University of Virginia Library

How One Woman came to Marry.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE early summer morning is rising clear and
bright, but chill, and yet, before these pages meet
the reader's eye, over all will lie the midsummer pomp,
and flush, and pride. I can think of no fitter emblem
for one I knew in other days than this reluctant summer,
cold, and still, and coy at first, only to burst forth,
by-and-by, into more wonderful and tropical luxuriance
of bloom.

In Hortense Greenwich there was, from her very
childhood, though few knew it then, very much of
pride, but never any littleness of vanity. She had
been born to an assured position in society, for she
was the only child of wealthy parents, moving in the
upper circles of New York. Her mother, still young
and very beautiful at the birth of this one child, was a
woman of fashion. Dinner parties, balls, and morning
visits filled up her life, so that she had no time to become
acquainted with her daughter. She gave the
little one a French governess, and left her to grow up
as best she could. Even the governess had a lover in
America, besides an extensive correspondence with
certain old friends in la belle France, and, in her turn,
neglected her duties.

Perhaps, however, this very neglect developed the
child's soul more healthfully than a greater amount of

attention from those two sources would have done.
She learned readily all that was taught her, and much
that was not. Acquisition of ideas was a passion with
her, and her father's library, fashionably well filled and
fashionably little used, was a perpetual delight to her
dawning intellect. She might, perhaps, have been a
beautiful child had due pains been taken in the cultivation
of her natural graces. As it was, she was in
no way remarkable. She was allowed to braid her
hair closely back from her large, thoughtful brow; to
sit carelessly, and to wear, ordinarily, what suited her
best—a quiet robe of dark, shadowy, unbecoming gray.
On state occasions, when her presence was required in
the parlor, and she was bedizened in brighter hues and
fashionable finery, she was too much embarrassed by
the unusual costume to have it contribute at all to her
beauty.

Circumstances early schooled her to content herself
with no great amount of affection. Her father would
have loved her, but what with early and late devotion
to the business that maintained his splendid house and
faultless equipage—to say nothing of bills at Stewart's
and Madame D'Arblay's—he had very little time for
the cultivation of home ties. Her mother—she must
have had a mother's heart somewhere in her bosom,
though its beatings were effectually smothered by silk
and velvet—was too much absorbed in her beautiful
self to remember the child, except with an occasional
fear lest her growing up should be an unwelcome reminder
of her own age. The governess understood
this sentiment, and needed not to be told to keep the
girl back as much as possible. As for Mademoiselle,
she wrote her letters and chatted with her lover, consoling

herself with the reflection that in neglecting her
charge she was but following the example of the higher
powers. And so Hortense Greenwich brought herself
up.

At twenty she was little changed from what she had
been at ten. It is true, some years before, Mademoiselle
had married her American lover, and Miss Greenwich,
deprived of her supervision, had been sent to a
boarding-school, where she had learned a little French,
a little Italian, and a good deal of music. At twenty
she was introduced into society. She was not at all
showy; indeed, her mother pronounced her, “after all
that had been done for her, decidedly wanting in style,”
and, I think, was secretly rejoiced that her daughter
was so little likely to dispute with her the palm of
fashionable admiration.

At twenty Hortense Greenwich might easily have
passed for fifteen. So little of passion or emotion had
swept over the calm surface of her life, that her face
was still placid and reticent as in childhood. It had
no story to tell. Her only accomplishment was her
music, and this with her was rather a passion than an
art. She practiced it solely for her own gratification.
Hour after hour, at her harp or her piano, she breathed
out her very soul—all the mystery of her inner life
—in thrilling, passionate improvisations. It was to
her instead of father and mother love—instead of
brothers and sisters—instead of friends.

She had been in society two years when she first
met Rowland Chivers. Though only four years older
than herself, he was already blasé. He had traveled
in the Old World. He was well read in the book of
beauty. He could tell a woman's fine points at a

glance. His flirtations had been numerous abroad,
but he had come home unfettered, and “Japonicadom”
welcomed him eagerly. For a wonder, his fortune,
really large, was his smallest claim to distinction.
He would have been a man of mark any where. His
manners were emphatically, as Mrs. Greenwich expressed
herself, distingué. He was handsome, and he
had a mind well and richly stored, despite his flirtations
and fooleries.

I said he could tell all a woman's charms at a glance.
After a little, he made Mrs. Greenwich his mortal enemy
by perceiving that her daughter was younger, and
possessed finer points of beauty than herself. At her
exhibitions of disdain, however, he only smiled. He
was contented to let her love or hate him as she liked,
and, with serene self-satisfaction, set himself at work
to bring out Hortense Greenwich.

A little encouragement, a little graceful flattery, was
all she needed. Soon the world began to perceive
what a faultless figure she had, now that she had acquired
a motive for dressing it becomingly. Then her
fine eyes were noticed; the superb scorn of her daintily-cut
mouth; her hair, so long, so luxuriant, now
that a quick eye had perceived its capabilities, and a
few artistic yet careless hints had guided her in its arrangement.

Miss Greenwich, accustomed to go into society as a
sort of necessary sacrifice at the shrine of Mammon,
without the least hope or expectation of finding pleasure
therein, was at first surprised, then gratified, when
Rowland Chivers, just then quite a centre of attraction,
persistently sought her side. With his matchless
tact, it was not difficult to make her feel, without once

saying any thing to startle her susceptible pride, that
he alone understood her—that he recognized her capacity
to be more than she was—loftier than any of
the social magnets glittering about her. To a nature
like hers, this feeling, that she was appreciated—that
she received her full deserts, was the most acceptable
of incense. She inhaled it eagerly. Under its influence
she not only learned how to make the most of all
the graces which were already hers, but new charms
came to her; a deeper color glowed in her cheek, a
warmer light shone from her large, dark eye.

At first she thought only of friendship. Rowland
Chivers never talked to her of love. He was lonely,
he told her. Very few of those he met in the gay
circle where his lot was cast had power to interest him
for an hour. It had been like a new revelation to
know her. She could feel with him—could share his
thoughts. As much as ever sister could be to brother
she should be to him. And this contented her. It
was her first friendship; it seemed so pure, so sweet,
so tender. It was something to be proud of, to have
this man, sought of all, always at her side. His homage
elevated her in the eyes of those who had been
accustomed to consider her as a good, quiet girl, of no
great importance in any way. She was grateful to
him for gaining for her the position to which, in the
sensitive pride of her proud nature, she felt entitled.
For his sake she adorned herself. Her naturally fine
taste was aroused. She must do justice to his choice
of a friend.

From all this, in a character like hers, the step was
not long to love. Soon she knew that, in spite of herself,
he had become dearer to her than all the dreams

of her girlhood. And now came a season of self-humiliation;
a fear which stung her like a scorpion,
lest she had given her love unsought; a longing, anxious
questioning of his heart; a striving to read every
expression of his haughty, handsome face.

And then, as if in answer to her doubts, his manner
became tenderer than ever. More constantly he
sought her side—more gentle was his voice—more
full of love the songs he brought her, and sang with
her by the hour together. One day he said to her,

“Hortense, I thought I knew women, but even I
was deceived in my estimate of you. You have matured,
this past year, into such a woman as my fancy
never foreshadowed. It has been like the sudden
bursting into bloom of the still century-plant, or the
breathing radiant, glowing life into a perfect statue.
What has changed you so?”

Rowland Chivers would have made a capital surgeon.
He would have looked unmoved on the death-throes
of a thousand victims. As it was, he delighted
in nothing so much as in dissecting hearts. With
keen relish he watched the color come and go in her
cheeks, the lids droop downward to veil the shy responses
of her radiant eyes. Her voice was very low
as she answered,

“You have changed me by being my friend. No
one had interest enough in me before to make it worth
my while to be my best self.”

But farther than this he never carried the conversation.
He would break it off at this stage to read her
some old legend of long-enduring love, or to make her
sing for him his favorite songs. His actions told her,
every day of his life, more eloquently than any words,

that she was beloved, but his lips had never yet
spoken it.

At length a new star rose in the firmament of New
York society—a young widow, gay, beautiful, piquante.
She possessed less dignity, less hauteur, less style, even,
than Hortense Greenwich; but her versatility, her
grace, her good-humor were infinite. She was a little
fairy—a perfect flower of the tropics, with a passionate,
fervid nature speaking in every look of her sparkling
eyes, every flexible movement of her graceful
figure. Rowland Chivers was charmed. Here was a
new book—a fresh page. How would this bewitching
little divinity look if she were in love? His attentions
were divided now, and perhaps Mrs. Bellair
received the largest share.

I do not think Hortense Greenwich ever could have
been jealous. It was not in her nature. She could
love and trust blindly up to a certain point; but when
her trust was slain her love must die with it. So she
looked on in evident unconcern while the widow
danced, and sang, and flirted, and Rowland Chivers
was ever at her side. I think he was disappointed.
He was not noble enough to understand a nature above
jealousy. He had expected Miss Greenwich would
flatter his vanity by growing pale, sad, abstracted;
that she would slight him a little at first, and by-and-by
there would be a scene, and he—I believe he had
not decided, even in his own mind, whether he meant
to marry her. Her calmness disappointed him. It
was not feigned. She never thought of doubting his
love. She believed—when he had finished his game,
his pretty little amusement of a flirtation—he would
be as much her own as ever. She had no fears for

the widow's heart, and she was too much accustomed
to see such kind of trifling to realize how much it
dimmed the bright perfectness she had loved to ascribe
to her idol. So, when he did come to her side, she
received him as cheerfully as ever. Her cheek lost
nothing of its brilliant glow—her eye of its sparkling
light. He began to fear that she did not love him,
and this reawakened all his interest in her. To test
the matter thoroughly, he flirted with the widow more
desperately than ever.

One night, when Miss Greenwich was in full beauty,
she was for a time the centre of attraction in Mrs. Livingstone's
crowded salon. Gentlemen thronged round
her, and ladies stood by in envy. Despite his doubts
of her love, Rowland Chivers gloried in her. She was
so queenly, so fair; to all but him, so unapproachable.
He lingered near her, saying just enough to draw out
her best powers.

At length a diversion was created by the widow's
late entrance. This night Rowland Chivers was resolved
to probe to the utmost the heart he had begun
to doubt. He was among the first to seek Mrs. Bellair.
He danced with her; he bent over her as she sat
at the piano; he devoted himself to her with all the
enthusiasm of a courtier. At length his keen eye detected
Miss Greenwich for the moment alone. She
had withdrawn herself a little from the gay company,
and sat in a kind of recess watching the flash of the
lights, the sparkle of the diamonds, the sheen of the
floating silken robes, and now and then catching some
chance word borne by her on the waves of sound.
He sought her side, and was welcomed with her usual
frankness. For a while they chatted indifferently, and

then, as if moved to confidence by a sudden impulse,
Rowland Chivers said,

“I do believe, Hortense, that you have a real friendly
interest—a sister's interest—in my welfare; and
something I can not explain impels me to ask your
advice. You women judge each other more justly
than a man can. Tell me, then, what you think of
Mrs. Bellair. Would my life's happiness be safe if I
should ask her, and she should consent, to be my wife?”

He had meant this should be the crowning test of
her love. If she manifested one emotion of grief or
anger, he would believe she loved him; perhaps—but
the future must settle that—perhaps he would ask her
to be Mrs. Chivers. He watched her keenly. Not a
muscle of her face quivered; not a shade deeper was
the rose-tint on her fair cheek; she did not even turn
her calm eyes away. There was no tremor in her silvery
voice. As if half musingly, she said,

“I do not quite know her well enough to answer;
but I should think, nay, I am very sure, that your natures
are much alike—that she would suit you admirably.”

Her auditor had an uncomfortable impression that
a hidden satire lurked in her remark. It galled him,
and he winced under it; but she had given no sign of
love for him. He had mistaken her all this while, and,
roused to regret by this knowledge, he began to think
that he loved her, and could not live without her.

Just then they were interrupted. Mr. Richmond
Spendwell came to claim her hand for the next dance;
and for the rest of that night Hortense Greenwich was
more beautiful than ever, and, unlike her usual self,
was the gayest of the gay.

When it was all over the reaction came. Leaning
back in the carriage by her mother's side, she sat for
a time in profound silence. But Mrs. Greenwich was
sociably inclined; her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks
glowing; her spirits were at high tide. They must
find an outlet somehow. There was not often much
conversation between these two women, they had so
few thoughts in common; but Mrs. Greenwich must
talk now.

“It has been a brilliant evening; but then Mrs.
Livingstone's evenings always are. I haven't enjoyed
myself more this winter. Why don't you speak, Hortense;
didn't you like it?”

“I am very tired.”

“Tired! Well, you look so; I can see by the street
lamp how white your face is. Why, I should outlast
three like you, mamma though I am. You will never
do for a belle. But don't that little widow make herself
ridiculous enough? One would suppose she
thought there had never been another handsome woman
in the world. There's Rowland Chivers, how she
does draw him after her! Why, I really used to think
he was attentive to you.”

“Mother, don't! I can't talk; I am so tired—so
sick.”

There was a strange pathos in her voice. It would
have reminded you of the moan of some stricken animal
hunted to death. Mrs. Greenwich did not understand
it: she was not a sympathetic or a quick-feeling
woman at any time, but this cry of an unspoken sorrow
hushed even her into silence.

After that, however, Miss Greenwich regained her
self-command. Her good-night, as she went up stairs,

was spoken in her usual cheerful tones; her step was
firm, yet elastic, and her mother looking after her,
thought what a strange, unsociable girl she was, and
how little she cared for society any way.

In her own room her sleepy maid sat before the fire
waiting for her. She was perfectly calm now—she
did not even seem fatigued. The business of disrobing
was quickly performed; the ornaments she had
worn were restored to their proper places; the girl
was dismissed, and Hortense Greenwich was alone,
with no farther need for self-command. She sat down
before the fire, and looked steadily into it. Was this
the same world it had seemed when she sat there, five
hours before, dreaming blissful dreams, in which one
face ever shone, once voice made an eternal music?
Gone forever was the sunlight which had gilded that
fair world. No longer were the skies blue, and the
very clouds rosy; no longer the future stretched out
before her a green, sunny path, bordered with roses
and bright with verdure. She had crowned herself,
indeed, with those fair roses of Hope, but they had
turned to thorns upon her forehead; and from those
gaping wounds would not the life-blood ooze forever?

Then, in the stillness, Pride rose up like an avenger,
and buffeted her sorely. She had loved unsought, it
told her; given her heart to one who did not even
think the gift worth the acceptance; trusted all things
to one who had promised nothing. But Memory defended
her warmly. Memory asserted that he had
sought her love; Memory brought forth from her
treasure-house looks and words of unmistakable tenderness;
she recalled daily and long-continued care;
manifold tokens of interest; constant attentions; all

that could, more eloquently than any words, tell the
story of absorbing love. And then Justice acquitted
the proud heart accused.

Oh, Rowland Chivers, you would have known one
woman better than you were ever likely to learn her,
with all your study, if you could have sat by Hortense
Greenwich's fire that night! I spare my reader the
torture, the agony, the despair. Women like her love
once, and, if deceived, never again thereafter. She
had lost that night something dearer than life, something
loftier than love—her faith in humanity. She
had never had but one friend. Rowland Chivers was
the first one who had ever read the pages of her woman's
heart. She had gained a higher, truer estimate
of her own powers, seeing them through his eyes. To
this first tenderness she had given all. The full tide
of her passionate yet reserved nature had set toward
him, and now the deep waters must flow back again,
flooding the waste country of her affections, uprooting
every flower, destroying every fruit. Henceforth she
must go on alone. Life stretched out before her bleak
and barren of hope. Alas! there was no one to whisper
of a narrower path, where the seed sown in tears
might spring up in joy; where the blessings of those
ready to perish would cheer the fainting traveler,
whose goal was the Celestial City. Fashionable life
—she knew no other—was the arena where she must
struggle for the victor's palm. At least—her lip curled
at the thought—Rowland Chivers had taught her
something of her own value; she could touch him
through his vanity; she could shine. Through all
that night not one tear came to her proud eyes. The
blight which had fallen upon her life was too deadly

for any gentle dew of sorrow. She would not suffer
the love which lay in its death-throes upon her heart's
threshold to make a single moan, even in dying.
Sternly she watched its agony until it was dead, then
she took up the fair corse and buried it. It might
haunt her sometimes; sometimes she might wake at
midnight from feverish slumbers, and see at her bed's
foot a still, white face, and the gleam of golden hair,
but she would know it was but the illusion of fancy.
The dead love should not arise—she rolled a stone to
the mouth of the sepulchre.

It was thus that Hortense Greenwich became a belle
in society. After that night she went forth into the
world a changed woman. That world had never
found her so charming before. She was prouder than
ever; but society likes pride. Her words were keen
with the two-edged sword of wit. Now and then a
victim winced under them, but the by-standers applauded,
and the sufferers from such wounds are the
first to smile. Rowland Chivers wondered at her.
He had never suspected, with all his appreciation of
her character, such power as this. He left Mrs. Bellair
to bite her pretty lips and break her Spanish fan
in vexation, and actually haunted Miss Greenwich
wherever she went. Her reception of him was precisely
the same as she accorded to others; marked
with a courtesy which no presumption could construe
into more than courtesy.

She was become like the rest of the world now.
She formed friendships in the fashionable sense of the
word. Rowland Chivers called on her, and found
other young ladies, graceful butterflies of fashion, whiling
away the morning with her; or, at other times,

some gentleman would be serenely making himself
agreeable, where once he only had been the privileged
guest. At other times still, he would call and be told
that Miss Greenwich was out, and this piqued his vanity
still more, for he shrewdly suspected that she was
only “out” to him. He had roused his somewhat
apathetic sensibilities by this time into what he believed
an absorbing passion for her. He was quite
convinced that all his happiness for the future depended
upon persuading her to return his adoration.

At length he called on her one morning at an unfashionably
early hour. She was in, and alone. He
found her in the same room where they had passed so
many hours together. He trusted to the old memories
to assist him. Once more he asked for a favorite song.
With thorough self-command she complied with his
request. She manifested no emotion—there was no
droop of the eyelids, no softening of the voice. The
metaphysical dissector, the hero of a thousand flirtations,
was at a loss. Perhaps he had never felt so
deeply before. At all events, it had never before been
so hard a task to make a declaration of love. But he
managed it at length. For once in the world he might
have gained credit for modesty. No one could have
doubted but that he was sincere. With a humility as
strange as it was new, he told her the high sense he
entertained of her perfections, and besought her favorable
hearing for his confession of love. His utmost
experience with women could never have prepared
him for her reply.

“I will not deceive you,” she said, in her proud, yet
quiet voice. “My own pride shall not tempt me to
say that I never loved you. Little as I believe you

deserve it, I did love you once with all the strength
of my nature; or, rather, I loved something I believed
was you. My life had been lonely before you came.
I was indebted to you, I acknowledge that now, for
a juster knowledge of myself. I believed that you
loved me—your constant attentions gave me a right
to believe it.”

“I did—oh, God knows I did,” faltered Rowland
Chivers's voice. She went on without heeding the interruption.

“I trusted in your love so fully that, when Mrs.
Bellair came, your flirtation with her gave me no concern.
Only your own words could have undeceived
me. They were not long wanting. You remember
that night when you asked my advice about marrying
her. Then I saw you as you were. Either you had
never cared for me, and had but amused yourself with
deceiving me; or having, after your own fashion, liked
me, you were now experimenting upon my love, wantonly
giving me pain. In either case I had been loving
an ideal. The man I had supposed you to be
could never have condescended to such trifling. You
acted out your own nature. I do not complain. I
rather thank you for letting me see you as you are.
But, if it will solace your vanity, if it will give you
any triumph to know that I suffered, I do not grudge
you the satisfaction of that knowledge. I suffered in
that one night such tortures as all the pulses of your
lifetime could not measure out. But even then, if you
could have knelt at my feet and poured out your soul
in a prayer of forgiveness, it would not have comforted
me—in my heart would have been no response to
your voice. I had loved an ideal, which was not you.

You will understand now that our paths must lie very
far apart. You have taken from me all that my life
had of glory—my faith, my hope, my trust in human
love. I shall marry some man for the position, the
independence he will give me, but I can not marry
you.”

Rowland Chivers showed how far he was from comprehending
her by persevering in his prayer. He
knelt at her feet. He uttered a passionate cry for forgiveness—for
love. He drew a picture of his desolate
life without her. He told her that he had never loved
before—that his only hold on a true, right life, was
through her.

There was goodness enough in her nature to pity
him, even then. Her great dark eyes rested upon him
mournfully. Her voice was not proud now, but sorrowful.

“I can not, Rowland Chivers. Plead with me no
longer. My heart is dumb. It makes no answer.”

And he felt that it was indeed true. He bade her
farewell with faltering tones, he pressed kiss after kiss
upon her hand, and then he went out into the world,
and Hortense Greenwich sent after him no regret—no
sigh.

That very morning, scarcely an hour later, Mr. Richmond
Spendwell sat beside her, in the seat which Rowland
Chivers had filled. There could scarcely have
been a greater contrast than between these two men.
It was something more than the ordinary difference
between twenty-six and forty. Mr. Spendwell was
pompous, self-satisfied, almost arrogant. He had a far
more definite idea of turtle-soup than of turtle-doves.
Billing and cooing would not, at any time of life, have

been in his line. He was better posted in stocks than
in literature. As for sentiment, it was to him terra incognita;
and he had no knowledge of hearts beyond a
dim schoolboy recollection that they had something to
do with the circulation of the blood.

Therefore he was saved from all embarrassment in
the doing of his errand. In a manner most business-like
and creditable he made Miss Greenwich an offer
of his hand. Like her former suitor, he was quite unprepared
for her reply:

“Mr. Spendwell, I would not marry you under false
pretenses. I would not deceive you for the world. If
I marry you, I shall be your faithful wife, for I know
my duty; but I can not marry you because of love.
That is forever past for me. I did love one man; or,
rather, I loved the ideal which I called by his name.
I found out the weak points of his character, and my
love died a natural death. He left me this morning,
a rejected suitor. Would you be satisfied with a wife
who had no love to give you?”

Mr. Spendwell listened politely, but with a look
which said, more expressively than words, that this
was all Greek to him. He took advantage of the first
pause to interrupt her.

“My dear young lady, I am too old, perhaps, and
too prosaic to fully understand you. As nearly as I
can make out, you once fancied yourself in love, but,
finding your mistake, you rejected your suitor. Now
I am not very exacting in these matters. You are
graceful and beautiful beyond any woman of my acquaintance.
I have confidence in your good sense
and good principle. If you will be my wife, I think I
may say I shall make a kind and indulgent husband.”

“I am sensible of the honor you do me, sir, and I
accept your proposal.”

“Very right. Just the reply I expected from your
good sense. I will see your father this afternoon.”

This was Hortense Greenwich's plighting. Hortense
Greenwich! dreamer, enthusiast, genius! Was
it strange, as she sat alone after her very respectable
affianced left her, that for one undisciplined moment
the dead love seemed to stir in its unquiet grave, and
her thoughts roamed backward once more into the enchanted
country over which Hope's sun had set, and
stood for that one moment pleading vainly at the closed
gates of her Eden? That was all. After that she
walked forward with firm footsteps in the path she
had chosen; she said to her woman's heart, “I have
no need of thee;” she received the congratulations of
her friends, and went on superintending the preparations
for her bridal.

The news of her betrothal came to Rowland Chivers
with a keen pang. To such natures as his blessings
brighten as they take their flight. By refusing to be
his wife she had made herself his goddess. He sailed
for Europe in the next steamer, and news comes of
him now and then engaged in his old career of flirtation
and foolery.

Alas! he had left behind him the greatest ruin he
had ever wrought. In Hortense Greenwich he had
found, perhaps for the first time in his life, a true, high-souled,
self-contained, yet loving woman. There was
more power in her nature, for good or for evil, than in
twenty like Ernestine Bellair. He found her young,
generous, susceptible, ready to give up all things for
truth and right. He left her with her heart prematurely

old, cold, glittering, scornful, suspicious. It was
the wreck of a most noble nature. She was married;
that is, Mr. Richmond Spendwell was legally pronounced
her husband; but her unwed heart was left
alone, alone—like an unquiet spirit making its moan
in the darkness.

She was a splendid bride. Some envied her, some
condemned her, some approved of her worldly prudence;
and one quiet old book-keeper, looking out
from the window of his chateau en Espagne, murmured,
with sad sagacity,

“Once more Venus has married Vulcan.”