University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
IN WHICH SETH WATTLES IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTED.

After their return from Tiberius the life of the Merryfields
was unusually quiet and subdued. The imprudent wife, released
from the fatal influence which had enthralled her, gradually
came to see her action in its proper light, and to understand
the consequences she had so happily escaped. She
comprehended, also, that there was a point beyond which her
husband could not be forced, but within which she was secure
of his indulgent love. Something of the tenderness of their
early married life returned to her in those days; she forgot
her habit of complaint; suspended, out of very shame, her
jealous demand for her “rights;” and was almost the busy,
contented, motherly creature she had been to James Merryfield
before either of them learned that they were invested
with important spiritual missions.

He, also, reflected much upon what had happened. He perceived
the manner in which his wife's perverted views had
grown out of the belief they had mutually accepted. The
possible abuses of this belief became evident to him, yet his
mind was unable to detect its inherent error. It rested on a
few broad, specious propositions, which, having accepted, he
was obliged to retain, with all their consequences. He had
neither sufficient intellectual culture nor experience of life to
understand that the discrepancy between the ideal reform and
its practical realization arose, not so much from the truths
asserted as from the truths omitted or concealed. Thus, the
former serenity of his views became painfully clouded and disturbed,
and there were times when he felt that he doubted

what he knew must be true. It was better, he said to himself,
that he should cease, for a while, to speculate on the subject;
but his thoughts continually returned to it in spite of himself.
He greatly felt the need of help in this extremity, yet an unconquerable
shyness prevented him from applying to either of
the two persons—Woodbury or Mr. Waldo—who were capable
of giving it. Towards his wife he was entirely kind and
considerate. After the first day or two, the subject of the
journey to Tiberius was tacitly dropped, and even the question
of Woman's Rights was avoided as much as possible.

While he read aloud the “Annihilator” in the evening, and
Mrs. Merryfield knit or sewed as she listened, the servant-girl
and the field-hand exchanged their opinions in the kitchen.
They had detected, the first day, the change in the demeanor
of the husband and wife. “They've been havin' a row, and
no mistake,” said Henry, “and I guess he's got the best of it.”

“No sich a thing,” replied Ann, indignantly. “Him, indeed!
It's as plain as my hand that he's awfully cut up, and
she's took pity on him.”

“Why, she's as cowed as can be!”

“And he's like a dog with his tail between his legs.”

There was a half-earnest courtship going on between the
two, and each, of course, was interested in maintaining the
honor of the sex. It was a prolonged battle, renewed from
day to day with re-enforcements drawn from observations made
at meal-times, or in the field or kitchen. Most persons who
attempt to conceal any strong emotion are like ostriches with
their heads in the sand: the dullest and stupidest of mankind
will feel, if not see, that something is the matter. If, to a man
who knows the world, the most finished result of hypocrisy
often fails of its effect, the natural insight of those who do not
think at all is scarcely less sure and true. The highest art
that ever a Jesuit attained could not blind a ship's crew or a
company of soldiers.

It was fortunate for the Merryfields, that, while their dependents
felt the change, the truth was beyond their suspicions.

Towards the few who knew it, there was of course no necessity
for disguise, and hence, after a solitude of ten days upon the
farm, Mr. Merryfield experienced a sense of relief and satisfaction,
as, gleaning the scattered wheat with a hay-rake in a field
adjoining the road, he perceived Hannah Thurston approaching
from Ptolemy. Hitching his horse to the fence, he climbed
over into the road to meet her. It was a warm afternoon, and
he was in his shirt-sleeves, with unbuttoned waistcoat; but,
in the country, conventionalities have not reached the point of
the ridiculous, and neither he nor his visitor was aware of the
least impropriety. The farmers, in fact, would rather show
their own brawny arms and bare breasts than see the bosoms
of their daughters exposed to the public gaze by a fashionable
ball-dress.

“I'm glad you've come, Hannah,” said he, as he gave her
his hard hand. “It seems a long time since I seen you before.
We've been quite alone ever since then.”

“I should have come to see you sooner, but for mother's illness,”
she replied. “I hope you are both well and—happy.”

Her look asked more than her words.

“Yes,” said he, understanding the question in her mind,
“Sarah's got over her delusion, I guess. Not a hard word
has passed between us. We don't talk of it any more. But,
Hannah, I'm in trouble about the principle of the thing. I
can't make it square in my mind, as it were. There seems to
be a contradiction, somewhere, between principles and working
them out. You've thought more about the matter than I
have: can you make things straight?”

The struggle in Hannah Thurston's own mind enabled her
to comprehend his incoherent questions. She scarcely knew
how to answer him, yet would fain say something to soothe
and comfort him in his perplexity. After a pause, she answered:

“I fear, James, that I have over-estimated my own wisdom
—that we have all been too hasty in drawing conclusions from
abstract reasoning. We have, perhaps, been presumptuous in

taking it for granted that we, alone, possessed a truth which
the world at large is too blind to see—or, admitting that all is
true which we believe, that we are too hasty in endeavoring
to fulfil it in our lives, before the needful preparation is made.
You know that the field must be properly ploughed and harrowed,
before you sow the grain. It may be that we are so
impatient as to commence sowing before we have ploughed.”

This illustration, drawn from his own business, gave Merryfield
great comfort. “That must be it!” he exclaimed. “I
don't quite understand how, but I feel that what you say must
be true, nevertheless.”

“Then,” she continued, encouraged by the effect of her
words; “I have sometimes thought that we may be too strict
in applying what we know to be absolute, eternal truths, to a
life which is finite, probationary, and liable to be affected by a
thousand influences over which we have no control. For instance,
you may analyze your soil, and the stimulants you
apply to it—measure your grain, and estimate the exact yield
you ought to receive—but you cannot measure the heat and
moisture, the wind and hail, and the destructive insects which
the summer may bring; and, therefore, you who sow according
to agricultural laws may lose your crop, while another,
who disregards them, shall reap an abundant harvest. Yet
the truth of the laws you observed remains the same.”

“What would you do, then, to be sure that you are right?”
the farmer asked, as he opened the gate leading into his lane.

“To continue the comparison, I should say, act as a prudent
husbandman. Believe in the laws which govern the growth
and increase of the seed, yet regulate your tillage according
to the season. The crop is the main thing, and, though it
sounds like heresy, the farmer may be right who prefers a
good harvest secured in defiance of rules to a scanty one with
the observance of them. But I had better drop the figure
before I make a blunder.”

“Not a bit of it!” he cried. “You've cheered me up
mightily. There's sense in what you say; queer that it didnt

come into my mind before. I'm not sure that I can work my
own case so's to square with it—but I'll hold on to the idee.”

As they reached the garden, Hannah Thurston plucked a
white rosebud which had thrust itself through the paling, and
fastened it to the bosom of her dress. Mr. Merryfield immediately
gathered six of the largest and reddest cabbage-roses,
and presented them with a friendly air.

“There,” said he, “stick them on! That white thing don't
show at all. It's a pity the pineys are all gone.”

Mrs. Merryfield, sitting on the shaded portico, rose and met
her visitor at the gate. The women kissed each other, as
usual, though with a shade of constraint on the part of the former.
The farmer, judging it best to leave them alone for a
little while, went back to finish his gleaning.

After they were comfortably seated on the portico, and
Hannah Thurston had laid aside her bonnet, there was an awkward
pause. Mrs. Merryfield anticipated an attack, than which
nothing was further from her visitor's thought.

“How quiet and pleasant it is here!” the latter finally said.
“It is quite a relief to me to get away from the village.”

“People are differently constituted,” answered Mrs. Merryfield,
with a slight defiance in her manner: “I like society, and
there's not much life on a farm.”

“You have enjoyed it so long, perhaps, that you now
scarcely appreciate it properly. A few weeks in our little cottage
would satisfy you which is best.”

“I must be satisfied, as it is;” Mrs. Merryfield replied.
“We women have limited missions, I suppose.”

She intended herewith to indicate that, although she had desisted
from her purpose, she did not confess that it had been
wrong. She had sacrificed her own desires, and the fact should
be set down to her credit. With Mr. Waldo she would have
been candidly penitent—more so, perhaps, than she had yet
allowed her husband to perceive—but towards one of her own
sex, especially a champion of social reform, her only feeling was
a stubborn determination to vindicate her action as far as possible.

Hannah Thurston detected the under-current of her
thought, and strove to avoid an encounter with it.

“Yes,” said she; “I suspect there are few persons of average
ambition who find a sphere broad enough to content them.
But our merits, you know, are not measured by that. You
may be able to accomplish more good, here, in your quiet circle
of neighbors, than in some more conspicuous place.”

“I should be the judge of that,” rejoined Mrs. Merryfield,
tartly. Then, feeling that she had been a little too quick, she
added, with mournful meekness: “But I suppose some lights
are meant to be hid, otherways there wouldn't be bushels.”

As she spoke, a light which did not mean to be hid, whatever
the accumulation of bushels, approached from the lane.
It was Seth Wattles, gracefully attired in a baggy blouse of
gray linen, over which, in front, hung the ends of a huge purple
silk cravat. He carried a roll of paper in one hand, and
his head was elevated with a sense of more than usual importance.
The expression of his shapeless mouth became almost
triumphant as he perceived Hannah Thurston. She returned
his greeting with a calmness and self-possession which he mistook
for a returning interest in himself.

By the time the usual common-places had been exchanged,
Merryfield had returned to the house. Seth, therefore, hastened
to communicate the nature of his errand. “I have been working
out an idea,” said he, “which, I think, meets the wants of
the world. It can be improved, no doubt,—I don't say that
it's perfect—but the fundamental basis is right, I'm sure.”

“What is it?” asked Merryfield, not very eagerly.

“A Plan for the Reorganization of Society, by which we can
lighten the burden of labor, and avoid the necessity of Governments,
with all their abuses. It is something like Fourier's plan
of Phalansteries, only that don't seem adapted to this country.
And it's too great a change, all at once. My plan can be applied
immediately, because it begins on a smaller scale. I'm sure
it will work, if I can only get it started. A dozen persons are
enough to begin with.”

“Well, how would you begin?” asked the farmer.

“Take any farm of ordinary size—yours for instance—and
make of it a small community, who shall represent all the necessary
branches of labor. With the aid of machinery, it will be
entirely independent of outside help. You want a small steam-engine,
or even a horse-power, to thresh, grind, saw, churn,
turn, and hammer. Then, one of the men must be a blacksmith
and wheelwright, one a tailor, and another a shoe and
harness maker. Flax and sheep will furnish the material for
clothing, maple and Chinese cane will give sugar, and there
will really be little or nothing to buy. I assume, of course,
that we all discard an artificial diet, and live on the simplest
substances. Any little illness can be cured by hydropathy,
but that would only be necessary in the beginning, for diseases
would soon vanish from such a community. The labor of the
women must also be divided: one will have charge of the garden,
another of the dairy, another of the kitchen, and so on.
When any branch of work becomes monotonous, there can be
changes made, so that, in the end, each one will understand all
the different departments. Don't you see?”

“Yes, I see,” said Merryfield.

“I was sure you would. Just consider what an advantage
over the present system! There need not be a dollar of outlay:
you can take the houses as they are. Nothing would be
bought, and all the produce of the farm, beyond what the
community required for its support, would be clear gain. In
a few years, this would amount to a fund large enough to hire
all the necessary labor, and the members could then devote the
rest of their lives to intellectual cultivation. My plan is diplomatic—that's
the word. It will reform men, in spite of themselves,
by appealing to two of their strongest passions—
acquisitiveness and love of ease. They would get into a
higher moral atmosphere before they knew it.”

“I dare say,” Merryfield remarked, as he crossed one leg
over the other, and then put it down again, restlessly. “And
who is to have the general direction of affairs?”

“Oh, there I apply the republican principle!” Seth exclaimed.
“It will be decided by vote, after discussion, in which all take
part, women as well as men. Here is my plan for the day.
Each takes his or her turn, week about, to rise before sunrise,
make the fires, and ring a bell to rouse the others. After a
cold plunge-bath, one hour's labor, and then breakfast, accompanied
by cheerful conversation. Then work until noon, when
dinner is prepared. An hour's rest, and labor again, when
necessary. I calculate, however, that six hours a day will
generally be sufficient. Supper at sunset, followed by discussion
and settlement of plans for the next day. Singing in
chorus, half an hour; dancing, one hour, and conversation on
moral subjects until eleven o'clock, when the bell rings for rest.
You see, the plan combines every thing; labor, recreation,
society, and mental improvement. As soon as we have established
a few communities, we can send messengers between
them, and will not be obliged to support the Government
through the Post-Office. Now, I want you to begin the reform.”

“Me!” exclaimed Merryfield, with a start.

“Yes, it's the very thing. You have two hundred acres,
and a house big enough for a dozen. I think we can raise the
community in a little while. We can call it `Merryfield,' or,
if you choose, in Latin—Tanner says it's Campus Gaudius, or
something of the kind. It will soon be known, far and wide,
and we must have a name to distinguish it. I have no doubt
the Whitlows would be willing to join us; Mrs. Whitlow
could take the dairy, and Miss Thurston the garden. He's
been in the grocery-line: he could make sugar, until he got
acquainted with other kinds of work.”

“Dairy, indeed!” interrupted Mrs. Merryfield. “Yes, she'd
like to skim cream and drink it by the tumbler-full, no doubt.
A delightful community it would be, with the cows in her
charge, somebody else in the bedrooms, and me seeing to the
kitchen!”

“Before I'd agree to it, I'd see all the communities—”

Mr. Merryfield's exclamation terminated with a stronger

word than his wife had heard him utter for years. He jumped
from his seat, as he spoke, and strode up and down the portico.
Hannah Thurston, in spite of a temporary shock at the unexpected
profanity, felt that her respect for James Merryfield
had undergone a slight increase. She was a little surprised at
herself, that it should be so. As for Seth Wattles, he was
completely taken aback. He had surmised that his plan might
meet with some technical objections, but he was certain that
it would be received with sympathy, and that he should finally
persuade the farmer to accept it. Had the latter offered him
a glass of whiskey, or drawn a bowie-knife from his sleeve, he
could not have been more astounded. He sat, with open
mouth and staring eyes, not knowing what to say.

“Look here, Seth,” said Merryfield, pausing in his walk;
“neither you nor me a'n't a-going to reform the world. A
good many things a'n't right, I know, and as far as talking
goes, we can speak our mind about 'em. But when it comes
to fixing them yourself, I reckon you want a little longer apprenticeship
first. I sha'n't try it at my age. Make as pretty
a machine as you like, on paper, but don't think you'll set it
up in my house. There's no inside works to it, and it won't go.”

“Why—why,” Seth stammered, “I always thought you
were in favor of Social Reform.”

“So I am—but I want, first, to see how it's to be done.
I'll tell you what to do. Neither you nor Tanner are married,
and have no risk to run. Take a couple more with you, and
set up a household: do your cooking, washing, sweeping, and
bed-making, by turns, and if you hold together six months,
and say you're satisfied, I'll have some faith in your plan.”

“And get Mrs. Whitlow to be one of your Community,”
added Mrs. Merryfield, “or the experiment won't be worth
much. Let her take care of your dairy, and Mary Wollstonecraft
and Phillis Wheatley tend to your garden. Send me
word when you're ready, and I'll come and see how you get
on!”

“I don't need to work, as it is, more than's healthy for me,”

her husband continued, “and I don't want Sarah to, neither.
I can manage my farm without any trouble, and I've no notion
of taking ten green hands to bother me, and then have to divide
my profits with them. Show me a plan that'll give me
something more than I have, instead of taking away the most
of it.”

“Why, the society, the intellectual cultivation,” Seth remarked,
but in a hopeless voice.

“I don't know as I've much to learn from either you or Tanner.
As for Whitlows, all I can say is, I've tried 'em. But
what do you think of it, Hannah?”

“Very much as you do. I, for one, am certainly not ready
to try any such experiment,” Miss Thurston replied. “I still
think that the family relation is natural, true, and necessary,
yet I do not wonder that those who have never known it should
desire something better than the life of a boarding-house. I
know what that is.”

“Seth,” said Merryfield, recovering from his excitement,
which, he now saw, was quite incomprehensible to the disappointed
tailor, “there's one conclusion I've come to, and I'd
advise you to turn it over in your own mind. You and me may
be right in our idees of what's wrong and what ought to be
changed, but we're not the men to set things right. I'm not
Garrison, nor yet Wendell Phillips, nor you a— what's his
name?—that Frenchman?—oh, Furrier, and neither of them's
done any thing yet but talk and write. We're only firemen on
the train, as it were, and if we try to drive the engine, we may
just run every thing to smash.”

The trying experience through which Merryfield had passed,
was not without its good results. There was a shade more of
firmness in his manner, of directness in his speech. The mere
sentiment of the reform, which had always hung about him
awkwardly, and sometimes even ludicrously, seemed to have
quite disappeared; and though his views had not changed—at
least, not consciously so—they passed through a layer of reawakened
practical sense somewhere between the organs of

thought and speech, and thus assumed a different coloring.
He was evidently recovering from that very prevalent disorder—an
actual paralysis of the reasoning faculties, which the
victim persists in considering as their highest state of activity.

Seth had no spirit to press any further advocacy of his sublime
scheme. He merely heaved a sigh of coarse texture, and
remarked, in a desponding tone: “There's not much satisfaction
in seeing the Right, unless you can help to fulfil it. I may
not have more than one talent, but I did not expect you to
offer me a napkin to tie it up in.”

This was the best thing Seth ever said. It surprised himself,
and he repeated it so often afterwards, that the figure became
as inevitable a part of his speeches, as the famous two
horsemen, in a certain author's novels.

Merryfield, seeing how completely he was vanquished, became
the kind host again and invited him to stay for tea.
Then, harnessing one of his farm-horses, he drove into Ptolemy
for his semi-weekly mail, taking Hannah Thurston with him.
As they were about leaving, Mrs. Merryfield suddenly appeared
at the gate, with a huge bunch of her garden flowers,
and a basket of raspberries, for the Widow Thurston. She was,
in reality, very grateful for the visit. It had dissipated a secret
anxiety which had begun to trouble her during the previous
two or three days.

“Who knows”—she said to herself, sitting on the portico in
the twilight, while a breeze from the lake shook the woodbines
on the lattice, and bathed her in their soothing balm—“who
knows but there are Mrs. Whitlows, or worse, there, too!”