Atlantic Monthly, Volume 7, Issue 42, April, 1861 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 7, Issue 42, April, 1861

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

Laura kissed me, with tears in her sisterly eyes. She never talks fine,
and went directly out of the room after this.

I thought that women shouldn't swear at all, or, if they did, should
break their oaths as gracefully as I did mine, when I whispered it was
"_so_ good of him, to be willing I should stay in the cottage where I
had always lived, and where every rose-tree and lilac knew me!" And that
was true, too. But not all the truth. What need to be telling truths all
the time? And what had women tongues for, but to hold them sometimes?
Perhaps "he," too, would have preferred a journey to Europe, and a house
on the Mill-Dam.

Things gradually settled themselves. My troubles seemed coming to a
close by mechanical pressure. As to the name, it was better than Fire,
Famine, and Slaughter,--and I was to take it into consideration, any
way, and get used to it, if I could. The other trouble I put aside
for the moment. After it was concluded on that the wedding should be
strictly private, it was not necessary to buy my aunt's present under
a few days, and I could have the decided advantage, in that way, of
avoiding a duplicate.

The Monday of my marriage sped away swiftly. Polly had come up early to
say to "Laury" (for Polly was a free and independent American girl of
forty-five) that "there'd be so much goin' to the door, and such, Betsy
Ann had best be handy by, to answer the bell. Fin'ly, she's down there
with her bunnet off, and goin' to stay."

As usual, Polly's plans were excellent, and adopted. There would be all
the wedding-presents to arrive, congratulatory notes, etc. Everything to
arrange, and a thousand and one things that neither one nor three pairs
of hands could do. How I wished Betsy Ann would consent to dress like an
Oriental child, and look pretty and picturesque,--like a Barbary slave
bearing vessels of gold and silver chalices, instead of her silly
pointed waist and "mantilly," which she persisted in wearing, and which,
of course, gave the look only of a stranger and sojourner in the land!

I hoped she was a careful child,--there were so many things which might
be spoiled, even if they came in boxes. Betsy Ann was instructed, on
pain of--almost death, to be very, very careful, and to put everything
on the table in the library. She was by no means to unpack an article,
not even a bouquet. Laura and myself preferred to arrange everything
ourselves. We proposed to place each of the presents, for that evening
only, in the library, and spread them out as usual; but the very next
day, we determined, they should all be put away, wherever they were to
go,--of course, we could not tell where, till we saw them. That was
Laura's taste, and had come, on reflection, to be mine.

Laura said she should make me presents only of innumerable stitches:
which she had done. Polly, whom it is both impossible and irrelevant to
describe, took the opportunity to scrub the house from top to bottom.
Her own wedding-present to me, homely though it was, I wrapped in silver
paper, and showed it to her lying in state on the library-table, to her
infinite amusement.

Like the North American Indian, the race of Pollies is fast going out
of American life. You read an advertisement of "an American servant who
wants a place in a genteel family," and visions of something common in
American households, when you were children, come up to your mind's eye.
Without considering the absurdity of an American girl calling herself by
such a name, your eyes fill with tears at the thought of the faithful
and loving service of years ago, when neither sickness, nor sorrow, nor
death itself separated the members of the household, but the nurse-maid
was the beloved friend, living and dying under the same roof that
witnessed her untiring and faithful devotion.

So, when you look after this "American servant," you find alien blood,
lip-service, a surface-warmth that flatters, but does not delude,--a
fidelity that fails you in sickness, or increased toil, or the prospect
of higher wages; and you say to the "American servant,"--

"How long have you been in Boston?"

"Born in Boston, Ma'm,--in Eliot Street, Ma'm."

So was not Polly. Polly had lived with us always. She had a farm of her
own, and needn't have "lived out" five minutes, unless she had chosen.
But she did choose it, and chose to keep her place. And that was a true
friend,--in a humble position, possibly, yet one of her own choosing.
She rejoiced and wept with us, knew all about us,--corresponded
regularly with us when away, and wrote poetry. She had a fair
mind, great shrewdness, and kept a journal of facts. We loved her
dearly,--next to each other, and a hundred times better than we did Aunt
Allen or any of them.

Of course, as the day wore on, and afternoon came, and then almost night
came, and still the bell had not once rung,--not once!--Polly was
not the person to express or to permit the least surprise. Not Caleb
Balderstone himself had a sharper eye to the "honor of the family."
_Why_ it was left to the doctrine of chances to decide. _That_ it was
grew clearer and clearer every hour, as every hour came slowly by,
unladen with box or package, even a bouquet.

Betsy Ann had grinned a great many times, and asked Polly over and over,
"Where the presents all was?" and, "When I was to Miss Russell's, and
Miss Sally was merried, the things come in with a rush,--silver, and
gold, and money, ever so much!"

However, here Polly snubbed her, and told her to "shet up her head
quick. Most of the presents was come long ago."

"Such a piece of work as I hed to ghet up that critter's mouth!" said
Polly, laughing, as she assisted Laura in putting the last graces to my
simple toilet before tea.

"There, now, Miss Sampson to be! I declare to man, you never looked
better.

"'Roses red, violets blue,
Pinks is pootty, and so be you.'"

"How did you shut it, Polly?" said Laura, who was very much surprised,
like myself, at the non-arrivals, and who constantly imagined she
heard the bell. Ten arrivals we had both counted on,--ten,
certainly,--fifteen, probably.

"Well, I told her the presents was all locked up; and if she was a
clever, good child, and went to school regular, and got her learnin'
good, I'd certain show 'em to her some time. I told her," added Polly,
whisperingly, and holding her hand over her mouth to keep from loud
laughter,--"I told her I'd seen a couple on 'em done up in beautiful
silver paper!"

The bell rang at last, and we all sprang as with an electric shock. It
was old Mr. Price, led in reverently by Mr. Sampson. Tea was ready; so
we all sat down to it.

I don't know what other people think of, when they are going to be
married,--I mean at the moment. Books are eloquent on the subject. For
my part. I must confess, I thought of nothing. And let that encourage
the next bride, who will imagine herself a dunce, because she isn't
thinking of something fine and solemn. Perhaps I had so many ideas
pressing in, in all directions, that the mind itself couldn't act. Be
it as it may, I stood as if stupefied,--while old Mr. Price talked and
prayed, it seemed, an age. I was roused, however, and glad enough I
wasn't in church, when he called out,--

"_Ameriky!_ do you take this woman for your wedded wife?" and still more
rejoiced when he added, sternly,--

"_Delphiny!_" (using the long _i_,) "do you take _Ameriky?_"

We both said "Yes." And then he commended us affectionately and
reverently to the protection and love of Him who had himself come to a
wedding. He then came to a close, to Polly's delight, who said she "had
expected nothin' but what the old gentleman would hold on an hour,
--missionaries to China, and all."

Old Mr. Price took a piece of cake and a full glass of wine, and wished
us joy. He was fast passing away, and with him the old-class ministers,
now only traditional, who drank their half-mug of flip at funerals, went
to balls to look benignantly on the scene of pleasure, came home at ten
o'clock to write "the improvement" to their Sunday's sermon, took the
other half-mug, and went to bed peaceably and in charity with the whole
parish. They have gone, with the stagecoaches and country-newspapers;
and the places that knew them will know them no more.

Betsy Ann, who was mercifully admitted to the wedding, pronounced
it without hesitation the "flattest thing she ever see,"--and was
straightway dismissed by Polly, with an extra frosted cake, and a charge
to "get along home with herself." Then Mr. Sampson walked slowly home
with Mr. Price, and Laura and myself were left looking at each other.

"Delphiny!" said Laura.

"Ameriky!" said I.

"Well,--it's over now. If you had happened to be Mrs. Conant's daughter,
you know, your name would have been Keren-happuch!"

"On the whole, I am glad it wasn't in church," said I.

Mr. Sampson returned before we had finished talking of that. And then
Laura, said, suddenly,--

"But you _must_ decide on Aunt Allen's gift, Del. What shall it be? What
will be pretty?"

"You shall decide," said I, amiably, turning to my husband.

"Oh, I have no notion of what is pretty,--at least of but one
thing,--and that is not in Aunt Allen's gift."

He laughed, and I blushed, of course, as he pointed the compliment
straight at me.

"But you _must_ think. I cannot decide, I have thought of five hundred
things already."

"Well, Laura,--what do you say?" said he.

"I think a silver salver would be pretty, and useful, too."

"Pretty and useful. Then let it be a silver salver, and be done with
it," said he.

This notion of being "done with it" is so mannish! Here was my Gordian
knot cut at once! However, there was no help for it,--though now, more
than ever, since there was no danger of a duplicate, did I long for the
fifty thousand different beautiful things the fifty dollars would buy.

Circumstances aided us, too, in coming to a conclusion. I was rather
tired of rocking on these billows of uncertainty, even with the chance
of plucking gems from the depths. And Mrs. Harris was coming the next
day to tea, and to go away early to see Piccolomini sing and sparkle.

When we sat down that next day at the table, I poured the tea into a
cup, and placed it on the prettiest little silver tray, and Polly handed
it to Mrs. Harris as if she had done that particular thing all her life.

"Beautiful!" said Mrs. Harris, as it sparkled along back; "one of your
wedding-gifts?"

"Yes," I answered, carelessly,--"Aunt Allen's."

So much was well got over. My hope was that Mrs. Harris, who talked
well, and was never weary of that sort of well-doing, would keep on her
own subjects of interest, to the exclusion of mine. Therefore, when she
said pleasantly, _en passant_,--

"By the way, Delphine, I see you have taken my advice about
wedding-presents. You know I always abominated that parading of gifts."

Laura hastened to the rescue, saying,--

"Yes, we quite agree with you, and remember your decided opinions on
that subject. Did you say you had been to the Aquarial Gardens?"

How I wished I had been self-possessed enough to tell the whole story,
with its ridiculous side out, and make a good laugh over it, as it
deserved!--for Mrs. Harris wouldn't stay in the Aquarial Gardens, which
she pronounced a disgusting exhibition of "Creep and Crawl," and that
it was all a set of little horrors; but swung back to wedding-gifts and
wedding-times.

"'When I was young,--ah! woful _when!_--
That I should say _when_ I was young!'

"it wasn't fashionable, or, I should say, necessary, to buy something for
a bride," said Mrs. Harris, meditatively, and looking back--as we could
see by her eyes--a long way.

For my part, I thought she had much better choose some other subject,
considering everything. Certainly she had been one of the ten I had
counted on. But she suddenly collected herself!

"I never look at a great needle-book, ('housewife,' we used to call
it,) full of all possible and impossible contrivances and conveniences,
without recalling my Aunt Hovey's patient smile when she gave it to me.
She was rheumatic, and confined for twenty years to her chair; and these
'housewives' she made exquisitely, and each of her young friends on her
wedding-day might count on one. Then Sebiah Collins,--she brought me a
bag of holders,--poor old soul! And Aunt Patty Hobbs gave me a bundle of
rags! She said, 'Young housekeepers was allers a-wantin' rags, and, in
course, there wa'n't nothin' but what was bran'-new out of the store.'
Can I ever forget the Hill children, with their mysterious movements,
their hidings, and their unaccountable absences? and then the
work-basket on my toilet-table, on my wedding-morning! the little
pin-cushions and emery-sacks, the fantastic thimble-cases, and the
fish-shaped needle-books! all as nice as their handy little fingers
could make, and every stitch telling of their earnest love and bright
faces!--Every one of those children is dead. But I keep the work-basket
sacred. I don't know whether it is more pleasure or pain."

She looked up again, as if before her passed a long procession. I had
often seen that expression in the eyes of old, and even of middle-aged
persons, who had had much mental vicissitude, but I had not interpreted
it till now. It was only for a moment; and she added, cheerfully,--

"The future is always pleasant; so we will look that way."

Just then a gentleman wished to see Mr. Sampson on business, and they
two went into the library.

Mrs. Harris talked on, and I led the way to the parlor. She said she
should be called for presently; and then Laura lighted the argand, and
dropped the muslin curtains.

"Oh, isn't this sweet?" exclaimed Mrs. Harris, rapturously, approaching
the table. "How the best work of Art pales before Nature!"

It was only a tall small vase of ground glass, holding a pond-lily,
fully opened. But it was perfect in its way, and I knew by the smile on
Laura's lips that it was her gift.

"Mine is in that corner, Delphine," said Mrs. Harris. "I wouldn't have
it brought here till to-night, when I could see Laura, for fear you
should have a duplicate. So here is my Mercury, that I have looked at
till I love it. I wouldn't give you one that had only the odor of the
shop about it; but you will never look at this, Del, without thoughts of
our little cozy room and your old friend."

"Beautiful! No, indeed! Always!" murmured I.

She drew a little box from her pocket, and took out of it a taper-stand
of chased silver.

"Mrs. Gore asked me to bring it to you, with her love. She wouldn't send
it yesterday, she said, because it would look so like nothing by the
side of costly gifts. Pretty, graceful little thing! isn't it? It is an
evening-primrose, I think,--'love's own light,'--hey, Delphine?"

We had scarcely half admired the taper-stand and the Mercury when the
carriage came for Mrs. Harris, who insisted on taking away Laura with
her to the opera.

"No matter whether you thought of going or not; and, happily, there's
no danger of Delphine being lonely. 'Two are company,' you know Emerson
says, 'but three are a congregation.' So they will be glad to spare you.
There, now! that is all you want,--and this shawl."

After they went, I sat listening for nearly half an hour to the low
murmurs in the next room, and wishing the stranger would only go, so
that I might exhibit my new treasures. At last the strange gentleman
opened the door softly, talking all the way, across the room, through
the entry, and finally whispering himself fairly out-of-doors. When my
husband came in, I was eager to show him the Mercury, and the lily, and
the taper-stand.

"And do you know, after all, I hadn't the real nobleness and
truthfulness and right-mindedness to tell Mrs. Harris that these and
Aunt Allen's gift were all I had received! I am ashamed of myself, to
have such a mean mortification about what is really of no importance.
Certainly, if my friends don't care enough for me to send me something,
I ought to be above caring for it."

"I don't know that, Del. Your mortification is very natural. How can we
help caring? Do you like your Aunt Allen very much?" added he, abruptly.

"Because she gave me fifty dollars? Yes, I begin to think I do," said I,
laughing.

He looked at me quickly.

"Your Aunt Allen is very rich, is she not?"

"I believe so. Why? You look very serious. I neither respect nor love
her for her riches; and I haven't seen her these ten years."

He looked sober and abstracted; but when I spoke, he smiled a little.

"Do you remember Ella's chapter on Old China?" said he, sitting down on
the sofa, and--I don't mind saying--putting one arm round my waist.

"Yes,--why?"

"Do you remember Bridget's plaintive regret that they had no longer
the good old times when they were poor? and about the delights of the
shilling gallery?"

"Yes,--what made you think of it?"

"What a beautiful chapter that is!--their gentle sorrow that they could
no longer make nice bargains for books! and his wearing new, neat, black
clothes, alas! instead of the overworn suit that was made to hang on
a few weeks longer, that he might buy the old folio of Beaumont and
Fletcher! Do you remember it, Delphine?"

"Yes, I do. And I think there is a deal of pleasure in considering and
contriving,--though it's prettier in a book"--

"For my part," interrupted my husband, as though he had not heard me
speak,--"for my part, I am sorry one cannot have such an exquisite
appreciation of pleasure but through pain; for--I am tired of
labor--and privation--and, in short, poverty. To work so hard, and so
constantly!--with such a long, weary vista before one!--and these petty
gains! Don't you think poverty is the one thing hateful, Delphine?"

He sprang up suddenly, and began walking up and down the room,--up and
down,--up and down; and without speaking any more, or seeming to wish me
to answer.

"Why, what is it? What do you mean?" said I, faintly; for my heart felt
like lead in my bosom.

He did not answer at first, but walked towards me; then, turning
suddenly away, sprang out of the window at the side of the room, saying,
with a constrained laugh,--

"I shall be in again, presently. In the mean time I leave you to
meditations on the shilling gallery!"

What a strange taunting sound his voice had! There was no insane blood
among the Sampsons, or I might have thought he had suddenly gone crazy.
Or if I had believed in demoniacal presences, I might have thought the
murmuring, whispering old man was some tempter. Some evil influence
certainly had been exerted over him. Scarcely less than deranged could I
consider him now, to be willing thus to address me. It was true, he was
poor,--that he had struggled with poverty. But had it not been my pride,
as I thought it was his, that his battle was bravely borne, and would be
bravely won? I could not, even to myself, express the cruel cowardice of
such words as he had used to his helpless wife. That he felt deeply and
gallingly his poverty was plain. Even in that there was a weakness which
induced more of contempt than pity for him; but was it not base to tell
me of it now? Now, when his load was doubled, he complained of the
burden! Why, I would have lain down and died far sooner than he should
have guessed it of me. And he had thought it--and--said it!

There are emotions that seem to crowd and supersede each other, so
that the order of time is inverted. I came to the point of disdainful
composure, even before the struggle and distress began. I sat quietly
where my husband left me,--such a long, long time! It seemed hours.
I remembered how thoughtful I had determined to be of all our
expenses,--the little account-book in which I had already entered some
items; how I had thought of various ways in which I could assist him;
yes, even little I was to be the most efficient and helpful of wives.
Had I not taken writing-lessons secretly, and formed a thorough
business-hand, and would I not earn many half-eagles with my eagle's
quill? I remembered how I had thought, though I had not said it, (and
how glad now I was I had not!) that we would help each other in sickness
and health,--that we would toil up that weary hill where wealth stands
so lusciously and goldenly shining. But then, hand in hand we were
to have toiled,--hopefully, smilingly, lovingly,--not with this cold
recrimination, nor, hardest of all, with--reproach!

Suddenly, a strange suspicion fell over me. It fell down on me like a
pall. I shuddered with the cold of it.

I knew it wasn't so. I knew he loved me,--that Le meant nothing,--that
it was a passing discontent, a hateful feeling engendered by the sight
of the costly trifles before us. Yes,--I knew that. But, good heavens!
to tell his wife of it!

I sat, with my head throbbing, and holding my hands, utterly tearless;
for tears were no expression of the distressful pain, and blank
disappointment of a life, that I felt. I said I felt this damp, dark
suspicion. It was there like a presence, but it was as indefinite as
dark; and I had a sort of control, in the midst of the tumult in my
brain and heart, as to what thoughts I would let come to me. Not that!
Faults there might be,--great ones,--but not that, the greatest! At
least, if I could not respect, I could forgive,--for he loved me.
Surely, surely, that must be true!

It would come, that flash, like lightning, or the unwilling memories of
the drowning. I remembered the rich Miss Kate Stuart, who, they said,
liked him, and that her father would have been glad to have him for a
son-in-law. And I had asked him once about it, in the careless
gayety of happy love. He had said, he supposed it might have
happened--perhaps--who knows?--if he had not seen me. But he had seen
me! Could it be that he was thinking of?

My calmness was giving way. As soon as I spoke, though it was only in a
word of ejaculation, my pity for myself broke all the flood-gates down,
and I fell on my face in a paroxysm of sobs.

A very calm, loving voice, and a strong arm raising me, brought me back
at once from the wild ocean of passion on which I was tossing. I had not
heard him come in. I was too proud and grieved to speak or to weep. So I
dried my tears and sat stiffly silent.

"You are tired, dear!" said my husband, tenderly.

"No,--it's no matter."

"Everything is matter to me that concerns you. You know that,--you
believe that, Delphine?"

"Why, what a strange sound! just as it used to sound!" I said to myself,
whisperingly.

I know not what possessed me; but I was determined to have the truth,
and the whole truth. I turned towards him and looked straight into his
eyes.

"Tell me, truly, as you hope God will save you at your utmost need, _do_
you love me? Did you marry me from any motive but that of pure, true
love?"

"From no other," answered he, with a face of unutterable surprise; and
then added, solemnly, "And may God take me, Delphine, when you cease to
love me!"

It was enough. There was truth in every breath, in every glance of his
deep eyes. A delicious languor took the place of the horrible tension
that had been every faculty,--a repose so sweet and perfect, that, if
reason had placed the clearest possible proofs of my husband's perfidy
before me, I should simply have smiled and fallen asleep on his true
heart, as I did.

When I opened my eyes, I met his anxious look.

"Why, what has come over you, Del? I did not know you were nervous."

And then remembering, that, although I might be weakest among the weak,
yet that it was his wisdom that was to sustain and comfort me, I said,--

"By-and-by I will tell you all about it,--certainly I will. I must tell
you some time, but not to-night."

"And--I had thought to keep a secret from you, to-night, Del; but, on
the whole, I shall feel better to tell you."

"Yes,--perhaps,--perhaps."

"Oh, yes! Secrets are safest, told. First, then, Del, I will tell you
this secret. I am very foolish. Don't tell of it, will you? See here!"

He held up his closed hand before my face, laughingly.

That man's name, Del, is Drake"----

"And not the Devil!" said I to myself.

"Solitude Drake."

"Really? Is that it, truly? What's in your hand?"

"Truly,--really. He lives in Albany. He is the son of a queer man, and
is something of a humorist himself. I have seen one of his sons. He has
two. One's name is Paraclete, and the other Preserved. His daughter is
pretty, very, and her name is Deliverance. They call her Del, for short.
They do, on my word! Worse than Delphine, is it not?"

"Why, don't you like my name?" stammered I, with astonishment.

"Yes, very well. I don't care much about names. But I can tell you,
Uncle Zabdiel and Aunt Jerusha, 'from whom I have expectations,' Del,
think it is 'just about the poorest kind of a name that ever a girl
had.' And our Cousin Abijah thought you were named Delilah, and that
it was a good match for Sampson! I rectified him there; but he still
insists on your being called 'Finy,' in the family, to distinguish you
from the Midianitish woman."

"And so Uncle _Zabdiel_ thinks I have a poor name?" said I, laughing
heartily. "The shield looks neither gold nor silver, from which side
soever we gaze. But I think _he_ might put up with _my_ name!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20