Atlantic Monthly, Volume 3, No. 20, June, 1859 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 3, No. 20, June, 1859

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"Thank you, my beautiful child, for so good a thought. It is truly a
noble sentiment, though practicable only to those gifted with angelic
natures."

"Oh, I trust not," said Mary, earnestly touched and wrought upon, more
than she herself knew, by the beautiful eyes, the modulated voice, the
charm of manner, which seemed to enfold her like an Italian summer.

Burr sighed,--a real sigh of his better nature, but passed out with all
the more freedom that he felt it would interest his fair companion, who,
for the time being, was the one woman of the world to him.

"Pure and artless souls like yours," he said, "cannot measure the
temptations of those who are called to the real battle of life in a
world like this. How many nobler aspirations fall withered in the fierce
heat and struggle of the conflict!"

He was saying then what he really felt, often bitterly felt,--but
_using_ this real feeling advisedly, and with skilful tact, for the
purpose of the hour.

What was this purpose? To win the regard, the esteem, the tenderness of
a religious, exalted nature shrined in a beautiful form,--to gain and
hold ascendency. It was a life-long habit,--one of those forms of
refined self-indulgence which he pursued, thoughtless and reckless of
consequences. He had found now the key-note of the character; it was a
beautiful instrument, and he was well pleased to play on it.

"I think, Sir," said Mary, modestly, "that you forget the great
provision made for our weakness."

"How?" he said.

"They that _wait on the Lord_ shall renew their strength," she replied,
gently.

He looked at her, as she spoke these words, with a pleased, artistic
perception of the contrast between her worldly attire and the simple,
religious earnestness of her words.

"She is entrancing!" he thought to himself,--"so altogether fresh and
_naive_!"

"My sweet saint," he said, "such as you are the appointed guardians of
us coarser beings. The prayers of souls given up to worldliness and
ambition effect little. You must intercede for us. I am very orthodox,
you see," he added, with that subtle smile which sometimes irradiated
his features. "I am fully aware of all that your reverend doctor tells
you of the worthlessness of unregenerate doings; and so, when I see
angels walking below, I try to secure 'a friend at court.'"

He saw that Mary looked embarrassed and pained at this banter, and
therefore added, with a delicate shading of earnestness,--

"In truth, my fair young friend, I hope you _will_ sometimes pray for
me. I am sure, if I have any chance of good, it will come in such a
way."

"Indeed I will," said Mary, fervently,--her little heart full, tears
in her eyes, her breath coming quick,--and she added, with a deepening
color, "I am sure, Mr. Burr, that there should be a covenant blessing
for you, if for any one, for you are the son of a holy ancestry."

"_Eh, bien, mon ami, qu'est ce que tu fais ici_?" said a gay voice
behind a clump of box; and immediately there started out, like a French
picture from its frame, a dark-eyed figure, dressed like a Marquise of
Louis XIV.'s time, with powdered hair, sparkling with diamonds.

"_Rien que m'amuser_," he replied, with ready presence of mind, in the
same tone, and then added,--"Permit me, Madame, to present to you a
charming specimen of our genuine New England flowers. Miss Scudder,
I have the honor to present you to the acquaintance of Madame de
Frontignac."

"I am very happy," said the lady, with that sweet, lisping accentuation
of English which well became her lovely mouth. "Miss Scudder, I hope, is
very well."

Mary replied in the affirmative,--her eyes resting the while with
pleased admiration on the graceful, animated face and diamond-bright
eyes which seemed looking her through.

"_Monsieur la trouve bien seduisante apparemment_" said the stranger,
in a low, rapid voice, to the gentleman, in a manner which showed a
mingling of pique and admiration.

"_Petite jalouse! rassure-toi_," he replied, with a look and manner into
which, with that mobile force which was peculiar to him, he threw the
most tender and passionate devotion. "_Ne suis-je pas a toi tout a
fait_?"--and as he spoke, he offered her his other arm. "Allow me to be
an unworthy link between the beauty of France and America."

The lady swept a proud curtsy backward, bridled her beautiful neck, and
signed for them to pass her. "I am waiting here for a friend," she said.

"Whatever is your will is mine," replied Burr, bowing with proud
humility, and passing on with Mary to the supper-room.

Here the company were fast assembling, in that high tide of good-humor
which generally sets in at this crisis of the evening.

The scene, in truth, was a specimen of a range of society which in those
times could have been assembled nowhere else but in Newport. There stood
Dr. H. in the tranquil majesty of his lordly form, and by his side, the
alert, compact figure of his contemporary and theological opponent, Dr.
Stiles, who, animated by the social spirit of the hour, was dispensing
courtesies to right and left with the debonair grace of the trained
gentleman of the old school. Near by, and engaging from time to time in
conversation with them, stood a Jewish Rabbin, whose olive complexion,
keen eye, and flowing beard gave a picturesque and foreign grace to the
scene. Colonel Burr, one of the most brilliant and distinguished men of
the New Republic, and Colonel de Frontignac, who had won for himself
laurels in the corps of La Fayette, during the recent revolutionary
struggle, with his brilliant, accomplished wife, were all unexpected and
distinguished additions to the circle.

Burr gently cleared the way for his fair companion, and, purposely
placing her where the full light of the wax chandeliers set off her
beauty to the best advantage, devoted himself to her with a subserviency
as deferential as if she had been a goddess.

For all that, he was not unobservant, when, a few moments after, Madame
de Frontignac was led in, on the arm of a Senator, with whom she was
presently in full flirtation.

He observed, with a quiet, furtive smile, that, while she rattled and
fanned herself, and listened with apparent attention to the flatteries
addressed to her, she darted every now and then a glance keen as a steel
blade towards him and his companion. He was perfectly adroit in playing
off one woman against another, and it struck him with a pleasant sense
of oddity, how perfectly unconscious his sweet and saintly neighbor was
of the position in which she was supposed to stand by her rival; and
poor Mary, all this while, in her simplicity, really thought that she
had seen traces of what she would have called the "strivings of the
spirit" in his soul. Alas! that a phrase weighed down with such
mysterious truth and meaning should ever come to fall on the ear as mere
empty cant!

With Mary it was a living form,--as were all her words; for in nothing
was the Puritan education more marked than in the earnest _reality_ and
truthfulness which it gave to language; and even now, as she stands by
his side, her large blue eye is occasionally fixed in dreamy reverie as
she thinks what a triumph of Divine grace it would be, if these inward
movings of her companion's mind _should_ lead him, as all the pious of
New England hoped, to follow in the footsteps of President Edwards, and
forms wishes that she could see him some time when she could talk to him
undisturbed.

She was too humble and too modest fully to accept the delicious flattery
which he had breathed, in implying that her hand had had power to unseal
the fountains of good in his soul; but still it thrilled through all the
sensitive strings of her nature a tremulous flutter of suggestion.

She had read instances of striking and wonderful conversions from words
dropped by children and women,--and suppose some such thing should
happen to her! and that this so charming and distinguished and powerful
being should be called into the fold of Christ's Church by her means!
No! it was too much to be hoped,--but the very possibility was
thrilling.

When, after supper, Mrs. Scudder and the Doctor made their adieus,
Burr's devotion was still unabated. With an enchanting mixture
of reverence and fatherly protection, he waited on her to the
last,--shawled her with delicate care, and handed her into the small,
one-horse wagon,--as if it had been the coach of a duchess.

"I have pleasant recollections connected with this kind of
establishment," he said, as, after looking carefully at the harness,
he passed the reins into Mrs. Scudder's hands. "It reminds me of
school-days and old times. I hope your horse is quite safe, Madam."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Scudder, "I perfectly understand him."

"Pardon the suggestion," he replied;--"what is there that a New England
matron does _not_ understand? Doctor, I must call by-and-by and have
a little talk with you,--my theology, you know, needs a little
straightening."

"We should all be happy to see you, Colonel Burr," said Mrs. Scudder;
"we live in a very plain way, it is true,"--

"But can always find place for a friend,--that, I trust, is what you
meant to say," he replied, bowing, with his own peculiar grace, as the
carriage drove off.

"Really, a most charming person is this Colonel Burr," said Mrs.
Scudder.

"He seems a very frank, ingenuous young person," said the Doctor; "one
cannot but mourn that the son of such gracious parents should be left to
wander into infidelity."

"Oh, he is not an infidel," said Mary; "he is far from it, though I
think his mind is a little darkened on some points."

"Ah," said the Doctor, "have you had any special religious conversation
with him?"

"A little," said Mary, blushing; "and it seems to me that his mind is
perplexed somewhat in regard to the doings of the unregenerate,--I fear
that it has rather proved a stumbling-block in his way; but he showed so
much feeling!--I could really see the tears in his eyes!"

"His mother was a most godly woman, Mary," said the Doctor. "She was
called from her youth, and her beautiful person became a temple for the
indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Aaron Burr is a child of many prayers,
and therefore there is hope that he may yet be effectually called. He
studied awhile with Bellamy," he added, musingly, "and I have often
doubted whether Bellamy took just the right course with him."

"I hope he _will_ call and talk with you," said Mary, earnestly; "what
a blessing to the world, if such talents as his could become wholly
consecrated!"

"Not many wise, not many mighty, not many noble are called," said the
Doctor; "yet if it would please the Lord to employ my instrumentality
and prayers, how much should I rejoice! I was struck," he added,
"to-night, when I saw those Jews present, with the thought that it was,
as it were, a type of that last ingathering, when both Jew and Gentile
shall sit down lovingly together to the gospel feast. It is only by
passing over and forgetting these present years, when so few are called
and the gospel makes such slow progress, and looking unto that
glorious time, that I find comfort. If the Lord but use me as a dumb
stepping-stone to that heavenly Jerusalem, I shall be content."

Thus they talked while the wagon jogged soberly homeward, and the
frogs and the turtles and the distant ripple of the sea made a drowsy,
mingling concert in the summer-evening air.

Meanwhile Colonel Burr had returned to the lighted rooms, and it was not
long before his quick eye espied Madame de Frontignac standing pensively
in a window-recess, half hid by the curtain. He stole softly up behind
her and whispered something in her ear.

In a moment she turned on him a face glowing--with anger, and drew back
haughtily; but Burr remarked the glitter of tears, not quite dried even
by the angry flush of her eyes.

"In what have I had the misfortune to offend?" he said, crossing his
arms upon his breast. "I stand at the bar, and plead, Not guilty."

He spoke in French, and she replied in the same smooth accents,--

"It was not for her to dispute Monsieur's right to amuse himself."

Burr drew nearer, and spoke in those persuasive, pleading tones which he
had ever at command, and in that language whose very structure in its
delicate _tutoiment_ gives such opportunity for gliding on through shade
after shade of intimacy and tenderness, till gradually the haughty fire
of the eyes was quenched in tears, and, in the sudden revulsion of a
strong, impulsive nature, she said what she called words of friendship,
but which carried with them all the warmth of that sacred fire which is
given to woman to light and warm the temple of home, and which sears and
scars when kindled for any other shrine.

And yet this woman was the wife of his friend and associate!

Colonel de Frontignac was a grave and dignified man of forty-five.
Virginie de Frontignac had been given him to wife when but eighteen,--a
beautiful, generous, impulsive, wilful girl. She had accepted him
gladly, for very substantial reasons. First, that she might come out of
the convent where she was kept for the very purpose of educating her in
ignorance of the world she was to live in. Second, that she might wear
velvet, lace, cashmere, and jewels. Third, that she might be a Madame,
free to go and come, ride, walk, and talk, without surveillance.
Fourth,--and consequent upon this,--that she might go into company and
have admirers and adorers.

She supposed, of course, that she loved her husband;--whom else should
she love? He was the only man, except her father and brothers, that she
had ever known; and in the fortnight that preceded their marriage did he
not send her the most splendid _bons-bons_ every day, with bouquets of
every pattern that ever taxed the brain of a Parisian _artiste_?--was
not the _corbeille de mariage_ a wonder and an envy to all her
acquaintance?--and after marriage had she not found him always a steady,
indulgent friend, easy to be coaxed as any grave papa?

On his part, Monsieur de Frontignac cherished his young wife as a
beautiful, though somewhat absurd little pet, and amused himself with
her frolics and gambols, as the gravest person often will with those of
a kitten.

It was not until she knew Aaron Burr that poor Virginie de Frontignac
came to that great awakening of her being which teaches woman what
she is, and transforms her from a careless child to a deep-hearted,
thinking, suffering human being.

For the first time, in his society she became aware of the charm of a
polished and cultivated mind, able with exquisite tact to adapt itself
to hers, to draw forth her inquiries, to excite her tastes, to stimulate
her observation. A new world awoke around her,--the world of literature
and taste, of art and of sentiment; she felt, somehow, as if she had
gained the growth of years in a few months. She felt within herself the
stirring of dim aspiration, the uprising of a new power of self-devotion
and self-sacrifice, a trance of hero-worship, a cloud of high ideal
images,--the lighting up, in short, of all that God has laid, ready to
be enkindled, in a woman's nature, when the time comes to sanctify her
as the pure priestess of a domestic temple. But, alas! it was kindled
by one who did it only for an experiment, because he felt an artistic
pleasure in the beautiful light and heat, and cared not, though it
burned a soul away.

Burr was one of those men willing to play with any charming woman the
game of those navigators who give to simple natives glass beads and
feathers in return for gold and diamonds,--to accept from a woman her
heart's blood in return for such odds and ends and clippings as he can
afford her from the serious ambition of life.

Look in with us one moment, now that the party is over, and the busy
hum of voices and blaze of lights has died down to midnight silence and
darkness; we make you clairvoyant, and you may look through the walls of
this stately old mansion, still known as that where Rochambeau held his
head-quarters, into this room, where two wax candles are burning on a
toilette table, before an old-fashioned mirror. The slumberous folds
of the curtains are drawn with stately gloom around a high bed, where
Colonel de Frontignac has been for many hours quietly asleep; but
opposite, resting with one elbow on the toilette table, her long black
hair hanging down over her night-dress, and the brush lying listlessly
in her hand, sits Virginie, looking fixedly into the dreamy depths of
the mirror.

Scarcely twenty yet, all unwarned of the world of power and passion that
lay slumbering in her girl's heart, led in the meshes of custom and
society to utter vows and take responsibilities of whose nature she was
no more apprised than is a slumbering babe, and now at last fully awake,
feeling the whole power of that mysterious and awful force which we call
love, yet shuddering to call it by its name, but by its light beginning
to understand all she is capable of, and all that marriage should have
been to her! She struggles feebly and confusedly with her fate, still
clinging to the name of duty, and baptizing as friendship this strange
new feeling which makes her tremble through all her being. How can she
dream of danger in such a feeling, when it seems to her the awakening
of all that is highest and noblest within her? She remembers when she
thought of nothing beyond an opera-ticket or a new dress; and now she
feels that there might be to her a friend for whose sake she would try
to be noble and great and good,--for whom all self-denial, all high
endeavor, all difficult virtue would become possible,--who would be to
her life, inspiration, order, beauty.

She sees him as woman always sees the man she loves,--noble, great, and
good;--for when did a loving woman ever believe a man otherwise?--too
noble, too great, too high, too good, she thinks, for her,--poor,
trivial, ignorant coquette,--poor, childish, trifling Virginie! Has he
not commanded armies? she thinks,--is he not eloquent in the senate?
and yet, what interest he has taken in her, a poor, unformed, ignorant
creature!--she never tried to improve herself till since she knew him.
And he is so considerate, too,--so respectful, so thoughtful and kind,
so manly and honorable, and has such a tender friendship for her, such
a brotherly and fatherly solicitude! and yet, if she is haughty or
imperious or severe, how humbled and grieved he looks! How strange that
she could have power over such a man!

It is one of the saddest truths of this sad mystery of life, that woman
is, often, never so much an angel as just the moment before she falls
into an unsounded depth of perdition. And what shall we say of the man
who leads her on as an experiment,--who amuses himself with taking
woman after woman up these dazzling, delusive heights, knowing, as he
certainly must, where they lead?

We have been told, in extenuation of the course of Aaron Burr, that he
was not a man of gross passions or of coarse indulgence, but, in the
most consummate and refined sense, _a man of gallantry_. This, then, is
the descriptive name which polite society has invented for the man who
does this thing!

Of old, it was thought that one who administered poison in the
sacramental bread and wine had touched the very height of impious
sacrilege; but this crime is white, by the side of his who poisons
God's eternal sacrament of love and destroys a woman's soul through her
noblest and purest affections.

We have given you the after-view of most of the actors of our little
scene to-night, and therefore it is but fair that you should have a peep
over the Colonel's shoulder, as he sums up the evening in a letter to a
friend.

"MY DEAR ----

"As to the business, it gets on rather slowly. L---- and S---- are away,
and the coalition cannot be formed without them; they set out a week ago
from Philadelphia, and are yet on the road.

"Meanwhile, we have some providential alleviations,--as, for example,
a wedding-party to-night, at the Wilcoxes', which was really quite an
affair. I saw the prettiest little Puritan there that I have set eyes on
for many a day. I really couldn't help getting up a flirtation with her,
although it was much like flirting with a small copy of the 'Assembly's
Catechism,'--of which last I had enough years ago, Heaven knows.

"But, really, such a _naive_, earnest little saint, who has such real
deadly belief, and opens such pitying blue eyes on one, is quite a
stimulating novelty. I got myself well scolded by the fair Madame, (as
angels scold,) and had to plead like a lawyer to make my peace;--after
all, that woman really enchains me. Don't shake your head wisely,--'
What's going to be the end of it?' I'm sure I don't know; we'll see,
when the time comes.

"Meanwhile, push the business ahead with all your might. I shall not be
idle. D---- must canvass the Senate thoroughly. I wish I could be in two
places at once,--I would do it myself. _Au revoir_.

"Ever yours,

"Burr."

CHAPTER XV.

"And now, Mary," said Mrs. Scudder, at five o'clock the next morning,
"to-day, you know, is the Doctor's fast; so we won't get any regular
dinner, and it will be a good time to do up all our little odd jobs.
Miss Prissy promised to come in for two or three hours this morning, to
alter the waist of that black silk; and I shouldn't be surprised if we
should get it all done and ready to wear by Sunday."

We will remark, by way of explanation to a part of this conversation,
that our Doctor, who was a specimen of life in earnest, made a practice,
through the greater part of his pulpit course, of spending every
Saturday as a day of fasting and retirement, in preparation for the
duties of the Sabbath.

Accordingly, the early breakfast things were no sooner disposed of than
Miss Prissy's quick footsteps might have been heard pattering in the
kitchen.

"Well, Miss Scudder, how do you do this morning? and how do you do,
Mary? Well, if you a'n't the beaters! up just as early as ever, and
everything cleared away! I was telling Miss Wilcox there didn't ever
seem to be anything done in Miss Scudder's kitchen, and I did verily
believe you made your beds before you got up in the morning.

"Well, well, wasn't that a party last night?" she said, as she sat down
with the black silk and prepared her ripping-knife.--"I must rip this
myself, Miss Scudder; for there's a great deal in ripping silk so as not
to let anybody know where it has been sewed.--You didn't know that I was
at the party, did you? Well, I was. You see, I thought I'd just step
round there, to see about that money to get the Doctor's shirt with, and
there I found Miss Wilcox with so many things on her mind, and says she,
'Miss Prissy, you don't know how much it would help me if I had somebody
like you just to look after things a little here.' And says I, 'Miss
Wilcox, you just go right to your room and dress, and don't you give
yourself one minute's thought about anything, and you see if I don't
have everything just right.' And so, there I was, in for it; and I just
staid through, and it was well I did,--for Dinah, she wouldn't have put
near enough egg into the coffee, if it hadn't been for me; why, I just
went and beat up four eggs with my own hands and stirred 'em into the
grounds.

"Well,--but, really, wasn't I behind the door, and didn't I peep into
the supper-room? I saw who was a-waitin' on Miss Mary. Well, they do say
he's the handsomest, most fascinating man. Why, they say all the ladies
in Philadelphia are in a perfect quarrel about him; and I heard he said
he hadn't seen such a beauty he didn't remember when."

"We all know that beauty is of small consequence," said Mrs. Scudder. "I
hope Mary has been brought up to feel that."

"Oh, of course," said Miss Prissy, "it's just like a fading flower; all
is to be good and useful,--and that's what she is. I told 'em that her
beauty was the least part of her; though I must say, that dress did fit
like a biscuit,--if 'twas my own fitting.

"But, Miss Scudder, what do you think I heard 'em saying about the good
Doctor?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Scudder; "I only know they couldn't
say anything bad."

"Well, not bad exactly," said Miss Prissy,--"but they say he's getting
such strange notions in his head. Why, I heard some of 'em say, he's
going to come out and preach against the slave-trade; and I'm sure I
don't know what Newport folks will do, if that's wicked. There a'n't
hardly any money here that's made any other way; and I hope the Doctor
a'n't a-going to do anything of that sort."

"I believe he is," said Mrs. Scudder; "he thinks it's a great sin, that
ought to be rebuked;--and I think so too," she added, bracing herself
resolutely; "that was Mr. Scudder's opinion when I first married him,
and it's mine."

"Oh,--ah,--yes,--well,--if it's a sin, of course," said Miss Prissy;
"but then--dear me!--it don't seem as if it could be. Why, just think
how many great houses are living on it;--why, there's General Wilcox
himself, and he's a very nice man; and then there's Major Seaforth; why,
I could count you off a dozen,--all our very first people. Why, Doctor
Stiles doesn't think so, and I'm sure he's a good Christian. Doctor
Stiles thinks it's a dispensation for giving the light of the gospel
to the Africans. Why, now I'm sure, when I was a-workin' at Deacon
Stebbins', I stopped over Sunday once 'cause Miss Stebbins she was
weakly,--'twas when she was getting up, after Samuel was born,--no, on
the whole, I believe it was Nehemiah,--but, any way, I remember I staid
there, and I remember, as plain as if 'twas yesterday, just after
breakfast, how a man went driving by in a chaise, and the Deacon he went
out and stopped him ('cause you know he was justice of the peace) for
travelling on the Lord's day, and who should it be but Tom Seaforth?--he
told the Deacon his father had got a ship-load of negroes just come
in,--and the Deacon he just let him go; 'cause I remember he said that
was a plain work of necessity and mercy.[A] Well, now who would 'a'
thought it? I believe the Doctor is better than most folks, but then the
best people may be mistaken, you know."

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