His air was worried and yet decisive, and as he sat down by Mrs.
Filmer and began to talk of their removal to Woodsome, Harry perceived
that his affairs had been dismissed. He rose, went to his room,
dressed for the evening, and then went to call upon Miss Alida. Her
friend Selina Zabriski had just returned, but she was weary and
invisible, and so Harry had Miss Alida's company without interruption.
She wondered at his visit, but instantly connected it with Adriana.
"Have you written to her?" she asked, with a knowing smile.
"I have been to see her. She is going to marry me as soon as you
return to Woodsome."
"I told you to write. Why did you not follow my advice?"
"I bettered it."
"That is yet to be seen. Is Cousin Peter willing?"
"Yes. But my mother is very angry indeed, and greatly to my surprise,
father is almost equally so."
"Henry Filmer has only a certain amount of good sense; he used it up
on his daughter's affairs. Pray, what has Mrs. Filmer to say against
your marriage?"
"She says I am her only son, and that it is very hard to have me taken
away from her."
"She took Henry Filmer, who was an only son, from his father and
mother."
"She does not like Yanna."
"It is not she who has to marry Yanna."
"She does not like the Van Hoosens."
"The Van Hoosens live and flourish without her liking. Now, Harry,
what do you wish me to do?"
"We wish you to be glad with us--to approve our marriage."
"Your marriage suits me exactly. I am politely sorry it does not suit
Mr. and Mrs. Filmer, but I like it. The sooner it takes place, the
better I shall like it. When is it to be?"
"This month."
"Where?"
"In Woodsome. I was much pleased with the description Yanna's father
gave of his wedding in the old Dutch church there; and we have
resolved to have the same kind of simple ceremony."
"I am glad of that. I will stand by you. You are a couple of foolish
young people; but your folly fits my wisdom, and so is warrantable.
Where are you going to live?"
"We have not considered that question yet."
"The sparrows and the tom-tits have more sense than you have. They do
build a nest before they go to house-keeping."
"We shall find a nest."
"What faith! You will find a nest! Go, then, and buy the rings, and
get your wedding suits, and speak to the Dominie, and look to
Providence for a roof to cover you. You may say 'good night' now,
Harry. Lovers never know the clock. They come too soon, and they go
too late, and they talk about months when they mean ten or eleven
days. Good night, sir!"
But as it is ordained that lovers, like other men, have only feet and
hands, and not wings, Harry could not accomplish his marriage as soon
as he desired. There was law, as well as love, to consult; there were
also milliners and dressmakers to wait upon, and domestic and
financial matters to consider; so that it was the middle of June
before the wedding day arrived. It might have been still later, had
not Miss Alida suddenly resolved to spend the summer in Europe. This
resolve left her handsome house vacant, and she said frankly to Harry
that "it would be a great kindness to her if he would borrow it for
his summer residence." Nothing could have been more delightful, and it
simplified other considerations at once, and gave to the bride and
bridegroom an idyllic retreat for a long honeymoon.
"I said there would be a nest found for us!" cried Harry joyfully; and
Miss Alida laughingly answered "that she had been driven from house
and home, and sent to wander over the face of the earth, in order to
find them a nest." But, in reality, the arrangement was convenient and
pleasant on both sides.
The wedding day was one of royal sunshine, and the little church was
crowded with sympathetic neighbors and acquaintances. People generally
forget to be envious and ill-natured at a wedding, for the very
presence of visible love seems to hold in abeyance evil thoughts and
feelings. So, when Adriana, in a brave white satin dress, slashed with
sunshine, walked up the aisle on her father's arm, and Harry followed
with Miss Alida on his arm, there was a murmur of admiration and good
will. The bride was so lovely and the bridegroom so handsome, and both
were so radiantly happy, that every one present caught joy from them.
Through the open windows came the scent of lilacs and the twitter of
birds, and the old pines, like mystical trees, waved to and fro in the
open spaces. The breath and the hope of the morning hours were yet in
the air; the minister's smiling face and strong, cheerful words, went
to the heart like wine; and an air of religious joy sanctified the
rite. Blessed even to tears, the new husband and wife turned to each
other, and then to the world, with hopes bright as the morning and
purposes holy as their vows.
There was a large wedding breakfast at Miss Alida's, and then she had
but just time to catch the train which would serve her steamer; and
after her departure, one by one the visitors went away; so that,
before sunset, Harry and Adriana were alone in their new home. Only
one thing had marred the pleasure of the day; Harry's parents had
refused to share it. Mr. Filmer had no special dislike to Adriana, but
his wife had; and Mr. Filmer wisely considered that his summer's
comfort and peace probably depended on his apparent sympathy. And with
his great book on hand, how could he face the prospect of a prolonged
disagreement on a subject so much beyond his control?
So he was investigating the Plantagenet influence on the social life
of England while his son was being married, and he quite forgot all
about the circumstance. But Mrs. Filmer was fretting in every room of
her fine house, and feeling the ceremony in every nerve of her body
and pulse of her heart. Her restlessness indeed became so great that
she drove through the village in the afternoon, determined to be very
gracious to any one who could talk to her on the subject. She met no
one who could do so; though, for some time, society in Woodsome
divided itself very broadly into Mrs. Henry Filmer's friends and Mrs.
Harry Filmer's friends.
Anyway, the Filmers, old and young, kept the village folk and the
summer residents in delightful gossip and partisanship; for when a
lady was tired of one side, or considered herself slighted by one
side, she easily turned to the other; and thus, and so, the Filmer
controversy lived on through the season. At the close of it, the old
Filmers were in the ascendant. Mrs. Henry had given many fine
entertainments, and people liked them, for each fresh invitation
contained the possibility of being a reconciliation party; and each
failure of this hope renewed the life of the old grievance and the
interesting discussion of it.
On the contrary, Harry and Adriana were provokingly satisfied with
their own company. They were seen driving or riding together; and
people caught glimpses of them strolling among the flowers and shrubs,
or sitting together on the shady galleries; but they gave no balls, or
lawn parties, or afternoon teas, and they did not seem to care whether
friends called upon them or not. For new married couples have
generally a contempt for the rest of the world, and to love and to be
wise at the same time is a blessing rarely granted.
So the days danced away with down upon their feet, and there was no
talk of anything between Harry and Adriana than their own great love
and happiness--not at least for many weeks. But, as the dusty summer
waned, they began to think of the future, and to plan for its
necessities. In the winter they would certainly have to live in New
York, and it seemed, therefore, best to make their home there. Harry
was busy looking at houses for sale, and Adriana constantly going into
the city to examine their advertised perfections. An element of unrest
came into the beautiful summer nest, and something of that melancholy
which haunts the birds just before their migration. The May of their
lives was past. The time of labor and care was at hand. Even
financially, Harry began to be aware that the love that had made him
dream must now make him work.
So they watched eagerly for Miss Alida's letters. Hitherto they had
been full of traveller's gossip and complaints; but there had been no
mention of her return, and so far they had not been sorry for the
delay. But September brought a different feeling. Harry wanted to go
to the city. His visits to it made him long for the financial fray,
for society, for his old duties and amusements. He began to fret at
his inaction, to be a trifle irritable with Miss Alida for her long
visit, and at last to stop in the city for two and three days at a
time.
"I wish Miss Alida would come home," said Adriana to her father one
morning. She had driven herself to the post-office, and called at
Peter's on her way back. "I wish she would come. We have had no letter
from her for two weeks. I am uneasy about her--and about Harry."
"Why are you uneasy about Harry?" asked Peter.
"He stays in the city too often. He says 'business' demands his
presence. Father, I do not like it. I want to be in the city with him.
I am sure I ought to be. Why does he stay there? He could come home if
he wished to do so."
Peter looked gravely into his daughter's anxious face. He could see
the unshed tears in her eyes. He had himself suffered from her
mother's over-love and jealous care, and he said earnestly:
"Yanna, my best loved one! Before all other advice about your husband,
consider some words I am going to give you. I gave them to Gertrude
and Augusta; when they first began to worry about this thing--_a wife
should have eyelids as well as eyes_. Do not see too much. Do not hear
too much. Do not feel too much. And be sure not to imagine too much.
God made both men and women, and they are not alike. Remember that,
dear girl--_they are not alike_." He clasped her hand, and she smiled
through her tears, and with a brave little nod turned her horse's head
and drove slowly home.
When she reached the Van Hoosen place, she found that Miss Alida had
returned. The old lady came to the door with a "Good morning, Mrs.
Harry Filmer! Why was not Harry at the dock to meet me?"
"We did not know you were coming. Oh, I wish we had! We would have
both been there."
"I thought so, and as I hate a fuss, I just dropped home without a
word. Do I look ten years older? I feel twenty. No place like
home! your own home! I hope we shall all have our own homes in
heaven--country ones, too. I should tire awfully of that great
multitude on the golden streets. Oh, Yanna, how good it is to see
you! Where is Harry?"
"In New York. He has to go there very often now. He says it is
business."
"It is business, undoubtedly. Here is the cup of chocolate I ordered.
Sit down and talk to me, while I drink it. Then I will go to sleep,
and you can take off your driving gear."
But she found it impossible to sleep; she had so much to tell, and so
much to show. And suddenly she raised herself from an open trunk, and
holding out a case of Apostle spoons, said, "These are a present from
Rose. When did you hear from her?"
"She has written very seldom to me lately. But I thought perhaps she
had been influenced by her mother. That would be quite natural. Did
you see her?"
"Yes."
The reply had in it a touch of anger. Adriana looked up, but was
silent.
"I saw her--in Edinburgh."
"Is she happy?"
"I suppose she is happy in her way; for she indulges her every mood
and temper to her heart's desire."
"How is Antony?"
"God alone knows. To speak plainly, Rose is enough to drive him to
destruction of some kind or other. Her vagaries, her depressions, her
frivolities, her adoration of him one day and her hatred of him the
next day, are beyond my comprehension. She prides herself on doing
outrageous, unconventional things, and poor Antony feels that he must
stand by her in them. My heart ached for the man."
"There is nothing really wrong, though?"
"Well, Yanna, there is always a dreadful debasement of nature,
following violations of popular morality. Antony's face of calm
endurance made my heart ache. Its patience, and its unspoken misery,
reminded me constantly of a picture by Carlo Dolci, called _The
Eternal Father_."
"How could any one dare to paint the face of God?"
"In this case the painter has been penetrated with an awful reverence.
And, Yanna, what do you think his idea of the Divine Father was? A
grand human face, full of human grief and loneliness and patience, the
eyes sad beyond tears, as if there were an unutterable sorrow in the
Eternal Heart."
"How strange!"
"No. If God is Love, how can He be ineffably happy and glorious while
his sons and daughters are wandering away from Him and the whole world
is broken-hearted? It did me good, it comforted me, to think of a God
who could suffer; and I am sure it had done Antony good, for it was he
who told me, when I was in Florence, to be sure and go to the Gallery
and see the picture."
"I hope Rose is not taking wine."
"I saw nothing of the kind. But I suspect much from her variable
temper--and other things."
Then they were both silent. Miss Alida lifted some lace and went with
it to a certain drawer; and Adriana looked at the silver Rose had sent
her, and as she thoughtfully closed the case, she said to herself:
"I am glad Antony comprehended that picture; glad that he understands
an Eternal Father who pities His children, because 'He knows their
frame, and remembers that they are dust.'"