People of the Whirlpool by Mabel Osgood Wright
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Mabel Osgood Wright >> People of the Whirlpool
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"Father, on thy heart I lean
When the world comes not between."
* * * * *
_August_ 30. Sylvia and Horace were married under sunshine yesterday in
the little chantry of the church that is used in winter and for week-day
services. To-day the cold northeasterly storm has come, under cover of
which August so often disappears and September enters the marshes upon
the wings of low-flying plovers, to the discordant call of the first
waterfowl of the return migration.
Mr. Latham came to the wedding. In fact, he has been here several times
during the month. He is a well-built man, under sixty, dark and taciturn,
and would be handsome but for the hard expression of his face.
His attitude toward the world has seemed to be one of perpetual parry and
self-defence; of course he may have good reason for this distrust, or, as
Evan says, he may have brought the necessity upon himself by his constant
severity of attack on others. Yesterday I partly changed my mind about
him. He evidently once had tender feelings, but, from what cause who can
say, they have in some way been compressed and frozen until they exist
only as hurts.
Sylvia was married in bridal white. She had wished to wear a travelling
gown and go away from the chantry door, but Miss Lavinia argued her out
of the notion, saying, "Horace has the right to a pretty bride, even if
you do not care." It would have taken but very little, after the strain
of the last two months, to make Sylvia morbid and old beyond her years,
her one thought seeming to be to get away from the surroundings of the
past year and begin to live anew.
Our group, and a dozen friends of the Bradfords, including some from
Northbridge who belonged to both, filled the little chapel which Horace,
Martin, and Evan had trimmed with flowers wholly from our garden. At the
last moment, Mrs. Jenks-Smith, whom we thought abroad, dashed up in a
depot hack, perspiring and radiant, her smart gown having a most peculiar
and unnatural looking promontory on the chest. "No, my dear, I'm not in
Carlsbad. Jenks-Smith was called back on business, and I sniffed the
wedding in the air and hooked on,--only arrived last night. _Have_ you
seen the papers? Hush, I'll tell you later," and her voice sank into an
awed whisper, and she gave a startled look as the bride entered on her
father's arm, with Ian and Richard as her only attendants. Having heard
so much talk of marrying and of weddings, they had asked Sylvia to let
them be "bridesmaids," and it seemed she really wanted them. Their faces
were solemn to the verge of comedy as they walked hand in hand before
her, their feet in brand-new pumps, keeping step and pointing out
carefully, while their evident satisfaction brought a smile like a ray of
belated sunshine to the face of the serious bride.
I watched Mr. Latham, usually so immovable, during the ceremony as he
stepped back from the altar into the shadows, when he left Sylvia finally
with Horace. His shoulders lost their squareness, his head drooped; but
when I saw that it was to hide the tears that filled his eyes, I looked
away. Father says he has seen this type of man, contracted by
money-getting, hardened by selfish misunderstanding, recover himself,
soften, and grow young again at the transforming touch of grandchildren.
Who knows, Sylvia may find her childhood's father again some day.
When we went back to the cottage for luncheon, the bump in Mrs.
Jenks-Smith's corsage was removed, and proved to be a gift for
Sylvia,--a thick leather case, holding a rich neck ornament of diamonds,
a sort of collar with pendants, for the Lady of the Bluffs is nothing if
not generous.
"I got it in this way without paying a cent of duty," she said in a stage
whisper to Miss Lavinia and me in the hall, as she struggled to release
the box, wrenching off a waist hook or two as she did so.
"Jenks-Smith said it didn't look natural, and I'd surely be spotted, but
I said I'd like to see mere hired men try to tell a lady how stout or how
thin she had a right to be. Almost too gorgeous for a professor's wife?
Not a bit; Miss Lavinia, you're not advanced. Nobody knows nowadays, at
the launching, how anybody's going to turn out,--whether they'll sink or
float,--and diamonds are an all-right cargo, anyway. If she moves up, she
can wear 'em, if she slumps, she can sell 'em, and if she just drifts
along on the level, she can look at 'em once in a time. No, my dear,
diamonds are a consolation that no woman can afford to miss."
Considering her usual careless good nature, it seemed to me that Mrs.
Jenks-Smith was very fussy during the luncheon, ill at ease, and
strangely anxious to hurry the departure of Sylvia and Horace. The
guests, all but ourselves, left first, then Mr. Latham, who went upstairs
to take leave of his daughter alone. When Sylvia finally came down, her
colour had returned and she looked her radiant self again as she kissed
Miss Lavinia and Mrs. Bradford, and went down the steps holding Horace,
not by the arm, but clinging to his hand.
As the carriage disappeared around the bend of the road, and as we
stood looking at one another, feeling for a second the reaction and the
sense of an empty house that always follows the going of a bride, the
Lady of the Bluffs sank into a deep chair exclaiming, "Thank the Lord,
they've gone!"
"Why, what is it? Are you ill?" cried father, who was just leaving,
coming quickly to her side.
"It's this. I wanted to get her started north ahead of it. When she comes
back she won't care so much," she replied incoherently, pulling a scrap
of a morning newspaper from her card-case and holding it out at random
for the nearest one to take. Father caught it from her hand, and going
to the window, read aloud in slow, precisive accents of astonishment:--
"AN EVENT OF INTEREST TO NEW YORK SOCIETY.
"(SPECIAL CABLE TO NEW YORK HERALD.)
"LONDON, Aug. 29.--Yesterday the marriage took place of Montgomery Bell
to Mrs. Vivian Latham, both of New York. The wedding, at the registrar's
and quite informal, was followed by a breakfast given the couple by
Mrs. Center--who chanced, with several other intimates of the American
colony, to be in the city en route to the German baths,--at her apartment
which she always keeps in readiness for occupancy. Mr. Bell, who is a
member of all the best clubs, is known socially as the 'Indispensable.'
Mr. and Mrs. Bell will return to New York in November and open their
magnificent house at Central Park East with a series of the delightful
entertainments which they both so well know how to render unique."
XIV
THE OASIS
_September_ 8. Three lowering days of wind and rain, and Summer, after a
feigned departure, has returned to complete her task of perfecting.
She does this year after year--the marvel is that we are ever deceived;
but after all, what is it but the conflict between arbitrary and natural
law? The almanac-maker says that on the first day of September autumn is
due. Nature, the orbit-maker, proclaims it summer until, the month
three-quarters old, the equinox is crossed. Nature is always right, and
after the usual breezy argument sends Summer, her garments a bit
storm-tattered, perchance, back to her own.
The ill wind that dashed the tall auratum lilies in the garden to the
ground, stripped the clinging fingers of the sweet peas from their
trellis, and decapitated the heavy-headed dahlias, has blown me good,
held me indoors awhile, sent me to my attic confessional once more, with
conscience for priest, and the twins for acolytes, though they presently
turned catechists with an entirely new series of questions.
When I have not opened my desk or my garden book for some time, and the
planting season, be it of spring or of autumn, as now, overtakes me
unawares, I am always newly convinced that gardening is the truly
religious life, for it implies a continual preparation for the future, a
treading in the straight and narrow path that painful experience alone
can mark, an absorption beyond compare, and the continual exercise of
hope and love, but above all, of entire childlike faith.
When the time had come in the creative evolution for the stamping of the
perfected animal with the Divine image that forever separates him from
all previous types, it was no wonder that God set man, in whom the
perpetual struggle between the body and soul was to take place, in a
garden for his education.
* * * * *
Recently the boys have been absorbed in their little printing press,
which they have established in my attic corner, the present working
motive having come from the card announcing Sylvia's marriage to the
world in general, according to Mr. Latham's desire. Richard secured one
of these and busied himself an entire morning in setting it in type, for
the first time in his experience getting the capitals and small letters
in their proper places. The result was so praiseworthy that Evan hunted
up a large box of ornamental cards for them in town, and for two days
they have been "filling orders" for every one in the household.
I print the names they wish to copy very distinctly in big letters.
Richard does the type-setting, which is altogether too slow work for Ian,
who, as pressman, does the inking and printing, and in the process has
actually learned his tardy letters. As to the distributing and cleaning
of the type, I find a little assistance is gratefully accepted, even by
patient Richard, whose dear little pointed fingers by this time have
become tired, and fumble.
To-day, having exhausted the simple family names, they have tried
combinations and experiments with the words Mr., Mrs., and Miss, much
to their own amusement, "_Miss_ Timothy Saunders" being considered a
huge joke.
Suddenly Ian looked up with one of his most compelling, whimsical smiles,
and said, "Barbara, grandpop's Mrs. was grandma, and she's in heaven, but
where is Mrs. Uncle Martin?"
Rather startled, I said that I didn't know,--that there had never been
any Mrs. Uncle Martin.
"Why not?" persisted Ian, an answer that is simply an acknowledgment of
ignorance never being accepted by a child. Before I could think Richard
chirped out: "But Aunt Lavinia hasn't any Mr. for her card neiver, and
Martha, she said the other day that there was a Mr. and a Mrs. for
everybody, only sometimes they couldn't find each other for ever so long.
She told that to Effie, and I heard her."
A short pause, and then Ian jumped up, clapping his hands with joy, as
the solution of the problem flashed across him.
"I know what's happened, Barbara; maybe Uncle Martin's Mrs. and Aunt
Lavinia's Mr. has gone and got lost together, and some day they'll find
it out and bring each ovver back! Do you think they will, so we can have
some more weddings and pink ice cream, and couldn't we hurry up and help
find them? I guess we better print him some Mrs. cards so as in case."
I had drifted into gardening work on paper again, and I believe I said
that he had better ask Uncle Martin what he thought about the matter, and
at that moment the bell rang for luncheon.
The ringing of bells for meals in this house is what Lavinia Dorman
calls "a relic of barbarism," that she greatly deplores; but as I tell
her, our family gathers from so many points of the compass that if the
maid announced the meals, she would have to be gifted with the instinct
of a chaser of strayed freight cars.
Ian's queries have brought up a subject that has deluded and eluded my
hopes all summer, and has finally ended in the people that I hoped would
drift through the doorway of one of my most substantial air castles
refusing so to do, or else being too blind to see the open door.
Martin and Lavinia are the best possible friends, have been constantly in
each other's society, see from nearly the same point of view, and both
agree and disagree upon the same subjects, but they have not settled the
question of loneliness of living as I hoped, by making the companionship
permanent, _via_ matrimony.
Of course, I did not expect them to fall in love exactly as Evan and I or
Horace and Sylvia did--that belongs to spring and summer; still, I
thought that when they started worm-hunting together, and played checkers
every evening, that they were beginning to find each other mutually
indispensable, at least.
But no. Martin stored away his papers in the old desk, and went to New
York a week ago to see several suites of bachelor apartments that had
been offered him.
He writes this morning that he has found one to his liking, and will
return to-night, if he may, and stay over to-morrow to pack his things.
Meanwhile Miss Lavinia has sent her maids to clean and open her house in
"Greenwich Village," and will go home on Monday, spending her final
Sunday with me. Josephus went with the maids; the country had a
demoralizing effect upon him.
Miss Lavinia has been agitating moving uptown, several of her friends at
the Bluffs insisting that an apartment near the Park is much more
suitable for her than the little house so far from the social centre,
saying it is no wonder she is lonely and out of things; but yesterday she
told me that she had abandoned the idea of change, and had sent orders to
have her old back yard garden dismantled and the whole plot paved, as it
was now only a suitable place for drying clothes. Also that she had
written to ask her father's cousin Lydia, whose Staten Island home had
been built in by progress, very much like her own garden, to come to pass
the winter with her; and, lest she should repent of so rash an act, she
had given the letter to Evan before the ink was fairly dry, as he passed
the cottage on the way to the train, that he might post it in the city.
One consolation remains to me in the wreck of my romantic hopes for
her--Miss Lavinia has liked our neighbourhood so well that she has taken
the Alton cottage that she now occupies on a three years' lease, and
intends living here from May to October. The rambling garden is full of
old-time, hardy plants and roses, and oh, what good times we shall have
together there next spring, for of course she will stop with me when she
is getting things in order, and I can spare her enough roots and cuttings
to fill every spare inch of ground,--so, with Sylvia at Pine Ridge, what
more can I ask? The strain and hubbub of the Bluffs seems to be quite
vanishing from the foreground and merging with the horizon.
That reminds me that the people are drifting back quite rapidly now. The
golfers are afield again Sundays, and all talk of introducing fox hunting
with tame foxes; but they will have to learn the land, with its dips and
rocks, better first, or there will be a pretty crop of cracked crowns for
father. At present, I think that New England Prejudice will soon however
get the upper hand here, and tighten her hold of the reins that seemed
slipping from her grasp, which is well, for she has long borne aloft the
only standard of national morality whose code is not a sliding scale.
* * * * *
_September_ 9. Martin came back to-night. As he entered the house with
Evan I positively did not know him, for he has shaved off his mustache
and queer little pussy-cat whiskers, and with them has gone his
"pudgyness." He is really a very fine-looking man, and his features are
developed by the shaving process in an unexpected way. He seems so wide
awake, too, and alive to everything that passes, that I could see that
father, who came from the office to greet him, had difficulty in
restraining his surprise, but he contented himself by asking:--
"How did you fare with the publishers? Did you fall among thieves or
among friends?"
"That is equivalent to asking if my book has been accepted, as it is only
when work is refused that we call the mediums through which we seek to
reach the public hard names. Yes, the fate of my book is soon told; it
has found its place, and is to be fully illustrated as well, though it
will take me many months to collect the unique material they desire; this
insures me a busy winter, for which I am not only prepared but eager.
"I wish I could as easily tell you what this summer here has done for me,
Dick," and he leaned over the chair in which father had seated himself
and laid his arm affectionately across his shoulder. "I think in asking
me here you rescued me from as dangerous a condition of mental apathy as
when you stood by my bed so many years ago."
"Don't thank me," said father, leaning back and looking up at him, "thank
God's sunshine, work, the babies here, and why not woman's society
also,--you used to appreciate that, too, eh, Martin, old man? Give
everybody his, or rather her, due."
"Yes," I heard him answer, as if pondering the matter, while I fled
discreetly upstairs at this juncture, "you doubtless are right; Lavinia
Dorman's criticisms have been of infinite value in ridding my work of a
litter of words that encumbered the spirit and purpose of it. She is
direct and to the point, and yet withal most sympathetic. I had thought
of dedicating the book to her in some private way, for really we are
joint heirs, as it were, in so many traditions and habits of old New
York, that it would not seem strained or inappropriate."
"On the contrary, I think it most suitable, and I would not go to any
great pains to hide the compliment of the dedication under a bushel of
disguise either, if I were you. The Lydia Languish age of abnormal
privacy and distorted, unhealthy sensibility has fortunately passed.
Nowadays women like men to be direct, outspoken, definite, where they are
concerned."
"Do you think so?" asked Martin, in real surprise. "I feared possibly
that it might annoy her."
"I know so--annoy her, fudge!" was father's comment.
* * * * *
When we went in to dinner, Miss Lavinia at once noticed the change in
Martin's appearance, and said, in a spirit of mischief which of course I
alone noticed:--
"Back from the city, and with new clothes, too,--how very smart and
becoming they are."
But poor Martin was quite guileless, and looking down at his coat in a
puzzled way, as if to make doubly sure, replied, "No, it cannot be my
clothes, for they are the same." Then, brightening, as the possible
reason occurred to him: "Perhaps it may be my shaven face; you see, the
barber made an error in the trimming of my decorations yesterday, and he
thought it better to take them entirely off and have them grow afresh,
but I had not thought of the matter in the light of an improvement."
"But it is one, most decidedly," continued Miss Lavinia, nodding brightly
across at him, while father, who now realized the change he could not
locate, cried:--
"Don't let them grow again, my boy. You look ten years younger, at the
very least, which you know at our age is not to be despised!"
Then we all grew hilarious, and talked together like a lot of school
children, and when the boys came in to dessert, as usual, they also were
infectiously boisterous over the catching of some bass in the river where
Timothy Saunders had taken them that afternoon as a special treat. They
clamoured and begged so for Uncle Martin to stop over the next day for
fishing and have one more good time with them, that he, feeling flattered
almost to the point of embarrassment, yielded upon Evan's suggesting
that, instead of going by the eight o'clock morning train as he intended,
he could wait for one late in the evening, which would get him to town
before eleven. For Martin was to move into his new bachelor apartments
the following morning.
The three men lingered long at the table, smoking, the talk punctuated by
long periods of silence, each regretting in his own way the present
terminating of the summer intercourse, and yet, I fancy, realizing that
it had lasted exactly the safe length of time. To be able to adapt
oneself temporarily to the presence of outsiders in a house is a healthy
habit, but to adjust a family to do it permanently is to lose what can
never be regained. Miss Lavinia and I agreed upon that long ago, and for
this reason I am very much surprised that she has asked her cousin Lydia
to spend the winter, with a view of making the arrangement permanent.
The boys brought some of their games downstairs, and succeeded in adding
half an hour to their bedtime by coaxing Aunt Lavinia to play with them,
until I finally had to almost carry them to bed, they grew so suddenly
sleepy from their day's fishing.
When I returned below stairs after the boys were asleep, father had gone
to the village, Evan was walking up and down outside, all the windows and
doors were open again, and the sultry air answered the katydids' cry for
"Some-more-heat, some-more-heat."
Miss Lavinia was still in the hall, sitting on the lower step of the
stairs, for the boys had been using the broad landing that made a turn at
the top of the three steps as a place to play their games. Martin stood
leaning on the newel post, and from the few words I heard I knew that he
was telling her about the proposed dedication, so I went out and joined
Evan, for it seems as though we had had little leisure outdoors together
of late, and as if it was time to make it up as best we might.
Then, once again, as we crossed the streak of light that streamed like a
narrow moon path from the doorway, Evan paused and nodded his head toward
the hall. I turned--there sat Miss Lavinia and Martin Cortright on the
stairs, playing with the boys'--jack-straws!
"After this, what?" I asked, in my mirth leaning backward on Evan's
supporting arm.
"To be pat, it ought to be the deluge," chuckled Evan; "but as these are
prosy times, it simply means the end has been reached, and that to-morrow
they will put away mild summer madness, and return to the Whirlpool to
paddle about decorously as of yore."
I find that I am not the only person who is disappointed at the absence
of matrimonial intentions between Martin and Miss Lavinia. The
postmistress told me yesterday that she's been expecting to hear of a
second wedding any day, as when one took place it always meant three,
though she couldn't "fetch the third couple together, even in her mind's
eye," which I have found to be usually a capacious and well filled optic.
Mrs. Barton also stopped Martha Corkle on the road, and said with an
insinuating sneer, "She'd always supposed that the gentleman from New
York who lodged with her was making up to the proud old maid at the
Doctor's, but as he evidently wasn't going to, she'd advise Mrs. Evan to
watch out, as Miss Lavinia, doubtless being disappointed, might set her
cap for the Doctor himself, and then the Lord knows what would happen,
men being so easily flattered and trapped."
Martha was indignant, and I must say very rude, for she snapped back: "I
wonder at that same bein' your holdin', Mrs. Barton, bein' as you've five
maid daughters that's not so by their desirin', folks do say as knows."
Mud throwers should be careful to wear gloves,--their ammunition
is sticky.
* * * * *
_September_ 10. This morning father and I were obliged to go to town upon
some hospital business, and as we had to remain there for luncheon, or
perhaps longer, we took the train instead of driving over, leaving
Lavinia to pack, so that she might have a free Saturday to drive with me
to bid Mrs. Bradford good-by, and learn the latest news of Sylvia and
Horace. Meanwhile the boys were to go fishing with Martin, who is as
careful of them as possible, taking their lunch with them.
They did not have good luck, however, and growing restless and tired of
fishing without catching, Martin brought them home by three o'clock, and
as both he and Miss Lavinia had finished their preparations for leaving,
they went out to the seat by the rose arbour to enjoy what was left of
the glorious afternoon, for it has been one of those days that come in
dreams, so perfect that one knows it cannot last.
"I hope that I shall not lose all track of you this winter," said Miss
Lavinia. "Of course you will be busy, but you might spare a lonely woman
an evening now and then for piquet, or whist if Evan or the Doctor should
come to town."
"Lose track of you, Miss Lavinia,--how could that be possible?" queried
Martin in mild-eyed astonishment. "You know there will be a second volume
of the book for you to read and criticise, besides all the illustrations
to discuss. No, I hoped that you could spare me two definite evenings
every week, at least until the work is in press, though I suppose that is
asking a great deal of a woman having so many friends, and places to go."
"If you could see the way I spend my evenings alone, you would not
hesitate. Of course I do dine out once in a time, and people come to me,
but between times--I envy even Josephus, who can have social enjoyment
any time by merely scratching on the door and running along the palings
to the neighbours."
"I am glad, for I decided upon taking the Washington Square rooms,
instead of moving up nearer the Clubs as my friends advised, because I
thought it would be so much more convenient if, in proof correcting, I
should require to consult you hastily."
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