Margaret's mother died when she was about fourteen years old, and her father, unwilling to take the direction of his daughter's education, placed her at an excellent boarding-school, where no expense was spared to give her every advantage, and where, being perfectly happy, she remained until she was nineteen. It was at this school that she formed the friendship with Jessie Edgar which was afterward to be so great a benefit to her. Jessie was the second daughter of a wealthy New York family, and it was at her home that Margaret passed her first Christmas vacation, and all her succeeding holidays.
Jessie's gentle, yielding nature found great enjoyment in Margaret's boldness and self-reliance, and Margaret, who began by protecting and supporting the other's timidity and shyness, ended by heartily admiring and loving her sweet and unselfish room-mate. They became "inseparables," in school-girl phrase, and when school-days were over, and Mr. Lester thought that the best completion to his daughter's education would be a little travelling, Jessie's mother consented to her accompanying her dear friend. For two years they visited beautiful places together, and felt their friendship drawn more closely, as their sympathies became enlarged.
But this happy experience came to a sudden and sorrowful end. Mr. Lester had a dreadful fall while they were coming down a mountain, and, after lingering a few weeks in extreme suffering, died, leaving the two girls quite alone in a foreign land. They had a sad journey home; he had been the life and soul of their expedition, and, having travelled a good deal before, had been able to be the pleasantest kind of guide for them. It had been hard to prevail on Margaret to leave the Swiss town where he lay buried in the little graveyard; but Jessie's love prevailed, and they came safely back together to Mrs. Edgar's hospitable house. Once there, the kind friends would not let Margaret think of leaving them, and she had grown to consider the pleasant house almost as her own home.
It was long before she recovered her high spirits, but at twenty-three she was induced to go into society with Jessie, who had waited for her. She was, from every point of view, a desirable match—young, rich, and fine-looking; gay and good-humored. Pleased with herself and her surroundings, she thoroughly enjoyed her first season, and was unmistakably a belle. The next year, however, was a disappointment; there was a sameness in her life and amusements that became irritating to her. Jessie was engaged to be married, and Margaret found herself jealous of her friend's divided confidence. But, though she said to Jessie that she would like to follow her example, "to be able to sympathize with lovers' rhapsodies," like the princess in the fairy-tale, she found fault with all her admirers; criticised them, nicknamed them, and discouraged their attentions as soon as these becameexclusive. A very gay summer at a fashionable watering-place followed this wearisome winter, and Margaret entered upon her third season disposed for any thing but enjoyment. No one who saw her in society would have guessed her real character. High-spirited, gay, liking to astonish and slightly shock her friends by her behavior, a little of what is termed "a trainer," there lay underneath this careless exterior a depth of real sentiment that only one or two people whom she truly loved were aware of. To be loved for herself, and to love, were her aspirations.
First, she was perfectly aware of her own attractions, and believed she could have almost any man of her acquaintance, if she should choose to make herself agreeable to him; but she could not believe in any one's disinterested attachment to her.
"They all know I am rich," she would say to Jessie; "they would not take me and poverty. Now, I would be glad, if I were poor, to marry a poor man; then I could believe in his love, and we could have some trials to bear together."
Secondly, she earnestly wished to love; but this, with her, meant a great deal. She wanted to look up to some one, to honor and believe in him; she thought of this much more than of the sentiment; for she knew she should find that with the rest. She was tired of taking the lead, and of having her own way. How gladly would she submit herself to a noble guide! She imagined herself almost as a queen stepping down from her throne, resigning sceptre and authority, and saying, with Miss Procter,
"Love trusts; and for ever he gives, and gives all."
"But these young men," she said to Jessie, "are so intensely matter-of-fact! They would think my brain softening, if they knew what I wanted and expected to find." At another time she said, "If I could only find something a little different! I think I will go to Australia, marry a squatter, and see all the queer animals. My money would be worth while out there."
It has been said that Margaret had a maiden aunt living at Shellbeach, her mother's only sister. This lady she had seen but once since her return from abroad, when Miss Spelman came to New York on purpose to take her niece home with her. Margaret, however, was not willing to leave the Edgars, and so her aunt returned to Shellbeach, a little offended by her niece's preferring strangers to her own flesh and blood, but, on the whole, perhaps relieved that her quiet home was not to be invaded by a person of so startling a character as she conceived Margaret to be. A visit had been agreed upon between them; but this had been declined and deferred so many times that the old lady, again offended, had given up proposing it. If it had not been for Margaret's curiosity about Jessie's friend, Doctor James, she certainly would not have remembered her duty to her mother's only sister; while it is equally true that, if it had not been for that convenient relative, she could not for a moment have entertained the idea of taking the lion (that is, the doctor) by storm in his den. For of any likelihood of being captivated herself in this adventure, it must be acknowledged, she had no thought. Her curiosity, her strongest weak point, was thoroughly excited about this doctor. That a man with a fine education, a profession, and enough money to live respectably, (all which information she had obtained from her friend,) should isolate himself in a stupid little sea-side town, because he liked to do so and enjoyed it, was toher a mystery which demanded to be cleared up at once. How she should like to astonish this hermit! How she would dress! How she would shock his ideas of propriety, if he had any! He would be surprised and overpowered, of course, and then—well, then she would beat a graceful retreat, and come back to Jessie's wedding in the best of spirits.
"I shall take Cécile and the Marchioness and Jimmy, and you will see that we shall have an exciting time. I shall make myself so delightful to dear Aunt Selina that she will not hear of my staying less than six months; and I shall study housekeeping, economy, and medicine, and experiment on Cécile when she is sick."
"Why do you take the Marchioness?"
"How can you ask? I must have exercise; and who knows but I may make myself useful by visiting the distant patients when the doctor's horse is tired?"
"But why not take Lady Jane? She is much handsomer."
"She is too fine for my purpose. I don't want to seem wealthy, you know; and the Marchioness goes mousing along, her head level with her tail, in true Morgan style, and looks any thing but extravagant. Then Jimmy will keep us awake, and bark at Aunt Selina's cats when other excitement fails."
"How do you know she has any cats?"
"Of course she has cats! Half a dozen, I have no doubt. Who ever heard of an ancient maiden living alone without cats? How I wish the answers would come!"
They did come, in due time; Miss Spelman's first, cordially welcoming her niece to Shellbeach for any length of time, or for good and all. Margaret felt rather ashamed, as she saw how her aunt had fallen into the trap, and how completely her own good faith had been taken for granted. She mentally resolved that, if it depended on her, Miss Spelman should not repent her generosity; she would make herself as delightful as she could, cheerfully give up her own convenience, if necessary, and make up for her long neglect of so disinterested a relation.
This letter arrived on the third day of expectation; the doctor's, not until a full week had elapsed. "A doctor's time is not his own, and the number of invalids at Shellbeach has been greater than usual." It would be well to give the letter in full, at least so much of it as relates to Margaret and her proposition.
"If it were the first of April," wrote the doctor, "I should find no difficulty in comprehending your letter; as it is not, I am inclined to believe that I am being 'sold;' but I do not believe practical jokes are in your line, and you write apparently in good earnest. Therefore, if your original friend seriously recommends such an experiment as this, I can but acquiesce, of course. Miss Spelman also informs me that her niece 'is coming;' so I feel that any opinion I may express on the subject is superfluous. However, it seems to me that there should be an equality of position in this matter, and I will say that I agree to Miss Lester's terms, provided she agrees to mine. I have but one condition, and it is her own: that at the end of the time she appoints she will, simultaneously with me, that is, at a given hour, write me 'a true statement of how she stands affected toward me'—which means, of course, tell me honestly if she loves me. I have a right to say that I think this plan doubtful in its purpose, its practicability, and its probable results."
"If it were the first of April," wrote the doctor, "I should find no difficulty in comprehending your letter; as it is not, I am inclined to believe that I am being 'sold;' but I do not believe practical jokes are in your line, and you write apparently in good earnest. Therefore, if your original friend seriously recommends such an experiment as this, I can but acquiesce, of course. Miss Spelman also informs me that her niece 'is coming;' so I feel that any opinion I may express on the subject is superfluous. However, it seems to me that there should be an equality of position in this matter, and I will say that I agree to Miss Lester's terms, provided she agrees to mine. I have but one condition, and it is her own: that at the end of the time she appoints she will, simultaneously with me, that is, at a given hour, write me 'a true statement of how she stands affected toward me'—which means, of course, tell me honestly if she loves me. I have a right to say that I think this plan doubtful in its purpose, its practicability, and its probable results."
Not a word more was given to the subject; the letter spoke briefly of Philip, of Jessie, and terminated.
Margaret of course saw this letter in the same forcible way that she saw the other. Jessie thought she would be offended, and so she was, but that did not have the result Jessie secretly hoped for.
"He is not well-bred, and evidentlythinks a great deal of himself. How I shall enjoy snubbing him!"
"You are going?"
"I should think so! Do you suppose I shall disappoint Aunt Selina for such rudeness as this? But I will have no more second-hand dealings." And so saying, she seized pen and paper, and wrote as follows:
"Dr. James: I accept your condition. Six months from next Monday, which will be July 18th, at eleven o'clock in the evening, we will write our letters."Margaret Lester."
"Dr. James: I accept your condition. Six months from next Monday, which will be July 18th, at eleven o'clock in the evening, we will write our letters.
"Margaret Lester."
Jessie was not allowed to see this note, which was at once dispatched to Shellbeach.
"And now," Margaret said, "comes the fun of arrangements. We will go up-stairs and consult about my clothes, and all that I shall take with me."
Dr. James's letter had been received on Tuesday; the following Monday, at about three o'clock on a bleak and gray January afternoon, Margaret, accompanied by her maid and terrier dog, arrived at the little way-station of Shellbeach, and ascertaining that Miss Spelman's carriage had not arrived, walked into the little waiting-room and to the airtight stove, which was, however, barely warm. Her teeth chattered, and she stamped her feet and rubbed her hands; the French maid followed, bearing bag and shawls, shivering and casting forlorn glances around her. The little dog alone seemed in good spirits, and ran about, inquiring into every thing, and snuffled suspiciously at a man who sat wrapped in a shawl, reading a book, and at two small boys, who were partaking of frost which they scraped off the windows.
"Well, we're all frozen, so it's no use saying it's cold," said Margaret, walking about the room; "but I'm famished, and as cross as a bear."
"O mademoiselle! it is terrible," cried Cécile, with a sort of little shriek.
"It is a forlorn place, certainly; let me see if my provisions are exhausted," Margaret said, taking the bag. The little boys at the window became deeply interested, and paused in their unsatisfactory repast.
"One seed-cake! How exciting! What! you want it, do you? Well, take it," she said to the little dog, who jumped upon her, and while he devoured it she watched him, saying reflectively, "Little pig! if I were dying of starvation, and it were my last crumb, he would eat it. How do I look, Cécile? I am all covered with cinders."
"Yes, mademoiselle; you look like a fright."
Margaret smiled, and returned to the platform, where she made inquiries of a man who was looking helplessly at her trunks how they were to be got to Miss Spelman's. Having arranged that matter, she asked,
"Can't I have that buggy to drive up in? Does it belong to the man inside there?"
"It belongs to him," said the driver, with a grin, and Margaret turned away in despair.
"The train was early," said a boy standing by, "and perhaps the young lady's team will be along soon."
Margaret, who had her purse in her hand, at once presented the boy with twenty-five cents, as an acknowledgment for the ray of encouragement he had volunteered. He bore it philosophically, and she returned to the room.
"Cécile, it's only two miles to Miss Spelman's; suppose we walk; it will be warmer than waiting here. Give me the bag, and you take the shawls, and we will inquire the way."
She accompanied these words with a look of indignation at the man who was fortunate enough to have a buggy at his command; but to her great surprise, he rose, and, approaching her, said:
"The train was early, and I expected Miss Spelman's carryall; but it is evidently not coming, and you must manage with my buggy."
"You are Doctor James?" said Margaret with an inquisitive look.
"You are right; and you are Miss Lester," he replied. "I am sorry you have had to wait in the cold; but when I saw you had a companion, I thought it would be wiser to wait for the carryall. Miss Spelman said she should probably send; but asked me, at any rate, to meet you. I will drive you home and come back for your maid."
"But it's so cold here, and Cécile feels the cold more than I. Could we not possibly go three in the buggy? Would it be too much for the horse?"
The doctor smiled for the first time; he was pleased by her thought for her maid.
"You and I are good-sized people, but she is small. I think Rosanna can stand the weight; but it will not do to start cold. I propose we go over to the store and get thoroughly warmed."
"Oh! delightful," cried Margaret, "the thought of being warm again is almost too much for me."
The doctor led the way across the railroad track to a kind of variety store, where there was certainly no reason to complain of the cold. The air was stifling, and conveyed to Margaret's sense of smell the impressions of soap, molasses, peppermint drops, brown paper, and onions, at one breath; but she was too grateful to be warm even to make a face, which under other circumstances she would doubtless have done. Seated in chairs before the energetic little stove, she and Cécile toasted hands and feet while the doctor went for the horse. When he returned, they were quite ready to start, and the bag being stowed away in the box, they put on all their wrappings, by the doctor's advice, and packed themselves into the buggy. Jimmy curled himself under his mistress's feet, the buffalo robe was well tucked in, and the sturdy-looking mare started with her load with a willingness which showed she too was glad to have her face toward home. It was cold enough in spite of their comfortable start, and, to make matters worse, Margaret's veil blew away; but she would not have alluded to it for the world. The doctor seemed absorbed in his driving, and Cécile occupied with her aching toes; and allowing it to escape seemed to her so feminine and weak-minded a proceeding that she bore the cutting wind in silence rather than expose her carelessness. Her gratitude to the doctor for rescuing her from her uncomfortable situation, and the genial feelings produced by her warming at the stove, now gave way to reflections on this man's previous behavior, as he sat wrapped in his shawl, in the cold little waiting-room. What a hard-hearted, outrageous monster he must be! Why did he not speak at once, and be sympathetic and kind? Of course he was studying her, and no doubt criticising her, at that unfavorable moment. It chafed her to think to what an inspection she had been exposed, and how utterly she had been at a disadvantage. At lastshe broke the silence by saying abruptly,
"Does not extreme hunger add to one's capacity for being cold?"
She intended to embarrass him by reminding him of his profession, but she was disappointed; for he answered at once, with a slight movement of his mouth, not however a smile,
"Extreme hunger? Yes; especially such as the poor feel, who may have tasted nothing for two or three days, nor meat for as many months. How long is it since you breakfasted?"
"At eight," she replied shortly.
The doctor, remembering with a little compunction that he had both breakfasted and dined, hastened to say,
"That is a long time for a person accustomed to regular meals. I am quite sure you will find a better reception in the matter of dinner than you experienced at the station."
"I do not understand why my aunt did not send for me."
"Nor I; she said to me, 'I shall send the carryall, if possible; but you will oblige me by meeting my niece, and if any thing should happen to prevent my man's being there, you will bring her home.' I am sure only you and the dog were expected."
"Yes, I said my maid would probably come in a day or two; but she was able to get ready to accompany me."
Then there was silence once more, till Dr. James drew up his horse before a well-clipped, flourishing hedge, and, getting out, opened a small brown gate, and carried the bag and shawls up the neat gravelled path. The short afternoon had come to a close, though it was scarcely four o'clock, and the firelight shone pleasantly out from the windows, where the curtains were drawn aside. The doctor deposited the wrappings on the steps, said hastily, "Good-by, Miss Lester, I shall call on you as soon as possible," and was in his buggy and driving quickly away before she had time to utter a word. She had stood for a moment, expecting the door to be thrown open at once; she even wondered that her aunt was not awaiting her on the threshold; but as no one appeared, she gave the bell a rather decided pull. Instantly the door was opened by the neatest of maids, in a white apron, who beamed upon the guests while she took the bag and shawls. Margaret walked at once toward the bright fire, which shone out of an open door, and there in the middle of the room stood a little lady, who met and embraced her, saying in an agitated voice,
"Welcome, my dearest niece, a thousand times!"
"Thank you, aunt; I am almost perished! How pleasant the fire looks!"
Miss Spelman was trembling in every limb, but Margaret's decided tones, quite free from emotion of any kind, composed her. She drew an easy-chair to the fire, and then turned to Cécile, who stood hesitating in the hall.
"You brought your maid, did you not, dear Margaret? That is good; it will make you more at home. Ann, I hope you will make Miss Lester's maid quite comfortable. Her name, my dear? Oh! yes, Cecilia." And as the woman disappeared, she continued, "I am glad you have so respectable and steady an attendant, my dear; when I heard she was French, I feared she might be very dressy and flippant, and get restless in our quiet little household."
She gently helped Margaret to lay aside her things; then, as she seated herself in the comfortable chair and held out hands and feet to the gratefulflame, the little lady once more placed her hand on her shoulder, and kissed her forehead.
"For all the world like your poor father," she said softly. As Margaret was silent, she continued, "But I must tell you why I did not send for you. I beg your pardon, my dear child, for such apparent neglect. The fact is, I have a new man, and dare not trust him alone with the horses, and I have a cold and was afraid to go out this raw day. If it had been milder, nothing should have kept me at home; but as I had asked our good doctor to meet you, I knew you would really be provided for. Then, I thought it would seem so uncourteous to let him give his valuable time to going to the station for you, and then disappoint him of the pleasure of bringing you home. You see, I did not look for your maid. O dear! how very rude you must think me." And the poor lady stopped short, quite appalled at her own conduct, the impropriety of which for the first time impressed her.
"No matter now, aunt, I'm safely here."
"And thankful I am to have you, dear; but to think that I should have allowed you to drive home alone with a strange young man!"
"I was not alone with him."
"But I did not know that; and, O dear me! how did you all get here?"
"Why, sandwiched, three in the buggy, of course; Cécile in the middle; it was the shortest way. He wanted to bring first me and then Cécile, but I would not let him. However, don't worry about it now, aunty. I would like to go to my room, I think, and make myself presentable; I am covered with cinders."
"Certainly. You will find a fire there, and, I hope, every thing you want. If not, you must let me know." So saying, Miss Spelman led the way up-stairs to a good-sized room, where a little wood fire was burning and candles were lighted. The trunks were already there, and Cécile was unpacking and laying out what her mistress would want.
"We have tea, generally, at six; but I have ordered it to-day at five, for I know you need both dinner and tea. Cecilia will find me down-stairs if you want any thing." With these words, Miss Spelman withdrew and closed the door.
"I have arrived at that period of starvation," remarked Margaret, "when I am resigned to wait indefinitely for my food, provided it comes at last." At that moment a knock announced Ann, who brought in a waiter with cup and saucer and tea-things. "Miss Spelman thought a cup of tea would be warming."
Very soon Margaret was sitting in her wrapper and slippers, in a little rocking-chair, sipping her hot tea, while Cécile brushed and arranged her hair. She began to feel fatigued; but that was rather a delightful sensation, now that she had nothing to do but rest and be comfortable. Before five, she went down to the parlor, where her aunt once more received her with a little speech, and then came the looked-for tea-dinner. It appeared that Miss Spelman knew what was good as well as Mrs. Edgar, and Margaret, as she surveyed the well-spread table, the spotless linen, the shining glass and silver, the temptingly brown chicken before her, the spongy biscuit and delicate cake, was glad to find that, at least, she would not starve.
"I begin to feel a sea-air appetite already," she exclaimed; "and O aunty! how good every thing tastes."
Miss Selina was pleased, for she was a hospitable hostess; and whenshe and Margaret were established before the fire, curtains drawn, and the lamp shining brightly, there was a mutual good feeling between them, which, from that time, nothing disturbed. Margaret, as she leaned back in her chair, holding a little screen before her face, had now time to examine her aunt more closely, and she studied her with considerable curiosity. She was decidedlypetite, and so very neat and trim about her dress that she made Margaret think of a fairy godmother. Her hair was white, although she was not yet sixty; she wore a cap, and soft lace round her throat; her eyes were dark and bright, and her smile very sweet and cheerful. She must have been pretty, Margaret thought, and like that dear mother so well remembered.
After answering a good many questions about her life in New York, Mrs. Edgar, Jessie, and her lover, Margaret said rather abruptly,
"You see a good deal of Doctor James, don't you, aunt?"
"Oh! almost every day, my dear. He has to drive very often over to Sealing, and my house is right on his way. He feels quite attached to me, because, once when his sister was staying with him, she was sick, and I used to go and sit with her; and at last, when she was getting well, and was able to be moved, I got her to come and make me a visit; for I thought it must be dull for her, with her brother away so much. So he used to come every day to see about her, and he got into the way of dropping in as if he belonged here, and he has kept it up ever since."
"What sort of a girl was the sister?"
"Oh! she was a charming creature—pretty and picturesque; young, too, and very clever for her age; and the doctor thought every thing of her, though he used to find fault with her and try to improve her, and was always bringing some hard book for Lucy to read, or asking me to tell her this, or remind her of that, and not let her forget the other, till I used to think the poor child would have been vexed with both him and me; but she used to laugh and shake her pretty brown curls, and make the best of it all. I grew to love that child, Margaret, and I confess to you, if you had not come to me, I would very probably have offered to adopt her, and do for her as if she were my own. I did not suppose you needed any money, my dear," she added in an apologetic tone.
"Don't mention your money, please," cried Margaret. "Dear aunty, I can't manage what I've got now; why should I want any more? By all means make the pretty Lucy an heiress, and let her come and live here, near her brother."
Miss Spelman shook her head, and Margaret continued,
"But where does Lucy live, and where does the family come from originally?"
"They have had a country-seat in Maine for years, and are very nice people, I would think; the doctor, at least, is a perfect gentleman. He has been in the war, was wounded two or three times; and when it was all over, came here because the old doctor was about to move away. They knew each other, and so Dr. James just quietly took the other's place, and has a great deal more than filled it ever since."
"But why does he choose to live in a little place like this? Jessie told me something of his benevolence; but that doesn't seem reason enough to keep him here."
"That is the only reason, I am sure—that, and attachment to the place and people. He does an immense amount of good, my dear;why, he attends all the poor people, for miles around, for nothing!"
"But then what does he live on?"
"Certainly not on his fees. He has a little money of his own—enough for such a place as this—and that leaves him free, as he says, to have no hard money feelings between him and his patients. The consequence is, he is worshipped by the poor, and, in fact, by almost every one both here and at Sealing; they give him no peace, and he has to work like a horse all the time."
"I hope he enjoys it."
"He says he does; but I think the life is too hard for him."
"And does he intend to live here indefinitely?"
"He never alludes to living anywhere else; but I hope he may marry some day, and then, no doubt, he would go where his wife wished."
"Don't you think his wishes ought to be hers?"
"Certainly, my dear Margaret, I think so; but then, I believe I'm old-fashioned." Miss Spelman was pleased, that was evident; and then she said she knew her niece was a fine musician, but she was perhaps "too tired to touch the instrument?"
Margaret smiled, and though she was tired certainly, and sleepy besides, she went with a very good grace to "the instrument," which she found to be an old piano, excellent in its day, but now out of tune and jingling; the keys were yellow, and one pedal was broken, but no speck of dust was to be seen inside or out, or on any thing else in Miss Selina's house. Margaret, without thinking much about it, played some very modern music, such as she generally played in the evenings at Mrs. Edgar's, deep and difficult music, playing well and carefully, without notes; till she began to realize how impossible any execution would be on such a piano. When she paused, Miss Spelman said rather plaintively,
"That is very fine, my dear; but my taste is not up to the present standard. And—do you play from note, dear Margaret?"
On receiving an affirmative reply, she went into an adjoining closet, and brought out one or two old music-books, marked on the covers, "M. and S. Spelman," and with Margaret and Selina alternately written on the music within. Margaret had never seen such a collection of curious, old, simple music. She smiled as she played, to see her aunt's hands beating time, and watched the absorbed expression of her face, varying from a smile of content to a look of sadness and regret. As she at last closed the piano, she said,
"I will play these pieces over when I am by myself, and then I shall do them more justice when I play them for you again. Forgive my many blunders."
Then came cake, fruit, and wine, at nine o'clock, and then Margaret was glad to say "good-night" and go to her pleasant room, where she found, to her great satisfaction, that she was soothed to sleep by the breaking of the waves on Shellbeach.
My Dearest Jessie: I have received your most welcome letter, and only wish I could tell you how good it was to hear from you. It made me long to see you, dear; but as I am resolved I will not be so weak as to give up and go back to you yet, I will not sentimentalize now, nor dwell on my feelings, which, I assure you, are unusually tender for me.
I have now been here three wholedays, and they seem as many months; the snow-storm which began the night after my arrival, lasted perseveringly till this morning, when there was a beautiful clear-away, and my spirits, which were rather drooping, rose at once. It was very cold, and Aunt Selina was afraid to go out, and I was lazy, and passed the morning in the house. After dinner, however, I became desperate, put on my shortest dress and rubber boots, and went forth with Jimmy on an exploring expedition. The snow was very deep; but I needed exercise, and enjoyed immensely plunging about in the fresh drifts, and getting rid, at the same time, if I must confess it, of a fair amount of wrath and resentment, of which your paragon of a doctor was the cause. Only think, my dear, of his allowing me to be three days here without calling! In such weather, too, when he must have known I was penned up in the house with nothing to amuse me, (not that I didn't amuse myself very well, but he could not have known that.) How did he know that I mightn't have caught a severe cold in that horrid waiting-room at the station, or driving with him in his freezing chaise? And after leaving me in that abrupt way, waiting on the steps here, without a single polite word to me or Aunt Selina, as if he said, "I have been dreadfully bored by having to bring you here; now let me get away as fast as I can!" Well, I was provoked with him, and with myself for caring; but I grew pleasanter every step I took; and when I at last found myself on a high bank right over the sea, and the pretty little beach with the dear, blue waves breaking and foaming below me, I was in a state of exhilaration and delight that I can't describe. I could hardly have torn myself away, except that I was very cold; and the sunset light had almost faded when I got home. Then, my dear, what do you think? Aunt Selina greeted me with, "O Margaret! what a pity you went out; here Doctor James has been waiting nearly an hour for you, and he wanted so much to see you, and was so sorry that he couldn't come before! But, my dear, he has been away, and only got home this morning." That was funny, was it not? "He looked so nice," Aunt Selina said. "I wish you could once see him nicely dressed; he doesn't take enough pains with himself generally." Now, I know that aunty was as much surprised as I that this call had not been made before, and a great deal more disturbed. She praises the doctor on every occasion, and I am sure she wanted him to make a favorable impression on me. She has been very curious about our drive from the station; but I have said very little about it, except that I thought we were all of us cold and cross.
Well, I was nicely wet from my snowy walk; but after I had changed my dress and had my tea, I felt splendidly. At eight o'clock the bell rang—a wonderful circumstance, so far—and after a little delay in the hall, in walked the doctor. I suppose he could not bear that his get-up should be thrown away, and he really looked very nice indeed. I am sure he prides himself on his feet and hands, which are small—not in themselves, but for his size—and well shaped. His clothes were any thing but fashionable; but they fitted him well, and looked as if he were at home in them, and something in his general appearance made me feel that he had intended to do me honor, and I was quite mollified toward him. Aunt Selina was enraptured. I was—can you imagine it?—a little embarrassed, having been wholly taken bysurprise at his making his appearance; he was calm and at his ease. He explained his apparent neglect of me, expressed regret at finding me out this afternoon, and asked about my walk, etc. He is provoking in many ways, Jessie, but in one especially: he is so stingy of his smiles; I can express it in no other way. He is the most serious person I ever saw; even when it would be polite to smile, he will not; but moves the muscles round his mouth in a peculiar way that makes me want to say to him, "Well, why don't you do it? It won't hurt you!" His eyes are not particularly large, but gray, and look as if they saw as much as mine, only he does not stare as I do, but seems to take in every thing with one glance. I did not find him difficult to talk to, as I imagined I should, but am surprised to find how much he knows. He asked me to play, but did not like the piece; and when I tried him with a little of Aunt Selina's music—which I described to you in my first letter, you remember—he asked for Beethoven. That he enjoyed, I believe, and a few of my little French airs, one of which he recognized, and I discovered, to my astonishment, that he had been abroad. He spoke of organ music, and when I told him about my desire to learn to play on the organ, said he thought I could do so here, as there were both a good organ and organist at Sealing. And, if he arranges it so, I am to take lessons once or twice a week, and practise in the little church here. Well, dear Jessie, this letter must come to a close, as I am sleepy. Give my best love to your dear mother; write soon and tell me all about your own affairs and Philip.
Always your loving
Margaret.
Shellbeach, Dec. 21.
On the morning after Margaret had written the letter to her friend, given above, she was finishing her breakfast at about nine o'clock, while little Miss Spelman bustled about in her china-closet, and around the room, when a jingle of bells was heard, and in a moment more, Dr. James appeared at the dining-room door.
"Miss Lester, do you feel in the mood for a sleigh-ride? I have to go over to Sealing, and shall be glad to take you."
"Oh! yes," cried Margaret, jumping up from the table, "of all things what I would like best; but I must change my dress, I am afraid. I will not be ten minutes, if you can wait."
"I have a call to make near here, and will come back for you."
In a short time Margaret appeared, dressed in a dark blue suit with black dog-skin furs, and a very jaunty round cap to match on her head.
"Will you be warm enough?" asked the doctor, surveying her.
"I have my cloak besides," said Margaret, displaying a very thick and heavy mantle, of every color of the rainbow.
As they drove off, Doctor James remarked,
"You will set this quiet little place on fire, with your bright colors; we don't see such brilliant things here very often."
"Gay colors are the fashion," said Margaret, "and I almost always wear them. I get very tired of them, however, and wish my style were notprononcé. I quite long sometimes to wear neutral tints, and cool, delicate colors."
"Miss Edgar wears such shades,does she not? She is so perfectly refined and lady-like."
Margaret glanced at him quickly and answered,
"She does, when she is willing to take the trouble; but I generally have to insist upon her dressing becomingly. When we were in Paris, we were both told about our different styles, and how we should dress; and I think it is worth while to consider the subject, and Jessie does not; that is all."
"Does not Miss Edgar care for dress?"
"I think she does; but for dress without any reference to herself. She is very fond of pretty things, and would be quite contented to wear a rose-colored bonnet, or a bird-of-paradise evening dress, if I did not prevent it. You admire Miss Edgar very much, do you not, Dr. James?"
"As much as I can admire a lady I have never seen. But why should you think that I admire her?"
"And if she were not already engaged, you would like to marry her yourself, would you not?"
Margaret spoke impulsively; and before she had uttered the last words would gladly have swallowed the sentence whole, but it was too late. The doctor's face flushed, and he said very slowly,
"Did Miss Edgar show you that letter?"
"Yes—I mean no; that is, I mean, Dr. James, that I took it away from her and read it myself. She did not want me to see it; it was all my fault. Jessie is gentle, and I am rough, and I tyrannize over her very often."
Margaret's voice sounded remorseful, and the doctor softened.
"There was no reason why you should not have seen that letter, any more than any other. I would not have Miss Edgar other than Philip's wife for any thing in the world; and my saying I would have liked her myself, was meant only as a joke, and I am sure she understood it so. Indeed, I was far from being in earnest when I wrote that letter."
It was now Margaret's turn to change color, and her face burned; an unusual and painful thing for her. She felt at that moment as if she would like to find herself on the opposite side of the world. What an absurd position she was in! This man must regard her as a fool, or worse. What business had she to be at Shellbeach at all, or here in this sleigh, beside one on whom she had not the smallest claim, and who had no reason to think her any thing but a forward, unlady-like girl, as she was? These, and many equally disagreeable thoughts rushed through her mind, before Dr. James said pleasantly,
"Is it possible you keep up your city hours here, and breakfast at nine o'clock? How luxurious your life must be!"
"Does nine seem late to you?" asked Margaret, making an effort to speak carelessly; "it is early to me. When we used to come home from parties at three or four in the morning, we breakfasted at eleven or even twelve. But there is no excuse for sleeping late here, I know; I might go to bed at eight o'clock in the evening, except when we have a visitor, as we did last night. But you see there are no bells; my room is dark, and Cécile never comes in till I ring for her. Then, Aunt Selina says she does not mind."
"Miss Spelman is not a very early riser herself. But, Miss Lester, I think a poor man's household ought to be up with the dawn." He smiled at her in a friendly way as he spoke, and Margaret laughed.
"And the mistress of a poor man'shousehold ought to call all the members of the family, ought she not?"
"I think so; that is a very important matter. Yet I know few things in our daily life which require more heroism than getting up in the morning at the right time. Though I ought to be accustomed to being called at any and every hour, I never find it grows easy to forsake my pillow; and whenever it is not imperatively necessary for me to get up, I prolong my morning nap in the most cowardly way."
"Were you in earnest when you said getting up early was heroism?"
"It is a grand name for a small matter, certainly; but I was in earnest when I said it."
"I should so like to be a heroine! It is almost worth while to try the experiment."
They now drove into the main street of the town of Sealing, and there Dr. James showed Margaret a bookstore, the circulating library, and pointed out one or two more shops, and asked her if she thought she could occupy herself for half an hour, while he visited a few patients.
"I may be gone even longer than that," he said, "and it would be very cold for you to sit in the sleigh and wait."
"I should like to explore the town very well," she answered; "and I will meet you in an hour's time wherever you say. O Dr. James! I want a sled very much; I delight in coasting. Could I get a good one here?"
"There are no toy-shops, properly speaking, but there is an excellent carpenter across the street, and he would make you a satisfactory sled, I have no doubt."
"There is coasting about here, I hope?"
"Yes, there are one or two capital hills. If you like, we will go to the carpenter's now, before I leave you; perhaps my advice on the subject would be acceptable."
They ordered the sled, and Margaret added, with a sideway glance at Dr. James, that the word "Enterprise" was to be printed in red letters on one side, and "1867" on the other. The apothecary's shop was appointed as the place of rendezvous, and the doctor drove away.
He was back again first; but after waiting and wondering a few minutes, she came round the corner, looking at her watch, with a bright color, and her dress white with snow.
"I am on time," she cried; "just an hour, Dr. James; and I have had such a splendid time! But I have a few things at the different shops; will you stop for them?"
From a small shop, combining the establishments of a small watch-maker, a locksmith, and a bell-hanger, a man came out with a parcel which Margaret insisted on holding in her own hands all the way home.
"What do you think it is?" she asked.
"I can't imagine what you should want from that shop, but the shape is very much like a clock."
"You are right; it is an alarm-clock."
Dr. James smiled, but made no comment; and as they drove home, she gave him an account of the hour she had spent alone.
"I got one or two books from the library; pretty trashy, I should think, but it was entertaining to read the names of the well-worn volumes on the shelves. I visited the dry-goods store, and then determined to explore; and pretty soon I found a little street which was one steep hill, down which some small boys were coasting. They seemed harmless and meek, and after bestowing upon them a paper of sugar-plums I had just bought, I requested the loan of a sled. Youshould have seen the astonishment depicted on their faces, and heard the giggles and rapture when, taking the largest sled from the unresisting hand of its owner, I asked for instruction as to establishing myself upon it and starting, and then went full speed down the hill, regardless of the houses on either side and the shouts of my friends above me. It was splendid, Dr. James! I don't know when I have enjoyed any thing so much! Well, I dragged my sled up again, and asked for six more coasts, hinting at more candy to be forthcoming; but I found all offers of compensation quite unnecessary, as the little fellows were as enraptured as I at the performance, and each begged me pathetically to try his sled. But I held to my first choice; and though on the third coast I upset and rolled in the snow, I persevered till I found my hour was almost up, and then abandoned my sled to its owner."
Dr. James seemed much entertained by this description, and Margaret added,
"But for the credit of human nature, and especially of boy nature, which I have always considered to be remorseless to the last degree, I must tell you that when I fell off my sled into the snow the boys did not laugh at and deride me, but came running down the hill to see if I were hurt—a circumstance which pleased me very much."
The drive back to Shellbeach seemed all too short for Margaret; she was left, as before, on the doorstep with her several bundles; but this time she entered as a member of the family, glowing with the exercise and almost as noisy as Jimmy, who came barking and leaping to welcome his mistress. She gave a detailed account of her drive to her aunt, ending with the exclamation, "And Dr. James both smiled and laughed! I feel that I have achieved a triumph!"
The following is a letter which Dr. James wrote to his friend Philip:
"You ask me to tell you about Jessie's friend, who has come to stay with my old crony, Miss Spelman, and I see that you are curious to know my sentiments regarding her. I also suspect, from the tone of your remarks, that you think it would be a very good thing for a poor doctor like me, etc., etc. That this coincides with Miss Selina's course of reasoning on this matter, I am pretty certain; for before Miss Lester came she was continually praising her to me, and now I can see that every opportunity is improved to bring us together. Would you believe it, Philip?—when the young lady arrived, Miss Spelman manœuvred so as to give me atête-à-têtedrive with her from the station to the house! She was disappointed in her plans, as there were both a maid and a dog to be packed into my chaise besides Miss Lester. But what seems so plain to other people's eyes, I cannot say is so to mine. You want a description of her, and add a hope that I have found the ideal of our college days. I laugh as I recall that ideal, and think of the reality before my mind's eye. Picture to yourself, then, a tall young woman—five feet eight inches, I should say—large in proportion, and a decided brunette. She is called handsome, as you know, but I do not agree to this; though if the adjective wereshowy, I should have no objection to make. Her style is rather loud, or, as she herself says, 'prononcé.' She has a pair of very brown, inquisitive eyes, which see, I am sure, much more than they have any right to see. She has a good deal of color, but not the changing blush we used to talk of. Her dress? Of course I cannot give you a correct description of that; but the first time I saw her in the house, she wore very deep purple with ornaments of gold, a gold band on her hair, and long, barbarous eardrops. The next time, in the morning, she was dressed (I am not joking) in bright scarlet, worked all over with black; and she went to drive with me in a round fur cap that would have been appropriate to a young swell in New York, but hardly to a lady. But all these objections are, after all, minor,when I come to the great one; my dear fellow, she is an heiress! Now, you know very well my mind on this subject; and I know you will think of my favorite verse,'Where I want of riches find,Think what with them I would do,That without them dare to woo.'"But in this case I feel sure that I should not be a disinterested lover. I could never forget her money. By the way, I suspect that she did not intend me to know she was wealthy; Jessie's note gave the impression that she had, as I wished, enough to secure her own comfort; but Miss Spelman took care to let me understand how very well her niece was provided with 'earthly goods.'"I see I am allowing myself to find fault with Miss Lester and criticise her, a thing I have resolved I will not do. I will therefore suppress a good deal more of disapproval I was going to write, and see what I can tell you in her praise. In the first place, I think she is good-tempered; I have seen her thoughtful of her maid, and good-natured when she was both cold and hungry. She is entertaining, intelligent, and companionable. I enjoyed her society when I drove her over to Sealing, and she is wonderfully fresh and simple in her tastes for ablaseNew Yorker, surfeited with gayeties as she has been. She is a good musician, though she does not sing. Her hands are her best feature: large and shapely and well kept; they are also warm, smooth, and womanly."Where is my dream, Philip? Would not your gentle Jessie more nearly fulfil it? You will say that dreams 'go by contraries;' true perhaps of those we frame at night, unconsciously; but does that wise maxim hold good of day-dreams and castles in the air also? Now, you have chosen well and wisely for yourself, and my best wish is that you and your loving helpmate may live to enjoy all the bliss you hope for; but I must wait until my wife manifests herself, as I am sure she will, unmistakably, and for that I am content to wait until I am an old man."
"You ask me to tell you about Jessie's friend, who has come to stay with my old crony, Miss Spelman, and I see that you are curious to know my sentiments regarding her. I also suspect, from the tone of your remarks, that you think it would be a very good thing for a poor doctor like me, etc., etc. That this coincides with Miss Selina's course of reasoning on this matter, I am pretty certain; for before Miss Lester came she was continually praising her to me, and now I can see that every opportunity is improved to bring us together. Would you believe it, Philip?—when the young lady arrived, Miss Spelman manœuvred so as to give me atête-à-têtedrive with her from the station to the house! She was disappointed in her plans, as there were both a maid and a dog to be packed into my chaise besides Miss Lester. But what seems so plain to other people's eyes, I cannot say is so to mine. You want a description of her, and add a hope that I have found the ideal of our college days. I laugh as I recall that ideal, and think of the reality before my mind's eye. Picture to yourself, then, a tall young woman—five feet eight inches, I should say—large in proportion, and a decided brunette. She is called handsome, as you know, but I do not agree to this; though if the adjective wereshowy, I should have no objection to make. Her style is rather loud, or, as she herself says, 'prononcé.' She has a pair of very brown, inquisitive eyes, which see, I am sure, much more than they have any right to see. She has a good deal of color, but not the changing blush we used to talk of. Her dress? Of course I cannot give you a correct description of that; but the first time I saw her in the house, she wore very deep purple with ornaments of gold, a gold band on her hair, and long, barbarous eardrops. The next time, in the morning, she was dressed (I am not joking) in bright scarlet, worked all over with black; and she went to drive with me in a round fur cap that would have been appropriate to a young swell in New York, but hardly to a lady. But all these objections are, after all, minor,when I come to the great one; my dear fellow, she is an heiress! Now, you know very well my mind on this subject; and I know you will think of my favorite verse,
'Where I want of riches find,Think what with them I would do,That without them dare to woo.'
'Where I want of riches find,Think what with them I would do,That without them dare to woo.'
"But in this case I feel sure that I should not be a disinterested lover. I could never forget her money. By the way, I suspect that she did not intend me to know she was wealthy; Jessie's note gave the impression that she had, as I wished, enough to secure her own comfort; but Miss Spelman took care to let me understand how very well her niece was provided with 'earthly goods.'
"I see I am allowing myself to find fault with Miss Lester and criticise her, a thing I have resolved I will not do. I will therefore suppress a good deal more of disapproval I was going to write, and see what I can tell you in her praise. In the first place, I think she is good-tempered; I have seen her thoughtful of her maid, and good-natured when she was both cold and hungry. She is entertaining, intelligent, and companionable. I enjoyed her society when I drove her over to Sealing, and she is wonderfully fresh and simple in her tastes for ablaseNew Yorker, surfeited with gayeties as she has been. She is a good musician, though she does not sing. Her hands are her best feature: large and shapely and well kept; they are also warm, smooth, and womanly.
"Where is my dream, Philip? Would not your gentle Jessie more nearly fulfil it? You will say that dreams 'go by contraries;' true perhaps of those we frame at night, unconsciously; but does that wise maxim hold good of day-dreams and castles in the air also? Now, you have chosen well and wisely for yourself, and my best wish is that you and your loving helpmate may live to enjoy all the bliss you hope for; but I must wait until my wife manifests herself, as I am sure she will, unmistakably, and for that I am content to wait until I am an old man."
It will be seen from this letter that Dr. James had not disclosed, even to his old friend, the secret of Margaret's visit to Shellbeach; neither was Jessie more communicative on the subject; for they were both rather ashamed of the affair. Margaret herself, to tell the truth, was not free from a like embarrassment; there was something manly and unassuming about the doctor, a freedom from all pretension and assertion, that made her feel, when with him, quiet and almost diffident. This, however, she did not acknowledge to herself; and her high spirits determined her to carry out her plan, and brave all the obstacles which her appreciation of the circumstances suggested to her. From one point of view, her coming was a success; Miss Spelman was charmed with her, and spoke of her remaining indefinitely. She made much of and petted her in a way Margaret was not accustomed to, and which was very pleasant to her. She could almost imagine, now, what it would be to have a mother's love and care during these years of her youthful womanhood. True, her aunt was no support, and her advice was not always wise; but Margaret was both by nature and habit self-reliant, and the person was not come, she thought, to whom she could abandon the reins of government, and in whose favor she might abdicate.
After a week had passed in her aunt's well-ordered household, Margaret received a few ceremonious calls from the ladies of Shellbeach and Sealing, which, in the course of another week, she returned with due formality with her aunt. The visiting acquaintance of Miss Spelman at Shellbeach consisted of a few elderly ladies, of whom Margaret saw but little during her visit, though they were kind and cordial, and always gave her a pleasant welcome to their houses.
There was one caller, however, of whom Margaret was destined to see a good deal, and who deserves a more particular description. She wasa lady who might have been between forty and fifty, who came walking into the house without ringing, one windy evening, in rubber boots, with which she had been making herself a path in the newly fallen snow. She was tall and thin, with heavy eye-brows, and rather masculine bearing and manners, but a very genial smile beamed on her lips and in her eyes. Her voice was loud but cheerful, and she gave Margaret a warm squeeze of the hand and a good, steady look in the eye, that seemed to show she was disposed for friendliness.
"Well now, Martha," said Miss Spelman, helping her guest off with hood and cloak, and wheeling up a comfortable chair for her to the fire, "where have you been all this long time? And how are you and your poor old father? How does the house stand this cold winter, and how are you getting along altogether?"
The visitor seated herself in the chair, tucked up her plain brown gown over her knees, and clasped her rough, strong-looking hands, seeming to enjoy the cheery blaze; then she answered rather slowly,
"We are very well off, thank you, Miss Spelman. Father's about the same as usual; he misses the garden now the snow has come. The house is pretty tight, and I keep the fires going with Norah's help. You know Dr. James got Norah for us, and a more willing, good-natured creature I never wish to see. She really seems to have brought sunshine into the house, and says, 'May the queen of heaven send you good health, sir!' and, 'May the blessed saints look out for you, Miss Martha!' quite in the old-country fashion."
"I don't know about Irish help," said Miss Spelman; "I never can get along with them. I haven't had one these ten years, since my poor old Bridget died; and then they're always so set about getting to church, and dreadfully put out if they are prevented now and then."
"Do you think so? Well, Norah says to me, 'I dearly love to go to holy Mass, and to pay my respects on the saints' days; but the priest tells me to mind my duty in the house first, and I wouldn't feel easy to go and leave that poor lamb (one of her names for my father) with none to look after his dinner.'"
"Well, long may she prove a treasure, that's all," and the old lady shook her head doubtfully.
"You've come to a pretty place, Miss Lester," said Martha Burney; "it's pretty enough now, with its fresh white dress of snow; but I don't know what you'll say to it when the young green comes out, and the birds begin to sing. But what do you find to do with yourself?"
"Nothing very useful yet. I have given my attention principally to coasting; I have got a new sled, and have found some charming coasts about here. I go out before breakfast."
"Bless me! how many ages is it, I wonder, since I did that?" cried Miss Burney. "Then you do not keep late hours in the morning?"
"I did at first, through force of habit; but now I have an alarm-clock, and try getting up at six, and dressing without a fire."
"Very well, very well indeed, for a New Yorker! Ah! I see you will do for the country. You must never go away, but make up your mind to settle down here."
"That's what I mean to have her do," said Miss Spelman; "and Margaret said she would consider the subject."
Miss Burney's call lasted a full hour; then she enveloped herself in cloak and hood, and shaking Margaretonce more warmly by the hand took her departure.
"Who is she, aunt? I think she must be a character, and mean to cultivate her acquaintance."
"Yes, she has a story. Her father—lamb, indeed!" cried Miss Spelman, interrupting herself; "that Norah had better call him 'poor wolf;' to be sure he is reaping the fruits of his misdeeds, but he has richly deserved his troubles. Well, he was a swindler; that is all. His poor wife died of the shame when the biggest of his robberies came to light, and he went steadily down-hill, with this brave daughter trying to keep him straight. He spent one or two poor little legacies she had left her, and at last became the broken-down, imbecile old man he is now. When he was too feeble to prevent her, Martha took him out of the great city where he lived, and they somehow found their way here; and then she went to work and has supported him ever since. She teaches in the public school over in Sealing; she is the head lady teacher now, and with that, and a little she has had left her within a few years, she supports herself and him."
"Is it not a hard life for her?"
"Very, but she prefers obscurity; and that is the best employment she can get here. She is a fine woman, independent and brave, owing no one any thing and taking care of herself. She had a lover once, they say," continued Miss Selina, dropping her voice; "but when it all came to light about her father's transactions, of course she released him."
"And he accepted it?"
"Why, certainly he did, dear Margaret; no man would wish to marry a woman with such a father."
Margaret drummed with her foot on the fender, but made no reply.
"I like Martha Burney's company, and I try to make her come here often; but it is hard to induce her to leave her father. She says she has to be away from him so much of each day, that it is not right to let him pass any more time alone."
"Well, I suppose she would not object to my going to see her."
"She would be delighted to see you. She has all her evenings, and Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. She is very fond of young people."
The Sealing callers do not demand a particular description. There were a few young ladies, none of whom Margaret much liked; she thought them assuming and silly. One of them crowned her other offences by replying to a question of Margaret's about Miss Burney, "Oh! yes, very estimable person, I believe; I do not know her. Were you aware that she teaches in the public school?"
TO BE CONTINUED.
For a century and a half, the attention of the scientific world has been repeatedly called to theories purporting to prove the evolution of the species. Before the last dozen years, they elicited nothing but deserved contempt from those conversant with the phenomena of which they treat. Their absurdity was transparent, alike in their conclusion and in the processes by which that conclusion was held to have been reached. They were in succession fully refuted. But there arose a class of men, somewhat superior in intellect and ingenuity to the propounders of these speculations, who were imbued with similar atheistic principles. They directed all their efforts toward the conception of a theory more capable than the others of attaining a respectable scientificstatus. It would have been matter of great surprise, then, if this concentration of intellectual energy had not resulted in something sufficiently plausible to startle the world.
In the year 1859, Mr. Charles Darwin, one of the first naturalists of England, propounded his theory of development, in a work termedThe Origin of Species. This purported to be a full and conclusive confirmation of the hypothesis of evolution. The theory was elaborate and ingenious, and on its appearance was immediately advocated by many men to whom it was not wholly unexpected. Its congruity with their atheistic views can alone furnish an adequate explanation of the haste with which they declared themselves its advocates. This harmony with preconceived ideas was confessedly the chief inducement urging them to accept the theory. Hear Mr. Herbert Spencer's conception of the spirit in which a person should approach the subject: "Before it can be ascertained how organized beings have been gradually evolved, there must be reached the conviction that theyhavebeen gradually evolved." The italics are his own. Mr. George Henry Lewes, in an article in theFortnightly Reviewfor April 1st, 1868, says:
"There can be little doubt that the acceptance or rejection of Darwinism has, in the vast majority of cases, been wholly determined by the monistic or dualistic attitude of the mind. And this explains, what would otherwise be inexplicable, the surprising fervor and facility with which men, wholly incompetent to appreciate the evidence for or against natural selection, have adopted or 'refuted' it."
"There can be little doubt that the acceptance or rejection of Darwinism has, in the vast majority of cases, been wholly determined by the monistic or dualistic attitude of the mind. And this explains, what would otherwise be inexplicable, the surprising fervor and facility with which men, wholly incompetent to appreciate the evidence for or against natural selection, have adopted or 'refuted' it."
That Mr. Lewes and other really able men have been so influenced, we entertain not the slightest doubt. But their failure to discover and appreciate the evidence against the theory, we ascribe not to incompetency, but to the bias of a foregone conclusion. We hail with delight the efforts of these men to sustain the theory, confident that, the greater the light thrown upon it, the more glaringly palpable will become its absurdity.
We purpose to show, in this andother articles, that the facts which are seemingly so congruous with the conception of evolution are in reality grossly at variance with it, and strictly in accordance with the doctrine of special creations. We will proceed at once to their consideration.
Variations form the data of Darwin's theory. These, as facts, cannot be disputed. Variation is everywhere seen. Scarcely any species, either animal or vegetable, has escaped this tendency. While some species have not presented differences among their individuals sufficiently marked for the formation of varieties, a multitude of other species display modifications which form the characteristics of dozens of widely distinct breeds. Not less than one hundred and fifty distinct strains and varieties have descended from the original wild pigeon,columba livia. All these varieties result from man's careful selection, and his judicious pairing of those individuals which possess the required modifications. This he does in sure reliance on the law of heredity, which transmits to the offspring the most minute peculiarities of the parents, saving, of course, when they are brought into conflict with opposite characters. These variations are both in the direction of increase and in the direction of decrease. Here we find a variety formed by the appearance of a modification not observable in the species under nature, and there a variety formed by the total or partial suppression of one or more characters. Now, few portions of the organization are incapable of modification. Darwin has conclusively shown that even the bones and internal organs have been greatly modified. To realize fully the extent and scope of variation, it is necessary to consult Darwin's late work,Animals and Plants under Domestication. Many of the modifications—especially those most widely divergent—constitute differences greater than those which distinguish species from species, and, in some few cases, genus from genus.
It may here be thought that we have made too great concessions; that the logical and inevitable conclusion from the facts, as we state them, is the evolution of the species. Not so. For the more numerous and the more widely divergent the modifications are shown to be, the more easily will we be able to prove to demonstration the fixity of the species.
As these varieties (or incipient species, as Darwin conceives them to be) were formed through the selection by man of slight successive modifications, Darwin affects to believe that variations arose in the wild state; that they were accumulated and preserved by nature by a process analogous to man's selection; and that by the long continued accumulation and conservation, through countless ages, of these modifications, the species have evolved from one another. This selective power of nature he infers from the struggle for existence constantly carried on in the wild state, wherein the weak succumb, and the fittest, strongest, and most vigorous survive, and, according to the theory, attain to a higher development.
Many objections have been urged against Darwin's theory. Some have questioned the efficiency of natural selection; and others have contended that selection necessarily implies a selecter. Some have considered Darwinism sufficiently disproved by the absence of the transitional links between the different species. Others have asserted the inconceivableness of the primordial differentiation of parts in organisms when they all presented the simplest structure. Another argument has been adducedfrom the tendency of domesticated animals and plants, when neglected, to recur to the ancestral form under nature. Some assume a limit to variation; while others have contended that domestication of itself has introduced something plastic into organisms, enabling them to vary, and that, therefore, the analogy drawn between animals and plants under domestication and those under nature is inadmissible. Others assert that domestic animals and plants have been rendered in an especial manner subservient to the uses and purposes of man. In conformity with this view, they also affirm that the conception of species is, for that reason, not applicable to the creatures under domestication. For ourselves, we concede that the analogy between domesticated and natural animals and plants is a just one, in the light in which the phenomena of variation are generally regarded. For we wholly dissent from the opinion of the introduction by domestication of any thing plastic into organisms, and firmly believe in the operation of secondary causes in the formation of varieties.
These arguments, in the form in which they are adduced, are inconclusive. Their weakness springs from an error into which those who have urged them have fallen, which vitiates at the start all their reasoning. To this error we shall presently advert. But while we cannot concur in their premises, we have something more than an intuition of the truth of their common conclusion.
The facts, of which theAnimals and Plants under Domesticationis a vast repertory, admit of a theory more conformable than that of Darwin to the phenomena of variation; a theory which fully accounts for the appearance of the profitable modifications under domestication, (confessedly inexplicable on Darwin's theory,) and for the formation of races under nature; a theory admitting of still further variation; and which is at the same time strictly in accordance with the doctrines of special creations and of the immutability of the species. This teleological explanation, of which we conceive the phenomena of variation to be susceptible, we will render amenable to all the canons of scientific research. And in doing so, we will rely for our proofs upon no evidence but that furnished us by noted evolutionists.
The seeming concurrence of all the evidence in favor of Darwinism results from a misconception by all of the true nature of its data. In all the arguments adduced by the advocates of special creation in disproof of Darwin's hypotheses, these variations have been tacitly admitted to arise by evolution. That they have thus arisen seems to be taken for granted. In this admission lies their error. Upon this current conception of varietal evolution rests the whole evolution hypothesis. Upon the validity of this assumption we join issue with Darwin, as we conceive that upon this point the whole question hinges. For it is not a little illogical to concede the evolution of varieties, and to deny the evolution of species. If we can show that this assumption is invalid, the whole evolution fabric will fall.
Darwin tacitly assumes that the existing state of nature is the normal or primordial condition of animals and plants. The difficulty hitherto experienced in confuting his errors springs from acquiescence in this assumption. True it is that Darwin does not believe in the validity of this assumption, but merely makes it to show the inconceivableness of the negation of evolution. With him aspecies is not fixed but fluctuating, and is merely a subjective conception, having no objective reality. Believing in the converse assumption, we advance the following theory:That animals and plants have degenerated under nature, and that the favorable modifications arising under domestication are due to reversion to the perfect type.
Darwin, in treating of variations, refers them indiscriminately to reversion and to evolution. This he does according to no law, rule, method, or formula. The mere circumstance that he has one subject under consideration, suffices to induce him to ascribe to reversion a modification which, in another portion of his work, he, with strange inconsistency, attributes to "spontaneous variability." He affects to deem it a sufficient answer to the ascription of characters to reversion, to appeal to the absence of such characters in the species under nature. If the assumption of degeneration and subsequent favorable reversion can lay even the least claim to tenability, this answer is in no wise satisfactory. If it can be conclusively shown that most, if not all, creatures in a state of nature, are in a degenerated condition, then the irresistible inference will be, in the absence of any other rational explanation, that favorable variations are ascribable to reversion.
While, as Herbert Spencer says, "a comparison of ancient and modern members of the types which have existed from paleozoic and mesozoic times down to the present day shows that the total amount of change (in animals) is not relatively great, and that it is not manifestly toward a higher organization," paleontology furnishes us with many facts showing the great size of ancient mammals, and marked degeneracy in their descendants. Thus, Darwin concurs with Bell, Cuvier, Nilsson, and others in the belief that European cattle—the Continental and Pembroke breeds, and the Chillingham cattle—are the degenerate descendants of the great urus, (bos primigenius,) with which they cannot now sustain a comparison, so greatly have they degenerated. Cæsar describes the urus as being not much inferior in size to the elephant. An entire skull of one, found in Perthshire, measures one yard in length, while the span of the horn cores is three feet and six inches, the breadth of the forehead between the horns is ten and a half inches, and from the middle of the occipital ridge to the back of the orbit it is thirteen inches, (Owen's British Fossil Mammals, pp. 500, 501, 502.) The common red deer have so greatly undergone degeneration that the fossil remains of their progenitors have been held to be those of a distinct species, (strongylocerus spelæus.) An advocate of Darwinism—a writer in theEdinburgh Reviewfor October, 1868—differs with Owen on this point, and holds that the common red deer are their descendants, greatly degenerated. From their antlers it is inferred that they equalled in height the megaceros, whose height to summit of antlers was ten feet four inches, (Owen's British Foss. Mam.) So marked is the difference in the size of the antlers, says the Edinburgh reviewer, that it would be possible to ascertain approximately the antiquity of a deposit in which they might be found from that fact alone. The horse and theelephas antiquushave also been shown to have decreased in size.