University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
WHICH SOLVES THE PRECEDING ONE.

Mrs. Merryfield, on forsaking her home, had not anticipated
the possibility of an immediate pursuit. She supposed, of
course, that her husband would first discover her intention the
next morning, when he would have occasion to use the hair-brush.
He would then, sooner or later, she believed, follow
her to the Community, where the sight of a Perfect Society,
of an Eden replanted on the Earth, would not only convince
him of the wisdom of her act, but compel him to imitate it.
If their convictions had been reversed, and he had desired to
try the new social arrangement, could he not have done so
with impunity, regardless of her opposition? Then, their
rights being equal, why should she consult his pleasure?

Thus she reasoned, or, rather, Dyce reasoned for her. She
was a very weak and foolish woman, afflicted with that worst
of temperaments which is at the same time peevish and stubborn,
and did not at all appreciate the gravity of the step she
had taken. An inner voice, indeed, told her that its secrecy
was unjustifiable—that she should openly and boldly declare
her intention to her husband; but her base friend easily persuaded
her that it was better to draw him after her when she
had reached the Community, and settle the difference there.
His own eyes would then convince him of her wisdom: opposition
would be impossible, with the evidence before him. She
would thus spare herself a long and perhaps fruitless encounter
of opinions, which, owing to the finer organization of her
spiritual nature, she ought to avoid. Such differences, he
said, disturbed the atmosphere in which spirits most readily

approached and communicated with her. In the pure and
harmonious life of the Community, she might perhaps attain to
the condition of a medium, and be always surrounded by angelic
company.

The afternoon was hot and they drove slowly, so that even
before they reached Tiberius, the two parties of pursuers were
on the way. Just as they entered the town, Mr. Woodbury
passed the carriage on horseback. Glancing at its occupants,
he recognized Mrs. Merryfield, bowed, and reined in his horse
as if to speak, but seeing Dyce, his cordial expression became
suddenly grave, and he rode on. This encounter troubled
Mrs. Merryfield. A secret uneasiness had been growing upon
her during the latter part of the way, and Woodbury's look
inspired her with a vague fear. She involuntarily hoped that
she might not meet him again, or any one she knew, before
leaving Tiberius. She would not even visit Mrs. Nevins, as
she had proposed. Moreover, Woodbury would probably put
up at the hotel which she and her husband usually visited.
Another must be selected, and she accordingly directed Dyce
to drive through the town to a tavern on its northern side, not
far from the railroad station.

At half-past eight in the evening her husband and Mr.
Waldo alighted in front of “The Eagle.” As the former was
giving orders about the horse to the attendant ostler, Woodbury
came down the steps and immediately recognized the
new arrivals.

“What!” he exclaimed, “is all Ptolemy coming to Tiberius
to-day? Your wife has the start of you, Mr. Merryfield: I
passed her this evening”—

A violent grasp on his arm interrupted him. “Where is
she? Have they left?” the husband hoarsely asked.

The light from the corner-lamp fell full upon his face. Its
expression of pain and anxiety was unmistakable, and a presentiment
of the incredible truth shot through Woodbury's
mind.

“Hush, my friend!” said Mr. Waldo. “Control yourself

while we register our names, and then we will go to work.
It is fortunate that you have betrayed yourself to Mr. Woodbury
instead of some one else. Come with us!” he added,
turning to the latter; “you must now know the rest. We
can trust every thing to your honor.”

They entered the office of the hotel. Merryfield, after
drinking a large tumbler of ice-water, recovered some degree
of composure. Mr. Waldo ascertained from the landlord that
the next train for the east would leave at midnight, the previous
train having left at five o'clock. Woodbury, seeing the
necessity of a private understanding, invited them both to his
room, where the whole affair was explained to him, and he
was able to assure them, by recalling the hour of his own arrival,
that Dyce and Mrs. Merryfield must be still in the town.

“We have three hours,” said he, “and they must be found
in half the time. There must not be a meeting at the station.
Have you no idea, Mr. Merryfield, where your wife would go?”

“She spoke of visiting Mrs. Nevins, as it were,” he replied.

“Then it is quite unlikely that she is there,” said Woodbury.
“But we must first settle the point. Let us go at once: where
is the house?”

Merryfield led the way, much supported and encouraged by
Woodbury's prompt, energetic manner. He had now less
dread of the inevitable encounter with Dyce.

A walk of ten minutes brought them to the Nevins mansion.
It was a small villa, with a Grecian portico, seated in a diminutive
garden. There was a light in the front room. Mr.
Waldo was unacquainted with the inmates, and afraid to
allow Merryfield to enter the house alone. There was a
moment of perplexity.

“I have it,” said Woodbury, suddenly. “Move on a little,
and wait for me.” He boldly entered the garden and stepped
upon the Grecian portico. The windows had muslin curtains
across their lower half, but he easily looked over them into
the room. A middle-aged woman, in a rocking-chair, was
knitting some worsted stuff with a pair of wooden needles.

On the other side of the lamp, with his back to her, sat a man,
absorbed in a newspaper. A boy of ten years old lay asleep
on the carpet. Noting all this at a glance, Woodbury knocked
at the door. A rustling of the newspaper followed, footsteps
entered the hall, and the outer door was opened.

Woodbury assumed a natural air of embarrassed disappointment.
“I am afraid,” said he, “that I have made a mistake.
Does Mr. Israel Thompson live here?”

“Israel Thompson? I don't know any such person. There's
James Thompson, lives further down the street, on the other
side.”

“Thank you. I will inquire of him. I am a stranger here,”
and he rejoined his friends. “Now,” said he, “to save time,
Mr. Waldo, you and I must visit the other hotels, dividing
them between us. Mr. Merryfield had better not take any part
in the search. Let him wait for us on the corner opposite
`The Eagle.' We can make our separate rounds in twenty
minutes, and I am sure we shall have discovered them by that
time.”

An enumeration of the hotels was made, and the two gentlemen
divided them in such a manner as to economize time
in making their rounds. They then set out in different directions,
leaving Merryfield to walk back alone to the rendezvous.
Hitherto, the motion and excitement of the pursuit had kept
him up, but now he began to feel exhausted and desponding.
He had not eaten since noon, and experienced all the weakness
without the sensation of hunger. A powerful desire for an
artificial stimulant came over him, and, for a moment, he halted
before the red light of a drinking-saloon, wondering whether
there was any one inside who could recognize him. The door
opened, and an atmosphere of rank smoke, tobacco-soaked sawdust,
and pungent whiskey gushed out; oaths and fragments
of obscene talk met his ears, and he hurried away in disgust.
At “The Eagle” he fortified himself again with ice-water,
and then took his stand on the opposite corner, screened from
the lamp-light by an awning-post.

The late storekeepers up and down the street were putting
up their shutters, but the ice-cream transparencies still shone
brightly, and the number of visitors rather increased than diminished.
From a neighboring house came the sound of a
piano, and presently a loud, girlish voice which sang: “I dreamt
that I dwe-helt in ma-harble halls.” What business, he
thought, had people to be eating ice-cream and singing songs?
It was an insulting levity. How long a time his friends had
been absent! A terrible fear came over him—what if he
should not find his wife? At night—no, he dared not think
of it. He looked down the crossing streets, in all four directions,
as far as his eye could pierce, and inspected the approaching
figures. Now he was sure he recognized Woodbury's
commanding form; now the brisk gait of the short clergyman.
But they came nearer and resolved themselves into
strangers. Then he commenced again, striving to keep an
equal watch on all the streets. The appointed time was past,
and they did not come! A cold sweat began to gather on
his forehead, and he was ready to despair. All at once, Mr.
Waldo appeared, close at hand, and hurried up to him, breathless.

“I have finished my list,” said he.

“Have you found them?”

“No, but—what does this mean!” cried the clergyman,
starting. “That is my horse, certainly—and the old gig!
Can my wife”—

He did not finish the sentence, but sprang into the street
and called. The horse turned his head from a sudden jerk of
the lines, and in a moment was drawn up beside the pavement.

“How glad I am we have met you! I could not stay at
home, indeed. You will let us help, will you not? Are we
in time?” cried Mrs. Waldo, apology, entreaty, and anxiety
all mingling in her voice.

“With God's favor, we are still in time,” her husband answered.

“I thank you for coming—you and Hannah, both,” Merryfield
sadly added, “but I'm afraid it's no use.”

“Cheer up,” said the clergyman, “Mr. Woodbury will be
here in a moment.”

“He is here already,” said Woodbury, joining them at the
instant. “I have”—— He paused, recognizing the gig and
its occupants, and looked inquiringly at Mr. Waldo.

“They know it,” answered the latter, “and for that reason
they have come.”

“Brave women! We may need their help. I have found
the persons we are looking for—at the Beaver House, in the
second-story parlor, waiting for the midnight train.”

“Then drive on, wife,” said Mr. Waldo; “you can put up the
horse there. You are known at the Eagle, and we had better
avoid curiosity. Follow us: Mr. Woodbury will lead the way.”

They passed up the street, attracting no notice, as the connection
between the movements of the women in the gig, and
the three men on the sidewalk, was not apparent. In a short
time they reached the Beaver House, a second-rate hotel, with
a deserted air, on a quiet street, and near the middle of the
block. Two or three loafers were in the office, half sliding
out of the short arm-chairs as they lounged, and lazily talking.
Woodbury called the landlord to the door, gave the
horse into his charge, and engaged a private room until midnight.
There was one, he had already ascertained, adjoining
the parlor on the second story. He offered liberal pay, provided
no later visitors were thrust upon them, and the landlord
was very willing to make the arrangement. It was not often
that he received so much patronage in one evening.

After a hurried consultation, in whispers, they entered the
house. The landlord preceded them up-stairs with a lamp,
and ushered them into the appointed room. It was a small
oblong chamber, the floor decorated with a coarse but very
gaudy carpet, and the furniture covered with shiny hair-cloth,
very cold, and stiff, and slippery. There was a circular table
of mahogany, upon which lay a Bible, and the Odd-Fellow's

Annual, bound in red. Beside it was a huge spittoon of brown
stone-ware. Folding-doors connected with the adjoining parlor,
and the wood-work, originally of unseasoned pine, gotten
up without expense but regardless of durability, was so
warped and sprung that these doors would not properly close.
Privacy, so far as conversation was concerned, was impossible.
In fact, no sooner had the landlord departed, and the noise of
entrance subsided a little, than Dyce's voice was distinctly
heard:

“You should overcome your restlessness. All pioneers in
great works have their moments of doubt, but they are caused
by the attacks of evil spirits.”

Merryfield arose in great agitation. Perhaps he would have
spoken, but Mr. Waldo lifted his hand to command silence,
beckoned to his wife, and the three left the room. At the
door the clergyman turned and whispered to Woodbury and
Hannah Thurston: “You may not be needed: wait until I
summon you.”

The next instant he knocked on the door of the parlor.
Dyce's voice replied: “Come in.” He entered first, followed
by his wife, and, last of all, the injured husband. Dyce and
Mrs. Merryfield were seated side by side, on a sofa. Both, as
by an involuntary impulse, rose to their feet. The latter
turned very pale; her knees trembled under her, and she sank
down again upon her seat. Dyce, however, remained standing,
and, after the first surprise was over, regained his brazen
effrontery.

Merryfield was the first to speak. “Sarah,” he cried,
“What does this mean?”

She turned her head towards the window, and made no
answer.

“Mrs. Merryfield,” said Mr. Waldo, gravely, yet with no
harshness in his tone, “we have come, as your friends, believing
that you have taken this step hastily, and without considering
what its consequences would be. We do not think
you appreciate its solemn importance, both for time and for

eternity. It is not yet too late to undo what you have done,
and we are ready to help you, in all kindness and tenderness.”

“I want nothing more than my rights,” said Mrs. Merryfield,
in a hard, stubborn voice, without turning her head.

“I will never interfere with your just rights, as a woman, a
wife, and an immortal soul,” the clergyman replied. “But
you have not alone rights to receive: you have duties to perform.
You have bound yourself to your husband in holy
marriage; you cannot desert him, whose faith to you has never
been broken, who now stands ready to pardon your present
fault, as he has pardoned all your past ones, without incurring
a greater sin than infidelity to him. Your married relation
includes both the moral laws by which society is bound, and
the Divine laws by which we are saved.”

“The usual cant of theologians!” interrupted Dyce, with a
sneer. “Mrs. Merryfield owes nothing to the selfish and artificial
machinery which is called Society. Marriage is a part
of the machinery, and just as selfish as the rest. She claims
equal rights with her husband, and is doing no more than he
would do, if he possessed all of her convictions.”

“I would never do it!” cried Merryfield,—“not for all the
Communities in the world! Sarah, I've been faithful to you,
in every thought, since you first agreed to be my wife. If I've
done you wrong in any way, tell me!”

“I only want my rights,” she repeated, still looking away.

“If you really think you are deprived of them,” said Mr.
Waldo, “come home with us, and you shall be fairly heard
and fairly judged. I promise you, as an impartial friend, that
no advantage shall be taken of your mistake: you shall be
treated as if it had not occurred. Have you reflected how
this act will be interpreted, in the eyes of the world? Can
you bear, no matter how innocent you may be, to be followed,
through all the rest of your life, by the silent suspicion, if not
the open reproach, of the worst shame that can happen to
woman? Suppose you reach your Community. These experiments
have often been tried, and they have always failed.

You might hide yourself for a while from the judgment of the
world, but if the association should break to pieces—what
then? Does the possession of some right which you fancy is
withheld, compensate you for incurring this fearful risk—nay,
for enduring this fearful certainty?”

“What do you know about it?” Dyce roughly exclaimed.
“You, a petrified fossil of the false Society! What right have
you to judge for her? She acts from motives which your
narrow mind cannot comprehend. She is a disciple of the
Truth, and is not afraid to show it in her life. If she lived
only for the sake of appearances, like the rest of you, she
might still be a Vegetable!”

Mrs. Merryfield, who had colored suddenly and violently, as
the clergyman spoke, and had turned her face towards him, for
a moment, with an agitation which she could not conceal, now
lifted her head a little, and mechanically rocked on her lap a
travelling-satchel, which she had grasped with both hands.
She felt her own inability to defend herself, and recovered a
little courage at hearing it done so fiercely by her companion.

Mr. Waldo, without noticing the latter, turned to her again.
“I will not even condemn the motives which lead you to this
step,” said he, “but I must show you its inevitable consequences.
Only the rarest natures, the most gifted intellects,
may seem to disregard the ruling habits and ideas of mankind,
because God has specially appointed them to some great
work. You know, Mrs. Merryfield, as well as I do, that you
are not one of such. The world will make no exception in
your favor. It cannot put our kindly and tolerant construction
upon your motives: it will be pitiless and inflexible, and
its verdict will crush you to the dust.”

“Sarah,” said her husband, more in pity than in reproach,
“do stop and think what you are doing! What Mr. Waldo
says is true: you will bring upon yourself more than you can
bear, or I can bear for you. I don't charge you with any
thing wrong; I don't believe you would be guilty of—of—I

can't say it—but I couldn't hold up my head, as—as it were,
and defend you by a single word.”

“Oh, no! of course you couldn't!” Dyce broke in again,
with an insufferable impudence. “You know, as well as I do,
—or Mr. Waldo, for that matter,—what men are. Don't brag
to me about your morality, and purity, and all that sort of
humbug: what's fit for one sex is fit for the other. Men, you
know, have a natural monopoly in the indulgence of passion:
it's allowed to them, but woman is damned by the very suspicion.
You know, both of you, that any man would as lief
be thought wicked as chaste—that women are poor, ignorant
fools”—

One of the folding-doors which communicated with the adjoining
room was suddenly torn open, and Woodbury appeared.
His brown eyes, flashing indignant fire, were fixed
upon Dyce. The sallow face of the latter grew livid with
mingled emotions of rage and fear. With three strides,
Woodbury was before him.

“Stop!” he cried, “you have been allowed to say too much
already. If you,” he added, turning to the others, “have
patience with this beast, I have not.”

“Ah! he thinks he's among his Sepoys,” Dyce began, but
was arrested by a strong hand upon his collar. Woodbury's
face was pale, but calm, and his lips parted in a smile, the
expression of which struck terror to the heart of the medium.

“Now, leave!” said he, in a low, stern voice, “leave, or I
hurl you through that window!” Relinquishing his grasp on
the collar, he opened the door leading to the staircase, and
waited. For a moment, the eyes of the two men met, and in
that moment each took the measure of the other. Dyce's
figure seemed to contract; his breast narrowed, his shoulders
fell, and his knees approached each other. He walked slowly
and awkwardly to the end of the sofa, picked up his valise,
and shuffled out of the room without saying a word. Woodbury
followed him to the door, and said, before he closed it:

“Recollect, you leave here by the midnight train.” None

of those who heard it had any doubt that the command would
be obeyed.

Mr. Merryfield experienced an unbounded sensation of relief
on Dyce's departure; but his wife was only frightened, not
conquered. Although pale and trembling, she stubbornly held
out, her attitude expressing her collective defiance of the company.
She avoided directly addressing or meeting the eyes
of any one in particular. For a few moments there was silence
in the room, and she took advantage of it to forestall the
appeals which she knew would be made, by saying:

“Well, now you've got me all to yourselves, I suppose you'll
try to bully me out of my rights.”

“We have no intention to meddle with any of your rights,
as a wife,” Mr. Waldo answered. “You must settle that
question with your husband. But does not your heart tell
you that he has rights, as well? And what has he done to
justify you in deserting him?”

“He needn't be deserted,” she said; “he can come after me.”

“Never!” exclaimed her husband. “If you leave me now,
and in this way, Sarah, you will not see me again until you
voluntarily come back to me. And think, if you go to that
place, what you must then seem to me! I've defended you,
Sarah, and will defend you against all the world; but if you
go on, you'll take the power of doing it away from me.
Whether you deserve shame, or not, it'll come to you—and
it'll come to me, just the same.”

The deluded wife could make no reply. The consequences
of her step, if persisted in, were beginning to dawn upon her
mind, but, having defended it on the ground of her equal
rights as a woman, a pitiful vanity prevented her from yielding.
It was necessary, therefore, to attack her from another
quarter. Hannah Thurston felt that the moment had arrived
when she might venture to speak, and went gently forward to
the sofa.

“Sarah,” she said, “I think you feel that I am your friend.
Will you not believe me, then, when I say to you that we

have all followed you, prompted only by the pity and distress
which we feel for your sake and your husband's? We beg
you not to leave us, your true friends, and go among strangers.
Listen to us calmly, and if we convince you that you are mistaken,
the admission should not be difficult.”

“You, too, Hannah!” cried Mrs. Merryfield. “You, that
taught me what my rights were! Will you confess, first, that
you are mistaken?”

An expression of pain passed over Hannah Thurston's face.
“I never meant to claim more than natural justice for woman,”
said she, “but I may have been unhappy in my advocacy of it.
I may even,” turning towards Mrs. Waldo, “have seemed to
assume a hostile position towards man. If so, it was a mistake.
If what I have said has prompted you to this step, I
will take my share of humiliation. But we will not talk of
that now. Blame me, Sarah, if you like, so you do not forget
the tenderness you cannot wholly have lost, for him whose life
is a part of yours, here and hereafter. Think of the children
who are waiting for you in the other life—waiting for both
parents, Sarah.”

The stubborn resistance of the wife began to give way.
Tears came to her eyes, and she shook as if a mighty struggle
had commenced in her heart. “It was for them,” she murmured,
in a broken voice, “that I was going. He said they
would be nearer to me.”

“Can they be nearer to you when you are parted from their
father? Was it only your heart that was wrung at their loss?
If all other bonds were broken between you, the equal share
in the beings of those Immortals should bind you in life and
death! Pardon me for renewing your sorrow, but I must
invoke the purer spirit that is born of trial. If your mutual
watches over their cradles cannot bring back the memory of
your married love, I must ask you to remember who held
your hand beside their coffins, whose arm supported you in-the
lonely nights!”

The husband could endure no more. Lifting his face from

his hands, he cried: “It was me, Sarah. And now, if you
leave me, there will be no one to talk with me about Absalom,
and Angelina, and our dear little Robert. Don't you mind
how I used to dance him on my knee, as—as it were, and tell
him he should have a horse when he was big? He had such
pretty hair; you always said he'd make a handsome man,
Sarah: but now they're all gone. There's only us two, now,
as it were, and we can't—no, we daren't part. We won't
part, will we?”

Mrs. Waldo made a quiet sign, and they stole gently from
the room. As he closed the door, Woodbury saw the conquered
and penitent wife look up with streaming eyes, sobbing
convulsively, and stretch out her arms. The next instant, Mrs.
Waldo had half embraced him, in the rush of her pent-up
gratitude.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, striving to subdue her voice, “how
grand it was that you put down that—that man. I never
believed in non-resistance, and now I know that I am right.”

Hannah Thurston said nothing, but her face was radiant
with a tranquil light. She could not allow the doubts which
had arisen in her mind—the disturbing influences which had, of
late, beset her, to cloud the happy ending of such a painful
day. A whispered conversation was carried on between
Woodbury and the Waldos, so as not to disturb the low voices
in the next room; but at the end of ten minutes the door
opened and Merryfield appeared.

“We will go home to-night, as it were,” said he. “The
moon rises about this time, and the night is warm.”

“Then we will all go!” was Mrs. Waldo's decision. “The
carriages will keep together—husband, you must drive one of
them, alone—and I shall not be so much alarmed. It is better
so: curious folks will not see that we have been absent, and
need not know.”

Woodbury whispered to her: “I shall wait until the train
leaves.”

“Will you follow, afterwards?”

“Yes—but no: my intention to stay all night is known, and
I ought properly to remain, unless you need my escort.”

“Stay,” said Hannah Thurston.

The vehicles left the two hotels with the same persons who
had arrived in them—Dyce excepted. Outside of Tiberius
they halted, and Merryfield joined his wife. The two women
followed, and Mr. Waldo, alone, acted as rear-guard. Thus, in
the silent night, over the moonlit hills, and through the rustling
darkness of the woods, they went homewards.

Vague suspicions of something haunted the community of
Ptolemy for a while, but nothing was ever discovered or betrayed
which could give them a definite form. And yet, of
the five persons to whom the truth was known, three were
women.