THE WOMAN'S CLUB
Persis Dale was under no misapprehension, regarding her standing in the
community. She fully appreciated the fact that she was a pillar of
Clematis society and would have accepted as her due the complimentary
implication of Mrs. Warren's post-card, even if its duplicates had not
offered a similar tribute to at least thirty of her acquaintances. The
invitations were all written in Mrs. Warren's near-Spencerian hand, the
t's expanding blottily at the tips, the curves of the capitals
suggesting in their sudden murky expansion, the Mississippi River after
its union with the muddy Missouri.
"As one of the representative women of Clematis, you are invited to
attend a meeting at the home of Mrs. Sophia Warren, Saturday the 12th
inst. at 2 P. M. Object of meeting, the organization of a Woman's Club
for the purpose of expanding the horizon of the individual members and
uplifting the community as a whole. Please be prompt."
The arrival of the postman while Persis was busy with a fitting, gave
Joel time to examine the mail and frame a withering denunciation of
Mrs. Warren's plan. He sprung the same upon his sister with
pyrotechnic effect a little later.
"A woman's club! Clematis is getting on. Pretty soon the women'll be
smoking cigarettes and wanting to run for mayor and letting their own
rightful sphere go to the everlasting bow-wows. Expand their horizons!
What's the good of a horizon to a woman who's got a house to look
after, and a man around to do her thinking for her? If women folks
nowadays worked as hard as their grandmothers did, we wouldn't hear any
of this nonsense about clubs. As good old Doctor Watts says:
"'For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'"
Persis, arranging a cascade of lace, over the voluptuous bosom of her
adjustable bust-form, stood back to get the effect. "Maybe you're
right, Joel," she acknowledged placidly, "but I'm going to that meeting
at Sophia Warren's Saturday if I have to sew all Friday night to get my
week's work out of the way."
In the face of masculine scoffs, which sometimes, as in Joel's case,
became denunciatory rather than humorous, about twenty of the
representative thirty Mrs. Warren had called from her list of
acquaintances, accepted the invitation and were on hand at the hour
designated. The opposition of sundry husbands and fathers, as well as
of those unattached males who disapproved of women's clubs on general
principles, had lent to the project the seductive flavor of forbidden
fruit. The women who donned their Sunday best that Saturday afternoon
had an exhilarating sense of adventure. Even Annabel Sinclair,
invariably bored by the society of her own sex, made her appearance
with the others and from her post of observation in the corner, noted
the effect of lavender on Gladys Wells' complexion, and wondered why
Thad West's mother didn't try anti-fat.
As the clock struck two, Mrs. Warren rose with a Jack-in-the-box effect
from behind the table where she had ensconced herself after welcoming
the last arrival. Mrs. Warren had taught school before her marriage
and under the stimulus of her present responsibility, her voice and
manner reverted to their earlier pedagogical precision. As she rapped
the assembly to order, she had every appearance of a teacher calling on
the A-class to recite.
"Ladies, I am glad to see so many of you punctual. Miss Persis Dale
has sent word that she will be detained for a little by the pressure of
Saturday's work, but that she will join us later, and undoubtedly other
tardy arrivals will have excuses equally good. And now, ladies, the
first business of the afternoon will be the election of a chairman."
"Oh, you've got to be chairman," observed Mrs. West conversationally
from the largest armchair. "None of the rest of us know enough."
Corroborative nods and murmurs approved the suggestion, and Mrs. Warren
acknowledged the compliment by a prim little bow.
"Do I understand you to make this in the form of a motion, Mrs. West?"
"Why, ye-es, I s'pose so," returned Mrs. West, visibly startled by the
suggestion that she had performed that feat without a realizing sense
of its momentous character.
"Is there a second to this motion?"
The chilling silence, which the first hint of parliamentary procedure
imposes on the most voluble gathering, unaccustomed to its
technicalities, was broken at length, by the voice of Susan Fitzgerald,
who said faintly, "I do," and blushed to the roots of her hair.
"You have heard the motion, ladies. All in favor signify it, by saying
_aye_."
Twenty voices in unison gave an effect at once businesslike and
harmonious; and the representative women of Clematis looked vaguely
pleased to find their end so easily attained.
"Contrary-minded, the same sign." A breathless pause while the
assembly waited for the daring opposition to manifest itself. "The
motion appears to be carried, carried unanimously, ladies. I thank you
for your confidence. We shall now proceed to consider the best method
of organizing ourselves so as to expand the horizon of the individual
members"--Mrs. Warren was quoting, unabashed, from her own
post-card--"in addition to uplifting the community as a whole."
The chairman went into temporary eclipse by taking her seat, and the
gathering no longer frozen into speechlessness by the realization that
there was a motion before the house, rippled out in brook-like fluency.
"I think a card club would be just too grand for anything," gushed
Gladys Wells with an effect of girlishness, quite misleading. "My
cousin in Springfield belongs to a card club, and they have just the
grandest times. Everybody pays ten cents each meeting, and that goes
for the prize. My cousin won a perfectly grand cut-glass butter dish."
"I don't see how parlor gambling would help uplift the community,"
commented Mrs. Richards coldly from the opposite side of the room.
The seemingly inevitable clash was averted by Susan Fitzgerald, who
rose and addressed the chair, a feat of such reckless daring as to
reduce the assembly to instant dumbness.
"Mrs. President, I think a suffrage club is what we need in Clematis
'most of anything. We women have submitted to being downtrodden long
enough, and the only way for us to force men to give us our rights is
to organize and stand shoulder to shoulder. It's time for us to
arise--to arise in our might and defy the oppressor."
Susan subsided, mopping her moist forehead as if her oratorical effort
had occupied an hour, rather than a trifle over thirty seconds.
Gradually the meeting recovered from its temporary paralysis.
"If it's going to be that sort of a club, I'm sure Robert wouldn't
approve of my having anything to do with it," Mrs. Hornblower remarked
with great distinctness, though apparently addressing her remarks to
her right-hand neighbor. "Robert isn't what you'd call a tyrant, but
he believes that a man ought to be master in his own house. If he
thought there was any danger of my getting interested in such subjects,
he'd put his foot right down and that would be the end of it."
The ghost of a titter swept over the gathering. Mrs. Hornblower,
though fond of flaunting her wifely subjection in the faces of her
acquaintances, never failed to get her own way in any domestic crisis
where she had taken the trouble to form a preference. And on the other
hand, poor Susan Fitzgerald, for all her blustering defiance of the
tyrant sex, could in reality be overawed and browbeaten by any male not
yet out of kilts. Before the phantom-like laughter had quite died
away, Mrs. Hornblower added majestically: "But I don't want my opinions
to count too much either way as I may be leaving Clematis before long."
The expansion of the horizon of the representative women of Clematis,
with the incidental uplift of the community, was immediately relegated
to the background of interest. "Leaving Clematis!" exclaimed a dozen
voices, the accent of shocked protest easily perceptible above mere
surprise and curiosity.
Mrs. Hornblower, in her evident enjoyment of the sensation of which she
was the center, was in no hurry to explain.
"We're thinking of selling the farm and investing in an apple orchard,"
she announced at length. "Robert's worked hard all his life, and we
think it's about time he began to take things easy. The comp'ny
undertakes to do all the work of taking care of the orchard and
marketing the fruit for a quarter of our net profits, and that'll leave
me and Robert free to travel 'round and enjoy ourselves. We're looking
over plans now for our villa."
Even Annabel Sinclair straightened herself suddenly, galvanized into
closer attention by that magic word.
"I've heard tell that there was lots of money in apples," exclaimed
Mrs. West. "But I didn't s'pose there was enough so that folks
wouldn't need to do any work to get it out."
"You see, people in general don't appreciate what science and system
can do," patronizingly explained Mrs. Hornblower. "If you'd read some
of the literature the Apple of Eden Investment Comp'ny sends us, it
would be an eye-opener."
"Ladies, ladies!" expostulated the chairman, "we are forgetting the
object of our meeting." Then temporarily setting aside her official
duties in favor of her responsibility as hostess, she hurried forward
to greet a new arrival. "So glad to see you, Mrs. Leveridge. But I'm
sorry you couldn't persuade young Mrs. Thompson to accompany you."
"She'd agreed to come," replied Mrs. Leveridge, loosening her
bonnet-strings and sighing. "But at the last minute she found it
wasn't possible."
The room rustled expectantly. There is always a chance that the reason
for a bride's regrets may be of interest.
"Nothing serious, I hope," said Mrs. West insinuatingly.
Mrs. Leveridge's sigh was provocative of further questions.
"Well, no, and then again, yes. It isn't anything like a death in the
family. But you don't have to live long to find out that death ain't
the worst thing."
"My goodness, Minerva," exclaimed Susan Fitzgerald, aghast. "What's
happened?"
Mrs. Leveridge's deliberative gaze swept the silently expectant company.
"Of course, I wouldn't repeat it everywhere. But I'm sure anything I
say won't go a step further."
Twenty voices replied, "Of course not," with a unanimity which gave it
the effect of a congregational response in the litany.
Mrs. Leveridge, having made terms with her conscience, from all
appearances rather enjoyed the responsibility of enlightening her
audience, "It's her husband."
"Her husband!" cried Susan Fitzgerald protestingly; "why, she hasn't
been married six months."
Mrs. Leveridge's smile showed more than a tinge of patronage.
"If you'd ever been married yourself, Susan, you'd know that six months
was enough, quite enough. If he's that kind of a man, six weeks is
about as long as he can keep on his good behavior."
"He hasn't been beating her, has he?" asked Mrs. Hornblower, her voice
dropping to a thrilled whisper.
"No, I'd call it worse than that, myself. You see when I stopped for
Mis' Thompson, on my way here, I found her crying and taking on
something terrible. She had a letter in her hand, and of course I
s'posed it had brought some bad news that was working her up, and I
begged her to tell me about it so's to ease her mind, you understand.
"Well, she kept on moaning and crying, and at last it all came out. It
seems that when she went to the closet to get down her jacket, a coat
of her husband's fell off the hanger. The pockets was stuffed with
letters, the shiftless way men-folks have, and they went sprawling all
over the floor. She picked up this among the rest. It was addressed
to W. Thompson, at some hotel in Cleveland, and it had been forwarded
to the city office of his firm. And seeing it was a dashing sort of
writing that stretched clear across the envelope, and didn't look a
mite like business, she was curious to know what it was about."
"Now, don't tell me there was anything bad in that letter," implored
Mrs. West. "I always thought young Mr. Thompson had such a nice face."
"Well, if handsome is that handsome does, he hasn't any more looks to
boast of than a striped snake. It was a letter from a girl, a regular
love-letter from start to finish. It opened up with 'Tommy Darling.'"
"But young Mr. Thompson's name is Wilbur," somebody objected.
"I guess the Tommy was pet for Thompson. The envelope was directed to
W. Thompson and you can't squeeze a Tommy out of a W. no matter how
hard you try. The girl, whoever she is, has gone into it with her eyes
open. Two or three times she dropped little hints about his wife.
Didn't say _wife_ right out, you know. It was kind of veiled, but you
couldn't help understanding."
"Was there any name signed?" asked Annabel Sinclair, opening her lips
for the first time that afternoon. She herself had long before
realized the unadvisability of signing one's name to one's epistolary
efforts.
"'Twas just signed 'Enid.' There was a monogram on the paper, but I
couldn't make it out. Seems as if you could find 'most any letter in a
monogram. The paper was nice and heavy and all scented up. Poor Mis'
Thompson!"
"She ought to leave him," exploded Susan Fitzgerald. "And I shouldn't
blame her a mite if she poisoned his coffee first. If women could
vote, they'd send a man like that to the gallows."
Mrs. West championed the absent sex. "In a case of that sort, Susan,
you can't put all the blame off on to the man. There's a woman in it,
too, every time, and the one's as deep in the mud as the other is in
the mire. And like as not," continued Mrs. West, a tell-tale tension
in her voice, "he was a nice, clean-minded young man when she came
along, making eyes at him, like a snake charming a sparrow. I'm not
crazy about voting, but if I had the ballot, I'd vote for locking up
those kind of women and keeping every last one of 'em at hard labor for
the term of their natural lives."
The moment was electric, and Mrs. Warren hastily proffered her services
as a lightning-rod. "Is she going to leave him, do you think?"
"Well, I guess she's got a crazy notion in her head that maybe he can
explain. I tried to talk her out of that idea. As I said to her, a
man capable of anything of that sort won't stop at lying out of it.
And I should judge," concluded Mrs. Leveridge, "that that young Mr.
Thompson would be capable of a real convincing lie. He don't look
wicked, but he does look smart."
The outer door opened and closed with an impetus just short of a slam,
irresistibly suggestive in some obscure fashion, of the entrance of
ardent youth. "I didn't think 'twas worth while to ring," explained
Persis Dale, nodding to the right and left as she advanced to greet her
hostess. "Sorry to be so late. I guess you've got everything pretty
nearly settled by now." She bowed rather stiffly to Annabel Sinclair,
sitting silent in her corner, and acknowledged with reluctant
admiration that the woman certainly was a credit to her dressmaker.
A guilty constraint settled upon the gathering so fluent a moment
before, and psychologically considered, there was food for reflection
in the sudden embarrassed silence. These good women were far from
being vulgar gossips with one or two possible exceptions. They were
shocked at this unanticipated revelation of human perfidy. The young
wife, humiliated and heart-broken before the morning glow of romance
had faded from her marriage, had their profoundest sympathy. Yet when
the curtain rises on a human drama, however tragic its development, the
little thrill that runs over the audience is not altogether unpleasant.
Regrettable as it is that Othello should smother his wife, there seems
a certain gratification in making ourselves familiar with the details
of the operation. It was the consciousness of this unacknowledged
satisfaction which rendered Mrs. Warren's guests abashed at Persis'
advent, like children discovered in some forbidden pastime. They
avoided one another's eyes, assuming an expression of grave absorption,
whose obvious implication was that the uplifting of the community was
the matter most in their thought.
With all her interest in other people's affairs, the personality of
Persis Dale was as a killing frost to many a flourishing scandal. She
had a readiness to believe the best, a reluctance to condemn her fellow
men on anything short of convincing proof, fatal to calumny. Although
perhaps justified in thinking the worst of young Mr. Thompson, no one
present felt disposed to enlighten Persis as to the character of the
discussion which had engrossed a gathering convened for the high moral
purposes outlined on Mrs. Warren's post-card.
"I--we--well, we have not reached any conclusion as yet," explained the
chairman of the meeting, with a notable accession of color. "Several
suggestions have been made, however, and we hope you will have
something to add."
Persis would not have been Persis had she failed to have something to
suggest. Whether her businesslike methods aided in bringing matters to
a focus, or whether the change was due to a conscience-stricken
reaction on the part of the representative women of Clematis, it is
certain that the deliberations of the body were not again side-tracked
by the intrusion of personal matters. The business of the afternoon
was transacted with a rapidity putting to shame some more pretentious
conventions, the women wisely refusing to be hampered or restricted by
the tangles of parliamentary law, in which, as every one knows, much
really important legislation is strangled.
When the meeting adjourned at quarter of six, an hour which sent
prudent housewives scurrying homeward, Mrs. Sophia Warren was the duly
elected president of the Clematis Woman's Club, while Susan Fitzgerald
had accepted the duties of secretary of the organization. The members
had voted to meet weekly, taking up the study of English literature,
and current events, the two subjects to divide the program equally.
The club was to hold itself in readiness to grapple with questions of
civic improvement, and already a committee had been appointed to
arrange for a Harvest Home Festival at the county almshouse for the
edification of the inmates. It really began to look as if the horizon
of a number of people would be enlarged and the community as a whole
uplifted, with or without its consent.