Papa’s Own Girl;
A NOVEL.
BY MARIE HOWLAND.
——“Wisdom is humanity;
And they who want it, wise as they may seem,
And confident in their own sight and strength,
Reach not the scope they aim at.”
—W. S. LANDOR.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT,
No. 27 CLINTON PLACE.
BOSTON: LEE & SHEPARD.
1874.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
MARIE HOWLAND,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
[All rights reserved.]
Electrotyped and printed by
THE EXCELSIOR PRINTING COMPANY,
81, 83, & 85 Centre St., N. Y.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— AN OLD LETTER 5
II.— THE SKELETON IN THE GARRET 11
III.— DR. FOREST AT HOME 17
IV.— ONE OF DR. FOREST’S PATIENTS 25
V.— THE TATTOOING 37
VI.— CLARA AT STONYBROOK COLLEGE 45
VII.— DAN’S BUSINESS OPERATIONS 54
VIII.— PHILOSOPHY VANQUISHED 64
IX.— THE LION’S DEN 73
X.— CLARA’S RETURN.—THE DRAMA IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY 83
XI.— FAITH AND WORKS 98
XII.— CLARA DECIDES BETWEEN RELIGION AND PRINCIPLE 112
XIII.— PAPA’S OWN GIRL 122
XIV.— DAN’S MONEY RETURNED.—THE DOCTOR CONQUERED 132
XV.— THE DOCTOR’S LETTER.—DAN REJECTED 144
XVI.— THE VISIT OF THE DELANOS 152
XVII.— COSTLY GRAPES 165
XVIII.— HOW DAN GOT MARRIED 175
XIX.— THE BABY.—LOVERS’ ADIEUX 187
XX.— CLARA’S WEDDING 199
XXI.— THE NUCLEUS OF THE FLOWER BUSINESS 208
XXII.— THE FIRST CLOUD 220
XXIII.— THE INVITATION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 236
XXIV.— A SPASMODIC MOVEMENT OF LOVE 244
XXV.— LETTERS.—A CONVERSATION 253
XXVI.— THE CRISIS 266
XXVII.— THE SANCTITY OF MARRIAGE 278
XXVIII.— THE EFFECT OF DR. DELANO’S FORGIVENESS 291
XXIX.— THE COUNT VON FRAUENSTEIN 301
XXX.— OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH 314
XXXI.— INTO A BETTER WORLD 330
XXXII.— THE DISTINGUISHED VISITOR 343
XXXIII.— LEGITIMATE, OR ILLEGITIMATE 360
XXXIV.— THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 375
XXXV.— THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP OBEYS 387
XXXVI.— THE COUNT’S SPEECH TO HIS WORKMEN 405
XXXVII.— POETIC RETRIBUTION.—GROG-SELLERS INTERVIEWED BY WOMEN 425
XXXVIII.— PROGRESS OF THE WORK 441
XXXIX.— AN HONEST WOMAN 459
XL.— UNDER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 473
XLI.— AFTER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 492
XLII.— A VISIT TO THE SOCIAL PALACE 507
XLIII.— THE INAUGURATION OF THE SOCIAL PALACE 523
XLIV.— THE BIRTH OF THE HEIR 538
PAPA’S OWN GIRL.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD LETTER.
* * * * I was seven years old when they came—those mysterious little
red-faced sisters, which the day before were nowhere in the universe,
and the next had sprung up before my bewildered young eyes, full dressed
in long white gowns, and looking every way as exactly alike as did the
objects I used to see double by “crossing my eyes” as we called it; a
habit that brought me many a reprimand.
We lived then, as you know, in L——, Massachusetts, and I looked upon the
advent of the little creatures on that fine September morning as the
most wonderful stroke of fortune; but I remember that my mother, lying
very pale and still among her pillows, watched my delight with sad eyes,
and then turned her face wearily to the wall. Aunt Patty, the dear old
Goody, long since sleeping in the village churchyard, entered kindly
into my childish enthusiasm, turning up the skirts of the white dresses,
and then unfolding a mass of soft flannel, finally exposed the velvety
little feet, whose pink toes moved incessantly, as if enamored of the
air. I very soon grew so boisterous in my delight that I had to be sent
ignominiously from the room. I went immediately in search of my brother
Dan, a handsome, rough fellow, whom I found in the kitchen busily
employed with his fishing tackle; for the unusual excitement in the
house afforded him an opportunity to sly off to the river, where mother
had forbidden him to go on pain of severe penalties. I began eagerly
imparting the news.
“O, pshaw! I know all about it,” interrupted Dan. The statement
surprised me, but I accepted it as pure truth, as I generally did all
that he said. He was some years older than I, and I considered him a
superior being—at least everywhere except in school; there, even a
partial sister’s eyes had to see that he was a dunce; though a
good-natured one, and a great favorite. He was indefatigable in
“coasting” the girls and the little boys in winter, and he had a rough
humor that pleased them all. I remember that, at the beginning of one of
our winter terms, the master had offered a prize to the one who should
leave off at the head of the spelling class the greatest number of
times. On the last day of school I received the prize, flushed with
proud delight, standing at the head of the long line of pupils. Dan was
at the very foot, as usual, and the teacher took occasion to reprove him
for his bad lessons and his want of ambition in trying for the prize.
“Why, I almost got it,” said Dan.
“Almost!” echoed the teacher angrily; for we all knew that Dan had not
left off at the head a single day.
“Yes, sir. I should have had it if you had only made this end the head.”
A burst of laughter from the teacher and all the pupils followed this
view of the case, and the echoes, more and more subdued, continued when
we were dismissed to our seats, I hugging the precious prize, which was
a red morocco bound copy of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and Dan chuckling
over the success of his humor. He had consoled and vindicated all the
orthographical blockheads, and he was happy. But I am letting my pen run
wild, as I like to do when answering your letters.
While I stood watching Dan’s manœuvres with his wiggling angle-worms and
hooks and sinkers, I asked him if he did not think that the twins were
perfectly lovely.
“No, I don’t,” he replied, impatiently. “I was going to have two months
of fun before school commenced, and now I shan’t have any. I shall have
to run everywhere for them nasty twins; and then the crackers I shall
have to pound! Mother didn’t have half milk enough for Arthur, and it
would take a whole cow for these. Girls, too, both of them!” he added,
with great contempt. Here, in fact, was the sore point with Dan. While
the baby Arthur lived, he was very fond of him, in his way, and would
probably have been gracious over the advent of a new brother; possibly
would have pardoned our mother in time for presenting us one baby of
either sex; but two at a time, and both girls at that! This was too much
for Dan’s patience, or for his confidence in the discretion of mothers.
I was surprised at his cool prediction about the supply of milk, but I
deferred to his superior experience and years. He gave me another piece
of recondite information just as he started for the river, threatening
to kill my pet kitten if I dared to even hint where he had gone. This
information was that these particular babies would be “awful cross
patches; girls always were.”
In time I myself grew to qualify my ecstasy over the double blessing;
for they certainly proved “awful cross patches,” and the sacrifices I
was obliged to make to them as a child, only a child I think could fully
appreciate. * * * *
Do you remember the skeleton in the garret—the _memento mori_ of our
play-house banquets? * * * *
C. F.
* * * * *
“C. F.” is my old friend Clara Forest, and I am one of the characters,
but it does not matter which one. I shall not appear again in the first
person after I have described my first acquaintance with her. It is a
long time since I determined to weave the events of her life into a
story, and coming across this old letter the other day turned the
balance of motives for and against the effort, and I set myself
deliberately to work collecting and arranging materials; for this novel
is by no means a structure evolved from the depths of my own
consciousness. The groundwork is a simple narration of fact, and even
the superstructure is real to a great extent.
In my early days, Clara was my heroine, my princess, but I worshipped
her silently, and she never took any special notice of me until years
after our first meeting.
I saw her first in a village graveyard one Sunday, between the morning
and afternoon services. That was the cheerful spot where the
congregations of the different churches walked during the noon recess,
discussed funereal subjects, and ate “sweet cake,” to use the New
England term of that time. Clara was accompanied by her Sunday-school
teacher, named Buzzell—a grim and forbidding woman, I thought. Everybody
called her “Miss Buzzell,” though she was a widow; but at that time,
among the rural people of New England, it was very common to call
married ladies Miss; unmarried ones received no title at all. Clara on
this day wore a broad-brimmed white straw hat, with wide rose-colored
streamers, a white dress and embroidered tunic of the same, and bronzed
gaiters, or boots, as we now call them. She was a solid little girl,
with a face round and very freckled, a broad, full brow, full pouting
rosy lips, radiant blue-grey eyes, with thick, long lashes, and a nose
that was pretty, though a little after the _rétroussé_ order.
I shall never forget my first sensation. It was a feeling of regret that
I had no freckles; for as soon as my eyes rested upon her, there came
into my heart a deep desire to be just like her in every particular.
Hundreds of times have I recalled her as she appeared to me that day;
and I still believe that, upon some secret principle of æsthetics,
notwithstanding the general prejudice against freckles, these added to
the piquancy of her beauty. As she grew up few called her handsome,
except those who could perceive the rich emotional nature that seemed to
radiate through every gesture and movement of her supple form, and
especially through her bright eyes, whose lids had sometimes a slight
quiver or shake from any sudden excitation. This was something
instantaneous as to time, and difficult to describe, but it added an
extraordinary charm to her soulful beauty. There was always about her an
atmosphere of fragrant health, which charmed you like the odors and
zephyrs of spring-time. The freckles which, as a child, I had so envied
her, disappeared entirely when she reached the nubile age.
On this Sunday in the graveyard I “tagged” after Clara everywhere she
went, fascinated by her fresh, full life, and by her exquisite dress;
but I could find no way to speak to her, because of her awe-inspiring
companion, though I was often so near to her that her long hat ribbons
swept my cheek. After a while my ignorance of churchyard etiquette came
to my aid; for, finding the distance between me and this divine vision
increasing, I made a short cut over some intervening graves. Miss
Buzzell turned her awful eyes upon me. I simply noticed that there were
many wrinkles converging about her mouth, and that her breath was
redolent of cloves. In a deep, slow, admonitory voice, she said, “Child!
you should never step on a grave!” It was like a cold leech dropped
suddenly upon the warm, sensitive flesh. I could do nothing but hang my
head in humiliation. Clara, childlike and human, sympathized with my
distress, and told me sweetly that my pantalette was coming down. It was
at the time when girls, in that part of the country at least, wore this
nondescript article fastened on with the garter, falling down to the
foot, and about three inches below the dress, where it ended with tucks
and a wide hem. Some of us were so extravagant as to add an edging,
which we used to knit of spool cotton. I stooped down to arrange the
rebel pantalette, but when I had finished, Clara was some graves away
from me, and the church bells were calling back the scattered
congregations.