Woman As She Should Be by Mary E. Herbert
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7 WOMAN AS SHE SHOULD BE;
OR,
AGNES WILTSHIRE.
BY
MARY E. HERBERT,
AUTHOR OF "AEOLIAN HARP," "SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A HALIFAX BELLE," &c.
I saw her on a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman, too;
Her household motions light and free,--
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good,
For human nature's daily food,
For transient pleasures, artless wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
--WORDSWORTH.
HALIFAX, N.S.:
PUBLISHED BY MARY E. HERBERT.
1861.
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.:
MILES & DILLINGHAM.
Printers and Stereotypers
CHAPTER I.
The Sabbath day was drawing to a close, as Agnes Wiltshire sat at her
chamber window, absorbed in deep and painful thought. The last rays of
the sun lighted up the garden overlooked by the casement,--if garden it
could be called,--a spot that had once been most beautiful, when young
and fair hands plucked the noxious weed, and took delight in nursing
into fairest life, flowers, whose loveliness might well have vied with
any; but, long since, those hands had mouldered into dust, and the spot
lay neglected; yet, in spite of neglect, beautiful still. There was no
enclosure to mark it from the fields beyond, that stretched, far as the
eye could discern, till lost in a rich growth of woods, but a few
ornamental trees and graceful shrubs, with here and there a plot, now
gay, with autumn flowers, alone kept alive, in the heart of the
beholder, a remembrance of its purpose. A quiet scene of rural beauty
it was, and so thought the maiden, as, rousing from her reverie, she
gazed on garden, fields, and distant woods, but more lovingly and
lingeringly dwelt her glance on a lake that lay embosomed between the
meadow and the grove, partly skirted by trees that grew even to its
edge, and partly by the rich grass, whose vivid color betrayed the
influence of those placid waters, that now reflected every glowing tint,
and every delicate hue of the peerless sunset sky.
Quiet at all times, the stillness of the scene was now unbroken, save by
the twittering of some belated swallow, the chirp of the cricket, or the
evening hymn of the forest songsters, ere they sank to grateful rest.
All was peace without, but troubled and anxious was the heart of the
solitary occupant of that apartment, who, though for a moment aroused
from deep, and, as it appeared from the expression of her countenance,
painful thought, by the beauty of the landscape, again summoned her
wandering thoughts, and returned to the theme which had so deeply
engrossed her.
A slight tap at the door once more aroused her, and in answer to her
invitation, "Walk in," a lady entered the room, and affectionately
addressed the young girl.
"Forgive my intrusion, my dear Miss Wiltshire, but I feared, from your
remaining so long in your room, that you were not well, and have come
to ascertain whether I am correct or not."
"I am much obliged for your kindness, but I am quite well, in body, at
least," was the reply, while the lips quivered, and the eyes were
suffused with tears.
There was silence for a few moments between them, for Mrs. Gordon was
too delicate to allude to emotions, which her companion evidently strove
to conceal, and with the nature of which she was totally unacquainted.
At length, however, she broke the quiet that had reigned for some
moments in the apartment, by an observation on the service they had both
that day attended.
"Accustomed, as you are, to city churches and city congregations, it
could scarcely be expected that our unpretending house of prayer, with
its humble worshippers, could have found much favor in your eyes, Miss
Wiltshire?"
"And yet, strange to say," exclaimed Agnes, lifting her fine dark eyes
to Mrs. Gordon's sweet, though pensive face, "that unpretending church,
those earnest worshippers, and, above all, that simple, faithful
discourse, affected me far more deeply than any heard from the lips of
the most eloquent divine, in a gorgeous edifice crowded with the =elite=
of the city, and where the solemn notes of the full-toned organ ought,
perhaps, to have filled the soul with sacred and heavenly thoughts.
Those words, so thrillingly pronounced, shall I ever forget them? 'To
whom much is given, of him shall much be required.' They seem still to
ring in my ears, for I, alas, am among those who have received much, yet
rendered back nothing."
The speaker paused, overcome with emotion, but the countenance of the
listener grew radiant with delight,--not that delight which arises from
the realization of some worldly hope, but, rather, a heavenly joy, which
lent to the pale and pensive face a beauty not of this world; it beamed
in the sunken, yet soft blue eye, and flushed the hollow cheek; it was
the joy of a saint, nay, it was the joy of an angel, at the return of
the stray sheep to its Father's fold. But it soon found expression in
words.
"I cannot tell you how happy you make me, in speaking thus, dear Agnes,"
said she, affectionately clasping her hand. "Since you first came here,
I have been thinking so much about you, and praying, too, that you, so
rich in all that makes woman lovely and beloved, might possess that
grace, which will but add lustre to every other endowment, qualifying
you for extensive usefulness here, and glorious happiness hereafter."
"But you know not, my kind friend, what mental struggles I have passed
through this afternoon, nor how conflicting feelings are yet agitating
my soul. I hear the voice of duty, but it calls me to tread a rugged
path. Could I always remain with you, secluded from the gay world, far
removed from its temptations and allurements, then, indeed, would I
gladly make my choice, and say, 'This people shall be my people, and
their God my God;' but in a few days I must depart, and, again, in the
haunts of the busy city, and surrounded by the gayeties of fashionable
life, I fear I shall feel no more those sweet and sacred influences,
which have been as the breath of heaven to my soul."
"'My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest!' Is not
that a sufficiently encouraging promise, dear Agnes? Had you nought but
your own strength to rely on, you might well fear; but forget not Him
who has declared, 'If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to
all liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given.'"
CHAPTER II.
Agnes Wiltshire was an orphan. Her father had died during her infancy,
her mother during her childhood; but a happy home had been thrown open
to her, by a kind uncle and aunt, who gladly adopted her as their own,
and lavished on her every tenderness. Mr. and Mrs. Denham were generous
and warm-hearted people; their dwelling was elegant and commodious; the
society in which they mingled, as far as wealth and fashion is
concerned, unexceptionable. What more was wanting? Alas, they were
thoroughly worldly; their standard was the fashionable world; their
maxims were derived from the same source; and while regularly attending
the stated ordinances of the church, and esteeming themselves very
devout,--for were not their lives strictly moral?--they, in reality,
knew as little of heart religion, as the dwellers in a heathen land.
Such was the character of the people among whom Agnes Wiltshire had
attained the age of eighteen; and, surrounded by such influences, what
wonder, that she, too, partook of the same spirit, and was content to
sail down the sunny stream of life, without one thought of its
responsibilities, without one glance at the future that awaited her.
Long might she have continued thus, still pursuing the phantom of
pleasure, seeking ever for happiness, but never seeking aright, had she
not been suddenly startled, in the midst of worldly pursuits, by the
unexpected death of a gay and favorite companion, who, surrounded by all
of earthly happiness, was torn from her embrace. In the agony of
delirium, Agnes had beheld her, gliding, unconsciously, down the dark
valley and the shadow of death, and she trembled, when she felt how
totally unprepared she was to meet the King of Terrors, and yet how soon
she might be called to do so. In the midst of the gay dance, at the
festive board, where mirth ruled the hour, and honeyed flatteries were
poured into her ear, she was still haunted by that pallid, agonized
countenance, and by the voice, whose heart-rending accents she still
seemed to hear, as distinctly as when it cried, in imploring tones,
"Save me, oh save me, from the deep, dark waters. They surround me on
every side; have pity on me, for I sink, I sink, I sink."
So deep an effect had the loss of her young companion, and the
remembrance of her last hours, produced on Agnes, that she fell into a
dejection, from which nothing could rouse her, and her physical powers
soon gave unmistakable evidences of their sympathy with the mind, by
alarming prostration of strength. The physician, on being applied to,
recommended the usual restorative, change of air and scene; and a
pleasant summer's retreat was selected as Agnes's residence, for a few
weeks. Mrs. Denham would fain have accompanied her niece, but a violent
attack of the gout, to which Mr. Denham was subject, rendered it
impossible for her to leave him, and with many tender charges and
injunctions, Agnes was consigned to the care of a friend, travelling in
that direction.
Great was the change to Agnes, yet not the less beneficial on that
account. The absence of the glitter and show of fashionable life, the
quiet that reigned around, the beauty of the scenery, the kindness and
simplicity of the scattered inhabitants,--all delighted her; and the
group of admirers, who were wont to surround her, would scarcely have
recognized, in the warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, who, in simple
attire, might daily be seen rambling through the fields, or, with a book
in hand, seated beneath a favorite oak, the accomplished and fashionable
Miss Wiltshire.
The lady with whom she resided was a clergyman's widow, who, deprived by
an untimely death of her natural protector and provider, sought to
augment her scanty means, by opening her house during the summer months
to casual visitors. She had been beautiful once, and she was young
still; but the glow and the freshness of life's youth had vanished, not
so much before time as sorrow, for peculiarly distressing circumstances
had attended the loss of her dearest friend, and now, disease had
almost, unsuspected, commenced its insidious ravages on a naturally
delicate constitution.
A mutual friendship was speedily formed between these two, so strangely
thrown together by circumstances. Agnes was charmed with Mrs. Goodwin's
sweet, pensive face, and gentle manners, while her character, so
beautifully exemplifying the power of religion to give support and
happiness, under all circumstances, won her deepest regard. On the other
hand, the genuine warmth, the unsophisticated manners, still uncorrupted
by daily flatteries and blandishments, the lofty and gifted mind, all
delighted Mrs. Goodwin, who had never before formed an acquaintance with
a female possessing so many attractions, and she gazed at her with
wonder and admiration, not unmixed with a sentiment of tenderness and
pity, as she thought of life's slippery paths, and of the injurious
influences of worldly pursuits and worldly gayeties.
But to the city Agnes must again return, for the roses have come back to
her cheeks, her previous dejection has vanished under the kind and
salutary ministrations of her friend, and she has no reasonable excuse
for remaining longer; besides, her friends have become impatient at her
stay,--the light and life of their dwelling,--how can they consent to
her tarrying longer; so the long and interesting conversations on high
and holy themes, which she had scarcely ever before heard alluded to but
in church, must be relinquished, and the quiet scenes of Nature
exchanged for the bustle and show of city life.
CHAPTER III.
A twelvemonth has elapsed, since the events recorded in our first
chapter. In the drawing-room of a spacious mansion, in the suburbs of
the city where Agnes Wiltshire resided, is seated a young man,
apparently perusing a volume which he holds in his hand, but, in
reality, listening to a gay group of young girls, who are chattering
merrily with his sister at the other end of the apartment. Scarcely
heedful of his presence, for he is partly concealed by the thick folds
of a rich damask curtain,--or, perhaps, careless of the impression
produced, they rattled gaily on, for not one of them but in her heart
had pronounced him a woman-hater; for were he not such, could he have
been insensible to the sweetest and most fascinating smiles of beauty?
But the last sound of their retreating footsteps, the echo of their
merry laugh, has died away, and Arthur Bernard emerges from his retreat,
in the enclosure of the window.
"I declare, Arthur, it is positively too bad," exclaimed Ella, his
sister, a gay and pretty young girl; "you are certainly the most
agreeable company in the world. Not a syllable to say beyond 'yes,' or
'no,' 'good morning,' or 'good evening.' I am really ashamed of you. You
are a woman-hater, I really believe. I am sure the girls all set you
down as such."
"I am much obliged for their good opinion, and shall endeavor to deserve
it," was the smiling reply. "But, can you imagine what I have been
thinking about, while you and your merry companions have been talking
all sorts of nonsense?"
"No, indeed. I should like to hear your wise meditations, most grave and
potent seigneur. Doubtless, they will prove very edifying, as the theme,
of course, was woman's foibles."
"I have been thinking rather of what woman might be, than of what she
is. What an exalted part she might perform in the regeneration of the
world, did she but fulfil her mission. An archangel might almost envy
her opportunities of blessing and benefiting others; and yet, with so
many spheres of usefulness open to her, with influence so potent for
good or evil, the majority of your sex do nothing, or, worse than
nothing, injure others by their example. I am not a woman-hater, Ella;
but I must deplore that so many are unmindful utterly of their high
calling, and careless of everything but how to spend the present hour
the most agreeably, instead of being found actively sustaining, as far
as in their power, every good word and work; and ever with a smile and
a word of encouragement to the weary toilers in the path of duty. That
there are such women, I have not the least doubt; but I have never met
with one yet. When I do so, and remain insensible to =her= charms, you
may then call me a woman-hater,"--and a smile concluded the sentence.
A merry, mocking laugh from his, sister rang through the room.
"I thought as much. We, poor women, are not good enough for your most
serene highness; nothing short of one endowed with angelic qualities
will suit you. I must really try if, in my long list of acquaintances, I
cannot find one to come up to your standard; though I am afraid it would
be rather a difficult task. And now, in reply to that grave lecture of
yours, (what a pity the girls were not here to be edified,) for my part,
I always imagined that woman's mission was to be as charming as
possible, and I am quite content with being that,"--and Ella looked up
into her brother's face, with an irresistible smile.
"But may you not be charming and useful both?"
"Well, I don't know about that; I should like to know what you would
have us do."
Do! what might you not do, if you were disposed? What an incalculable
amount of good, and that in the most unobtrusive manner. Society takes
its tone from you, and waits to be fashioned by your hand. But, I verily
believe, running the risk of speaking very ungallantly, that there is
not one in thirty, fifty, or perhaps a hundred of your sex, who have the
slightest idea of exerting their talents for the benefit of others. You
laugh and talk, and enjoy yourselves, careless of the impression your
example may produce, and conform to the usages of society, without one
inquiry, as to whether in those usages may not, sometimes, lurk
frightful dangers, if not to yourselves, to others who follow admiringly
in your steps."
"Frightful dangers! Really, brother, you are growing enigmatical. I
should like to have that sentence made a little plainer, for I certainly
do not understand you."
"Perhaps an incident that occurred not long ago, which I will relate to
you, may explain more clearly my meaning. I can vouch for its
correctness, for it came under my own observation. You have frequently
heard me speak of Henry Leslie, my room-mate at college, one of the
noblest and most gifted of young men, but who unfortunately had
contracted a taste for intoxicating liquors. Unfortunately for himself,
his agreeable manners and fine qualities rendered him a great favorite
with the ladies, and no party seemed complete without him; and thus
constantly exposed to the seducing influence of the wine-cup, the habit
of imbibing largely grew so strong, that he scarcely had any
restraining power left. I remonstrated with him, and, as I trusted, with
some success, for he solemnly promised to abstain totally from the
intoxicating beverage,--but the very next day we found, on returning
home from a walk, an invitation to an evening party lying on our table.
It was from the mother of the young lady to whom report alleged he was
deeply attached, and whatever influence I might have possessed in
dissuading him from attending any other social gathering, I found I was
powerless in this case. But he again renewed his determination to
abstain from intoxicating stimulants.
"'I know what you fear, Arthur, but I have made the resolution to "touch
not, taste not, handle not," as the teetotallers say, and I am
determined not to break it.'
"I made no answer, but prepared to accompany him, with a heavy heart;
for I felt certain, in my own mind, of the result, at least to some
extent, of that evening's visit. I need not enter into particulars;
suffice it to say, that Henry Leslie bravely withstood all
solicitations, from our sex, to partake of the destroying beverage, and
I was beginning to hope that my fears would prove unfounded, when the
daughter of our hostess, the young lady to whom I before alluded,
approached him with a glass of sparkling wine in her hand. She was
beautiful,--I cannot but acknowledge that,--and I shall never forget
her appearance as she stood there, a fascinating smile lighting up her
animated countenance, and, in her sweetest tones, begged him to take a
glass of wine with her. I thought of Satan, disguised as an angel of
light, and trembled for the result, as I stood anxiously listening for
his answer. It came in the negative, but the hesitating, half-apologetic
tone was very different from the firm and decided one, in which he had
resisted all other solicitations. But she was not yet satisfied. Womanly
vanity must triumph, no matter how dearly the victory may be purchased.
"'You surely will not be so ungallant as to refuse a lady so small a
favor,'--and her eyes added, as plainly as words,--'but much less can
you refuse me.'
"'You see how society is degenerating, Mr. Bernard,' she said, turning
to me, 'there was a time when a lady's request was deemed sacred, now we
poor women have little or no influence over your sex.'
"'I devoutly wish you had less, Madam,' was my uncourteous reply; but
she scarcely heard me, for Henry, taking the proffered glass, and in a
low tone, murmuring, 'For your sake alone,' quaffed its contents. A
flush of gratified vanity passed over the lady's countenance, for she
had laid a challenge with some of her friends, who had observed his
previous abstinence, that she would make him drink a glass of wine with
her, before the evening was over. That night week I sat, a lonely
watcher, by the corpse of Henry Leslie. He had died in the horrors of
delirium tremens, and his last cry had been for brandy.
"Oh, it stings me almost to madness," exclaimed Arthur, rising and
pacing the apartment with hurried steps, "when I reflect that that
woman, knowing well his fatal propensity,--knowing, too, how powerful
was her influence over him, for, poor fellow, I believe he would have
laid down his life for her sake, was the immediate instrument of leading
to destruction one who might,--had she encouraged him in his resolution
to abstain, instead of luring him to depart from it,--have been an
honored ornament to society, not filling, as he does to-day, a
drunkard's grave, 'unhonored and unsung.'"
There was silence for a few moments in the apartment, for even the
volatile Ella seemed affected at the narration. At length she spoke in a
subdued tone.
"That is certainly a melancholy story, Arthur, and I shall not be able
to get it out of my mind soon. But now that I think of it, have you seen
Agnes Wiltshire since your return?"
"No; but I have been about to inquire several times where she is, and
why have I not seen her before?"
"Simply, because she has abjured society."
"Abjured society!" and Arthur looked up, with a glance full of
astonishment. "What do you mean, Ella? Has she become a nun?"
"Not exactly; but she certainly is a Sister of Charity, in the fullest
sense of the term. It was only yesterday morning she passed our windows
quite early, followed by a servant carrying a large basket, and I can
easily imagine it was on some charitable mission. You must know, Arthur,
for I see by your looks that you are impatient to hear all about
her,--by the bye, it is singular that you should take any interest in
her, considering she is a woman,"----
"Dear Ella, do go on with your story."
"It is well for you, Mr. Arthur, that I am very good-natured, for I
should have an excellent opportunity now of retaliation, for all the
unkind things you have been saying about our sex. But I can be generous,
and will forgive you this time,--so now to our story. You must know,
then, that a great change has taken place in Agnes, ever since the
sudden death of poor Lelia Amberton, the particulars of which I wrote to
you at the time it occurred. Agnes grew very low-spirited, and in
consequence lost her health, and was ordered by the physician to the
country, to recruit her failing strength. On her return, her dejection
had entirely vanished; but still she was very different to what she had
formerly been. To the great astonishment, and even displeasure of her
relatives, she gently but firmly declined all invitations to balls, or
gay parties, refused to attend the theatre, and, to her friends' earnest
expostulations and inquiries as to the reasons for such a course,
declared 'that she had, at length, become convinced of the vanity and
sinfulness of such pursuits, and no longer dared to peril her immortal
interests by engaging in them.'"
"But, Edward Lincoln, how does he approve of this strange alteration?"
inquired Arthur, in a tone which, in spite of himself, could not conceal
his evident interest.
"Oh, poor Edward has been discarded long ago."
"Discarded! What do you mean, Ella, that she has broken her engagement
with him?"
"Yes; or, rather, they mutually agreed in the matter, and thereby caused
fresh disappointment to Agnes's friends, whose opposition has risen to
such a height, that I believe they have almost threatened to expel her
from home."
"Barbarous!" exclaimed Arthur, hastily, his eye flashing with
indignation. "But I suspect they would hardly carry that threat into
effect. And what reason was assigned for the breaking of the
engagement?"
"Oh, nothing more than non-agreement of sentiment. When I was reasoning
with Agnes about it, one day, she said to me, 'How can two walk together
except they be agreed? I grant, dear Ella, that Mr. Lincoln is all you
have said, handsome, intelligent, and possesses many estimable
qualities; but these qualities, to be permanent, must be based on
principles drawn from the Word of Truth. Do not think, my friend, that
it was without a struggle I have resigned him. No, the conflict was long
and bitter; but I was enabled, at last, to yield to my convictions of
duty. And, indeed, he himself has confessed, that whatever I might have
done once, I should never have suited him now. Our views are
diametrically opposed; the gayeties of life, which I have gladly
resigned, he still takes delight in, and when I have endeavored feebly,
but earnestly, to lead him to seek for more enduring joys, his only
reply is a merry laugh at my enthusiasm, which, he predicts, will soon
evaporate. No, Ella, there is little in unison between us, and it is far
better to break our engagement now, than to find, when too late, that we
had entered into a union productive of misery to us both.'"
"Agnes is certainly a singular girl," said Arthur, musingly.
"Oh, but I have not told you all. She has been a Sabbath-school teacher,
has established a day school for poor children, which she superintends,
and there is no fear of her tempting a gentleman to take a glass of
wine, for last, but not least, she has become a teetotaller. There, what
think you of that? and yet, I do not know how it happens, but in spite
of her singular ways, I seem to like her better than ever. There is
nothing in her manner that indicates a consciousness of superior merit,
but she is so truly kind, and her countenance wears so peaceful and
heavenly an expression, that I can never weary of gazing at her, and in
my sober moods, which occur once or twice in a twelvemonth, have some
idea of following her example. And now, Arthur," Ella added playfully,
"if Miss Wiltshire comes not up to your standard of female excellence, I
should despair of ever finding one that did."
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