At length I have acted my severest part:
I feel the woman breaking in upon me,
And melt about my heart: My tears will flow.
-- Addison.
Rachel Bond's will had carried her triumphantly through a terrible
ordeal--how terrible no one could guess, unless he followed her
to her room after the interview and saw her alone with her agony.
She did not weep. Tears did not lie near the surface with her. The
lachrymal glands had none of that ready sensitiveness which gives
many superficial women the credit of deep feeling. But when she
did weep it was not an April shower, but a midsummer tempest.
Now it was as if her intense grief were a powerful cautery which
seared and sealed every duct of the fountain of tears and left her
eyes hot and dry as her heart was ashes.
With pallid face and lips set until the blood was forced from them,
and they made a thin purplish line in the pale flesh, she walked
the floor back and forth, ever back and forth, until a half-stumble,
as she was turning in a dreary round, revealed to her that she was
almost dropping from exhaustion.
She had thought her love for Harry had received its death-blow when
her pride in him had been so rudely shattered. But this meeting,
in which she played the part set for herself with a brave perfection
that she had hardly deemed possible, had resurrected every dear
memory, and her passion sprung into life again to mock and jeer
at her efforts to throttle it out of existence. With him toppling
from the pedestal on which her husband must stand, she had told
herself that there was naught left but to roll a great stone against
the sepulcher in which her love must henceforth lie buried, hopeless
of the coming of any bright angle to unseal the gloomy vault. Yet,
despite the entire approval given this by her judgment, her woman's
heart cried bitterly for a return of the joys out of which the
beauty had fled forever.
Hours passed in this wrestle with pain. How many she did not know,
but when she came forth it was with the composure of one who had
fought the fight and won the victory, but at a cost that forbade
exultation.
---
There was one ordeal that thus far she had not been called upon to
endure. From the day on which she had donned her sable robes to
that of Harry's return no one had ventured to speak his name in
her presence. Even her father and mother, after the first burst
of indignation, had kept silence in pity for her suffering, and
there was that in her bearing that forbade others touching upon a
subject in her hearing that elsewhere was discussed with the hungry
avidity of village gossips masticating a fresh scandal.
But she could not be always spared thus. She had not been so
careful of the feelings of less favored women and girls, inferior
to her in brightness, as to gain any claim for clement treatment
now, when the displacement of a portion of her armor of superiority
gave those who envied or disliked her an unprotected spot upon
which to launch their irritating little darts.
All the sewing, dorcas and mite societies of the several churches
in Sardis had been merged into one consolidated Lint-Scraping and
Bandage-Making Union, in whose enlarged confines the waves of gossip
flowed with as much more force and volume as other waves gain when
the floods unite a number of small pools into one great lake.
In other days a sensational ripple starting, say in the Episcopalian
“Dorcas,” was stilled into calmness ere it passed the calm and
stately church boundaries. It would not do to let its existence be
even suspected by the keen eyes of the freely-censorious Presbyterian
dames, or the sharp-witted, agile-tongued Methodist ladies.
And, much as these latter were disposed to talk over the weaknesses
and foibles of their absent sisters in the confidential environments
of the Mite Society or the Sewing Circle, they were as reluctant
to expose these to the invidious criticisms of the women of the
other churches as if the discussed ones had been their sisters in
fact, and not simply through sectarian affiliation. Church pride,
if nothing else, contributed to the bridling of their tongues, and
checking the free circulation of gossip.
“Them stuck-up Presbyterian and Episcopalian women think little
enough on us now, the land knows,” Mrs. Deborah Pancake explained
to a newly-received sister, whom she was instructing in elementary
duties. “There's no use giving 'em more reason for looking down upon
us. We may talk over each other's short-comings among ourselves,
private like, because the Bible tells us to admonish and watch
over each other. But it don't say that we're to give outsiders
any chance to speak ill of our sisters-in-Christ.”
And Mrs. Euphrosyne Pursifer remarked to the latest agreeable
accession to the parish of St. Marks, with that graceful indirection
that gave her the reputation in Sardis of being a feminine Talleyrand:
“Undoubtedly the ladies in these outside denominations are very
worthy women, dear, but a certain circumspection seems advisable
in conversing with them on subjects that we may speak of rather
freely among ourselves.”
The rising fervor of the war spirit melted away most of these
barriers to a free interchange of gossip. With the first thrill of
pleasure at finding that patriotism had drawn together those whom
the churches had long held aloof came to all the gushing impulse
to cement the newly-formed relationship by confiding to each other
secrets heretofore jealously guarded. Nor should be forgotten the
“narrative stimulus” every one feels on gaining new listeners to
old stories.
It was so graciously condescending in Mrs. Euphrosyne Pursifer to
communicate to Mrs. Elizabeth Baker some few particulars in which
her aristocratic associates of St. Marks had grieved her by not
rising to her standard of womanly dignity and Christian duty, that
Mrs. Baker in turn was only too happy to reciprocate with a similar
confidence in regard to her intimate friends of Wesley Chapel.
It was this sudden lapsing of all restraint that made the waves of
gossip surge like sweeping billows.
And the flotsam that appeared most frequently of late on their
crests, and that was tossed most relentlessly hither and thither,
was Rachel Bond's and Harry Glen's conduct and relations to each
other.
The Consolidated Lint-scraping and Bandage-making Union was holding
a regular session, and gossip was at spring-tide.
“It is certainly queer,” said Mrs. Tufis, one of her regulation
smiles illuminating her very artificial countenance; “it is singular
to the last degree that we don't have Miss Rachel Bond among us.
She is such a LOVELY girl. I am very, very fond of her, and her
heart is thoroughly in unison with our objects. It would seem
impossible for her to keep away.”
All this with the acrid sub-flavor of irony and insincerity with
which an insincere woman can not help tainting even her most sincere
words.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Tabitha Grimes, with a premeditated acerbity
apparent even in the threading of her needle, into the eye of which
she thrust the thread as if piercing the flesh of an enemy with a
barb; “yes;” she pulled the thread through with a motion as if she
enjoyed its rasping against the steel. “Rachel Bond started into
this work quite as brash as Harry Glen started into the war. Her
enthusiasm died out about as quickly as his courage, when it came
to the actual business, and she found there was nobody to admire
her industry, or the way she got herself up, except a parcel of
married women.”
The milk of human kindness had begun to curdle in Mrs. Grimes's
bosom, at an early and now rather remote age. Years of unavailing
struggle to convince Mr. Jason Grimes that more of his valuable
time should be devoted to providing for the wants of his family,
and less to leading the discussion on the condition of the country
in the free parliament that met around the stove in the corner
grocery, had carried forward this lacteal fermentation until it
had converted the milky fluid into a vinegarish whey.
“Well, why not?” asked Elmira Spelter, the main grief of whose life
was time's cruel inflexibility in scoring upon her face unconcealable
tallies of every one of his yearly flights over her head, “why
shouldn't she enjoy these golden days? Youth is passing, to her
and to all of us, like an arrow from the bow. It'd be absurd for
her to waste her time in this stuffy old place, when there are so
many more attractive ones. It ought to be enough that those of us
who have only a few remnants of beauty left, should devote them to
this work.”
“Well,” snapped Mrs. Grimes, “your donation of good looks to the
cause--even if you give all you got--will be quite modest, something
on the widow's mite order. You might easily obey the scriptural
injunction, and give them with your right hand without your left
knowing what was being done.”
Elmira winced under this spiteful bludgeoning, but she rallied and
came back at her antagonist.
“Well, my dear,” she said quietly, “the thought often occurs to
me, that one great reason why we both have been able to keep in the
straight and narrow path, is the entire lack of that beauty which
so often proves a snare to the feet of even the best-intentioned
women.”
It was Mrs. Grimes's turn to wince.
“A hit! a palpable hit!” laughed pretty Anna Bayne, who studied
and quoted Shakespeare.
“The mention of snares reminds me,” said Mrs. Grimes, “that I, at
least, did not have to spread any to catch a husband.”
“No,” returned Elmira, with irritating composure, “the poorer kinds
of game are caught without taking that trouble.”
“Well”--Mrs. Grimes's temper was rising so rapidly that she was
losing her usual skill in this verbal fence--“Jason Grimes, no
doubt, has his faults, as all men have; but he is certainly better
than no husband at all.”
“That's the way for you to think,” said Elmira, composedly, disregarding
the thrust at her own celibacy. “It's very nice in you to take
so cheerful a view of it. SOMEBODY had to marry him, doubtless,
and it's real gratifying to see one accepting the visitations of
Providence in so commendable a spirit.”
To use the language of diplomacy, the relations between these ladies
had now become so strained that a rupture seemed unavoidable.
“Heavens, will this quarrel ne'er be mended?” quoted Anna Bayne, not
all sorry that these veteran word-swordsmen, dreaded by everybody,
were for once turning their weapons on each other.
Peace-making was one of the prerogatives assumed by Mrs. Tufis, as
belonging to the social leadership to which she had elected herself.
She now hastened to check the rapidly-opening breach.
“Ladies,” she said blandly, “the discussion has wandered. Our first
remarks were, I believe about Miss Bond, and there was a surmise
as to her reasons for discontinuing attendance upon our meetings.”
The diversion had the anticipated effect. The two disputants
gladly quit each other, to turn upon and rend the object flung in
between them.
“Why Rachel Bond don't come here any more?” said Mrs. Grimes, with
a sniff that was one of the keenest-edged weapons in her controversial
armory. “When you know how little likely she is to do anything
that's not going to be for her benefit in some way. She's mighty
particular in everything, but more particular in that than in
anything else.”
“I'll admit that there is reason to suspect a strain of selfishness
in Rachel's nature,” said Anna Bayne; “but it's the only blemish
among her many good qualities. Still, I think you do her an
injustice in attributing her absence from our meetings to purely
selfish motives.”
“Of course, we all know what you mean,” said Elmira. “She set her
cap for Harry Glen, and played her cards so openly and boldly--”
“I should say 'shamelessly,'” interrupted Mrs. Grimes.
“Shamelessly, my dear?” This from Mrs. Tufis, as if in mild
expostulation.
“Shamelessly,” repeated Mrs. Grimes, firmly.
“Well, so shamelessly, if you choose,” continued Elmira, “as to
incur the ill-will of all the rest of the girls--”
“Whom she beat at a game in which they all played their best,”
interrupted Anna.
“That's an unworthy insinuation,” said Elmira, getting very red.
“At least, no one can say I played any cards for that stake.”
“Wasn't it because all your trumps and suit had been played out
in previous games?” This from Mrs. Grimes, whose smarting wounds
still called for vengeance.
For an instant a resumption of hostilities was threatened. Mrs.
Tufis hastened to interpose:
“There's no doubt in my mind that the poor, dear girl really took
very deeply to heart the stories that have been circulated about
Harry Glen's conduct, though there are people ready to say that she
was quite willing to play the role of the stricken one. It really
makes her look very interesting. Mourning and the plain style of
wearing her hair suit her very, VERY well. I do not think I ever
saw her looking so lovely as she has lately, and I have heard quite
a number of GENTLEMEN say the same thing.
“If she'd had real spirit,” said Mrs. Grimes, “she'd have dropped
Harry Glen without all this heroine-of-a-yellow-covered-novel
demonstration, and showed her contempt of the fellow by going ahead
just as usual, pretending that his conduct was nothing to her;
but she's a deep one. I'll venture anything she's got a well-laid
scheme, that none of us dream of.”
“Mrs. Tufis,”--it was the calm, even tones of Rachel Bond's voice
that fell upon the startled ears of the little coterie of gossipers.
She had glided in unobserved by them in the earnestness of their
debate. “How long has she been here and what has she heard?” was
the thrilling question that each addressed to herself. When they
summoned courage to look up at her, they saw her standing with
perfectly composed mien, her pale face bearing the pensive expression
it had worn for weeks. With subdued and kindly manner she returned
the affectionate greetings that each bestowed on her, in imitation of
Mrs. Tufis, who was the first to recover her wits and then continued:
“Mrs. Tufis, I come to you, as president of this society, to apologize
for my absence from so many of your meetings, and to excuse myself
on the ground of indisposition.” (Mrs. Grimes darted a significant
look at Elmira.) “I also want to announce that, as I have determined
to join the corps of nurses for the field hospitals, which Miss Dix,
of New York, is organizing, and as I will start for the front soon,
I shall have to ask you to excuse me from any farther attendance
upon your meetings, and drop my name from your roll.”
She replied pleasantly to a flood of questions and expostulations,
which the crowd that gathered around poured upon her, and turning,
walked quietly away to her home.