"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 abasement; and sometimes, again, while we tread the earth, they are aeronauts of the pure ether. Stable, stubborn, impassive 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 institution 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.
Quelle diable de fantaisie t'es tu allé mettre dans la cervelle? Tu le veux, amour; il faut être fou comme beaucoup d'autres.—Le Malade Imaginaire.
Matherton, renowned through both hemispheres for the manufacture of glass ware, stands, unless this history errs, on the line of the Northern Central Railroad, the distance from its post office to the post office at Boston being just thirty-three miles. Four miles from the village is the tract of land which Leslie's forefather, far back in New England antiquity, bought of the Indians. The original purchase covered several square miles, since dwindled to some two hundred acres. Here, in a sequestered and very beautiful spot, stands the mansion which Leslie's grandfather built some eighty-five years ago. In its day it was reputed of matchless elegance, and, with Leslie's repairs and improvements, it might still pass as a very handsome old country residence. Sagamore Pond, or Lake Sagamore, as the last Mrs. Leslie, who had lived in England, insisted on calling it, washes the foot of the garden; and along the northern verge of the estate, Battle Brook steals down to the pond, under the thick shade of the hemlock trees. Here King Philip's warriors once lay in ambush, through a hot summer's day; here many pious Puritans were butchered, and many carried off into doleful captivity.