CHAPTER IV
REALITY
"Father," said my fair ideal abruptly, as if a bright idea had juststruck her, "did thee notice that Friend Jones's rockaway had beenpainted and all fixed up? I guess he rather liked our keeping him therebefore all the meeting."
"Mother, I hope thee'll be moved to preach about the charity thatthinketh no evil," said her father gravely.
The young girl tossed her head slightly as she asserted, "AramintaJones liked it anyway. Any one could see that."
"And any one need not have seen it also," her mother said, with apained look. Then she added, in a low aside, as we rose from the table,"Thee certainly need not have spoken about thy friend's folly."
The daughter apparently gave little heed to her mother's rebuke, and atrivial remark a moment later proved that she was thinking of somethingelse.
"Adah, thee can entertain Richard Morton for a time, while motherattends to the things," said her father.
The alacrity with which she complied was flattering at least, and sheled me out on the piazza, that corresponded with my day-dream.
"Zillah," called Mrs. Tocomb to her little girl, "do not bother EmilyWarren. She may wish to be alone. Stay with Adah till I am through."
"Oh, mother, please, let me go with Emily Warren. I never have a goodtime with Adah."
"There, mother, let her have her own way," said Adah, pettishly. "EmilyWarren, thee shouldn't pet her so if thee doesn't want to be botheredby her."
"She does not bother me at all," said Miss Warren quietly. "I like her."
The little girl that had been ready to cry turned to her friend aradiant face that was eloquent with the undisguised affection ofchildhood.
"Zillah evidently likes you, Miss Warren," I said, "and you have giventhe reason. You like her."
"Not always a sufficient reason for liking another," she answered.
"But a very good one," I urged.
"There are many better ones."
"What has reason to do with liking, anyway?" I asked.
The mirthfulness I had noted before glimmered in her eyes for a moment,but she answered demurely, "I have seen instances that gave much pointto your question, but I cannot answer it," and with a slight bow andsmile she took her hat from Zillah and went down the path with an easy,natural carriage, that nevertheless suggested the city and itspavements rather than the country.
"What were you two talking about?" asked Adah, with a trace of vexedperplexity on her brow, for I imagined that my glance followed MissWarren with some admiration and interest.
"You must have heard all we said."
"Where was the point of it?"
"What I said hadn't any point, so do not blame yourself for not seeingit. Don't you like little Zillah? She seems a nice, quiet child."
"Certainly I like her--she's my sister; but I detest children."
"I can't think that you were detested when you were a child."
"I don't remember: I might have been," she replied, with a slight shrug.
"Do you think that, as a child, you would enjoy being detested?"
"Mother says it often isn't good for us to have what we enjoy."
"Undoubtedly your mother is right."
"Well, I don't see things in that way. If I like a thing I want it, andif I don't like it I don't want it, and won't have it if I can helpmyself."
"Your views are not unusual," I replied, turning away to hide mycontracting brow. "I know of others who cherish like sentiments."
"Well, I'm glad to meet with one who thinks as I do," she saidcomplacently, and plucking a half-blown rose that hung near her, sheturned its petals sharply down as if they were plaits of a hem that shewas about to stitch.
"Here is the first harmonic chord in the sweet congeniality of which Idreamed," I inwardly groaned; but I continued, "How is it that you likeZillah as your sister, and not as a little girl?"
"Oh, everybody likes their brothers and sisters after a fashion, butone doesn't care to be bothered with them when they are little.Besides, children rumple and spoil my dress," and she looked down atherself approvingly.
"Now, there's Emily Warren," continued my "embodiment of June." "Motheris beginning to hold her up to me as an example. Emily Warren is halfthe time doing things that she doesn't like, and I think she's veryfoolish. She is telling Zillah a story over there under that tree. Idon't think one feels like telling stories right after dinner."
"Yes, but see how much Zillah enjoys the story."
"Oh, of course she enjoys it. Why shouldn't she, if it's a good one?"
"Is it not possible that Miss Warren finds a pleasure in givingpleasure?"
"Well, if she does, that is her way of having a good time."
"Don't you think it's a sweet, womanly way?"
"Ha, ha, ha! Are you already smitten with Emily Warren's sweet, womanlyways?"
I confess that I both blushed and frowned with annoyance anddisappointment, but I answered lightly, "If I were, would I be oneamong many victims?"
"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, with her slight characteristicshrug, which also intimated that she didn't care.
"Miss Warren, I suppose, is a relative who is visiting you?"
"Oh, no, she is only a music teacher who is boarding with us. Motherusually takes two or three boarders through the summer months, that isif they are willing to put up with our ways."
"I suppose it's correct to quote Scripture on Sunday afternoon. I'msure your mother's ways are those of pleasantness and peace. Do youthink she would take me as a boarder?"
"I fear she'll think you would want too much city style."
"That is just what I wish to escape from."
"I think city style is splendid."
"Why?"
"Oh, the city is gay and full of life and people. I once took walksdown Fifth Avenue when making a visit in town, and I would be perfectlyhappy if I could do so every day."
"Perfectly happy? I wish I knew of something that would make meperfectly happy. Pardon me, I am only a business man, and can't beexpected to understand young ladies very well. I don't understand whywalking down Fifth Avenue daily would make you happy."
"Of course not. A man can't understand a girl's feelings in suchmatters."
"There is nothing in New York so beautiful as this June day in thecountry."
"Yes, it's a nice day: but father says we need more rain dreadfully."
"You have spoiled your rose."
"There are plenty more."
"Don't you like roses?"
"Certainly. Who does not like roses?"
"Let me give you another. See, here is one that has the hue of yourcheeks."
"I suppose a city pallor like Emily Warren's is more to your taste."
"I am wholly out of humor with the city, and I do not like that whichis colorless and insipid. I think the rose I have just given you verybeautiful."
"Thanks for your roundabout compliment," and she looked pleased.
"I suppose your quiet life gives you much time for reading?"
"I can't say that I enjoy father and mother's books."
"I doubt whether I would myself, but you have your own choice?"
"I read a story now and then; but time slips away; and I don't do muchreading. We country girls make our own clothes, and you have no ideahow much time it takes."
"Will you forgive me if I say that I think you make yours veryprettily?"
Again she looked decidedly pleased; and, as if to reward me, shefastened the rose on her bosom. "If she would only keep still," Ithought, "and I could simply look at her as at a draped statue, I couldendure another half-hour; but every word she speaks is like the note ofthat catbird which broke the spell of harmony this morning. I have notyet seen a trace of ideality in her mind. Not a lovable trait have Idiscovered beyond her remarkable beauty, which mocks one with itsbroken promise. What is the controlling yet perverse principle of herlife which makes her seem an alien in her own home? I am glad she doesnot use the plain language t
o me, since by nature she is not a Friend."
Miss Yocomb interrupted my thoughts by saying:
"I thought my dress would be much too simple and country-like for yourtaste. I can see myself that Emily Warren's dress has more style."
Resolving to explore a little, I said:
"I know a great many men in town."
"Indeed!" she queried, with kindling interest.
"Yes, and some of them are fine artists; and the majority havecultivated their tastes in various ways, both at home and abroad: but Ido not think many of them have any respect for what you mean by'style.' Shop-boys, clerks, and Fifth Avenue exquisites give theirminds to the arbitrary mode of the hour; but the men in the city whoamount to anything rarely know whether a lady's gown is of the latestcut. They do know, however, whether it is becoming and lady-like. Thesolid men of the city have a keen eye for beauty, and spend hundreds ofthousands of dollars to enjoy its various phases. But half of the timethey are anathematizing mere style. I have seen fashion transform apretty girl into as near an approach to a kangaroo as nature permitted.Now, I shall be so bold as to say that I think your costume thisafternoon has far better qualities than mere style. It is becoming, andin keeping with the day and season, and I don't care a fig whether itis the style or not."
My "perfect flower of womanhood" grew radiant, and her lips parted in asmile of ineffable content. In bitter disappointment I saw that myartifice had succeeded, and that I had touched the key-note of herbeing. To my horror, she reminded me of a pleased, purring kitten thathad been stroked in the right direction.
"Your judgment is hasty and harsh," I charged myself, in half-angryaccusation, loth to believe the truth. "You do not know yet that acompliment to her dress is the most acceptable one that she canreceive. She probably takes it as a tribute to her good taste, which isone of woman's chief prerogatives."
I resolved to explore farther, and continued:
"A lady's dress is like the binding of a book--it ought to besuggestive of her character. Indeed, she can make it a tastefulexpression of herself. Our eye is often attracted or repelled by abook's binding. When it has been made with a fine taste, so that itharmonizes with the subject under consideration, we are justly pleased;but neither you nor I believe in the people who value books for thesake of their covers only. Beauty and richness of thought, treasures ofvaried truth, sparkling wit, droll humor, or downright earnestness arethe qualities in books that hold our esteem. A book must have a souland life of its own as truly as you or I; and the costliest materials,the wealth of a kingdom, cannot make a true book any more than aperfect costume and the most exquisite combination of flesh and bloodcan make a true woman." (I wondered if she were listening to me; forher face was taking on an absent look. Conscious that my homily wasgrowing rather long, I concluded.) "The book that reveals somethingnew, or puts old truths in new and interesting lights--the book thatmakes us wiser, that cheers, encourages, comforts, amuses, and makes aman forget his stupid, miserable self, is the book we tie to. And so aman might well wish himself knotted to a woman who could do as much forhim, and he would naturally be pleased to have her outward garbcorrespond with her spiritual beauty and worth."
My fair ideal had also reached a momentous conclusion, for she said,with the emphasis of a final decision:
"I won't cut that dress after Emily Warren's pattern. I'll cut it tosuit myself."
I had been falling from a seventh heaven of hope for some time, but atthis moment I struck reality with a thump that almost made me sick andgiddy. The expression of my face reminded her of the irrelevancy of herremark, and she blushed slightly, but laughed it off, saying:
"Pardon me, that I followed my own thoughts for a moment rather thanyours. These matters, no doubt, seem mere trifles to you gentlemen, butthey are weighty questions to us girls who have to make a little go agreat way. Won't you, please, repeat what you said about that lady whowrote a book for the sake of its binding? I think it's a pretty idea."
I was so incensed that I answered as I should not have done. "She wasremarkably successful. Every one looked at the binding, but were soonsatisfied to look no farther."
I was both glad and vexed that she did not catch my meaning, for shesaid, with a smile:
"It would make a pretty ornament."
"It would not be to my taste," I replied briefly. "The beautifulbinding would hold out the promise of a good book, which, not beingfulfilled, would be tantalizing."
"Do you know the lady well?"
"Yes, I fear I do."
"How strangely you look at me!"
"Excuse me," I said, starting. "I fear I followed your example and wasthinking of something else."
But I let what I was thinking about slip out.
"It was indeed a revelation. My thoughts will not interest you, I fear.The experience of a man who saw a mirage in the desert came into mymind."
"I don't see what put that into your head."
"Nor do I, now. The world appears to me entirely matter-of-fact."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. Mother is always talking to me aboutspiritual meanings and all that. Now I agree with you. Things are justwhat they are. Some we like, and some we don't like. What more is thereto say about them? I think people are very foolish if they botherthemselves over things or people they don't like. I hope mother willtake you to board, for I would like to have some one in the house wholooks at things as I do."
"Thanks. Woman's intuition is indeed unerring."
"I declare, there comes Silas Jones with his new top-buggy. You won'tmind his making one of our party, will you?"
"I think I will go to my room and rest awhile, and thus I shall not bethat chief of this world's evils--the odious third party." And I rosedecisively.
"I'd rather you wouldn't go," she said. "I don't care specially forhim, and he does not talk half so nicely as you do. You needn't go onhis account. Indeed, I like to have half a dozen gentlemen around me."
"You are delightfully frank."
"Yes, I usually say what I think."
"And do as you please," I added.
"Certainly. Why shouldn't I when I can? Don't you?"
"But I came from the wicked city." "So does Emily Warren."
"Is she wicked?"
"I don't know; she keeps it to herself if she is; and, by the way, sheis very quiet, I can never get her to talk much about herself. Sheappears so good that mother is beginning to quote her as an example,and that, you know, always makes one detest a person. I think there issome mystery about her. I'm sorry you will go, for I've lots ofquestions I'd like to ask you now we are acquainted."
"Pardon me; I'm not strong, and must have a rest. Silas Jones willanswer just as well."
"Not quite," she said softly, with a smile designed to be bewitching.
As I passed up the hall I heard her say, "Silas Jones, I'm pleased tosee thee."
I threw myself on the lounge in my room in angry disgust.
"O Nature!" I exclaimed, "what excuse have you for such perverseness?By every law of probability--by the ordinary sequence of cause andeffect--this girl should have been what I fancied her to be. This,then, forsooth, is the day of my fate! It would be the day of doom didsome malicious power chain me to this brainless, soulless, heartlesscreature. What possessed Nature to make such a blunder, to begin sofairly and yet reach such a lame and impotent conclusion? To the eyethe girl is the fair and proper outcome of this home and beautifulcountry life. In reality she is a flat contradiction to it all,reversing in her own character the native traits and acquired graces ofher father and mother.
"As if controlled and carried forward by a hidden and malign power, shegoes steadily against her surrounding influences that, like the windsof heaven, might have wafted her toward all that is good and true. Isnot sweet, quaint Mrs. Yocomb her mother? Is not the genial, hearty oldgentleman her father? Has she not developed among scenes that shouldennoble her nature, and enrich her mind with ideality? There isOriental simplicity and largeness in her parents' fa
ith. Abrahamsitting at the door of his tent, could scarcely have done better. Hersis the simplicity of silliness, which reveals what a woman of sense,though no better than herself, would not speak of. It is exasperatingto think that her eyes and fingers are endowed with a sense of harmonyand beauty, so that she can cut a gown and adorn her lovely person toperfection, and yet be so idiotic as to make a spectacle of herself inher real womanhood. As far as I can make out, Nature is more to blamethan the girl. There is not a bat blinking in the sunlight more blindthan she to every natural beauty of this June day; and yet her eyes aremicroscopic, and she sees a host of little things not worth seeing. Atrue womanly moral nature seems never to have been infused into herbeing. She detests children, her little sister shrinks from her; shespeaks and surmises evil of the absent; to strut down Fifth Avenue infinery, to which she has given her whole soul, is her ideal ofhappiness--there, stop! She is the daughter of my kind host andhostess. The mystery of this world's evil is sadly exemplified in herdefective character, from which sweet, true womanliness was left out. Ishould pity her, and treat her as if she were deformed. Poor Mrs.Yocomb! Even mother-love cannot blind her to the truth that her fairdaughter is a misshapen creature." After a little, I added wearily, "Iwish I had never seen her; I am the worse for this day's mirage," and Iclosed my eyes in dull apathy.