Giovanni.Lucrezia! this is that old bitterness.Lucrezia.Bitterness—am I bitter? strange, oh strange!How else? My husband dead and childless left.My thwarted woman—thoughts have inward turned,And that vain milk like acid in me eats.Have I not in my thought trained little feetTo venture, and taught little lips to moveUntil they shaped the wonder of a word?I am long practiced. Oh, those children, mine,Mine, doubly mine; and yet I cannot touch them.I cannot see them, hear them—Does great GodExpect I shall clasp air and kiss the windForever, and the budding cometh on?The burgeoning, the cruel flowering;At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawnThat muffled call of babes how like to birds;And I amid these sights and sounds must starveI with so much to give perish of thrift!Omitted by His casual dew!Giovanni.Well, well,You are spared much; children can wring the heart.Lucrezia.Spared! to be spared what was I born to have,I am a woman, and this very fleshDemands its natural pangs, its rightful throes,And I implore with vehemence these pains.I know that children wound us, and surpriseEven to utter death, till we at lastTurn from a face to flowers; but this my heartWas ready for these pangs, and had foreseenOh! but I grudge the mother her last lookUpon the coffined form—that pang is rich—Envy the shivering cry when gravel fallsAnd all these maimed wants and thwarted thoughts,Eternal yearning, answered by the wind,Have dried in me belief and love and fear.I am become a danger and a menace,A wandering fire, a disappointed force,A peril—do you hear, Giovanni? Oh,It is such souls as mine that go to swellThe childless cavern cry of the barren sea,Or make that human ending to night wind.
Giovanni.Lucrezia! this is that old bitterness.
Lucrezia.Bitterness—am I bitter? strange, oh strange!How else? My husband dead and childless left.My thwarted woman—thoughts have inward turned,And that vain milk like acid in me eats.Have I not in my thought trained little feetTo venture, and taught little lips to moveUntil they shaped the wonder of a word?I am long practiced. Oh, those children, mine,Mine, doubly mine; and yet I cannot touch them.I cannot see them, hear them—Does great GodExpect I shall clasp air and kiss the windForever, and the budding cometh on?The burgeoning, the cruel flowering;At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawnThat muffled call of babes how like to birds;And I amid these sights and sounds must starveI with so much to give perish of thrift!Omitted by His casual dew!
Giovanni.Well, well,You are spared much; children can wring the heart.
Lucrezia.Spared! to be spared what was I born to have,I am a woman, and this very fleshDemands its natural pangs, its rightful throes,And I implore with vehemence these pains.I know that children wound us, and surpriseEven to utter death, till we at lastTurn from a face to flowers; but this my heartWas ready for these pangs, and had foreseenOh! but I grudge the mother her last lookUpon the coffined form—that pang is rich—Envy the shivering cry when gravel fallsAnd all these maimed wants and thwarted thoughts,Eternal yearning, answered by the wind,Have dried in me belief and love and fear.I am become a danger and a menace,A wandering fire, a disappointed force,A peril—do you hear, Giovanni? Oh,It is such souls as mine that go to swellThe childless cavern cry of the barren sea,Or make that human ending to night wind.
In Mrs. Charles Herne, this feeling was not quite as strong as that expressed in the play, but after they had been married two years, she did some quiet thinking in that line. She would sit alone at times, and let her imagination be active in the thought, what delight it would give her if when her husband came in the room where she was, she could take him over to a little crib and turn back the corner of a fancy worked cover and show him such a sweet, wee, little face nestled on the pillow, and what joy it would give her, when her husband came in from his work to put a little one into his arms and see how delighted he would be to take the child, and then see him sit down and hear him use languagewhich belongs to baby talk. Again she thought what pleasure it would give her to start a little toddling form down the pathway to meet her husband, and to see the little one stand still when it met its father, and raise its little arms to be taken up. All these thoughts and many more passed through the mind of Mrs. Herne, for she now knew for a certainty that such joys would be hers, and many a pleasant laugh and joke she and her husband had over the coming of a little tot.
One day a little later there was started in the most sacred room in the house a vibration by the doctor which reached the auditory nerve of the nurse conveying to the brain a most joyous statement, "It is a boy." The nurse carried it to the kitchen, "It is a boy." The Chinaman cook carried it to the Jap chore boy, "It is a boy." The Jap chore boy carried it to the teamsters, "It is a boy." The teamsters carried it to the men on the ditches, "It is a boy." The ditch men carried it to the men in the orchard, "It is a boy." The prune trees took up the glad news and whispered it to the apricot trees, "It is a boy." The apricot trees whispered it to the peach trees, "It is a boy." The peach trees whispered it to all the other fruit trees, "It is a boy."
When Pet, Bell, Blanche and Daisy, with their large udders full of rich lacteal fluid, heard the news, "It is a boy," they gave forth an extra flow of milk that night. When the frisky mules in the barn lot heard the joyful tidings, "It is a boy," they just cut up and threw their hind feet higher than ever. You could not see them for the dust they made. The roosters crowed, "It is a boy," and the hens cackled, "It is a boy." The orioles in the mulberry trees warbled out the song, "It is a boy." The dogs, Dash and Rover, in their play that evening barked at each other, "It is a boy." The cats Tom and Malty purred, "It is a boy." It seemed as if the vibrations in all the buildings and all over the ranch rang out the glad tidings, "It is a boy."
In the evening when all Mr. Herne's men congregated in their fine quarters to have some music, Osborn sat down to the piano and played while all the men sang, that old negro song:
"Give 'em more children, Lord,Give 'em more children;Give 'em more children, Lord,Give 'em more children."
"Give 'em more children, Lord,Give 'em more children;Give 'em more children, Lord,Give 'em more children."
Osborn said to the boys when retiring, "What a feeling of joy the advent of a little boy has brought to us all on the ranch. Mr. and Mrs. Herne have got their wish now, for they both wanted a son."
Barnes said: "What a fine time we will have with the little fellow, when he is old enough to toddle. We will have him over here most of the time."
One day after dinner when the baby was about a month old, a man standing six feet three inches and weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, came on the porch where Mrs. Herne was sitting with the baby, and said: "Mrs. Herne, the boys want me to take the baby to them. They are all sitting under the mulberry trees."
Mrs. Herne said: "All right, Frank." But the nurse seemed to be alarmed lest he might hurt the infant, as he was so large and awkward, not used to handling a baby four weeks old, so she followed Frank and the baby to where the boys were. Frank said: "Here boys, each one of you can hold him just long enough to pass your opinion upon him." The men seemed to take as much pride and interest in the child as if he were their own. After the boy had been in each of the men's arms and they had passed their judgment on him, the nurse wanted to take the child back, but tall Frank said: "No, I took the baby from Mrs. Herne and I am going to see the child in her arms safe again." When putting the baby in her lap he said: "The boys all think he is the brightest baby they ever saw."
After he was gone the nurse said: "You ought to see how gentle those great men handled that baby."
Every day the men always inquired and talked about the baby, and were eager to watch its growth.
If you entered the house of an evening about the time the baby was put to bed, you would hear a very sweet, soft voice singing:
"Hush! my child, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed.Heavenly blessings without numberCluster round thy sacred head."
"Hush! my child, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed.Heavenly blessings without numberCluster round thy sacred head."
There is great talk made among many persons about catching different kinds of disease and sickness, but how seldom you hear people talk about the contagious qualities of hope, joy and love. Supposing on a ranch the owner gets up in the morning and starts the vibrations going, "That All is life, All is love, All is joy, and All is God," and there is a hearty response by his wife who takes up the invocation, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, and All is God." And carrying them into the kitchen, she adds to them by singing this song:
"The thorns that pester and vex my lifeHave changed to the flowers in June,All sounds, disorders, pain and strifeHave rounded into tune."
"The thorns that pester and vex my lifeHave changed to the flowers in June,All sounds, disorders, pain and strifeHave rounded into tune."
From the kitchen the chore boy takes up the sayings to the teamsters, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." The teamsters take up those life-giving words, and instead of swearing at their teams all day, and talking about hell, their thoughts and talk is, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." The men on the ditches and in the orchards echo the glad thought, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." And the birds in the trees sing with gladness, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God," and that very interesting ring-neck bird, the kildee, as itruns along the ditches and moist places in the orchards, speaks in its peculiar way that, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." And the music of the waters as it flows along, rippling in the ditches, sings "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." The winds talk it to the trees, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." The trees whisper it to each other, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God," and the music of the insects say the same thing, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, and All is God." When the God of day, with his effulgent brightness, rises over the hills in the morning and scatters his luminous rays on the ranch, and writes in lights and shadows his hieroglyphics that "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God." And the one grand anthem that is being sung in the hearts and lives of all on the ranch is, "All is life, All is love, All is joy, All is God."
With an aspiration like that on the ranch, all cursing and swearing would disappear; smallness, meanness, jealousy, covetousness and greed could not live in that atmosphere. That spiritual air in circulation would kill out all lustful thoughts, pride, vanity, love of strong liquors, and of coarse animal food. Everything would manifest the fruits of the Spirit, which are peace, joy and love. All sickness and disease would disappear, because those life-giving, purifying thoughts would become incorporated and assimilated in the mind, nerve force, and enter into the blood, flowing through its veins and arteries all over the whole system, making the entire organism sound and pure, a fit temple for the dwelling of the Eternal One.
In the last three years the beautiful little city of Roseland with its avenues of palms and magnolias had a boom. Large substantial brick and granite blocks were erected. Very many new and handsome residences were built, besides putting a new appearance on some of the old buildings. The commercial, professional and mechanical classes were all doing well, and living in expectation of doing still better.
Among those who had prospered by the rise in real estate was a Mrs. Marston, who owned one of the finest residences in Roseland. At the time that she enters our story her age was about forty and she had a son who was twenty years old, a month before he left for Paris, and he had been gone away four months. Why he had gone to Paris, the stories concerning his mission to that gay city did not quite harmonize. His father came to the conclusion ten years ago that his mother was too much like himself, in being a positive, dominant character; that she was a little too masculine in her makeup, and he thought he would prefer a lady for a wife who did not weigh quite as much, and one that was a little sweeter in disposition, and more playful. When he reflected that he was worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he thought that some of the joys of having a sweet wife should be his, and particularly when he had seen Josephine Stearns, whom he thought would more than meet his most sanguine expectations, for to his mind, she seemed to possess all those very desirable qualities of disposition which he so much admired. In a very indirect way he made his mind known to Mrs. Marston, who pretended she did not likesuch a proposition, but if he would give her fifty thousand dollars and let her have the boy, she would consent to a divorce. Her husband thought it over in this way. He said, "I am not happy in living with my wife, don't like my home at all, and what good does it do a man to be worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, if he is not enjoying some of the greatest pleasures in life. Better have only a hundred thousand dollars with a pretty sweet young lady like Josephine, than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars with my present wife." Next morning he scratched his head, and said in a slow kind of a way, "I think fifty thousand dollars rather steep, but I do not wish to have any fuss or quibbling, and you can have the boy, and I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, and twenty-five thousand in real estate," which she accepted. To look at her you could not tell what her feelings were, but way down deep in her heart she was overflowing with gladness to think she was free.
The rise in real estate made her worth in all as much as her husband was when he left her. She was known in Roseland as being a lady that was fond of young people's company, and she was great on entertaining. She was one of those ladies who are proud, fond of dress and style, very particular about moving in the upper circles of society, but she had no interest or sympathy with plain, poor people. She loved to dress young for her years, was fond of going with young ladies and gentlemen bicycle riding. She generally had as guests one or two very pretty young ladies, and another of her fads was to make pets of a few sons of rich men. As she had a fine large house and loved to entertain, the leading young men in Roseland, and some of the prettiest and most stylish young ladies, were very often seen in her parlors and on her well-kept lawn. The lunches and suppers she served to her guests were the talk of the town. She had a sister who lived in Orangeville, but who was so different in her tastes and circumstances that there was nothing in common between them.
One day she was out driving, and her eyes caught the sight at alittle distance of two persons walking on the sidewalk. She made the team walk slow when she saw them. They did not see her, but she took in at a glance what a clear complexion, bright eyes, and lovely form the young lady had. She said to herself, "How beautiful Stella has grown, but what plain clothes she has on." She reined the team towards the sidewalk and said, "Why, Stella, I did not know you had returned from school. Good morning, David," she said to her sister's husband. "Wont you both come to the house?" David said that Stella had just come in on the train and they had been doing a few errands and were expected back by Bertha at a certain time and could not stop now.
Mrs. Marston said to Stella, "I want you to come and make me a long visit. I will be out to-morrow at your house and arrange with your mother for your coming to visit me." She thanked her aunt for her invitation and said she would tell her mother.
Mrs. Marston had remarked on more than one occasion to her sister Bertha, that she would die if she had to stay in a place like Orangeville over night. As that lady did not feel she was ready to quit her material form with all its attachments and desires, she decided to leave Roseland at eight in the morning and that would give her ample time to have a long chat with her sister, and she could then be home by five in the evening in time to dress for dinner and receive whoever might call. She telephoned to her caterer to have ready next morning at eight, one quart of orange sherbet and one quart of vanilla ice cream, put into two nice dishes and packed in a box with ice, then put two wet sacks over the box and set it in another box with a cover. She telephoned to the livery stable to have her span of handsome chestnuts brought to her house next morning at eight. The next morning she was up bright and early and put on just a good plain dress, and was ready to take the lines promptly at eight from the man who had brought her team. She drove round to the caterer's and got her box, then she went to the meat market and told the man to put up six pounds of steak, she called at the bakery and had the man put in herbuggy one frosted fruit cake, one plain cake, one lemon pie, and a peach cobbler, and one dozen fresh baked Astor House rolls. After she had got a little way out from Roseland she stopped at a Chinaman's garden and purchased a few early vegetables. When she reached her sister's home it was about ten, and after a few minutes' chat she said to her sister, "Bertha, I have come out to have a visit with you and Stella, and I did not want you to be giving yourselves a lot of work in the way of getting up a big dinner, so I bought a few things on my way out, and all they need is to set them on the table, except the vegetables and meat, and I will attend to the vegetables; the pies and rolls may need just a little warming."
Mrs. Marston was one of those ladies of skill and ability who could do anything in the kitchen equal to any hired help when she wished, and this morning she seemed to be so different to what she generally was, that her sister Bertha thought she either had improved greatly, or she had not judged her rightly. She seemed this morning so kind and thoughtful and so sisterly in her conversation and so ready to assist in getting dinner. Bertha said to Mrs. Marston, "Why, Helen, you have more steak here than we can eat in a week." To which Mrs. Marston replied, that she had brought lots of ice to keep it.
When David was called to dinner, it certainly did his eyes and stomach good to see on the table such a spread of luxuries and dainties, which were so seldom partaken of by the Wheelwright family, as they lived very simply. All enjoyed the new bill of fare very much, and the repast was seasoned by a very pleasant family conversation. David seemed to open his eyes several times at the turn things were taking, because there had been times when his wife and her sister did not harmonize at all.
During the morning when not observed, Mrs. Marston feasted her eyes on Stella's beautiful form in her new cut wrapper, and mentally said to herself, "When I get some new stylish gowns on that handsome figure, and that beautiful face under a becominghat wont those Roseland dudes just go wild over her?" She laughed to herself and thought what fun she would have with her pets.
After dinner was through they sat at the table resting and talking, when David said he would like to have Stella come out and help him a few minutes.
Mrs. Marston spoke up and said, "Yes, dear; you go out and help your father. Your mother and I will wash the dishes."
Mrs. Marston thought now is the time to speak to Bertha about Stella making me a visit. She opened the conversation by saying: "Bertha, I have seen so little of Stella for several years, that I do wish you would let her come next week and make me a visit. Not having a daughter, I feel as if I would like to do something for Stella, that is to give her a good chance. She is a bright girl and has an exceedingly fine form, and about all she has ever seen of society are cow-boys and ranch men, and may be a few ordinary respectable fellows; but I want to introduce her to bankers' sons, young lawyers, and rich merchants' sons, and give the girl a show. You see, she is going on eighteen, and if ever she is going to have an opportunity now is the time. After a young lady gets past twenty, her chances with the young bloods are not so good."
"Well," said her sister, "you are very kind, Helen, and I don't know but what it might be a chance that she needs. You have my consent for her to make you a visit, and when you give her the invitation you can tell her what I say."
"There is one matter, Bertha, that you will pardon me for speaking to you about, and I hope you will let me do as I wish, and that is in the matter of fixing up Stella's wardrobe."
Bertha said: "Helen, she is your girl while she is with you, and you can do whatever you think best."
So when Stella came in from helping her father, Mrs. Marston said: "Stella, I have been talking to your mother about your coming to make me a visit next week, and she has given her consent and I do hope you will come and be my daughter for awhile. Wewill have a fine time, I can assure you. Only bring the clothes you come in. I will rig you out from head to foot."
Stella in her own mind felt this way: that she never had any personal experience of the circle that her aunt was a prominent figure in, and all she knew about the young men and young ladies connected with the swim, was only what she had heard and read. She felt that by personally coming in contact with those of different environments, it would widen her experience and give her a better knowledge of the world. So she very kindly thanked her aunt and it was decided that she would come on Thursday of the following week.
When she arrived Stella was warmly welcomed into the elegantly furnished home of Mrs. Marston. Her aunt kissed her and seemed delighted to have her niece with her. The bedroom that her aunt said would be hers was a gem of beauty, being furnished with one of those fine enameled brass bedsteads, a fine dresser with a long bevel plate French mirror, and on the dresser was an elegant toilet set. The curtains, carpets and draperies matched the tints of the ceiling and walls. Fine costly pictures hung on the walls representing mostly scenes of festivities in baronial halls and castles, also in modern Fifth Avenue palaces; showing up so well the gay brilliant throng of ladies and gentlemen in the height of their enjoyment. The decorations and furnishings of the room were well in keeping with the lovely figure that was to occupy it.
Mrs. Marston had a great deal of personal pride, and she did not care about taking Stella out till her wardrobe had been replenished. After breakfast next morning the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards Mrs. Rogers, the dressmaker, was announced by the servant to Mrs. Marston. When Mrs. Marston went in to see her she said: "Good morning, Mrs. Rogers; my niece is here and I would like you to see her so you can help me to select what you think would be suitable in the way of dresses and other garments for her."
Mrs. Marston called Stella in and introduced her to Mrs. Rogers and said: "Mrs. Rogers will go with me to do some shopping, and we want you to leave entirely to us the matter of selecting your dresses. I am sure you will be pleased when we get through."
Stella laughed and said: "If you show as much good taste in selecting my dresses as you have in the furnishing and decorating of my very pretty room, I am sure I shall be more than pleased." Her aunt was delighted with the compliment.
Mrs. Marston said to Mrs. Rogers: "Did you come over on your bicycle?"
"Yes," said that lady.
"Well," said Mrs. Marston, "I will get mine and we will go now and do the shopping."
At the Marston mansion towards evening several large packages arrived. Mrs. Marston opened two large ones, looked them over, then said: "Here, Stella, these are for you."
After Stella had looked at them she said: "Why, aunt, dear, they are beautiful, but I am not going to be married now; they are pretty enough for the most charming bride in Roseland."
While handling the fancy worked underskirts and nightdresses, the fine silk underwear and costly fancy silk hosiery, she remarked: "It is very kind of you, aunt, to get all these fine things." Then a box was opened and there was a great assortment of the best shoes, so that Stella might select several pair from it. She was quite pleased with the different materials her aunt had selected for her dresses, and Mrs. Rogers would be up next morning to take her measurement. She was going to put on a force of assistants for completing them as soon as possible.
Stella was about the same as a prisoner in her aunt's house for a week. But she had a most enjoyable time in reading some very costly illustrated books of travel which her aunt had purchased more for style and appearance than for anything else.
Her aunt said one day, she did not get any time to look atbooks, but she was glad Stella could amuse herself in that way so that she might not find the time long.
"No, indeed, aunt," said Stella, "I have enjoyed every minute of the time I have been with you."
The week that Stella was a prisoner her aunt had so arranged matters that there were few callers and Stella did not see them. And she herself was out most of the time. Stella was not the least sensitive in regard to the matter of not going out with her aunt till her new dresses were made, because she saw that she would be a very conspicuous figure among the well-dressed young ladies of her aunt's circle. She would look like a speckled bird among a flock of white pigeons.
After the dress-making was completed Mrs. Rogers went with Mrs. Marston to the milliner's and purchased a pretty hat, Mrs. Marston saying she would bring Stella and let her select what more she might need in the line of millinery.
The week following was one of excitement for Stella, for every day she was out riding once or twice with her aunt, and meeting so many young ladies, and the well-dressed young men were very particular when bowing to Mrs. Marston to recognize the pretty young face at her side. Towards the end of the week Mrs. Marston gave a swell reception in honor of her niece. The very élite of Roseland were there, also a few from other places who were on a visit to friends in Roseland, and all made a very gay and brilliant party. But if any young lady that evening looked attractive, bewitching, fascinating, and possessed the power of making the blood in some of the dudes present tingle from the roots of their hair to the end of their toes, it was that fresh young girl from the country, with her sparkling eye, her ready wit; with resources that seemed inexhaustible for sustaining interesting conversation together with a manner so simple, so unconscious in all she said and did and so unassuming, which added much to the charm of her personality. All these characteristics were manifested in fine well rounded form. Is it any wonder that some young gentlemensaw a certain form floating before them after they had put their heads to their pillows that night, and their brains were active in planning for further acquaintance with that young lady?
Some of Mrs. Marston's pets lost no time in availing themselves of the standing invitation to call any time. Other parties were soon given by young ladies in Roseland, at which Stella had very pressing invitations to be present. The young ladies liked her very much; she was so natural, so sweet, so unaffected; they observed she was not what is called "fellow-struck;" while she seemed to enjoy and be perfectly at home in the society of young gentlemen, the young ladies saw no signs of her flirting with any of them. There is that peculiarity in the character of a certain class of young ladies, that while they may think it is their privilege to flirt and carry on with the young men they know, yet when a strange young lady is introduced into their circle of gentlemen friends, they have more respect for her if she shows some originality and does not behave just exactly as they do.
Mrs. Marston was delighted at the impression Stella made on her circle of acquaintances, and now the dudes of Roseland paid Mrs. Marston extra attention and politeness since they had the pleasure of meeting her niece.
Young Ryland, the banker's son, said to Barker, the rising young attorney at the Arlington Hotel, "Say, Barker, what do you think of that new flower which Mrs. Marston has put into our garden?"
"I think," said Barker, "she is the prettiest and most fragrant bud I have seen; a very rare specimen."
Ryland said: "She is quite a study; the more you see of her, the more interesting she grows."
After Stella had been at her aunt's about a month she was seen less in her aunt's company riding out, but more in the company of the most stylish men in the city. Her aunt encouraged her in going out with these young gentlemen. She talked very much to her about how rich young Ryland's father, thebanker, was; and she expected Barker to become one of the most brilliant lights at the bar. To-day he was worth twenty-five thousand dollars in his own name. Then there was young Westbrooke, son of the leading merchant in Roseland, the only son. He was home from college, with bright prospects. There was young Brookes, who owned fifty thousand dollars in real estate, and had traveled in Europe and seen lots of the world. He was a very great catch, her aunt said. These four young men, who always dressed with great taste, were Mrs. Marston's favorite pets. For a while Stella favored each one of these young men with her company, in buggy riding, but towards the end of the second month Westbrooke was the only one with whom she was seen riding.
She never took her aunt into her confidence by relating her experience in going out with these various young gentlemen. She thought it policy not to; but to be pleasant to each one of them, even if she had decided not to keep company with some of them. She remembered she was her aunt's guest, and should make herself agreeable to her aunt and her aunt's friends. What she did not relate to her aunt she did to her mother, when she returned home from her visit the week after the second month of her stay in Roseland. In conversation with her mother, Stella said, "I am really glad I went to Aunt Helen's, for I have lived in two months a year of my life. I have seen so much of a world concerning which I previously knew nothing only by hearsay. I feel it has done me good in many ways. Aunt was kind to me, and made everything very pleasant, and so did her friends. I do say I am glad that I have lived in her world and tasted of its pleasures, because I don't go now on what I hear about that world. I know from my own personal experience. It has given me much to think about, and furnished a great deal of mental food for the study of character, and I have learned more about my own self. I know better now than I ever did before my strong points and weak ones." She told her mother what fine piano players the Millergirls were, what sweet singers Dr. Lacy's daughters were, and the male quartette was very fine. Ryland and Westbrooke are members of it, and after relating a number of other things which she heard and saw, she told her mother she could not tell her all now, but would some other time.
So one afternoon, when they were alone, Stella said: "Well, mother, I will relate to you now some of my funny experiences with some of the swell young gentlemen of Roseland. They were all aunt's special pets. I had been out riding with young Ryland, the banker's son, several times, besides sometimes meeting him at parties. He is very dudish, and dresses very extravagantly. He is labeled as catch number one, because his father has said his son should take his place in the bank some day, and on his wedding day he gets a gift from his father of twenty-five thousand dollars, with the promise of the bulk of his father's fortune when he dies. On the first few occasions when I met young Ryland he seemed reserved and quiet, but the more I went out riding with him I found he was getting rather soft. He did not seem to show any other traits of character, and his company was dull, but he made it more sickening each time with soft, slobbering talk. I only went out with him to please aunt. The last time I rode out with him he plead so hard for me to allow him to kiss my hand that I consented grudgingly just to quiet him, but after he kissed it instead of his being quiet, as I supposed he would be, it seemed to fire him all the more, so that he wanted to kiss my cheek. You ought to have heard the way he talked; you would think he was about to die, and the only remedy there was for him was to kiss my cheek. If he could only kiss me on the cheek, life would come back to him and he would feel a new man. In my own mind, I said to myself, 'This is the last time I ride out with you.' The more I tried to show how foolish he was to want to kiss a young lady that did not want any such manifestation of affection, the more he persisted, and said, 'I must kiss you.' I said, 'If I loved you, itwould be a real pleasure to receive a kiss from you, but instead of loving you I lose all the respect I ever had for you because you try to force me to accept a kiss from you when I don't want it.' But he persisted, and said, 'I must kiss you, it will do me lots of good, and won't hurt you.' I said, 'Have you no respect for me or yourself to act so senselessly?' He replied, 'It may appear senseless to you, but I can assure you it would be bliss to me.' I tried to turn the subject of kissing me to something else, and did the best I could to entertain him in conversation on other subjects, but no; he was more stubborn than ever to think of nothing and talk of nothing but kissing me on the cheek. Not wishing to have any unpleasantness with him on aunt's account, I said to myself, 'You are nothing but a simple, little, contrary, foolish child, in a man's form, and I shall have to humor you as I would a little boy, for you have only the mind of one.' I told him if he, as a young gentleman of honor, would never say one word more to me about kissing, he could kiss my cheek just once, which he did and was quiet afterwards. He was very pleasant during the remainder of our ride, and when I got out of the buggy I was glad he did not ask if he could call again on me. When I think of him I cannot keep from laughing, the foolish simpleton. I would not have him for all the gold in California. I must tell you about another of aunt's pets I went out riding with several times. There was more to him than there was to Ryland; his name is Barker, and he is worth twenty-five thousand dollars, and aunt says he will become one of the leading lights of the legal profession. Well, he was full of humor and jokes disposed to be a little gay in his talk, and from what he related concerning himself one might infer he had been at times a little swift. One afternoon we were out in the country riding and he became very animated in his conversation about taste and style of young ladies' dresses, and from that went on to say what a fad it was among young men to notice and admire the brighthosiery which young ladies wore when bicycle riding, and continued in that style of talk, saying what good taste I displayed in my dress; he was sure that the pretty, bright hosiery, which he supposed I wore, would do his eyes good to behold. Just as he was apparently making a motion as if to inspect my hosiery, his nigh colt shied at an old post that was leaning over at the side of the road. He had all he could do to manage the horse. I laughed, and told him 'He had better keep his mind on the team, and not think about such things as the kind of hosiery I was wearing, that he must not look upon me as a dry-goods window.' He acted kind of mad with the colt, and said no more about ladies' hosiery. That was the last ride we had together.
"Well, one evening young Brookes, who was said to be worth fifty thousand dollars in real estate, and had seen much of Europe in his travels, called to take me to the theater. I had been out riding with him several times, and met him at every party. After the play was over, it being rather a warm night, he asked me if I would not like an ice-cream, and I agreed; so we went into a café, and the waiter showed us into one of the private boxes. After bringing ice-cream, cake and soda-water, he drew the curtains. We had a very pleasant chat while partaking of the refreshments.
"Brookes asked me if I had any objection to his enjoying a cigarette.
"I said 'No.'
"Then he asked me if I would have one with him.
"I laughed, and said I had not become fashionable enough for that yet. I would have to live longer in the city.
"He said, 'Why, the Paris young ladies smoke.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'but I am not a Paris young lady.'
"In looking around the little compartment I observed some pictures on the walls, but I perceived that the artist was not a Rubens or a Raphael, and they belonged to that class of pictures that one would not see on the walls of a Sunday-school room.
"I saw Mr. Brookes was looking at them, and then he started aconversation about his travels in Europe, which was very interesting, saying he was a great lover of art and speaking of works of art he saw there. He said it was astonishing the genius that had been displayed in marble and on canvas to represent the beautiful form of woman. Continuing in that strain, and being free in his expressions, he finished by saying how lovely must be the beautiful work of nature which was covered up here, putting his hand on my shoulder. I smiled, and said, 'This work of Nature is not on exhibition this evening; when it is, I will send you a complimentary ticket.' He took the remark in good part, and laughed. We got up and went out, and he saw me to aunt's door in a very pleasant, gentlemanly way.
"Westbrooke, the merchant's son, was the most sensible young man I met. He appeared greatly interested in his college studies, and we had lots of good talks on school studies and other subjects.
"He asked me if he could come out to see me.
"I told him 'yes' for I should be pleased to see him.
"I want to tell you, mother, that when I was out and passing through those funny experiences with the three different gentlemen, I never felt in the least timid or scared. I felt just as calm and collected as I do now. I felt this way about the matter: While I have long ago lost all prudishness, yet I did not wish to stimulate their over-excited imaginations of sensuous things."
Mrs. Wheelwright said: "Well, Stella, if you had not been well balanced, I should have some doubt about it being best for you to go to your aunt's. But I knew, dear, your tastes and inclinations were not on the sense plane, and I thought the opportunity of living in another world for a while would do you good, for it would be the means of giving you a better knowledge of yourself than you could get in any other way."
Stella said: "Mother, the cow-boys and hired ranch hands have a hard name. Now, I know this class of men well, and my experience with and observation of them has taught me that any girl who behaves herself when in their company will always be treatedwith respect. There is some manhood about them in that way. But those fine city dudes have such a polished, underhanded, deep, sly, foxy way of attaining their ends. Dr. Lacy's girls told me that those fine, city young gentlemen loved nothing better than to get acquainted with some pretty, young, green, innocent girl and enjoy the fun of breaking her in. They are skilled in that art."
One day, when business was very quiet in the store in Orangeville, the following conversation took place: "Who is that young man of striking appearance, talking to that old man in the road there?" said Hammond to Saunders, the merchant.
"That young man," said Saunders, "why, his name is Penloe."
Hammond said: "Penloe, why that must be the fellow I have heard my wife talk about. Has he any other name?"
"That is all," said Saunders. "He does not wish to be called anything else but Penloe. All his mail comes addressed just 'Penloe, Orangeville, California.' No. Mr., nor Esquire, nor Rev. nor Dr. nor Prof., nor anything else. He and his mother are my best customers, in one way. Not that they buy much, but they never ask my price for the purpose of beating me down. Nor do they grumble about the quality of my goods. Why, those two have bought more from this store to give away to those in poor circumstances, than they have for themselves. And they keep very still about what they do in giving. There is the Jones family, who have more children than dollars; they live in that cabin under the hill, on the Squirrel Creek road. All Jones has is what he knocks out by hard day's work, and he don't always have work, either.
"Well, last winter, when his wife was in confinement and had a long sick spell of two months, and Jones had typhoid fever about the same time, they were about down to their last dollar and were in debt. When Penloe and his mother heard about them,they both went down to Jones' house. Penloe cut some stove-wood and helped round, and his mother took care of Mrs. Jones. Also, Penloe paid me $37.50 for merchandise, which I had furnished them. The doctor had been to Jones' about twice before they came to take care of him and his wife. They paid the doctor, and told him (to his surprise, as both his patients were very sick) that he need not come any more. And they cured them without any medicine. When Jones got well, they told him he could work on their place till he got work elsewhere. And they gave him his board and one dollar a day in cash for a month, and then he went to work on the Kelly ranch.
"Jones and his wife have turned over a new leaf since Penloe and his mother were with them. They look differently, act differently, and talk differently. Penloe's mother gave them a little sound talk on family matters. I feel a better man myself when they are round me.
"Penloe's mother is away now, and Penloe is not seen much about here; he is home most of the time, since he quit going out to work."
"That is a very different story from what you can tell about most of the young men in Orangeville," said Hammond. After which remark Hammond walked out of the store, apparently in a deep study.
Yes, he had much to think about, for he had seen a young man about twenty-two years of age giving himself, his labor, his money, and his best thought to help a poor family; to heal them of their sicknesses, to help them to become self-supporting and independent, by furnishing them work, and, above, all, to lift them to a higher plane of life, thus helping them to find within, the "kingdom of Heaven." Yes, he thought of Penloe's age, it was twenty-two; the very age when most young men think only of gratifying themselves in every little whim and fancy, of catering to their pride and vanity, and spending all their time, all their thought, and all their money on themselves; being lovers of themselves more than lovers of God or any one else. Or they havebecome absorbed in some girl, not because she touches their better nature and does what she can to lift them to a higher plane, but because she stimulates the activity of their sensual natures, causing them to live in bondage to their lower selves. Deluding themselves with the idea that they are enjoying life, they become so engrossed in the pursuit of 'sense-plane' pleasures that they realize no other life than the animal-plane of their existence, seeming apparently to be dead to all high motives, grand ideals and nobleness of purpose.
The Rev. B.F. Holingsworth was the Congregational minister in Roseland, but he used to come out every Sunday afternoon to Orangeville and hold preaching service in the only church there. One Thursday he received word that his sister, in Oakland, was very sick, and wanted him to come and see her, and he would have to be away over the Sabbath; so he wished to get a supply for the two churches, but could not find any one to fill his place. In talking to the deacons of his Roseland church about the matter, they told him they would conduct the services at their church if he could find some one to fill his place at Orangeville.
It was customary for the Rev. B.F. Holingsworth to spend one day in the week in visiting the good people of Orangeville. Among the pastoral calls, he visited the home of Penloe and his mother. He was very much impressed with the spiritual thought and talk of both, and while neither were members of his congregation he well understood their position. He saw that for a man like Penloe to come and listen to the sermons he gave to the people of Orangeville would be like expecting a student in Harvard College to attend a kindergarten school, with the expectation of receiving instruction. The minister was broad-minded enough to perceive that the spiritual food he gave to his flock was kindergarten talk to Penloe; it was only milk, it was not meat; not the strong spiritual meat that Penloe lived on. It was all right for babies, but it was not fit for men who had attained divine realization in the universal Christ. The Rev. B.F. Holingsworth was too liberal and charitable to think less of Penloe for not attendinghis church. He was glad he had the courage of his convictions instead of masquerading, as some do, with the appearance of assent to all that is said and taught; but, being at the same time, within, at variance and holding views entirely different; but for policy, business interest, family peace, social position and standing, love of name and fame or salary, acting the hypocrite because they are arrant cowards.
When thinking of some suitable person to fill the Orangeville pulpit on the Sunday afternoon of his absence, he could find no one so well adapted by natural talents, education, experience, and deep spiritual insight, combined with an irreproachable life, as Penloe. So he went out to Orangeville to see him. Finding Penloe at home, he made known the object of his visit. Penloe did not answer him at once, but was silent for a few minutes; he was thinking that this was a call to a work which was not of his own seeking, and, as the call to the work had come to him, he decided to accept it and told the Rev. B.F. Holingsworth so.
The minister then went to Deacon Allen, of Orangeville, and explained matters to him, telling him that Penloe would select one of the hymns to sing before the sermon, but Penloe wished Deacon Allen to conduct all the other parts of the service, including the reading of the hymns. The minister desired the Deacon not to tell any one who was going to preach next Sunday, but to explain to the congregation why he was absent, and then to introduce Penloe. Deacon Allen had only seen Penloe once or twice, and while he liked the appearance of the man yet he knew very little about him. But, under the circumstances, he thought the minister had done the best he could.
It so happened it was the time of year when there was a number of visitors in Orangeville, which brought out an unusually large audience, for it included not only the regular attendants and the visitors, but those who seldom went to church but did so to-day because they had company. Mr. and Mrs. Herne, who seldom went, attended to-day, and took the baby with them, thisbeing the first Sunday of the child being in short clothes. Of course, some of Herne's hired men had to go, to see how the baby behaved.
Stella was another irregular attendant at church, but young Mrs. Sexton, whose husband was away, came round in her buggy and wanted Stella to go for company's sake.
Stella, through being away at school so much and having gone to Roseland for a while, had only heard about there being such a young man as Penloe in Orangeville, but had never seen him; neither had her parents.
Penloe was about the first person at church that Sunday afternoon, and took a seat in the front pew, next to the pulpit with his back to the congregation, so, as the people assembled, they saw the back of some one but did not know who it was. When it was time for the service to commence the church was about full, but the people all seemed surprised not to see the minister present. Deacon Allen came forward, and opened service by giving out a hymn, which was followed by prayer. Then the choir sang, sweetly, "Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Then reading from the Scriptures, which was followed by the singing of a hymn that Penloe had selected, and Deacon Allen gave out. The hymn was as follows: