Red, white & blue days

Prologue

T HIS is the story of a part of the life of one with a sensitive soul; one who — like her mother before her — did not find in this world that which her nature craved.

The few years of which you will read here are but the beginning of a life in no way finished; — a preparation for something higher.

You may not like the last part of my story. Perhaps it may seem as though she of whom I write may have taken some things too seriously in this world of deceit; an older person, or one who knew the world better, might possibly overlook that fault, which has been so often repeated in all classes, that it seems as though it were an integral part of most lives.

When you have done reading you will see that, with all her experiences, she is still inexperienced; — that her nature is so fine that it is impossible to make her understand the wrong things of the world.

What lies beneath all her exterior polish will bear close scrutiny; no dishonorable acts or those which anyone could in any way cavil at. She is one who has never had the slightest inclination to walk on the edge of a moral quagmire, thinking her feet could not slip. There has been no scandal of her imprudent adventures.

She has escaped unscathed the gossip of large places and small — has never had the slightest inclination to go as far as possible, and run the risk of not being able to turn back. She has not, in one single instance, tried to walk even a few yards on debatable ground, thinking, she being more fortunate, would escape that vague something into which another might sink. She has sung like a bird; danced with a spirit and animation which never flagged, with a freedom which no one has ever misunderstood, as though she had been trained for the ballet. She is, in short, as intelligent as she is refined.

A threatening cloud hung over her for a few months, and then lifted.

She is contented in her work; and no thought ever comes to her that she is not in her right sphere.

Beginning life in a cold atmosphere— a life 4 of more or less Yankee worry, she had for teachers while a child those supremely wise, — and, in some things, hopelessly ignorant, — pedagogues who are generally disagreeable, and who always believe in corporal punishment for boys — sometimes for girls. Few of these teachers are ever swept with tidal waves of emotion; their faces show traces of the experiences their ancestors had gone through, as rocks show the course of prehistoric glaciers. Some sensitive natures — like the one I am going to portray, are by such an influence crushed and overwhelmed; others develop a tendency to religious ecstacy, and the results of many of the revivals of that date will not bear looking at with a microscope. A few were left hard and coarse, as they were born perhaps with a greed for sensation, or an overweening sense of their own importance made the gossip and quibbling of a village fireside the chief relish of their lives. Most of us have had a little bit of the quibbling, and not many who have lived to fourscore years have escaped a revival.

A revival was one of the festivities of the winter, which few winters of people escaped; and many a tear was shed from no other cause than the excitement which naturally comes when young people of both sexes are congregated. Do any of us think the boys or girls who went to the meetings and went forward to the mourners’ bench, to be prayed for, would have done so if those of the opposite sex had not been there? Not many of them, I think. I fear the tears of excitement which were shed, and which caused many a headache and many a heart-throb, saved very few; but let us be thankful even for them. But let us drop religion; it is not a part of my story.

Sooner or later we all live in the past, and there can be no great evil in bringing that past near; but does it bring with it a feeling of real enjoyment? does the heart throb over the victory of a good time or in melancholy gratitude that it was no worse? It is a humdrum performance as we look back on it, even if one of marked impression at the time. It seemed a simple life, but there was a subtlety in it which some saw and understood.

It is a wonder her nature had any sweetness left, surrounded as she was for so many years by sharp, cold, and exacting people, most of whose voices, come from the cold winds of old New England, and from sour apples and the vinegar they used with everything. Tall, lean, lank, sharp-looking people;

whose throats were always cleared with a warning rasp before they spoke. Days passed in such stews as only old New England knew. We have all seen a rush, a pleasant hurry, perhaps a little fret; but have we all seen people stew? Oh! those old days when all farmers seemed to try and see which one could get up the earlier in the morning — four o’clock in the winter was nothing. I presume the getting up before sunrise was so they would have their pick of those worms of which we have all heard; according to my belief, they got germs enough even if they missed the worms. There must have been worms enough for all, if only all were willing to dig.

The child’s advantages were no better, no worse, for living near such a set of orthodox — what shall we call them? it does not seem just right to call them saints, and, on the other hand, it will not do to call them sinners, even if they are where they can do nothing about it ; so we will not “ call ” them, for fear they come back. She started out with not a few of those whom we miscall “ Puritans,” and that may be where she got some of her pure ideas. It has always been a wonder to me that we have any novelists or poets, the life of those people has so very little in it to enthuse over or dream 7 of. S^ch a life seems at times hardly worth the living.

The child of whom I write was like the down of a dandelion; nothing seemed to keep her spirit down.

She was as light as a feather; she ran where others walked — and so she slipped lightly over a few years of as happy childhood as one could wish to know. Many a one has to begin life in a hard way, with little love and many crosses. And are those, whose ideal is love in a cottage, who soon come down to the prosaic, prepared for this change — this wakening from their rosy dreams? Too much work and too little play. The furrows in one’s face may not be any deeper, but they are generally brought there by work and worry, not by pleasure. Perhaps the regular hours of which we read and hear have a tendency to let our features drag or sag. Let us have the lines which laughter brings — not those of a bad temper or any harder work than we must. Let us have fits and starts of fun and pleasure — perhaps combined with work, not all work. We live in an electric world and our hearts may be overgrown, in one sense of the word; perhaps we are not very merciful to them at all times ; but what can we do? one cannot stop alone.

But we are lingering too long over an introduction. We will try to please as many of our readers as possible and not spoil the story with a bad beginning; for whatever is written in passing from hand to hand, equally among those who understand and those who do not, only speaks to those who understand, and many pages are blank to many readers.

THE WHITE DAYS

I. T hroughout the long hours of

the night, in the coldest month of the year, a young mother fought a fierce battle for her life. She did not suffer without hope of relief, did not drag through the leaden-footed hours of heavy days following for nothing. She had her reward. Faith had been with her all through the long hours of the day, and love slept in her room at night — a baby -girl had come to her. She had worn her veil into the world, but had removed it, for hers was to be a face which needed nothing to make it attractive. She only wore it at first for luck, and some of my readers may not think she kept it on long enough, for her life, although happy for a few years, was not all bright; but we will not anticipate.

This baby was the most wonderful baby, and must have the most wonderful name. Both father and mother had names enough in their minds for a dozen babies, and the poor little creature had a number tried on to see if any would fit; day after day one name after another was tried to see if they liked to speak them. A name was finally decided upon, and the baby was christened in church; and, not thinking she was getting the better of her father and mother, the minister, and the congregation, she set up a howl long enough and loud enough to take the roof off the church.

The poor young father and mother were so mortified that they hurried down the aisle as fast as their poor scared feet would carry them ; but not fast enough to avoid hearing, just as they were going out, the minister say in a loud voice (which he had to use to be heard), “ Will someone please close that door? ” I am glad he was polite enough to say please.

Well, the baby was named, but her name did her little good. She was never called by it at home. Her father called her baby for awhile, then began on Sis; and not thinking his wonderful baby ought to be just plain “ Sis,” called her Sisero. So this is the way a girl came to have the name of Cicero; but, if my readers do not object, I will spell the name with an “ S ” instead of a “ C,” or someone may forget it is a girl they are reading about.

Sisero went by this name for years; in fact, until she was a woman. She was born in a little town called Newington, about five miles from Hartford. She had many things to spoil her pleasure as a child, for, although her path was smoothed as much as possible by loving hands, she was wild, wilful, and passionate; and when she could not have her own way, she was apt to assert herself, and things “ had to stand from under.” Sometimes a very little thing will make or mar a child’s pleasure, and a thing which seems of no consequence to a grown person, may rankle in a child’s mind for years; in consequence, we ought to be more careful than we many times are about what is said before children, for most of them have good memories, and they remember long after we have forgotten, and it hurts more keenly than it ever can a grown person.

Sisero had a happy nature, and most of the time the world looked beautiful to her; but, however beautiful it may look, its aspect to each of us is modified by those who surround us. We may look at the glory of the sea, or the fairest fields or mountains, but if someone for whom we care has spoken a jarring word, the world is out of tune; we may waken in the morning, after a refreshing sleep, as happy 15 as it is possible for mortal to be and come to a breakfast-table of gloomy faces, which dampens one’s brightness in the beginning and sometimes clouds the whole day. Pain cannot always be overcome so that one can look cheerful, but temper can. Gracious words and looks are worth more than some of us know or think. Let us cultivate cheerfulness as one of the great virtues.

It made Sisero unhappy to even look at her grandmother, who was a very tall woman, thin as a rail, with limp hands. She always turned her cheek around for Sisero to kiss, and her cheek, not any harder than that of most old people, somehow made the child’s fleshcreep. The old lady always dressed in black — inky black, her iron-gray hair done in the severest knot on the back of her head, her voice and manner solemn in the extreme.

Sisero was expected to spend a few hours of each week with her grandmother, and, sitting opposite her at the table, the supper, preceded by a melancholy grace and followed by sad family prayers, was perfectly tasteless. If she stayed overnight (as she did once in awhile), she was roused early in the morning by a first bell, soon followed by a second, and she knew there were more prayers in store for her.

If she were a few minutes late, her grandmother looked at her with solemnly reproachful eyes, as she waited, Bible in hand, the servants and the rest of the family seated in very stiff chairs next the wall. Sisero’s good-morning was returned in a solemn undertone; her grandmother then read a chapter in a voice of gloom, after which all knelt and she prayed to God to turn His wrath the other way, or words to that effect. Her prayer was long, and as interesting as such prayers generally, and it had the effect of making the child a little spunky and impatient “ to be up and doing.”

Sisero was a creature of moods, and her mother knew every one and could accommodate herself to them, and not rub the fur the wrong way, a thing more than one of those who lived near her had a habit of doing. Her mother was perhaps the only one who thoroughly understood her; she would say, “ Sisero is a little wilful and has a spirit of her own, but, with proper training, she will make a noble woman ; she has a tender heart, open as the day; but she dislikes to be caressed, unless by a person of whom she is very fond — which I consider a very good trait.” Her mother kissed her seldom, but would put her arm around her waist and look fondly into her eyes— and so they 17 would sit and talk by the hour; they both loved music and adored books. While a child, Sisero had many tempestuous hours, but grew into a lovable, fascinating girl; if she liked anyone she was very gracious, but very distant if she did not. There was about her a slight indescribable touch of something which kept those beneath her from showing the smallest trace of familiarity. She was very sympathetic, and always took the part of those who were down; certain people were obliged to be extremely civil to her; she was a slight, erect child, with a sensitive, delicate face, at' times pallid, but the slightest mental disturbance would make it flush vividly; her lips, as she grew older, had a look of repression about them. Her whole attitude was tense and watchful; if her glance was keen, it was never bold; not one look about her commonplace. Every gesture, every motion betokened the perfection of mental health and physical vigor.

It is hardly possible to believe that a child so full of life, so impetuous, so wilful, could belong to such a calm, sedate, placid mother, unless the father was vastly different. A colorless little mother, who had all her brightness and individuality stamped out of her in one way or another — perhaps with too much re- 18 pression in her bringing up — which she in her turn does not believe in crushing out of her child.

The little mother, in her turn, had a thoroughly good mother, but she was heartless in appearance, conscientious in all duties, strict in all ways — a good woman, but smiling rarely — weeping never.

Sisero loved her mother devotedly, and after she was taken from her, this often thoughtless girl could look back on loving evenings and wonder with vain sighs of unavailing regret if life would ever again bring such sweetness. She had enjoyed the hours unthinkingly, for her time of wakening had not come; she found later that all connected with her life had its mirage. She enjoyed, or suffered, intensely; nothing was done calmly. She grew from a wilful, wayward child to a loving, impetuous, passionate woman, intense as it is possible for woman to be. Wherever she was she was like a fresh flower, and was one of those young people who diffuse life and attraction in a room.

At times the dignity and grace of her bearing, the faint flush of her cheeks, the clearness of her skin, the exquisite modelling of her brilliantly red and quiveringly sensitive lips, the wavy frame of golden hair around her face, 19 contrasting strongly with her dark brows and lashes; her smile, always childlike but full of mischief, made her seem like a young queen, coming to claim an undisputed throne.

From head to foot she was full of vitality and health, and glowed with the joy of living.

As she grew older, she laid plans far ahead and was a firm believer in centring her forces, of which she had plenty. She planned to be rich, happy, and all good and wise things. She was not one who would be content with a part of anything if she thought she could have the whole, and while very young she vowed to herself to get out of life everything it held.

Her mother could see she was going to be a radiant creature and have a beauty few could resist, and feared for her; if her mind matched her face, no one need fear, but if she had more beauty than brains, with her impetuous disposition, she might be a sad disappointment.

Sisero learned early to believe that life is what we make it, and thought it should be beautiful from beginning to end ; so she determined to make hers so. She realized that she was of a stronger nature than many of those around her, and knew that if she was to make a success in life she must do for herself some things never meant for her to do, and begin early to throw off whatever was not for her own good.

She meant to carry an atmosphere of pleasure with her; one those about her could feel; to make her presence felt without speaking. She intended to secure her object, certainly, in whatever way seemed best, for, the way she looked at it, what was life for but to give her whatever she wished.

Fate can be compelled. She would conquer things which to another, perhaps, might seem insurmountable. There was one thing she could not bring back, or have as she would have wished — her mother. She could see, in her mind’s eye, the charming room where they had passed so many hours, the atmosphere of exceeding homelikeness, flooded with light from the great windows which reached the floor and opened like a door; the ample, broadbacked chairs of a bygone generation, the book-cases with their crowded shelves, the old clock, with its familiar face. All the old things came back to her and brought the tears when she thought they could never return.

It did not take long for her to learn her power over both men and women when she chose to exert it.

She had the dangerous eyes and manner of a woman who must and will be loved or admired at all hazards, and would never be satisfied with anything but the best.

She had one little trait of character to fight ; she could not help being distrait if she were not interested, and it was sometimes mortifying to her friends.

She would not try to be all things to all women; it was not in her nature and was not easily cultivated. She had no patience with any half-way work, and she determined to swim even if some sank to the bottom.

She believed if she was to have much or do much it must come through her own exertions; and if she lived to be a woman, the world should hold no woman who had attained any greater success who began life with the same gifts from God.

She had many a fierce battle by herself, after her mother died, and after each shock she gathered her strength for fresh conquests, rose up defiantly against fate, and was pitiless of the pain some of it gave her spirit.

She was secure in the confidence which the young have that they can attain to any lengths. We should never attain anything if our courage was as weak in the beginning as it is after the battle of life is almost fought. Sisero’s sunny temperament would do much for her in meeting and conquering life’s trials.

Of what use was a passionate appreciation of all that was beautiful, an intoxicating delight in life, the most perfect vitality and health, if not to surmount obstacles?

Her mother, who was so tender of her little girl, so sympathetic in her childish sorrows, had gone; she must stand on her own feet.

Not being of a particularly trustful nature, for awhile after her mother’s death she seemed unable to turn to anyone for comfort and sympathy. For a long time there was a something lacking. She herself must supply it.

She would not be a mourner, a dreamer of bad dreams. She was alive to her fingers’ tips and ardent in all life’s joys. At times she bestowed endearments (which she should not) on many a little animal — called “boys”; again, she was especially disdainful, ignoring the same ones in an exasperating way. There is no knowing what those little loves of hers might have become if allowed to hang on the tree long enough to ripen ; how thankful we ought to be that they fall early — too early to do harm — for they are as different from real love as water is from wine.

A look often came over her face as she got older which comes to every proud creature disappointed in her ideals.

With some of us the world ends just where it began ; with others the horizon widens each year, bringing new knowledge and new interests.

To some lives not one thrill ever comes; other lives are one continued thrill in the joy of living and doing; to them all days are charming spring days, full of hazy sunlight — one long dream.

To some the sound of the rain-drops is music ; to others the rain against the windows makes a querulous, fretful sound; everything is black, damp, darkness; nothing is ever right.

The expression on some faces is brightening and charming; on others the patiently impatient expression of being martyrs trod upon by the world ; as we look at them do we not wish they would say what they have to say and have done with it, not sulk? Let them explode in a volcano of abuse and get over it, so we may know what to expect; let us have the storm, so there may come sunshine.

Is not a sulky temper the protege of the worst possible trait of character? It is not always by the worst bursts of temper that souls are wrecked, but by a continual brooding over real 24 or imaginary wrongs. We have heard that “ what is easily attained is not valued.”

Sisero knew she would never be a half-awake woman, never feel bemused with sleep, for she was seldom sleepy, even as a child. She hoped never to have a hazy understanding of right and wrong. She knew this was a busy world and there were busy people in it, and she was anxious to be one of them. Some lives are long roads and strange ones. Sisero never had an intimate girl friend, for she found no one with whom she had aught in common.

II

L ET us not wander longer by the way, but return for a few pages to her child- Ji hood. She was too bright and talkative a child to pass it all by; her young life was all anticipation, and if we do not reach the reminiscences, we will go with her through a few years of such joy and triumph and sorrow as only an intense nature can feel; if she could have made her choice of a life she might have decided on a very different one from that which was hers, but, like many others, she did her best with her life as it came to her. Her trials may sweeten eternity for her; her life, according to my belief, was foreordained for her, and she took her pound of sorrow with every pound of joy, like the rest of the world.

This little story will not be a set of drawing-room dialogues, or her conversation with different people, but a few of her clouds, a pile of sunshine, a few of her idiosyncracies, and some 26 of her ways, which were so different from those of most children. She, with her inflammable, insatiable temperament and vivid imagination, was likely to make herself more trouble than one who never dreamed the absurd things which such a temperament does.

I do not care for the conversation between a child and a grown person, or those about children, oldsters and youngsters, and I have racked my brain to vary my formula, as this is not simply a child’s book. My idea of child-life is quite different since I knew this child. I have often told her story, but never written it. It was brought to my mind by what I call an unhappy ending, although her life is not ended, as we look at it. I am not going to preach a sermon or point a moral, but write what I know to be facts, hoping to interest a few, as -written words have more force and last longer than those which are spoken. I know this child came to earth in a sleepy little New England town, in the coldest month of winter. I would have liked to write my story with the pen of those days, borrowed from the tail of a live goose, who would not have minded it, I presume, if she could have realized that what it wrote might be well received. Our child was fond of solitude. To be alone was what she liked — “ a happy lonesome,” as her grandmother used to say. She was gay alone, sad alone, full of ideas alone, and angry alone; in the woods, in nests of moss, hundreds of voices talked to her; alone with the stars at night, she prayed her little prayers, asked for the most absurd things; not getting them at first, had faith to try again; thinking perhaps she must have the usual “ two or three gathered together ” in order that her prayer might be answered, took her dog and doll, and then sometimes she had to wait quite a while for the answer, if it ever came.

Prayer seemed to her the one mode of asking for all she wanted, and what did she not ask for? Chiefly that her hair should curl; her hair was very lovely, with just enough curl to hang around her face in a pretty frame, but ringlets were what she wanted. She had tried eating brown bread, as she had been advised, but it had not been a success, so she returned to prayer. She prayed to be delivered from naming her children (although her prayer may have been a little previous), some of the names she heard every day, for to her artistic sense some of them did not seem appropriate to the people who had them. She had an Aunt Grace, whom she described as “the tallest, leanest, lankiest, most wrinkled 28 of women, with no freckles only because she was too old for them, but not too old or too young for a mustache,” and the last-named article had such a horrible look to Sisero that she could not help feeling that all this ugliness covered a multitude of sins. She had one more aunt, Aurora (what a name!), who never spoke of her past, apparently having no pleasant remembrances of it. She may have been one of those unfortunate females in her youth, if she ever had any youth; we can hardly believe some women of fifty and upward ever were children, so blasted do they look in all their branches, thin May-poles, or bare hop-poles with the leaves all stripped; they may have had summer verdure once, but we find it hard to believe. Every time Sisero thought of her Aunt Aurora, I am afraid her little nose looked just a common turn-up instead of retrousse, as it had been called. She could not help thinking that, if God made this aunt, He must be doing better work now, for she was old enough to make comparisons.