The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 13, November, 1858

Anywhere but in her mind. Of the round-aboutness of her directness you have had examples enough already; nothing could be more romantic than her simplest realities, and that which would seem most out-of-the-way to another woman was often "handiest" to her. So, when you ask me, Why did not Sally Wimple sooner think of her great-grandmother's dress? my easiest answer is, Because she was Sally Wimple.

When Miss Wimple first put on the new dress, in Madeline's presence, Madeline smiled again, for she thought she understood; and Miss Wimple smiled also, for she knew no one could understand.

Then Miss Wimple broke the news to Madeline, by telling her that "an old friend of her father's," a wealthy Mr. Osgood, of New York, was in want of a governess for his two daughters, and had written to her on the subject;—(a not very improbable story; for Madeline could not but be aware that in the conscientious and proud little bookseller was the making of a very respectable "Jane Eyre," under favorable circumstances;)—whereupon she had taken the liberty to recommend a clever and accomplished friend of her own, one Mrs. Morris, a widow,—"of course, that's you, Madeline,"—and Mr. Osgood had accordingly done her the honor to offer the place to Mrs. Morris, and, "with characteristic consideration and delicacy," had inclosed a check, by way of an advance on her salary, which would be liberal, to defray the expense of an outfit,—"and there it was." His writing to her, Miss Wimple said, was a circumstance as strange as it was fortunate; for, in fact, she had, personally, but a very slight acquaintance with him, and was "quite sure she should not recognize him, if she were to see him now";—as for his little girls, she had never seen them, nor even heard their names. But Mr. Osgood's character was of the very highest, and she rejoiced that Madeline would have so honorable, influential, and generous a protector, who had given his word that she should be received and entertained with the consideration due to a superior and esteemed friend.

[Never mind Miss Wimple's white lies, my dear; there is no danger that they will be found filling the blank place in the Recording Angel's book, left where his tear blotted out My Uncle Toby's oath. And in a purely worldly point of view, too, those touching offerings to Mercy were safe enough; for when Miss Wimple promised Madeline that she would find Mr. Osgood "a singularly discreet person, who would be sure not to annoy her with impertinent curiosity," it was not said by way of a hint;—she well knew, that, from the moment the proud and jealous Madeline departed across the threshold of the Hendrik Athenæum and Circulating Library, she would set a close and solemn seal upon her heart and upon her lips, and the "old familiar faces" and places would be to her as the things that Memory is a silent widow for. Nevertheless, in writing to Mr. Osgood, to acknowledge the receipt of the check, and to thank him, that cunning Miss Wimple took the precaution to put him in possession of as much of her personality as would serve his purpose in case of accident, and provide for the chance of a shock to his suspicious and vigilant governess.]

Madeline received Miss Wimple's extraordinary good news with the silence of one bewildered. Nor even when she had come fully to appreciate all the beauty and the joy of it, did she give audible expression to her gratitude; she was too proud—or rather say, too religious—to subject the divine emotion to the vulgar ordeal of words; she only kissed Miss Wimple's hands, and mutely laid them on her bosom.

Then Miss Wimple arrayed her protégée in the skimped delaine, for which the "trifling alterations" and the "little cleaning" had done wonders,—and Madeline was, as it were, "clothed on with chastity." And Miss Wimple was jubilant over the charming effect, and "went on" in a manner surprising to behold. First she kissed Madeline, and then she kissed the dress; and she told Madeline, in a small torrent of triumph, what a tremendous fellow of a skimped delaine it was,—how cheap, and how dear it was,—what remarkable powers of endurance it had displayed, and with what force and versatility of character it had adapted itself to every new alteration or trimming,—and how she was so used to its ways, and it to hers, that she was almost ready to believe it could "get on her by itself,"—and how she felt sure it was expressly manufactured to do good in the world,—until she had so glorified the lowly skimped delaine, that Madeline began to feel in it like a queen, whose benignant star has forever exalted her above the vulgar sensation of having Nothing to Wear.

Now Madeline was quite ready to depart on her pilgrimage of penitence.

But almost at the parting hour a circumstance occurred which grievously alarmed Miss Wimple, and so roused the devil whereof Madeline had been but just now possessed, that it stirred within her.

CHAPTER V

The "nest" looked out upon the street by two front windows, that were immediately over the sign of the Hendrik Athenæum and Circulating Library. There was also a small side-window, affording a view of a bit of yard, quite private, and pleasant in its season, with an oval patch of grass, some hollyhocks, a grape-vine trained over a pretty structure of lattice to form a sort of summer-house, and a martin-box, in a decidedly original church-pattern, mounted on a tall, white pole. Of course the scene was cheerless and unsightly now; lumpy brown patches of earth showed through the unequally melting snow, where the grass-plot should have been; a few naked and ugly sticks were all the promise of the hollyhocks' yellow glory; the bare grape-vine showed on the dingy lattice like a tangled mesh of weather-stained ropes; and "there were no birds in last year's nest" to make the martin-box look social.

This little window was Madeline's chosen seat; and hither she brought, sometimes a book, but more frequently a portion of Miss Wimple's work from the millinery department, and wholesomely employed her mind, skilfully her fingers. Here she could look out upon the earth and sky, and enjoy, unspied, the sympathy of their desolation,—never daring to think of all the maddening memories that lay under the front windows: those she had never once approached, never even turned her eyes towards; Miss Wimple had observed that.

But on the day of the installation of the basque and the flounces, and the promotion of the skimped delaine, late in the afternoon, the twilight (falling, as Madeline sat at the side-window, gazing vacantly down upon the forlornness of the little yard, and Miss Wimple stood at the front window, gazing as abstractedly down upon the hard, pitiless coldness of the street),—the thoughts of both intent on the must of their parting on the morrow, and the how of Madeline's going,—suddenly Madeline left her safe seat, and came and leaned upon Miss Wimple's shoulder, looking over it into the street. Only a minute, half a minute, but—surely the Enemy tempted her!—too long; for ere Miss Wimple, quick as she was to take the alarm, could turn and lead her away, Madeline's vigilant, fierce glance had caught sight of him, (alack! Philip Withers!) and, ashen-pale, with parted lips and suspended breath, and wide, blazing eyes, she stood, rooted there, and stared at him. But Miss Wimple dragged her away just in time,—no, he had not seen her,—and for a brief space the two women stood together, near the bed, in the corner farthest from the window; and Miss Wimple held Madeline's face close down upon her own shoulder, and pressed her hand commandingly, and whispered, "Hush!"

So they stood in silence,—no cry, no word, escaped. And when, presently, Madeline, with a long heart-heaved sigh, raised her head and looked Miss Wimple in the face, there was blood on her lips. And blood was on Miss Wimple's dress. Yea! the basqued and flounced disguise was raggedly rent at the shoulder.

Then Madeline went and lay down upon the bed, and turned her face to the wall,—and there was no noise. And Miss Wimple covered the blood and the rents on her shoulder with her mother's lace cape,—the familiar companion of the skimped delaine,—and went down into the shop.

When Miss Wimple, having put up the bars, ascended to the nest to join Madeline in the little cot,—Madeline slept quietly enough; but a trace of blood, with all its sad story, was on her lips, and a lingering frown of pain on her brow. Very carefully, not to disturb her, Miss Wimple lay down by her side, but not to sleep;—her thoughts were anxiously busy with the morrow.

In the morning, when Miss Wimple awoke, her eyes met the eyes of Madeline, no longer fierce and wild, but full of patience and tender gratitude. The brave Magdalen, leaning on her elbow in the bed, had been watching Miss Wimple as she slept, her poor heart fairly oppressed with its thankfulness to God, and to his saving minister. When, Miss Wimple opened her eyes, Madeline bent over her and kissed her on the forehead, and Miss Wimple smiled. Then both arose and put on their garments,—Madeline the skimped delaine, and Miss Wimple the flounces. Oh! the grotesque pathos of that exchange!—and Madeline did not remark with what haste, and a certain awkward bashfulness, Miss Wimple retired to a far corner and covered her shoulders with the lace cape.

All that day the two women were very still;—the approaching hour of parting was not adverted to between them, but the low tone in which they spake of other and lesser things showed that it was first of all in their thoughts and on their hearts. To the latest moment they merely understood each other. The cars went from the branch station at ten o'clock. It was nine when Miss Wimple released from its old-fashioned bandbox—as naturally as if it had been all along agreed upon between them, and not, as was truly the case, utterly forgotten until then—her well-saved and but little used bonnet of black straw, and put it on Madeline's head, kissing her, as a mother does her child, as she tied the bow under her chin; and she took from the bed the faithful shawl, and drew it snugly, tenderly, around Madeline's shoulders,—Madeline only blushing; to resist, to remonstrate, she well knew, had been in vain. There had been some exchanging of characters, you perceive, no less than of costumes.

"And now where shall we put those?" asked Miss Wimple, holding in her hand Mr. Osgood's check, and a trifle of ready money for the immediate needs of the journey.

Madeline replied by silently drawing from her bosom the little pocket-book, and handing it to her friend, who opened it in a matter-of-course way that was full of delicacy; and—no doubt accidentally, and innocently, as to any trick of pretty sentiment— deposited the check and the bank-note beside that card.

And now it was time to part. Miss Wimple took up the dim chamber-lamp, and led Madeline down the stairs,—both silent, calm: those were not crying women. As they entered the shop, Miss Wimple immediately set down the lamp on the nearest end of the counter, and went with Madeline straight to the door, whither its slender ray hardly reached, and where the blood-spots and the rents on her shoulder might not be noticed,—or, at least, not clearly defined. Then, with a business-like "Ah! I had forgotten,"—admirably feigned,—she hastily removed the shawl from Madeline's shoulders, and the lace cape from her own; and she put the lace cape on Madeline, and covered it with the shawl. This time Madeline shrank, and would have forbidden the charitable surprise; but Miss Wimple moved as though to open the door, and said,—

"Madeline, in mind, and heart, and soul, do you feel ready?"

"Yes!"

"Then go!—Believe in God and yourself, and do the best you can."

And Madeline said,—

"And you, also, must believe in me, and pray for me; be patient with me, and wait. If the time should ever come when I can comfort you, with God's help I will hasten to you, wherever you may be."

And they kissed each other, and both said, "God bless you!"

So Madeline departed quickly, and presently was lost in the shadows beyond the shop-lamps.

[Next morning, when Sally Wimple went to take down the bars, her neighbors were astonished; for it was already reported and believed that she had been seen going from the Athenæum to the ten o'clock train the night before.]

Then Miss Wimple closed the door and went back to her room, where she sat down on the bed and had a good cry, which was a great comfort. When, after that, she arose, and, standing before the glass to undress herself, perceived the blood-stains and the rents, she straightway went and brought her work-basket, and, seating herself under the dim lamp, without fear or hesitation cut down the dress, low-neck—There!—Then she lay down in the bed and slept sweetly, with a smile on her face.

Ah! cunning, artless Sally Wimple! No wonder the dashing directness of your character had ever by your neighbors been mistaken for simplicity. The thing which was easiest for you to do was ever the hardest thing for you to bear. In the morning, this new Godiva of Hendrik—not less to be honored than she of Coventry, in all she underwent and overcame—descended to her shop, "clothed on with chastity"; and then her dreadful trial began. I claim for her even more merit than the pure heart of the world has accorded to her namesake who:

"took the tax away,
And built herself an everlasting name,"

by as much as her task was harder, herself more helpless, and her reward less. Like her of Coventry,

"left alone, the passions of her mind,
As winds from all the compass shift and blow,
Made war upon each other for an hour,
Till Pity won."

She said to the World,—"If this woman pay your tax, she dies."

And the World mocked,—"You would not let your little finger ache for such as this!"

"But I would die," said she,—"and more,—I will bear your mocking and your hisses!"

"Oh! ay, ay, ay! you talk!" said the World.

But we have seen already. She had no herald to send forth and "bid him cry, with sound of trumpet, all the hard condition." No palfrey awaited her, "wrapt in purple, blazoned with armorial gold." For her, indeed,

"The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spout,
Had cunning eyes to see…"

"…the blind walls
Were full of chinks and holes; and, overhead,
Fantastic gables stared."

She had her low churls, her Peeping Toms,—"compact of thankless earth," who bored moral auger-holes in fear, and spied. Her nudeness was more complete than hers of Coventry, by as much as ridicule is more ruthless than coarse curiosity.

Not merely the delicacy of her "inmost bower," but all the protection of her forlornness, she exposed naked to the town, to take that tax away; and when it was removed, she could not hope to build herself "an everlasting name." Ah, no! Godiva of Hendrik may not live in any "city's ancient legend." This poor story must be all her monument; let us lay the cap-stone, then.

* * * * *

All the angers of scorn in Hendrik were pointed at Miss Wimple; all the sharp tongues of Hendrik hissed at her; and her good name fell at once into the portion of the vilest weeds. Simon Blount saw and heard, and his soul was sorely troubled. Like all true love, loyal and vigilant, his love for Sally was clear-sighted and sagacious. Infatuation is either gross passion or pretence,—the flash and bogus jewelry of the heart; but true love, though its eyes may ache with the seeing, sees ever sharply. All beautiful examples teach that the blindness of Love is not a parable, but an imposture; and Simon saw that Sally was in a false position,—false to herself and to him; for she denied him that confidence which he had a right to share, sharing, as he did, all the scandal and the scorn; and in that, she was unconsciously unjust. She denied herself the aid and comfort of his tender counsel and his approbation, the protection of his understanding and believing, when for him to understand and believe was for her to be safe and bold. For even the pride of Sally Wimple, overdone, could become arrogance; even her disinterestedness, intemperately indulged in, could take on the form of selfishness.

Simon went to Sally, and said: "Tell me what all this means." But Sally, weak now in her very strength, said: "Nothing! Let my ways be my own ways still; I alone am answerable for them. Is 'believing and waiting' so hard to do? I did not send for you."

Then Simon conceived a tremendous coup de coeur, a daring one enough, as women go,—women of such stuff as the Sally Wimples of this world are made of. He said, "I will try the old trick, the foolish old trick that I always despised, but which must have something sound in it, after all, since it has served the turn, through all time, of people in my predicament." So Simon went over (not with his heart,—trust him!—but with his legs) to Adelaide Splurge. Miss Wimple, never guessing, saw him go, and made no sign, though her heart fairly cracked: "He will return one day," she thought; "if it be too late then, so much the better for him, perhaps."

Of Adelaide, the town had begun, some time since, to say, that she had tired of Philip Withers,—that she did not appreciate him, could not understand him,—he was too deep for her. Foolish town! She had only found him out, and learned to hate him as fiercely as she despised him unutterably. She had truly loved the man, and her shrewd heart had played the detective for his Madeline secret.