University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE CLAYTON FAMILY AND SISTER ANNE.

The family party which was now ushered in, consisted
of Clayton's father, mother, and sister. Judge Clayton was
a tall, dignified, elderly personage, in whom one recognized,
at a glance, the gentleman of the old school. His hair,
snowy white, formed a singular contrast with the brightness
of his blue eyes, whose peculiar acuteness of glance
might remind one of a falcon. There was something stately
in the position of the head and the carriage of the figure,
and a punctilious exactness in the whole air and manner,
that gave one a slight impression of sternness. The clear,
sharp blue of his eye seemed to be that of a calm and
decided intellect, of a logical severity of thought; and contrasted
with the silvery hair with that same expression of
cold beauty that is given by the contrast of snow mountains
cutting into the keen, metallic blue of an Alpine sky. One
should apprehend much to fear from such a man's reason —
little to hope from any outburst of his emotional nature.
Yet, as a man, perhaps injustice was done to Judge Clayton
by this first impression; for there was, deep beneath
this external coldness, a severely-repressed nature, of the
most fiery and passionate vehemence. His family affections
were strong and tender, seldom manifested in words, but
always by the most exact appreciation and consideration
for all who came within his sphere. He was strictly and
impartially just in all the little minutiæ of social and domestic
life, never hesitating to speak a truth, or acknowledge
an error.

Mrs. Clayton was a high-bred, elderly lady, whose well-preserved
delicacy of complexion, brilliant dark eyes, and
fine figure, spoke of a youth of beauty. Of a nature imaginative,
impulsive, and ardent, inclining constantly to
generous extremes, she had thrown herself with passionate
devotion round her clear-judging husband, as the Alpine
rose girdles with beauty the breast of the bright, pure
glacier.

Between Clayton and his father there existed an affection
deep and entire; yet, as the son developed to manhood, it
became increasingly evident that they could never move
harmoniously in the same practical orbit. The nature of
the son was so veined and crossed with that of the mother,
that the father, in attempting the age-long and often-tried
experiment of making his child an exact copy of himself,
found himself extremely puzzled and confused in the operation.
Clayton was ideal to an excess; ideality colored
every faculty of his mind, and swayed all his reasonings, as
an unseen magnet will swerve the needle. Ideality pervaded
his conscientiousness, urging him always to rise
above the commonly-received and so-called practical in
morals. Hence, while he worshipped the theory of law, the
practice filled him with disgust; and his father was obliged
constantly to point out deficiencies in reasonings, founded
more on a keen appreciation of what things ought to be, than
on a practical regard to what they are. Nevertheless, Clayton
partook enough of his father's strong and steady nature
to be his mother's idol, who, perhaps, loved this second
rendering of the parental nature with even more doting
tenderness than the first.

Anne Clayton was the eldest of three sisters, and the
special companion and confidant of the brother; and, as
she stands there untying her bonnet-strings, we must also
present her to the reader. She is a little above the medium
height, with that breadth and full development of chest
which one admires in English women. She carries her
well-formed head on her graceful shoulders with a positive,

decided air, only a little on this side of haughtiness.
Her clear brown complexion reddens into a fine glow in
the cheek, giving one the impression of sound, perfect
health. The positive outline of the small aquiline nose,
the large, frank, well-formed mouth, with its clear rows of
shining teeth, the brown eyes, which have caught something
of the falcon keenness of the father, are points in the
picture by no means to be overlooked. Taking her air altogether,
there was an honest frankness about her which
encouraged conversation, and put one instantly at ease.
Yet no man in his senses could ever venture to take the
slightest liberty with Anne Clayton. With all her frankness,
there was ever in her manner a perfectly-defined
“thus far shalt thou come, and no further.” Beaux, suitors,
lovers in abundance, had stood, knelt, and sighed protesting,
at her shrine. Yet Anne Clayton was twenty-seven,
and unmarried. Everybody wondered why; and as to that,
we can only wonder with the rest. Her own account of
the matter was simple and positive. She did not wish to
marry — was happy enough without.

The intimacy between the brother and sister had been
more than usually strong, notwithstanding marked differences
of character; for Anne had not a particle of ideality.
Sense she had, shrewdness, and a pleasant dash of humor,
withal; but she was eminently what people call a practical
girl. She admired highly the contrary of all this in her
brother; she delighted in the poetic-heroic element in him,
for much the same reason that young ladies used to admire
Thaddeus of Warsaw, and William Wallace — because it
was something quite out of her line. In the whole world
of ideas she had an almost idolatrous veneration for her
brother; in the sphere of practical operations she felt free
to assert, with a certain good-natured positiveness, her own
superiority. There was no one in the world, perhaps, of
whose judgment in this respect Clayton stood more in awe.

At the present juncture of affairs Clayton felt himself
rather awkwardly embarrassed in communicating to her an

event which she would immediately feel she had a right
to know before. A sister of Anne Clayton's positive character
does not usually live twenty-seven years in constant
intimacy with a brother like Clayton, without such an attachment
as renders the first announcement of a contemplated
marriage somewhat painful. Why, then, had Clayton, who
always unreservedly corresponded with his sister, not kept
her apprised of his gradual attachment to Nina? The secret
of the matter was, that he had had an instinctive consciousness
that he could not present Nina to the practical, clear-judging
mind of his sister, as she appeared through the mist
and spray of his imaginative nature. The hard facts of her
case would be sure to tell against her in any communication
he might make; and sensitive people never like the fatigue
of justifying their instincts. Nothing, in fact, is less capable
of being justified by technical reasons than those fine insights
into character whereupon affection is built. We have
all had experience of preferences which would not follow
the most exactly ascertained catalogue of virtues, and would
be made captive where there was very little to be said in
justification of the captivity.

But, meanwhile, rumor, always busy, had not failed to
convey to Anne Clayton some suspicions of what was passing;
and, though her delicacy and pride forbade any allusion
to it, she keenly felt the want of confidence, and of course
was not any more charitably disposed towards the little
rival for this reason. But now the matter had attained such
a shape in Clayton's mind that he felt the necessity of apprising
his family and friends. With his mother the task
was made easier by the abundant hopefulness of her nature,
which enabled her in a moment to throw herself into the
sympathies of those she loved. To her had been deputed
the office of first breaking the tidings to Anne, and she had
accomplished it during the pleasure-party of the morning.

The first glance that passed between Clayton and his sister,
as she entered the room, on her return from the party,
showed him that she was discomposed and unhappy. She

did not remain long in the apartment, or seem disposed to
join in conversation; and, after a few abstracted moments,
she passed through the open door into the garden, and began
to busy herself apparently among her plants. Clayton followed
her. He came and stood silently beside her for some
time, watching her as she picked the dead leaves off her
geranium.

“Mother has told you,” he said, at length.

“Yes,” said Anne.

There was a long pause, and Anne picked off dry leaves
and green promiscuously, threatening to demolish the
bush.

“Anne,” said Clayton, “how I wish you could see her!”

“I 've heard of her,” replied Anne, dryly, “through the
Livingstons.”

“And what have you heard?” said Clayton, eagerly.

“Not such things as I could wish, Edward; not such as
I expected to hear of the lady that you would choose.”

“And, pray, what have you heard? Out with it,” said
Clayton, — “let 's know what the world says of her.”

“Well, the world says,” said Anne, “that she is a
coquette, a flirt, a jilt. From all I 've heard, I should think
she must be an unprincipled girl.”

“That is hard language, Anne.”

“Truth is generally hard,” replied Anne.

“My dear sister,” said Clayton, taking her hand, and
seating her on the seat in the garden, “have you lost all
faith in me?”

“I think it would be nearer truth,” replied Anne, “to say
that you had lost all faith in me. Why am I the last one to
know all this? Why am I to hear it first from reports, and
every way but from you? Would I have treated you so?
Did I ever have anything that I did not tell you? Down to
my very soul I 've always told you everything!”

“This is true, I own, dear Anne; but what if you had loved
some man that you felt sure I should not like? Now, you
are a positive person, Anne, and this might happen. Would

you want to tell me at once? Would you not, perhaps, wait,
and hesitate, and put off, for one reason or another, from
day to day, and find it grow more and more difficult, the
longer you waited?”

“I can't tell,” said Anne, bitterly. “I never did love
any one better than you, — that 's the trouble.”

“Neither do I love anybody better than you, Anne. The
love I have for you is a whole, perfect thing, just as it was.
See if you do not find me every way as devoted. My
heart was only opened to take in another love, another
wholly different; and which, because it is so wholly different,
never can infringe on the love I bear to you. And, Anne,
my dear sister, if you could love her as a part of me —”

“I wish I could,” said Anne, somewhat softened; “but
what I 've heard has been so unfavorable! She is not, in
the least, the person I should have expected you to fancy,
Edward. Of all things I despise a woman who trifles with
the affections of gentlemen.”

“Well, but, my dear, Nina is n't a woman; she is a child
— a gay, beautiful, unformed child; and I 'm sure you
may apply to her what Pope says:

“Yes, indeed,” said Anne, “I believe all you men are
alike — a pretty face bewitches any of you. I thought you
were an exception, Edward; but there you are.”

“But, Anne, is this the way to encourage my confidence?
Suppose I am bewitched and enchanted, you cannot
disentangle me without indulgence. Say what you will
about it, the fact is just this — it is my fate to love this child.
I 've tried to love many women before. I have seen many
whom I knew no sort of reason why I should n't love, —
handsomer far, more cultivated, more accomplished, — and yet
I 've seen them without a movement or a flutter of the pulse.
But this girl has awakened all there is to me. I do not see in

her what the world sees. I see the ideal image of what she
can be, what I 'm sure she will be, when her nature is fully
awakened and developed.”

“Just there, Edward — just that,” said Anne. “You
never see anything; that is, you see a glorified image — a
something that might, could, would, or should be — that is
your difficulty. You glorify an ordinary boarding-school
coquette into something symbolic, sublime; you clothe her
with all your own ideas, and then fall down to worship
her.”

“Well, my dear Anne, suppose it were so, what then?
I am, as you say, ideal, — you, real. Well, be it so; I must
act according to what is in me. I have a right to my nature,
you to yours. But it is not every person whom I can idealize;
and I suspect this is the great reason why I never
could love some very fine women, with whom I have associated
on intimate terms; they had no capacity of being
idealized; they could receive no color from my fancy; they
wanted, in short, just what Nina has. She is just like one
of those little whisking, chattering cascades in the White
Mountains, and the atmosphere round her is favorable to
rainbows.”

“And you always see her through them.”

“Even so, sister; but some people I cannot. Why should
you find fault with me? It 's a pleasant thing to look through
a rainbow. Why should you seek to disenchant, if I can be
enchanted?”

“Why,” replied Anne, “you remember the man who
took his pay of the fairies in gold and diamonds, and, after
he had passed a certain brook, found it all turned to slatestones.
Now, marriage is like that brook; many a poor fellow
finds his diamonds turned to slate on the other side;
and this is why I put in my plain, hard common sense,
against your visions. I see the plain facts about this young
girl; that she is an acknowledged flirt, a noted coquette and
jilt; and a woman who is so is necessarily heartless; and

you are too good, Edward, too noble, I have loved you
too long, to be willing to give you up to such a woman.”

“There, my dear Anne, there are at least a dozen points
in that sentence to which I don't agree. In the first place,
as to coquetry, it is n't the unpardonable sin in my eyes —
that is, under some circumstances.”

“That is, you mean, when Nina Gordon is the coquette?”

“No, I don't mean that. But the fact is, Anne, there is so
little of true sincerity, so little real benevolence and charity,
in the common intercourse of young gentlemen and ladies
in society, and our sex, who ought to set the example, are
so selfish and unprincipled in their ways of treating women,
that I do not wonder that, now and then, a lively girl, who
has the power, avenges her sex by playing off our weak
points. Now, I don't think Nina capable of trifling with a
real, deep, unselfish attachment — a love which sought her
good, and was willing to sacrifice itself for her; but I don't
believe any such has ever been put at her disposal. There 's
a great difference between a man's wanting a woman to love
him, and loving her. Wanting to appropriate a woman as
a wife, does not, of course, imply that a man loves her, or
that he is capable of loving anything. All these things
girls feel, because their instincts are quick; and they are
often accused of trifling with a man's heart, when they only
see through him, and know he has n't any. Besides, love
of power has always been considered a respectable sin in us
men; and why should we denounce a woman for loving her
kind of power?”

“O, well, Edward, there is n't anything in the world that
you cannot theorize into beauty. But I don't like coquettes,
for all that; and, then, I 'm told Nina Gordon is
so very odd, and says and does such very extraordinary
things, sometimes.”

“Well, perhaps that charms me the more. In this conventional
world, where women are all rubbed into one uniform
surface, like coins in one's pocket, it 's a pleasure now
and then to find one who can't be made to do and think like

all the rest. You have a little dash of this merit, yourself,
Anne; but you must consider that you have been brought
up with mamma, under her influence, trained and guided
every hour, even more than you knew. Nina has grown up
an heiress among servants, a boarding-school girl in New
York; and, furthermore, you are twenty-seven and she is
eighteen, and a great deal may be learned between eighteen
and twenty-seven.”

“But, brother, you remember Miss Hannah More says,
— or some of those good women, I forget who: at any rate
it 's a sensible saying, — `that a man who chooses his wife
as he would a picture in a public exhibition-room, should
remember that there is this difference, that the picture cannot
go back to the exhibition, but the woman may.' You
have chosen her from seeing her brilliancy in society; but,
after all, can you make her happy in the dull routine of a
commonplace life? Is she not one of the sort that must
have a constant round of company and excitement to keep
her in spirits?”

“I think not,” said Clayton. “I think she is one of
those whose vitality is in herself, and one whose freshness
and originality will keep life anywhere from being commonplace;
and that, living with us, she will sympathize, naturally,
in all our pursuits.”

“Well, now, don't flatter yourself, brother, that you can
make this girl over, and bring her to any of your standards.”

“Who — I? Did you think I meditated such an impertience?
The last thing I should try, to marry a wife to
educate her! It 's generally one of the most selfish tricks
of our sex. Besides, I don't want a wife who will be a
mere mirror of my opinions and sentiments. I don't want
an innocent sheet of blotting-paper, meekly sucking up all
I say, and giving a little fainter impression of my ideas.
I want a wife for an alterative; all the vivacities of life lie
in differences.”

“Why, surely,” said Anne, “one wants one's friends to
be congenial, I should think.”

“So we do; and there is nothing in the world so congenial
as differences. To be sure, the differences must be
harmonious. In music, now, for instance, one does n't want
a repetition of the same notes, but differing notes that chord.
Nay, even discords are indispensable to complete harmony.
Now, Nina has just that difference from me which chords
with me; and all our little quarrels — for we have had a good
many, and I dare say shall have more — are only a sort of
chromatic passages, — discords of the seventh, leading
into harmony. My life is inward, theorizing, self-absorbed.
I am hypochondriac — often morbid. The vivacity and
acuteness of her outer life makes her just what I need. She
wakens, she rouses, and keeps me in play; and her quick
instincts are often more than a match for my reason. I reverence
the child, then, in spite of her faults. She has taught
me many things.”

“Well,” said Anne, laughing, “I give you up, if it comes
to that. If you come to talk about reverencing Nina Gordon,
I see it 's all over with you, Edward, and I 'll be good-natured,
and make the best of it. I hope it may all be true
that you think, and a great deal more. At all events, no
effort of mine shall be wanting to make you as happy in
your new relation as you ought to be.”

“There, now, that 's Anne Clayton! It 's just like you,
sister, and I could n't say anything better than that. You
have unburdened your conscience, you have done all you
can for me, and now very properly yield to the inevitable.
Nina, I know, will love you; and, if you never try to advise
her and influence her, you will influence her very much.
Good people are a long while learning that, Anne. They
think to do good to others, by interfering and advising.
They don't know that all they have to do is to live. When
I first knew Nina, I was silly enough to try my hand that
way, myself; but I 've learned better. Now, when Nina
comes to us, all that you and mamma have got to do is just

to be kind to her, and live as you always have lived; and
whatever needs to be altered in her, she will alter herself.”

“Well,” said Anne, “I wish, as it is so, that I could see
her.”

“Suppose you write a few lines to her in this letter that
I am going to write; and then that will lead in due time
to a visit.”

“Anything in the world, Edward, that you say.”