CHAPTER XXIX.THE COUNT VON FRAUENSTEIN.
The fragments of the golden bowl, to use Clara’s figure, could not be patched together, and at last Mrs. Forest gave up all hope, and took refuge in the consolations of religion, in a saintly, aggravating way that was hard to witness. Whenever Clara proposed any change in her own life, or even suggested anything for the comfort of the family, the answer was invariably and with a martyr-like sigh of resignation, “Do anything you like. I have no preference.” Therefore, as the autumn advanced, Clara spent more and more time with Mrs. Buzzell and Susie. One day the old lady said to Clara, “You had better come here and live. Leila and Linnie are with your mother, and she does not need you. I am really beginning to fear, now I am getting so old, that Min will be neglected. Susie is perfectly absorbed with her potting, and rooting, and slipping, and re-potting, and really she ought not to have any other responsibilities. She used to help Mary a great deal, but now Mary herself is bewitched, and likes nothing so well as ‘flower-work,’ as she calls it. I expect nothing but that she will abandon the cooking and washing, and take permanently to potting and rooting. If you were here, you could keep Mary out of the clutches of that conservatory. Min will be the next victim,” said Mrs. Buzzell, laughing.
“This morning I found her ‘helping mamma,’ as she said, and Susie declared she was doing good service. This consisted in filling up small pots with soil. The implement used, I noticed, was my big iron kitchen spoon; but I said nothing. When I see a woman seriously working to gain an independent position, I am always delighted. I never spent any money in my life that brought me such pleasure as that which I invested in that hot-house; and I’m going to do more, Clara, but, you understand, that is a secret.”
“You have already proved yourself a noble friend to Susie,” said Clara, warmly.
“Oh, she’s done more for me than I ever did for her. I have not had a moment’s loneliness since she came, and my health has been better. Min, too, is a great pleasure to me. Though the little rat will pull my work-basket about, I notice she never touches a leaf or flower of Susie’s plants, and it wouldn’t be healthy for her to do so, I suspect,” Mrs. Buzzell added, smiling.
“It is wonderful,” said Clara, “that Susie has acquired such a knowledge of flower culture. I don’t even now understand the secret of her success.”
“The secret, my dear Clara, is the secret of all honest success—eternal vigilance. She failed in several things at first. Her tube-roses, for example, grew all stalks and no flowers. Then the insects troubled her. She fought them by main force at first, but now she has made a discovery—a vase of carbolic soap-suds did not quite meet her expectations, so she added laudanum to it—pure empirical experiment, you see. That was an improvement; then she put in the vase one of the doctor’s nastiest old pipe-bowls, and really, I think that wasa great discovery. With a little mop she washes the bark of her plants with this mixture; every day some plant is treated, and so she keeps all insects at bay. She actually cried with joy when I promised to build the hot-house. She had not dared to hope for so much, though she often asked me how far I thought one hundred dollars would go towards building a little one, ten feet square. You know I never spent the hundred from Dan, which you gave into my keeping. She thinks it went into the conservatory, but I put something with it and put it by for Min’s education; but that, also, is one of my secrets.”
But the movement of our story is too slow. We will therefore make a rapid dash over just one year. During this time, Clara, who had taken up her residence with Mrs. Buzzell, suffered many a sleepless night, thinking over her buried hopes, and sometimes feeling as if her life was an utter failure; but the gloom was always dissipated with the hour or so of pleasant morning work with Susie among the flowers, and with the pleasant reunion afterward at the breakfast-table. Mrs. Buzzell, though quite feeble, was always present in her arm-chair, wrapped in her shawl, and Min, also seated in her high chair, joyous as a bird and as full of animal spirits as a kitten, and of mischief as a young monkey. Her special duty was to arrange a bouquet for the centre of the breakfast table, havingcarte blancheto use her own taste on the flowers and leaves that her mother gave her for the purpose. Mrs. Buzzell used to praise their arrangement without much discretion, but Min had learned by this time to separate her scarlet and blue flowers by white ones, or green leaves, and when she won a compliment from hermother she was always delighted. On one of these occasions, Min sat pouting and would not touch her food.
“What is the matter with my little pet?” asked Clara, twisting one of the child’s long, golden tresses.
“I shan’t tell.”
Mrs. Buzzell looked at Min, praised the toast and the excellence of the coffee, and then, as if suddenly noticing the bouquet, added, “and those pretty flowers! How nicely Minnie has arranged them. Her taste grows better every day.” Min’s appetite suddenly appeared; but Susie said, “I do not much admire that character which manifests happiness only when praised, and when the temper is not tried. Do you, Clara? I think that is the strongest and best nature which finds its pleasure in making others happy, and that temper is the sweetest which is sweet under vexations.” Min knew this was aimed at her, and she suddenly turned the subject of conversation.
“I used to fear,” said Mrs. Buzzell, “that my old age would be lonely and cheerless; but God has been infinitely good to me. See what a pleasant family I have about me, when I am weak and need so much care. And with Min to bother me by asking questions I can’t answer, surely my life lacks nothing. What do you think of it, Min?” she asked, addressing the spoiled pet.
“I should think Godmightbe good to auntie, ’cause auntie is so good to Min.”
“I think you had better not consult Min on points of faith and doctrine,” said Clara. “She seems to inherit some of her grandpapa’s heresies.”
“Auntie Clara, who is my grandpapa?”
“Why, your doctor, as you call him.”
“Is he? honest and true, Auntie Clara? Then I shall call him grandpapa.”
“No, no,” said Susie, with a faint flush on her face. “Call him just as you do now.” She was wondering for the thousandth time how it would be when Minnie commenced to go to school, for example. Children would tell her of her father, and perhaps say ill things of her mother. Already the child’s resemblance to Mrs. Forest was remarkable, and grew more marked every day. The likeness consisted particularly in a kind of droop to the eyelids toward the outer corners, giving a dreamy, refined expression. Only a short time before, when Min was playing at the gate, a little girl, one of Mrs. Kendrick’s guests, came and made her acquaintance, and asked her to walk with her. Min ran and got permission of “auntie,” and started off. They turned up shortly after on the doctor’s broad door-steps, and Mrs. Forest, recognizing one of Mrs. Kendrick’s visitors, made the children go in, and treated them to cake. She was greatly struck by the rare beauty of the little blonde, and asked her her name. “Sha’n’t tell,” was the reply, of course. The doctor came in a few minutes later. At the sight of Min seated on her grandmother’s knees, eating jelly-cake with great gusto, he burst out laughing. This evidently displeased Min, and kept her from obeying her first impulse, which was to run to “my doctor,” as she always called him. “How very maternal you are, Fannie! Whose child is that?”
“She won’t tell me her name,” said Mrs. Forest, “but she is one of Mrs. Kendrick’s friends. Is she not lovely?” she added, toying with Min’s rich, sunny hair. The doctor took the child and asked his wife to follow him.Standing before the mirror in the drawing-room, he held the child’s face beside his wife’s, saying, “Look at that child’s eyes, and then at yours.”
“Good heavens, doctor! You don’t mean—”
“That it is your only grandchild!”
Mrs. Forest tied on Min’s hat, and suggested to the older girl that she had better not bring the little one so far from home again.
“I sha’n’t come to see you again,” said Minnie, feeling her dignity offended, “and I sha’n’t let my doctor come, either. My Auntie Clara don’t send Minnie away.” And the child’s eyes filled, but she would not cry. The doctor tried to pet her, but she drew away pouting. The doctor looked out of the window as the little ones toddled down the street, and then turning to his wife, tried to waken kindly feelings for Dan’s child; but the seed fell on stony ground. While he was talking, a carriage drove up to the gate and left the Count von Frauenstein. Mrs. Forest was in a flutter. To be so honored by a rich and titled person was a great event. Finding the doctor free, the count stayed to lunch, and talked over great plans that were maturing in his mind. He had just returned from Guise, in France, where he had visited the grand social palace founded by a great French capitalist for his workmen. “I tell you, Dr. Forest,” he said, with enthusiasm, “the age is ripe for a grand spring toward social organization, and the sight of that palace of workers inspires me with new hope. There are over a thousand people, honest wealth-producers, surrounded by a sum of conveniences and luxuries to be found nowhere else on the planet, even among the rich.”
“Why, I never heard of it!” said Mrs. Forest, pouringthe count a glass of wine, produced freely on this occasion in honor of the distinguished gentleman. “I am greatly interested. What are some of these luxuries? Do those workmen actually live in a palace?”
“Aye, madam. A magnificent structure it is, too, I assure you. It is surrounded by groves and gardens and rich fields, through which winds the River Oise. There are nurseries and schools on a magnificent scale, for the children. There are swimming and hot and cold baths for all, medical service of the best, a restaurant, a billiard saloon, a café, a charming theatre, a library and reading-room, societies for various objects, such as music and the drama, beside the board, composed of men and women, who manage the internal affairs of the palace. All the courts of the palace are covered with glass, and the various suites of apartments open on corridors in these courts.” The doctor inquired about the water supply, and the ventilation. The latter, the count said, was effected by gigantic underground galleries, opening into the courts, connected by tubes passing up through the walls and opening into each apartment, where they were used mostly in winter, as every suite of rooms was well supplied with windows on the courts, and also on the exterior of the building.
“I am sure it must be a wonderful charity,” said Mrs. Forest.
“No, madam,” said the count; “every one of the advantages I have named, and many more, are included in the rents, and Monsieur Godin, the founder, makes six per cent. on the capital invested. It has been in successful operation some twelve years.”
Further conversation developed the fact that the countwas to leave the next day to look after business investments in the South and West, which might detain him some weeks, or even months, after which, he was determined to see what he could do by way of a social palace for workmen and their families. “Oakdale,” he said, “is not a bad field to commence in. Your industries are growing, the population rapidly increasing, it is a very healthy location, pure water, and a nice light soil. I don’t believe in heavy soils. Scientific culture finds more scope and success with a light one. The doctor was eager for the experiment. Before I die, Frauenstein,” he said, “I hope to see a few children, at least, surrounded by conditions for integral culture. Count on me for everything in my power to aid the work.” Mrs. Forest was a little shocked at the doctor’s addressing the count as simply, “Frauenstein.” “It would seem to me, count,” she said, in her suavest tone, “that you, with your wealth and social position, would find more pleasure in building yourself a palace, where you could surround yourself with all that wealth can procure.”
“My dear madam, what should I do for society?”
“Goodness gracious!” thought Mrs. Forest, “he is as crazy as the doctor;” but she asked him to please explain.
“I am very familiar, madam,” he replied, “with what is known as the best society, and of course there is much real refinement and much honorable sentiment among its various members; but real nobility of sentiment, by which I mean devotion to the broad interests of mankind, is very rarely met, and least of all at the courts of rulers. They are all cramped and degraded by petty aims, petty intrigues for personal advancement; andabove all, they are lacking the first element of wisdom—a belief in the people. What is the aristocracy of birth, name, inherited wealth robbed from generations of wages-slaves, compared to the grander aristocracy of labor, which is as old as the evolution of man himself? My mother, Kendrick’s cousin, you know, was the granddaughter of a day-laborer. Kendrick wouldn’t mention it for his best span of horses, but I am proud of it. So far as I know he is the only ancestor I have, who had an honest right to the bread he ate. So you see, madam, I would do something to atone for the sins of all the robber crew to which I belong, and so shorten my prospective hours in purgatory. To be serious, there is no congenial society for me anywhere, as life is ordered at present. I must help to build up a society of men and women who can be honest and free, because sure of the present and of the future for themselves and their children. I found more intelligence, more faith in humanity, and more freedom of expression among those workingmen at Guise, than I ever met among any set of people in my life; and the children, madam! O, the children! I can give you no idea of their rosy health, their frank expression of advanced opinions, and their courteous manners.” Mrs. Forest said that what she understood as “advanced opinions” would be a very equivocal attraction in a child according to her way of seeing things.
“But, madam, your way of seeing things,” said the count, courteously, “would be different, if you had been trained to positive methods of thought. I assure you, in any case, you would be charmed by the ease, and grace of address of many of those children. Why it would make you regret that you were not the mother of the wholethree hundred of them! There are prizes given them for politeness and grace of bearing.—Think of it! There is the commencement of stirpiculture, and yet the stupid, lunk-head scientists of the world, are givingalltheir attention to the fossils of a dead past. Depend upon it, madam, this world need not be the vale of tears we have been taught to think. Life is what we should study. Life is what we should love, and as a general rule, the present is the best time to live;” and the count, praising Mrs. Forest’s wine, and apologizing for making a monologue of what should have been a conversation, bade her good-bye and left, taking the doctor with him.
The next day the doctor spent a full hour at Mrs. Buzzell’s talking to Clara of Frauenstein and his grand social-palace scheme. Clara expressed regret that she had not seen him. “Regret!” said the doctor; “you may well regret, for you have lost a rare pleasure. When you see him you will love him, and at first sight too. I am sure of it, for he is the only man I ever met whom I thought worthy of you. He is coming back, though, and then you shall see him. He’s a man after my own heart in everything. He’s perfect; he’s without a flaw. I know him just as well as if I had been intimate with him for years. Every thought and feeling of the man is honest and true, and what is better than all, he has faith in human nature.” Clara was interested, but the count was no vital part of her thoughts as he was of her father’s, and besides her heart was filled that day with its old pain. Albert had written, saying simply that, as a year had passed, he thought he had a right to expect she would have had time to reflect upon theirmutual position, and that he hoped she had decided to return. It was a very cold letter, but it moved her deeply, and under the first impulse she wrote, sinking every thought of pride, hoping only, blindly, that he would, by an impulse as simple, and as frankly expressed as hers, prove that he loved her despite all that had happened. She wrote:
“Dear Albert:—Your letter moves me deeply, but it does not show me that you have any tender thought of me, any motive of real love in saying you expect me to return. Do you know so little of me after all, as to suppose that I can be influenced by the wealth you speak of? Can you doubt that I would rather be your wife were you poor and unknown, if you only loved me as once you did, than to be your queen were you master of the world, if I must see you seek in other women that which I alone would give?
“Oh, Albert! why can I never make you see me as I am? I have no pride, as you think; willingly would I prove myself the very queen of fools in the eyes of the world—would kneel in the dust and kiss your feet, could I thereby find that you love me with the divine tenderness that once made my life. Dear one, what shall I say? What shall I do? I long, with all my being, for the tender words you used to breathe so eloquently, for the sight of your beautiful eyes, for your kisses and caresses. If you do really want me—me, not your legal mate, but Clara—you will show me this beyond the shadow of a doubt.
“I cannot tell you how I have suffered, and do suffer still, at times. I pray only that I may wake from thislong cold night of misery, and find myself in the blessed warmth and light of that love which made me once your proud and happy
Clara.”
Clara.”
Clara.”
Clara.”
To this letter he wrote, among other things not touching the subject nearest Clara’s heart: “If you love me so ineffably as you would have me think you do, I should like you to show it in the only possible way—by coming home at once. As for me, I do not pretend to sentiment. We should not trouble ourselves with riddles, dear Clara, but love where we may beneficently, and as much as we can.”
To this Clara replied as promptly as to the other: “At last, Albert, I fully understand you. You are true to yourself in this letter, and I respect you for it. You might as well have told me in so many words, ‘I do not want my love, but the mistress of my house.’ Well, Albert, receive my final, eternal answer:I shall never go back to you while I live.Again I assure you, I have no pride. I confess that my eyes are red with weeping, for I have shed the first tears of absolute despair that I ever knew. Until now there has been hope, however faint, but now, every trace is gone. Hereafter, we will study the problems of life as if we had never met.”
When Dr. Delano received this letter he knew that all was over, and regretted that he had not played his cards better. He did not love Clara, but he was proud of her, and knew that, as a wife, she was an honor to him. He had not doubted seriously that she would return, and he had intended to humble her by his forgiveness, and in the future make her, through this lesson, a patient, dependent, and wholly exemplary wife. Now there was no hope ofthis, and, to make matters worse, Charlotte utterly refused to see Miss Wills. Mr. Delano died soon after, leaving all his property to his son, except his daughter’s portion. He had been kept in ignorance, on account of his illness and his very nervous condition, of the breach between Clara and his son. He left her his kindest wishes, and the hope that through her, the family name might be preserved. After his death his daughter wrote a very kind letter to Clara, manifesting a depth of womanly feeling which Clara had never suspected could exist under the austere manners of Miss Delano. From this there arose a correspondence between them, and the utter frankness and sweetness of Clara’s nature, as it developed in this new relation, had a great charm for Miss Charlotte. At first she tried to persuade Clara to return to her husband; but having the whole case presented to her in a simple and clear light, she finally approved Clara’s course. She expressed herself strongly on the want of delicacy in men’s treatment of women, and her own satisfaction that she herself had never given any one of them the power over her happiness that Clara had. “Come and see me,” she wrote, “whenever you are in the city. I like you and trust you; and if you think a sour-tempered old maid worth cultivating, it will be a great consolation to me.”