University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
CONTAINING CONVERSATIONS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THEY
SEEM TO BE.

One balmy afternoon, when the dandelions were beginning to
show their golden disks among the grass, Woodbury started on
foot for Ptolemy, intending to take tea with the Waldos, whom
he had not seen for a fortnight. Sauntering along the road,
at the foot of the eastern hill, with the dark, pine-fringed rocks
and the sparkling cascade on one hand, and the fresh, breathing
meadows on the other, he found himself, at last, at the
end of the lane leading to the Merryfield farm-house, and
paused, attracted by the roseate blush of a Judas-tree in the
garden. The comfortable building, with its barn and out-houses,
seemed to bask in happy warmth and peace, half-hidden
in a nest of fruit-trees just bursting into bloom. The
fences around them had been newly whitewashed, and gleamed
like snow against the leafing shrubbery. An invigorating
smell of earth came from the freshly-ploughed field to the south.
Every feature of the scene spoke of order, competence, and
pastoral contentment and repose.

In such a mood, he forgot the occasional tedium of the
farmer's talk, and the weak pretensions of his wife, and only
remembered that he had not seen them for some time. Turning
into the lane, he walked up to the house, where he was cordially
received by Mr. Merryfield. “Come in,” said the latter:
“Sarah's looking over seeds, or something of the kind, with
Miss Thurston, but she'll be down presently. You recollect
Mr. Dyce?” The last words were spoken as they entered the

room, where the medium, with his sallow, unwholesome face,
sat at an open window, absorbed in the perusal of a thick
pamphlet. He rose and saluted Woodbury, though by no
means with cordiality.

“How delightful a home you have here, Mr. Merryfield,”
Woodbury said. “You need not wish to change places with
any one. An independent American farmer, with his affairs
in such complete order that the work almost goes on of itself,
from year to year, seems to me the most fortunate of
men.”

“Well—yes—I ought to be satisfied,” answered the host:
“I sometimes wish for a wider spere, but I suppose it's best
as it is.”

“Oh, be sure of that!” exclaimed Woodbury: “neither is
your sphere a narrow one, if it is rightly filled.”

“Nothing is best as it is,” growled Mr. Dyce, from the window,
at the same time; “private property, family, isolated
labor, are all wrong.”

Woodbury turned to the speaker, with a sudden doubt of
his sanity, but Mr. Merryfield was not in the least surprised.

“You know, Mr. Dyce,” said he, “that I can't go that far.
The human race may come to that in the course of time, as it
were, but I'm too old to begin.”

“Nobody is too old for the Truth,” rejoined the medium, so
insolently that Woodbury felt an itching desire to slap him in
the face,—“especially, when it's already demonstrated. Here's
the whole thing,” he continued, giving the pamphlet a whack
on the window-sill: “read it, and you'll find how much better
off we are without those selfish institutions, marriage and the
right to property.”

“What is it?” asked Woodbury.

“It's the annual report of the Perfectionists. They have a
community near Aqueanda, where their principles are put in
practice. Every thing is in common: labor is so divided that
no one feels the burden, yet all live comfortably. The children
are brought up all together, and so the drudgery of a family is

avoided. Besides, love is not slavery, but freedom, and the
affections are true because they do not wear legal chains.”

“Good God! Is this true?” exclaimed Woodbury, turning
to Mr. Merryfield.

“I believe it is,” he answered. “I've read part of the report,
and there are queer things in it. Even if the doctrine is
right, I don't think mankind is fit for it yet. I shouldn't like,
even, to let everybody read that book: though, to be sure,
we might be much more outspoken than we are.”

“Read it,” said Mr. Dyce, thrusting the pamphlet into
Woodbury's hand. “It's unanswerable. If you are not
blinded by the lies and hypocrisies of Society, you will see
what the true life of Man should be. Society is the Fall, sir,
and we can restore the original paradise of Adam whenever
we choose to free ourselves from its tyranny.”

“No doubt, provided we are naturally sinless, like Adam,”
Woodbury could not help saying, as he took the pamphlet.
He had no scruples in receiving and reading it, for he was not
one of those delicate, effeminate minds, who are afraid to look
on error lest they may be infected. His principles were so
well-based that every shock only settled them the more firmly.
He had never preferred ignorance to unpleasant knowledge,
and all of the latter which he had gained had not touched the
sound manliness of his nature.

“We are!” cried Mr. Dyce, in answer to his remark.
“The doctrine of original sin is the basis of all the wrongs of
society. It is false. Human nature is pure in all its instincts,
and we distort it by our selfish laws. Our life is artificial and
unnatural. If we had no rights of property we should have
no theft: if we had no law of marriage we should have no licentiousness:
if we had no Governments, we should have no
war.”

Mr. Merryfield did not seem able to answer these declarations,
absurd as they were, and Woodbury kept silent, from
self-respect. The former, however, was stronger in his instincts
than in his powers of argument, and shrank, with a sense of

painful repugnance, from a theory which he was unable to combat.
Mr. Dyce's prolonged visit was beginning to be disagreeable
to him. His ambition to be considered a prominent
reformer was his weak side, and his freely-offered hospitality
to the various apostles had given him a consideration which
misled him. His kindness had thus frequently been imposed
upon, but the secret fear of losing his place had prevented him,
hitherto, from defending himself.

Mr. Dyce, on the other hand, was one of those men who are
not easily shaken off. He led a desultory life, here and there,
through New York and the New England States, presiding at
spiritual sessions in the houses of the believers, among whom
he had acquired a certain amount of reputation as a medium.
Sometimes his performances were held in public (admittance
ten cents), in the smaller towns, and he earned enough in this
way to pay his necessary expenses. When he discovered a believing
family, in good circumstances, especially where the
table was well supplied, he would pitch his tent, for days, or
weeks, as circumstances favored. Such an oasis in the desert
of existence he had found at Mr. Merryfield's, and the discomfort
of the meek host at his prolonged stay, which would have
been sufficiently palpable to a man of the least delicacy of feeling,
was either unnoticed by him, or contemptuously ignored.

Woodbury read the man at a glance, and received, also, a
faint suspicion of Mr. Merryfield's impatience at his stay; but
he, himself, had little patience with the latter's absurdities, and
was quite content that he should endure the punishment he
had invoked.

Putting the pamphlet in his pocket, and turning to Mr. Dyce,
he said: “I shall read this, if only to find out the point at
which Progress becomes Reaction—where Moral Reform
shakes hands with Depravity.”

The medium's sallow face grew livid, at the firm coolness
with which these words were spoken. He half-started from his
seat, but sank back again, and turning his head to the window,
gave a contemptuous snort from his thin nostrils.

“There is mischief in that man,” thought Woodbury.

Mr. Merryfield, in spite of his trepidation—for he was a
thorough physical coward, and the moral courage on which he
plumed himself was a sham article, principally composed of
vanity—nevertheless felt a sense of relief from Woodbury's
composed, indifferent air. Here, at least, was one man who
could meet the vampire unconcernedly, and drive, if need be,
a stake through his gorged carcass. For once, he regretted
that he did not possess a similar quality. It was almost resistance,
he was aware, and the man capable of it might probably
be guilty of the crime (as he considered it) of using physical
force; but he dimly recognized it in a refreshing element of
strength. He did not feel quite so helpless as usual in Woodbury's
presence, after that.

Still, he dreaded a continuance of the conversation. “Will
you come, as it were”—said he; “that is, would you like”—

Woodbury, who had turned his back upon Mr. Dyce, after
speaking, suddenly interrupted him with: “How do you do,
Mrs. Merryfield?”

The mistress of the house, passing through the hall, had
paused at the open door. Behind her came Hannah Thurston,
in her bonnet, with a satchel on her arm.

After the greetings were over, Mrs. Merryfield said: “We
were going into the garden.”

“Pray, allow me to accompany you,” said Woodbury.

“Oh, yes, if you care about flowers and things.”

The garden was laid out on the usual plan: a central alley,
bordered with flower-beds, vegetables beyond, and currants
planted along the fence. It lay open to the sun, sheltered by
a spur of the eastern ridge, and by the orchard to the left of the
house. In one corner stood a Judas-tree, every spray thickly
hung with the vivid rose-colored blossoms. The flowers were
farther advanced than at Lakeside, for the situation was much
lower and warmer, and there had been no late frosts. The
hyacinths reared their blue and pink pagodas, filling the walk
with their opulent breath; the thick green buds of the tulips

began to show points of crimson, and the cushiony masses of
mountain-pink fell over the boarded edges of the beds.

Mrs. Merryfield had but small knowledge of floriculture. Her
beds were well kept, however, but from habit, rather than taste.
“My pineys won't do well, this year, I don't think,” said she:
“this joon-dispray rose is too near them. Here's plenty of
larkspurs and coreopsisses coming up, Hannah; don't you want
some?”

“Thank you, my garden is wild with them,” Miss Thurston
answered, “but I will take a few plants of the flame-colored
marigold, if you have them to spare.”

“Oh, that's trash; take them all, if you like.”

“Miss Thurston,” said Woodbury, suddenly, “would you
like to have some bulbs of gladeolus and tiger-lily? I have just
received a quantity from Rochester.”

“Very much indeed: you are very kind,” she said. “How
magnificent they are, in color!” The next moment, she was
vexed at herself for having accepted the offer, and said no
more.

Mrs. Merryfield, having found the marigolds, took up a
number and placed them in a basket, adding various other
plants of which she had a superfluity. As they left the garden,
Woodbury quietly took the basket, saying: “I am walking
to Ptolemy also, Miss Thurston.”

It was impossible to decline his company, though the
undefinable sense of unrest with which his presence always
affected her, made the prospect of the walk far from agreeable.
Side by side they passed down the lane, and had nearly gained
the highway, when Woodbury broke the silence by saying:

“What do you think of Mr. Dyce?”

Hannah Thurston was a little startled by the unexpected
question. “I have scarcely formed an opinion,” she answered:
“it may not be just to decide from impressions only. If I did
so, the decision would not be favorable to him.”

“You are right!” he exclaimed, with energy. “Do not
speak to him again! I beg pardon,” he added, apologetically,

“I did not mean to be dictatorial; but the man is thoroughly
false and bad.”

“Do you know any thing of him?” she asked.

“Only what I have myself observed. I have learned to
trust my instincts, because I find that what we call instinct is
only a rapid and subtle faculty of observation. A man can
never completely disguise himself, and we therefore see him
most truly at the first glance, before his powers of deception
can be exercised upon us.”

“It may be true,” she said, as if speaking to herself, “but
one's prejudices are so arbitrary. How can we know that we
are right, in yielding to them?”

For a moment, a sharp retort hovered on Woodbury's
tongue. How can we know, he might have said, that we are
right in accepting views, the extreme character of which is
self-evident? How can we, occupying an exceptional place,
dare to pronounce rigid, unmitigated judgment on all the rest
of mankind? But the balmy spring day toned him to gentleness.
The old enchantment of female presence stole over him,
as when it surrounded each fair face with a nimbus, to the narcotized
vision of youth. One glance at his companion swept
away the harsh words. A tender gleam of color flushed her
cheeks, and the lines of her perfect lips were touched with a
pensive softness. Her eyes, fixed at the moment on the hill
beyond the farther valley, were almost as soft as a violet in hue.
He had never before seen her in the strong test of sunshine,
and remarked that for a face like hers it was no disenchantment.
She might be narrow and bigoted, he felt, but she was
nevertheless true, earnest, and pure.

“We are not required to exhibit our prejudices,” he said.
“In Society, disagreeable persons are still individuals, and
have certain claims upon us. But, after all the latitude we are
required to grant, a basis of character must be exacted. Do
you think a man consciously false and depraved should be tolerated
on account of a coincidence in opinions?”

“Certainly not,” she replied.

Woodbury then related the incident of the piano. He began
to feel a friendly pity for the girl walking beside him.
Her intense earnestness, he saw, and her ignorance of the true
nature of men, were likely to betray her, as in the present case,
into associations, the thought of which made him shudder. He
would at least save her from this, and therefore told the story,
with an uncomfortable sense, all the while, of the pamphlet in
his pocket.

Hannah Thurston was unfeignedly shocked at the deception
of Mr. Dyce. “I am glad you have told me this,” said she,
“for I wanted a justification for avoiding him. Have you
mentioned it to the Merryfields?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“In the first place, you know that they are too infatuated
with the spiritual delusion to believe it. He would have an
explanation ready, as he had that night. Moreover, it would
cost Bute, who gave me the details in confidence, the loss of
two friends. For his sake let it still be confidential.”

She met his deep brown eyes, and bowed in reply. He
plucked the stalk of a dandelion, as they went along, pinched
off the flower, split the lower end, and putting it into his
mouth, blew a tiny note, as from a fairy trumpet. His manner
was so serious that Hannah Thurston looked away lest he
should see her smile.

“You are laughing, I know,” said he, taking the stalk from
his mouth, “and no wonder. I suddenly recollected having
blown these horns, as a boy. It is enough to make one boyish,
to see spring again, for the first time in fifteen years. I
wonder if the willow switches are too dry. Henry Denison
and I used to make very tolerable flutes of them, but we never
could get more than four or five notes.”

“Then you value your early associations?” she asked.

“Beyond all others of my life, I think. Is it not pleasant,
to look back to a period when every thing was good, when all
men and women were infinitely wise and benevolent, when life

took care of itself and the future was whatever you chose to
make it? Now, when I know the world—know it, Miss
Thurston”—and his voice was grave and sad—“to be far
worse than you, or any other pure woman suspects, and still
keep my faith in the Good that shall one day be triumphant,
I can smile at my young ignorance, but there is still a glory
around it. Do you know Wordsworth's Ode?”

“Yes—`the light that never was on sea or land.'”

“Never—until after it has gone by. We look back and see
it. Why, do you know that I looked on Mrs. Merryfield as a
Greek must have looked on the Delphian Pythoness?”

Hannah Thurston laughed, and then suddenly checked herself.
She could not see one of her co-workers in the Great
Cause ridiculed, even by intimation. The chord he had
touched ceased to vibrate. The ease with which he recovered
from a deeper tone and established conversation again in
mental shallows, annoyed her all the more, that it gratified
some latent instinct of her own mind. She distrusted the
influence which, in spite of herself, Woodbury exercised upon
her.

“I see your eyes wander off to the hills,” he said, after an
interval of silence. “They are very lovely to-day. In this
spring haze the West Ridge appears to be as high as the
Jura. How it melts into the air, far up the valley! The
effect of mountains, I think, depends more on atmosphere
than on their actual height. You could imagine this valley to
be one of the lower entrances to the Alps. By the way, Miss
Thurston, this must have given you a suggestion of them.
How did you manage to get such a correct picture in your
mind?”

She turned her surprised face full towards him. The
dreamy expression which softened its outline, and hovered
in the luminous depth of her eyes, did not escape him.

“Oh, I know it,” he added, laughing. “What was the
song you sang at Mr. Bue's? Something about an Alpine
hunter: it made me think I was standing on the Scheideck,

watching the avalanches tumbling down from the Jungfrau.”

“You have been in Switzerland, Mr. Woodbury!” she
exclaimed, with animation.

“Yes, on my way from England to India.”

He described to her his Swiss tour, inspired to prolong the
narrative by the eager interest she exhibited. The landscapes
of the higher Alps stood clear in his memory, and he had the
faculty of translating them distinctly into words. Commencing
with the valley of the Reuss, he took her with him over
the passes of the Furca and the Grimsel, and had only reached
the falls of the Aar, when the gate of the Widow Thurston's
cottage shut down upon the Alpine trail.

“We will finish the trip another time,” said Woodbury, as
he opened the gate for her.

“How much I thank you! I seem to have been in Switzerland,
myself. I think I shall be able to sing the song better,
from knowing its scenery.”

She offered him her hand, which he pressed cordially. “I
should like to call upon your mother again,” he said.

“She will be very glad to see you.”

As he walked down the street towards the Cimmerian parsonage,
his thoughts ran somewhat in this wise: “How much
natural poetry and enthusiasm that girl has in her nature! It
is refreshing to describe any thing to her, she is so absorbed in
receiving it. What a splendid creature she might have become,
under other circumstances! But here she is hopelessly
warped and distorted. Nature intended her for a woman and
a wife, and the rôle of a man and an apostle is a monstrous perversion.
I do not know whether she most attracts me through
what she might have been, or repels me through what she is.
She suggests the woman I am seeking, only to show me how
vain the search must be. I am afraid I shall have to give it up.”

Pursuing these reflections, he was about passing the parsonage
without recognizing it, when a cheery voice rang out to
him from the open door:

“Have you lost the way, Mr. Woodbury?”

“`Not lost, but gone before,'” said he, as he turned back
to the gate.

“What profanity!” exclaimed Mrs. Waldo, though she
laughed at the same time. “Come in: our serious season is
over. I suppose I ought to keep a melancholy face, for two
weeks longer, to encourage the new converts, but what is one
to do, when one's nature is dead against it?”

“Ah, Mrs. Waldo,” replied Woodbury, “if you suffered
under your faith, instead of rejoicing in it, I should doubt your
Christianity. I look upon myself as one of your converts.”

“I am afraid you are given to backsliding.”

“Only for the pleasure of being reconverted,” said he; “but
come—be my mother-confessoress. I am in great doubt and
perplexity.”

“And you come to a woman for help? Delightful!”

“Even so. Do you remember what you said to me, when
I picked you up out of the wreck, last winter? But I see you
do not. Mrs. Fortitude Babb is a tyrant.”

Mrs. Waldo was not deceived by this mock lamentation.
He would not first have felt the tyranny now, she knew, unless
a stronger feeling made it irksome.

“Ah ha! you have found it out,” she said. “Well—you
know the remedy.”

“Yes, I know it; but what I do not know is—the woman
who should take her place.”

“Don't you?” said Mrs. Waldo, with a sigh, “then, of
course, I do not.”

“I walked from Merryfield's, this afternoon, with Hannah
Thurston,” he presently remarked.

“Well?” she asked eagerly.

“What a perversion of a fine woman! I lose my temper
when I think of it. I came very near being rude to her.”

“You rude?” exclaimed Mrs. Waldo, “then she must have
provoked you beyond endurance.”

“Not by any thing she said, but simply by what she is.”

“What, pray?”

“A `strong-minded woman.' Heaven keep me from all
such! I have will enough for two, and my household shall
never have more than one head.”

“That's sound doctrine,” said Mr. Waldo, hearing the last
words as he entered the room.