It was just after breakfast that Mildred locked an arm in that of Anna, and led her young friend by one of the wooded paths that runs along the shores of the Hudson, terminating in a summer-house, with a most glorious view. In this, there was nothing remarkable; the eye rarely resting on any of the ‘bits’ that adorn the banks of that noble stream, without taking in beauties to enchant it. But to all these our two lovely young women were momentarily as insensible as they were to the fact that their own charming forms, floating among shrubbery as fragrant as themselves, added in no slight degree to the beauty of the scene. In manner, Mildred was earnest, if not ardent, and a little excited; on the other hand, Anna was placid, though sensitive; changing colour without ceasing, as her thoughts were drawn nearer and nearer to that theme which now included the great object of her existence.
“Your uncle brought me letters from town last evening, Anna dear,” commenced the liberated lady: “one of them is from Mons. de Larocheforte. Is that not strange?”
“What is there so strange in a husband’s writing to his wife? To me, it seems the most natural thing in the world.”
“It does?—I am surprised to hear you say so—you, Anna, whom I regarded as so truly my friend. I have discarded Mons. de Larocheforte, and he ought to respect my pleasure.”
“It would have been better, my dear mamma, had you discarded him before marriage, instead of after.”
“Ah—your dear mamma, indeed! I was your school mamma, Anna, and well had it been for me had I been left to finish my education in my own country. Then, I should have escaped this most unfortunate marriage! Do not marry, Anna—take my advice, and never marry. Matrimony is unsuited to ladies.”
“How long have you been of this opinion, dear mamma?” asked the young girl, smiling.
“Just as long as I have been made to feel how it crushes a woman’s independence, and how completely it gives her a master, and how very, very humiliating and depressing is the bondage it inflicts. Do you not feel the force of my reasons?”
“I confess I do not,” answered Anna, in a subdued, yet clear and distinct voice. “I see nothing humiliating or depressing in a woman’s submission to her husband. It is the law of nature, and why should we wish to alter it? My mother has ever inculcated such opinions, and you will excuse me if I say I think the bible does, also.”
“The bible!—Yes, that is a good book, though I am afraid it is very little read in France. I ought, perhaps, to say, ‘read very little by strangers resident in France.’ The French women, themselves, are not one half as negligent of their duties, in this respect, as are the strangers who go to reside among them. When the roots, that have grown to any size in their native soil, are violently transplanted to another, it is not often that the tree obtains its proper dimensions and grace. I wish I had never seen France, Anna, in which case I should never have been Mad. de Larocheforte—vicomtesse, by the old law, and I am afraid it was that idle appellation that entrapped me. How much more truly respectable I should have been as Mrs. John Smith, or Mrs. John Brown, or Mrs. David Smith, the wife of a countryman, if I must be a wife, at all!”