A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Gross matter can change form and character in a moment, when merely
touched by the effective agent. It is easy to imagine, therefore,
how readily a woman's quick mind might be influenced by a truth
or a thought of practical and direct application. All the homilies
ever written, all the counsel of matrons and sages, could not
have produced on Marian so deep an impression as was made by these
few chance words. They came as a commentary, not only on her past
life, but on the past few hours. Was it true, then, that she was no
better than the coquettish maid, the Irish servant in the family's
employ? Was she, with her education and accomplishments, her social
position and natural gifts, acting on no higher plane, influenced
by no worthier motives and no loftier ambition? Was the ignorant
girl justified in quoting her example in extenuation of a course
that to a plain and equally ignorant man seemed unwomanly to the
last degree?
Wherein was she better? Wherein lay the difference between her and
the maid?
She covered her hot face with her hands as the question took the
form: "Wherein am I worse? Is not our principle of action the same,
while I have greater power and have been crippling higher types
of men, and giving them, for sport, an impulse towards the devil?
Fenton Lane has just gone from my side with trouble in his eyes.
He will not be himself to-morrow, not half the man he might be.
He left me in doubt and fear. Could I do anything oppressed with
doubt and fear? He has set his heart on what can never be. Could I
have prevented him from doing this? One thing at least is certain,--I
have not tried to prevent it, and I fear there have been many little
nameless things which he would regard as encouragement. And he
is only one. With others I have gone farther and they have fared
worse. It is said that Mr. Folger, whom I refused last winter, is
becoming dissipated. Mr. Arton shuns society and sneers at women.
Oh, don't let me think of any more. What have I been doing that
this coarse kitchen-maid can run so close a parallel between her
life and mine? How unwomanly and repulsive it all seems, as that
man put it! My delight and pride have been my gentleman friends,
and what one of them is the better, or has a better prospect for
life, because of having known me? Could there be a worse satire on
all the fine things written about woman and her influence than my
hitherto vain and complacent self?"
Sooner or later conscience tells the truth to all; and the sooner
the better, unless the soul arraigned is utterly weak, or else
belongs essentially to the criminal classes, which require almost
a miracle to reverse their evil gravitation. Marian Vosburgh
was neither weak nor criminal at heart. Thus far she had yielded
thoughtlessly, inconsiderately, rather than deliberately, to the
circumstances and traditions of her life. Her mother had been a
belle and something of a coquette, and, having had her career, was
in the main a good and sensible wife. She had given her husband
little trouble if not much help. She had slight interest in that which
made his life, and slight comprehension of it, but in affectionate
indifference she let him go his way, and was content with her domestic
affairs, her daughter, and her novel. Marian had unthinkingly looked
forward to much the same experience as her natural lot. To-night
she found herself querying: "Are there men to-day who are not half
what they might have been because of mamma's delusive smiles? Have
any gone down into shadows darker than those cast by misfortune and
death, because she permitted herself to become the light of their
lives and then turned away?"
Then came the rather painful reflection: "Mamma is not one to be
troubled by such thoughts. It does not even worry her that she is
so little to papa, and that he virtually carries on his life-work
alone. I don't see how I can continue my old life after to-night.
I had better shut myself up in a convent; yet just how I can change
everything I scarcely know."
The night proved a perturbed and almost sleepless one from the chaos
and bitterness of her thoughts. The old was breaking up; the new,
beginning.
The morning found her listless, discontented, and unhappy. The
glamour had faded out of her former life. She could not continue
the tactics practised in coarse imitation by the Irish servant, who
took her cue as far as possible from her mistress. The repugnance
was due as much to the innate delicacy and natural superiority of
Marian's nature as to her conscience. Her clear, practical sense
perceived that her course differed from the other only in being
veneered by the refinements of her social position,--that the evil
results were much greater. The young lady's friends were capable of
receiving more harm than the maid could inflict upon her acquaintances.
There would be callers again during the day and evening, and she
did not wish to see them. Their society now would be like a glass
of champagne from which the life had effervesced.
At last in her restlessness and perplexity she decided to spend a
day or two with her father in their city home, where he was camping
out, as he termed it. She took a train to town, and sent a messenger
boy to his office with a note asking him to dine with her.
Mr. Vosburgh looked at her a little inquiringly as he entered his
home, which had the comfortless aspect of a city house closed for
the summer.
"Am I de trop, papa? I have come to town for a little quiet, and
to do some shopping."
"Come to New York for quiet?"
"Yes. The country is the gayest place now, and you know a good
many are coming and going. I am tired, and thought an evening or
two with you would be a pleasant change. You are not too busy?"
"It certainly will be a change for you, Marian."
"Now there's a world of satire in that remark, and deserved, too,
I fear. Mayn't I stay?"
"Yes, indeed, till you are tired of me; and that won't be long in
this dull place, for we are scarcely in a condition now to receive
callers, you know."
"What makes you think I shall be tired of you soon, papa?"
"Oh--well--I'm not very entertaining. You appear to like variety.
I suppose it is the way with girls."
"You are not consumed with admiration for girls' ways, are you,
papa?"
"I confess, my dear, that I have not given the subject much research.
As a naturalist would say, I have no doubt that you and your class
have curious habits and interesting peculiarities. There is a
great deal of life, you know, which a busy man has to accept in a
general way, especially when charged with duties which are a severe
and constant strain upon his mind. I try to leave you and your
mother as free from care as possible. You left her well, I trust?"
"Very well, and all going on as usual. I'm dissatisfied with myself,
papa, and you unconsciously make me far more so. Is a woman to be
only a man's plaything, and a dangerous one at that?"
"Why, Marian, you ARE in a mood! I suppose a woman, like a man, can
be very much what she pleases. You certainly have had a chance to
find out what pleases most women in your circle of acquaintances,
and have made it quite clear what pleases you."
"Satire again," she said, despondently. "I thought perhaps you
could advise and help me."
He came and took her face between his hands, looking earnestly into
her troubled blue eyes.
"Are you not content to be a conventional woman?" he asked, after
a moment.
"No!" was her emphatic answer.
"Well, there are many ways of being a little outre in this age
and land, especially at this stormy period. Perhaps you want a
career,--something that will give you a larger place in the public
eye?"
She turned away to hide the tears that would come. "O papa, you
don't understand me at all, and I scarcely understand myself," she
faltered. "In some respects you are as conventional as mamma, and
are almost a Turk in your ideas of the seclusion of women. The idea
of my wanting public notoriety! As I feel now, I'd rather go to a
convent."
"We'll go to dinner first; then a short drive in the park, for you
look pale, and I long for a little fresh air myself. I have been
at my desk since seven this morning, and have had only a sandwich."
"Why do you have to work so hard, papa?"
"I can give you two reasons in a breath,--you mentioned 'shopping,'
and my country is at war. They don't seem very near of kin, do
they? Documents relating to both converge in my desk, however."
"Have I sent you more bills than usual?"
"Not more than usual."
"I believe I'm a fool."
"I know you are a very pretty little girl, who will feel better
after dinner and a drive," was the laughing reply.
They were soon seated in a quiet family restaurant, but the young
girl was too perturbed in mind to enjoy the few courses ordered.
With self-reproach she recognized the truth that she was engaged
in the rather unusual occupation of becoming acquainted with
her father. He sat before her, with his face, generally stern and
inscrutable, softened by a desire to be companionable and sympathetic.
According to his belief she now had "a mood," and after a day or
two of quiet retirement from the world she would relapse into her
old enjoyment of social attention, which would be all the deeper
for its brief interruption.
Mr. Vosburgh was of German descent. In his daily life he had become
Americanized, and was as practical in his methods as the shrewd
people with whom he dealt, and whom he often outwitted. Apart
from this habit of coping with life just as he found it, he had an
inner nature of which few ever caught a glimpse,--a spirit and an
imagination deeply tinged with German ideality and speculation.
Often, when others slept, this man, who appeared so resolute,
hard, and uncompromising in the performance of duties, and who was
understood by but few, would read deeply in metaphysics and romantic
poetry. Therefore, the men and women who dwelt in his imagination
were not such as he had much to do with in real life. Indeed, he had
come to regard the world of reality and that of fancy as entirely
distinct, and to believe that only here and there, as a man or woman
possessed something like genius, would there be a marked deviation
from ordinary types. The slight differences, the little characteristic
meannesses or felicities that distinguished one from another, did
not count for very much in his estimation. When a knowledge of
such individual traits was essential to his plans, he mastered them
with singular keenness and quickness of comprehension. When such
knowledge was unnecessary, or as soon as it ceased to be of service,
he dismissed the extraneous personalities from his mind almost
as completely as if they had had no existence. Few men were less
embarrassed with acquaintances than he; yet he had an observant
eye and a retentive memory. When he wanted a man he rarely failed
to find the right one. In the selection and use of men he appeared
to act like an intelligent and silent force, rather than as a man
full of human interests and sympathies. He rarely spoke of himself,
even in the most casual way. Most of those with whom he mingled
knew merely that he was an agent of the government, and that he
kept his own counsel. His wife was to him a type of the average
American woman,--pretty, self-complacent, so nervous as to require
kind, even treatment, content with feminalities, and sufficiently
intelligent to talk well upon every-day affairs. In her society he
smiled at her, said "Yes," good-humoredly, to almost everything,
and found slight incentive to depart from his usual reticence. She
had learned the limits of her range, and knew that within it there
was entire liberty, beyond it a will like adamant. They got on admirably
together, for she craved nothing further in the way of liberty and
companionship than was accorded her, while he soon recognized that
the prize carried off from other competitors could no more follow
him into his realm of thought and action than she could accompany
him on a campaign. At last he had concluded philosophically that
it was just as well. He was engaged in matters that should not be
interfered with or babbled about, and he could come and go without
questioning. He had occasionally thought: "If she were such a woman
as I have read of and imagined,--if she could supplement my reason
with the subtilty of intuition and the reticence which some of her
sex have manifested,--she would double my power and share my inner
life, for there are few whom I can trust. The thing is impossible,
however, and so I am glad she is content."
As for Marian, she had promised, in his view, to be but a charming
repetition of her mother, with perhaps a mind of larger calibre.
She had learned more and had acquired more accomplishments, but all
this resulted, possibly, from her better advantages. Her drawing-room
conversation seemed little more than the ordinary small talk of the
day, fluent and piquant, while the girl herself was as undisturbed
by the vital questions of the hour and of life, upon which he dwelt,
as if she had been a child. He knew that she received much attention,
but it excited little thought on his part, and no surprise.
He believed that her mother was perfectly competent to look after
the proprieties, and that young fellows, as had been the case with
himself, would always seek pretty, well-bred girls, and take their
chances as to what the women who might become their wives should
prove to be.
Marian looked with awakening curiosity and interest at the face
before her, yet it was the familiar visage of her father. She had
seen it all her life, but now felt that she had never before seen
it in its true significance--its strong lines, square jaw, and
quiet gray eyes, with their direct, steady gaze. He had come and
gone before her daily, petted her now and then a little, met her
requests in the main good-humoredly, paid her bills, and would
protect her with his life; yet a sort of dull wonder came over her
as she admitted to herself that he was a stranger to her. She knew
little of his work and duty, less of his thoughts, the mental realm
in which the man himself dwelt. What were its landmarks, what its
characteristic features, she could not tell. One may be familiar
with the outlines of a country on a map, yet be ignorant of the
scenery, productions, inhabitants, governing forces, and principles.
Her very father was to her but a man in outline. She knew little of
the thoughts that peopled his brain, of the motives and principles
that controlled his existence, giving it individuality, and even
less of the resulting action with which his busy life abounded.
Although she had crossed the threshold of womanhood, she was still
to him the self-pleasing child that he had provided for since
infancy; and he was, in her view, the man to whom, according to the
law of nature and the family, she was to look for the maintenance
of her young life, with its almost entire separation in thoughts,
pleasures, and interests. She loved him, of course. She had always
loved him, from the time when she had stretched forth her baby hands
to be taken and fondled for a few moments and then relinquished to
others. Practically she had dwelt with others ever since. Now, as
a result, she did not understand him, nor he her. She would miss
him as she would oxygen from the air. Now she began to perceive
that, although he was the unobtrusive source of her life, home,
education, and the advantages of her lot, he was not impersonal,
but a human being as truly as herself. Did he want more from her
than the common and instinctive affection of a child for its parent?
If to this she added intelligent love, appreciation, and sympathy,
would he care? If she should be able to say, "Papa, I am kin to you,
not merely in flesh and blood, but in mind, hope, and aspiration;
I share with you that which makes your life, with its success and
failure, not as the child who may find luxurious externals curtailed
or increased, but as a sympathetic woman who understands the more
vital changes in spiritual vicissitude,"--if she could truthfully
say all this, would he be pleased and reveal himself to her?
Thoughts like these passed through her mind as they dined together
and drove in the park. When at last they returned and sat in the
dimly-lighted parlor, Mr. Vosburgh recognized that her "mood" had
not passed away.