University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
AFTER THE BATTLE.

“WELL, Grace, the Follingsbees are gone at last,
I am thankful to say,” said John, as he
stretched himself out on the sofa in Grace's parlor with
a sigh of relief. “If ever I am caught in such a scrape
again, I shall know it.”

“Yes, it is all well over,” said Grace.

“Over! I wish you would look at the bills. Why,
Gracie! I had not the least idea, when I gave Lillie
leave to get what she chose, what it would come to,
with those people at her elbow, to put things into her
head. I could not interfere, you know, after the thing
was started; and I thought I would not spoil Lillie's
pleasure, especially as I had to stand firm in not allowing
wine. It was well I did; for if wine had been
given, and taken with the reckless freedom that all the
rest was, it might have ended in a general riot.”

“As some of the great fashionable parties do, where
young women get merry with champagne, and young
men get drunk,” said Grace.

“Well,” said John, “I don't exactly like the whole

turn of the way things have been going at our house
lately. I don't like the influence of it on others. It is
not in the line of the life I want to lead, and that we
have all been trying to lead.”

“Well,” said Gracie, “things will be settled now
quietly, I hope.”

“I say,” said John, “could not we start our little
reading sociables, that were so pleasant last year? You
know we want to keep some little pleasant thing going,
and draw Lillie in with us. When a girl has been used
to lively society, she can't come down to mere nothing;
and I am afraid she will be wanting to rush off to New
York, and visit the Follingsbees.”

“Well,” said Grace, “Letitia and Rose were speaking
the other day of that, and wanting to begin. You
know we were to read Froude together, as soon as the
evenings got a little longer.”

“Oh, yes! that will be capital,” said John.

“Do you think Lillie will be interested in Froude?”
asked Grace.

“I really can't say,” said John, with some doubting
of heart; “perhaps it would be well to begin with
something a little lighter at first.”

“Any thing you please, John. What shall it be?”

“But I don't want to hold you all back on my account,”
said John.

“Well, then again, John, there 's our old study-club.
The Fergusons and Mr. Mathews were talking it over
the other night, and wondering when you would be
ready to join us. We were going to take up Lecky's

`History of Morals,' and have our sessions Tuesday
evenings, — one Tuesday at their house, and the other
at mine, you know.”

“I should enjoy that, of all things,” said John; “but
I know it is of no use to ask Lillie: it would only be
the most dreadful bore to her.”

“And you couldn't come without her, of course,”
said Grace.

“Of course not; that would be too cruel, to leave
the poor little thing at home alone.”

“Lillie strikes me as being naturally clever,” said
Grace; “if she only would bring her mind to enter
into your tastes a little, I 'm sure you would find her
capable.”

“But, Gracie, you 've no conception how very different
her sphere of thought is, how entirely out of the
line of our ways of thinking. I 'll tell you,” said John,
“don't wait for me. You have your Tuesdays, and go
on with your Lecky; and I will keep a copy at home,
and read up with you. And I will bring Lillie in the
evening, after the reading is over; and we will have a
little music and lively talk, and a dance or charade, you
know: then perhaps her mind will wake up by degrees.”

Scene. — After tea in the Seymour parlor. John at a table, reading.
Lillie in a corner, embroidering.

Lillie. “Look here, John, I want to ask you something.”

John, — putting down his book, and crossing to her,
“Well, dear?”

Lillie. “There, would you make a green leaf there,
or a brown one?”

John, — endeavoring to look wise, “Well, a brown
one.”

Lillie. “That 's just like you, John; now, don't you
see that a brown one would just spoil the effect?”

“Oh! would it?” said John, innocently. “Well,
what did you ask me for?”

“Why, you tiresome creature! I wanted you to say
something. What are you sitting moping over a book
for? You don't entertain me a bit.”

“Dear Lillie, I have been talking about every thing
I could think of,” said John, apologetically.

“Well, I want you to keep on talking, and put up
that great heavy book. What is it, any way?”

“Lecky's `History of Morals,'” said John.

“How dreadful! do you really mean to read it?”

“Certainly; we are all reading it.”

“Who all?”

“Why, Gracie, and Letitia and Rose Ferguson.”

“Rose Ferguson? I don't believe it. Why, Rose
isn't twenty yet! She cannot care about such stuff.”

“She does care, and enjoys it too,” said John, eagerly.

“It is a pity, then, you didn't get her for a wife
instead of me,” said Lillie, in a tone of pique.

Now, this sort of thing does well enough occasionally,
said by a pretty woman, perfectly sure of her ground,
in the early days of the honey-moon; but for steady
domestic diet is not to be recommended. Husbands get
tired of swearing allegiance over and over; and John

returned to his book quietly, without reply. He did not
like the suggestion; and he thought that it was in very
poor taste. Lillie embroidered in silence a few minutes,
and then threw down her work pettishly.

“How close this room is!”

John read on.

“John, do open the door!”

John rose, opened the door, and returned to his book.

“Now, there's that draft from the hall-window. John,
you 'll have to shut the door.”

John shut it, and read on.

“Oh, dear me!” said Lillie, throwing herself down
with a portentous yawn. “I do think this is dreadful!”

“What is dreadful?” said John, looking up.

“It is dreadful to be buried alive here in this gloomy
town of Springdale, where there is nothing to see, and
nowhere to go, and nothing going on.”

“We have always flattered ourselves that Springdale
was a most attractive place,” said John. “I don't know
of any place where there are more beautiful walks and
rambles.”

“But I detest walking in the country. What is
there to see? And you get your shoes muddy, and
burrs on your clothes, and don't meet a creature! I
got so tired the other day when Grace and Rose Ferguson
would drag me off to what they call `the glen.'
They kept oh-ing and ah-ing and exclaiming to each
other about some stupid thing every step of the way, —
old pokey nutgalls, bare twigs of trees, and red and yellow

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 706EAF. Page 202. In-line Illustration. Image of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat holding her parasol over her head and lifting her skirts as she walks. The caption reads, "But I detest walking in the country."] leaves, and ferns! I do wish you could have seen
the armful of trash that those two girls carried into
their respective houses. I would not have such stuff in
mine for any thing. I am tired of all this talk about
Nature. I am free to confess that I don't like Nature,
and do like art; and I wish we only lived in New
York, where there is something to amuse one.”

“Well, Lillie dear, I am sorry; but we don't live
in New York, and are not likely to,” said John.

“Why can't we? Mrs. Follingsbee said that a man

in your profession, and with your talents, could command
a fortune in New York.”

“If it would give me the mines of Golconda, I would
not go there,” said John.

“How stupid of you! You know you would, though.”

“No, Lillie; I would not leave Springdale for any
money.”

“That is because you think of nobody but yourself,”
said Lillie. “Men are always selfish.”

“On the contrary, it is because I have so many here
depending on me, of whom I am bound to think more
than myself,” said John.

“That dreadful mission-work of yours, I suppose,”
said Lillie; “that always stands in the way of having
a good time.”

“Lillie,” said John, shutting his book, and looking at
her, “what is your ideal of a good time?”

“Why, having something amusing going on all the
time, — something bright and lively, to keep one in
good spirits,” said Lillie.

“I thought that you would have enough of that with
your party and all,” said John.

“Well, now it 's all over, and duller than ever,” said
Lillie. “I think a little spirt of gayety makes it seem
duller by contrast.”

“Yet, Lillie,” said John, “you see there are women,
who live right here in Springdale, who are all the time
busy, interested, and happy, with only such sources of
enjoyment as are to be found here. Their time does
not hang heavy on their hands; in fact, it is too short
for all they wish to do.”

“They are different from me,” said Lillie.

“Then, since you must live here,” said John, “could
you not learn to be like them? could you not acquire
some of these tastes that make simple country life
agreeable?”

“No, I can't; I never could,” said Lillie, pettishly.

“Then,” said John, “I don't see that anybody can
help your being unhappy.” And, opening his book, he
sat down, and began to read.

Lillie pouted awhile, and then drew from under the
sofa-pillow a copy of “Indiana;” and, establishing her
feet on the fender, she began to read.

Lillie had acquired at school the doubtful talent of
reading French with facility, and was soon deep in the
fascinating pages, whose theme is the usual one of
French novels, — a young wife, tired of domestic monotony,
with an unappreciative husband, solacing herself
with the devotion of a lover. Lillie felt a sort of
pique with her husband. He was evidently unappreciative:
he was thinking of all sorts of things more
than of her, and growing stupid, as husbands in French
romances generally do. She thought of her handsome
Cousin Harry, the only man that she ever came anywhere
near being in love with; and the image of his
dark, handsome eyes and glossy curls gave a sort of
piquancy to the story.

John got deeply interested in his book; and, looking
up from time to time, was relieved to find that Lillie
had something to employ her.

“I may as well make a beginning,” he said to himself.

“I must have my time for reading; and she must
learn to amuse herself.”

After a while, however, he peeped over her shoulder.

“Why, darling!” he said, “where did you get that?”

“It is Mrs. Follingsbee's,” said Lillie.

“Dear, it is a bad book,” said John. “Don't read it.”

“It amuses me, and helps pass away time,” said
Lillie; “and I don't think it is bad: it is beautiful.
Besides, you read what amuses you; and it is a pity if
I can't read what amuses me.”

“I am glad to see you like to read French,” continued
John; “and I can get you some delightful
French stories, which are not only pretty and witty,
but have nothing in them that tend to pull down
one's moral principles. Edmond About's `Mariages de
Paris' and `Tolla' are charming French things; and,
as he says, they might be read aloud by a man between
his mother and his sister, without a shade of offence.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Lillie. “You had
better go to Rose Ferguson, and get her to give you a
list of the kinds of books she prefers.”

“Lillie!” said John, severely, “your remarks about
Rose are in bad taste. I must beg you to discontinue
them. There are subjects that never ought to be
jested about.”

“Thank you, sir, for your moral lessons,” said Lillie,
turning her back on him defiantly, putting her feet on
the fender, and going on with her reading.

John seated himself, and went on with his book in
silence.

Now, this mode of passing a domestic evening is
certainly not agreeable to either party; but we sustain
the thesis that in this sort of interior warfare the
woman has generally the best of it. When it comes to
the science of annoyance, commend us to the lovely sex!
Their methods have a finesse, a suppleness, a universal
adaptability, that does them infinite credit; and man,
with all his strength, and all his majesty, and his commanding
talent, is about as well off as a buffalo or a
bison against a tiny, rainbow-winged gnat or mosquito,
who bites, sings, and stings everywhere at once, with
an infinite grace and facility.

A woman without magnanimity, without generosity,
who has no love, and whom a man loves, is a terrible
antagonist. To give up or to fight often seems equally
impossible.

How is a man going to make a woman have a good
time, who is determined not to have it? Lillie had
sense enough to see, that, if she settled down into enjoyment
of the little agreeablenesses and domesticities
of the winter society in Springdale, she should lose her
battle, and John would keep her there for life. The
only way was to keep him as uncomfortable as possible
without really breaking her power over him.

In the long-run, in these encounters of will, the
woman has every advantage. The constant dropping
that wears away the stone has passed into a proverb.

Lillie meant to go to New York, and have a long
campaign at the Follingsbees. The thing had been
all promised and arranged between them; and it was

necessary that she should appear sufficiently miserable,
and that John should be made sufficiently uncomfortable,
to consent with effusion, at last, when her intentions
were announced.

These purposes were not distinctly stated to herself;
for, as we have before intimated, uncultivated natures,
who have never thought for a serious moment on self-education,
or the way their character is forming, act
purely from a sort of instinct, and do not even in their
own minds fairly and squarely face their own motives
and purposes; if they only did, their good angel would
wear a less dejected look than he generally must.

Lillie had power enough, in that small circle, to stop
and interrupt almost all its comfortable literary culture.
The reading of Froude was given up. John could not
go to the study club; and, after an evening or two of
trying to read up at home, he used to stay an hour later
at his office. Lillie would go with him on Tuesday evening,
after the readings were over; and then it was understood
that all parties were to devote themselves to
making the evening pass agreeable to her. She was to
be put forward, kept in the foreground, and every thing
arranged to make her appear the queen of the fête.
They had tableaux, where Rose made Lillie into marvellous
pictures, which all admired and praised. They
had little dances, which Lillie thought rather stupid and
humdrum, because they were not en grande toilette;
yet Lillie always made a great merit of putting up with
her life at Springdale. A pleasant English writer has
a lively paper on the advantages of being a “cantankerous

fool,” in which he goes to show that men or women
of inferior moral parts, little self-control, and great
selfishness, often acquire an absolute dominion over
the circle in which they move, merely by the exercise
of these traits. Every one being anxious to please and
pacify them, and keep the peace with them, there is a
constant succession of anxious compliances and compromises
going on around them; by all of which they
are benefited in getting their own will and way.

The one person who will not give up, and cannot be
expected to be considerate or accommodating, comes at
last to rule the whole circle. He is counted on like the
fixed facts of nature; everybody else must turn out for
him. So Lillie reigned in Springdale. In every little
social gathering where she appeared, the one uneasy
question was, would she have a good time, and anxious
provision made to that end. Lillie had declared that
reading aloud was a bore, which was definitive against
reading-parties. She liked to play and sing; so that
was always a part of the programme. Lillie sang well,
but needed a great deal of urging. Her throat was apt
to be sore; and she took pains to say that the harsh
winter weather in Springdale was ruining her voice. A
good part of an evening was often spent in supplications
before she could be induced to make the endeavor.

Lillie had taken up the whim of being jealous of Rose.
Jealousy is said to be a sign of love. We hold another
theory, and consider it more properly a sign of
selfishness. Look at noble-hearted, unselfish women,
and ask if they are easily made jealous. Look, again,

at a woman who in her whole life shows no disposition
to deny herself for her husband, or to enter into his
tastes and views and feelings: are not such as she the
most frequently jealous?

Her husband, in her view, is a piece of her property;
every look, word, and thought which he gives to any
body or thing else is a part of her private possessions,
unjustly withheld from her.

Independently of that, Lillie felt the instinctive
jealousy which a passée queen of beauty sometimes
has for a young rival.

She had eyes to see that Rose was daily growing
more and more beautiful; and not all that young girl's
considerateness, her self-forgetfulness, her persistent
endeavors to put Lillie forward, and make her the
queen of the hour, could disguise this fact. Lillie
was a keen-sighted little body, and saw, at a glance,
that, once launched into society together, Rose would
carry the day; all the more that no thought of any day
to be carried was in her head.

Rose Ferguson had one source of attraction which
is as great a natural gift as beauty, and which, when
it is found with beauty, makes it perfectly irresistible;
to wit, perfect unconsciousness of self. This is a
wholly different trait from unselfishness: it is not a
moral virtue, attained by voluntary effort, but a constitutional
gift, and a very great one. Fénelon praises
it as a Christian grace, under the name of simplicity;
but we incline to consider it only as an advantage of
natural organization. There are many excellent Christians

who are haunted by themselves, and in some form
or other are always busy with themselves; either conscientiously
pondering the right and wrong of their
actions, or approbatively sensitive to the opinions of
others, or æsthetically comparing their appearance and
manners with an interior standard; while there are
others who have received the gift, beyond the artist's
eye or the musician's ear, of perfect self-forgetfulness.
Their religion lacks the element of conflict, and comes
to them by simple impulse.

Rose had a frank, open joyousness of nature, that
shed around her a healthy charm, like fine, breezy
weather, or a bright morning; making every one feel as
if to be good were the most natural thing in the world.
She seemed to be thinking always and directly of
matters in hand, of things to be done, and subjects
under discussion, as much as if she were an impersonal
being.

She had been educated with every solid advantage
which old Boston can give to her nicest girls; and that
is saying a good deal. Returning to a country home
at an early age, she had been made the companion
of her father; entering into all his literary tastes, and
receiving constantly, from association with him, that
manly influence which a woman's mind needs to develop
its completeness. Living the whole year in the country,
the Fergusons developed within themselves a

multiplicity of resources. They read and studied, and
discussed subjects with their father; for, as we all
know, the discussion of moral and social questions has
been from the first, and always will be, a prime source
of amusement in New-England families; and many of
them keep up, with great spirit, a family debating
society, in which whoever hath a psalm, a doctrine,
or an interpretation, has free course.

Rose had never been into fashionable life, technically
so called. She had not been brought out: there never
had been a mile-stone set up to mark the place where
“her education was finished;” and so she had gone
on unconsciously, — studying, reading, drawing, and
cultivating herself from year to year, with her head
and hands always so full of pleasurable schemes and
plans, that there really seemed to be no room for any
thing else. We have seen with what interest she
co-operated with Grace in the various good works
of the factory village in which her father held shares,
where her activity found abundant scope, and her
beauty and grace of manner made her a sort of idol.

Rose had once or twice in her life been awakened to
self-consciousness, by applicants rapping at the front
door of her heart; but she answered with such a
kind, frank, earnest, “No, I thank you, sir,” as made
friends of her lovers; and she entered at once into
pleasant relations with them. Her nature was so
healthy, and free from all morbid suggestion; her yes
and no so perfectly frank and positive, that there
seemed no possibility of any tragedy caused by her.

Why did not John fall in love with Rose? Why
did not he, O most sapient senate of womanhood? why
did not your brother fall in love with that nice girl you
know of, who grew up with you all at his very elbow,
and was, as everybody else could see, just the proper
person for him?

Well, why didn't he? There is the doctrine of
election. “The election hath obtained it; and the
rest were blinded.” John was some six years older
than Rose. He had romped with her as a little girl,
drawn her on his sled, picked up her hair-pins, and
worn her tippet, when they had skated together as
girl and boy. They had made each other Christmas
and New Year's presents all their lives; and, to say
the truth, loved each other honestly and truly: nevertheless,
John fell in love with Lillie, and married her.
Did you ever know a case like it?