University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
WHY CAN'T THEY LET US ALONE?

HARRY went out to his office, and Eva commenced
the morning labors of a young housekeeper.

What are they? Something in their way as airy and
pleasant as the light touches and arrangements which Eve
gave to her bower in Paradise—gathering up stray rose-leaves,
tying up a lily that the rain has bent, looping a
honeysuckle in a more graceful festoon, and meditating
the while whether she shall have oranges and figs and
grapes, or guavas and pineapples, for her first course at
dinner.

Such, according to Father Milton, were the ornamental
duties of the first wife, while her husband went
out to his office in some distant part of Eden.

But Eden still exists whenever two young lovers set
up housekeeping, even in prosaic New York; only our
modern Eves wear jaunty little morning caps and fascinating
wrappers and slippers, with coquettish butterfly
bows. Eva's morning duties consisted in asking Mary
what they had better have for dinner, giving here and
there a peep into the pantry, re-arranging the flower
vases, and flecking the dust from her pictures and statuettes
with a gay and glancing brush of peacock's feathers.
Sometimes the morning arrangements included quite a
change; as, this particular day, when, on mature consideration,
a spray of ivy that was stretching towards the
window had been drawn back and forced to wreathe itself
around a picture, and a spray of nasturtium, gemmed

with half-opened golden buds, had been trained in its
place in the window.

One may think this a very simple matter, but whoever
knows all the resistance which the forces of matter and
the laws of gravitation make to the simplest improvement
in one's parlor, will know better.

It required a scaffolding made of a chair and an ottoman
to reach the top of the pictures, and a tack-hammer
and little tacks. Then the precise air of arrangement
and exact position had to be studied from below, after
the tacks were driven, and that necessitated two or three
descents from the perch to review, and the tumbling of
the ottoman to the floor, and the calling of Mary in to
help, and to hold the ottoman firm while the persevering
little artist finished her work. It is by ups and downs
like these, by daily labor of modern Eves, each in their
little paradises, O ye Adams! that your houses have that
“just right” look that makes you think of them all day,
and long to come back to them at night.

“Somehow or other,” you say, “I do n't know how it
is, my wife's things have a certain air; her vines grow
just as they ought to, her flowers blossom in just the
right places, and her parlors always look pleasant.”
You do n't know how many periods of grave consideration,
how many climbings on chairs and ottomans, how
many doings and undoings and shiftings and changes
produce the appearance that charms you. Most people
think that flower vases are very simple affairs; but the
keeping of parlors dressed with flowers is daily work for
an hour or two for any woman. Nor is it work in vain.
No altar is holier than the home altar, and the flowers
that adorn it are sacred.

Eva was sitting, a little tired with her strenuous exertions,
contemplating her finished arrangement with satisfaction,
when the door-bell rang, and Alice came in.

“Why, Allie, dear, how nice of you to be down here
so early! I was just wanting somebody to show my
changes to. Look there. See how I 've looped that ivy
round mother's picture; is n't it sweet?” and Eva caressingly
arranged a leaf or two to suit her.

“Charming!” said Alice, but with rather an abstracted,
preoccupied tone.

“And look at this nasturtium; it 's full of buds.
See, the yellow is beginning to show. I 've fastened it
in a wreath around the window, so that the sun will shine
through the blossoms.”

“It 's beautiful,” said Alice, still absently and nervously
playing with her bonnet strings.

“Why, darling, what 's the matter?” said Eva, suddenly
noticing signs of some unusual feeling. “What
ails you?”

“Well,” said Alice, hastily untying her bonnet strings
and throwing it down on the sofa, “I 've come up to talk
with you. I hope,” she said, flushing crimson with vexation,
“that Aunt Maria is satisfied now; she is the most
exasperating woman I ever knew or heard of!”

“Dear me, Allie, what has she done now?”

“Well, what do you think? Last Sunday she came
to our house to tea, drawn up in martial array and ready
to attack us all for not going to the old church—that
stupid, dead old church, where people do nothing but
doze and wake up to criticise each other's bonnets—but
you really would think to hear Aunt Maria talk that there
was a second Babylonian captivity or something of that
sort coming on, and we were getting it up. You see, Dr.
Cushing has got excited because some of the girls are
going up to the mission church, and it 's led him to an
unwonted exertion; and Aunt Maria quite waked up and
considers herself an apostle and prophet. I wish you
could have heard her talk. It 's enough to make any

cause ridiculous to have one defend it as she did.
You ought to have heard that witch of a Jim Fellows arguing
with her and respectfully leading her into all sorts
of contradictions and absurdities till I stopped him. I
really would n't let him lead her to make such a fool of
herself.”

“Oh, well, if that 's all, Allie, I do n't think you need
to trouble your head,” said Eva. “Aunt Maria, of
course, will hold on to her old notions, and her style of
argument never was very consecutive.”

“But that is n't all. Oh, you may be sure I did n't
care for what she said about the church. I can have my
opinion and she hers, on that point.”

“Well, then, what is the matter?”

“Well, if you 'll believe me, she has actually undertaken
to tutor Jim Fellows in relation to his intimacy
with me.”

“Oh, Allie,” groaned Eva, “has she done that? I
begged and implored her to let that matter alone.”

“Then she 's been talking with you, too! and I wonder
how many more,” said Alice in tones of disgust.

“Yes, she did talk with me in her usual busy, imperative
way, and told me all that Mrs. Thus-and-so and
Mr. This-and-that said—but people are always saying
things, and if they do n't say one thing they will another.
I tried to persuade her to let it alone, but she seemed to
think you must be talked with; so I finally told her that
if she 'd leave it to me I would say all that was necessary.
I did mean to say something, but I did n't want to
trouble you. I thought there was no hurry.”

“Well, you see,” said Alice, “Jim went home with
her that night, and I suppose she thought the opportunity
too good to be neglected. I do n't know just what
she said to him, but I know it was about me.”

“How do you know? Did Jim tell you?”

“No, indeed; catch him telling me! He knows too
much for that. Aunt Maria let it out herself.”

“Let it out herself?”

“Yes; she blundered into it before she knew what
she was saying, and betrayed herself; and then, when I
questioned her,she had to tell me.”

“How came she to commit herself so?”

“It was just this. You know the little party Aunt
Maria had Tuesday evening,—the one you could n't come
to on account of that Stephens engagement.”

“Yes; what of it?”

“I really suspect that was all got up in the interest
of one of Aunt Maria's schemes to bring me and
that John Davenport together. At any rate, there he
was, and his sister; and really, Eva, his treatment of me
was so marked that it was quite disagreeable. Why, the
man seemed really infatuated. His manner was so that
everybody remarked it; and the colder and more distant
I grew, the more it increased. Aunt Maria was delighted.
She plumed herself and rushed round in the most satisfied
way, while I was only provoked. I saw he was
going to ask to wait on me home, and so I fell back on a
standing engagement that I have with Jim, to go with
me whenever anybody asks that I do n't want to go with.
Jim and I have always had that understanding in dancing
and at parties, so that we can keep clear of disagreeable
partners and people. I was determined I would n't walk
home with that man, and I told Jim privately that he
was to be on duty, and he took the hint in a minute. So
when Mr. Davenport wound up his attentions by asking
if he should have the pleasure of seeing me home, I told
him with great satisfaction that I was engaged, and off I
walked with Jim. The girls were in a perfect state of
giggle, to see Aunt Maria's indignation.”

“And so really you don't like this Mr. Davenport?”

“Like him! Indeed I don't. In the first place, it
isn 't a year yet since his wife died; and everybody was
pitying him. He could hardly be kept alive, and fainted
away, and had to have hot bottles at his feet, and all
that. All the old ladies were rolling up their eyes; such
a sighing and sympathizing for John Davenport; and
now, here he is!”

“Poor man!” said Eva, “I suppose he is lonesome.”

“Yes. I suppose, as Irving says, the greatest compliment
he can pay to his former wife is to display an
eagerness for another; but his attentions are simply disagreeable
to me.”

“After all, the worst crime you allege seems to be
that he is too sensitive to your attractions.”

“Yes; and shows it in a very silly way—making me
an object of remark! He may be very nice and very
worthy, and all that; but in any such relation as that
he is so unpleasant to me! I can't bear him, and I'm
not going to be talked or maneuvered into anything that
might commit me to even consider him. I remember
the trouble you had for being persuaded to let Wat Sydney
dangle after you. I will not have anything of the
kind. I am a decided young woman, and know my own
mind.”

“Well, how did you learn about Aunt Maria and
Jim?”

“How? Oh, well, the next day comes Aunt Maria
to talk with Mamma, who was n't there, by the bye; Papa
hates so to go out that she has got to staying at home
with him. But the next day came an exaggerated picture
of my triumphs to Mamma and a lecture to me on
my bad behavior. The worst of all, she said, was the
very marked thing of my going home with Jim; and in
her heat she let out that she had spoken to him and
warned him of what folks would think and say of such

appearances. I was angry then, and I expressed my
mind freely to Aunt Maria, and we had a downright
quarrel. I said things I ought not to say, just as one
always does, and—now isn't it disagreeable? Isn't it
dreadful?” said Alice, with the earnestness of a young
girl whose whole nature goes into her first trouble.
“Nothing could be nicer and more just what a thing
ought to be than my friendship with Jim. I have influence
over him and I can do him good, and I enjoy
his society, and the kind of easy, frank understanding
that there is between us, that we can say any thing to
each other; and what business is it of anybody's? It's
our own affair, and no one's else.”

“Certainly it is,” said Eva, sympathizingly.

“And Aunt Maria said that folks were saying that if
we were n't engaged we ought to be. What a hateful
thing to say! As if there were any impropriety in a friendship
between a gentleman and a lady. Why may not a
gentleman and a lady have a special friendship as well
one lady with another, or one gentleman with another?
I don't see.”

“Neither do I,” said Eva, responsively.

“Now,” said Alice, “the suggestion of marriage and
all that is disagreeable to me. I'm thinking of nothing
of the kind. I like Jim. Well, I don't mind saying to
you, Eva, who can understand me, that I love him, in a
sort of way. I am interested for him. I know his good
points and I know his faults, and I'm at liberty to speak
to him with perfect freedom, and I think there is nothing
so good for a young man as such a friendship. We girls,
you know, dear, can do a great deal for young men if
we try. We are not tempted as they are; we have not
their hard places and trials to walk through, and we can
make allowances, and they will receive things from us
that they would n't from any one else, and they show us

just the best side of their nature, which is the truest side
of everybody.”

“Certainly, Alice. Harry was saying only a little
while ago that your influence would make a man of Jim;
and I certainly think he has wonderfully improved of
late—he seems more serious.”

“We've learned to know him better; that's all,” said
Alice. “Young men rattle and talk idly to girls when
they don't feel acquainted and haven't real confidence
in their friendship, just as a sort of blind. They don't
dare to express their real, deepest feelings.”

“Well, I didn't know that Jim had any,” said Eva,
incautiously.

“Why, Eva, how unjust you are to Jim!” said Alice,
with flushing cheeks. “I should n't have thought it
of you; so many kind things as Jim has done for us
all!”

“My darling, I beg Jim's pardon with all my
heart,” said Eva, laughing to herself at this earnest
championship. “I did n't mean quite what I said, but
you know, Alice, his sort of wild rattling way of talking
over all subjects, so that you can't tell which is jest and
which is earnest.”

“Oh! I can always tell,” said Alice. “I always can
make him come down to the earnest part of him, and
Jim has, after all, really good, sensible ideas of life and
aspirations after what is right and true. He has the
temptation of having been a sort of spoiled child. People
do so like a laugh that they set him on and encourage
him in saying all sorts of things he ought not. People
have very little principle about that. So that anyone
amuses them, they never consider whether he does right
to talk as he does; they 'll set Jim up to talk because it
amuses them, and then go away and say what a rattle he
is, and that he has no real principle or feeling. They

just make a buffoon of him, and they know nothing
about the best part of him.”

“Well, Alice, I dare say you do see more of Jim's
real nature than any of us.”

“Oh! indeed I do; and I know how to appeal to it.
Even when I can't help laughing at things he ought not
to say—and sometimes they are so droll I can't help it
—afterwards I have my say and tell him really and soberly
just what I think, and you 've no idea how beautifully
he takes it. Oh, Jim really is good at heart, there 's no
doubt about that.”

“Do you think Aunt Maria's meddling will make
trouble between you?”

“No! only that it 's an awkward, disagreeable thing
to speak of; but I shall speak to Jim about it and let
him understand, if he does n't now, just what Aunt
Maria is, and that he must n't mind anything she says.
I feel rather better, now I 've relieved my mind to you,
and perhaps shall have more charity for Aunt Maria.”

“After all, poor soul,” said Eva, “it 's her love for
us that leads her to vex us in all these ways. She can't
help planning and fussing and lying awake nights for us.
She failed in getting a splendid marriage for me, and
now she 's like Bruce's spider, up and at her web again
weaving a destiny for you. It 's in her to be active;
she has no children; her house do n't half satisfy her as
a field of enterprise, and she, of course, is taking care
of Mamma and our family. If Mamma had not been
just the gentle, lovely, yielding woman she is, Aunt Maria
never would have got such headway in the family and
taken such airs about us.”

“She perfectly tyrannizes over Mamma,” said Alice.
“She 's always coming up to lecture her for not doing
this, that, or the other thing. Now all this talk about
our going to Mr. St. John's church;—poor, dear, little

Mamma is as willing to let us do as we please as the
flowers are to blossom, and then Aunt Maria talks as if
she were abetting a conspiracy against the church. I
know that we are all living more serious, earnest lives
for Mr. St. John's influence. It may be that he is
going too far in certain directions; it may be that in the
long run such things tend to dangerous extremes, but
I do n't see any real harm in them so far, and I find real
good.”

“Well, you know, dear, that Harry is n't of our
church—he is a Congregationalist—but his theory is
that Christian people should join with any other Christian
people who they see are really working in earnest to
do good. This church is near by us, where we can conveniently
go, and as I have my house to attend to and
am not strong you know, that is quite a consideration.
I know Harry do n't agree with Mr. St. John at all about
his ideas of the church, and he thinks he carries some
of his ceremonies too far; but, on the whole, he really
is doing a great deal of practical good, and Harry is
willing to help him. I think it 's just lovely in Harry to
do so. It is real liberality.”

“I wish,” said Alice, “that Mr. St. John were a little
freer in his way. There is a sort of solemnity about him
that is depressing, and it seems to set Jim off in a spirit
of contradiction. He says Mr. St. John stirs up the evil
within him, and makes him long to break over bounds
and say something wicked, just to shock him.”

“I 've had that desire to shock very proper people
in the days of my youth,” said Eva. “I do n't know
what it comes from.”

“I think,” said Alice, “that, to be sure, this is an
irreverent age, and New York is an irreverent place; but
yet I think people may carry the outside air of reverence
too far. Do n't you? They impose a sort of constraint

on everybody around them that keeps them from
knowing the people they associate with. Mr. St. John,
for instance, knows nothing about Jim, he never acts
himself out before him.”

“Oh, dear me,” said Eva, “fancy what he would think
if he should see Jim in one of his frolics.”

“And yet, Jim, in his queer way, appreciates Mr. St.
John,” said Alice. “He says he 's `a brick' after all, by
which he means that he does good, honest work; and Jim
has been enough around among the poor of New York,
in his quality of newspaper writer, to know when a man
does good among them. If Mr. St. John only could
learn to be indulgent to other people's natures he might
do a great deal for Jim.”

“I rather think Jim will be your peculiar parish for
some time to come,” said Eva with a smile, “but Harry
and I are projecting schemes to draw Mr. St. John into
more general society. That 's one of the things we are
going to try to do in our `evenings.' I do n't believe he
has ever been into general society at all; he ought to
hear the talk of his day—he talks and feels and thinks
more in the past than the present; he 's all the while
trying to restore an ideal age of reverence and devotion,
but he ought to know the real age he lives in. If we
could get him to coming to our house every week, and
meeting real live men, women and girls of to-day and
entering a little into their life, it would do him good.”

“I suppose he 'd be afraid of any indulgence!”

“We must not put it to him as an indulgence, but a
good hard duty,” said Eva; “we should never catch him
with an indulgence.”

“When are you going to begin?”

“I 've been talking with Mary about it, and I rather
think I shall take next Thursday for the first. I shall
depend on you and the girls to help me keep the thing

balanced, and going on just right. Jim must be moderated,
and kept from coming out too strong, and everybody
must be made to have a good time, so that they 'll
want to come again. You see we want to get them to
coming every week, so that they will all know one another
by-and-by, and get a sort of home feeling about
our rooms; such a thing is possible, I think.”

The conversation now meandered off into domestic
details, not further traceable in this chapter.