AFTER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.
“What I do and what I dream include thee
As the wine must taste of its own grapes.”
The doctor, on his way home, saw a light in the printing-office, which
was at the corner where he separated from his newly-made son-in-law; and
at the latter’s suggestion a notice of the marriage was left there for
the morning paper. So the next morning, as Mrs. Kendrick, Louise, Miss
Delano, Felix, and the count, sat down to the table, they were
electrified by the exclamation, “Good God!” proceeding from Mr.
Kendrick, who came forward to take his place at the table.
“What is it? Do read it?” said Mrs. Kendrick to her husband, whose eyes
were riveted on the morning paper.
“Married—Sept. 10th, at the residence of the bride, the Count Paul von
Frauenstein to Clara Forest Delano——” Kendrick stopped short and looked
at Paul, who was very composedly taking his cup of coffee from Mrs.
Kendrick’s trembling hand.
“What silly joke is this?” he asked, addressing Paul.
“My dear sir, I beg you to not consider it a joke. It is a genuine
announcement of a genuine fact,” replied the count, with a serious
gravity that could not be mistaken.
“But you slept here last night. I heard you come in.”
“So did I,” said Miss Delano, “but it was shockingly late—late enough to
have accomplished any folly, I should say; marriage among the rest.” But
Charlotte felt secretly hurt that when she had given her confidence
freely to Clara the day previous, Clara had withheld hers. Louise turned
very pale, but sipped her coffee without any serious manifestation of
the rage she felt.
“My dear cousin, I give you joy!” said Felix, grasping the count’s hand
warmly, and adding, in French, “I must suppose you have good reasons for
keeping your confidence from me.”
“The very best reasons, my dear Felix—reasons certain to prove
satisfactory,” said the count, in English.
“Good God!” said Kendrick again. “I never heard of such a thing.
Married, and then go home coolly to your bachelor quarters!” This was
spoken in a very incredulous style.
“Even so,” replied the count, throwing back his head and laughing at the
inordinate excitement caused by a simple event. “We have not yet
completed our domestic arrangements; but to save my honor in your eyes,
Kendrick, I should add that my leaving was at the desire of the bride,
whose wishes, according to my code, should be the law of a gallant man.”
“I like that, Paul,” said Charlotte, not daring to look at Felix, but
meaning her approbation to be a lesson for him. Paul’s answer to Felix’s
question had convinced her that the marriage was an impromptu one;
therefore her heart lost all its hardness towards Clara, and she added,
“I will call on the Countess von Frauenstein this morning.” Paul thanked
her with his lips, but still more cordially with his eyes.
“_I_ shall do no such thing,” said Mrs. Kendrick, whose face had been
flushed ever since the reading of the marriage announcement. “I think,
when people marry, they should show decent respect to——”
“To their friends, madam,” said the count, rising from the table. “Are
you so unquestionably a friend of my wife that she has wronged you by
not asking your presence at the ceremony? Did you give her your womanly
sympathy when your ridiculous Oakdale aristocracy frowned upon her, in
her days of sorrow?”
All this was said in a very low, quiet tone, but it cut Mrs. Kendrick
like a two-edged sword. She saw she had been too hasty, and a glance at
Kendrick, who seemed ready to faint, terrified her, recalling, as it
did, the fact that he had told her the bank could not tide over its
present crisis without the aid of the count.
“Pardon me, count,” she said, rising. “This was so unexpected, so
alarming, I may say, in the way it burst upon me—of course I know you
will do things differently from other people. I shall, of course, be
happy to call on your wife. I will go with Miss Charlotte and your
cousin. Do you forgive me?” she asked, offering him her hand. The count
had noted well Kendrick’s anxious look at his wife, and though he
despised the policy of Mrs. Kendrick, which forbade her the pleasure of
enjoying her spleen, he answered, urbanely,
“Certainly, madam. Excuse me, also, for alluding to an unfortunate
omission on your part, which I am sure you regret; but I beg you to not
call on my wife as a concession. If you do that, our friendship ends
there.”
Before Miss Charlotte and the Kendrick party set out for their call on
Clara, Miss Charlotte took care to post a copy of the paper to her
brother, with the marriage notice duly and conspicuously marked. It
reached him the next morning. His surprise was great, and his feelings
of a very mixed character. He naturally thought that, in justification
to himself, Clara should have married some very common kind of man; and
then her winning the love of one so high in the social scale was balm to
his vanity, and a just punishment to Ella, who hated Clara, as little
minds do hate those they have wronged. He had come to despise Ella for
her mean spite against Clara, shown unqualifiedly whenever he had spoken
a word in praise of her; and his home was anything but a happy one. He
found out, as many a man has done before, that Ella having become his
wife, considered him her inalienable property, and only a subject for
consideration when there was no other man about upon whom to lavish her
smiles and pretty coquetries. Why should she dress for him, or practice
her winning graces on one who was hers already, and that forever? In
short, he learned by bitter experience the difference between a true,
loving, devoted woman, whose sweetest smiles and gentlest words were
ever for him, and a mere thing of fashion and convention called a wife,
but no more a real wife than the first eye-winking doll in a
shop-window. If any power on earth could have annulled the past, and
given back Clara to his arms, after six months of Ella Wills, he would
have been a happy man; but he made the best he could of his life, and
was not unreasonable over Ella’s faults, except when she spoke ill of
Clara, as she did on the occasion of his reading the notice of her
marriage. Not knowing of Ella’s former flirtation with the count at
Newport, and her extreme vexation at that time over her signal failure,
he set down everything she said to her spite against Clara.
“He hasn’t much pride, if he is a count,” she remarked, “or he wouldn’t
take up with anybody’s cast-off wife.”
Dr. Delano was disgusted. He replied savagely, and a stormy scene
ensued, in which both descended to the bitterest recriminations. They
mutually confessed that their love was a farce, and then they separated
coolly, the doctor going to his office and Ella to discuss a love of a
ball-dress with her _modiste_.
The marriage of the count was a nine-days’ wonder in Oakdale, and there
was terrible commotion in the breasts of scheming mammas, some of whom
found a large grain of comfort in the fact that “Louise Kendrick must be
terribly cut up.” And she was indeed, poor girl! and her chagrin was all
the more bitter from the consciousness that her hopes had been built on
a foundation of the most flimsy nature. There is very little true
sympathy in the world for hopeless love; many people, indeed, who pass
as educated or cultivated are capable of reproaching the unhappy lover,
or even laughing at him, thus showing themselves, in refinement of
sentiment, on a plane with the barbarian. Sympathy of a common and lower
type is everywhere freely given to heroic suffering; but if any one
would know which of his friends not only loves him most sincerely, but
has the highest and finest nature, let him make an unqualified fool of
himself.
Despite the portentous rumors touching the unsoundness of the great
banking-house of Oakdale, it weathered through the storm, and the
Kendricks and Burnhams held their heads as high as ever. As long as
Oakdalers might have seen any future possibility of a marriage between
the count and Kendrick’s daughter, the recovery of the bank’s credit
might be comprehended; but as things happened, it remained a mystery,
rather augmented than lessened by the fact that there had been a “run”
on the bank very soon after the marriage. And the wonderment of Oakdale
had an extraordinary vitality. Why, among all the wealth and beauty of
the town, had the count chosen the radical daughter of the arch-radical
Dr. Forest; and a woman, too, with a history, a thing so deplorable in a
lady? In a less advanced age it would have been set down to witchcraft,
or Satanic interposition; but the thing was done, and there was no way
of escaping the inevitable. Those who had exchanged courtesies with
Clara after her separation from Dr. Delano, took consolation in the fact
that they ought to be on the cards of the count thereafter; those who
had not, said spitefully, that no doubt the count would take up his
residence “among those working-people over the river,” where the cream
of the town would scarcely care to visit.
It did not become known who the “officiating clergyman” was, in the
marriage that excited such commotion, for the notice in the paper had
barely announced the fact and the place of occurrence, and no one would
have dared to ask such a question of any of the interested parties.
Indeed, minor circumstances sank into insignificance beside the one
marvelous fact that Clara Delano, whom society had dared to snub, had
suddenly risen to such an enviable position in the social scale. Poor
Susie Dykes, as the bosom friend of Clara, rose mightily in importance
also; but the Priest and the Levite were deterred from approaching her
now, from consciousness of their past attitude toward her, or rather,
from the fear of inconsistency—that bugbear of little minds. The most
conservative, however, were pretty ready to admit that the kick-her-down
policy was not the wisest after all, and that love and sympathy might be
due even to a “fallen” sister.
But even the excitement caused by the marriage of the count and Clara,
and the influence it promised upon the fate of Susie, could not long
hold the attention of Oakdale from the mighty enterprise “over the
river.” Architects and builders came hundreds of miles to see the great
work, whose renown was daily widening and extending. Oakdale palatial
residences sank into insignificance beside the vast pile. Capitalists
looked on with wonder, and great manufacturers grumbled at the growing
discontent of their workmen over the high rents they had to pay for
their poor accommodations. The Social Palace workmen talked with outside
laborers, and the natural result was dissatisfaction. Ely & Gerrish took
the wisest course—they, who less than the other manufacturers felt the
need of conciliating their employés, having years before built improved
homes for them. This firm called their workmen together, and urged them
to wait patiently, and see how the Social Palace worked. No one could
say yet that it would not be a failure. To be sure, that in France had
worked well, but French people were very different from free Americans!
If this enterprise worked, of course it would become universal in this
country; and from what they, Ely & Gerrish, had already done, their
workmen might expect them to try to keep up with the demands of the
time.
Other manufacturers were not so fortunate. They were insolent to their
workmen when the latter grew discontented, and the result, in some
cases, was disastrous to their industries, and provocative of hatred to
the millionaire, whose wealth enabled him to ride over smaller
capitalists rough-shod.
“You see,” said the doctor, to one of these, “our financial and
industrial system is a regular cut-throat affair. Anybody who can see an
inch before his nose must admit that in order to carry on that system
successfully, you must have but two classes—masters and slaves. The
moment you give the people schools and newspapers, you teach them
revolution against a state of things which keeps them poor while their
labor makes others rich.” In fact, it was very little consolation to
talk to the doctor, though in the end he never failed to show that if he
had sympathy for the laborer, he had also for the small capitalist, and
could see exactly his difficulties and vexations. Burnham seemed
wonderfully interested in the great subterranean galleries for
ventilating the Social Palace, and these were his theme whenever he
talked of the great enterprise. “This question of ventilation is an
important one,” he said. “It’s safe to say that, up to this time, no
architect has ever successfully ventilated even a schoolroom; but I
believe this Frauenstein, or Godin before him, has hit it.”
“Is it true,” asked a listener, “that he is going to put hot-air
furnaces in these galleries under the palace, and so heat up the whole
thing at the same time he carries in the fresh air?”
“Yes, that’s so. He went yesterday to New York to make arrangements for
the furnaces.”
When the silk industry was in operation, Mrs. Forest and the twins went
over to see it. Linnie had for some days declared that she was going to
learn silk-weaving, and when she saw the actual operation she was fully
decided. The factory was a beautiful building, only a little less ornate
than the palace itself, and Mrs. Forest was so charmed with the polished
oiled floors, the immense, deep-set windows, and the exquisite
cleanliness of everything, that she pronounced it “so unlike a factory!
Why, I almost want to weave silk here myself,” she said. Leila declared
if Linnie came to weave, she also would. “It will be setting a good
example, you know, for the independence of young ladies,” she added,
half in irony. Mrs. Forest did not fail to remark that a great many of
the weavers were quite respectable young girls, and finally she gave her
consent that Leila and Linnie should learn—there could be no harm in it.
They were already both engaged to teach in the Social Palace schools,
but these would not be organized yet for two months. The doctor’s
apartments were already selected, and Mrs. Forest went to see them on
this day. She had not expected to find them so grand.
“What do you think now, mamma?” asked Linnie.
“Why, I suppose we shall only reside here temporarily. We are not to
give up our house,” said Mrs. Forest, very gently but positively.
“Oh, the house will be given up,” said Leila. “I expect you, mamma, will
become one of the council of twelve. I shall see you presiding, no
doubt, and gravely giving the ‘casting vote.’ What a woman’s righter
you’ll become,” she added, laughing. “There’s no use trying to resist
such an outside pressure. We’ll all have to become radical reformers
like papa and ‘Papa’s Own Girl.’”
“Papa’s Own Girl” was in a state of beatitude these days, that shone out
from her beautiful face, and lent a divine softness and tenderness to
her every word, and act, and motion. Susie, who loved to give wings to
her imagination, declared to Clara that there was often a halo about her
head, like those crowning the saints in the pictures of the old masters.
Paul, when absent now, did not sit with ink drying on his pen. He wrote
freely, from an overflowing, all-absorbing happiness, great enough to
fill even his great heart; and if he hesitated now when writing his
beloved Clara, it was not for lack of words, but rather from the
impotence of all possible combinations of words, to express the half
that he felt. The first letter that he wrote her after their happy
union, or parts of it, may be given here, for the benefit of lovers;
others may find it extravagant and out of character as an expression of
the passion of love in a practical, philosophical gentleman like Count
Frauenstein, and so they can pass it over unread:
“DEAR HEART:—Ah! dear indeed, since it has answered mine. Jean Paul
sighed that he had lived so long and had never seen the sea. Like his
longing was mine, to find my love—and I have found her! For me there is
no more sighing—never any more; for I have seen the sea, the broad, the
deep, the infinite. It broke upon my vision with a sweet surprise, and
my mind and heart went out to measure it; but I knew that on and on,
beyond the purple limits, it still extended in its earth-embracing
mystery. Erewhile I had heard but its far-off echoes answering to the
whisperings of my heart, as one who listens to the sea-shell. But now my
eyes have seen its changing beauty. I have heard its murmurings and its
laughter. I have swayed with its flux and reflux; and its waves—ah!
dear, they have overflowed my soul! Everlasting sunlight is spread upon
its bosom, on which I have floated into rest. The sunshine is abiding. I
have taken it away in my heart—my satisfied, contented heart—and the
music of its waves I shall hear forevermore! * * * All things should
bless you for loving me, since with the remembrance of that sweet loving
with which my heart is full, I touch more tenderly even the dear earth
that has been made young again for me. It seems as if every one should
notice that something has happened to me; as if the little children
should gather about me, believing that I could bless them; as if the
flowers should turn to me for sunlight. Oh, what have you done to me, my
darling, that I am so happy and so strong, that I have such tenderness
in my heart, and that such heavenly peace sits upon my forehead. * * *
“I try in vain to still my beating heart into some more temperate mood.
They might as well have attempted to presume upon sanity who were
visited with the Pentecost.” * * * * * *
The next day Paul wrote:
“To-day, love, the furnaces for our Social Palace are on the way to
Oakdale. For three days I have been attending to the most prosaic
details of business, feeling myself all the while a thing distinct and
apart from the mortals with whom I discussed smoke-flues, heating
capacities, and combination-boilers! I believe I have accomplished
everything with an exemplary sanity; though as I talked I found myself
surprised, from time to time, that none of these business men discovered
the great mystery of my other and deeper life, which I know my whole
manner and expression might have betrayed.
“Yesterday being Sunday, I stayed nearly all day in my room, that I
might luxuriate in my happiness. For a long time I lay on my lounge in a
half dream, my heart, and lips, and my whole body thrilling with the
very memory of your kisses and caresses. With what difficulty I rose to
write you. It was so sweet to simply remember!
“Do you know, sweet one, that I am yours by the most absolute surrender
of myself to you—not a surrender once for all, but a surrender repeated
with every pulsation of my heart. It seems to me that I never lived
until I knew you; all before that seems to me a vague, half-forgotten
dream; yet I realize that for years I had been trying to work out some
plan that might leave the world better for my single effort, but I
needed an inspiration that would not come to me. I stood within the
great temple of humanity, and studied the mummeries of the priests, and
the silent, unsatisfied seeking of the devotees. When I felt your divine
presence there, the atmosphere was no longer cold to me; and when your
lips had touched mine, the fretted arches of the temple burned—a fire
was lit upon the altar, every symbol became life-giving, and the miracle
was wrought for me which I had waited for so long in vain.
“To me now everything is endowed with new life, and every human face,
however coarse or degraded, wears a new significance.
“This evening I visited an industrial reformatory home, instituted by
some good Unitarian women, for the reclamation of ‘abandoned girls.’ I
gave money to the fund, and the matrons called the girls together, that
I might speak to them. It was a task to make up my mind to stand before
them, until I thought of my precious one, and the brave step she took,
when a young lady ‘just out of school.’ That gave me my text. I told the
story of dear Susie’s struggle and her final victory. I was played upon
like a musical instrument by the magnetic force of those two hundred
unhappy young girls. Nothing else can or could explain why I stood there
and talked as I did—of what? Can you imagine? I talked of love, the
subject that lay nearest their hearts, for they were women—of its
beautiful mission in this world. I said women fell never from love, but
from the want of it, and that by love alone could either women or men
become a blessing to their time. As my audience became affected, many of
them to tears, my own eyes became so dim that I could hardly see the
faces before me, and then I knew I was eloquent. I described the love of
a true, great-hearted woman, and the miracle her love could work in
man’s heart. I told them that the love of such a woman made the glory of
my life, and to it they were indebted for the inspiration that made me
come among them to speak words of encouragement. I said that, with such
a love in my heart, every woman was sacred in my eyes, even though
covered with rags and shame. I dwelt long upon the fatal error of any
woman considering herself lost, whatever had been her history, or
however great her degradation. ‘Never,’ I said, ‘allow priest or layman,
friend or foe, to convince you that you are not capable of a good and
happy life, while there is yearning in your hearts, as I know there is
in every one of them, for a love such as I have described. It is a vile
insult to human intelligence to presume that any one loves evil rather
than good, or prefers the pity to the respect of mankind.’ I then
appealed strongly to their womanly pride and ambition, urging them to
study earnestly in the classes established in the institution, promising
to return in a year, and, if the directors would permit me, (here I
obtained ready permission from the ladies on the platform) distribute
certain prizes to those who had made the most progress in their studies
and in their general deportment, and certain other prizes to all who had
made any meritorious effort. The value and kind of the prizes being
determined after some discussion with the ladies, I went on, and showed
them the high importance of study as a discipline to the mind, and the
value of education generally. I pointed out, in plain, simple language,
the prospect opening before women through the recognition of her equal
rights as a citizen, for I am always anxious, when talking to women, to
show them the moral and political power they may wield by the ballot,
this being the primal means to put them in the proper position to
exercise a vast influence necessarily dormant without it.
“I was pleased to see the intense interest in the faces of these young
women. I am sure I awakened them to a sense of innate womanly dignity,
which cannot be crushed out by sudden misfortune, and to a firm resolve
to work their way up to a better and more honorable life. There was
great enthusiasm when I finished, and one sweet, silver-haired old lady
came up and kissed me, with the natural simplicity of a little child. I
was very proud of that. She then spoke of me to the girls, in a way that
made me feel guilty, because I was not a perfect saint; and then calling
one of the girls to the piano, I listened to some very pleasant singing
by the whole company, and retired, feeling that I had deserved the
approbation of her who is the joy and blessing of my life.” * * * * * *