CLARA DECIDES BETWEEN RELIGION AND PRINCIPLE.
Mrs. Forest had often had rather severe conflicts with her husband on
questions of morality and justice, upon which, in her mind, he held very
lax notions. This, however, was the first time they had been
diametrically opposed in a matter of actual practice, and she was
considerably disturbed, though she carried away the gratification of
having preserved that serenity of soul that naturally belongs to those
who are in the right; moreover she was somewhat piqued in her womanly
vanity, because the doctor had not desired her to stay sufficiently to
yield the point. But there was one deep satisfaction for her that atoned
for everything: Dan was in no danger of being compelled to marry Susie
Dykes. During all the first part of her conversation with the doctor,
she had mortally feared that he would insist on bringing this about.
As she descended the stairs, she found Clara bolting the front door. She
had just let Dr. Delano out, after bidding him good-night as many times
as lovers usually do, and was in a blissful state of mind. Her
beautiful, limpid eyes shone brilliantly through her long lashes, her
lips were crimson and dewy, and her whole being expressed the happiness
of the young, poetic enthusiast.
“Come and sleep with me, daughter. I wish to talk with you,” she said,
embracing Clara with more effusion than was her wont, and Clara saw that
some grief disturbed her mother. What could it be? Surely not
disapproval of her attachment to Dr. Delano, for had not her mother
smiled upon the happy lovers not an hour ago? This settled, in Clara’s
thought, there could be nothing serious in what her mother had to say,
and this special night she wished to be alone. There seemed lately no
time to think, to enjoy the delicious creations of a vivid imagination,
stimulated by a passion as real and sweet as it was dreamy and ideal.
The longing to be alone with her thoughts made her say, “Come into the
parlor, mamma dear, and tell me there.”
“No,” said Mrs. Forest, with the persistence of a child, “I want you
with me,” and she added, reproachfully, “Is it a sacrifice?” thus
forcing Clara to say what was not strictly true—“Certainly not, mamma
dear. I will go with you.”
Long into the night Mrs. Forest talked earnestly to her daughter. Clara
was shocked, as any romantic young girl would be, having the case
presented in its worst light—disgusted, indeed—but she was much too
severe upon Dan to please her mother. Clara was her father’s own girl,
as Mrs. Forest knew, and her heart was naturally inclined to pity Susie,
and she said to her mother in extenuation, “She is so young, you know,
and without any education, or she would know she could never win a lover
in that way.” This was a sign of wisdom that pleased Mrs. Forest.
“My daughter, I am sure,” she said, “would never be in danger of
forwardness and immodesty with gentlemen; and I will say here, my dear,
that much being alone with gentlemen before marriage, is very
injudicious, for the most honorable of them will take advantage of such
confidence.”
Clara was rather inclined to believe this, recalling certain passages on
the veranda that evening, but she was very silent on that subject. Mrs.
Forest returned to the subject of Susie, and labored to show the
importance of having her out of the house as soon as possible. “Your
father is so unreasonable. I really believe he thinks it our duty to
have her here. Why, I should die of shame to have the Delanos know it.
What would they think?”
“We must do right, mamma, whatever people think.”
“Yes, yes; but we can do right in a prudent way, and there is so much at
stake. Dr. Delano asked your father’s permission to address you only
to-day.” Clara knew this fact, but it was very agreeable to have a
second account of it. “Your father is so unlike the rest of the world. I
was shocked at his answer. Instead of thanking Dr. Delano for the honor,
as would have been the proper way, he answered brusquely, ‘Bless my
soul! Delano, it’s none of my business. I don’t see what the girl can
want with your ridiculous addresses, but that is her affair. You know I
advocate woman’s rights, and that includes her right to make a fool of
herself;’ and he actually laughed.” Clara asked anxiously how Dr. Delano
received it—that was the all-important part to her.
“Oh, he took it exceedingly well, I am glad to say. He held out his hand
to your father, and thanked him in a very gentlemanly style.”
“Did papa say any more?”
“Such a lot of nonsense! He said he had brought you up to be
independent. For my part, I think an independent girl dreadful. He said
he had told you what rascally dogs men were, and if this was the result
of his warning, why he must submit. You cannot imagine how mortified I
was. Your father was called away then, and I apologized to Dr. Delano
for his manner.”
“Why, mamma! the idea of apologizing for papa’s manner. I should not
think of doing Dr. Delano the injustice of supposing he could not
understand and appreciate my father. He speaks of him in a way that
charms me.”
Mrs. Forest kept on talking, making a mountain of the importance of
getting rid of Susie. She would, of course, be kind to her; all the
ladies of the church would do something for her; but Dr. Delano’s august
father and Miss Charlotte were coming, and they must never hear of this
terrible disgrace.
Clara was bewildered. Her education at Stonybrook had inculcated the
conventional respect for the proprieties; but now face to face with a
practical trouble like this, she did not feel like trusting entirely her
mother, who was the very soul of conventionality. She would see her
father, and then judge for herself; and with this decision she dropped
asleep.
In the morning Clara slept rather late, and when she went down-stairs
her father was gone. During breakfast Mrs. Forest had hardly addressed a
word to him. In her mind, there was a kind of lovers’ quarrel between
her and the doctor. There had been many of these in her married life;
but feeling conscious of her power when she chose to be gracious, it did
not trouble her much. She felt he ought to be punished, and rather
enjoyed his perturbation, not being sufficiently discriminating to
perceive how deeply he was disappointed in her want of sympathy with his
desire to help Susie in her strait. If Clara should fail him also, it
would go hard with poor Susie. He determined, however, to say very
little to Clara until he found how she would be disposed to act. This
was a most interesting point to him. How would his Clara face a thing
like this? Of course he might influence her through her love for him,
but he scorned to do that—she must act freely. If he saw her, he would
simply state the case and leave her to her own decision. The opportunity
occurred unexpectedly, for in his drive across the common, in the middle
of the forenoon, he overtook his daughter, who was out for a walk. He
drew up beside her and talked a few minutes, being careful to avoid any
expression as to how a woman ought to act to any sister woman in such a
case. He expressed simply his own feeling for Susie, and his
determination to stand by her. Clara listened silently, and walked home
turning the matter over in her own mind. She found herself unconsciously
calculating effects, after the manner of her mother, and was disgusted
with this evidence of meanness. When she reached home, Miss Marston and
her mother were in the drawing-room, where the latter had just informed
her guest of the scandal, regretting that anything so unpleasant should
occur during Miss Marston’s visit. Mrs. Forest was careful to avoid
mentioning her son as in any way implicated, but she was pleased to have
some one with whom she could talk of her troubles and cares—one, too,
who had sound notions upon moral questions. Miss Marston indeed was a
rigid moralist of the conventional school, not, indeed, from any
narrowness of heart, but through logical conclusions from premises
which, if not sound in principle, were at least well considered. Mrs.
Forest knew that the influence of her guest was very great over Clara,
because of her affection and admiration for Miss Marston, and so Mrs.
Forest continued the conversation about Susie after Clara entered. One
thing troubled her, however. Clara was ignorant of her mother’s
intention to shield Dan from Miss Marston’s censure; and she might, by
some ill-timed remark, let out the cat that her mother would so
carefully tie up. Tact was necessary, and she soon found a pretext to
send Clara to her room for something, and another pretext to follow her
and implore her to not mention Dan. What was the use? It could do no
good, and it was her duty to be kind to Dan as well as to Susie. Clara
said nothing, but pondered deeply over her mother’s ways of securing her
ends.
When the conversation was resumed, Mrs. Forest showed a remarkable
clemency toward Susie, especially after discovering that Clara had been
talking with her father during her walk. This was tact again. Clara had
somehow inherited her father’s tendency to radicalism, and might be
easily shocked into a heroic course toward her brother’s victim.
“I do not think,” said Mrs. Forest, “that we can do better than to get
her a place where she can be quiet; and as she is so very deft with her
needle, and can make herself useful in many ways, I do not think this
will be difficult.”
“This will be to fail her in what she most needs—sympathy,” Clara
remarked.
“My dear Clara,” said Miss Marston, “we cannot sympathize with folly
unless we are foolish ourselves. You know the meaning of the word
sympathy.”
There was a little too much of the dogmatism of the teacher in this to
please Clara, but she showed no displeasure in her very calm reply: “But
we can sympathize with suffering in all cases.”
“Yet even for her good,” replied Mrs. Forest, “we should show
disapprobation of her conduct. By being too lenient, it would lead her
to hold her act lightly, and open the way for its repetition.”
“Well, I think, mamma, with all proper deference, that your reasoning is
exceedingly weak. Will not one terrible lesson like this be enough for
any girl like Susie? Besides, you forget how many years it must be
before she can outlive her love for——” Mrs. Forest trembled; but Clara
saw the danger her mother dreaded, and continued, “for her betrayer, and
by that time she will become staid and prudent.”
“I think myself,” said Miss Marston, “that there is little danger of her
repeating her folly. She seems really a very modest young person. She
has undoubtedly fallen through an ill-directed affection. What sort of a
man is her lover, and where is he?”
Mrs. Forest did not dare meet Clara’s eyes during her quick answer, “Oh,
it is a young man in town. He does not seem to care anything for her.”
“I consider him an unprincipled wretch,” replied Clara, indignantly. Her
mother’s determination to screen Dan looked very ugly in her eyes. “Papa
says he offered to marry her,” she continued, addressing Miss Marston,
“but in a way that showed he considered it a great sacrifice; and she
was proud enough and womanly enough to throw his insulting offer back in
his teeth. I like her for that, and I think we ought to protect her
right generously. I mean to help her, at all events.”
“My child!” cried Mrs. Forest, in alarm. “You are so impulsive, so
imprudent. You will certainly be talked about.”
“I don’t think, mamma, that should make any difference when we know we
are in the right. I believe the right way is to find out what our duty
is, and then, to do it openly and fairly.”
“My dear,” said Miss Marston, “there are very Quixotic ways of doing our
duty.” She said this in a cool, decided way, that chafed Clara’s growing
heroic mood, and she replied, bitterly: “I could avoid these ways, I
suppose, by making bibs and baby things in secret, and sending them to
her anonymously, but I think that would be contemptible. I know if such
an awful thing should happen to any one of my dear friends, my equals,
or to my own sister, I should go to her and comfort her with my
sympathy; and if there is any goodness or nobility in doing so for a
dear friend, there must be still more virtue in such a course when the
object is a poor, friendless girl, deprived of all advantages of
education and social culture until she came here.”
“Very well reasoned,” said Miss Marston, ironically; “but I am sorry to
see that you forget how this young person has profited by the advantages
for social culture that she has already had in this family.”
Clara’s eyes fairly flashed, and Mrs. Forest saw that she was sorely
tempted to show Miss Marston what social and moral influence Susie had
been under through one member of the family at least; so she made haste
to answer soothingly, almost before the words were out of Miss Marston’s
mouth, “You are so young, my daughter, that it hardly becomes you to
seem to know so much more than your elders about what is right and
proper. I know your motives are generous, but you must not trust
yourself wholly in such a case as this. You are wrong in supposing that
showing open sympathy with a girl who has fallen from virtue, can do her
any good; and it certainly may injure you irreparably.”
“Your whole tone, mamma, is cold and calculating. This poor girl is
alone, and in an agony of grief such as we have never dreamed of. If
helping her bear up under her burden, must injure me, even irreparably,
as you say, let it do so. I do not want the favor nor the admiration of
the Levites and Pharisees who pass by on the other side. Besides, I do
not act alone. I have had the counsel of the clearest head I know, and
as noble a heart as ever beat.” Here Clara paused and sighed heavily,
almost overcome with a feeling of disappointment that Miss Marston
should manifest so little generosity, and one of sorrow also that she
had been compelled to express sentiments that must wound her much-loved
teacher and friend. As she expected, Miss Marston took refuge in
dignified silence, understanding herself, of course, as included among
the Pharisees and Levites. Mrs. Forest remarked that all experience
showed the feelings to be dangerous guides; as also were what were
loosely called principles; that the only thing that upheld pure morals
was religion, and therefore it was the only sure guide.
Clara had often seen this making religious duty an excuse for
selfishness, and she had a contempt for it as natural as was her
repulsion to everything dark and ugly. She replied boldly, “I hear much
about principles and religion, and I am compelled to judge them by their
fruits. My father, you say, has no religion. Surely principles are
better than religion, if one leads to helpful sympathy with all
misfortune, and the other to cold calculation of the effect of evil
tongues. I have thought over all the possible results, mamma, and I have
decided. I know one who will help Susie openly, and without either
calculation or shame; and I shall certainly follow his example, for I
will trust my father’s sense of right against the world!” and with this,
delivered very dramatically and rapidly, Clara left the room.