Her mourning and the slow convalescence of Mr. Parsons deprived Selma of
convincing evidence in regard to her social reception in Benham, for
those socially prominent were thus barred from inviting her to their
houses, and her own activities were correspondingly fettered. Indeed,
her circumstances supplied her with an obvious salve for her proper
dignity had she been disposed to let suspicion lie fallow. As it was a
number of people had left cards and sent invitations notwithstanding
they could not be accepted, and she might readily have believed, had she
chosen--and as she professed openly to Mr. Parsons--that everyone had
been uncommonly civil and appreciative.
She found herself, however, in spite of her declared devotion to her
serious duties, noting that the recognition accorded to Mr. Parsons and
herself was not precisely of the character she craved. The
visiting-cards and invitations were from people residing on the River
Drive and in that neighborhood, indeed--but from people like the Flaggs,
for instance, who, having acquired large wealth and erected lordly
dwellings, were eager to dispense good-natured, lavish hospitality
without social experience. Her sensitive ordeal in New York had
quickened her social perceptions, so that whereas at the time of her
departure from Benham as Mrs. Littleton she regarded her present
neighborhood as an integral class, she was now prompt to separate the
sheep from the goats, and to remark that only the goats seemed conscious
of her existence. With the exception of Mrs. Taylor, who had called when
she was out, not one of a certain set, the outward manifestations of
whose stately being were constantly passing her windows, appeared to
take the slightest interest in her. Strictly speaking, Mrs. Taylor was
of this set, yet apart from it. Hers was the exclusive intellectual and
æsthetic set, this the exclusive fashionable set--both alike execrable
and foreign to the traditions of Benham. As Selma had discovered the one
and declared war against it, so she promised herself to confound the
other when the period of her mourning was over, and she was free to
appear again in society. Once more she congratulated herself that she
had come in time to nip in the bud this other off-shoot of aristocratic
tendencies. As yet either set was small in number, and she foresaw that
it would be an easy task to unite in a solid phalanx of
offensive-defensive influence the friendly souls whom these people
treated as outsiders, and purge the society atmosphere of the miasma of
exclusiveness. In connection with the means to this end, when the winter
slipped away and left her feeling that she had been ignored, and that
she was eager to assume a commanding position, she began to take more
than passing thought of the attentions of Mr. Lyons. That he was
interested by her there could be no doubt, for he plainly went out of
his way to seek her society, calling at the house from time to time, and
exercising a useful, nattering superintendence over her lecture course
in the other cities of the State, in each of which he appeared to have
friends on the newspaper press who put agreeable notices in print
concerning her performance. She had returned to Benham believing that
her married life was over; that her heart was in the grave with Wilbur,
and that she would never again part with her independence. The notice
which Mr. Lyons had taken of her from the outset had gratified her, but
though she contrasted his physical energy with Wilbur's lack of vigor,
it had not occurred to her to consider him in the light of a possible
husband. Now that a year had passed since Wilbur's death, she felt
conscious once more, as had happened after her divorce, of the need of a
closer and more individual sympathy than any at her command. Her
relations with Mr. Parsons, to be sure, approximated those of father and
daughter, but his perceptions were much less acute than before his
seizure; he talked little and ceased to take a vital interest in current
affairs. She felt the lack of companionship and, also, of personal
devotion, such personal devotion as was afforded by the strenuous,
ardent allegiance of a man. On the other hand she was firmly resolved
never to allow the current of her own life to be turned away again by
the subordination of her purposes to those of any other person, and she
had believed that this resolution would keep her indifferent to
marriage, in spite of any sensations of loneliness or craving for
masculine idolatry. But as a widow of a year's standing she was now
suddenly interested by the thought that this solid, ambitious,
smooth-talking man might possibly satisfy her natural preference for a
mate without violating her individuality. She began to ask herself if he
were not truly congenial in a sense which no man had ever been to her
before; also, to ask if their aspirations and aims were not so nearly
identical that he would be certain as her husband to be proud of
everything she did and said, and to allow her to work hand in hand with
him for the furtherance of their common purpose. She did not put these
questions to herself until his conduct suggested that he was seeking her
society as a suitor; but having put them, she was pleased to find her
heart throb with the hope of a stimulating and dear discovery.
Certain causes contributed to convince her that this hope rested on a
sure foundation--causes associated with her present life and point of
view. She felt confident first of all of the godliness of Mr. Lyons as
indicated not only by his sober, successful life, and his enthusiastic,
benignant patriotism, but by his active, reverent interest in the
affairs of his church--the Methodist Church--to which Mr. Parsons
belonged, and which Selma had begun to attend since her return to
Benham. It had been her mother's faith, and she had felt a certain
filial glow in approaching it, which had been fanned into pious flame by
the effect of the ministration. The fervent hymns and the opportunities
for bearing testimony at some of the services appealed to her needs and
gave her a sense of oneness with eternal truth, which had hitherto been
lacking from her religious experience. In judging Wilbur she was
disposed to ascribe the defects of his character largely to the coldness
and analyzing sobriety of his creed. She had accompanied him to church
listlessly, and had been bored by the unemotional appeals to conscience
and quiet subjective designations of duty. She preferred to thrill with
the intensity of words which now roundly rated sin, now passionately
called to mind the ransom of the Saviour, and ever kept prominent the
stirring mission of evangelizing ignorant foreign people. It appeared
probable to Selma that, as the wife of one of the leading
church-members, who was the chairman of the local committee charged with
spreading the gospel abroad, her capacity for doing good would be
strengthened, and the spiritual availability of them both be enhanced.
Then, too, Mr. Lyons's political prospects were flattering. The thought
that a marriage with him would put her in a position to control the
social tendencies of Benham was alluring. As the wife of Hon. James O.
Lyons, Member of Congress, she believed that she would be able to look
down on and confound those who had given her the cold shoulder. What
would Flossy say when she heard it? What would Pauline? This was a form
of distinction which would put her beyond the reach of conspiracy and
exclusiveness; for, as the wife of a representative, selected by the
people to guard their interests and make their laws, would not her
social position be unassailable? And apart from these considerations, a
political future seemed to her peculiarly attractive. Was not this the
real opportunity for which she had been waiting? Would she be justified
in giving it up? In what better way could her talents be spent than as
the helpmate and intellectual companion of a public man--a statesman
devoted to the protection and development of American ideas? Her own
individuality need not, would not be repressed. She had seen enough of
Mr. Lyons to feel sure that their views on the great questions of life
were thoroughly in harmony. They held the same religious opinions. Who
could foretell the limit of their joint progress? He was still a young
man--strong, dignified, and patriotic--endowed with qualities which
fitted him for public service. It might well be that a brilliant future
was before him--before them, if she were his wife. If he were to become
prominent in the councils of the nation--Speaker of the
House--Governor--even President, within the bounds of possibility, what
a splendid congenial scope his honors would afford her own versatility!
As day by day she dwelt on these points of recommendation, Selma became
more and more disposed to smile on the aspirations of Mr. Lyons in
regard to herself, and to feel that her life would develop to the best
advantage by a union with him. Until the words asking her to be his wife
were definitely spoken she could not be positive of his intentions, but
his conduct left little room for doubt, and moreover, was marked by a
deferential soberness of purpose which indicated to her that his views
regarding marriage were on a higher plane than those of any man she had
known. He referred frequently to the home as the foundation on which
American civilization rested, and from which its inspiration was largely
derived, and spoke feelingly of the value to a public man of a
stimulating and dignifying fireside. It became his habit to join her
after morning service and to accompany her home, carrying her
hymn-books, and he sent her from time to time, through the post,
quotations which had especially struck his fancy from the speeches he
was collecting for his "Watchwords of Patriotism."
Another six months passed, and at its close Lyons received the expected
nomination for Congress. The election promised to be close and exciting.
Both parties were confident of victory, and were preparing vigorously to
keep their adherents at fever pitch by rallies and torch-light
processions. Although the result of the caucus was not doubtful, it was
understood between Lyons and Selma that he would call at the house that
evening to let her know that he had been successful. She was waiting to
receive him in the library. Mr. Parsons had gone to bed. His condition
was not promising. He had recently suffered another slight attack of
paralysis, which seemed to indicate that he was liable at any time to a
fatal seizure.
Lyons entered smilingly. "So far so good," he exclaimed.
"Then you have won?"
"Oh, yes. As I told you, it was a foregone conclusion. Now the fight
begins."
Selma, who had provided a slight refection, handed him a cup of tea. "I
feel sure that you will be chosen," she said. "See if I am not right.
When is the election?"
"In six weeks. Six weeks from to-morrow."
"Then you will go to Washington to live?"
"Not until the fourth of March."
"I envy you. If I were a man I should prefer success in politics to
anything else."
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Will you help me to achieve
success? Will you go with me to Washington as my wife?"
His courtship had been formal and elaborate, but his declaration was
signally simple and to the point. Selma noticed that the cup in his hand
trembled. While she kept her eyes lowered, as women are supposed to do
at such moments, she was wondering whether she loved him as much as she
had loved Wilbur? Not so ardently, but more worthily, she concluded, for
he seemed to her to fulfil her maturer ideal of strong and effective
manhood, and to satisfy alike her self-respect and her physical fancy. A
man of his type would not split hairs, but proceed straight toward the
goal of his ambition without fainting or wavering. Why should she not
satisfy her renewed craving to be yoked to a kindred spirit and
companion who appreciated her true worth?
"I cannot believe," he was saying, "that my words are a surprise to you.
You can scarcely have failed to understand that I admired you extremely.
I have delayed to utter my desire to make you my wife because I did not
dare to cherish too fondly the hope that the love inspired in me could
be reciprocated, and that you would consent to unite your life to mine
and trust your happiness to my keeping. If I may say so, we are no boy
and girl. We understand the solemn significance of marriage; what it
imports and what it demands. Of late I have ventured to dream that the
sympathy in ideas and identity of purpose which exist between us might
be the trustworthy sign of a spiritual bond which we could not afford to
ignore. I feel that without you the joy and power of my life will be
incomplete. With you at my side I shall aspire to great things. You are
to me the embodiment of what is charming and serviceable in woman."
Selma looked up. "I like you very much, Mr. Lyons. You, in your turn,
must have realized that, I think. As you say, we are no boy and girl.
You meant by that, too, that we both have been married before. I have
had two husbands, and I did not believe that I could ever think of
marriage again. I don't wish you to suppose that my last marriage was
not happy. Mr. Littleton was an earnest, talented man, and devoted to
me. Yet I cannot deny that in spite of mutual love our married life was
not a success--a success as a contribution to accomplishment. That
nearly broke my heart, and he--he died from lack of the physical and
mental vigor which would have made so much difference. I am telling you
this because I wish you to realize that if I should consent to comply
with your wishes, it would be because I was convinced that true
accomplishment--the highest accomplishment--would result from the union
of our lives as the result of our riper experience. If I did not
believe, Mr. Lyons, that man and woman as we are--no longer boy and
girl--a more perfect scheme of happiness, a grander conception of the
meaning of life than either of us had entertained was before us, I would
not consider your offer for one moment."
"Yes, yes, I understand," Lyons exclaimed eagerly. "I share your belief
implicitly. It was what I would have said only--"
Despite his facility as an orator, Lyons left this sentence incomplete
in face of the ticklish difficulty of explaining that he had refrained
from suggesting such a hope to a widow who had lost her husband only two
years before. Yet he hastened to bridge over this ellipsis by saying,
"Without such a faith a union between us must fall short of its sweetest
and grandest opportunities."
"It would be a mockery; there would be no excuse for its existence,"
cried Selma impetuously. "I am an idealist, Mr. Lyons," she said
clasping her hands. "I believe devotedly in the mission and power of
love. But I believe that our conception of love changes as we grow. I
welcomed love formerly as an intoxicating, delirious potion, and as such
it was very sweet. You have just told me of your own feelings toward me,
so it is your right to know that lately I have begun to realize that my
association with you has brought peace into my life--peace and religious
faith--essentials of happiness of which I have not known the blessings
since I was a child. You have dedicated yourself to a lofty work; you
have chosen the noble career of a statesman--a statesman zealous to
promote principles in which we both believe. And you ask me to share
with you the labors and the privileges which will result from this
dedication. If I accept your offer, it must be because I know that I
love you--love you in a sense I have not loved before--may the dead
pardon me! If I accept you it will be because I wish to perpetuate that
faith and peace, and because I believe that our joint lives will realize
worthy accomplishment." Selma looked into space with her wrapt gaze,
apparently engaged in an intense mental struggle.
"And you will accept? You do feel that you can return my love? I cannot
tell you how greatly I am stirred and stimulated by what you have said.
It makes me feel that I could never be happy without you." Lyons put
into this speech all his solemnity and all his emotional beneficence of
temperament. He was genuinely moved. His first marriage had been a love
match. His wife--a mere girl--had died within a year; so soon that the
memory of her was a tender but hazy sentiment rather than a formulated
impression of character. By virtue of this memory he had approached
marriage again as one seeking a companion for his fireside, and a
comely, sensible woman to preside over his establishment and promote his
social status, rather than one expecting to be possessed by or to
inspire a dominant passion. Yet he, too, regarded himself distinctly as
an idealist, and he had lent a greedy ear to Selma's suggestion that
mature mutual sympathy and comradeship in establishing convictions and
religious aims were the source of a nobler type of love than that
associated with early matrimony. It increased his admiration for her,
and gave to his courtship, the touch of idealism which--partly owing to
his own modesty as a man no longer in the flush of youth--it had lacked.
He nervously stroked his beard with his thick hand, and gave himself up
to the spell of this vision of blessedness while he eagerly watched
Selma's face and waited for her answer. To combine moral purpose and
love in a pervasive alliance appealed to him magnetically as a religious
man.
Selma, as she faced Lyons, was conscious necessarily of the contrast
between him and her late husband. But she was attuned to regard his
coarser physical fibre as masculine vigor and a protest against
aristocratic delicacy, and to derive comfort and exaltation from it.
"Mr. Lyons," she said, "I will tell you frankly that the circumstances
of married life have hitherto hampered the expression of that which is
in me, and confined the scope of my individuality within narrow and
uncongenial limits. I am not complaining; I have no intention to rake up
the past; but it is proper you should know that I believe myself capable
of larger undertakings than have yet been afforded me, and worthy of
ampler recognition than I have yet received. If I accept you as a
husband, it will be because I feel confident that you will give my life
the opportunity to expand, and that you sympathize with my desire to
express myself adequately and to labor hand in hand, side by side, with
you in the important work of the world."
"That is what I would have you do, Selma. Because you are worthy of it,
and because it is your right."
"On that understanding it seems that we might be very happy."
"I am certain of it. You fill my soul with gladness," he cried, and
seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips and covered it with kisses,
but she withdrew it, saying, "Not yet--not yet. This step represents so
much to me. It means that if I am mistaken in you, my whole life will be
ruined, for the next years should be my best. We must not be too hasty.
There are many things to be thought of. I must consider Mr. Parsons. I
cannot leave him immediately, if at all, for he is very dependent on
me."
"I had thought of that. While Mr. Parsons lives, I realize that your
first duty must be to him."
The reverential gravity of his tone was in excess of the needs of the
occasion, and Selma understood that he intended to imply that Mr.
Parsons would not long need her care. The same thought was in her own
mind, and it had occurred to her in the course of her previous
cogitations in regard to Lyons, that in the event of his death it would
suit her admirably to continue to occupy the house as its real mistress.
She looked grave for a moment in her turn, then with a sudden access of
coyness she murmured, "I do not believe that I am mistaken in you."
"Ah," he cried, and would have folded her in his arms, but she evaded
his onset and said with her dramatic intonation, "The knights of old won
their lady-loves by brilliant deeds. If you are elected a member of
Congress, you may come to claim me."
Reflection served only to convince Selma of the wisdom of her decision
to try matrimony once more. She argued, that though a third marriage
might theoretically seem repugnant if stated as a bald fact, the actual
circumstances in her case not merely exonerated her from a lack of
delicacy, but afforded an exhibition of progress--a gradual evolution in
character. She felt light-hearted and triumphant at the thought of her
impending new importance as the wife of a public man, and she interested
herself exuberantly in the progress of the political campaign. She was
pleased to think that her stipulation had given her lover a new spur to
his ambition, and she was prepared to believe that his victory would be
due to the exhaustive efforts to win which the cruel possibility of
losing her obliged him to make.
This was a campaign era of torch-light processions. The rival factions
expressed their confidence and enthusiasm by parading at night in a
series of battalions armed with torches--some resplendently flaring,
some glittering gayly through colored glass--and bearing transparencies
inscribed with trenchant sentiments. The houses of their adherents along
the route were illuminated from attic to cellar with rows of candles,
and the atmosphere wore a dusky glow of red and green fire. To Selma all
this was entrancing. She revelled in it as an introduction to the more
conspicuous life which she was about to lead. She showed herself a
zealous and enthusiastic partisan, shrouding the house in the darkness
of Erebus on the occasion when the rival procession passed the door, and
imparting to every window the effect of a blaze of light on the
following evening--the night before election--when the Democratic party
made its final appeal to the voters. Standing on a balcony in evening
dress, in company with Mrs. Earle and Miss Luella Bailey, whom she had
invited to view the procession from the River Drive, Selma looked down
on the parade in an ecstatic mood. The torches, the music, the fireworks
and the enthusiasm set her pulses astir and brought her heart into her
mouth in melting appreciation of the sanctity of her party cause and her
own enviable destiny as the wife of an American Congressman. She held in
one hand a flag which she waved from time to time at the conspicuous
features of the procession, and she stationed herself so that the Bengal
lights and other fireworks set off by Mr. Parsons's hired man should
throw her figure into conspicuous relief. The culminating interest of
the, occasion for her was reached when the James O. Lyons Cadets, the
special body of youthful torch-bearers devoted to advertising the merits
of her lover, for whose uniforms and accoutrements he had paid, came in
sight.
They proved to be the most flourishing looking organization in line.
They were preceded by a large, nattily attired drum corps; their ranks
were full, their torches lustrous, and they bore a number of
transparencies setting forth the predominant qualifications of the
candidate for Congress from the second district, the largest of which
presented his portrait superscribed with the sentiment, "A vote for
James O. Lyons is a vote in support of the liberties of the plain
people." On the opposite end of the canvas was the picture of the king
of beasts, with open jaws and bristling mane, with the motto, "Our
Lyons's might will keep our institutions sacred." In the midst of this
glittering escort the candidate himself rode in an open barouche on his
way to the hall where he was to deliver a final speech. He was bowing to
right and left, and constant cheers marked his progress along the
avenue. Selma leaned forward from the balcony to obtain the earliest
sight of her hero. The rolling applause was a new, intoxicating music in
her ears, and filled her soul with transport. She clapped her hands
vehemently; seized a roman-candle, and amid a blaze of fiery sparks
exploded its colored stars in the direction of the approaching carriage.
Then with the flag slanted across her bosom, she stood waiting for his
recognition. It was made solemnly, but with the unequivocal
demonstration of a cavalier or knight of old, for Lyons stood up, and
doffing his hat toward her, made a conspicuous salute. A salvo of
applause suggested to Selma that the multitude had understood that he
was according to her the homage due a lady-love, and that their cheers
were partly meant for her. She put her hand to her bosom with the
gesture of a queen of melodrama, and culling one from a bunch of roses
Lyons had sent her that afternoon threw it from the balcony at the
carriage. The flower fell almost into the lap of her lover, who clutched
it, pressed it to his lips, and doffed his hat again. The episode had
been visible to many, and a hoarse murmur of interested approval crowned
the performance. The glance of the crowds on the sidewalk was turned
upward, and someone proposed three cheers for the lady in the balcony.
They were given. Selma bowed to either side in delighted acknowledgment,
while the torches of the cadets waved tumultuously, and there was a
fresh outburst of colored fires.
"I can't keep the secret any longer," she exclaimed, turning to her two
companions. "I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Lyons."