know not, of the aptitude of Women, particularly those young women whose
characters are in a state of most Imperfect Development, to yield in
matters essential to their best Happiness to the Opposing Wishes of
Parents and Guardians. I speak of those Matters, perhaps not the most
fitting for the Speculations of a but Partially-schooled Maiden--Love,
and the Choosing of a Husband. While in these matters, as in all others,
the Wishes of Wise and Fond Parents and Guardians are the only safe
Guides for a young and Untrained Spirit, there are other Cases where
Injustice and a Desire to Rule are but slender Grounds for the exercise
of Authority. I know that my Boldness in this Opinion cannot pass even
my own mind unchallenged, but when I read of Unwilling Maids forced to
the very Church Door or Languishing under unmerited sternness, and
Yielding up their own Happiness, and that of another (though he be a
Man) into the Hands of an unwise Judge through inability to resist such
unloving Pressure, my Nature rebels against it. It would seem to me
cause for a Glad and an Unfaltering Resistance. For a Husband is, after
all, a Matter for a Maid's own choosing."
"The beaten path," says the biographer, "had ever but little attraction
for Mary Twining. It had been well had she been less fain to seek
Opportunity for a Lawful Resistance to Bonds. It seemeth ever to the
Young that such opportunities are not long in coming."
It was not only from the consciences of the colonial fathers that the
stirrings of independence went forth. Apparently there was a spirit
abroad that breathed now and then from the lips of but partially-schooled
maidens. Still, it is not unruliness, this protest of a young and
independent spirit against the slavishness now and then upheld in
certain forms of literature. There is little revolutionary, after all,
in Mary's sentiment that "a Husband is a matter for a Maid's own
choosing."
But we must pass over the last few notes of her school life. At nineteen
she left school forever.
"I am about to leave this little Life of School," she writes, "for a
larger Life of Home, and mayhap a Taste of that Life which is called of
the World. And if I be not now, at the age of Nineteen years, equipped
for the change and able to comport myself with a becoming Discretion and
Dignity, then such equipment is not to be found within these Four Walls
or in daily Practice of Music and Mathematics. Which, though I be filled
with no over-weening Distrust of my own Capabilities, seemeth to my eyes
of some Doubt and Difference of Opinion."
"On a certain day of June," her biographer goes on to state, "Mistress
Mary Twining was placed in the Coach which should take her a Two Days'
Journey to her Father's House. She was in Company with an old and
Reverend Gentleman of friendly Disposition, who was well known to her
Father and held in excellent esteem of him. The Fairness of a Maid is
but a vain Toy, but," declares this most staid biographer, with a
refreshing candor, "as it is a matter which is not without its effect on
the Fortunes of many, it is not always to be passed over in the Silence
which would befit a Sober Pen. Mary Twining's Hair was of a golden
Colour and wound itself in small, and not always tidy, Rings about her
Neck and Forehead. Her eyes were of a darker appearance than is common,
and her Mouth, though not without a certain Winsomeness, gave Promise of
a Firmness of Opinion and an Independence which was perhaps but a Sign
of the Times, which her small and shrewdly-set Nose did not deny."
I more than suspect that, disclaim it as he may, our discreet biographer
was in nowise loath to dwell a little on this vain toy of Mary's
personal appearance. I even fancy that he was tempted to employ greater
latitude of expression, which only his stern sense of his
responsibilities led him to reject, in the description of that
uncompromising mouth, not to mention the spice of naughtiness involved
in that nose so "shrewdly set."
Not an unattractive picture in the coach window, this June day, is this
of Mary Twining, in her big poke bonnet, white kerchief and
short-waisted gown. And who is this, who, coming at the last moment,
springs into a vacant place at her side, under the very eyes of the
reverend old gentleman, her father's friend? The three-cornered hat
which he doffs with ceremonious courtesy to the fair vision before him,
the powdered queue, the high boots with jingling spurs, the sword at his
side, are not unpicturesque items in our nineteenth-century eyes. Were
they likely to be so in the eyes of this nineteen-year-old maiden just
out of boarding-school?
"As it happened," says the biographer, "there went down the same day,
and by the same Coach, one of the young Aids of our General. He was a
personable Youth, and the Arrangement of the many Fripperies of the
Costume of a young Gallant did naught to take away from the Face and
Figure which Providence had accorded him. It were better had he or Mary
Twining chosen another Time for the Journey."
Neither, probably, did a natural timidity of disposition do aught to
lessen the impression which a personable young man has it in his power
in any century to make upon a fair and observing girl. Mary herself
says:--
"There rode down with us a young gallant of most holiday Appearance, but
not ignorant withal of the working days of a Soldier. It was not long
before he had entered into Conversation with Mr. Edwards, who had
knowledge of the young Man's Parents, from which Conversation I learned
something of himself, though most modestly told. He would fain have
opened the Way for me to join in my Guardian's Questioning, but I bore
in Mind the Unseemliness of an unwarranted Acquaintanceship, and sought
rather to avoid than to court the Glances which he was not over cautious
in sending in my Direction."
"A Maid's avoidance," observes the biographer, "of a Youth's Glances, is
not of that Nature that is the Cutting off of all Hope."
And Fortune, too, was not of so perverse a disposition in this June
weather as she is sometimes. For, on the second day, when probably
glances, so conscientiously evaded, had become but the accompaniment of
spoken words, there was an accident. The coach, as coaches are apt to
do, was upset, and its occupants "made haste rather as they could than
as they would," to leave it. In the confusion and tumbling about of
heavy boxes Mary might have been badly hurt, had not the young gallant,
quickly springing to his feet, caught her as she was thrown forward by a
second lurch of the unwieldy thing, and, lifting her up, carried her out
of the way of falling luggage and struggling horses to a place of
safety.
"He lifted me as though I had been but a Feather's weight, showing a
Strength which is indeed Goodly in the Sons of Men," says Mary demurely,
"and which was most grateful in the Stress and Confusion, and in its
display most Timely, though perhaps," she adds, with delicious
frankness, "he was not over ready to put me down that he might hasten
back to be of further help."
"My Bonnet was awry," she continues, "my Hair in sad confusion, and my
Face a Milkmaid Red, so that I said with but little Grace, 'Sir, I fear
you have found me a grievous Weight.' Whereupon he answered me that so
light was my weight, that his Heart was the Heavier for the Putting of
me down, which was a Conceit not reasonable but most kindly intended.
Whereon I thanked him, and he vowed such a Burden would he gladly carry
to the World's End had he but Leave given."
Another picture not unpleasant to the mind's eye, the overturned coach,
the esteemed guardian of the youthful beauty delaying a little in its
immediate neighborhood, perhaps to secure the safety of some precious
package, the farm laborers in the green adjacent fields dropping their
tools and running forward to help, the outcry and confusion, and apart,
in the summer sunshine, the handsome fellow with the flashing sword by
his side, listening with bent head and admiring eyes to the thanks which
Mistress Mary, with her untidy hair and lifted eyes, was tendering with
"but little Grace."
"Such chance meeting of the Sexes," says our astute commentator, "where
appear what is most commanding in the One and most dependent in the
Other, are but ill advised. The Uttering of such vain proffers as the
carrying the Burden of Mary Twining to the World's End, and other
Foolishness, hath then a Savour of Reality which concealeth the vain
Delusion."
We have delayed too long over these extracts, and though I am tempted to
delay yet longer, so quaint is the contrast between Mary Twining's
youthful and feminine pen and that of her critical biographer, I pass on
to a time some months after her arrival home. Indeed, she writes little
in the interval. The coming into a new and wider circle, the adapting
herself to new conditions, leave her scant time for writing. There is a
rapid noting of events, for it was an eventful time,--the mention of a
few distinguished names, and that is all. But in order to follow the
thread of Mary Twining's romance, we must pause at the account of a ball
given to one of General Washington's regiments at a time before the
rigor of war had quenched all thoughts of merry-making. It was not her
first ball. She had mixed freely in society, and had measured herself
with the men and women about her,--always an interesting experience to
the free, unprejudiced and thoughtful girl.
"It was a joyous Scene enough," she writes, "but I myself not quite in
the Humour for such Junketing. I had a gloomy Fancy that Reason would
not dismiss, that in these Troublous Times there were Things outside of
the Ball room Door, striving to enter, which having done, they would
have proved of singular Inappositeness. None the less I danced with
those who solicited me in due Form, and gave Heed to little else than
the manner of the Solicitation. Not that there was Lack of Goodly
Partners, but I was mindful of nothing beyond the Observance of the
Courtesies of the Occasion. The only Annoyance of which I was sensible
was the marked Attention of my Cousin Eustace Fleming, who is but
recently come into this our Part of the Country, and claimeth
Relationship. He is a most excellent Young Gentleman, but one who is
likely to weary me with his over Appreciation of my own Qualities. It is
but a Sign of my Stubbornness and Unregeneracy of Heart that, in that he
is most approved and commended of my Parents, he wearieth me the more. I
was fain to tell him, when he asked me a third Time to join the Dance,
that there were fairer Maidens in the Hall who would be less loth to
accord him the Favour, but as this would but have drawn from him a
laboured compliment to my own Person, I prudently refrained."
It was in the weariness of this very encounter that, looking up, she saw
approaching her the hero of her adventure in the coach, the impulsive
youth whose former foolishness had won for him the semi-disapproval of
our commentator. It seems possible that the gloomy fancies of shadowy
things outside lightened a little, and the war ceased to be a background
only for shapes of evil.
"It required not the space of a moment for me to recognize him, though
his Attire had changed with the Circumstance, but as my Father's Friend,
Mr. Edwards, had not deemed it of sufficient Importance to mention our
former Rencontre, it now seemed to me useless to publicly recall that
Incident. Particularly as being now duly presented to me in the Presence
of my Parents, and with due Vouchers of his Credit, our Acquaintance
could make such Progress as we should mutually consider profitable."
Prudent Mistress Mary and delinquent Mr. Edwards!
"After the Cotillion for which he had asked the Honour of my Hand, he
led me to my Seat, but by a somewhat indirect Route. Upon my remarking
upon which, he found Occasion to say that all Ways were short to him now
after traversing the long and difficult one which he had followed that
he might gain Admission to my Presence. I, laughing, said that my
Presence were hardly worth such effort in Gaining, and that it was
generally attained with more Ease, and he, replying with a Grace of
Manner it were impossible not to remark, said hastily that he was well
aware that he had found it easier to enter than he should to again
forsake it."
"And so on with such Vanities," says the biographer, "as pass Current
with young Men and Maidens in their shortsighted Enjoyment of the
moment, and with which Mary Twining was but too fain to dally."
Yes, and so on, the old story. For there follow the frequent meetings,
known and not unapproved of by the watchful parents, the half
confessions, the vague wonderment, and at last the pledge given and
received, and Mary Twining became the affianced wife of the handsome
young officer. All this we trace in her journal, with satiric comments,
now and then, of the Editor; but it is all so familiar that we will not
dwell on it, pretty as it is. Only one shadow seems to have fallen on
the lovers,--that of Mr. Eustace Fleming, the worthy cousin, whose
importunities in the ball-room so tired the patience of Mistress Mary.
The parentally favored candidate for Mary's hand, he finds it,
evidently, too hard to give it up without a struggle. With a lack of
that wisdom unfortunate lovers find it so hard to supply, he disturbed
their interviews, forced himself on Mary's society, yet with no
insolence and no self-betrayal that could lead to an outbreak. He is
apparently a self-contained, and not a bad man, who finds it impossible
to see that he is beaten. Of this period I make one or two extracts from
Mary's journal, and then go on to the end.
"If I once marvelled at the yielding of those weak Women who find it
easier to relinquish the Happiness that they find in the Love of Those
bound to them by mutual attraction, than to contest the matter with all
Dignity, Forbearance, Firmness and Patience, how much the more do I
marvel now at their Shortsightedness! Were he, whom I gladly call my
Betrothed, to be the Victim of Oppression or of Malice, it would seem to
me but the throwing down of the Glove--a challenge to Battle, rather
than a demand for Submission. Methinks it were not as a Suppliant that I
should stoop to pick it up. But why talk of fighting, who am a peaceful
Maid, who would labour, were it but Honourable towards her dear Country,
to remove the Sound of Battle far from her Lover. For indeed he is more
ready to fight than am I to have him. He would see an Opportunity to
strike a Blow in my Cause where is none, so anxious is he to draw his
Sword in my Behalf. Indeed so excellent an Opinion doth he entertain of
my Person and my Mind and my Conditions, that he would not be long in
finding one who should most justly contest the same. Heaven send that he
may hold to the Opinion and forget the Wish to make Proselytes!
"It would seem that some men were created but as a sort of Makeweight,
who, without active Hindrance, make it more difficult to row one's Boat
up the Stream of Life. Of such kind is my Cousin Eustace Fleming. His
most mistaken Admiration of me (for that in him is a Mistake which in
Another is but a most fitting and a most reverenced Creed) serves but to
make a Let and Hindrance where my satisfaction is concerned. I would
that he could more easily learn the Lesson I have been at such Pains to
mark out for him."
"It were vain," is the comment on the last passage, "to expect a
Recognition of sober worth in the Day of Love and Ambition. And
Mistress Twining, after the manner of her kind, pays but little Heed to
lasting Affection before the Time comes when it shall be of Use to Her."
The wedding day approaches. Mary Twining does not lose her independence,
though, woman like, she seems to enjoy losing herself in the love
lavished upon her. Here and there are passages which show that in the
warmth of her romance she thinks and judges and acts for herself, as she
did in her school days. Mary Twining will never merge her individuality
in that of another, however dear to her.
The entries grow briefer and more infrequent, as the month fixed upon
for the marriage draws near. It is to be in June,--two years from that
June when she rode down by coach, in the care of her father's friend.
"The day is fixed for the twenty-seventh of June," is the last entry but
two in her journal. "Two years ago, Fate gave my Life into his Hands.
At least, in giving it to him a second Time, Fate and I are at one."
The next entry is a month later. It is simply the statement,--
"May 24th. I have done my Cousin Eustace wrong." Then on--
"July 27th. And I am but twenty-one!"
And June comes and goes, and there is no word on her bridal day, no
breathings of her new happiness from her ready pen. Is the book closed?
Yes, but her biographer has a word to say.
"On the twenty-seventh of June, Mary A. Twining became the wife of her
Cousin Eustace Fleming. Their Betrothal was but a short one, but in the
eyes of her judicious Parents, there was no unseemly Haste. It had long
been a cherished wish of their Hearts, and Eustace Fleming was a young
man of Promise and of rare Discretion."
There it ends. The record of Mary Twining is finished. With Mary
Fleming he has nothing to do. But where is the girl of ripened
understanding, of freedom of thought, of directness of purpose? We do
not know, for our biographer does not tell us. Was there a tragedy, and
were the details too heart-breaking for even the stoical Editor to
maintain his critical attitude?
Where is the gallant cavalier with his picturesque devotion, and his
vain toys of pretty speech and gesture and his fiery and over-weening
love and admiration for Mistress Mary Twining? He seemed to me a brave
and loyal sort of young fellow enough. I cannot tell. Put the quaint old
book back on the shelf, and let her romance rest again. But
notwithstanding her husband of such promise and rare discretion, I
cannot help sighing, "Poor Mary Twining!"
Fate and she had a difference, after all. And she was but twenty-one!
A Postlude
IT was almost time for the train to leave the station, and the seats
were filling rapidly. The Irishwoman, with four children so near of a
size that they seemed to be distinguished only by the variety of eatable
each one was consuming, had entered the car and deposited her large
newspaper bundle just inside the door, and driven her flock all into the
little end seat, where they were stowed uncomfortably, one on top of
another, gazing stolidly about the car. The young girl from the country
who had been spending Sunday in town, and who was, consequently,
somewhat overdressed for Monday morning, was wandering elegantly up and
down the aisle, losing each possible place for a prospective better one,
which became impossible before she reached it. The woman with a bag too
large for her to carry, rested it on the arm of an occupied seat while
she gazed vaguely about, indifferent to the fact that a crowd of
impatient travellers of more concrete intentions were being delayed by
her indecision. Meanwhile, among these disturbers of travel the man with
a large bag passed rapidly along, found a place, put the bag in the
rack, seated himself, and took out his newspaper. There is something in
a man's management of a large travelling-bag in a railway train that
leads the most unwilling to grudgingly yield him a certain superiority
of sex.
An exchange of good-bys, low-voiced but with a decided note of hilarity,
took place at the door, and two women entered the car, one looking back
and nodding a final smiling farewell before she gave her mind to the
matter in hand. They were attractive women, of late middle age, perhaps,
not yet to be called old. One was large, with fine curves, gray bands of
hair under her autumnal bonnet, and a dignity of bearing which suited
her ample figure and melodious, rather deep voice; the other was paler,
more fragile, her light hair only streaked with gray, and her blue eyes
still shaded with a half-wistful uncertainty of what might be before
her, which the years had not been able to turn altogether into
self-confidence.
"You go on, Lucy," said the former, in her full, decided tones, pausing
at the first vacant seat, "and see if there's a place for us to sit
together farther down. I'll hold this for one of us. You take up less
room than I do, you know, and it's easier for you to slip about;" and
she laughed a little. There was a suggestion of laughter in the eyes and
around the mouth of each of them. It indicated a subdued exhilaration
unusual in the setting forth of women of their years and dignity. Lucy
hesitated a moment, and then moved on somewhat timidly; but she had
taken only a step when the man near whom they stood rose, and, lifting
his hat, said: "Allow me, madam, to give you this seat for yourself and
your friend. I can easily find another."
"Thank you; you are very good," replied the larger of the two women, her
kindly gray eyes meeting his with an expression that led him to pause
and put their umbrellas in the rack and depart, wondering what it was
about some women that made a man always glad to do anything for
them,--and it didn't make any difference how old they were, either.
"How nice people are!" said the one who had already spoken as they
settled themselves. "That man, now--there wasn't any need of his doing
that."
"He seemed to really want to," rejoined Lucy. "People always like to do
things for you, Mary Leonard, I believe," she added, looking at her
companion with affectionate admiration.
"I like to hear you talk," returned Mary Leonard, laughing. "If there
ever was anybody that just went through the world having people do
things for 'em, it's you, Lucy Eastman, and you know it."
"Oh, but I know so few people," said the other, hastily. "I'm not
ungrateful--I'm sure I've no call to be; but I know so few people, and
they've known me all my life; it's not like strangers."
"That hasn't anything to do with it," affirmed Mary Leonard, stoutly;
"if there were more, it would be the same way. But I will say," she went
on, "that I never could see why a woman travelling alone should ever
have any trouble--officials and everybody are so polite about telling
you the same thing over. I don't know why it is, but I always seem to
expect the next one I ask to tell me something different about a train;
and then everybody you meet seems just as pleasant as can be."
"Yes," assented Lucy Eastman, "like that baggageman. Did you notice how
polite the baggageman was?"
"Notice it! Why, of course I did. And our trunks _were_ late, and it
was my fault, and so I told him, and he just hurried to pull them around
and check them, and I was so confused, you know, that I made him check
the wrong ones twice."
"Well, they were just like ours," said Lucy Eastman, sympathetically.
"Well, they were, weren't they? But of course I ought to have known. And
he never swore at all. I was dreadfully afraid he'd swear, Lucy."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Lucy Eastman, distressed, "what would you have
done if he'd sworn?"
"I'm sure I don't know," asserted Mary Leonard, with conviction, "but
fortunately he didn't."
"He got very warm," said Lucy, reminiscently. "I saw him wiping his brow
as we came away."
"I don't blame him the least in the world. I think he was a wonderfully
nice baggageman, for men of that class are so apt to swear when they get
very warm,--at least, so I've heard. And did you hear--"
"Tickets, ma'am," observed the conductor.
"There, I didn't mean to keep you waiting a minute;" and Mary Leonard
opened her pocketbook, "but I forgot all about the tickets. Oh, Lucy, I
gave you the tickets, and I took the checks."
"Yes, to be sure," said Lucy, opening her pocketbook.
"I'll put them in the seat for you, ladies, like this," said the
conductor, smiling, "and then you won't have any more trouble."
"Oh, yes, thank you," said Lucy Eastman.
"What a nice conductor!" observed Mary Leonard.
"Did I hear what, Mary?--you were telling me something."
"Oh, about the baggageman. I heard him say to his assistant, 'Don't you
ever git mad with women, Bobby. It ain't no use. If it was always the
same woman and the same trunk, perhaps you could learn her sometime; but
it ain't, and you've got to take 'em just as they come, and get rid of
'em the best way you can--they don't bear instruction.'"
Mary Leonard and Lucy Eastman threw back their heads and laughed; it was
genuine, low, fresh laughter, and a good thing to hear. After that there
was silence for a few moments as the train sped on its way.
"I declare," said Mary Leonard, at last, "I don't know when I've been in
the cars before."
"I was just thinking I haven't been in the cars since Sister Eliza died,
and we all went to the funeral," said Lucy Eastman.
"Why, that's--let me see--eight years ago, isn't it?"
"Eight and a half."
"Well, I'm glad you'll have a pleasanter trip to look back on after
this."
"So am I; and I am enjoying this--every minute of it. Only there's so
much to see. Just look at the people looking out of the windows of that
manufactory! Shouldn't you think they'd roast?"
"Yes, they must be hotter than a fritter such a day as this."