THE COST OF WOMANHOOD
A happy fortnight. It was worth all the after-pain to have it to
remember. When Boston was a great city half a century later, and there
had been another war, and Captain Hawthorne had risen in the ranks and
been put on the retired list, he came a grizzled old man to find the
place that had always lived in his remembrance. But the old house had
been swept away by the march of improvement, the rounding corner
straightened and given over to business, and the Common was magnificent
in beauty. The tall, thin, scholarly man had gone to the wife of his
youth. Doris, little Doris, was very happy. So what did it matter?
There was a succession of lovely days. One morning, early, Captain
Hawthorne joined Doris and her uncle in a long ride over on Boston Neck.
They found an odd old tavern kept by a sailor who had been round the
world and taken a hand in the "scrimmage," as he called it, and with his
small prize money bought out the place. There was some delightful bread
and cold chicken, wine and bottled cider equal to champagne. There was
another long lovely day when with Betty they went up to Salem and drove
around the quaint streets and watched the signs of awakening business.
There was Fort Pickering, the lighthouse out on the island, the pretty
Common, the East India Marine Society's hall with its curiosities (quite
wonderful even then), and the clean streets with their tidy shops, the
children coming from school, the housewives going about on errands.
Foster Manning drove his grandmother down to join them; and he was
almost a young man now. He told Doris they all missed Elizabeth so much,
but he was glad she had had that nice visit to Boston.
So the days drifted on; Doris unconsciously sweet in her simplicity, yet
so innocent that the lover began to fear while he hoped.
Uncle Winthrop had gone to a meeting of the Historical Society. Miss
Recompense had a neighbor in great trouble that she was trying to
console out in the supper room, where they could talk unreservedly. Cary
was in the study, and the two were sauntering around the fragrant walks
where the grassy beds had recently been cut. There was no moon, and the
whole world seemed soft and still, as if it was listening to the story
Captain Hawthorne had to tell, as if it was in love with itself.
"Oh," interrupted Doris with a sharp, pained cry, "do not, please do
not! I never dreamed--I--shall never go away from Uncle Winthrop. I do
not want any other love. I thought it was--Betty. Oh, forgive me for the
pain and disappointment. I seem even to myself such a little girl----"
"But I can wait years. I wanted you to know. Oh, Doris, as the years go
on can you not learn to love me? I will be patient and live in the
sweet, grand hope that some day----"
"No, no; do not hope. I cannot promise. Oh, you are so noble and
upright, can you not accept this truth from me? For it would only be
pain and disappointment in the end."
No, she did not love him. Her sweet soul was still asleep within her
fair body. He was too really honorable to persist.
"Doris," he said,--what a sweet girl's name it was!--"five years from
this time I shall come back. You will be a woman then, you are still a
child. And if no other lover has won you, I shall ask again."
He pressed her hand to his lips. Then he led her around to the porch,
and bade her a tender good-night. He would not embarrass her by any
longer stay.
She ran up the steps. Cary intercepted her in the hall.
"Has he gone? Doris----"
"Oh, _did_ you know? How could you let him!" she cried in anguish. "How
could you!"
"Doris--my dear little sister, he loved you so. But I wish it had been
Betty. Oh, don't cry. You have done nothing. I am sorry, but he would
not have been satisfied if he had not spoken. He wanted to ask father
first, but I hated to have _him_ pained if it was not necessary----"
"Thank you for that, Cary. Do not tell him. You will not?" she pleaded,
thinking of the other first.
"No, dear. We must shield him all we can."
Yes, they would try always. There was a little rift in the cloud of
pain.
The next evening Captain Hawthorne came over to bid them a formal
good-by. Helen Chapman and her lover and Eudora were there, so it was an
unembarrassing affair with many good wishes on both sides.
Doris thought she would like to run away and hide. It seemed as if the
whole story was written in her face. Betty suspected, but she loved her
too well to tease. And almost immediately Helen announced her
arrangements. She was to be married in October. Doris and Cary must
stand with her, and one of the Chapman cousins with Eudora. Another warm
girl friend and her lover would complete the party. Grandmamma had
stipulated that Mr. Harrison Gray should cast in his lot with them for a
year. Mr. Sargent had been attached to the embassy at London and they
would remain two years longer at least. Madam Royall could not bear to
have the family shrink so rapidly.
Betty was to go away again. Mr. and Mrs. Matthias King came together
this time to see old friends and Boston, that Mr. King found wonderfully
changed. He was to go to France on business for the firm of which he was
a member, and be absent a year at least. It would be such a splendid
chance for Betty. They were to take their own little Bessy and leave the
three younger children with a friend who had a school for small people
and who would give them a mother's care.
There was a little grandson in Sudbury Street, and Mercy had proved a
very agreeable daughter-in-law. Warren had begun to prosper again, and
was full of hope. The children at Hollis Leverett's were growing
rapidly. They no longer said "little Sam." He was almost a young man. He
had taken the Franklin prize at the Latin School and was now apprenticed
to an architect and builder, and would set up for himself when he came
of age, as Boston had begun to build up rapidly. But he couldn't help
envying Cousin Cary Adams his prize money and wondering what he meant to
do with it.
An invitation to go to Paris was not to be lightly declined then, any
more than it would be now. Mrs. Manning did not see "how Betty could
leave mother for so long," but Mrs. Leverett was in good health, and
though she hated to have her go so far away, there really could be no
objection, when Matthias King was so generous.
"I am going to have some of my good times while we are together and able
to enjoy them," he said to Mrs. Leverett. "I shall have to leave Electa
alone every now and then while I am about business, and it will be such
a comfort to her to have Betty. No doubt, we shall marry her to a French
count."
"Oh, no, bring her back to me," said Betty's mother.
There was quite a stir among Betty's compeers. She was congratulated and
envied, and they begged her to write everything she could about French
fashions. How lucky that she had been studying French!
Aunt Priscilla had a hard struggle with conscience about a matter that
she felt to be quite a duty. Giving away finery that you would never
wear was one thing, but your money was quite another.
"Betty," she said, "I'm going to make you a little gift. If you
shouldn't want to use it maybe Mat will see some way to invest it for
you. When the trouble came to Warren, I said he might as well have his
part as to wait until I was dead and gone. I have been paid over and
over again in comfort. He grows so much like your father, Betty. And
he's weathered through the storm and stress. So I'll do the same by you,
and if you never get any more you must be content."
It was an order for five hundred dollars. Winthrop Adams would see it
paid.
Betty was quite overwhelmed. "I ought to give half of it to mother!" she
cried.
"No, no. Your mother will have all she needs. The Mannings would borrow
it of her to buy more ground with. I've no patience with all their
scrimping, and sometimes I give thanks that poor Elizabeth is out of it
all. Don't have an anxious thought about money where you mother is
concerned."
"What a comfort you are, Aunt Priscilla."
"Well, it took years enough to teach me that anybody needed comforting."
As for Doris, she was so busy that she could hardly think about herself
or Captain Hawthorne. She did wish he had not loved her. If she had
known about the rose her heart would have been still more sore and
pitiful.
Betty went before the wedding. They took a sloop to New York and were to
leave there for Havre.
Madam Royall had this wedding just to her fancy, and it was quite a fine
affair. Cary looked very nice, Doris thought, for the sea tan had nearly
all bleached out. His figure was compact, and he had a rather soldierly
bearing. He was quite a hero, too, to his old college mates, some of
whom had not considered him possessed of really strong characteristics.
But the young ladies were proud of his notice and attention, and there
was no end of invitations from their mothers when they were going to
have evening companies.
The cold weather came on apace. Mr. Adams seemed to feel it more and
gave up his horseback rides. He interested himself very much in the
library plans, but he grew fonder of staying at home, and Doris was such
a pleasant companion. Cary had never been fond of poetry, and now he
threw himself into his profession with a resolve to stand high.
Manhood's ambition was so different from the lukewarm endeavors of the
boy.
His father did enjoy his earnestness very much. Sometimes he roused
himself to argue a point when two or three young men dropped in, and the
old fire flashed up, though he liked best his ease and his poets, or
Doris reading or singing some old song. But he did not lose his interest
in the world's progress or that of his beloved city.
Doris was very happy in a young girl's way. One did not expect to fill
every moment with pleasure, or go to parties or the theater every
evening. There were other duties and purposes to life. As Aunt Priscilla
did not go out after the cold weather set in, she ran up there nearly
every day with some cheerful bit of gossip. Madam Royall had grown very
fond of her as well. There was the dancing class; and the sewing class,
when they made garments for poor people; and shopping--even if one did
not buy much, for now such pretty French and English goods were shown
again. Then one stopped in the confectioner's on Newberry Street and had
a cup of hot coffee or tea if it was a cold day; or strolled down
Cornhill to see what new books had come over from London, for the
Waverley novels had just begun, and everybody was wondering about the
author. Or you went to Faneuil Hall to see Trumbull's Declaration of
Independence, which was considered a very remarkable work. There were
the sleigh-rides, when you went out in style and had a supper and a
dance; and the sledding parties, that were really the most fun of all,
when you almost forgot you were grown-up.
Cary was always ready to attend his cousin, though she quite as often
went out with Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Eudora. When he thought of it, it
did seem a little curious that Doris had no special company.
But a girl was not allowed to keep special company until the family had
consented and she was regularly engaged. Young men and girls came to
sing, for a piano was a rarity; there were parties going here and there,
but Doris never evinced any particular preference.
So spring came again and gardening engrossed Doris. She had been
learning housekeeping in all its branches under the experienced tuition
of Miss Recompense and Dinah. A girl who did not know everything from
the roasting of a turkey to the making of sack-posset, and through all
the gradations of pickling and preserving, was not considered
"finished."
Doris was very fond of the wide out-of-doors. She often took her work,
and Uncle Winthrop his book, and sat out on a rustic seat at the edge of
the Common, which was beginning to be beautiful, though it was twenty
years later that the Botanic Garden was started. But now that our ships
were going everywhere, curious bulbs and plants were brought from
Holland and from the East Indies by sea captains. And they found
wonderful wild flowers that developed under cultivation. Brookline was a
great resort on pleasant days, with its meadows and wooded hillsides and
beautiful gardens. Colonel Perkins had all manner of foreign fruits and
flowers that he had brought home from abroad, and had a greenhouse where
you could often find the grandmother of the family, who was most
generous in her gifts. There were people who thought you "flew in the
face of Providence" when you made flowers bloom in winter, but
Providence seemed to smile on them.
Over on the Foster estate at Cambridge there was a genuine hawthorn.
People made pilgrimages to see it when it was white with bloom and
diffusing its peculiar odor all about. There were the sweet blossoms of
the mulberry and the honey locust, and the air everywhere was fragrant,
for there were so few factories, and people had not learned to turn
waste materials into every sort of product and make vile smells.
Cary sometimes left his books early in the afternoon and went driving
with them. If he did not appreciate poetry so much, he was on the
lookout for every fine tree and curious flower, and twenty years later
he was deep in the Horticultural Society.
Uncle Winthrop bought a new low carriage this summer. For anyone else
but a grave gentleman it would have looked rather pronounced, but it was
so much easier to get in and out. And Doris in her sweet unconsciousness
never made any bid for attention, but people would turn and look at them
as one looks at a picture.
Thirty years or so afterward old ladies would sometimes say to the
daughters of Doris:
"My dear, I knew your mother when she was a sweet, fresh young girl and
used to go out driving with her uncle. Mr. Winthrop Adams was one of the
high-bred, delicate-looking men that would have graced a court. There
wasn't a prettier sight in Boston--and, dear me! that was way back in
'16 or '17. How time flies!"
They heard from Betty occasionally. The letters were long and "writ
fine," though happily not crossed. They should have been saved for a
book, they were so chatty. In August one came to Doris that stirred up a
mighty excitement. Betty had a way of being quite dramatic and leading
up to a climax.
A month before they had met a delightful Frenchman, a M. Henri de la
Maur, twenty-five or thereabouts, and found him an excellent cicerone to
some remarkable things they had not seen. He was much interested in
America and its chief cities, especially Boston, when he found that was
Betty's native town.
And one day he told them of a search he had been making for a little
girl. The De la Maurs had suffered considerably under the Napoleonic
_regime_, and had now been restored to some of their rights. There was
one estate that could not be settled until they found a missing member.
They had traced the mother, who had died and left a husband and a little
girl--Jacqueline. "That is such a common name in France," explained
Betty. She had been placed in a convent, and that was such a common
occurrence, too. Then she had been taken to the North of England. He had
gone to the old town, but the child's father had died and some elderly
relatives had passed away, and the child herself had been sent to the
United States. Everybody who had known her was dead or had forgotten.
"And I never thought until one day he said Old Boston," confessed Betty,
"when I remembered suddenly that your mother's name was Jacqueline Marie
de la Maur in the old marriage certificate. We had been talking of it a
week or more, but one hears so many family stories here in Paris, and
lost and found inheritances. But I almost screamed with surprise, and
added the sequel; and he was just overjoyed, and brought the family
papers. He and your mother are second- and third-cousins. It is queer
you should have so many far-off relations, and so few near-by ones, and
be mixed up in so many romances.
"The fortune sounds quite grand in francs, but if we enumerated our
money by quarters of dollars, we might all be rich. It is a snug little
sum, however, and they are anxious to get it settled before the next
turn in the dynasty, lest it might be confiscated again. So M. Henri is
coming home with us, and we shall start the first day of September, as
Mr. King has finished his business and Electa is wild to see her
children. I think I shall give 'talks' all winter and invite you over to
Sudbury Street, with your sewing, for I never shall be talked out."
It was wonderful. Doris had to read the letter over and over. It had
listeners at the Royall house who said it was a perfect romance, and at
the Leveretts' they rejoiced greatly.
"I declare!" exclaimed Aunt Priscilla, "if you should live to be fifty
or sixty, and everybody go on leaving you fortunes, you won't know what
to do with your money. They're filling up the Mill Pond and the big
ma'sh and going to lay out streets. I wouldn't have believed it! Foster
Leverett held on to his legacy because he couldn't sell it, and now
Warren has been offered a good sum. Mary Manning will pinch herself blue
to think she sold out when she did. I'm just glad for Warren. And
Cary'll know so much law that he will look out for you."
It was a beautiful autumn, for a wonder. Summer seemed loath to depart
or allow the flame-colored finger of Fall to place her seal on the
glowing foliage. But it was the last of October when Betty reached
Boston, convoyed by a very old-time New England woman going on to
Newburyport.
"For you know," said Betty, "the French are very particular about a
young woman traveling alone, but we did have a hunt to find someone
coming to Boston. Otherwise M'sieur Henri--you see how apt I am in
French--could not have accompanied me."
M. de la Maur was a very nice-looking young man, not as tall as Cary,
but with a graceful and manly figure, soft dark eyes, and hair that just
missed being black, a clear complexion and fine color, and a small line
of mustache. As to manners he was really charming, and so well-read that
Mr. Winthrop Adams took to him at once. He was conversant with Voltaire
and Rousseau, the plays of Racine and Moliere, and the causes that had
led to the French Revolution, and had been in Paris through the famous
"Hundred Days." Of course he was bitter against Napoleon.
The inheritance part was soon settled. Doris would have about three
thousand dollars. But De la Maur took a great fancy to Boston, and the
Royall family approved of him. Mr. and Mrs. Sargent had returned this
fall and the old house was a center of attractive gayeties.
"Do you know, I think Cousin Henri is in love with Betty," said Doris,
with a feminine habit of guessing at love matters. "But she insists she
will never live abroad, and Cousin Henri thinks Paris is the center of
the world."
"How will they manage?"
Doris laughed. She did not just see herself.
But Betty's romance came to light presently. It had begun during her
winter in New York, but it had not run smoothly. Betty had a rather
quick wit and was fond of teasing, and there had been "differences" not
easily settled. Mr. Harman Gaynor had risen to the distinction of a
partnership in the King firm, and on meeting Betty again, with the young
Frenchman at her elbow, had presented his claim in such a way that Betty
yielded. When Mr. Gaynor came to Boston to have a conference with Mrs.
Leverett--for fathers and mothers still had authority in such
matters--Betty's engagement was announced and the marriage set for
spring.
Somehow it was a delightful winter. But after a little one person began
to feel strangely apprehensive, and this was Cary Adams.
"I suppose Doris and her third- or fourth-cousin will make a match?"
Madam Royall said one evening when they had been playing morris and she
had won the rubber. "How can you let her go away?"
"She will never leave father," exclaimed Cary confidently.
There was a sudden stricture all over his body. It seemed as if some
cold hand had clutched both heart and brain.
He walked home in the bright, fresh air. It was barely ten. He passed De
la Maur on the way and they greeted each other. The parlor windows were
darkened, his father was alone in the study, and everyone else had gone
to bed.
"I wish you had been home," said his father glancing up. "De la Maur has
been reciting Racine, and I have never heard anything finer! I wish he
could read Shakspere. He certainly is a delightful person, so cultured
and appreciative. It makes me feel that we really are a new people."
Could no one see the danger? How happened it his father was so blind?
Did Doris really care? She had not loved Captain Hawthorne, a man worthy
of any woman's love. Cary had a confident feeling that in five years
they would see him again. But he would be too old for Doris--thirteen
years between them. Yet his father had been fifteen years older than his
mother. Doris was so guileless, so simply honest, and if she loved--how
curiously she had kept from friendships or intimacies with young men!
Eudora had a train of admirers. So had Helen and Alice in their day.
When he had met Mrs. Sargent he knew it had only been a boyish fancy for
Alice Royall, and it had merely shaped and strengthened the ardent
desire of youth to go to his country's defense. He was a man now, and
capable of loving with supreme tenderness and strength. Yet he had seen
no woman to whom he cared to pour out the first sweet draught of a man's
regard.
But Doris must not go away, she could not.
Morning, noon, and night he watched her. She prepared his father's
toast, she chatted with him and often coaxed him to taste this or that,
for his appetite was slender. On sunny mornings they went to drive, or
if not she brought her sewing and sat in the study, listened and
discussed the subjects he loved, and was enthusiastic about the Boston
that was to be, that they both saw with the eye of faith. While he took
his siesta she ran up to Sudbury Street, or did an errand. Later in the
afternoon there would be calls. There was a sideboard at the end of the
hall where a bottle or two of wine were kept, as was the custom then,
and a plate of cake.
Doris brought in a fashion of offering tea or sometimes mulled cider on
a cold day. But Miss Recompense made delicious tea, and some of the
gentlemen took it just to see Doris drop in the lump of sugar so
daintily.
If they were at home there was always company in the evening, unless the
night was very stormy. De la Maur generally made one of the guests. If
they were alone they had a charming evening in the study.
The young Frenchman was most punctilious. He might take a few cousinly
freedoms, but he never offered any that were lover-like. So it was the
more easy for Doris to persuade herself that it was merely relationship.
Occasionally the eloquence of his eyes quite unnerved her. She cunningly
sheltered herself beside Eudora when it was possible.
But De la Maur's regard grew apace. It would not be honorable to come
without declaring his intentions. And the American fashion of being
engaged was extremely fascinating to him. He wanted the more than
cousinly privileges.
So it happened one night Betty and Warren came over with a piece of
music Mrs. King had sent, a song by Moore, the Irish poet. Doris went to
the parlor to try it. That was De la Maur's golden opportunity, and he
could not allow it to slip. In a most deferential manner he laid his
case before her relative and guardian and begged permission to address
Miss Doris.
Winthrop Adams was utterly amazed at the first moment. Then he recovered
himself. Doris _was_ a young lady. One friend and another was being
given in marriage, and Doris naturally would have lovers. There was one
that he had hoped--but he had never seen any real indication.
"It is true that I like my own Paris best, but if Miss Doris longed to
stay here a few years, I would make myself content. But you will
understand--I could not come any longer without explaining; and this
time you allow young people--betrothment--looks so attractive. May I ask
and learn her sentiments, since young ladies choose for themselves?"
What could he do but consent? If Doris should not love him----
"Good-night Uncle Win," cried Betty from the hall. "Good-night, M. De la
Maur."
Doris was replacing some music in the portfolio. Cousin Henri crossed
the room and she saw a mysterious sweetness in his face as he took her
hand.
"_Ma chere amie_ Cousin Doris, I have just explained to your uncle my
sentiments concerning you, and have his permission to ask for your
regard. I love you very dearly. Will you be my wife?"
Doris drew her hand away and was pale and red by turns, while her throat
constricted and her breath came in great bounds.
"I am so sorry. I tried not to be--I did not want anything like this to
happen--but sometimes I felt afraid," she stammered in her
embarrassment. "I like you very much. But I do not want to marry or to
be engaged. I shall stay with my uncle. I shall never go away from the
country of my adoption."
"But if I were willing to remain a while--so long as your uncle lived? I
do not wonder you love him very much. He is a charming gentleman. I have
no parents to bid me stay at home, I need consult only you and myself."
"Oh, no, no! Do not compel me to pain you by continued refusals. I
cannot consent. I will always be friend and cousin--I do not love
anyone----"
"Then if you do not love anyone this friendship might ripen into a sweet
regard. Oh, Doris, I had hardly thought so deep a love possible."
His imploring tone touched her. But she drew back farther and said in a
more decisive tone: "Oh, no, no! I cannot promise."
He was too gentlemanly to persist in his pleading. But he was confident
he had Mr. Adams on his side. And at home the desires of parents and
guardians counted for a great deal.
"My dear cousin, will you talk this matter over with your uncle? You may
look at it in a different light. And I shall remain your ardent admirer
until I am convinced. Since you have no lover----"
Doris Adams suddenly straightened her pliant young figure. Some dignity
was born in her face and in the clear eyes she raised, too pure to doubt
anything or to fear anything, sure for a moment that she possessed every
pulse and thought and knowledge of her own soul, then beset by a strange
shadowy misgiving that she had reached a curious crisis in her life that
she did not know of an instant ago.
But she said bravely, though there was a quiver in her breath that she
tried to keep from her voice:
"Let us remain cousins merely. My duty is here. My love is here
also--to the best of fathers, the tenderest of friends. I cannot share
it with anyone."
De la Maur bowed and went slowly out of the apartment.