_AFTER THE BATTLE._
“WELL, Grace, the Follingsbees are gone at last, I am thankful to say,”
said John, as he stretched himself out on the sofa in Grace’s parlor
with a sigh of relief. “If ever I am caught in such a scrape again, I
shall know it.”
“Yes, it is all well over,” said Grace.
“Over! I wish you would look at the bills. Why, Gracie! I had not the
least idea, when I gave Lillie leave to get what she chose, what it
would come to, with those people at her elbow, to put things into her
head. I could not interfere, you know, after the thing was started;
and I thought I would not spoil Lillie’s pleasure, especially as I had
to stand firm in not allowing wine. It was well I did; for if wine had
been given, and taken with the reckless freedom that all the rest was,
it might have ended in a general riot.”
“As some of the great fashionable parties do, where young women get
merry with champagne, and young men get drunk,” said Grace.
“Well,” said John, “I don’t exactly like the whole turn of the way
things have been going at our house lately. I don’t like the influence
of it on others. It is not in the line of the life I want to lead, and
that we have all been trying to lead.”
“Well,” said Gracie, “things will be settled now quietly, I hope.”
“I say,” said John, “could not we start our little reading sociables,
that were so pleasant last year? You know we want to keep some little
pleasant thing going, and draw Lillie in with us. When a girl has been
used to lively society, she can’t come down to mere nothing; and I
am afraid she will be wanting to rush off to New York, and visit the
Follingsbees.”
“Well,” said Grace, “Letitia and Rose were speaking the other day of
that, and wanting to begin. You know we were to read Froude together,
as soon as the evenings got a little longer.”
“Oh, yes! that will be capital,” said John.
“Do you think Lillie will be interested in Froude?” asked Grace.
“I really can’t say,” said John, with some doubting of heart; “perhaps
it would be well to begin with something a little lighter, at first.”
“Any thing you please, John. What shall it be?”
“But I don’t want to hold you all back on my account,” said John.
“Well, then again, John, there’s our old study-club. The Fergusons
and Mr. Mathews were talking it over the other night, and wondering
when you would be ready to join us. We were going to take up Lecky’s
‘History of Morals,’ and have our sessions Tuesday evenings,—one
Tuesday at their house, and the other at mine, you know.”
“I should enjoy that, of all things,” said John; “but I know it is of
no use to ask Lillie: it would only be the most dreadful bore to her.”
“And you couldn’t come without her, of course,” said Grace.
“Of course not; that would be too cruel, to leave the poor little thing
at home alone.”
“Lillie strikes me as being naturally clever,” said Grace; “if she only
would bring her mind to enter into your tastes a little, I’m sure you
would find her capable.”
“But, Gracie, you’ve no conception how very different her sphere of
thought is, how entirely out of the line of our ways of thinking. I’ll
tell you,” said John, “don’t wait for me. You have your Tuesdays, and
go on with your Lecky; and I will keep a copy at home, and read up
with you. And I will bring Lillie in the evening, after the reading is
over; and we will have a little music and lively talk, and a dance or
charade, you know: then perhaps her mind will wake up by degrees.”
SCENE.—_After tea in the Seymour parlor. John at a table, reading.
Lillie in a corner, embroidering._
_Lillie._ “Look here, John, I want to ask you something.”
_John_,—putting down his book, and crossing to her, “Well, dear?”
_Lillie._ “There, would you make a green leaf there, or a brown one?”
_John_,—endeavoring to look wise, “Well, a brown one.”
_Lillie._ “That’s just like you, John; now, don’t you see that a brown
one would just spoil the effect?”
“Oh! would it?” said John, innocently. “Well, what did you ask me for?”
“Why, you tiresome creature! I wanted you to say something. What are
you sitting moping over a book for? You don’t entertain me a bit.”
“Dear Lillie, I have been talking about every thing I could think of,”
said John, apologetically.
“Well, I want you to keep on talking, and put up that great heavy book.
What is it, any way?”
“Lecky’s ‘History of Morals,’” said John.
“How dreadful! do you really mean to read it?”
“Certainly; we are all reading it.”
“Who all?”
“Why, Gracie, and Letitia and Rose Ferguson.”
“Rose Ferguson? I don’t believe it. Why, Rose isn’t twenty yet! She
cannot care about such stuff.”
“She does care, and enjoys it too,” said John, eagerly.
“It is a pity, then, you didn’t get her for a wife instead of me,” said
Lillie, in a tone of pique.
Now, this sort of thing does well enough occasionally, said by a
pretty woman, perfectly sure of her ground, in the early days of the
honey-moon; but for steady domestic diet is not to be recommended.
Husbands get tired of swearing allegiance over and over; and John
returned to his book quietly, without reply. He did not like the
suggestion; and he thought that it was in very poor taste. Lillie
embroidered in silence a few minutes, and then threw down her work
pettishly.
“How close this room is!”
John read on.
“John, do open the door!”
John rose, opened the door, and returned to his book.
“Now, there’s that draft from the hall-window. John, you’ll have to
shut the door.”
John shut it, and read on.
“Oh, dear me!” said Lillie, throwing herself down with a portentous
yawn. “I do think this is dreadful!”
“What is dreadful?” said John, looking up.
“It is dreadful to be buried alive here in this gloomy town of
Springdale, where there is nothing to see, and nowhere to go, and
nothing going on.”
“We have always flattered ourselves that Springdale was a most
attractive place,” said John. “I don’t know of any place where there
are more beautiful walks and rambles.”
“But I detest walking in the country. What is there to see? And you
get your shoes muddy, and burrs on your clothes, and don’t meet a
creature! I got so tired the other day when Grace and Rose Ferguson
would drag me off to what they call ‘the glen.’ They kept oh-ing and
ah-ing and exclaiming to each other about some stupid thing every
step of the way,—old pokey nutgalls, bare twigs of trees, and red and
yellow leaves, and ferns! I do wish you could have seen the armful
of trash that those two girls carried into their respective houses.
I would not have such stuff in mine for any thing. I am tired of all
this talk about Nature. I am free to confess that I don’t like Nature,
and do like art; and I wish we only lived in New York, where there is
something to amuse one.”
[Illustration: “But I detest walking in the country.”]
“Well, Lillie dear, I am sorry; but we don’t live in New York, and are
not likely to,” said John.
“Why can’t we? Mrs. Follingsbee said that a man in your profession,
and with your talents, could command a fortune in New York.”
“If it would give me the mines of Golconda, I would not go there,” said
John.
“How stupid of you! You know you would, though.”
“No, Lillie; I would not leave Springdale for any money.”
“That is because you think of nobody but yourself,” said Lillie. “Men
are always selfish.”
“On the contrary, it is because I have so many here depending on me, of
whom I am bound to think more than myself,” said John.
“That dreadful mission-work of yours, I suppose,” said Lillie; “that
always stands in the way of having a good time.”
“Lillie,” said John, shutting his book, and looking at her, “what is
your ideal of a good time?”
“Why, having something amusing going on all the time,—something bright
and lively, to keep one in good spirits,” said Lillie.
“I thought that you would have enough of that with your party and all,”
said John.
“Well, now it’s all over, and duller than ever,” said Lillie. “I think
a little spirit of gayety makes it seem duller by contrast.”
“Yet, Lillie,” said John, “you see there are women, who live right here
in Springdale, who are all the time busy, interested, and happy, with
only such sources of enjoyment as are to be found here. Their time does
not hang heavy on their hands; in fact, it is too short for all they
wish to do.”
“They are different from me,” said Lillie.
“Then, since you must live here,” said John, “could you not learn to be
like them? Could you not acquire some of these tastes that make simple
country life agreeable?”
“No, I can’t; I never could,” said Lillie, pettishly.
“Then,” said John, “I don’t see that anybody can help your being
unhappy.” And, opening his book, he sat down, and began to read.
Lillie pouted awhile, and then drew from under the sofa-pillow a copy
of “Indiana;” and, establishing her feet on the fender, she began to
read.
Lillie had acquired at school the doubtful talent of reading French
with facility, and was soon deep in the fascinating pages, whose theme
is the usual one of French novels,—a young wife, tired of domestic
monotony, with an unappreciative husband, solacing herself with the
devotion of a lover. Lillie felt a sort of pique with her husband. He
was evidently unappreciative: he was thinking of all sorts of things
more than of her, and growing stupid, as husbands in French romances
generally do. She thought of her handsome Cousin Harry, the only man
that she ever came anywhere near being in love with; and the image of
his dark, handsome eyes and glossy curls gave a sort of piquancy to the
story.
John got deeply interested in his book; and, looking up from time to
time, was relieved to find that Lillie had something to employ her.
“I may as well make a beginning,” he said to himself. “I must have my
time for reading; and she must learn to amuse herself.”
After a while, however, he peeped over her shoulder.
“Why, darling!” he said, “where did you get that?”
“It is Mrs. Follingsbee’s,” said Lillie.
“Dear, it is a bad book,” said John. “Don’t read it.”
“It amuses me, and helps pass away time,” said Lillie; “and I don’t
think it is bad: it is beautiful. Besides, you read what amuses you;
and it is a pity if I can’t read what amuses me.”
“I am glad to see you like to read French,” continued John; “and I can
get you some delightful French stories, which are not only pretty and
witty, but have nothing in them that tend to pull down one’s moral
principles. Edmond About’s ‘Mariages de Paris’ and ‘Tolla’ are charming
French things; and, as he says, they might be read aloud by a man
between his mother and his sister, without a shade of offence.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lillie. “You had better go to Rose
Ferguson, and get her to give you a list of the kinds of books she
prefers.”
“Lillie!” said John, severely, “your remarks about Rose are in bad
taste. I must beg you to discontinue them. There are subjects that
never ought to be jested about.”
“Thank you, sir, for your moral lessons,” said Lillie, turning her back
on him defiantly, putting her feet on the fender, and going on with her
reading.
John seated himself, and went on with his book in silence.
Now, this mode of passing a domestic evening is certainly not agreeable
to either party; but we sustain the thesis that in this sort of
interior warfare the woman has generally the best of it. When it comes
to the science of annoyance, commend us to the lovely sex! Their
methods have a _finesse_, a suppleness, a universal adaptability, that
does them infinite credit; and man, with all his strength, and all his
majesty, and his commanding talent, is about as well off as a buffalo
or a bison against a tiny, rainbow-winged gnat or mosquito, who bites,
sings, and stings everywhere at once, with an infinite grace and
facility.
A woman without magnanimity, without generosity, who has no love, and
whom a man loves, is a terrible antagonist. To give up or to fight
often seems equally impossible.
How is a man going to make a woman have a good time, who is determined
not to have it? Lillie had sense enough to see, that, if she settled
down into enjoyment of the little agreeablenesses and domesticities
of the winter society in Springdale, she should lose her battle, and
John would keep her there for life. The only way was to keep him as
uncomfortable as possible without really breaking her power over him.
In the long-run, in these encounters of will, the woman has every
advantage. The constant dropping that wears away the stone has passed
into a proverb.
Lillie meant to go to New York, and have a long campaign at the
Follingsbees. The thing had been all promised and arranged between
them; and it was necessary that she should appear sufficiently
miserable, and that John should be made sufficiently uncomfortable, to
consent with effusion, at last, when her intentions were announced.
These purposes were not distinctly stated to herself; for, as we have
before intimated, uncultivated natures, who have never thought for
a serious moment on self-education, or the way their character is
forming, act purely from a sort of instinct, and do not even in their
own minds fairly and squarely face their own motives and purposes; if
they only did, their good angel would wear a less dejected look than he
generally must.
Lillie had power enough, in that small circle, to stop and interrupt
almost all its comfortable literary culture. The reading of Froude was
given up. John could not go to the study club; and, after an evening
or two of trying to read up at home, he used to stay an hour later at
his office. Lillie would go with him on Tuesday evening, after the
readings were over; and then it was understood that all parties were
to devote themselves to making the evening pass agreeable to her. She
was to be put forward, kept in the foreground, and every thing arranged
to make her appear the queen of the _fête_. They had tableaux, where
Rose made Lillie into marvellous pictures, which all admired and
praised. They had little dances, which Lillie thought rather stupid
and humdrum, because they were not _en grande toilette_; yet Lillie
always made a great merit of putting up with her life at Springdale. A
pleasant English writer has a lively paper on the advantages of being
a “cantankerous fool,” in which he goes to show that men or women of
inferior moral parts, little self-control, and great selfishness, often
acquire an absolute dominion over the circle in which they move, merely
by the exercise of these traits. Every one being anxious to please
and pacify them, and keep the peace with them, there is a constant
succession of anxious compliances and compromises going on around them;
by all of which they are benefited in getting their own will and way.
The one person who will not give up, and cannot be expected to be
considerate or accommodating, comes at last to rule the whole circle.
He is counted on like the fixed facts of nature; everybody else must
turn out for him. So Lillie reigned in Springdale. In every little
social gathering where she appeared, the one uneasy question was,
would she have a good time, and anxious provision made to that end.
Lillie had declared that reading aloud was a bore, which was definitive
against reading-parties. She liked to play and sing; so that was always
a part of the programme. Lillie sang well, but needed a great deal of
urging. Her throat was apt to be sore; and she took pains to say that
the harsh winter weather in Springdale was ruining her voice. A good
part of an evening was often spent in supplications before she could be
induced to make the endeavor.
Lillie had taken up the whim of being jealous of Rose. Jealousy is said
to be a sign of love. We hold another theory, and consider it more
properly a sign of selfishness. Look at noble-hearted, unselfish women,
and ask if they are easily made jealous. Look, again, at a woman who
in her whole life shows no disposition to deny herself for her husband,
or to enter into his tastes and views and feelings: are not such as she
the most frequently jealous?
Her husband, in her view, is a piece of her property; every look, word,
and thought which he gives to any body or thing else is a part of her
private possessions, unjustly withheld from her.
Independently of that, Lillie felt the instinctive jealousy which a
_passée_ queen of beauty sometimes has for a young rival.
She had eyes to see that Rose was daily growing more and more
beautiful; and not all that young girl’s considerateness, her
self-forgetfulness, her persistent endeavors to put Lillie forward, and
make her the queen of the hour, could disguise this fact. Lillie was
a keen-sighted little body, and saw, at a glance, that, once launched
into society together, Rose would carry the day; all the more that no
thought of any day to be carried was in her head.
Rose Ferguson had one source of attraction which is as great a natural
gift as beauty, and which, when it is found with beauty, makes it
perfectly irresistible; to wit, perfect unconsciousness of self. This
is a wholly different trait from unselfishness: it is not a moral
virtue, attained by voluntary effort, but a constitutional gift, and
a very great one. Fénelon praises it as a Christian grace, under the
name of simplicity; but we incline to consider it only as an advantage
of natural organization. There are many excellent Christians who are
haunted by themselves, and in some form or other are always busy with
themselves; either conscientiously pondering the right and wrong of
their actions, or approbatively sensitive to the opinions of others, or
æsthetically comparing their appearance and manners with an interior
standard; while there are others who have received the gift, beyond
the artist’s eye or the musician’s ear, of perfect self-forgetfulness.
Their religion lacks the element of conflict, and comes to them by
simple impulse.
“Glad souls, without reproach or blot,
Who do His will, and know it not.”
Rose had a frank, open joyousness of nature, that shed around her a
healthy charm, like fine, breezy weather, or a bright morning; making
every one feel as if to be good were the most natural thing in the
world. She seemed to be thinking always and directly of matters in
hand, of things to be done, and subjects under discussion, as much as
if she were an impersonal being.
She had been educated with every solid advantage which old Boston can
give to her nicest girls; and that is saying a good deal. Returning
to a country home at an early age, she had been made the companion
of her father; entering into all his literary tastes, and receiving
constantly, from association with him, that manly influence which
a woman’s mind needs to develop its completeness. Living the whole
year in the country, the Fergusons developed within themselves a
multiplicity of resources. They read and studied, and discussed
subjects with their father; for, as we all know, the discussion of
moral and social questions has been from the first, and always will be,
a prime source of amusement in New-England families; and many of them
keep up, with great spirit, a family debating society, in which whoever
hath a psalm, a doctrine, or an interpretation, has free course.
Rose had never been into fashionable life, technically so called. She
had not been brought out: there never had been a mile-stone set up
to mark the place where “her education was finished;” and so she had
gone on unconsciously,—studying, reading, drawing, and cultivating
herself from year to year, with her head and hands always so full of
pleasurable schemes and plans, that there really seemed to be no room
for any thing else. We have seen with what interest she co-operated
with Grace in the various good works of the factory village in which
her father held shares, where her activity found abundant scope, and
her beauty and grace of manner made her a sort of idol.
Rose had once or twice in her life been awakened to self-consciousness,
by applicants rapping at the front door of her heart; but she answered
with such a kind, frank, earnest, “No, I thank you, sir,” as made
friends of her lovers; and she entered at once into pleasant relations
with them. Her nature was so healthy, and free from all morbid
suggestion; her yes and no so perfectly frank and positive, that there
seemed no possibility of any tragedy caused by her.
Why did not John fall in love with Rose? Why did not he, O most sapient
senate of womanhood? Why did not your brother fall in love with that
nice girl you know of, who grew up with you all at his very elbow, and
was, as everybody else could see, just the proper person for him?
Well, why didn’t he? There is the doctrine of election. “The election
hath obtained it; and the rest were blinded.” John was some six years
older than Rose. He had romped with her as a little girl, drawn her on
his sled, picked up her hair-pins, and worn her tippet, when they had
skated together as girl and boy. They had made each other Christmas and
New Year’s presents all their lives; and, to say the truth, loved each
other honestly and truly: nevertheless, John fell in love with Lillie,
and married her. Did you ever know a case like it?