Was It Right to Forgive? A Domestic Romance

“Very well.” Miss Alida said the words with an air of disappointment, and then walked to the window to recover herself. In a few minutes she turned round, and said pleasantly:

“What will you do with your afternoon, Adriana?”

“I thought of going to see sister Augusta. I have not been near her for nearly two weeks. Antony spoke of one of the children being unwell.”

“Would you like me to drive you there? I can do so as I go for Mrs. Daly.”

“No, cousin. Augusta would think I was putting on airs, and would scold me for it. I will take the cars or walk.”

“Give my remembrance to her, and ask if she will join our society.”

In half-an-hour Adriana was ready for her visit, and Miss Alida watched her going down the avenue, walking swiftly and erect, with her head well up, and her neatly-folded umbrella in her hand. The afternoon was bright and pleasant, warm for the season, and Adriana was much exhilarated by the walk, when she 142 reached her destination. It was in that part of Second Avenue which still retains many traces of its former aristocracy, – a brick house at the corner of a street leading down to the East River. The whole first floor of the building was occupied by her brother-in-law’s grocery, the dwelling was immediately above it. An air of definite cleanliness pervaded the stairway to it, and as soon as she entered the house the prim spotlessness assailed her like a force; the presence of a wind could not have been more tangible.

Augusta herself, with her fair, rosy face, her smoothly braided hair, and her exquisite, neat dress, might have been the genius of domestic order. Her whole house had the air of having been polished from one end to the other; and the table-cloth in which Augusta was darning “a thin place” was whiter than snow, and ironed as if for a palace. She kissed Adriana with affection, but also with that air of superiority which her position as an eldest sister gave her. Then they sat down and talked over their home affairs – of the brothers in Florida, who were doing so well, of their sister Gertrude, who had bad health, of Antony, of their father, and of John Van Nostrand’s election to the Assembly. In a little while, the children came in from school – six rosy, orderly boys and girls, who knew better than to bring in a speck of dust, or to move a chair one inch out of its proper place.

The eldest girl soon began to lay a table with the utmost neatness and despatch, and the eldest boy having said a short grace, all sat quietly down and waited for their portions. Then Augusta put aside her sewing, and standing among her children, cut them beef and bread, and poured into the christening cups of each child its measure of milk; while they 143 talked gaily to her of their lessons and their play. One little girl showed her the medal on her breast, and received a smile and pat on her curly head for the honor; and a little lad of ten years old shyly exhibited a tear in his jacket, which he had got in a fight about his skates. The mother heard what he had to say, and looked gravely at him. “Did you whip Gustav Bok for changing your skates?” she asked. “Not to-day, mother; but I will whip him to-morrow.” “After that I will mend your coat,” she answered. “You must, of course, punish him, Adrian.” The little dialogue was a matter only for Adrian and his mother, the other children took no part in it. The whole scene was one of unconscious beauty, and Adriana thought she had never beheld anything fairer than Augusta among her children, with the loaf of bread or the pitcher of milk in her hands. So confidently were the little faces lifted to her; while her countenance – large, fair, and benignant – looked a blessing into each.

Suddenly, as Adriana watched her, she remembered her cousin’s message, and gave it. Augusta listened to the proposed plan of the new society with patience, but without a shadow of interest; and when Adriana ceased speaking, she waved her hands slightly, and answered:

“You see for yourself. I have my children, and my house, and my good John Van Nostrand to look after. With my cleaning, and my baking, and my sewing, and my cooking, these hands are full. Shall I neglect one duty, which is my own duty, to do another duty I know not who for? No. I will not do that. It is very well for Miss Van Hoosen, who has no duties such as I have, to look after the poor Dutch women and children, and the stranger Dutch who come here and 144 who have no friends. I say it is right for Miss Van Hoosen, and for you also, Adriana, if you are not going to marry yourself to some good man. What for do you not marry yourself?”

“Good men are now scarce, Augusta.”

“It is now, as it ever was, and always will be; good and bad men, and good and bad women, and as many good as bad. In our family, it is so, is it not? Theodore got himself a very good wife, and I have got myself a very good husband.”

“But what of Gertrude?”

“Gertrude does very well. She does not see more faults than she can help. Wives should remember they have eyelids as well as eyes.”

“Is Gertrude’s husband kind to her?”

“Can I know? If Gertrude has picked up a crooked stick, she does not go about telling everybody so.”

“Then there is brother George. He is making money, but you can tell from his letters that he is not happy with his wife.”

“I am not sorry for George,” answered Augusta. “When you were at college, George came here, and he told my John about his wife. He thought she had money, and she thought he had money, and both of them were mistaken; so – as my John said to me – when the rag doll and the stuffed elephant got married, they found each other out. But John and I married for love; and so must you marry, Adriana.”

“There is so much trouble in any marriage, Augusta.” And Augusta again waved her hands over her boys and girls, and answered with unspeakable pride: “There are the children! Husbands you must take your chance with; but the little children! You make of them what you will.”

“Then you will not join Cousin Alida’s club?”

“I will not. John has three clubs; and the money is spent, and the time is spent, and who is the better for it? I have my own club with my boys and girls; and for them, all I can do is too little.”

As soon as the short winter afternoon began to close in, Adriana bade her sister “good-bye,” and turned westward. She took the quietest streets, and felt a little thrill of vague wonder and fear, as she puzzled her way through Gramercy Park and Madison Square to Fifth Avenue. There she encountered life and bustle, and the confusion of many vehicles of many kinds going northward. As she waited for an opportunity to cross the street, some one came to her side; some one said:

“Yanna! Dear Yanna!”

“Harry!”

The recognition was instant; they met before they knew it, in each other’s eyes; hand slipped into hand, and almost unconsciously Harry led her across the street. Then he leaned towards her and whispered:

“At last, dear Yanna! At last!”

“But why not before, Harry? It is your fault.”

“Ah, I have been so weak! I have been so wicked, Yanna. Pass it by without a word. No words can explain or justify me. I have nothing to trust to but your gentleness and love. Do you yet love me?”

She looked at him, and he understood the light on her face, and the heavenly smile on her lips. It grew dark, but they knew it not; it grew cold, but they felt it not; the busy thoroughfare became empty and still, but they were aware of nothing but the song in their hearts. What they said to each other they could not afterwards remember at all. In the delicious, stumbling 146 patois of love, so much was said, and so much understood that was beyond their power to reduce to mere syllables. Only, when at last they parted, a great weight had been rolled from each heart.

For Harry had spoken freely, as soon as he found Yanna willing to listen. All his burdens and temptations, his remorses, his resolutions, and his inevitable slips again and again into sensual mire were confessed; and in spite of all, he had been made to feel that life still had the lustre of divine dignity around it, and of divine duty before it. He left Adriana full of hope, and she stood a minute at the door to listen to the clear ring of his steps on the pavement; for steps are words, and Harry’s steps were those of a man who has been turned into the right road, confident and purposeful.

Then she ran lightly to her own room. She stood quiet there, with clasped hands and radiant face, and told herself in so many audible words: “He loves me yet! He loves me yet! Oh, fluttering heart, be still! Be still!” And constantly, as she bathed her face and dressed her hair and put on her evening gown, she chided herself as tenderly as a mother the restless babe she loves, saying softly, “Be still! Be still!” And she was lovelier that night than she had been for a long time, for since her parting with Harry at Woodsome, her life had been out of harmony; but now heart and life were in tune, and she could live melodious days once more.

After leaving Adriana, Harry walked rapidly towards his home. He did not think of calling a cab; there was a necessity for motion in his condition, and walking is the natural tranquillizer of mental agitation. He had not gone far before he met Antony Van 147 Hoosen. Now, the young men were still warm friends, though the exigencies of society had kept them more apart than at first seemed necessary. But Harry affected a set of young men outside of Antony’s toleration; and their social engagements very rarely brought them together. At this hour, however, Harry was particularly delighted to meet Antony, and as they were in the neighborhood of a good hotel, he urged him to enter.

“Let us dine together, Antony,” he said. “I want to tell you something particularly good – for me. I have just left Yanna.”

Antony heard him with singular indifference. “Harry,” he answered, “I will go with you, for indeed I have something particular to tell you. I wish I could say it was good, but it is not.”

“Then do not tell me anything about it, Antony. I am so happy to-night.”

“But I ought to tell you. It relates to your sister.”

Harry was instantly speechless.

“Will you come back with me to Miss Van Hoosen’s? We can reach my room without disturbing the ladies.”

“No. If you are not cold, we will walk here. What have you to tell me about Rose?”

“You know that I love her?”

“I have known that a long time.”

“Well, every man loves in his own way; and mine is a way you may not understand. However, I cannot live if Rose is long out of my sight; and so I have seen some things – Oh, dear Harry! need I tell you?”

Harry shook his head, and was gloomily silent.

“I saw Rose go into Delmonico’s this afternoon, after the matinee. There was a person with her who 148 has often been with her lately – that is, when Rose is without Mrs. Filmer’s company.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know him. I have not liked to ask any questions about him. He is tall, with a supple, languid figure. He has the face of a fallen angel, handsome and wicked. I have noticed his eyes particularly, because, though he is dark as a Mexican, the eyes are a calm frosty blue – cold and cruel.”

“I know whom you mean. His name is Duval. So Rose was with him to-day?”

“You see what a position this confidence places me in – an informer against the girl I would die for. But I do not speak without good reason. I followed them into the restaurant. They had a bottle of champagne; then this scoundrel rang for another, though it was evident Rose had already taken quite enough.”

“Well, Antony? Speak out, man.”

“I went up, then, to Rose. I said, ‘Miss Filmer, I am sent for you. You must return at once. There is no time to lose.’”

“Well?”

“She trembled, and asked: ‘Is my father ill? Has anything happened to Harry? What is the matter, Mr. Van Hoosen?’ And I said, ‘You had better hasten home, Miss Filmer.’”

“What did Duval say?”

“He bowed and palavered, and got out of the way as quickly as possible. Poor little Rose was sick and white with fear; he understood my meaning well enough. I left Rose at her own door. I did not wish to explain to Mrs. Filmer then. But I must speak to you, Harry, for Rose is in danger. I love her, and will devote my life to her welfare. She loves me, 149 though she will not trust her heart when it tells her so. To-morrow I am going to see your father and mother, and make an offer for your sister’s hand. But I find it impossible to point out the danger in which this dear little Rose lives. Yet they should know it, for, oh, Harry! her salvation may depend upon their knowledge, and their willingness that she may be taken out of temptation.”

“Can you do this?”

“I can.”

“Will you do it?”

“I will. I shall live for her, and her alone.”

“Pardon me, Antony, if I suggest that cash may have a great deal to do with this proposal.”

“I am rich. I shall spend all I have to save her. I shall take her to Europe for a year. All that love and money can do to make her strong shall be done.”

Then Harry let his hand seek Antony’s hand, and they understood each other, without words. But Harry was very unhappy and also very angry. His betrothal to Adriana had been interfered with because it was supposed to be inimical to the social interests of his sister; and now the joy of his reconciliation to his love was shadowed by Rose’s misconduct. Yet he felt that some steps must be taken at once to prevent the evils which would certainly result from her selfish weakness, if it were unchecked. For, after all, the sin resolved itself into the black one of selfishness; Rose was determined to have the pleasure she desired, though she should tear it through, the hearts of all who loved her, though it should bring her personally only misery and shame.

Such thoughts were natural enough to Harry, and they irritated as well as wounded him. It scarcely 150 needed his mother’s look of reproach and querulous question as to “why he had forgotten the dinner hour,” to make him speak the truth, with almost brutal frankness.

“Where is father?” he asked, impatiently.

“Your father has been all day hard at work in the Astor Library. He came home perfectly worn out, and had his dinner served in his study. He did not feel able to dress for the table to-night.”

“It is perfectly absurd. Father has some duties to his family, I think. For instance, if he would remember he had a daughter. Where is Rose?”

“Rose is with that angelic young person, Miss Van Hoosen. And it is not your place to call your father ‘absurd.’ Some day, you will be proud of him.”

“My dear mother, Rose is not with Yanna.”

“Yanna! Rose told me that she was going to the matinee with Miss Van Hoosen. I suppose she is spending the evening with her also.”

“Rose is at home. She was brought home by Antony Van Hoosen, in a cab. He took her from that fellow Duval. They were taking wine together in a restaurant. Now do you understand?” He spoke with gathering passion, and Mrs. Filmer looked frightened and anxious, but she answered scornfully:

“No, I do not. You must speak more plainly. Is Rose sick? Is she hurt? Why should Mr. Van Hoosen interfere with Miss Filmer?”

“Mother, go and ask Rose ‘why.’ I cannot say what I intended to say. I shall go to father; perhaps I can talk to him, if he will listen to me.”

Mr. Filmer was surrounded by slips of paper which he was arranging with so much absorbing interest that he did not at once look up. But as Harry 151 remained standing before him, he said fretfully: “I have to arrange these data while the facts are fresh in my mind. What do you want, Harry?”

“I want to tell you about Rose, sir. You must put down your data and listen to me. It is the most important duty you have.”

Then the attitude of the elder gentleman changed as quickly as a flash of light. He cast the slips of paper upon the table; his thoughtful countenance became alert; he turned round, faced his son, and asked, sharply: “What do you want to say about your sister?”

Then it was as if some seal had been taken off Harry’s heart and lips. He spoke from the foundations of his being; he said: “Sir, my dear sister is on the way to mortal and immortal ruin; and both you and mother shut your eyes to the fact. I also have refused to see what others see. I have said to myself, when mother speaks, when father speaks, it will be time enough for me to do my part. Sir, Rose takes too much wine; she takes it at improper times, and with improper people. This afternoon Mr. Van Hoosen found her with that nephew of Folletts – you know the man.”

“Richard Duval?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on, Harry. Tell me all you know. What had Antony Van Hoosen to do with the matter?”

“He saw that she was taking too much. And he loves Rose better than his own life. So he invented an excuse to get her home.”

Mr. Filmer bit his lips passionately, and Harry saw that he was disposed to settle his anger upon the innocent. “Sir,” he said, “Antony did our family a great kindness. I met him on the avenue afterwards, 152 and we had a long conversation. He is coming to see you in the morning. He is anxious to have the right to watch over Rose – to protect her – ”

“God in heaven! Has not Rose a father, and mother, and brother?”

“We have hitherto done nothing to help, or to save, the girl. We have each and all trusted to the power of social laws and judgments. Mother and I have certainly suspected, feared, divined something wrong for a long time; and we have both acted as if we thought by ignoring the danger we could destroy it. Antony loves her better than we do. He is ready to marry her at once. He will take her to Europe, and watch over her constantly, until the temptation is dead, and the memory forgotten by every one.”

“Harry, we do not want a stranger to do our duty, do we? If Rose is to be taken away, her father and mother are the proper persons to go with her.”

“Not in this case, father. When a man of Antony’s spotless character, good lineage, and great wealth makes Rose his wife, every one’s mouth will be shut by the honor done her. People will recall the old reports only to say, ‘There must have been a mistake! Rose is so excitable!’ And no one will eventually, in the face of such a fact as her marriage, trust their own sight or memory about what they think they have seen or heard. If you are Rose’s friend, my dear father, listen to what Antony Van Hoosen says, and make Rose marry him.”

“Make? Who can make a woman do what she is resolved not to do?”

“Then, let us go back to Woodsome; there we may be better able to protect Rose from herself and others.”

“Yes. We can go back to Woodsome.”

“But even that will not be sufficient, sir.”

“Do you think I am unaware of my duty, Harry? If Mr. Van Hoosen is willing to devote his life to watching and guarding Rose, what am I capable of? I, her father! I will leave my studies; I will put every thought out of mind but Rose. The Saviour who went out into the wilderness after the stray lamb shall be my example. All the other ninety-and-nine interests of life shall be forgotten, if so I may accomplish this one.” He rose as he said the words, and stooping to the table, swept the slips of paper into an open drawer; and his face, though solemn, was full of light and purpose.

“We should have spoken plainly to each other before this hour, Harry,” he said, “and you were wrong not to have come to me before. A matter of such vital importance ought not to have been trusted to the peradventures and influences of society. We ought to have looked the danger in the face; we ought to have acknowledged it to each other, and never suffered the possibility of such a sorrow and shame to have become even a probable event.”

“My dear father, it is not surely too late. I will help you in any way I can.” And then Mr. Filmer’s eyes met his son’s eyes, and, oh, how well they understood each other!

“And the way being the way of duty, Harry,” he answered, “we shall not miss it; for duty is the commandment exceeding broad.”

At this point Mrs. Filmer entered, and Harry, after placing her in a chair, left the room. For a few minutes she sat quiet, looking into the fire with that apathetic stare which follows exhausted feeling.

Then Mr. Filmer put his chair beside hers, and taking her hand, said:

“My dear Emma, we must bear and fight this trouble together. Harry has told me all. And I do think, if Mr. Van Hoosen will marry Rose, it is the very best thing for the dear girl. He will take her to Europe, into entirely fresh scenes, – and marriage buries so many imperfections and offences.”

“Pray, what has Mr. Van Hoosen to do with Rose?”

“He wishes to marry her. He wishes to have the right to watch over and protect her.”

“Mr. Van Hoosen marry Rose! What an idea! Rose is exceedingly angry at him. She says he interfered with her in the most unwarrantable manner, and frightened her until she has been quite sick from the shock.”

“He did well to frighten her. On that awful road leading down, and down, nothing but a fright will arrest attention. If Rose will not put herself in a loving husband’s care, then we will shut this house and go to Woodsome to-morrow night.”

“Such nonsense!”

“I say, we will leave New York to-morrow night for Woodsome, or else we will take the next steamer for Europe. There are these two alternatives; these two, and no other.”

“And you will permit your daughter to marry the son of the mason who built our house?”

“The mason who built our house is of my own kindred. He is as fine a gentleman as ever I met. He is honorable and well cultured; and his son, Harry says – and he knows him well – is worthy of his father.”

“Nevertheless, Rose will not marry him. And as for breaking up the house now, it is not to be thought 155 of. People will say that we had been compelled to do so, either by Rose’s misconduct or else by our own poverty. It is simply ruinous to our social standing to leave the city now.”

“If Rose is not inclined to marry Mr. Van Hoosen, we shall leave the city to-morrow evening. For I do not believe I shall be able to afford the European alternative. At any rate, not for a few weeks; and those few weeks we must spend in Woodsome.”

“You are simply talking, Henry.”

“To-morrow, I shall simply act. I do not often go against your wishes, Emma, but in this affair, as surely as I live and love, I will take my own way! What did Rose say to you? What excuses did she make for herself?”

“I think there has been a great deal too much made of the affair. Rose says, Adriana Van Hoosen had partly promised to go to the matinee with her, and she went to ask her to redeem her promise this afternoon, as Irving was in a Shakespearean character. But Adriana had gone out – gone to see her sister, who is married to a Dutchman keeping a little grocery on Second Avenue. So then Rose intended to come back home, but met Mr. Duval, and he persuaded her to go to the matinee with him. After they came out, they went into the restaurant for a cream and a glass of wine, and while they were taking it Antony Van Hoosen came to her in a hurried manner and told her she must return home at once. Rose was terrified about you. We are all terrified about you, when you are out of our sight – studying so much as you do, we naturally think of apoplexy, or a fit of some kind, – so the poor girl feared you had had a fit, and she was too terrified to ask questions.”

“But why did she not see you as soon as she came home? for Harry says you did not know she was home until he told you.”

“She says she ran upstairs to take off her bonnet, and that she felt suddenly so ill that she lay down a moment to collect her feelings before seeing any one; and that she fell asleep, or into a faint – she does not know which. She had hardly come to herself when I spoke to her. The poor child has been crying her eyes out, and for a little while she could say nothing but, ‘Oh, mamma, is not this dreadful, dreadful!’ And when I told her you were not sick at all, and none of us were sick, she was naturally very angry at Mr. Van Hoosen for frightening her in such a way; and I think myself it was a very great impertinence.”

“Emma! Emma! You know it was a kindness beyond the counting. If Mr. Van Hoosen had not brought her home, would Mr. Duval have done so? Dare you think of the possibilities of such a situation? As for me, I count Antony Van Hoosen to have been a friend beyond price. A man able to meet such an emergency, and brave enough to face the responsibility he assumed, is a noble fellow; I care not whose son he is. I hope, I pray, that Rose may not fling her salvation from her.”