University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
AUNT MARIA ENDEAVORS TO SET MATTERS RIGHT.

MRS. MARIA WOUVERMANS was one of those
forces in creation to whom quiet is impossible.
Watchfulness, enterprise and motion were the laws of
her existence, as incessantly operating as any other laws
of nature.

When we last saw her, she was in high ill-humor with
her sister, Mrs. Van Arsdel, with Alice and Eva, and the
whole family. She revenged herself upon them, as such
good creatures know how to do, by heaping coals of fire
on their heads in the form of ostentatiously untiring and
uncalled-for labors for them all. The places she explored
to get their laces mended and their quillings
done up and their dresses made, the pilgrimages she
performed in omnibuses, the staircases she climbed, the
men and women whom she browbeat and circumvented in
bargains—all to the advantage of the Van Arsdel purse—
were they not recounted and told over in a way to appall
the conscience of poor, easy Mrs. Van Arsdel, whom
they summarily convicted of being an inefficient little
know-nothing, and of her girls, who thus stood arraigned
for the blackest ingratitude in not appreciating Aunt
Maria?

“I'll tell you what it is, Alice,” said Eva, when Aunt
Maria's labors had come to the usual climax of such
smart people, and laid her up with a sick-headache,
“we girls have just got to make up with Aunt Maria, or
she'll tear down all New York. I always notice that

when she's out with us she goes tearing about in this
way, using herself up for us—doing things no mortal
wants her to do, and yet that it seems black ingratitude
not to thank her for. Now, Alice, you are the one, this
time, and you must just go and sit with her and make up,
as I did.”

“But, Eva, I know the trouble you fell into, letting
her and mother entangle you with Wat Sydney, and I'm
not going to have it happen again. I will not be compromised
in any way or shape with a man whom I never
mean to marry.”

“Oh, well, I think by this time Aunt Maria understands
this, only she wants you to come back and be loving
to her, and say you're sorry you can't, etc. After
all, Aunt Maria is devoted to us and is miserable when
we are out with her.”

“Well, I hate to have friends that one must be always
bearing with and deferring to.”

“Well, Alice, you remember Mr. St. John's sermons
on the trials of the first Christians—when he made us all
feel that it would have been a blessed chance to go to
the stake for our religion?”

“Yes; it was magnificent. I felt a great exaltation.”

“Well, I'll tell you what I thought. It may be as heroic,
and more difficult, to put down our own temper and
make the first concession to an unreasonable old aunt
who really loves us than to be martyrs for Christ. Nobody
wants us to be martyrs now-a-days; but I think
these things that make no show and have no glory are a
harder cross to take up.”

“Well, Eva, I'll do as you say,” said Alice, after a few
moments of silence, “for really you speak the truth. I
don't know anything harder than to go and make concessions
to a person who has acted as ridiculously as Aunt

Maria has, and who will take all your concessions and
never own a word on her side.”

“Well, dear, what I think in these cases is, that I am
not perfect. There are always enough things where I
didn't do quite right for me to confess; and as to her
confessing, that's not my affair. What I have to do is to
cut loose from my own sins; they are mine, and hers
are hers.”

“True,” said Alice; “and the fact is, I did speak
improperly to Aunt Maria. She is older than I am. I
ought not to have said the things I did. I'm hot tempered,
and always say more than I mean.”

“Well, Ally, do as I did—confess everything you can
think of and then say, as I did, that you must still be
firm upon one point; and, depend upon it, Aunt Maria
will be glad to be friends again.”

This conversation had led to an amelioration which
caused Aunt Maria to appear at Eva's second reunion in
her best point lace and with her most affable company
manners, whereby she quite won the heart of simple
Mrs. Betsey Benthusen, and was received with patronizing
civility by Miss Dorcas. That good lady surveyed
Mrs. Wouvermans with an amicable scrutiny as a specimen
of a really creditable production of modern New
York life. She took occasion to remark to her sister
that the Wouvermans were an old family of unquestioned
position, and that really Mrs. Wouvermans had acquired
quite the family air.

Miss Dorcas was one of those people who sit habitually
on thrones of judgment and see the children of this
world pass before them, with but one idea, to determine
what she should think of them. What they were likely
to think of her, was no part of her concern. Her scrutinies
and judgments were extremely quiet, tempered with
great moderation and Christian charity, and were so seldom

spoken to anybody else that they did no one any
harm.

She was a spectator at the grand theater of life; it
interested and amused her to watch the acting, but she
kept her opinions, for the most part, to herself. The re-unions
at Eva's were becoming most interesting to her
as widening her sphere of observation. In fact, her
intercourse with her sister could hardly be called society,
it was so habitually that of a nurse with a patient. She
said to her, of the many things which were in her mind,
only those which she thought she could bear. She was
always planning to employ Mrs. Betsey's mind with
varied occupations to prevent her sinking into morbid
gloom, and to say only such things of everybody and
everything to her as would tranquilize and strengthen
her. To Miss Dorcas, the little white-haired lady was
still the beautiful child of past days—the indiscreet,
flighty, pretty pet, to be watched, nursed, governed, restrained
and cared for. As for conversation, in the
sense of an unrestricted speaking out of thoughts as they
arose, it was long since Miss Dorcas had held it with
any human being. The straight, tall old clock in the
corner was not more lonely, more self-contained and reticent.

The next day after the re-union, Aunt Maria came at
the appointed hour, with all due pomp and circumstance,
to make her call upon the two sisters, and was received
in kid gloves in the best parlor, properly darkened, so
that the faces of the parties could scarcely be seen; and
then the three remarked upon the weather, the state of
the atmosphere to-day and its probable state to-morrow.
Mrs. Wouvermans was properly complimented upon her
niece's delightful re-unions; whereat she drew herself
up with suitable modesty, as one who had been the source
and originator of it all—claiming property in charming

Mrs. Henderson as the girl of her bringing up, the work
of her hands, the specimen of her powers, marshalled and
equipped by her for the field of life; and in her delightful
soirées, as in some sort a result of her management.
It may be a consolation to those who are ever called to
wrestle with good angels like Aunt Maria, that if they
only hold on and overcome them, and hold their own
independent way, the angels, so far from being angry,
will immediately assume the whole merit of the result.
On the whole, Aunt Maria, hearing on all sides flattering
things of Mrs. Henderson's lovely house and charming
evenings, was pluming herself visibly in this manner.

Now, as Eva, in one of those bursts of confidence in
which she could not help pouring herself out to those
who looked kindly on her, had talked over with Miss
Dorcas all Aunt Maria's objections to her soirées, and
her stringent advice against them, the good lady was
quietly amused at this assumption of merit.

“My! how odd, Dorcas!” said Mrs. Betsey to her
sister, after Mrs. Wouvermans had serenely courtesied
herself out. “Isn't this the `Aunt Maria' that dear
Mrs. Henderson was telling you about, that made all
those objections to her little receptions?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Dorcas.

“But how strange; she really talks now as if she had
started them.”

“People usually adopt a good thing, if they find they
can't hinder it,” said Miss Dorcas.

“I think it is just the oddest thing in the world;
in fact, I don't think it's really honest,” said Mrs. Betsey.

“It's the way people always do,” said Miss Dorcas;
“nothing succeeds like success. Mrs. Wouvermans opposed
the plan because she thought it wouldn't go. Now
that she finds it goes, she is so delighted she thinks she
must have started it herself.”

In fact, Aunt Maria was in an uncommonly loving
and genial frame about this time. Her fits of petulance
generally had the good effect of a clearing-up thunder-shower—one
was sure of clear skies for some time afterwards.

The only difficulty about these charming periods of
general reconciliation was that when the good lady once
more felt herself free of the family, and on easy terms
all around with everybody, she immediately commenced
in some new direction that process of managing other
people's affairs which was an inevitable result of her
nature. Therefore she came, one afternoon not long
after, into her sister's dressing-room with an air of preoccupation
and mystery, which Mrs. Van Arsdel had
learned to dread as a sign that Maria had something new
upon her mind.

Shutting the doors carefully, with an air of great precaution
and importance, she said: “Nellie, I've been
wanting to talk to you; something will have to be done
about Eva: it will never do to let matters go on as they
are going.”

Mrs. Van Arsdel's heart began to sink within her;
she supposed that she was to be required in some way to
meddle or interfere with her daughter. Now, if anything
was to be done of an unpleasant nature, Mrs. Van Arsdel
had always far rather that Maria would do it herself.
But the most perplexing of her applications were when
she began stirring up her ease-loving, indulgent self to
fulfill any such purposes on her children. So she said,
in a faltering voice, “What is the matter now, Maria?”

“Well, what should you think?” said Mrs. Wouvermans,
emphasizing the words. “You know that good-for-nothing
daughter of Mary's that lived with me, years
ago?”

“That handsome girl? To be sure.”

“Handsome! the baggage! I've no patience when I
think of her, with her airs and graces; dressing so that
she really was mistaken for one of the family! And
such impertinence! I made her walk Spanish very
quick—”

“Well?”

“Well, who do you suppose this sick girl is that Angelique
and Alice have been helping take care of in the
new hospital, or whatever you call it, that those Popish
women have started up there?”

Now Mrs. Van Arsdel knew very well what Aunt
Maria was coming to, but she only said, faintly,

“Well?”

“Its just that girl and no other, and a more impudent
tramp and huzzy doesn't live.”

“It really is very shocking,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel.

“Shocking! well I should think it was, but that isn't
all. Eva actually has taken this creature to her house,
and is going to let her stay there.”

“Oh, indeed?” said Mrs. Van Arsdel, faintly.

Now Mrs. Van Arsdel had listened sympathetically
to Eva when, in glowing and tender words, she had
avowed her intention of giving this help to a poor, bewildered
mother, and this chance of recovery to an erring
child, but in the sharp, nipping atmosphere of Aunt
Maria's hard, dry, selfish common sense, the thing looked
so utterly indefensible that she only breathed this faint
inquiry.

“Yes,” said Aunt Maria, “and it's all that Mary's art.
She has been getting old and isn't what she was, and she
means to get both her children saddled upon Eva, who
is ignorant and innocent as a baby. Eva and her husband
are no more fit to manage than two babes in the
woods, and this set of people will make them no end of
trouble. The girl is a perfect witch, and it will never do

in the world. You ought to talk to her and tell her
about the danger.”

“But, Maria, I am not at all sure that it may not be
Eva's duty to help Mary take care of her daughter.”

“Well, if it was a daughter that had behaved herself
decently; but this creature is a tramp—a street-walker!
It is not respectable to have her in the house a minute.”

“But where can she go?”

“That's none of our look out. I suppose there are
asylums, or refuges, or something or other, for such
creatures.”

“But if the Sisters could take her in and take care of
her, I'm sure Eva might keep her awhile; at least till she
gets strong enough to find some place.”

“Oh, those Sisters! Don't tell me! I've no opinion
of them. Wasn't I on the committee, and didn't I find
crucifixes, and rosaries, and prie-dieus, and the Lord
knows what of Popish trinkets in their rooms? They
are regular Jesuits, those women. It's just like 'em to
take in tramps and nurse 'em.

“You know, Nellie, I warned you I never believed in
this Mr. St. John and his goings on up there, and I foresee
just what trouble Eva is going to be got into by
having that sort of creature put in upon her. Maggie
was the most conceited, impertinent, saucy hussy I ever
saw. She had the best of all chances in my house, if
she'd been of a mind to behave herself, for I give good
wages, pay punctually, and mine is about as good a
house for a young woman to be trained in as there is.
Nobody can say that Maggie didn't have a fair chance
with me!”

“But really, Maria, I'm afraid that unless Mary can
take care of her daughter at Eva's she'll leave her altogether
and go to housekeeping, and Eva never would
know how to get along without Mary.”

“Oh, nonsense! I'll engage to find Eva a good,
stout girl—or two of them, for that matter, since she
thinks she could afford two—that will do better than
Mary, who is getting older every year and less capable.
I make it a principle to cut off girls that have sick
friends and all such entanglements and responsibilities,
right away; it unfits them for my service.”

“Yes, but, Maria, you must consider that Eva
isn't like you. Eva really is fond of Mary, and had
rather have her there than a younger and stronger
woman. Mary has been an old servant in the family.
Eva has grown up with her. She loves Eva like a
child.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Aunt Maria. “Now, of all things,
don't be sentimental about servants. It's a little too
absurd. We are to attend to our own interests!”

“But you see, sister,” said Mrs. Van Arsdel, “Eva is
just what you call sentimental, and it wouldn't do the
least good for me to talk to her. She's a married woman,
and she and her husband have a right to manage their
affairs in their own way. Now, to tell the truth, Eva
told me about this affair, and on the whole”—here Mrs.
Van Arsdel's voice trembled weakly—“on the whole, I
didn't think it would do any good, you know, to oppose
her; and really, Maria, I was sorry for poor Mary. You
don't know, you never had a daughter, but I couldn't
help thinking that if I were a poor woman, and a
daughter of mine had gone astray, I should be so glad
to have a chance given her to do better; and so I really
couldn't find it in my heart to oppose Eva.”

“Well, you'll see what'll come of it,” said Aunt
Maria, who had stood, a model of hard, sharp, uncompromising
common sense, looking her sister down during
this weak apology for the higher wisdom. For now, as
in the days of old, the wisdom of the cross is foolishness

to the wise and prudent of the world; and the heavenly
arithmetic, which counts the one lost sheep more than
the ninety and nine that went not astray, is still the
arithmetic, not of earth, but of heaven. There are many
who believe in the Trinity, and the Incarnation, and all
the articles of the Athanasian and Nicene Creeds, to
whom this wisdom of the Master is counted as folly:
“For the natural man understandeth not the things of
the kingdom of God; they are foolishness unto him:
neither can he know them.”

Now Aunt Maria was in an eminent degree a specimen
of the feminine sort of “natural man.”

That a young and happy wife, with a peaceful, prosperous
home, should put a particle of her own happiness
to risk, or herself to inconvenience, for the sake of a poor
servant woman and a sinful child, was, in her view, folly
amounting almost to fatuity; and she inly congratulated
herself with the thought that her sister and Eva would
yet see themselves in trouble by their fine fancies and
sentimental benevolence.

“Well, sister,” she said, rising and drawing her cashmere
shawl in graceful folds round her handsome shoulders,
“I thought I should come to you first, as you
really are the most proper person to talk to Eva; but if
you should neglect your duty, there is no reason why I
should neglect mine.

“I hear of a very nice, capable girl that has lived
five years with the Willises, who has had permission to
advertise from the house, and I am going to have an interview
with her, and engage her provisionally, so that, if
Eva has a mind to listen to reason, there may be a way
for her to supply Mary's place at once. I've made up
my mind that, on the whole, it's best Mary should go,”
she added reflectively, as if she were the mistress of Eva's
house and person.

“I'm sorry to have you take so much trouble, Maria;
I'm sure it won't do any good.”

“Did you ever know me to shrink from any trouble
or care or responsibility by which I could serve you and
your children, Nellie? I may not be appreciated—I
don't expect it—but I shall not swerve from my duty to
you; at any rate, it's my duty to leave no stone unturned,
and so I shall start out at once for the Willises. They
are going to Europe for a year or two, and want to find
good places for their servants.”

And so Mrs. Van Arsdel, being a little frightened at
the suggestions of Aunt Maria, began to think with herself
that perhaps she had been too yielding, and made
herself very uncomfortable in reflecting on positive evils
that might come on Eva.

She watched her sister's stately, positive, determined
figure as she went down the stairs with the decision of a
general, gave a weak sigh, wished that she had not come,
and, on the whole, concluded to resume her story where
she had left off at Aunt Maria's entrance.