The Young Lady CHAPTER 3.
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Unmoved by anything which Uncle Peter could say, Mrs. Howard persisted in her determination to bring out Cecilia during the coming season.
"If you will do it, Hannah," the old man urged, finding that all his arguments, meant to prevent that act, fell upon her ear powerless, "let me beg of you to bring her forwardgradually. Do not present her with a flourish of trumpets. Rather keep her in the background, until her head becomes steady, and her sight clear."
"Really, Peter," Mrs. Howard replied, "I do not see any reason why you should concern yourself so much about 'Celia. It's very strange if I don't know what is best for my own child! And as to bringing her forward gradually, as you call it, that would be an egregious folly. There wouldn't be the slightest sensation produced; and all depends upon that!"
"All what, Hannah?"
"Why, all — all — all — the — "
"Hannah!" And her brother looked at her steadily for a few moments, with a fixed, stern look. This put Mrs. Howard out of patience, and she replied with some acrimony,
"Peter, I am getting right down tired of this constant, unreasonable, and foolish interference of yours in regard to Cecilia. There is no sense in it! What do you know, about what is best for a young lady situated like Cecilia? Why, just nothing at all! Such old fashioned notions as yours might do well enough fifty years ago. But they are not the thing now, and anyone who should attempt to act them out, would become a general laughing stock. Come out gradually! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"Producing a sensation! A young thing — a mere child, not seventeen — producing a sensation! Who ever heard of such a thing?" retorted the old man in a tone of bitter sarcasm. "And why all this desire to produce a sensation? Tell me that, will you? Oh! Ah! Yes! Now I see! The child is to be married! — true! It's all a scheme to get a husband. To catch some silly fop, and to tie him to the girl's apron strings!"
"It's no use for you to talk," Mrs. Howard replied, in a firm, but offended tone. "I know exactly what is right to be done, and I am going to do it, in spite of what you or anyone else may say. I presume that I love my own child, and have a natural pride in her. Therefore I am not going to let her be eclipsed by anyone, if I can help it. On that point, my mind is made up. You sneer at her as a mere child. But let me tell you, that the world will not so esteem her."
"And therein lies the danger I fear, Hannah," her brother said, in a gentler and more serious tone. "She will be looked upon as a woman, and treated as a woman; and, moreover, placed in circumstances, where a woman's judgment and a woman's discrimination will be called for. And are you not conscious that she does not possess either of them?"
"No, indeed! I am not conscious of any such deficiency in judgment and discrimination as you allege. I presume to know Cecilia as well, and even better than anyone else, and this knowledge satisfies me fully of her ability to act a proper part in any society."
"Suppose someone makes her an offer of marriage?"
"Well, what then?"
"Exactly! What then?"
"Of course she will refer to her parents, and abide by their judgment in the matter."
"As the majority of young ladies do — ha?"
"If other girls have been self-willed and imprudent in these matters, that is no reason why Cecilia would follow their example. She is very different, let me tell you, from the general run of young ladies!"
"Different, and yet, in many respects, too much like them," Uncle Peter said, half in reply, and half in soliloquy. And then the old man sunk into a reverie, at the conclusion of which Mrs. Howard managed to prevent a renewal of the unpleasant subject.
Time passed on, and the process of "coming out," was gone through, notwithstanding the open remonstrances and covert sarcasms of Uncle Peter. Miss Cecilia Howard, young and lovely, and "worth a fortune," into the bargain, was received, of course, with marked consideration. A dozen handsome, intelligent, and accomplished young gentlemen, stood ready to give her a warm welcome. No wonder, then, that the brain of the young debutante was nearly turned. No wonder that her natural powers of discrimination, and the faculty of reading character, were almost altogether obscured, leaving her with no guide but her own love of admiration, and the susceptibilities of an innocent, unsuspecting heart.
As might very naturally have been expected, at the age of seventeen, she was under engagement of marriage. And notwithstanding that 'moral philosophy' had been one of the branches of her finished education, her choice was influenced by no moral considerations. She was wooed and won by a very handsome and very fashionable young man, whose family was the true stamp of modern gentility. Of such a thing as moral worth — she had no conception, for her own rational powers had scarcely begun to develop themselves. She was yet a child, but in the place of a woman, and scarcely more fit to act truly the part of a woman, than a child — for she could only be governed by external considerations, and by the influence of others — instead of by an internal conviction and perception from reason, that her actions were right.
Fortunately, however it so happened that Theodore Merlin, the young man by whom she had been wooed and won, though nearly as ignorant as herself in regard to true principles of action, rationally seen — had been kept through the watchful solicitude of a mother who knew something of the evils which beset young men when first entering the world, from moral contamination. There had been no insemination of evil principles in his mind. The ground was just broken, and ready for seed.
At eighteen, Cecilia became the happy Mrs. Merlin. As her husband was as much of a child as herself, it was thought advisable to overrule their strong desire to have a house of their own. This was done after much effort, and the young couple consented to spend the first year of their new existence in the family of Mr. and Mrs. Howard, the father and mother of Cecilia.
This year was passed by the young bride in a giddy round of pleasure. Books were no more resorted to, except as the means of filling up an idle hour. Having completed her education at school, it would not only have been irksome, but a real waste of time she felt, to look again into a book of principles and facts. Of course, Cecilia had no affection for, or appreciation of, knowledge as the means to a real useful end. It was fashionable for young ladies to be well educated and accomplished, and that was the impulse under which she had pressed forward at school, and imbibed a knowledge of the various branches which were there taught.
At the end of the first year which passed after their marriage, the young couple set up house for themselves. Mr. Merlin had commenced business as a merchant, and now they felt themselves to be of no little importance in society. Furnished out with a cook, a chambermaid, and a waiter, or man-servant — Mrs. Merlin found house-keeping a very pleasant kind of an affair. She had nothing to do but to dress, visit, and receive company. No household cares, or interfering duties, marred the pleasant round of her fashionable recreations.
During all this time, it must hot be supposed that Uncle Peter remained a silent witness of passing events in the life of his niece, for whom his affection remained undiminished. He was a kind of thorn in the side of Mrs. Howard and Cecilia, censuring, opposing, or ridiculing every folly, imprudence, or false notion with most annoying pertinacity. But there was one thing which he did not oppose, but rather encouraged, and that was the desire of the young folks to set up housekeeping for themselves. Not that he supposed Cecilia at all fitted for the duties which would naturally devolve upon her, or that she would, at first, make any effort to perform those duties. But he was anxious to have her removed from her mother's influence, and placed in circumstances where she would be required, at times, to act for herself. In her own house, he could the oftener find her alone, and while alone, that is, away from her mother, he knew that he could much more easily make her comprehend some things, necessary to be learned.
To his advocacy of Mr. and Mrs. Merlin's desire to set up house for themselves, were they indebted for the handsome house they received at the end of the first year of their marriage. For this they both felt very grateful to him, and much inclined to be charitable to, and to bear with commendable patience, his frequent opposition to their manners and habits of life, and his ridicule of their deference to prevailing modes, in which was no principle of moral life.
During the second year of their marriage, a sweet babe came to bless their household with a blessing of innocence and delight. For this, no heart, not even the mother's, was more thankful than that of Uncle Peter.
"Now," said the old man to himself, as he sat smiling in tears, upon learning the news, and that Cecilia was safely through the pains and perils of childbirth — "Now there is hope for my dear girl; for, surely, in loving and ministering to her own sweet babe, will the young mother's heart find pleasures far more attractive — delights far more exquisite — than those offered by the hollow forms and courtesies of fashionable life. Now she will be won away from these."
But, Uncle Peter was mistaken — sadly mistaken. On his first visit, two days after the birth of her child, he found that a wet-nurse had been engaged; and saw, the first time his eye rested upon it, the helpless innocent which had been sent to bless his niece, laid upon the bosom of a stranger!
This was a painful shock to the old man's feelings. Owing to the weak condition of Cecilia, he could not remonstrate with her upon so unnatural an act, as much as he desired to do so. Still, he could not help saying, as he stooped down to kiss her, on rising to go away,
"Cecilia, take that babe to your own bosom. It will be a thousand times dearer to you."
"My constitution would not bear it" — Cecilia replied, in a feeble voice — but the feebleness was mainly a pretension.
Uncle Peter knew that it was not the time to urge the matter, and so he deferred what he strongly desired to say, for some three or four weeks, when he thought that she could more easily bear a little excitement of mind.
For the purpose of having some plain talk, he called in, one morning, about the end of that time. He had visited Cecilia the day before, as he had done regularly every day, since the birth of her babe. But since his last visit, there had been a change. He found her sitting alone in her chamber, with everything arranged in the most perfect order, and no indication whatever to be seen, that she was now a mother. The old man looked around in surprise for a moment or two, and then asked for little Cecilia.
"Nurse and the babe have been removed to their own room," was the quiet, dignified reply of Mrs. Merlin.
"To their own room!" exclaimed Uncle Peter, in a tone of surprise. "And pray, madam, where is that?"
"In the nursery, to be sure!" Cecilia replied. "You didn't suppose, surely, that I was going to keep them in my own chamber."
"Removed to the nursery, and only four weeks old!" Uncle Peter said, in a low voice of surprise and displeasure. "Cecilia, you are more unnatural than the brute animals. They always nurse and take care of their own young."
"It's a shame for you to talk to me in that way, Uncle Peter!" Cecilia replied in an offended tone. "Do you take me for a cow?"
"I would have you imitate at least, the natural feelings of a cow in regard to your own offspring," the old man said — "Like her, nature has supplied you with the means of nourishing your own child, but there the parallel ceases. She hearkens to the call of nature, and obeys its prompting impulses. But you do not. More unnatural are you — than the animal you have named. And not only more unnatural than that harmless creature, but more unnatural than even the fierce lioness, whose love for her young, rebukes your heartless abandonment of yours! Pardon my plainness of speech. I must speak what I think."
This had the effect of bringing forth a gush of tears. But that argument weighed but little with Uncle Peter, whose pure and unselfish love for his niece prompted him to speak out the truth with unmistakable plainness. As soon as that demonstration had subsided, he said, in a soothing, persuasive tone,
"Do think better of it, Cecilia, and take that dear little babe to your bosom before it is too late — before the fountain which nature has opened there be made utterly dry. Do not, let me beg of you, allow your child's first, best, innocent affections — to entwine themselves around anyone but her own mother."
"But think of my health, Uncle?"
"How do you know it will injure your health?"
"Why everybody says it will."
"Whom do you mean by everybody?"
"Why all the ladies that I know. There is Mrs. Melrose, who says that she never thinks of nursing one of her children now. She did try it at first, but had to give it up."
"Mrs. Melrose! And can it be possible, Cecilia, that such a woman as Mrs. Melrose can influence you in a thing like this — a mere social butterfly, who sports and flutters and finds existence in the sunshine of fashionable life. A woman who has smothered every impulse of true womanly nature. Shame on you for harkening a moment to the evil suggestions of one like her!"
"I declare, Uncle Peter, it is too bad, the way you talk to me about myself and my intimate friends!" responded Cecilia, warmly. "You used to love me" — her voice softening — "and praise me, and call me your dear little 'Celia. But now, I can do nothing to please you!"
A tear fell upon the young mother's hand, as she ceased speaking. Uncle Peter waited a moment, and then said,
"It is because I do love you, Cecilia, that I talk to you so plainly. If I cared nothing for you, I would not, probably, come near you, or make the slightest effort to save you fromfollies and wrong habits of life, that must, inevitably, end in your permanent unhappiness. That Holy Book, whose precepts are living and immutable truths, declares "The way of transgressors is hard." You are now transgressing a law of nature; and it is because I wish to save you from the penalty which must, certainly, follow such a transgression, that I now talk to you with a degree of plainness which has wounded your feelings."
Cecilia looked at her Uncle in silent surprise, and he continued —
"It is a law of nature that the mother shall nourish her own offspring. Beware how you violate that law! For, The way of the transgressor is hard!"
"But it is not now considered genteel for a lady to nurse her children," urged Cecilia, not at all feeling the force of her Uncle's remark.
"Not genteel for a mother to nurse her own babe!" exclaimed the old man in surprise. "Bless me! To what are we coming? But, surely, you cannot be in earnest!"
"Indeed and I am! Things are not now as they were, when you were young. You must remember that society is advancing, and that all improvements necessarily bring changes in the domestic, as well as in other relations in life. Mrs. Melrose says that — "
"Don't talk to me about Mrs. Melrose, if you please!" interrupted Uncle Peter, in a voice that seemed harsh and angry to his niece. "She is a heartless — nay, a wicked woman!"
"Wicked? How can you say so? I know her well, and know that she is kind, and good, and gentle."
"Yes, very kind, and good, and gentle — to fill the head of a young thing like you, with the unnatural and wicked idea, that it is wrong to nourish your own babe at your own bosom. Shame on her! I say."
"But I am sure, Uncle, that I can't see any difference to little Cecilia whether the nurse or I take the care of her. She will be equally well attended — or rather, I should say, better attended, as it is now, than if I were to attempt the task of ministering to her myself."
As rough, and eccentric, and unpolished as Uncle Peter seemed, at times, the reader has already discovered that he possessed a discriminating mind, with the power of expressing clearly, and in good language, sound and healthy moral principles.
"Are you willing to see the difference to your babe?" he asked, as soon as Cecilia had made the last remark.
"Of course I am," was the reply.
"Then I will try to present it. WHY, in the first place, let me ask you, has your babe been permitted to be born into this world?"
"To grow up and be happy, I suppose."
"And for that alone?"
"I don't know for what else, particularly."
"Then I will try to show you, if I can, for what other reason your babe was born."
"Well, I would like to know."
"She has been born to fill some particular place in the great social body, to the end that she may minister to the happiness of others."
"And be miserable herself in doing so?"
"No, my child. But to be, in filling her true place, and in the active performance of uses to others in that place — happy beyond the highest conception of those who seek only, and selfishly, their own delight."
"I must confess that I do not understand you, Uncle," was Cecilia's cold reply.
For a few moments, Uncle Peter sat silent, and then resumed —
"At some future day, I trust, I shall be able to make you comprehend, fully, what I have said, and much more that I wished to say. At present, I must try to influence you in regard to your babe, by what you can understand. Your child, you think, was born to be happy."
"Certainly I do."
"And so it was. Happy, I think — in the bestowing good to others; you think — in receiving it from others. But no matter. Your child was born to be happy, and as you are its mother, you are bound to secure, by all means, as far as in your power lies, your child's future happiness. Do you not think so?"
"Certainly I do."
"And do you not think that you can secure this happiness for your offspring much more certainly, by ministering, yourself, to all its needs, from the hour of its birth?"
"No, I do not. And I will tell you why. As Mrs. Melrose says, and justly — "
"Don't speak of that woman to me, Cecilia. I would suspect the truth to be a mere perversion of it, were I to hear it uttered by her lips!"
"Well, then, as I say — My babe is now perfectly unconscious of external things. It needs only to be attended to in the kindest and gentlest manner, and this, a careful and experienced nurse can do much better than myself."
"I doubt it, Cecilia."
"But it is reasonable, Uncle. She has nursed many children — I none."
"Which do you suppose would fight best for his country — the hired soldier, who had nothing at stake; or the citizen who felt his country's honor and rights insulted while his bosom warmed into patriotic enthusiasm, and under such impulses went deliberately into the battlefield?"
"The latter, of course."
"And which do you think would best cherish a helpless infant — the mother who had borne it, and whose heart yearned over it with a mother's peculiar affection — or the hireling nurse, whose only reason for assuming the maternal office, was an expectation of the wages of her service? Answer this question, Cecilia, to your own heart!"
"But Uncle, although this sounds very imposing, yet it seems to me fallacious. A babe, as I said before, needs only to be carefully and tenderly nursed. What more could I do for it?"
"Is your babe a mere animal? Are there not the gems of a budding intellect concealed in the principle of life, which now seems little more than mere animal life? Are there notaffections there, which will be called into activity almost simultaneously with its bodily existence — affections that may be trained to good, or warped to evil? Think of this, Cecilia, and tremble lest, even now, a hand less careful than your own, and all unskilled by the science of a mother's love, may be giving to the first outreaching tendrils of affection, a bias that no after teaching can eradicate — a bias that will make your child forever unhappy. Cecilia the position of a mother — your position — is one of fearful responsibility. And woe be to her who shrinks from that responsibility! She will curse her children — and that curse will be revisited upon her own head."
Uncle Peter spoke with warmth, and Cecilia felt, in a degree, the truth and power of what he said. Before she had time to reply, Mrs. Melrose was announced, and entered her room a few moments afterwards.
"My dear Cecilia! How glad I am to see you so well!" exclaimed Mrs. Melrose, throwing her arms around Cecilia, and kissing her with a great show of affection.
As she did this, Uncle Peter arose, and with a formal bow to both his niece and her visitor, turned towards the door.
"O don't go yet, Uncle," cried Cecilia, pretending to desire longer his company — than which nothing, just at that moment, would have been more annoying.
"Say Peter!" rejoined the old man, who felt her insincerity, turning upon her as he spoke a look peculiar to himself, in which was blended something of contempt and anger."
"Uncle Peter, then!"
"Good day!" And in the next moment he shut the door hard after him.
"What a queer old fellow is that uncle of yours is!" Mrs. Melrose said, laughing out so loud, that Cecilia was alarmed lest her Uncle should hear the sound of her voice.
"Queer enough," replied Mrs. Merlin. "The fact is, he annoys me almost to death of late. His eccentric ways, and peculiar modes of thought and speech, are bad enough, especially when company is present; but, besides them, I have to bear with his constant interference in things which don't concern him at all. As for instance, he has just been reading me a grave lecture, because I have taken a nurse for my babe."
"Good gracious! And please, what does he want you to do?"
"To nurse it myself, of course."
"I hope you had spirit enough to tell him just to mind his own business!"
"I couldn't tell him that, of course, because he is my mother's brother, and seems to have an affection for me."
"Though a singular way of showing it."
"Yes, rather singular, I often think myself."
"Nurse your own child! How old-fashioned!"
"Isn't it?"
"I don't know one lady, that may be truly called a lady," pursued Mrs. Melrose, "who pretends to be tied down to her children. Mothers used to make slaves of themselves — but genteel people don't do so now. The world is growing wiser in these matters. What is the use, I wonder, of a mother's tying herself down, when there are plenty of females to be had whose business it is to nurse children, and who are very willing to undertake the care of them? For my part, I never nursed but one of my children, and that was enough for me. As soon as they are born, now, I turn them over to a good nurse, and go and enjoy myself in society as usual. That is the true way — and the way fashionable ladies now do."
"And the way I intend doing," replied Cecilia, notwithstanding the strong arguments Uncle Peter had used in the hope of driving her from so unnatural a resolution.
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