THE BABY.—LOVERS’ ADIEUX.
The effort Clara had made to do a great service for Susie, had failed
dismally, and her mortification was intense, and for the first time she
was a little disappointed with Susie, that she could be so serene, and
evidently glad even, that the movement had failed. Clara’s refinement of
nature and purpose was shocked beyond expression by the coarse conduct
of her brother, and not until the doctor came home, late in the evening,
and after she had had a long talk with him, did she begin to feel the
least return of comfort. “My dear,” he said, “depend upon it, you ought
not to feel so mortified. Why, the dignity and real elevation of
character that this has revealed in Susie is a compensation for almost
anything that could happen. Don’t you see how this shows, beyond a
shadow of doubt, that she is no common girl?”
“I’ve known that a long time, papa. She surprises me every day. I shall
not be able to help her much more in her botany; nor in anything,
indeed. It is well I am going away, to save my credit. The dear girl
thinks me so proficient, that it makes me ashamed of myself. Oh, papa! I
passed at Stonybrook for a very satisfactory student; but if I had had
this experience with Susie before going there, I should have done
better. Susie has taught me what application means.”
Clara had not gone into the house on returning with Susie, but left her
at Mrs. Buzzell’s door. Susie, on entering, threw her arms around Mrs.
Buzzell, and laughed and cried together, and it was some time before she
could tell the whole story to her friend. The good old lady was
horrified at Dan’s treatment of the parson, but she was quite content at
the result of the expedition.
“God, who numbers the very hairs of our heads, Susie, is directing all
things for the best. If you bear your yoke bravely, you will be raised
up for some good work in the world. I wonder now, how I could have
entered into the scheme so confidently; but it was Clara’s enthusiasm. I
felt all the time that we might be just whipping the Devil around the
stump, and so we were.”
“I could have interfered,” said Susie, “between Dan and the minister,
and my appeal would have been heard; but something stronger than my
motive to do so, controlled me. I felt ashamed to marry Dan. It seemed
to me so unholy a thing, when he does not love me, but is thinking all
the time of another and dearer woman.”
“That shame was a noble feeling, dear; and shows me what your nature
really is, better than I ever knew it.”
The next day Clara went over as usual to hear Susie’s lessons. She found
her alone, by the table in the sitting-room, tearing apart and analyzing
flowers with her new microscope. As Clara entered she rose, and as their
eyes met, the owlish gravity of Clara struck Susie comically, and this,
in conjunction with the memory of yesterday’s proceedings, made her
burst out into a low, musical laugh, which Clara’s gravity could not
resist.
“Well, you are a study, Susie. I came over here from habit simply. I had
no idea you would have any lessons, and here you have already been out
botanizing alone.”
“Why, Clara, I have not felt so well in weeks and weeks. A great weight
is lifted from my heart. Dan is gone out of my hopes forever, and
henceforth I shall stand alone so far as he is concerned. He is free—and
oh, it relieves me so to think of that!”
“Well, dear, I guess you are nearer right than any of us. I felt a
little hard at you, coming home yesterday, for the triumph that I
detected in your eyes every time I looked at them. You are a strange
little being, but I am reconciled after a long talk with papa. He
applauds you to the skies; but let us get through with our lessons, for
he will be here by-and-by. Of course, he will keep the secret, and I
think there is no danger from Dan,” she added, laughing.
After the lessons were finished, Susie, obeying a strong impulse, poured
out her grateful heart to Clara for all her care and kindness. During
the conversation, Clara said: “When I am a married woman I shall be so
much more independent. No tongue will dare wag against me because I am
your friend.”
“It pains me more than anything else,” said Susie, “to think that being
my friend must injure you.”
“It cannot. It cannot injure any one to do what is decent and right.
Knowing you, dear, and befriending you in your trouble, has shown me
more of the world than I could have learned otherwise in an age. To be
sure it has destroyed some illusions. I shall not have Louise Kendrick
for bride’s-maid, but I’ve found her out, and that is something. Why,
you ought to see the letters she sent me constantly during the four
years I was at Stonybrook. Such protestations of unalterable friendship!
You, Susie, though you are no spoiled pet of fortune, like her, have a
heart that is worth ten thousand of hers. She is a mere fair-weather
friend, though I did not suspect it; but you, I know, would never fail
me.”
“How I should hate myself if I thought that were possible; but it cannot
be. My only trouble is, that I may never be able to be of any real
service to you. Do you remember the fable we read of the lion and the
mouse? How the mouse gnawed the meshes of the net, ‘and left the noble
lion to go where he pleased?’ Remember this, you precious girl, if you
are ever in trouble: _real, deep affection is capable of creating a will
that may work wonders even with the poorest means_.” Clara was struck
with Susie’s enthusiasm of sentiment, which at times found expression in
the most eloquent way; and she remembered these words and the manner of
their utterance in after years.
Not many days before the time set for Clara’s wedding, Dr. Delano
received a telegram from home. His father was dangerously ill and sent
for his son; so the marriage could not take place till January.
Meanwhile, and during the very last days of the year, Susie’s baby was
born. Mrs. Buzzell virtually adopted it at once. This little helpless
one, so charming in all its movements, Susie thought, lifted the last
burden from her heart caused by Dan’s unworthiness. She felt strong
enough to brave anything for its sake, and before it was a week old her
mind was busy with schemes for making money, that she might give it all
the advantages of education and culture. She held its tiny,
tightly-clinging fingers in hers, looked into its uncertain colored
eyes, and marveled, as mothers are wont to marvel, over a mystery as old
as nature, and yet ever charming, ever new. The desire to have Dan see
the baby often recurred to Susie. She felt more kindly towards him since
she had definitely abandoned all hope of his ever loving her again, and
since a new and infinitely tender, infinitely absorbing love had been
born in her own heart. She could not wholly share Clara’s intense
disgust for Dan’s conduct when they had last met, though she by no means
approved of it. She spoke to Mrs. Buzzell of her desire that Dan should
see the baby, and Mrs. Buzzell admitted that the wish was natural; but
even while they were considering the propriety of writing a note to Dan
the doctor called, bringing the news that his son had started for
California the day before. In a letter to his mother he had said that he
should not “come back in a hurry.” Susie was very silent. He had not
cared, then, to wait until his child was born—not even cared really
whether she or it, or both, lived or died. The next moment there came a
new feeling, and this was shame that she had loved so coarse a being. To
be sure, she had expressed the same thing to Dan in returning his money;
but this was partly real and partly the effect of exaltation of mood.
This time, the feeling was the result of pure reason, and it was
permanent.
If letters are Love’s barometer, as Dr. Forest once expressed it, Clara
must have been well satisfied with the fervency and sincerity of her
lover’s devotion, for he wrote continually. The letters were delivered
at eight o’clock in the morning—the hour when the doctor’s family were
always at breakfast—and though the postman’s ring was a very common
occurrence during this family reunion, it had never been so constant
before. Leila and Linnie, on sitting down to the table, used to amuse
themselves speculating whether it would occur before the hominy was
served all around, or during the second cup of coffee. When the ring
came, and Dinah marched through the dining-room to open the door, it was
a perennial joke with Leila to pass the honey or the sugar-bowl to
Clara, and when she good-naturedly refused them, apologizing for their
deficiency in sweetness. As Clara could not be teazed in the least, so
long as nothing disrespectful was said of her idol, it was wonderful
that the sisters could find so much pleasure in an endless repetition of
a childish pleasantry. On one of these occasions, when Dinah brought in
the regulation letter to Clara, Leila said:
“Papa, do you know how Dr. Delano commences all his letters to Clara?”
Clara looked a little annoyed as she put her precious missive in her
pocket for future delectation. Could it be possible that her privacy had
been invaded by her saucy sisters?
“Why, yes,” the doctor answered, humoring Leila. “I think I could guess;
that is, if it were any of my business.”
“Well, guess then,” said Leila, nothing daunted by the implied rebuke;
but seeing he did not try, she declared boldly that they all commenced,
“Essence of Violet and Consummate Sweetness.” This time there was a
general laugh, and Leila was satisfied over the success of a joke that
had been concocted hours before. On another occasion when the letter
came, Leila expressed the pious hope that Mr. Delano’s case was in the
hands of some physician less distracted and harassed for time than Dr.
Delano must be. “I’m sure his literary labors must weigh heavily upon
him, though perhaps he employs a stenographic amanuensis.”
One day, when the letter was brought in as usual, Clara said, “Why, this
is not for me!”
“What!” exclaimed Leila, “you don’t mean to say it isn’t from
_consummate sweetness_, do you?”
“No; but this seems to be addressed to you.” And she handed the letter
across the table to Leila, preserving the utmost gravity. Leila’s eyes
shone with delight, but she concealed that part of her sensation, and
only gave vent to her surprise. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there
are two persons in the universe that can command a letter from Dr.
Delano?”
“Let us hear what he says, my daughter,” said Mrs. Forest, gravely.
“Yes, do read it, Leila. No doubt it commences ‘Essence of Violet.’”
“No; I don’t receive love-letters, Miss Linnie.”
“You receive only such, I trust, as are proper to be read in the bosom
of the family. Are you very sure of it?” asked the doctor, who, from a
glance at Clara, suspected some practical joke upon Leila. Thus
badgered, Leila reluctantly unfolded her letter. The first word, which
she did not read out, caused the most rosy blush imaginable. The laugh
was at Leila’s expense this time, and the next day Clara’s letter came
to the breakfast-table without comment.
Once, during his father’s illness, Dr. Delano passed a night at Oakdale.
It was just cold enough to render the wood fire in the grate, pleasant;
for though midwinter, the weather was unusually mild, and the lovers
lingered in the parlor long after the family had retired. Every moment
was a delight to Clara, and everything the doctor could say possessed a
vital interest. He was pleased to commend the old parlor; no room in the
world, he said, had so great a charm for him. It was indeed a pleasant
old room, permeated and invested by a spirit of comfort and ease that
even the new carpet and heavy curtains, lately added by Mrs. Forest,
could not destroy. The tall, old-fashioned clock stood diagonally across
one of the corners, placidly marking the time and showing the phases of
the moon as it had done at least ever since Clara could remember. During
the evening’s conversation, Miss Ella Wills was mentioned, and, at
Clara’s request, Dr. Delano gave a minute description of all her
“points,” as he humorously called them.
“Why, she must be very beautiful!” exclaimed Clara.
“Not beautiful,” he said, “but very pretty. Clara alone, is really
beautiful. She is less than ‘moonlight unto sunlight,’ compared to you,
dearest.” And he spoke sincerely, though Ella had revived a little of
her old charm for him, and not without design on her part, for flirting
was her element; she had reduced it to a science; and then she saw in
Albert a very different object from the one she had once made her
victim. She had been at Newport on the occasion of his return from
Europe, and having a rich lion in tow—even the distinguished and very
elegant Count Frauenstein—she did not go home with the rest of the
family to meet him, it being the first of the season. She contented
herself by sending him kind messages, and soon after he established
himself for preliminary practice, in Oakdale, a town where the family
name had prestige and influence.
The affair with the count at Newport had not terminated to the
satisfaction of Miss Mills, he having soon transferred his attentions to
a New York belle, not rich, compared to Ella, and a “perfect fright,” in
the judgment of her rival. But even the new attraction was but a very
temporary affair. Ella was approaching the dreaded state which even
friends may designate as that of old maid, and she had just begun to
make up her mind to marry Albert when she heard of his engagement. This
was unexpected, but she said to herself, “Engagement is one thing, and
marriage another.” When he came home at the summons of his father, he
was so greatly changed, so infinitely improved, that flirting with him
had all the charm of novelty, beside the greater charm involved in the
fact of his indifference to the battery of wiles that had once been so
potent. She looked very young still. Her mind was youthful enough in its
character, and she had preserved all the innocent, kittenish ways that
are so irresistible to a certain class of men.
While Albert talked of his old flame, on the evening in question, Clara
listened intently, looking all the time straight into his eyes. At
length he asked her why she studied his eyes so earnestly.
“Do you not like me to study them?”
“What a question! But I wish to know what you are thinking. You told me
once you were afraid of my eyes.”
“That is what I am thinking to-night, Albert. They are surely the
brightest eyes in the world, as you know they are the dearest to me. I
can find no fault with them; and yet I have an indefinable fear
sometimes, when I look into them, as if they could be cold and cruel. I
reproach myself, but I tell you every thought. Ought I to tell you
this?”
“Yes, for I would hear all the voices of the sea, darling mine; but this
voice is a delusion. Albert can never be cold to you. You are his very
soul. He could die for you, and count it no sacrifice; and he only cares
for life that he may make yours beautiful.”
“Forgive me, beautiful eyes!” Clara said, tenderly caressing their lids.
“Can _you_ forgive me, Albert?”
“There is no such thing as forgiveness between lovers, for they can do
each other no wrong.”
“I dare not think how perfect my happiness is,” said Clara, fervently,
“and yet I can think of nothing else. I am constantly studying love. It
seems to me that all married people lose their illusions. Papa and mamma
were once romantic lovers. I have lately found a number of his old
letters. I could not resist reading some of them. They are the most
fervent and tender letters I ever read in my life—except yours,
dearest—and yet they are flung away
‘amid the old lumber of the garret,’
like the oaken chest where Ginevra found a grave. It is strange! After
all that divine passion, they could be separated for weeks and months
without any suffering for the need of each other!”
“That change will never come to us, precious one. Love shall be tenderly
nursed; it will not flourish under coldness or inconstancy. It is too
tender a plant; only the ruder, coarser vegetation can outlive the cold
atmosphere of the frigid zones. With our love, precious one, there shall
be no winter. Can you not trust me?”
“Trust you? With all my heart, with all my soul I trust you. You know
everything about love and the mysteries of life; but one thing I want to
say. I want you to know all about me, dear one. I care nothing about
love except as we know it and feel it to-night. If Fate ever cheats us
of this, let us not live together and play that the dream still remains.
It would be a mockery that would kill me. I am strangely moved to-night.
With all my happiness, the thought _will_ come that you will change—that
I shall not have the power to keep the freshness of your love.”
“I defy augury, precious one. You are not quite well to-night. I am sure
of this, or I should be pained. If I change, it will not be your fault.
You are perfect. No one could love with so much infinite tenderness as
my darling. If I ever love you less, it will be because I have grown
unworthy of you, which the gods forbid. In a week—one short week—and you
will be mine, not more surely than you are now, but openly in the eyes
of the world.”
Dr. Delano was to leave in the early train, and it was decided to bid
good-bye in the old parlor, where the fire was burning low, for they had
sat late, forgetting how cold the room had become. Albert wrapped her
tenderly in her shawl, and the parting ceremonies commenced. It is a
very long process, as lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type are well
aware. They separated a few steps and said good-night, and then rushed
together for “one more kiss,” which was only the prelude to one more,
and that not the last. To the cold-blooded writers of romance, such a
parting calls up the vision of the two polite Chinamen, host and guest,
who could not allow themselves to out-do each other in etiquette. At the
garden gates of the host, they advanced and saluted, and retreated and
advanced again, until night came on, when their friends interfered and
dragged them apart!