Books: Home Lights and Shadows
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T. S. Arthur >> Home Lights and Shadows
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"O, you naughty man, you!" exclaimed the latter, the moment she saw
Mr. Bebee. The oldest of the two children, who understood in a
moment what her little sister meant, whispered: "H-u-s-h!--h-u-s-h!
Mary!"
"What am I naughty about, my little sis?" said Mr. Bebee.
"O, because you are a naughty man! You made my mother sick, so you
did! And mother says she never wants to look in your face again. You
are a naughty man!"
"Mary! Mary! Hush! hush!" exclaimed the elder sister, trying to stop
the child.
"Made your mother sick?" said Mr. Bebee. "How did I do that?"
"Why, you shut her up in that little room there, all in the cold,
when you were here and staid so long, one day. And it made her
sick--so it did."
"Shut her up in that room! what does the child mean?" said Mr.
Bebee, speaking to the elder sister.
"Mary! Mary! I'm ashamed of you. Come away!" was the only response
made to this.
Mr. Bebee was puzzled. He asked himself as to the meaning of this
strange language. All at once, he remembered that after he had been
sitting in the parlor for an hour, on the occasion referred to, some
one had come out of the little room referred to by the child, and
swept past him almost as quick as a flash. But it had never once
occurred to him that this was the lady he had called to visit, who,
according to the servant, was not at home.
"I didn't shut your mother up in that room, Mary," said he, to the
child.
"O, but you did. And she got cold, and almost died."
At this the elder sister, finding that she could do nothing with
little Mary, escaped from the parlor, and running up stairs, made a
report to her mother of what was going on below.
"Mercy!" exclaimed the lady, in painful surprise.
"She told him that you said you never wanted to look upon his face
again," said the little girl.
"She did!"
"Yes. And she is telling him a great deal more. I tried my best to
make her stop, but couldn't."
"Rachel! Go down and bring that child out of the parlor!" said Mrs.
Fairview, to a servant. "It is too bad! I had no idea that the
little witch knew anything about it. So much for talking before
children!"
"And so much for not being at home when you are," remarked a sister
of Mrs. Fairview, who happened to be present.
"So much for having an acquaintance who makes himself at home in
your house, whether you want him or not."
"No doubt you are both sufficiently well punished."
"I have been, I know."
The heavy jar of the street door was heard at this moment.
"He's gone, I do believe!"
And so it proved. What else little Mary said to him was never known,
as the violent scolding she received when her mother got hold of
her, sealed her lips on the subject, or drove all impressions
relating thereto from her memory.
Mr. Bebee never called again.
THE FATAL ERROR.
"CLINTON!" said Margaret Hubert, with a look of supreme contempt.
Don't speak of him to me, Lizzy. His very name is an offence to my
ears!" and the lady's whole manner became disturbed.
"He will be at the ball to-night, of course, and will renew his
attentions," said the friend, in an earnest, yet quiet voice. "Now,
for all your expressions of dislike, I have thought that you were
really far from being indifferent to Mr. Clinton, and affected a
repugnance at variance with your true feelings."
"Lizzy, you will offend me if you make use of such language. I tell
you he is hateful to me," replied Miss Hubert.
"Of course, you ought to know your own state of mind best," said
Lizzy Edgar. "If it is really as you say, I must confess that my
observation has not been accurate. As to there being anything in Mr.
Clinton to inspire an emotion of contempt, or create so strong a
dislike as you express, I have yet to see it. To me he has ever
appeared in the light of a gentleman."
"Then suppose you make yourself agreeable to him, Lizzy," said Miss
Hubert.
"I try to make myself agreeable to every one," replied the
even-minded girl. "That is a duty I owe to those with whom I
associate."
"Whether you like them or not?"
"It doesn't follow, because I do not happen to like a person, that I
should render myself disagreeable to him."
"I never tolerate people that I don't like," said Miss Hubert.
"We needn't associate too intimately with those who are disagreeable
to us," returned her friend; "but when we are thrown together in
society, the least we can do is to be civil."
"You may be able to disguise your real feelings, but I cannot.
Whatever emotion passes over my mind is seen in my face and
discovered in my tone of voice. All who know me see me as I am."
And yet, notwithstanding this affirmation, Margaret Hubert did not,
at all times, display her real feelings. And her friend Lizzy Edgar
was right in assuming that she was by no means indifferent to Mr.
Clinton. The appearance of dislike was assumed as a mask, and the
distance and reserve she displayed towards him were the offspring of
a false pride and unwomanly self-esteem. The truth was, her heart
had, almost unsought, been won. The manly bearing, personal grace
and brilliant mind of Philip Clinton, had captivated her feelings
and awakened an emotion of love ere she was conscious that her heart
was in danger. And she had even leaned towards him instinctively,
and so apparently that the young man observed it, and was attracted
thereby. The moment, however, he became at all marked in his
attentions, the whole manner of Margaret changed. She was then aware
of the rashness she had displayed, and her pride instantly took the
alarm. Reserve, dignity, and even hauteur, characterized her bearing
towards Clinton; and to those who spoke of him as a lover, she
replied in terms nearly similar to what she used to her friend Lizzy
Edgar, on the occasion to which reference has just been made.
All this evidenced weakness of mind as well as pride. She wished to
be sought before she was won--at least, that was the language she
used to herself. Her lover must come, like a knight of old, and sue
on bended knee for favor.
Clinton observed the marked change in her manner. Fortunately for
his peace of mind, he was not so deeply in love as to be very
seriously distressed. He had admired her beauty, her
accomplishments, and the winning grace of her manners; and more, had
felt his heart beginning to warm towards her. But the charm with
which she had been invested, faded away the moment the change of
which we have spoken became apparent. He was not a man of strong,
ungovernable impulses; all his passions were under the control of
right reason, and this gave him a clear judgment. Consequently, he
was the last person in the world for an experiment such as Margaret
Hubert was making. At first he thought there must be some mistake,
and continued to offer the young lady polite attentions, coldly and
distantly as they were received. He even went farther than his real
feelings bore him out in going, and made particular advances, in
order to be perfectly satisfied that there was no mistake about her
dislike or repugnance.
But there was one thing which at first Clinton did not understand.
It was this. Frequently, when in company where Margaret was present,
he would, if he turned his eyes suddenly upon her, find that she was
looking at him with an expression which told him plainly that he was
not indifferent to her. This occurred so often, and was so
frequently attended with evident confusion on her part, that he
began to have a suspicion of the real truth, and to feel disgust at
so marked an exhibition of insincerity. Besides, the thought of
being experimented upon in this way, did not in the least tend to
soften his feelings towards the fair one. He believed in frankness,
honesty and reciprocal sincerity. He liked a truthful, ingenuous
mind, and turned instinctively from all artifice, coquetry or
affectation.
The game which Miss Hubert was playing had been in progress only a
short time, when her friend Lizzy Edgar, who was on terms of close
intimacy, spent the day with her, occupying most of the time in
preparation for a fancy ball that was to come off that night. The
two young ladies attired themselves with much care, each with a view
to effect. Margaret looked particularly to the assumption of a
certain dignity, and her costume for the evening had been chosen
with that end in view. A ruff, and her grand-mother's rich silk
brocade, did give to her tall person all the dignity she could have
desired.
At the proper time the father of Miss Hubert accompanied the young
ladies to the ball, preparations for which had for some time been in
progress. As soon almost as Margaret entered the room, her eyes
began to wander about in search of Mr. Clinton. It was not long
before she discovered him--nor long before his eyes rested upon and
recognized her stately figure.
"If she be playing a part, as I more than half suspect," said the
young man to himself, "her performance will end to-night, so far as
I am concerned."
And with the remark, he moved towards that part of the room where
the two young ladies were standing. Lizzy returned his salutations
with a frank and easy grace, but Margaret drew herself up coldly,
and replied to his remarks with brief formality. Clinton remained
with them only long enough to pass a few compliments, and then moved
away and mingled with the crowd in another part of the large saloon,
where the gay company were assembled. During the next hour, he took
occasion now and then to search out Margaret in the crowd, and more
than once he found that her eyes were upon him.
"Once more," he said, crossing the room and going up to where she
was leaning upon the arm of an acquaintance.
"May I have the pleasure of dancing with you in the next set?"
"Thank you, sir," replied Margaret, with unbending dignity; "I am
already engaged."
Clinton bowed and turned away. The fate of the maiden was sealed.
She had carried her experiment too far. As the young man moved
across the room, he saw Lizzy Edgar sitting alone, her face lit up
with interest as she noted the various costumes, and observed the
ever-forming and dissolving tableaux that filled the saloon, and
presented to the eye a living kaleidoscope.
"Alone," he said, pausing before the warm-hearted, even tempered
girl.
"One cannot be alone here," she replied, with a sweet smile
irradiating her countenance. "What a fairy scene it is," she added,
as her eyes wandered from the face of Clinton and again fell upon
the brilliant groups around them.
"Have you danced this evening?" asked Clinton.
"In one set," answered Lizzy.
"Are you engaged for the next in which you may feel disposed to take
the floor?"
"No, sir."
"Then may I claim you for my partner?"
"If it is your pleasure to do so," replied Lizzy, smiling.
In a cotillion formed soon afterward in that part of the room, were
Margaret Hubert and her sweet friend Lizzy Edgar. Margaret had a
warmer color on her cheeks than usual, and her dignity towered up
into an air of haughtiness, all of which Clinton observed. Its
effect was to make his heart cold towards her, instead of awakening
an ardent desire to win a proud and distant beauty.
In vain did Margaret look for the young man to press forward, the
moment the cotillion was dissolved, and claim her for the next. He
lingered by the side of Miss Edgar, more charmed with her than he
had ever been, until some one else came and engaged the hand of Miss
Hubert. The disappointed and unhappy girl now unbent herself from
the cold dignity that had marked her bearing since her entrance into
the ball-room, and sought to win him to her side by the flashing
brilliancy of her manners; but her efforts were unavailing. Clinton
had felt the sweeter, purer, stronger attractions of one free from
all artifice; and when he left her side, he had no wish to pass to
that of one whose coldness had repelled, and whose haughtiness had
insulted him.
On the next day, when Lizzy called upon her friend, she found her in
a very unhappy state of mind. As to the ball and the people who
attended, she was exceedingly captious in all her remarks. When
Clinton was mentioned, she spoke of him with a sneer. Lizzy hardly
knew how to take her. Why the young man should be so offensive, she
was at a loss to imagine, and honestly came to the conclusion that
she had been mistaken in her previous supposition that Margaret
really felt an interest in him.
A few evenings only elapsed before Clinton called upon Miss Edgar,
and from that time visited her regularly. An offer of marriage was
the final result. This offer Lizzy accepted.
The five or six months that elapsed from the time Clinton became
particular in his attentions to Miss Edgar, until he formally
declared himself a lover, passed with Margaret Herbert in one
long-continued and wild struggle with her feelings. Conscious of her
error, and madly conscious, because conviction had come too late,
she wrestled vigorously, but in vain, with a passion that, but for
her own folly, would have met a free and full return. Lizzy spoke to
her of Clinton's marked attentions, but did not know how, like heavy
and painful strokes, every word she uttered fell upon her heart. She
saw that Margaret was far from being happy, and often tenderly urged
her to tell the cause, but little dreamed of the real nature of her
sufferings.
At last Lizzy told her, with a glowing cheek, that Clinton had owned
his love for her, and claimed her hand in marriage. For some moments
after this communication was made, Margaret could offer no reply.
Her heart trembled faintly in her bosom and almost ceased to beat;
but she rallied herself, and concealed what she felt under warm
congratulations. Lizzy was deceived, though in her friend's manner
there was something that she could not fully comprehend.
"You must be my bridesmaid," said the happy girl, a month or two
afterwards.
"Why not choose some one else?" asked Margaret.
"Because I love you better than any friend I have," replied Lizzy,
putting an arm around the neck of Margaret and kissing her.
"No, no; I cannot--I cannot!" was the unexpressed thought of
Margaret--while something like a shudder went over her. But the eyes
of her friend did not penetrate the sad secret of her heart.
"Come, dear, say yes. Why do you hesitate? I would hardly believe
myself married if you were not by my side when the nuptial pledge
was given."
"It shall be as you wish," replied Margaret.
"Perhaps you misunderstood me," said Lizzy, playfully; "I was not
speaking of my funeral, but of my wedding."
This sportive sally gave Margaret an opportunity to recover herself,
which she did promptly; and never once, from that time until the
wedding day of her friend arrived, did she by look or word betray
what was in her heart.
Intense was the struggle that went on in the mind of Margaret
Hubert. But it was of no avail; she loved Clinton with a wild
intensity that was only the more fervid from its hopelessness. But
pride and a determined will concealed what neither could destroy.
At last the wedding night of Lizzy Edgar arrived, and a large
company assembled to witness the holy rite that was to be performed,
and to celebrate the occasion with appropriate festivities.
Margaret, when the morning of that day broke coldly and drearily
upon her, felt so sad at heart that she wept, and, weeping, wished
that she could die. There had been full time for reflection since,
by her own acts, she had repulsed one in whom her heart felt a deep
interest, and repulsed him with such imprudent force that he never
returned to her again. Suffering had chastened her spirit, although
it could not still the throbbings of pain. As the time approached
when she must stand beside her friend and listen to vows of
perpetual love that she would have given all the world, were it in
her possession, to hear as her own, she felt that she was about
entering upon a trial for which her strength would be little more
than adequate.
But there was no retreat now. The ordeal had to be passed through.
At last the time of trial came, and she descended with her friend,
and stood up with her before the minister of God, who was to say the
fitting words and receive the solemn vows required in the marriage
covenant. From the time Margaret took her place on the floor, she
felt her power over herself failing. Most earnestly did she struggle
for calmness and self-control, but the very fear that inspired this
struggle made it ineffectual. When the minister in a deeply
impressive voice, said, "I pronounce you husband and wife," her eyes
grew dim, and her limbs trembled and failed; she sunk forward, and
was only kept from falling by the arm of the minister, which was
extended in time to save her.
Twenty years have passed since that unhappy evening, and Margaret
Hubert is yet unmarried. It was long before she could quench the
fire that had burned so fiercely in her heart. When it did go out,
the desolate hearth it left remained ever after cold and dark.
FOLLOWING THE FASHIONS.
"WHAT is this?" asked Henry Grove of his sister Mary, lifting, as he
spoke, a print from the centre-table.
"A fashion plate," was the quiet reply.
"A fashion plate? What in the name of wonder, are you doing with a
fashion plate?"
"To see what the fashions are."
"And what then?"
"To follow them, of course."
"Mary, is it possible you are so weak? I thought better of my
sister."
"Explain yourself, Mr. Censor," replied Mary with an arch look, and
a manner perfectly self-possessed.
"There is nothing I despise so much as a heartless woman of
fashion."
"Such an individual is certainly, not much to be admired, Henry. But
there is a vast difference you must recollect, between a lady who
regards the prevailing mode of dress and a _heartless_ woman, be she
attired in the latest style, or in the costume of the times of good
queen Bess. A fashionably dressed woman need not, of necessity, be
heartless."
"O no, of course not; nor did I mean to say so. But it is very
certain, to my mind, that any one who follows the fashions cannot be
very sound in the head. And where there is not much head, it seems
to me there is never a superabundance of heart."
"Quite a philosopher!"
"You needn't try to beat me off by ridicule, Mary. I am in earnest."
"What about?"
"In condemning this blind slavery to fashion."
"You follow the fashions."
"No, Mary, I do not."
"Your looks very much belie you, then."
"Mary!"
"Nonsense! Don't look so grave. What I say is true. You follow the
fashion as much as I do."
"I am sure I never examined a plate of fashions in my life."
"If you have not, your tailor has for you, many a time."
"I don't believe a word of it. I don't have my clothes cut in the
height of the fashion. They are made plain and comfortable. There is
nothing about them that is put on merely because it is fashionable."
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"It is a fact."
"Why do you have your lappels made to roll three button-holes
instead of two. There's father's old coat, made, I don't know when,
that roll but two."
"Because, I suppose, its now the fash--"
"Ah, exactly! Didn't I get you there nicely?"
"No, but Mary, that's the tailor's business, not mine."
"Of course,--you trust to him to make you clothes according to the
fashion, while I choose to see if the fashions are just such as
suits my stature, shape, and complexion, that I may adopt them
fullly, or deviate from them in a just and rational manner. So there
is this difference between us; you follow the fashions blindly, and
I with judgment and discrimination!"
"Indeed, Mary, you are too bad."
"Do I speak anything but the truth?"
"I should be very sorry, indeed, if your deductions were true in
regard to my following the fashions so blindly, if indeed at all."
"But don't you follow them?"
"I never think about them."
"If you don't, somehow or other, you manage to be always about even
with the prevailing modes. I don't see any difference between your
dress and that of other young men."
"I don't care a fig for the fashions, Mary!" rejoined Henry,
speaking with some warmth.
"So you say."
"And so I mean."
"Then why do you wear fashionable clothes?"
"I don't wear fashionable clothes--that is--I----"
"You have figured silk or cut velvet buttons, on your coat, I
believe. Let me see? Yes. Now, lasting buttons are more durable, and
I remember very well when you wore them. But they are out of
fashion! And here is your collar turned down over your black satin
stock, (where, by the by, have all the white cravats gone, that were
a few years ago so fashionable?) as smooth as a puritan's! Don't you
remember how much trouble you used to have, sometimes, to get your
collar to stand up just so? Ah, brother, you are an incorrigible
follower of the fashions!"
"But, Mary, it is a great deal less trouble to turn the collar over
the stock."
"I know it is, now that it is fashionable to do so."
"It is, though, in fact."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"But when it was fashionable to have the collar standing, you were
very willing to take the trouble."
"You would not have me affect singularity, sister?"
"Me? No, indeed! I would have you continue to follow the fashions as
you are now doing. I would have you dress like other people. And
there is one other thing that I would like to see in you."
"What is that."
"I would like to see you willing to allow me the same privilege."
"You have managed your case so ingeniously, Mary," her brother now
said, "as to have beaten me in argument, though I am very sure that
I am right, and you in error, in regard to the general principle. I
hold it to be morally wrong to follow the fashions. They are
unreasonable and arbitrary in their requirements, and it is a
species of miserable folly, to be led about by them. I have
conversed a good deal with old aunt Abigail on the subject, and she
perfectly agrees with me. Her opinions, you can not, of course,
treat with indifference?"
"No, not my aunt's. But for all that, I do not think that either she
or uncle Absalom is perfectly orthodox on all matters."
"I think that they can both prove to you beyond a doubt that it is a
most egregious folly to be ever changing with the fashions."
"And I think that I can prove to them that they are not at all
uninfluenced by the fickle goddess."
"Do so, and I will give up the point. Do so and I will avow myself
an advocate of fashion."
"As you are now in fact. But I accept your challenge, even though
the odds of age and numbers are against me. I am very much mistaken,
indeed, if I cannot maintain my side of the argument, at least to my
own satisfaction."
"You may do that probably; but certainly not to ours."
"We will see," was the laughing reply.
It was a few evenings after, that Henry Grove and his sister called
in to see uncle Absalom and aunt Abigail, who were of the old
school, and rather ultra-puritanical in their habits and notions.
Mary could not but feel, as she came into their presence, that it
would be rowing against wind and tide to maintain her point with
them--confirmed as they were in their own views of things, and with
the respect due to age to give weight to their opinions.
Nevertheless, she determined resolutely to maintain her own side of
the question, and to use all the weapons, offensive and defensive,
that came to her hand. She was a light-hearted girl, with a high
flow of spirits, and a quick and discriminating mind. All these were
in her favor. The contest was not long delayed, for Henry, feeling
that he had powerful auxiliaries on his side, was eager to see his
own positions triumph, as he was sure that they must. The welcome
words that greeted their entrance had not long been said, before he
asked, turning to his aunt,--
"What do you think I found on Mary's table, the other day, Aunt
Abigail?"
"I don't know, Henry. What was it?"
"You will be surprised to hear,--a fashion plate! And that is not
all. By her own confession, she was studying it in order to conform
to the prevailing style of dress. Hadn't you a better opinion of
her?"
"I certainly had," was aunt Abigail's half smiling, half grave
reply.
"Why, what harm is there in following the fashions, aunt?" Mary
asked.
"A great deal, my dear. It is following after the vanities of this
life. The apostle tells us not to be conformed to this world."
"I know he does; but what has that to do with the fashions? He
doesn't say that you shall not wear fashionable garments; at least I
never saw the passage."
"But that is clearly what he means, Mary."
"I doubt it. Let us hear what he further says; perhaps that will
guide us to a truer meaning?"
"He says: 'But be ye transformed by the renewing of your minds.'
That elucidates and gives force to what goes before."
"So I think, clearly upsetting your position. The apostle evidently
has reference to a deeper work than mere _external_ non-conformity
in regard to the cut of the coat, or the fashion of the dress. Be ye
not conformed to this world in its selfish, principles and
maxims--be ye not as the world, lovers of self more than lovers of
God--but be ye transformed by the renewing of your minds. That is
the way I understand him."
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