CHAPTER XX.

For true it is, as _in principio, Mulier est hominis confusio;_ Madam, the meaning of this Latin is, That woman is to man his sovereign bliss.

A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego.-- These are the words of Chanticleer, not mine; I honor dames, and think their s.e.x divine.--_Dryden_.

On the day after their return, Morton visited Miss Leslie to learn if she had suffered from the fatigues and alarms of yesterday; and, in truth, she had the pale face of one whose rest has been short and broken.

"It has been my fate to terrify you," said the anxious Morton.

During his visit, the door bell was most obtrusively busy. Messages, parcels, notes, cards, visitors came in, and expelled all hope of a _tete a tete_.

Soon after he left the room, Leslie entered.

"Who gave you those flowers, Edith?"

"Mr. Morton, sir."

"Humph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Leslie, with a look by no means of gratification.

Meanwhile, Morton, walking the street in an abstracted mood, overtook unawares his bachelor friend Mr. Bened.i.c.k Sharpe, jurist, philosopher, and man of letters--a personage whose ordinary discourse was a singular imbroglio of irony and earnest.

"Why, Morton, what problem of ethnology are you at now? the unity of the human race, and the descent from Adam--science versus orthodoxy--is that it?"

"Nothing so deep."

"What, nothing ethnological?"

"Nothing at all."

"Ah, then I begin to tremble for you. There's but one thing else could lose you in such a maze. The flame of a candle is very pretty; but the moth that flies into it scorches his wings, poor devil."

"I am too dull to see through your metaphors."

"There's another blind divinity besides Justice. Beware the shoal of matrimony! Many a good fellow has been wrecked there."

"Harping on your old string! You are a professed woman hater."

"Who, I? Now that is a scandalous libel. I admire them,--of course."

"And yet there's not a lady of your acquaintance whom I have not heard you a.n.a.lyze, criticise, cavil at, and disparage."

"My dear fellow!"

"You have no conscience to deny it."

"I protest I have the greatest--ahem!--admiration for the ladies of our acquaintance. We have an excellent a.s.sortment,--we have witty women; brilliant women; women of taste and genius; exact and fastidious women,--a full supply,--accomplished women; finished and elegant women,--not too many, but still we have them; learned women; gentle, amiable, tender women; sharp and caustic women; sensible and practical women; domestic women,--all unimpeachable,--all good in their kind."

"Then why is matrimony so dangerous?"

"No, no, not dangerous, exactly,--thanks to discreet nurture and northern winters; not dangerous hereabouts as it was in the days of the old satirists. A wise man may be safe enough here from any climax of matrimonial evil; but there are minor mischiefs, daily _desagremens_."

"What, in spite of that catalogue of feminine virtues which you delivered just now?"

"Vanity of vanities! Admirable in the abstract; excellent at a safe distance; but to be tied to for life, bed and board, day light and candle light,--that's another thing."

"Even the tender and amiable,--is there risk even there?"

"One cloys on perpetual sweetmeats."

"And the domestic women?"

"Who incarcerate themselves in their nurseries, and have no brains but for their babies; who are frantic if the infant coughs, and are buried and lost among cradles, porringers, go-carts, pills, and prescriptions."

"The brilliant woman, then?"

"Brilliant at dinner tables and _soirees_; but, on the next day, your Corinne is disconsolate with a headache. Her wit is for the world,--her moods and mopings, caprices and lamentations,--those she keeps for her husband."

"You are a cynic. The woman of taste and genius; where do you place her?"

"What are the rude heart and brain of a man to such exalted susceptibilities? What homage is too much for him to render? Be a bond slave to the sweet enthusiast. Bow yourself before the delicate shrine. Do your devoirs; she will not bate you a jot."

"But there are in the world women governed by reason."

"My dear Morton, are you demented? A woman always rational, always sensible, always consistent; a logical woman; one who can distinguish the relations of cause and effect, one who marches straight to her purpose like a man,--who ever found such a woman; or, finding her, who could endure such a one?"

"You fly into extremes; but women may be rational, as well as men."

"I like to see the organ of faith well developed,--yours is a miracle.

Granted, a rational woman; and with a liberal rendering of the word, such, I admit, are now and then seen,--women always even, always cheerful, never morbid, always industrious, always practical; busy with good works,--charity, for example, or making puddings,--pious daughters, model wives, pattern mothers----"

"At last you have found a creditable character."

"Very creditable; but far from interesting. The truth is, Morton, the very uncertainty, the flitting gleams and shadows, the opalescent light, the chameleon coloring of a woman's mind are what make her fascination,--the fascination and the danger,--there lies the dilemma.

Shun the danger, and you lose the charm as well. A woman's human nature is not our human nature; the tissue is more cunningly woven; the string more responsive; the essence lighter and subtler,--forgive the poetic style,--appropriate to the theme, you know. In their virtues and their faults they shoot away into paths where we do not track them. They can sink in a more abject abas.e.m.e.nt; and sometimes, again, while we tread the earth, they are aeronauts of the pure ether.

Stable, stubborn, impa.s.sive man holds the steadfast tenor of his walk, little moved by influences which, on the one hand, bury his helpmate in ruin, or, on the other, wing her on a flight to the zenith. They out-sin us, and they out-saint us; weak as a reed, and strong as an oak; measureless in folly, profound in wisdom; for the deepest of all wisdom springs, not out of a questioning brain, but out of a confiding heart; and all human knowledge must find its root at last in a blind belief. There, I have given you a sublime touch of eloquence; and, for the moral to it,--shun matrimony. It is Satan's slyest mantrap. No, not so, at all; it is a blessed inst.i.tution for perfecting mankind in patience, charity, and meekness, and booking their names in the catalogue of saints. So be wise, in time. Good by. Look before you leap!"

And, with an ironical twinkle in his eye, Sharpe vanished.

CHAPTER XXI.