THE MAN-HATER’S LOVER.
Erminie sauntered slowly down the winding footpath leading through the
magnolia grove to the acacia avenue, on the banks of the river. She had
not gone far when, a few paces in advance of her she saw Britomarte
walking alone.
Not wishing to intrude on the amazon in her dark hour, Erminie was
turning away, when Britomarte by some means became aware of her
presence, and looked back with an expression of ineffable tenderness,
and beckoned her to approach.
The gentle girl went to the brilliant amazon’s side, and was encircled
by her arm.
“Thanks for letting me come, dear Britomarte,” she murmured, lifting her
soft, hazel eyes to meet the gaze of the splendid dark-gray orbs that
were shining down upon her.
“My bonny love, I never wish to avoid you. In my darkest hour you are
ever welcome to me,” answered the man-hater, in the soft tone and with
the sweet smile she ever used in addressing this best-beloved of her
soul.
“Thank you! Thank you, dearest Britomarte!” Erminie exclaimed, kissing
the hand of her friend. But, then growing grave, she added, “Oh, my
dearest love, I am so sorry you are such an intense man-hater! Your
wholesale hatred makes you so unjust! It is the one dark spot on the
bright disc of your clear, warm, strong, sunlike nature! All men are not
brutes, dearest Britomarte.”
“Then they are imbeciles! There is but one division.”
“What! Do you mean that all men are either brutes or idiots?”
“All!”
“Oh! Britomarte, how can you—can you—say so, dearest? You had a father!”
Dark as a thundercloud grew the beautiful face of the amazon; harsh,
curt and strange were the words of her reply.
“Yes; I had a father with little claim upon my love, and less upon my
honor. Never name him to me again.”
Erminie was appalled.
Britomarte stopped in her walk and sat down at the foot of a tree, as if
overshadowed by some dark destiny.
Erminie sank down at her feet and laid her head on her lap.
Both were silent for a time, and the only sounds that broke the
stillness were the whispering of the leaves above their heads, the hum
of the insects around them, and the ripple of the river below.
Erminie began to sob softly, while Britomarte laid her hand gently on
her pet’s head.
“Britomarte, dearest, I am sorry that I hurt you; I would not have done
it for a kingdom, if I had known it.”
“I am sure you would not, darling!—sure you would not! Say no more about
it, love; but tell me of your own father, who cannot come under my
severe category because I do not know him; and tell me of that wonderful
brother whom you idolize so much, and whom I have never seen.”
“My father and my brother,” murmured the minister’s daughter, as at the
memory of cherished home affections—“my dear father and dear brother!
Ah! Britomarte, if you had known them you would never have been a
man-hater! When you do know them you will cease to be one!”
“Then a miracle will be performed,” said the beauty. “But tell me, are
they coming to the commencement?”
“I am not sure. That is to say, I know that one of them will come to
fetch me home, for my father wrote to say so; but I am not sure which.
Perhaps both may come. I hope they may. I want my dear father to be
present to-day. A triumph is no triumph to me unless he witnesses it;
and oh! I am so impatient to see my dear brother. I have not seen him,
you know, since he left us, five years ago, for Gottengen.”
“Your brother is studying for holy orders, I think you told me.”
“Oh, yes. He has a genuine call to the ministry of the gospel if ever
any man had one in this world. He has sacrificed the most brilliant
prospects of earthly success to obey that call.”
“How is that, my dear?”
“Oh, why you know he is my father’s only son, and except myself, his
only child, for there are but two of us, my brother and myself. Justin
is ten years older than I am, however, since I was but sixteen in May,
and he will be twenty-six in August.”
“Yes; but about the sacrifice he made, my dear?”
“I am telling you. My dear brother and myself are the only children of
the house of Rosenthal. My father’s family is not what is called a
marrying family. Father has two bachelor brothers, who are the great
woolen importers. Uncle Friedrich has the Berlin house and Uncle Wilhelm
the New York house. They offered to take Justin into the business, and
bring him up as their successor, but he felt this call to preach the
gospel, and he declined their offer.”
“It was a great sacrifice,” said Britomarte.
“It was; but our dear father encouraged him to make it. Oh, there are
very few like our father; and Justin is worthy to be his son! He has
come home to stay now! And he is to be ordained this coming autumn! Oh,
Britomarte, you must come and visit them, and go with me to see his
ordination.”
“I shall be pleased to do so, my dear! Listen! Yes, the bell is ringing!
We must go and take our places on the platform. I suppose many of the
friends of the pupils have arrived. What a pity it is they cannot see
their charges until after the ceremonies,” said Britomarte, rising to
retrace her steps towards the college buildings.
“Yes; it is a pity; but I suppose their earlier meeting is prohibited to
prevent confusion and delay. I saw Alba’s parents roll by in their open
barouche as I came down here. And there are Elfie’s father and two
uncles riding up on horseback. And my dear father and brother, or both,
will be here presently. But, Britomarte, who is coming for you?”
“No one. No one ever does come, nor do I wish that any should. I am
contented, darling.”
“You are self-reliant! But, dear Britomarte, I will be near you, so do
remember that one will watch your ordeal with as much interest as
father, mother, sister and brother, all combined, could do; and will
mourn over your defeat, or rejoice over your victory, more than over her
own.”
“I do believe it, my darling! And therefore I take pleasure in assuring
you that you shall have cause only for rejoicing. I shall achieve a
victory, Erminie.”
“Yes! I never doubted that! I was always sure of that. What is your
theme, dear Britomarte? You will not object to tell me, now that the
reading is so near.”
“My dearest, I should not have objected to tell you at any period, if
you had asked me to do so. My theme is the ‘Civil and Political Rights
of Woman.’”
“What a tremendous subject! Britomarte, dear, you will be sent to
Coventry by all the professors.”
“Perhaps! But do you think I shall go there?” laughed the beauty.
By this time they were approaching the college through the roseries, as
the terraces, adorned principally with these beautiful flowers, were
called. On the upper terrace they made a turn to the left, to avoid the
carriages that were continually rolling up to the front entrance,
depositing their freights and rolling off again.
The two friends entered a side door, and found themselves in a large
ante-room, in which were assembled all their schoolmates in the festive
school uniform of pure white muslin dresses, pink ribbons and rose
wreaths.
And among them walked Alba Goldsborough, the blond beauty and wealthy
heiress, and Elfrida Fielding, the bright little brunette country girl.
These two girls walked apart, with their arms around each other’s
waists, conversing in confidential whispers.
“They are still talking of Britomarte!” said Erminie, indignantly, to
herself, and as she looked at them her suspicion was confirmed; for as
soon as they saw her with Britomarte they ceased to talk, and began to
look embarrassed. But before the quartet of friends could meet, the
great folding doors, separating the ante-room from the exhibition hall,
were thrown open, and two of the teachers appeared to marshal the pupils
to the scene of their approaching ordeal.
Promptly and quietly they fell into line and marched into the hall—a
spacious room of the Corinthian order of architecture, fitted up as a
temple of the muses—the nine muses being represented by nine statues
supporting the arches separating the platform from the part of the hall
occupied by the audience.
This platform was provided with rows of benches covered with crimson
cloth, for the accommodation of the pupils.
Up the side stairs leading to this platform the line of pupils marched.
They seated themselves on the benches in good order, and then surveyed
the scene before them.
The hall was crowded with a large number of spectators, among which were
to be seen distinguished learned professors, noted preachers and the
heads of neighboring colleges. But the great mass of the audience
consisted of the parents and guardians, friends and relatives of pupils
and teachers.
Alberta Goldsborough, the wealthy heiress, recognized her stately papa
and fashionable mamma, and saluted them with a cold, young-ladyish bow
as she sank into her seat.
Elfrida descried, seated away back in an obscure corner, the three
honest country gentlemen whom she saucily designated “one pap and two
unks.” And she audaciously kissed her hand to them with a loud smack as
she popped into her place.
Erminie discerned, near the middle of the crowd, her revered father and
idolized brother, and exchanged with them a bow and smile of recognition
and joy. But, oh, fate of Tantalus! though she had not seen her father
for ten months, nor her brother for five years, she could not either
approach or speak to them; she could not even turn to Britomarte and
point them out; she could only bow and smile, for silence and decorum
were rigidly enforced upon the pupils on the commencement day at
Bellemont College.
Britomarte, with her sad eyes wandering over the assemblage, saw not one
familiar face. But Britomarte was almost alone in the world.
The ceremonies of the day began.
Now, as there is nothing in this wearisome world half so wearisome to an
uninterested spectator as a school exhibition or a college commencement,
and as this anniversary at Bellemont partook of both characters, I will
spare my readers the details of the proceedings and discuss the whole
affair with as few words as possible.
Professors preached and pupils prosed on the platform; while the
spectators fanned themselves vigorously, or yawned behind fans of every
description, from the plain palmleaf to the scented sandalwood, in the
hall.
Teachers and scholars were alike in the highest state of exultation
and—the deepest degree of fatigue.
The audience politely pronounced the affair to be very interesting
and—heartily wished it over.
In fact the exercises of the day were only redeemed from the most
ordinary monotony by the reading of Britomarte Conyers’ theme—“The Civil
and Political Rights of Women.”
At Bellemont College the themes were not read by the writers, because in
that immaculate institution it was deemed unladylike for a young lady to
stand upon a platform before a mixed audience and read her own
composition aloud, and it was also thought that the embarrassment which
a young writer would be likely to feel in such a position would
seriously mar the delivery and detract from the effect of her theme. So
it was arranged that all the themes should be read aloud by the
professor of elocution to the institution, whose highly cultivated style
would certainly improve the poorest composition, and do full justice to
the richest. He “lent to the words of the poet the music of his voice.”
He read with great effect Britomarte Conyers’ essay on the “Civil and
Political Rights of Women,” in which the author bravely asserted not
only the rights of married women to the control of their own property
and custody of their own children, but the rights of all women to a
competition with men in all the paths of industry and a share with them
in all the chances of success—in the mechanical arts, in learned
professions, in commercial business, in municipal and national
government, in the camp, the field, the ship; in the Senate, in the
Cabinet, on the Bench, and in the Presidential chair. She supported her
argument with the names and examples of the noteworthy women of all ages
and countries—women, who, in despite of the obstacles of law, precedent
and prejudice, had distinguished themselves in every field of enterprise
ever illustrated by men. It was altogether a clear, warm, strong,
brilliant article; and, like all works of genius, it received an almost
equal share of enthusiastic praise and extravagant blame. It was
excessively admired for the strength, beauty and ingenuity of its
argument, and bitterly censured for the heterodoxy of its doctrines.
Among those who listened to the reading was Justin Rosenthal, the
brother of Erminie, who, seated beside his father, gave the most earnest
attention to the argument.
At its conclusion, he turned to the elder Rosenthal, and said:
“That is the most original, outspoken and morally courageous assertion
of right against might that has been made since the immortal Declaration
of Independence! And that it should have been written by a schoolgirl
seems almost incredible. A rare, fine spirit—a pure, noble heart—a
clear, strong intellect she has. I wonder who she is?”
“I do not know,” replied Dr. Rosenthal, for Erminie’s father was a D.
D.—“I do not know; but I do know that her argument, though ingenious, is
wrong from beginning to end.”
Later on was announced the name of the successful candidate for the
medal to be awarded for the best English theme. The medal was awarded to
Britomarte Conyers, for her essay on the “Civil and Political Rights of
Woman.”
“Britomarte Conyers, then, is the author of that theme you admire so
much, and is the young lady you are so curious to see. I congratulate
you, Justin! Miss Conyers is your sister’s most intimate friend. You
will have an opportunity not only of seeing her, but of forming her
acquaintance under the most auspicious circumstances,” said Dr.
Rosenthal.
“Nay,” smiled Justin, “I do not know that I care to follow up any such
acquaintance with the young champion of womankind. I merely wish to see
and judge her as a rather singular specimen of her sex.”
It was at the school ball of the evening that Justin Rosenthal was
presented to Britomarte Conyers, whose personal beauty and grace made as
deep an impression on his heart as her genius had made upon his mind. At
the same time and place Colonel Eastworth, a distinguished son of South
Carolina, was introduced to Erminie. And thus two of our young friends
met the persons who were destined to exercise the most powerful
influence over their future lives.
The next morning the school broke up for the midsummer holidays, and the
pupils went their several ways. Elfrida Fielding went with her father
and uncles to Sunnyslopes. Alberta Goldsborough accompanied her parents
to the Rainbows, their waterside villa. And the Rosenthals, with Colonel
Eastworth and Britomarte Conyers, embarked on the steamer bound for
Washington.