The Doctors Daughter | Page 8

my unsuspecting soul
with a smiling lie.
But even in its infancy, human nature is prone to every passing
weakness that assails it. To know that other eyes looked out from a
narrower sphere upon my individual portion, and found it rich in
advantages over many others: to feel that in spite of all my harassing
little cares, my life could assume an exterior aspect of smoothness and
happiness, was a short-lived, though powerful stimulant, even to my
childish heart; and I could not forfeit the small pleasure I took in the

consciousness, that at least my sufferings were hidden, though my
pleasures were widely known, by laying bare the actual condition of
my affairs.
Naturally enough, this feeling has but strengthened and matured with
time and experience, and to-day, scattered broadcast over the world, are
friends of my childhood, my girlhood, and my womanhood, who look
upon my life as a tolerably beautiful thing, set apart by a lenient destiny
for a perpetual sunshine to brighten.
Ah well! Who knows, in this strange world whether there are many
happier than I? May it not be that other faces wear the mask of smiles
with which I myself have played a double part? I think I know enough
of human nature now, to suspect with Reason, that this livery of
contentment and joy which dazzles our eyes at intervals, as we review
the multitudes of the laughing and the gay, is a thing to be put on and
off at will, like any other garment; and hence is it that the earthly
happiness of men and women is susceptible of a relative definition only.
I do not wish to argue that such a thing as happiness itself has become
as obsolete in our day as hoop-skirts and side-combs, for, from the
earliest reflections I have ever indulged in, I have concluded that it is
quite easy to attain to a tolerable degree of happiness, if external
influences be not too desperately at variance with our efforts to arrive
at its tempting goal: and even now, when I have made my way through
some of the densest and darkest fogs of experience, I know I should be
happy yet, if, some day, I may see the masses in revolt against the
unjust tenets of nineteenth century convenances, and advocating in its
stead the beautiful doctrine of "soul to soul as hand to hand."
Possibly, all these regretful conclusions are a sequel to the early
disappointments and sorrows of my younger days, for, I admit, that
though I thrived after a fashion under their depressing influence, they
had, most necessarily, a peculiar effect upon my temperament.
The one thing that wearied me above and more than all others, was the
changeless monotony of my existence; every day a tiresome repetition
of another, which forced me to attribute little or no value to time.

I was not old enough to be sent to school, although I had entered upon
what is called the years of discretion, but my father's wife had a
high-bred fear, lest in sending me to an educational establishment I
should indulge my uncouth tendencies by cultivating unfashionable
acquaintances, that in after years, might possibly, in some remote,
indefinite way, reflect upon her own unimpeachable dignity.
There came a day, however, when exacting circumstances obliged her
to look upon the prospect of placing me at school with a more impartial
eye. A change was creeping, slowly, but surely, into our lives: hardly
for the better in one way, and yet, in the end, I must acknowledge, that
to it I owe much of the happiness I have ever known.
Whether or not my obdurate step-mother was in reality as susceptible
as a woman should be, I am not free to say; but when, after a few years
of wedded life, the prospect of maternity began to grow less shadowy
and more reliable, her heart did seem to swell at rare intervals with a
real, or assumed pity for the little woman who had been left to wander
about motherless and friendless, spending her young life, unheeded,
among the cheerless apartments of her own father's house.
While this new phase of existence was unfolding itself before her eyes,
like the lava from a long-slumbering volcano, a kind word or deed was
born now and then of the momentary influence. She would stroke my
head with a gesture of repenting, amending tenderness, give me a
bunch of gay ribbons for my last new doll, or even read me a thrilling
tale from my Christmas book of nursery fictions; but that impulse was
necessarily short-lived, and once it became spent, the crater of her heart
closed up again, and all was as cold and quiet as before.
To my untutored mind, this relaxation, limited though