ONLY A WOMAN AFTER ALL.
the necessity. I think woman should have all avenues of employment open to her, which she can tread with safety.
"That a sympathetic marriage is the true and happiest condition of any woman, I believe earnestly; but, missing that, I think there are many other things in which she can find satisfaction, and, perhaps, happiness."
"What do you mean by ' avenues which she can tread with safety ? Do you mean that she wouldn't be very well able to carry a hod of bricks up a ladder without falling off?"
"Yes, partly. I mean with both physical and moral safety. Nature has imposed so many restraints on your sex that there are many things you cannot do without injury to yourselves physically; and contact with the world has a tendency-I mean a tendency merely-to roughen and harden you morally. Do you agree with this ?"
I was forced to acknowledge I did. I hate to allow there is anything we cannot do ; but I know there are many roads which must remain closed till we cease to be women.
I answered, " I do agree with you. But don't you think we are prevented from doing many things now, by law and by custom, which it would be better, under all circumstances, for us to do ? Don't you think our employments should be increased in equal proportion to the increase of demand?"
"Yes, I do, most certainly. But is the demand any larger than it has been, or is it only being more generally made known ? For my own part, I think women ought not to work at all in any capacity, or anywhere. We ought to be the providers, you the employers, if I may use the word."
"The demand is increased by one at least. I am trying to decide at this very moment what to do for a livelihood . I presume you know my history, and that I am penniless. I am ready to do something, and am willing to work hard, but I know not what to attempt. I cannot teach, or, rather, my instincts and tastes are all against teaching ; and it would be wrong for me to try to fill a place badly which some other person would fill well.
"I might- but Eliza is calling, and I must go."
So ended the first long conversation I have had with Mr. Barrington. I like him, and I don't like him. He is different from any man I have seen. I have the consciousness that he is trying to make me like him; yet when I endeavor to fix on any word or act which could give the impression, I cannot find one.
Eliza seemed so loth to let me go that night that at last I sent for my satchel, and have promised to remain till she needs me no longer, which will be, 1I suppose, as long or as short as her caprice happens to be.
It is the tacit arrangement now for the gentlemen to join us in Eliza's little sitting -room after luncheon , and we while away the hours till dinner, and then to bedtime with pleasant talk, singing, and reading. I enjoy it all, and find cach day the idea of going out into the world to struggle for myself harder to entertain. I must not let it slip from my grasp, for I doubt if I can bring it back readily. When I try to say to Eliza that I am wasting time, and must go to work, she answers in her pretty, petting way, “ Dear girl, haven't you work enough to do to take care of me? If I'm not sufficient trouble, I can easily be more. Do put those notions out of your head, for you are going to stay here for the present. " And when she kisses me, and looks so pleadingly in my eyes, I cannot say no.
If it were not for her, I would go this instant, though it will be hard to thrust behind me all this brightness, which looks like the last I shall ever have.
October 14th, 10 P. M. - The last time I wrote in this journal was, I see, a fortnight ago. That day Eliza took a severe cold from sitting in a draft. I begged her to let me close either the door or window ; but she would not, for it was very warm. Her cold brought on a fever, and she is now very ill. She cannot sleep, and the doctor says she cannot get well till she is rested. Mr. Barrington proposed to Dr. Marly that I should try to magnetize her to-night, and see if that would help her. I used to put her to sleep in fun, but I never tried in earnest. I am writing to calm my nerves, for Eliza's dear life depends on the sleep she gets to-night. Dare I try such an experiment? If I succeed, all will be well; if I fail, oh! I shall never be free from the shadow of the terrible result! I shall not fail; I will not permit my mind to consider it.
Poor John is distracted, and paces back and forth from his wife's room to the library where I am writing, looking like the spectre of the man he was two weeks since.
Mr. Barrington is very kind, and does more for us than we know. Whatever is needed is always ready, and the servants go to him regularly. When Eliza was taken ill, he proposed to leave the house and go to the village: but I asked him to stay on John's account, and he has been invaluable.
Mr. Barrington has brought me a glass of
