University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
CONCERNING THE NEW HOUSEHOLD OF LAKESIDE.

In a day or two all the familiar articles of furniture which
Hannah desired to retain, were transferred to Lakeside with her
personal effects, and the cottage was closed until a new tenant
could be found. In the first combined shock of grief and
change, the secluded beauty of her new home was especially
grateful. The influences of Nature, no less than the tender attentions
of her husband, and the quiet, reverent respect of Bute
and Carrie, gradually soothed and consoled her. Day after
day the balmy southwest wind blew, hardly stirring the
smoky purple of the air, through which glimmered the floating
drifts of gossamer or the star-like tufts of wandering
down. The dead flowers saw their future resurrection in
these winged, emigrating seeds; the trees let fall the loosened
splendor of their foliage, knowing that other summers were
sheathed in the buds left behind; even the sweet grass of the
meadows bowed its dry crest submissively over the green
heart of its perennial life. Every object expressed the infinite
patience of Nature with her yearly recurring doom. The
sun himself seemed to veil his beams in noonday haze, lest he
should smite with too severe a lustre the nakedness of the
landscape, as it slowly put off its garment of life.

For years past, she had been deprived of the opportunity
so to breathe the enchantment of the heavenly season. As
soon as the chill of the morning dew had left the earth, she
went forth to the garden and orchard, and along the sunny

margin of the whispering pine-wood behind the house, striving
to comprehend the change that had come over her, and fit her
views of life to harmony with it. In the afternoons she went,
at Woodbury's side, to a knoll overhanging the lake, whence
the landscape was broader and grander, opening northward
beyond the point, where now and then a sail flashed dimly
along the blue water. Here, sitting on the grassy brink, he
told her of the wonderful life of the tropics, of his early hopes
and struggles, of the cheating illusions he had cherished, the
sadder knowledge he had wrested from experience, and that
immortal philosophy of the heart in which all things are reconciled.
He did not directly advert to his passion for herself,
but she felt it continually as the basis from which his confidences
grew. He was a tender, trustful friend, presenting to
her, leaf by leaf, the book of his life. She, too, gave him
much of hers in return. She found a melancholy pleasure in
speaking of the Past to one who had a right to know it, and
to whom its most trifling feature was not indifferent. Her
childhood, her opening girlhood, her education, her desire for
all possible forms of cultivation, her undeveloped artistic sympathies
and their conflict with the associations which surrounded
her—all these returned, little by little, and her husband rejoiced
to find in them fresh confirmations of the instinctive
judgment, on the strength of which he had ventured his
love.

In the evenings they generally sat in the library, where he
read to her from his choice stores of literature, and from the
reading grew earnest mutual talk which calmed and refreshed
her mind. The leisure of his long years in India had not been
thrown away: he had developed and matured his natural
taste for literature by the careful study of the English and
French classics, and was familiar with the principal German
and Italian authors, so far as they could be known through
translations. He had also revived, to some extent, his musty
knowledge of the Greek and Latin poets, and his taste had thus
become pure and healthy in proportion to the variety of his

acquirements. Hannah had, now and then, perhaps (though
this is doubtful, in the circumscribed community of Ptolemy),
encountered men of equal culture, but none who had spoken
to her as an equal, from the recognition of like capacities in
her own mind. She saw, in this intercourse with her husband,
the commencement of a new and inexhaustible intellectual
enjoyment. That clamor of her nature for the supposed rights
denied to her sex was, in part, the result of a baffled mental
passion, which now saw the coveted satisfaction secured to
it; and thus the voice of her torment grew weaker day by
day.

Day by day, also, with scarce a spoken word of love, the
relations between the two became more fond and intimate.
Woodbury's admirable judgment taught him patience. He
saw the color gradually coming back to the pale leaves of the
flower, and foresaw the day when he might wear it on his
bosom. The wind-tossed lake smoothed its surface more and
more, and gleams of his own image were reflected back to him
from the subsiding waves. The bride glided into the wife by
a gentle, natural transition. She assumed her place as head
of the household, and Carrie, who was always nervously
anxious under the weight of the responsibility, transferred it
gladly to her hands. The sense of her ownership in the treasures
of Lakeside, which had at first seemed incredible, grew
real by degrees, as she came to exercise her proper authority,
and as her husband consulted with her in regard to the proposed
changes in the garden and grounds. All these things
inspired her with a new and delightful interest. The sky of
her life brightened as the horizon grew wider. Her individual
sphere of action had formerly been limited on every side;
her tastes had been necessarily suppressed; and the hard,
utilitarian spirit, from which she shrank, in the associations of
her sect, seemed to meet her equally wherever she turned.
Her instinct of beauty was now liberated; for Woodbury,
possessing it himself, not only appreciated, but encouraged its
vitality in her nature. The rooms took the impression of her

taste, at first in minor details and then in general arrangements,
and this external reflection of herself in the features of
her home reacted upon her feelings, separating her by a constantly
widening gulf from her maiden life.

The gold of the forests corroded, the misty violet bloom of
the Indian Summer was washed away by sharp winds and
cold rains, and when winter set in, the fire on the domestic
hearth burned with a warm, steady flame. Immediately after
the marriage, Woodbury had not only picked out a very
pretty site for the cottage which he must now build in earnest
for Bute's occupancy, but had immediately engaged masons
and carpenters to commence the work. It was on a low knob
or spur of the elevation upon which stood his own house, but
nearer the Anacreon road. Bute and Carrie were in ecstasies
with the design, which was selected from “Downing's Landscape
Gardening.” It was a story and a half high, with overhanging
balconies, in the Swiss style, and promised to be a
picturesque object in the view from Lakeside, especially as it
would just hide the only ragged and unlovely spot in the
landscape, to the left of Roaring Brook. By great exertion
on Bute's part, it was gotten under roof, and then left for a
winter's seasoning, before completion in the spring. This
house and every thing connected with it took entire possession
of the mind of Mrs. Carrie Wilson, and not a day passed without
her consulting Hannah in regard to some internal or
external arrangement. She would have flowered chintz curtains
to the windows of the “best room”—blue, with small
pink roses: the stuff would be cheap and of course she would
make them herself: would it be better to have them ruffled
with the same, or an edging of the coarse cotton lace which
she had learned to knit? Bute had promised her a carpet,
and they could furnish the room little by little, so that the
expense would not be felt. “We must economize,” she invariably
added, at the close: “we are going to lay something
by every year, and I want to show Bute that I can manage to
have every thing nice and tasty, without spending much.”

The little woman still retained her admiration for Hannah,
perhaps in an increased degree, now that Woodbury (for whom
Carrie had conceived such a profound respect) had chosen
her to be his wife. She confided to the latter all her wonderful
plans for the future, utterly forgetful how they differed
from the confidences which she had been accustomed to bestow.
Hannah could not help remarking her present unconsciousness
of that ambition which she had once pitied as
mistaken, though she had not the heart to check it. A similar
change seemed to be taking place in herself. “Is it always
so?” she reflected. “Is the fulfilment of our special destiny
as women really the end of that lofty part which we resolved
to take in the forward struggle of the race? Was my desire
to vindicate the just claims of my sex only the blind result of
the relinquishment of earlier dreams? It cannot be: but this
much is true—that the restless mind is easily cradled to sleep
on the beatings of a happy heart.”

The strict seclusion of her life was rarely broken. The
Waldos and Merryfields came once or twice for a brief call, but
Woodbury, though he went occasionally to Ptolemy, did not
urge her to accompany him. Sometimes, on mild days, he
drove with her over the hills, re-exploring for her the picturesque
little nooks of the upland which he had discovered.
Hannah was contented with this; she knew that Society
awaited her, after a time, but it could not now deny her that
grateful repose, in which she gathered strength, and hope, and
harmony with herself. Indeed, the life of Ptolemy flowed
more quietly than usual, this season. The Great Sewing-Union
was not reorganized, because the Cimmerians had decided on
a “Donation Party” for Mr. Waldo's benefit, instead of a Fair;
the Abolitionists had not sufficient cohesive power without
the assistance of Hannah and Mrs. Merryfield, and prepared
their contributions separately at home; and thus only the
Mission Fund remained. The latter, however, was stimulated
to fresh activity by the arrival of a package of letters, early
in December, from Mrs. Jehiel Preeks (formerly Miss Eliza

Clancy), dated from Cuddapah, in the Telugu Country. She had
passed a week at Jutnapore, and was shocked to find that her
brown namesake, for whom she had made the mousseline-de-laine
frock with tucks, had been married a year, although not
yet fourteen, and exhibited to her a spiritual grand-baby, on
her arrival. She forwarded to Miss Ruhaney Goodwin a letter
in the Telugu language from her son Elisha, which the spinster
had framed and hung up beside her looking-glass. “It's
more like bird-tracks than any thing else,” she whispered, confidentially,
“but the sight of it gives me a deal of comfort.”

Thus, the labors for the Mission Fund were resumed, but
the young men who attended looked back to the days of
the Great Sewing-Union with regret. The mixed composition
of the latter had been its great charm, and even the ladies of
the Fund missed the extended comparison of stuffs and patterns,
and the wider range of mantua-making gossip which
they had enjoyed during the previous winter. The curiosity
in regard to the Woodburys still continued to be rife; but
Mrs. Waldo, who was continually appealed to, as their nearest
friend, for an explanation of the mystery, knew no more than
any of the others what had passed between the two before their
marriage. The first sharpness of public comment on the occurrence
soon gave place to a more just and reasonable feeling.
Both were popular, in a different way, in Ptolemy. A moderate
amount of good-luck would not have been grudged to
either, but that they should find it in each other was the
thought which astounded the community. The strangest
things, however, soon grow common-place, and all that had
been said or thought, in the first period of wonderment, was
gradually forgotten. Both Mrs. Styles and Mrs. Hamilton
Bue called at Lakeside, and went home well pleased with the
kindly courtesy and hospitality which they received. They
saw that the husband and wife evidently understood each other
and were happy in the knowledge: any thing further than
this the keenest scrutiny failed to discover. Woodbury had
the coolness of a thorough man of the world in turning aside

impertinent questions, such as many good persons, with their
unformed American ideas of propriety, see no harm in asking.
It is true that he sometimes gave offence in this way, but his
apparent unconsciousness of the fact healed the wound, while
it prevented a repetition of the impertinence.

Hannah admired the self-possession of her husband, as a
power, the attainment of which was beyond her own reach.
The characteristic which had most repelled her, on their first
acquaintance, was now that which threw around her a comforting
sense of protection and defence. It was not a callous condition
of his finer sensibilities, she saw; it was a part of his
matured balance and repose of character, yet the latter still
sometimes impressed her almost like coldness, in comparison
with her own warmth of sentiment. For this reason, perhaps,
as her love to him deepened and strengthened—as his being
became more and more a blissful necessity—his composed, unchanging
tenderness often failed to satisfy, in full measure,
the yearnings of her heart. While she was growing in the
richness of her affections, he seemed to be standing still.

With all Woodbury's experience of woman, he had yet
much to learn. No course could have been better chosen than
the delicate and generous consideration which he exhibited
towards his wife, up to a certain point. His mistake was, that
he continued it long after the necessity had ceased, and when,
to her changed nature, it suggested a conscientious sense of
justice rather than the watchfulness of love. He was waiting
for her heart to reach the knowledge which already filled it to
overflowing, betraying itself daily by a subtle language which
he did not understand. The experiences through which he
had passed had familiarized him with the presence of passion
in himself: his heart did not throb less powerfully, but it
throbbed beneath a mask of calmness which had been sternly
enforced upon him. He did not reflect that his wife, with all
the pervading passion of the ripened woman, still possessed,
in this her first love, the timidity of a girl, and could not ask
for that independent speech of the heart which he withheld.

Even with regard to the questions which had so nearly kept
them asunder, she would have preferred frank discussion to
silence. Here, however, he had promised her full liberty of
action, and she could not refer to them without a seeming
doubt of his word. Once or twice, indeed she timidly approached
the subject, but he had avoided it with a gentleness
and kindness which she could not resist. She suffered no reproach
to rest upon him, in her inmost thought; she reproached
herself for having invoked the promise—for having obliged
him to raise the thin, impalpable screen which still interposed
itself between their hearts. Mrs. Styles, in reporting her
visit, had said: “they look as if they had already been married
ten years,” and she had said truly. That calm, which
was so grateful in the first tumult of the wife's feelings, which
enabled her to pass through the transition of her nature in
peace, now sometimes became oppressive in the rush of
happy emotions that sought but knew not how to find expression.

The knowledge that Woodbury had modified his personal
habits so as to avoid offending her prejudices, also gave her
pain. She learned, from Carrie, that he had been in the habit
of drinking a glass or two of claret at dinner, and of smoking
in the library after meals, or as he read in the evenings. Now,
the wine had disappeared from the table, and he took his cigar
in the garden, or in the veranda. Both the habits were still
repugnant to her sense of right, but love was beginning to
teach her tolerance. He was, perhaps, partly weaned from
them, she thought, and in that case it would be wrong in her
to lead him back to his old subjection; yet, on the other hand,
what sacrifice had he not made for her? and what had she
made for him?

Towards the end of winter, she found that her mind was
becoming singularly confused and uncertain. The reconciliation
with her destiny, the harmony of heart and brain,
which she seemed to be on the point of attaining, slid back
again into something which appeared to be a disturbance of

temperament rather than of intellect. Things, trifling in
themselves, exalted or depressed her without any apparent
reason; unreasonable desires presented themselves to her
mind, and in this perpetual wavering of the balance of her
nature, nothing seemed steady except her love for her husband.
She longed, at times, to throw herself upon his breast
and weep the confession she did not dare to speak; but her
moments of strength perversely came when he was absent, and
her moments of cowardice when he was present. Through
all the uncertain, shifting range of her sensations, ran, nevertheless,
a dazzling thread of some vague, foreboded bliss, the
features of which she could not distinguish. She often repeated
to herself the song of Clärchen, in Goethe's “Egmont,”
which was among the works her husband had read with her:

One afternoon she was seized with such an intense longing
for the smell of tobacco-smoke, that she could scarcely wait
until Woodbury, who had ridden into Ptolemy, returned
home. As soon as he had taken off his great-coat and
kissed her, as was his wont, she drew him into the library.

“Maxwell,” she said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Have you? I shall be delighted to grant it.”

“You will think it strange,” she continued, blushing:
“I wish you would light a cigar; I think I should find the
smoke agreeable.”

“That is not asking a favor, Hannah; it is granting one to
me. I'll take one of my best, and you shall have a fair trial.”

He laughed pleasantly at what he considered a benevolent
effort on her part to endure his favorite indulgence. He

placed easy-chairs for them, on opposite sides of the fire, lest
her experiment might fail from being overdone, and lighted
one of his choicest Cabañas. The rich, delicate, sedative
odor soon pervaded the air, but she held her ground. He took
down Sir Thomas Browne, one of his favorites, and read aloud
the pleasant passages. The snowy ashes lengthened in the
cigar, the flavor of the book grew more choice and ripe, and
after an hour he tossed the diminutive remaining end into the
grate, saying:

“Well, what is the result?”

“I quite forgot the cigar, Maxwell,” she answered, “in my
enjoyment of Sir Thomas. But the odor at first—you will
laugh at me—was delightful. I am so sorry that you have
been so long deprived of what must be to you an agreeable
habit, on my account.”

“I have only been acting up to my principles,” he said,
“that we have a right to exercise our individual freedom in
such matters, when they do not interfere directly with the
comfort of others. But here, I am afraid, Sir Thomas helped
to neutralize your repugnance. Shall we go on with him, a
chapter and a cigar at a time? Afterwards I can take
Burton and Montaigne, if you are not fully acclimated.”

He spoke gayly, with a dancing light in his eyes, but the
plan was seriously carried out. Hannah was surprised to find
in Montaigne a reference to the modern doctrine (as she supposed
it to be) of “Women's Rights.” It was not a pleasant
reflection that the cause had made so little progress in three
centuries. The reading of this passage brought up the subject
in a natural way, and she could not help remarking:

“Discussions on the subject will never come to an end,
until we have some practical application of the theory, which
will be an actual and satisfactory test of its truth.”

“I, for one, would not object to that,” Woodbury answered,
“provided it could be tried without disturbing too much the
established order of Society. If a large class of women
should at any time demand these rights, a refusal to let the

experiment be tested would imply a fear of its success. Now,
I do not believe that any system can be successful which does
not contain a large proportion of absolute truth, and while I
cannot think, as you know, that woman is fitted for the same
career as man, I am not afraid to see her make the trial. I
will pledge myself to abide by the result.”

“If all men were as just, Maxwell, we should have no cause
to complain. After all, it is the right to try, rather than the
right to be, which we ask. The refusal to grant us that does
not seem either like the magnanimity of the stronger, or even
an assured faith in his strength.”

“Men do not seriously consider the subject,” said he.
“The simple instinct of sex dictates their opposition. They
attribute to a distorted, unfeminine ambition, what is often—
in you, Hannah, I know it—a pure and unselfish aspiration.
The basis of instinct is generally correct, but it does not absolve
us from respect for the sincerity of that which assails it.”

“I will try to be as just to you, in return!” she exclaimed.
“I feel that my knowledge has been limited—that I have been
self-boastful of the light granted to my mind, when it was
only groping in twilight, towards the dawn. My heart drew
back from you, because it feared a clashing of opinions which
could never harmonize.

She was on the verge of a tenderer confession, but he did
not perceive it. His words, unwittingly, interrupted the current
of her feelings. His voice was unintentionally grave and
his brow earnest, as he said: “I trust, more than ever, to the
true woman's nature in you, Hannah. Let me say one thing
to set your mind at rest forever. It was my profound appreciation
of those very elements in your character which led you
to take up these claims of Woman and make them your own,
that opened the way for you to my heart. I reverence the
qualities without accepting all the conclusions born of them.
I thank God that I was superior to shallow prejudice, which
would have hindered me from approaching you, and thus have
lost me the blessing of my life!”

He rose and laid away the book. Every word he had said
was just and noble, but it was not the fervid, impassioned
utterance which her heart craved to hear. There were tears
in her eyes, but he misinterpreted them.

Ah, the “true woman's nature!” Did he trust to it? Did
he know it, in its timidity, in its exacting fondness, in its pride
of devotion and its joy of sacrifice?

Not yet.