University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

On the day after their return, Morton visited Miss Leslie
to learn if she had suffered from the fatigues and alarms of
yesterday; and, in truth, she had the pale face of one whose
rest has been short and broken.

“It has been my fate to terrify you,” said the anxious
Morton.

During his visit, the door bell was most obtrusively busy.
Messages, parcels, notes, cards, visitors came in, and expelled
all hope of a tête à tête.

Soon after he left the room, Leslie entered.

“Who gave you those flowers, Edith?”

“Mr. Morton, sir.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Leslie, with a look by no means
of gratification.

Meanwhile, Morton, walking the street in an abstracted

mood, overtook unawares his bachelor friend Mr. Benedick
Sharpe, jurist, philosopher, and man of letters — a personage
whose ordinary discourse was a singular imbroglio of irony
and earnest.

“Why, Morton, what problem of ethnology are you at
now? the unity of the human race, and the descent from
Adam — science versus orthodoxy — is that it?”

“Nothing so deep.”

“What, nothing ethnological?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Ah, then I begin to tremble for you. There's but one
thing else could lose you in such a maze. The flame of a
candle is very pretty; but the moth that flies into it scorches
his wings, poor devil.”

“I am too dull to see through your metaphors.”

“There's another blind divinity besides Justice. Beware
the shoal of matrimony! Many a good fellow has been
wrecked there.”

“Harping on your old string! You are a professed woman
hater.”

“Who, I? Now that is a scandalous libel. I admire
them, — of course.”

“And yet there's not a lady of your acquaintance whom I
have not heard you analyze, criticise, cavil at, and disparage.”

“My dear fellow!”

“You have no conscience to deny it.”

“I protest I have the greatest — ahem! — admiration for
the ladies of our acquaintance. We have an excellent assortment,
— we have witty women; brilliant women; women of

taste and genius; exact and fastidious women, — a full supply,
— accomplished women; finished and elegant women, —
not too many, but still we have them; learned women; gentle,
amiable, tender women; sharp and caustic women; sensible
and practical women; domestic women, — all unimpeachable,
— all good in their kind.”

“Then why is matrimony so dangerous?”

“No, no, not dangerous, exactly, — thanks to discreet
nurture and northern winters; not dangerous hereabouts as it
was in the days of the old satirists. A wise man may be
safe enough here from any climax of matrimonial evil; but
there are minor mischiefs, daily désagrémens.”

“What, in spite of that catalogue of feminine virtues which
you delivered just now?”

“Vanity of vanities! Admirable in the abstract; excellent
at a safe distance; but to be tied to for life, bed and
board, day light and candle light, — that's another thing.”

“Even the tender and amiable, — is there risk even there?”

“One cloys on perpetual sweetmeats.”

“And the domestic women?”

“Who incarcerate themselves in their nurseries, and have
no brains but for their babies; who are frantic if the infant
coughs, and are buried and lost among cradles, porringers,
go-carts, pills, and prescriptions.”

“The brilliant woman, then?”

“Brilliant at dinner tables and soirées; but, on the next
day, your Corinne is disconsolate with a headache. Her wit
is for the world, — her moods and mopings, caprices and
lamentations, — those she keeps for her husband.”

“You are a cynic. The woman of taste and genius;
where do you place her?”

“What are the rude heart and brain of a man to such
exalted susceptibilities? What homage is too much for him
to render? Be a bond slave to the sweet enthusiast. Bow
yourself before the delicate shrine. Do your devoirs; she
will not bate you a jot.”

“But there are in the world women governed by reason.”

“My dear Morton, are you demented? A woman always
rational, always sensible, always consistent; a logical woman;
one who can distinguish the relations of cause and effect, one
who marches straight to her purpose like a man, — who ever
found such a woman; or, finding her, who could endure such
a one?”

“You fly into extremes; but women may be rational, as
well as men.”

“I like to see the organ of faith well developed, — yours
is a miracle. Granted, a rational woman; and with a liberal
rendering of the word, such, I admit, are now and then seen,
— women always even, always cheerful, never morbid, always
industrious, always practical; busy with good works, —
charity, for example, or making puddings, — pious daughters,
model wives, pattern mothers —”

“At last you have found a creditable character.”

“Very creditable; but far from interesting. The truth is,
Morton, the very uncertainty, the flitting gleams and shadows,
the opalescent light, the chameleon coloring of a woman's
mind are what make her fascination, — the fascination and
the danger, — there lies the dilemma. Shun the danger,

and you lose the charm as well. A woman's human nature
is not our human nature; the tissue is more cunningly
woven; the string more responsive; the essence lighter and
subtler, — forgive the poetic style, — appropriate to the
theme, you know. In their virtues and their faults they
shoot away into paths where we do not track them. They
can sink in a more abject abasement; and sometimes, again,
while we tread the earth, they are aeronauts of the pure ether.
Stable, stubborn, impassive man holds the steadfast tenor of
his walk, little moved by influences which, on the one hand,
bury his helpmate in ruin, or, on the other, wing her on a
flight to the zenith. They out-sin us, and they out-saint
us; weak as a reed, and strong as an oak; measureless in
folly, profound in wisdom; for the deepest of all wisdom
springs, not out of a questioning brain, but out of a confiding
heart; and all human knowledge must find its root at
last in a blind belief. There, I have given you a sublime
touch of eloquence; and, for the moral to it, — shun matrimony.
It is Satan's slyest mantrap. No, not so, at all; it
is a blessed institution for perfecting mankind in patience,
charity, and meekness, and booking their names in the catalogue
of saints. So be wise, in time. Good by. Look
before you leap!”

And, with an ironical twinkle in his eye, Sharpe vanished.