“But he can be roused,” Clara replied with animation; “and when he is, it is something lyric. You remember, papa, Villemain’s definition of the true ode, as distinguished from the conventional one: ‘L’émotion d’une âme ébranlée et frémissante comme les cordes d’une lyre.’ It is no little factious stir at every touch, and snapping at a blow, but ‘smitten and vibrating’ grandly on great occasions.”
Mrs. Yorke gave a little sigh of expiring opposition. “One of my chief objections,” she said, “was that it would look so bizarre. If you do not care for that, then it is nothing.”
“Mamma,” Clara replied, “you would be astonished to know how little thought I give to the opinions of the Rose-pinks and Priscillas and pasteboard highnesses.”
And so the matter was tacitly settled.
But later, when Mr. and Mrs. Yorke sat together in the falling twilight, Clara came in softly behind them, pushed a footstool between their chairs, and sat there, holding a hand of each.
“Papa, mamma,” she said, “I want you to be satisfied that I am doing nothing without thought, and that I have chosen wisely. I tell you truly, Captain Cary is the only Protestant gentleman I know whom I can marry, and would not be afraid to marry. Look how the world is going. See what a frightful change has come over Boston since we can remember. Why, I have heard stories of some of our old acquaintances, people whom we thought respectable, which have sickened me. Your other two daughters have married good men, whom they can trust; but they are old-fashioned men, old enough to be their wives’ fathers instead of husbands. But of that class of men from whom you would think I might properly choose, would you dare to have me choose? I would not dare. Marriage has no longer any sacredness, except among Catholics. Other men desert or divorce their wives for nothing, and do the most horrible things. I should think that one-half the Protestant married ladies would look on their husbands with terror and distrust; and I wonder how any girl dares to marry. The weddings I’ve seen lately, instead of seeming happy occasions to me, have seemed most sad and painful. I heard a lady say this summer that in fifty years, or less, there would be no marriage outside the Catholic Church.”
“Charles, it is but too true,” the mother said. “I am terrified when I think of what is so evidently coming. It was the thought of this which reconciled me to Carl’s being a Catholic.”
“I wish we were all Catholics!” Clara exclaimed. “Not that I know or think much of theology; but it is better to believe too much than too little, and they are on the safe side. If we were wrecked, and our ship going to pieces, we would be glad of any vessel to pick us up. We wouldn’t quarrel with the cut of her jib.”
Mr. Yorke smiled. “See how she already draws her illustrations from the sea!” he said, and passed over her wish. “Well, Amy, she has proved herself a sensible girl, has she not? and deserves that we not only consent, but applaud.”
The mother’s answer was a silent embrace.