"I'm very lonely now, Carry! and weary, and wakeful and home-sick.
You and your home have spoiled me; my heart has been enlarged, only
to aggravate the old empty feeling; you have disabled me for the life
I must lead here. 'Discouraged already!' I hear you say. 'Did you not
promise to be good and patient?' I am not like you, I cannot love,
unless I am beloved; and had I your warm, open heart, it would be but
attempting to heat Nova Zembla with a foot-stove. Hear, before you
reproach. Our journey was pleasant. The children behaved a merveille;
your sister was--as she always is--tender and motherly, (you know what
that last means from me!) and the conduct of our gallant outriders was
above praise. Leaving Mrs. Dana at her door, Lynn and Charley escorted
me up-town. With their 'good nights,' and promises to see me again
soon, connection with Poplar-grove was severed. My former self--I told
you how it would be!--was waiting for me inside the hall-door. I was as
little changed in the eyes of Mr. Read and his daughter, as they were
in mine. The first-named was upon his etiquette stilts; and Josephine's
fingers, as I touched them, were as limp and warm as the digits of
a frozen frog. (Vide Charley.) I remembered you and my promise, and
made a tremendous effort. 'You are looking so well, that I will not
inquire whether your trip was as delightful as you anticipated;' to the
daughter.
"'We spent our time agreeably;' dryly.
"'Were the waters of Saratoga beneficial to you, sir?' to the father.
"'My health required no improvement;' stiffly, and with a smack of
offended dignity. But this is wrong, Carry! The air of this house must
warp my sense of right. While under their roof, I should not ridicule
them. There was pleasure in the sadness of last night--last night! it
seems a century since! There is no bright thread in the sombre web I
am weaving now! I look forward with a sinking spirit. This winter will
bring me trials which you may not appreciate. Josephine and myself
will ever remain antagonistic;--not that I am quarrelsome; I detest
strife. I am sick of this eternal sparring and heartburning; but I am
no dissembler; and I foresee many contests; perhaps as many defeats,
for cool audacity is more than a match for hot blood like mine. Our
characters will come into play upon a wider stage than heretofore, and
should we close in combat there, the struggle will be fearful. I am
willing,--thanks to you!--to sacrifice prejudice,--not principle or
self-respect. Three long, dreary months before I can hope to see you!
I fear to think how wicked I may become in that time. Richmond is, to
me, a Sahara, whose single fountain of sweet waters springs up within
your sister's home. Those, who, within a few months, were unknown, are
nearer than acquaintances of years' standing. Poor Rachel stands by,
waiting to undress me, her face as long as mine. 'Ah! Miss Ida! this
ain't Dr. Carleton's!' She does not realise how painfully conscious I
am of that fact. I can hardly say why I have written this incoherent
note; except, that I am dispirited, and thirst to talk to you. Forgive
my unhappy egotism! I cannot ask you to respond to emotions which never
swell your gentle bosom. To your best of fathers, present my warmest
regards. I owe him a debt I cannot repay. And to him, dear Carry, whose
image blends with yours, in my dreams of the future; the only man I
know, to whom I could willingly resign you, give a sister's love.
The strongest proof of my affection is, that I am not jealous. Good
night! and a blessing, my dearest! If your rest will be the sweeter for
knowing that to another, than _him_, you make life lovely, believe it!
As ever, yours,
IDA."
"I saw Mr. Lacy upon the street, to-day," remarked Mr. Read, the next
evening at supper.
"Ah!" said Josephine, delightedly. "Did you speak with him?"
"Yes; he stopped me to apologise for having delayed calling until
this time. He is studying law with Mr. L., and has little leisure for
visiting--so he says."
"Did you inquire after his sister's health?"
"No. You had better do so, if he calls this evening. He asked whether
you would be at home."
Josephine coloured with pleasure; and Ida was curious to see one who
had inspired them with such respect and admiration; for through Mr.
Read's assumed carelessness, it was easy to discover that he was
flattered by the promised visit. She gathered from their conversation
that they had met Mr. Lacy at the Springs, whither he had gone with an
invalid sister. As Virginians, they attached themselves to the Read
party,--"_the_ party of the season," so Josephine unblushingly asserted.
Too proud to go into the drawing-room, without an invitation, Ida went
to her chamber, to spend the hours between supper and bed-time, in
reading.
"Miss Josephine must 'spect her beau; she's mightily fined off,"
commented Rachel, when she came up from her meal. "I said so! that's
the door-bell I Ain't you going down, Miss Ida?"
"No;"--not withdrawing her eyes from her book.
"You ain't a school-girl now, Miss Ida," Rachel remonstrated.
"Well--and if I am not?"
"Why, young ladies ought to see company. I can't bear for you to be
hiding up here, just like you was an ediot or _per_formed; and Miss
Josephine, who ain't nigh so pretty, nor good, for that matter, is
stealing all the beaux."
"In other words, my good Rachel, you want me to get married."
"Yes ma'am," said Rachel boldly; "If you come across any body to suit
you, I'd a heap rather you'd be his wife, than to stay here to be
pecked at and worried."
"I am not easily worried; I am my own mistress, and restrained by no
one."
"Your own mistis', Miss Ida! Don't I see you sittin' at table, and
in the parlor, never opening your mouth to say nothin'; and ain't
you cooped up here in this chamber, because Miss Josephine ain't got
politeness enough to ask you down? and after they've been making as
much of you at Dr. Carleton's as if you had been the Queen of Sheby!
Miss Carry is a lady worth talking about, and so is Miss Jenny--none of
your turned up nose, poor white folksy sort. I wish you could get into
the fam'ly," she added, slyly.
Ida read on in silence.
"The bell agin!" muttered Rachel, fretfully. "I don't know what they're
coming for. If they knowed as much as we servants, they'd as soon
jam their fingers into a steel-trap. What do you want?" she said,
snappishly to the footman who knocked at the door.
"Two gentlemen to see Miss Ross--Mr. Dana and Mr. Holmes."
"I'll tell her;" she returned, greatly mollified. "Now, Miss Ida, don't
scare them off with no solemn looks and talk. Do just like you did at
Miss Carry's; and 'bove all things, don't let Miss Josephine cut you
out!"
We trust to the reader's good-nature to excuse the unfair use which
Rachel made of the back parlor window. The affectionate curiosity
that prompted her to "peep at Miss Ida, as she made her manners," was
gratified by seeing her receive her visitors with as much affability
as if Carry, instead of Miss Read, were present. As Rachel surmised,
the latter had a beau; and Ida's hasty survey excited a feeling of
surprise. He looked and moved the gentleman; but although he arose with
the others, and remained standing, Josephine did not introduce him.
Charley's presence of mind prevented embarrassment.
"I beg pardon, Morton; I thought you knew Miss Ross--Miss Ida, my
friend, Mr. Lacy."
This assumption of the duties of host at a first call would have been
inexcusable in most cases. Josephine understood it, as it was meant, as
a severe rebuke for her negligence or ill-breeding.
The "my friend," too, nettled her. Mr. Lacy had presented the gentlemen
to her when they came in, and had spoken to Charley as an old
acquaintance, but what right had this stranger to insinuate, that, as
his friend, Ida had a title to her "property?" She almost forgave him,
however, when she found that, for the present, he was not disposed to
push his advantage. He left her to the most delightful tete-a-tete;
turned his back quite upon her, and addressed himself to Ida. She would
have pocketed a dozen insults an evening to sit upon the same sofa with
Morton Lacy, to read devotion in his speaking eyes, and hear love's
music in every cadence of his voice. She was in Elysium--with but one
drawback upon her felicity. The group across the room were maliciously
unobservant of the tableau--her highborn looking suitor, so lover-like
as he bent his proud head to catch the words that melted like honey-dew
upon her lips; and herself--with falling lids, as though she feared
he might see more in the modest eyes than maiden coyness would have
him know--they _must_ notice them, and seeing, Ida must be expiring
with envy, and the gentlemen regret, while they envied, that they were
too late to compete for the prize. It is not often that the truth is
as sweet as the darling fictions we dream to ourselves, and on this
occasion, assuredly, the reality would have rendered wormwood palatable
in comparison; for the trio of friends were unaffectedly engrossed with
each other, and stupidly ignorant of the duett played near them.
"Jenny sent her love to you," said Charley; "she will call shortly.
She complains of being tired out with the labor of rectifying the
disorders of John's bachelor establishment. She treated us, at tea,
to a summary of his domestic economy. Half of the time, he forgot to
go to market, and wondered at the want of variety in the fare. The
cook was consulted, and hinted at the cause. The ensuing day, he laid
in provisions for a week, particularly of such commodities as frugal
housewives do not care to have on hand in hot weather. He bought a pair
of parlor lamps. 'You wished to surprise me by this handsome present, I
suppose,' said Jenny.
"'Why no--I should not have purchased them if the old ones had not been
worn out,' said he.
"'Worn out! when we have not had them six months!'
"'Yes!' answered he, positively. 'They would not burn--went out as fast
as I lighted them; and worse than that, the new ones have got into the
same way. I complained to W----, and he said they were the best he had.'
"'Very odd!' said Jenny, 'unscrewing one of the lamps. Why, Mr. Dana!
there is no oil in it! Have they been filled regularly?'
"'Never thought of it once!' exclaimed John, foolishly.
"See how useless marrying makes a man!
"Rather, how comfortless he is without a wife;" responded Ida. "As
respects order and management in household matters, I have an idea that
you bachelors are not much superior to the Tartars."
"Say on a par with the Hottentots, and you will be nearer the truth;"
said Lynn. "Nothing can be well-done that is unnatural. Not one man in
a hundred has a talent for housekeeping; some acquire a smattering of
the science, and make themselves ridiculous by an offensive display of
it. Their wives should rig them in kitchen aprons, set them to rolling
out pie-crust, and officiate as their substitutes in the shop, office,
or counting-room. There is a loud hue and cry after 'strong-minded
women;' who says any thing about weak-minded men?"
"You do not consider that the feebler intellect belongs of necessity,
to the feebler body, do you?" asked Charley.
"Not I! Do away with this absurd antipathy to clever women; give them
our advantages of education, and they will outshine us mentally, as
they do morally. The mind of a woman is a wonderful thing; like the
scimetar of Saladin, it cuts through, at a single stroke what our
clumsy blades have hacked at in vain. Light, graceful, delicate--it
does not lack power because it has beauty."
"It is very pleasant to listen to agreeable speeches, even when we
know them to be flattery," said Ida; "I acquit you of insincerity, Mr.
Holmes--I perceive that Mr. Dana sides with you--but permit me to say,
that I know more of the mental calibre of my sex than either of you.
To a certain point, we can rival you successfully--like the hare and
tortoise--we run well for a time, and laugh at your plodding; but we
have not the taste or ability to bear you company to the goal. As well
compare the bounding flight of the lark to the heaven-ward sweep of
the eagle. We cannot reason--we are persuaded because we _feel_ that a
truth exists--for our lives, we could not tell you why we believe."
"And this is an argument to establish your inferiority!" exclaimed
Lynn. "Where is the use of reasoning? I would trust a true woman's
intuition in preference to all the systems of logic and induction,
the blundering, lumbering brain of man has built. Do not depreciate
this angelic faculty, Miss Ida; you hold it in common with higher
intelligences."
"Yes!--I doubt if Gabriel bothers his head with syllogisms or
logarithms," said Charley. "Two to one--Miss Ida--give up!"
"Men are inconsistent creatures," said she. "They will have it we are
their superiors,--exhaust dictionaries and their imaginations to load
us with exalted epithets; and behave, as though we were children, to
be coaxed with sugar-plums. An angel in theory, the corporeal woman
is soundly rated if dinner is late, or a room unswept. We are 'akin
to higher intelligences,'--but let one presume to measure lances with
a lord of creation in a conflict of minds, and how quickly is she
assailed by the hoots of her professed adorers! You will allege that
she has stepped out of her sphere. Granted--but according to your
belief, she has stooped to your level, and you should be grateful for
the grace. Is it so? 'The ladith are divine, tho long ath they don't
meddle with thubjects above their comprehenthion;' lisps the dandy
whose organs of speech serve to distinguish him from a marmoset;--and
wise doctors of law and medicine and divinity, read us homilies upon
the modesty, the humility, the submissiveness of the softer sex, and
recommend St. Paul to our diligent perusal. We are not cherubim,--nor
yet slaves;--not your superiors; and in mind are far from being your
equals; but we _do_ hold that we are, or ought to be qualified for your
companions; and that your happiness and ours would be enhanced if you
would throw sentimental nonsense overboard, and take this practical,
every day view of the case."
"Let a lady alone for making her side good!" said Charley. "We'll
call it square, and quit--which Lynn will inform you, is a cowardly
way of acknowledging ourselves beaten. I never argued with one of you
yet, that I was not glad to sneak off in five minutes after the first
broadside."
"Their right makes their might;" observed Lynn, gallantly.
"And their invincible obstinacy," returned Charley. "That is not
just the word--it is a certain never-give-up-able-ness, vexatiously
delightful, which precipitates one into a rage and love, at the same
time--he is divided between his disposition to kneel to, and to shoot
her!"
"Are you tempted to murder me?" inquired Ida.
"Not at all. It is a peculiarity in the female disposition,--she can't
help it--to cry 'scissors' to the last."
"I do not comprehend."
"Did you never hear the 'tailor's wife and scissors?'"
"A story of your own coinage!" asked Lynn.
"No--an authentic narrative. A tailor having amassed a fortune by his
trade, cut the shop and removed to the country, to live in dignified
leisure. His wife was a bit of a shrew, and apt, as all wives
are,--to find out her husband's weak points. One of these was a shame
of his former occupation, and she harped upon the jarring string,
until the poor wretch was nearly beside himself. Her touch-word,
'scissors,' spoiled his finest bon mots, and embittered his grandest
entertainment--it was flame to tow. He stormed and wheedled, threatened
and bribed; the obnoxious instrument was constantly brandished before
his eyes. They were walking, one day, on the bank of a river, bounding
his grounds,--'I have displayed extraordinary taste in the selection
of this estate,' remarked he, 'Its owner should have judgment, as well
as wealth. You observe the Delta formed by the fork of the river. Its
beauty decided me to close the contract.'
"Very probable, my dear,--it reminds one so much of an open pair of
scissors!'
"One push--and she was struggling in the water.
"'I will pull you out, if you promise never to say that word again!'
halloed the still foaming husband.
"'Scissors!' screeched she, and down she went.
"'Scissors!' as she arose again. The third time, she came to the
surface, too far gone to speak--but as the waters closed over her, she
threw up her arms, crossing her fore fingers--thus--and disappeared."
Ida laughed--her rich, musical laugh, which awoke strange echoes in
those formal rooms. Mr. Read's portrait frowned down from its niche,
and Josephine raised her brows with an air of astonishment, which would
have been contempt, had she not been upon the amiable at the time.
Another started too, but with a different expression. Few who saw
Morton Lacy smile, forgot it. It was not a superficial illumination,
but a flashing through of an inward light, as might play upon the
surface of a gem-bedded stream, could the sun strike upon its concealed
wealth.
"We seldom hear a sound like that, in this age of affectation;" said
he, to Josephine.
"She will learn better;" she replied. "She is just from her books, and
rather eccentric in some of her ways and notions. I rally her daily
upon her little oddities, but she is wilful, as spoiled children will
be,--and being older, and more clever than myself, out-argues me. The
main point of disagreement is that she is fond of liberty of speech and
action, declares Die Vernon her beau ideal of a woman, and I am prudish
in my reserve."
"Not prudish--feminine!" he answered, emphatically. "Is she a relative?"
"No: a ward of my father's."
"An orphan!" with a remorseful pity, for which Josephine could have
blasted Ida as she sat.
"She does not feel her situation so keenly as a sensitive person
would. Those are happiest whose wounds heal soonest,--to whom a
life-time grief is unknown. I am thankful that Ida's temperament is
mercurial--she is spared much suffering;" and her voice trembled
admirably, as she lifted her eyes to a portrait above the mantel.
Another adroit hit! the base brought out the ring of the genuine metal.
"There are, indeed, losses, which, in an earthly sense, are
irreparable, and although I know nothing personally of such a
bereavement, I can understand that the shadow of a mother's tomb grows
darker and longer, as the child walks on in the path her care would
have smoothed."
"Especially to an orphaned girl; each day has wants and exigencies she
had not thought of before. Yet who knows the pains of her lot?" said
Josephine, sighing.
"'Few are the hearts whence one same touch,
Bids the sweet fountains flow!'"
repeated Mr. Lacy. "Have you learned that song, according to promise?"
"I always keep my promises."
"May I demand the proof that this one was remembered."
The piece in question lay suspiciously near the top of the portfolio,
although she protested that she had "only played it over once, and a
fortnight ago."
"It is set as a duett; will not your friend sing with you?"
"I don't know;" shaking her head, smilingly. "She is chary of her
favors--all good singers are. Perhaps she will not refuse you--ask her,
please! It will be such an improvement!"
Thus importuned, Mr. Lacy went up to Ida, and preferred his request.
"Excuse me, sir, I am not familiar with the music;" said she, surprised
that Josephine had despatched him upon such an embassy, when her
jealousy of Ida's superiority as a vocalist, had been the cause of
innumerable slights and petty meannesses from herself and father.
"Now! be obliging, Ida!" she interposed, "you sing at sight better than
I do, after a year's practising."
"I am sorry to appear disobliging, Mr. Lacy;" pursued Ida; and she
spoke sincerely, as she met his smile; "but you would not thank me for
ruining your song."
"Oh! how can you say so!" exclaimed Josephine. "Mr. Dermott called you
a second Malibran; or was it Sappho?"
To Mr. Lacy, this was coaxingly playful; but the fiery spot came to
Ida's cheek, at words, which had been piped over, and distorted, until
malice itself must be weary of repeating them.
"I beg you to consider my refusal as final and positive;" she said,
haughtily. Mr. Lacy bowed, with dignity, and returned to Josephine.
"Am I, also, to be refused?" asked Lynn, as Josephine picked out a
third song. "You will not suspect me of empty compliments."
"Not for you, will I sing now and _here_!" said Ida. "Be sure I have my
reasons for objecting to give you pleasure."
"Be quiet, Lynn! she means what she says;" interrupted Charley, as his
friend persisted. Lynn obeyed, but his black eyes went from the face of
the speaker, to Ida's compressed lips, until they darted an angry light
upon Josephine, showing that he had an inkling of the truth.
"This is the beginning!" said Ida, as she knelt at her window to gain
tranquillity from the cool and stillness of the night. The moon neared
the horizon; the roof-tops contrasted brightly with the shade of the
street; and one lofty spire pointed a snowy finger upward, the golden
trumpet upon its taper extremity silvered by the pale rays. It was
a "sweet south" that bore up the lullaby our beautiful river sings
nightly to her myriads of sleeping children; but as the girl gazed and
listened, inquietude, instead of peace, had possession of her--the
nameless longing that makes mortals weep and strive, and die! that
burning craving for something--they cannot tell what--except that
earth does not bestow it, and the spirit will not rest without it. It
may be, angel-teachers are with us, awakening a desire for, rather
than imparting knowledge, which is their food, and can alone satisfy
our immortal minds--or our young souls are fluttering their unfledged
wings, restless for the flight, instinct tells them is before them--we
know not--only that the thirst is fierce--maddening! and there is but
one fountain which quenches it. The river's song should have summoned
up the vision of those living waters, and their wooing, "Let him that
is athirst come!" and the white spire--had its silent gesture no
significance?
Ida's thoughts did not rise. A painful truth had that night obtruded
itself upon her, that the love of those she esteemed most, had not
strengthened her to bear the trials incident to her position. With
Carry at her side, to defend and console, many a shaft would have
fallen harmless, perchance, unremarked; in her absence, the certainty
of her affection did not render Josephine's malevolence innocuous, or
her society endurable.
"I was not born for this life! I do not breathe in the penthouse in
which they would immure my soul. I cannot escape! I am virtually
a prisoner in body and spirit--with energies, which must not
act--affections, which must not flow! I thirst for liberty and love!"
Lower and lower dipped the moon--and higher mounted the shade upon
the steeple--the golden trumpet was glistenless as the rest, and the
stars only kept guard over the slumbering city, and the watcher knelt
still--dreaming now love-dreams of appreciation and devotion--trances,
almost realities in their passionate idealization; and then, as they
cloyed by their very sweetness--or the real and the present would burst
upon her, crying in anguished accents, "I thirst!"