AN HONEST WOMAN.
A year had passed since the count’s return from Guise, and still he and
Clara had not spoken of that which filled them, and made the music and
the poetry of their lives. To Clara’s heart there never came a doubt
that she was loved. To doubt Paul would be to lose faith in the
operation of natural laws. True, they had not confessed their love in
words, and though it was sure to come, Clara almost dreaded it, as
though it might break the spell that surrounded her like an atmosphere.
He was in all things her ideal: high in sentiment, devoted to humanity,
and, like her father, appreciative of all things, impatient of nothing,
because he exemplified a grand faith in the “mills of God”—in the
ultimate triumph of the best. When you gained his friendship you forgot
his rank and wealth, and thought only of the man. No one ever felt the
grasp of his hand without a sense of pride—that honest pride experienced
in awakening an interest in one superior to his kind. When he spoke to
you, it was impossible to avoid feeling flattered. He gave you his whole
attention for the time, and his fine eyes rested on your features as if
they would let no slightest movement or expression escape, and at the
moment, you were compelled by a power over which you had no control, to
express the highest and best that was in you; and then his beauty was
something exceptional, for it delighted men almost more than women.
After his return, he had been more with Clara, though not much alone.
The something that he had remarked as troubling or oppressing her, he
still noticed with great pain; but he could not ask her for her
confidence. Some time, he knew, she would give it unsolicited, and
meanwhile he refrained instinctively from pressing himself too much upon
her notice, leaving her time after time with a mere pressure of the
hand, more delightful in its magnetic effect than all the caresses of
the many women he had known. In his creed, it was woman’s prerogative to
call; the lover’s to answer. By no sign yet had Clara shown him that she
desired or needed more than she received; and nothing could have been
more impossible to a nature like his, than to sue for any grace for his
own sake; so he waited, and he prevented himself from too great anxiety
by forcing all his energy into his great work. He had brought with him
from Guise several of the most accomplished workmen, who had aided in
the building of the _Familistère_, and the enterprise went on rapidly
and surely. The walls of the palace and buildings were all completed,
and the palace was to be ready for its occupants in the early fall, and
the great inaugural festival was set down for the following June; both
the count and the doctor agreeing that the time for a public jubilee was
not when the palace was done, but when the schools, the theatre, the
library, and all the details of the new social life were in full working
order.
With the count’s retinue came, also, or rather returned to this country,
the only remaining member of Von Frauenstein’s family, the son of his
father’s sister, named Felix Müller. He was an accomplished gentleman,
about forty-five years old, who had lived many years in New Orleans, and
had lost his fortune during our civil war. He was a scientific chemist
and geologist, and Paul wished him to direct education in the Social
Palace; so he came with that view, if the prospect should please him. He
always considered himself more an American than anything else, being,
moreover, a naturalized citizen; and he had made himself very obnoxious
to the government minions in Berlin, on account of his doings and
sayings as a leading member of the _Internationale_. He was threatened
with arrest and imprisonment, when his cousin Paul came to the rescue,
and smuggled him out of Berlin and into Guise, where he studied the
organization of the _Familistère_ with great enthusiasm.
The count’s responsibilities in directing the Social Palace enterprise
often took him away for several days at a time. Now, whenever he was
absent, he wrote to Clara. He knew she read whatever he wrote with
interest, and it was much to connect himself with her thoughts in any
way. In one of these letters he said: “There can be no real satisfaction
except in the divine joy of love’s perfect answer to love’s needs. When
one is longing for the touch of magnetic hands, and for words that are
like caresses, the gratitude of thousands whom he has made happy, the
adoration of the world even, falls upon his heart like the tongue of a
bell in an exhausted receiver. What if a man gain the whole world, and
lose his own soul—if he gain all things except the one blessing which
alone could answer the cry of his heart! I am without soul, without
inspiration, almost without hope to-day, or I could not write in such a
strain to you. Do not heed it. Do not let your pure heart be troubled by
my raving. You know I trust you, and whatever you think, or feel, or do,
will be wisest and best.”
To this Clara wrote, by the next mail: “If I could reproach you for
anything, it would be for daring to say you are ‘without inspiration,
almost without hope.’ I know it is only a mood, that has passed long
before this. I know well that you are happy, for you can have no real
doubt that Clara loves you with all her heart. See how presumptuous she
is!
“If words can make you happier, dear Paul, frame any declaration, even
the most extravagant, and I will make it my creed.
“You should know that I have passed a terrible ordeal, that left my
heart torn and bleeding; and one like me does not recover rapidly from
such a shock. The first moment my eyes rested upon you, I read, as in an
open book, what my father in other words predicted long ago—that you
were my destiny: that you could waken every possibility of tenderness,
of devotion, of high purpose, of which I am capable; and I knew well
from the first, how strongly you were drawn toward me. Yet had you wooed
me then, as lovers woo, I should have hidden myself from you, if for
nothing else, for the pleasure of torturing myself, so strangely
subversive does the power of love become by the wrongs it may have
suffered! But you did not do this. In no way have you ever offended me,
even in the slightest word, or tone, or motion. In all things you are
adorable in my eyes. Surely _you_ can understand—if not, there is no one
else but me who can—that love may sometimes be too intense, too deep for
any of love’s ordinary expressions. I am only waiting for a saner
moment, a more simple and common impulse; and therefore, when I can, and
as soon as I can, I shall hold out my arms to you.”
When Clara next met Paul, three days after he received this letter, she
was riding over the river with her father and Susie, and met him
returning. Clara’s quick eyes divined, in his, an expression of
triumphant happiness which was entirely new to them. She allowed her
hand to rest longer than usual in his, though in the presence of others.
Both those hands were gloved, but the warmth and magnetism with which
they were charged would have passed through a substance much thicker or
more obdurate than kid. That evening he called on Clara, and found Miss
Delano with her. Miss Delano had just returned from Boston, and, in
speaking of her brother, she said he was almost morose over his
disappointment in not having an heir. “He is the last male member of a
long line,” she said, “and I don’t believe he will ever have children.
To be sure, he has been married to Miss Wills only about a year and a
half.”
“Nature seems to have a spite in such cases,” remarked the count, “when
the family name is represented by only one man. If I were you,
Charlotte, I would marry. You are still young, and a son of yours might
continue the name.” The count offered it as the most natural suggestion
in the world; but as Miss Charlotte was inclined to treat it as a joke,
he appealed to Clara. “I quite approve of it,” said Clara. “Miss Delano
should marry.”
“You think,” replied Charlotte, “that it would teach my brother a
lesson. He has a great contempt for old maids, and,” she added,
laughing, “I believe he would have a poor opinion of any one’s taste who
should choose me for a wife.”
“And then, if the rest should happen!” said Clara, “I confess I am
wicked enough to take a certain delight in the thought. It would be what
papa calls poetic justice.”
“I know my cousin Felix might become strongly attached to you,” said the
count, addressing Charlotte. “He is very fond of talking of you to
me—says he should never imagine you to be over thirty.”
“So you have been talking of my age. What impertinence!”
“He asked me your age,” replied Paul.
“Did you tell him I was sixty?”
“I told him your exact age, thirty-six. That is really just the flower
of life, and it may be written that the family name shall be continued
through you, though perhaps Müller would have objections to adopting any
other than his own. There is no justice in a woman’s losing her name by
marrying.”
“Well, I don’t think I would ask him to change his, on the slight and
frail expectation of future heirs; that is, supposing there was any
question of marriage, which is absurd,” said Miss Charlotte, blushing
like a girl in her teens. That blush was a revelation to Paul; but he
quickly changed the subject by asking for music. While Clara was
singing, and while he was listening too, his mind was busy with a
matrimonial scheme for the benefit of his cousin and Miss Delano.
One evening a few days later, after Paul had left, Susie scolded Clara
for being so cold to him.
“Cold! Susie. Why, it seems to me that every word, every tone and look
of mine in Paul’s presence, shows clearly that my heart is under his
feet, as the Irish song has it.”
“Well, dear, they don’t show any such thing. He loves you with
adoration; but he is too proud to accept any love that can be won by
begging.”
“It is just that spirit in Paul that makes me worship him. Oh, Susie!
you do not know what he is to me. You cannot know, even after all I have
told you. He knows I love him. Why, child, I have fairly, frankly
confessed it in a letter not yet two weeks old. He understands me.”
“I’m sure I would not make _such_ a man unhappy. He is the only one I
ever met whom I would marry instantly, whether I loved him or not. If he
wanted me, I should say: take me. You deserve all things, and the
greater includes the less.”
Clara looked at little Susie, as she spoke in her earnest, soulful way.
“Are you very sure that you do _not_ love him, Susie? You have been with
him more than I have. Happy woman! to be taken to Europe by him. Why, he
has actually kissed you! I don’t know what would happen, if he should
kiss me.”
“Would you ‘dissolve into an Israelite?’ as Linnie says. By the way,
have you not noticed the flirtation going on between young Edward Page
and her?”
“Yes; I spoke to the witch only to-day, and she told me that her heart
was breaking for the count, and she was only flirting as a ‘mockery to
her woe.’ I think mamma is well pleased. She has no longer high ambition
for her girls; satisfied if they can only marry honest, temperate men.
Poor mamma! She is so changed. Think of her going to our convention and
listening to my address! She is by no means converted, but she can look
at reforms now without any contempt. She said it troubled her, in spite
of herself, to see me there making myself so public, and in the
committee-room being addressed by men, entire strangers. She would have
felt different if I were married. A husband always gives countenance and
support to a woman.”
Susie laughed, and asked Clara what she answered. “I told her I was
going to be married, and, making her promise to keep it a profound
secret, I told her, to the Count Paul. ‘Has he asked you, my dear?’ she
said, greatly excited. ‘No, mamma,’ I said, ‘I told you I was going to
marry _him_.’ I do love to astonish mamma. Then I told her it would
burst upon her some time; that there would be no pomp of circumstance,
only just the steps necessary to make it legal. I am sure, conventional
as she is, she would be so overjoyed at being the mother-in-law of Paul,
that she would say nothing if the marriage ceremony should consist in
jumping over a broomstick!”
“Well, now, to change the subject, Clara, what am I to do with Dan?”
“I cannot advise you, dear. He acts like a very goose.”
“I pity him so. He loves me as much as he can love; but it is only a
feverish desire, not a sentiment having only my happiness at heart. He
should respect me because I have grown beyond him, but he does not. It
has no effect to tell him that I have not the slightest inclination to
marry him. He doesn’t believe it. He thinks I can love him just as of
old, if I only will; but I cannot _will_, and I have told him so. It
makes him crazy to hear Minnie call Paul her papa. He is not glad, as I
am, at the advantages the child has in being adopted by such a man.”
“It is too bad, Susie; but do not be induced to marry him out of pity. A
woman wrongs herself when she does that.”
“There is no danger. The very thought is horrible to me; but what a
position I am placed in! Here is your mother, coming here nearly every
day, and treating poor Susie like a daughter, because she thinks, of
course, I shall marry Dan. Oh, it is simply dreadful!” said the good
little Susie. “She has taken so to Minnie too.”
In fact, everybody did that, and especially was Min popular among the
children. She went everywhere to their parties, and picnic excursions,
and everywhere introduced a new play, which she called the “Social
Palace game.” One day when she had collected about a dozen children and
twice as many dolls, on the front porch, and was marshalling them in
true autocratic style, Dan came through the gate and sat on the steps.
Min told him she could not have anybody in the Social Palace who was
idle.
“Well, then, if that’s the case, you may give me some office.” Min
looked at him a moment, her chubby hands in her apron pockets, like a
stage soubrette, evidently studying what place he was fit to fill in the
play.
“You are so big,” she said, “I don’t know what to do with you.” But a
lucky thought struck her, and she told him he might be _Monsieur Godin_.
“Well, what does _Mongshure Godang_ do?” he asked, trying to imitate her
French pronunciation.
“Why, don’t you know? He does everything. He is the chief.”
“Oh, yes, I know. But that is a pretty difficult part for me.”
“Oh, no; you just sit there on the steps, and whenever you see a chicken
come in under the gate, you go and drive him out. The chickens, you
know, are the bad people who want to ruin the Social Palace.”
Dan promised, immensely attracted to the child and all her ways, and
thinking how he was wronged, because she was not taught to call him
father, or to know that he was so. Min then went on with what she called
“ognizing.” The little dolls formed the nursery, the big ones the
_pouponnat_. This girl must be head-nurse, this first-assistant-nurse, a
larger girl leader of the exercises in the _pouponnat_, and so on. She
made them all call her, as she had been called abroad, Mademoiselle von
Frauenstein. There were three little boys present, and one of these she
made head-gardener, and set him at work, with the next in size as
assistant, in the flower-garden, with her little hoe and rake. The
other, a very little boy, complained that she gave him no place.
“You wait till I _ognize_, and I’ll put you somewhere,” said Min; but
pretty soon he got tired of the tediousness of the “_ognizing_” process,
and called loudly for office.
“Well,” said Min, “you may go into the _pouponnat_ as the biggest
_poupon_, marching at the head. That will be quite nice.”
But the little boy thought the honor of head _poupon_ a very
questionable one, especially as the _poupons_ were all big dolls, whose
marching powers he held in contempt, and he told her so in very plain
words. Then the autocrat informed him that he “shouldn’t be nothing;”
whereupon he raised a revolt, and Min announced that there would be no
more Social Palace that day. She was highly disgusted at the rebellion
of her subjects, and even scolded Monsieur Godin for the lax manner in
which he had repelled the encroachment of the enemies, who constantly
were allowed to come under the gate.
“I know I haven’t done very well,” he said, humbly, “but I am a novice;
never played Social Palace before, ’pon my word.”
After the children were gone, he called her to him, and tried to
interest her and make her like him; but she submitted to his kisses with
a bad grace.
“Don’t you know that you are my little girl?” he said.
“Yours! Is your name Paul von Frauenstein?” she asked, with withering
scorn. Dan confessed it was not.
“Then I am _not_ your little girl, for I am Paul’s; and you are a saucy
man, and I don’t like you;” and with this she shot into the house,
leaving Dan a prey to very bitter reflections. The result was his going
to Susie, and reproaching her for teaching “his child” to hate him.
Susie was offended at being obliged to justify herself against such a
charge.
“I have never said the slightest word that should even make her
indifferent to you. You can have her confidence if you can win it. I see
no other way.” Dan could not control himself. He burst forth in a
torrent of complaints at Susie’s coldness, and at her being unwilling
that his child should love him. Then he became serious, and played the
rôle of mentor—told Susie what was best for her to do, which was, of
course, to marry him forthwith. “Don’t you see, Susie, that is the only
thing to do. That will make you at once an honest woman in the eyes of
the world, and we can bring up Minnie like a lady, and no one will dare
to treat her with disrespect.” This was too much for even Susie’s sweet
temper.
“I wonder at your assurance,” she said. “You, who trampled my love for
you under your feet, who deserted me in my agony of disgrace, when I had
not one friend in this world—you, who had not the manly decency to
conceal your love for another woman when I was in such a condition, by
the basest, most sacrilegious act of treachery a man ever perpetrated;
then after all that, leaving me for six years to fight the battle alone,
never during that time sending me one word of sympathy, or even taking
the trouble to enquire whether I, or your child, or both, were dead;
after all that, and after by toil such as you never dreamed of, and by a
long and unremitting struggle, I have conquered independence, won
friends among the noblest and best, and compelled even my worst
slanderers to respect me and my child, _you_—_you_ come to me and offer
to make me an honest woman, by the offer of your debauched self. If that
is honor, give me dishonor for the rest of my life.”
Dan raved and threatened, still talking in a very authoritative style
about his child.
“Thank Heaven! she is not your child, she is mine. There’s one bit of
justice which the law offers to a dishonored mother. _My child is mine!_
You cannot take her from me, as you could if I should marry you. What do
you suppose I care for a lost honor that can be restored by any jugglery
of law? Now drop that subject forever, if you wish me to retain the
least friendliness toward you. I should not dream of marrying you—no:
not if you were to become emperor of the world.”
Three days afterward Dan was brought home by two policemen from one of
the lowest dens of the town, where he had been robbed of purse, cravat,
handkerchief, and hat. In a day or two, by the united efforts of the
family and friends, he was forced to consent to be taken to the
Binghamton Inebriate Asylum. The doctor went with him, treated him very
kindly, and labored to show him that by staying two years, leading, as
he would, a temperate life, he might entirely overcome the passion for
intoxication. “It is most important, you see, my son, for you are still
a young man, and you may yet be useful to the world.” Dan was much
affected when his father left him, and promised to follow his advice,
and turn his attention to some scientific study. He expressed sorrow for
having given him so much trouble, and added, “I ain’t worth saving, I
fear. If you had drowned me like a blind kitten, when I was little, you
would have done the best thing for me.”
“Oh no, Dan. Don’t feel that way. Your life has not been in vain, and I
have by no means given you up. When I’m an old codger, with one foot in
the grave, I believe you will be my comfort, and atone for all the
heart-aches you have caused me.”
“God knows, I hope so,” said Dan fervently; “for no scapegrace of a boy
ever had a better father than I have.” This was the first and only manly
speech Dr. Forest had ever heard from Dan, and it touched him deeply.
When he was gone, Dan spent an hour or so walking rapidly back and forth
through the fine grounds of the Asylum; and then he went into the
billiard-room, and began to make the acquaintance of the patients. He
was quite astonished, and immensely gratified, to see that they were not
low fellows, but, on the contrary, real gentlemen in appearance and
manners, almost to a man. Dan, conscious of looking very “shaky,” from
his late three-days terrible debauch, made some apology to a
fine-looking fellow who handed him a cue and challenged him to a game of
billiards. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself to make any apologies,” said the
gentleman, laying his hand kindly on Dan’s broad shoulder. “We are all
drunkards here, every one of us!” After this Dan felt at home, and began
to enjoy himself far more than he had ever done before. For the first
time in his life, he spent several hours a day reading, and at last
conquered a real love for it; also, he became, from the loosest, most
uncertain and unsatisfactory of correspondents, a very tolerably
exemplary one. He wrote every week to his father, and quite often to the
other members of the family, giving long accounts of life in his asylum,
and talking hopefully of the future. “Don’t forget to tell mother,” he
wrote, after he had been there about six months, “that there is a little
decanter of brandy kept here on the mantel-piece, with a wine-glass
beside it, and that I have never once tasted it. I want you to tell her
this, because it will please her. You, sir, will understand very well
that it don’t prove any remarkable virtue, for you understand the
philosophy of drunkenness. Your real victim don’t drink for the taste of
liquor, but, as an old soaker in California used to say, ‘_for the
glorious refects hereafter_.’ So, when you haven’t enough for these
‘glorious refects,’ you find it mighty easy to resist a single glass.”