The Mother CHAPTER 12.
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Going into Company.
Marien was in her eighteenth year, and yet she had been taken into mixed company by her parents but very little. Her virtues were all of a domestic character, and graced the home circle. She knew of little beyond its pleasant precincts. Few who saw her, supposed that she was over fifteen years of age. Not that her mind was unmatured, but because her appearance was girlish, and her manners simple and unaffected — yet retiring when strangers were present.
"How old is Marien?" asked Mrs. Fielding, who had called in one morning to chat away half an hour with Mrs. Hartley. Marien had just left the room.
"In her eighteenth year," was replied.
"Nearly eighteen! Dear me! — it cannot be."
"Yes. That is her age."
"I never would have believed it. Why, she looks more like a girl of thirteen or fourteen."
"I don't know. She doesn't seem so very young to me."
"But why in the world do you keep the poor thing back so? She should have been introduced into company two years ago. I had no idea that she was so old."
Mrs. Fielding had a daughter only in her seventeenth year, who had been flourishing about at all the balls and parties for the past two seasons, and had now all the silly airs andaffectations which a young miss, under such circumstances, might be expected to acquire. Jane Fielding had met Marien several times, on calling at Mrs. Hartley's with her mother, but, imagining her to be a mere child, in comparison with herself — she had treated her as such. Marien was never pushed forward by her mother, and, therefore, the mistake of Mrs. Fielding and her daughter was not corrected, by their own observation.
"There is plenty of time yet," said Mrs. Hartley, in reply to the remark of her visitor. "Ten young ladies go into company too early — where one goes in too late."
"I doubt that. If you don't take your daughter into polished society early, she will never acquire that grace and ease of manner so beautiful and so essential."
Involuntarily did Mrs. Hartley compare, in her own mind, the forward, chattering, flirting Jane Fielding with her own modest child, in whom all the graces of a sweet spirit shone with a tempered, yet beautiful luster.
"I am more anxious that my daughter shall be a true woman, when she arrives at woman's age — than an artificial woman, while a mere child," she could not help replying.
"A very strange remark," said Mrs. Fielding.
"And yet it expresses my views on the subject."
"I would hardly think you had reflected much about it, and was merely acting from some antiquated notion put into your head by Aunt Mary."
"You err there very much, Mrs. Fielding. Since the birth of my daughter, the attainment of the best means for securing her happiness has been with me a source of deep reflection. I have brought to my aid the observations of my youth and mature years. What I have seen in real life confirms my rational deductions. I am well satisfied that it injures a young girl, to throw her into company early. It is from this conviction that I act."
"How can it injure her? I am at a loss to know."
"It injures her in everything, I was going to say."
"Name a single particular."
"It puts a woman's head upon a girl's shoulders, to use a common saying — while she lacks the strength to carry it steadily."
"O dear! What a strange idea!"
"And not only that, Mrs. Fielding; it exposes her, before she has the intelligence to discriminate accurately between the true and the false, to the danger of forming a wrong estimate of life and its duties — of being carried away by a love of dress and show and mere pleasure — while things of infinitely more importance are seen in an obscure light, and viewed as of little consequence. The manners of a girl who has gone into company too early are always offensive to me. There is a pertness about her that I cannot bear — a toss of the head, a motion of the body, an affected distortion of the countenance, (I can call it nothing else,) that is peculiarly disagreeable."
"You see a great deal more than I do, that is all I can say, Mrs. Hartley," replied Mrs. Fielding, a little gravely. She had, that very morning, felt called upon to rebuke Jane for therude forwardness of her manners in company the previous evening!
"Perhaps I have thought more on the subject and, in consequence, observed more closely."
"I don't know how that is — perhaps so" — was the visitor's rather cold reply.
A new subject of conversation was then started. While they still sat conversing, Marien, who had gone out to attend to something, came in with little Lillian by the hand, now just five years old. Mrs. Fielding looked into her face with a new interest, observed her words closely, and watched every motion. Involuntary respect, and even admiration, were elicited. There was something innocent and like a child about her, and yet this was so blended with a womanly grace when she conversed, that, in spite of herself, she could not help contrasting her manner with the forward, overly-familiar airs of her own daughter.
As Lillian did not seem very well, and was disposed to be fretful, Marien soon took her out of the room, and Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Fielding were again left alone.
"I declare, Mrs. Hartley," said the latter, "it is a shame to keep that girl back as you do. "It is unjust to her. She would shine in company."
"I have no wish to see her shine. To attract much attention is always to be in a dangerous position for one so young and inexperienced. Besides, when she does shine, as you say, I wish it to be with a steady and enduring light — not with flickering glare, dazzling but evanescent. Next winter we intend taking her into company for a few times, and, after that, introducing her to a more extended but select circle of acquaintances. What we wish most to guard against, is the danger of her forming a romantic attachment too early. We wish her heart to be free — until her reason is matured, and her judgment formed upon a basis of true principles. If you expose a young girl in fashionable society to the love-gossip so prevalent there among certain portions of it, you injure her almost inevitably. If she even makes a good marriage afterwards, it will be little more than a fortunate accident."
"I cannot understand why."
"The fact is notorious. A good husband is one who marries from correct views of marriage; and he will take good care that his wife is not one of the puppet-women with whom he has chattered and gossiped in the fashionable drawing-room. O no! He must have more sober and enduring qualities. The wife and mother, the nurse in sickness, thecompanion of a whole life — will never be chosen by a sensible man from one of these silly girls. He will see in the quiet, thoughtful maiden, charms more potent, and at her shrine will he offer up the pure devotion of an honest heart."
Mrs. Hartley's visitor did not feel very well pleased with herself or her daughter for some days after this conversation. There was so much of truth about what had been said, and truth bearing upon her own conduct as a mother — that it made her uncomfortable. But it was too late for her to mend — the evil was already done. The more she thought about the picture Mrs. Hartley had drawn of a puppet-woman, as she had chosen to call her — the more closely did she perceive that her own daughter resembled the sketch, until she felt half angry at what appeared almost too pointed an allusion.
The next time that Mrs. Fielding and her daughter called upon Mrs. Hartley, the latter paid a much more respectful attention to Marien than she had ever before done. She was surprised to find, in one she had looked upon as a girl too young for her to associate with — a quiet dignity of manner and womanly tone of character beyond what she had dreamed existed. At first she rattled on with her in quite a patronizing way — but before she left, she was rather inclined to listen, than to talk.
"While our mothers are talking, let us have some music," Jane said, during a pause in the conversation. "Are you fond of playing?"
"I am fond of music, and always like good playing. Come to the piano — you play well, I understand. I shall enjoy your performance very much."
Jane sat down to the piano, and rattled off several fashionable frivolities, in a kind of hap-hazard style. Marien was disappointed, and did not, for she could not, praise the young lady's playing. She had learned only to speak what she thought, and when she could not praise, and utter the truth — she said nothing.
"Play something else," she said.
Jane turned over the music books and selected an overture which required a brilliant performer to execute it with anything like its true effect. On this she went to work, with might and main, and got through in about ten minutes, much to the relief of Marien, whose fine perception of musical harmonies was terribly outraged.
"Now you must play," said Jane, as she struck the last note, rising from the instrument.
Marien sat down and let her fingers fall upon the keys, that answered to their touch as if half conscious.
"You play divinely!" exclaimed Jane, after Marien had played a short piece of music with fine taste. "Do you sing?"
"Sometimes."
"Can you sing, The Banks of the Blue Moselle?"
"I believe so." Marien ran her fingers over the keys, and then warbled that sprightly song in a low, sweet voice, that really charmed her companion. The ease with which this was done surprised Jane. It seemed to cost Marien scarce an effort. Half a dozen other songs were named, and sung by Marien, who then asked Jane if she would not sing.
"Not after you," replied the young lady, taking a step back from the piano.
Marien did not know how to reply to such a remark, and so she said nothing. She could not lavish false compliments, nor did she wish to make any allusion to her own performance. She had sung to please her visitor, and had not a thought beyond that.
Mrs. Fielding was less self-satisfied than ever after this visit. She could not but acknowledge to herself, that she would much rather her daughter were more like Marien.
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