On the Use and Abuse of Political Power
“The absurdity of some people!” said the president, pausing as she
was about to call the meeting to order. “What excuse do you suppose
Elizabeth gave for not asking me to look at her pretty things? She said
she fancied I had grown too intellectual to care for gowns and hats!”
“How ridiculous! She had probably heard that you do not intend to send
her a wedding present,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“I haven’t told a soul but the members of this club that I shouldn’t
give her one,” said the president.
“Then she couldn’t possibly know it,” said the blue-eyed girl, hastily.
“What enrages _me_, is the insinuation that I have ceased to care for
pretty things, just because I study politics, and—er—other things. I
don’t see why intellectuality has anything to do with doing up one’s
hair with three hairpins, or—”
“Wearing gowns which are frayed around the bottom,” said the girl with
the dimple in her chin; “neither do I. And, yet they seem to be somehow
connected in people’s minds.”
“Very true,” said the president. “Girls, the editor of a literary
journal has asked for some of the papers which have been read before
this club. He says—”
“Mercy, what answer shall you make?” cried the girl with the dimple in
her chin.
“I told him that I could not think of such a thing. I always disliked
notoriety. It was very kind of him, though, and he even offered to let
the authors of the papers have copies of their effusions at reduced
rates, provided they took over a hundred.”
“Which, of course, they would,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Well, you
were quite right to refuse, Evelyn. I, for one, have such a horror of
publicity, and, besides, it would be quite expensive sending copies to
all one’s acquaintances.”
“True,” said the president; “we are all in accord, as usual. Let us
discuss, ‘The Use and Abuse of Political Power,’ to-day. It is a
subject which is of the greatest importance to all of us, and—”
“How do you spell ‘political?’ With one _t_ or two?” asked the girl
with the eyeglasses, as she opened her note-book.
“With one—no, two. Pshaw, I can’t remember. Just write it indistinctly.”
“Oh, Dorothy,” whispered the girl with the dimple in her chin, “I saw
Dick this morning, and he says Jack told him yesterday that he didn’t
really know what your quarrel was about, but he meant to go and see you
to-day, and ask you to forgive him!”
“I shall,” said the blue-eyed girl; “and I don’t mind confessing to
you, Emily, that I, too, may have been just the merest possible bit in
the wrong. I’ve felt it right along, but I couldn’t admit it, until he—
What shall I wear when he comes to see me?”
“You might wear the blue gown he always admires so much.”
“So I might. You know I wore a blue gown the day he asked me to marry
him, and he said I must keep it always. Of course, this isn’t the same
one, but I am careful to have each succeeding one the same color, and
he doesn’t know the difference. Perhaps I have told you this before.”
“I think you have, dear—once or twice,” said the girl with the dimple
in her chin, demurely.
“Yes. I don’t mind letting you know, Emily, that I have missed him a
good deal. Why, I had his photograph—the one I pretended to have lost,
so I needn’t send it back—out when you knocked at my door to-day. You
couldn’t have helped seeing me thrust it under Clover’s cushion, if you
hadn’t thought something was wrong with your boot heel, and stooped
down to see.”
“You don’t say so. Well, all I’ve got to say is, I wish I might see
Frances’ face at the wedding!”
“You shall, dear. I’ll ask her to be bridesmaid, and you, as maid
of honor, can have a good chance to watch her. You have been such a
faithful friend to both Jack and myself that you deserve at least that
much satisfaction.”
“Look here, Emily and Dorothy, I am afraid you are not attending
strictly to the discussion,” said the president. “The topic is—
Frances, what on earth has made you so late?”
“It was all an accident,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “I stopped
for you, Dorothy, on my way to the club. The maid said you had gone
already, and I was just coming away when I noticed that your little
dog—what is his name? Rover? Ah, Clover! I knew it was something like
that—was chewing something at the back of the hall! I went to see what
it was, and—”
“Oh, my goodness gracious! Not my new sixteen-button gloves,” wailed
the blue-eyed girl. “I’ll give that dog away to-morrow!”
“No, dear, not your gloves. It was a photograph. Just as I was trying
to get the pieces away from him, Ja—I mean Mr. Bittersweet—came up the
steps with a huge bunch of violets. He must have seen me standing in
the hall; you know the door was open.”
“Yes, dear,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “that checked
gown of yours speaks for itself!”
“I—ah, where was I? Oh—he succeeded in getting the fragments away
and—really, it was too funny! It turned out to be a photograph of
himself! I told him that I was almost sure that you didn’t give it to
the dog purposely, Dorothy; but I am afraid I didn’t quite convince
him.”
“Indeed; and where are the violets?” asked the girl with the dimple in
her chin; “you don’t seem to be wearing them!”
“Why, er—no. Ja—I mean Mr. Bittersweet—threw them at the dog. You will
find them right by the stairway, Dorothy, dear; but I’m afraid they are
not in very good condition. What is to-day’s topic, Evelyn?”
“‘The Use and Abuse of Political Power,’” said the president, in a
faint voice. “Will somebody open the window, please; I need air!”
“Oh, Evelyn,” said the girl with the Roman nose, after the president
had announced that she felt better, “I do hope you are not sitting up
at night studying, and that sort of thing.”
“Why, er—no, I believe not. The fact is I’ve been going to a good many
dances of late on Tom’s account.”
“But Tom doesn’t go, does he?”
“No. B—but everybody knows how fond of dancing I am; and if I didn’t
go they would say he kept me at home. I don’t want Tom to pose as a
tyrant, you know!”
“Of course not. You—”
“Yes. The only thing which makes me feel uncomfortable is the angelic
way in which he bears my absence. It isn’t like Tom, and—”
“Clarence—my cousin you know—was saying only the other day, that he
thought you an angel to allow Tom and his friends to smoke in the
drawing-room, just because you happened to be out,” said the girl with
the Roman nose. “I wonder if that—”
“To smoke in the drawing-room!” shrieked the president, turning
pale. “I’ll go home this minute, and tell him what I think of such a
proceeding. No, I won’t, either; he is at the office, and it would not
do any good! I never suspected such a thing and—”
“Oh, well, then the smoke couldn’t have done the rugs and curtains much
harm, after all, if you never noticed the odor.”
“It’s the principle of the thing, my dear. What hurts me, is the fact
that my husband respects my wishes so little, when I only go to dances
to keep people from thinking ill of him, too! Well, one thing sure,
I’ll have all new curtains and carpets—since mine are ruined with
smoke—if he keeps on talking about hard times until he is black in the
face!”
“I wonder why men are always talking about hard times,” said the girl
with the classic profile; “women never say anything about them.”
“Unless they are driven to it,” said the girl with the dimple in her
chin. “My sister’s husband wanted to have his mother come for a nice,
long visit, but she told him that she hardly thought they could afford
it in such hard times. You see he had just made that excuse for not
doing up the house.”
“With the result?” queried the girl with the eyeglasses.
“That he decided to have the house done up at once! And, after all, the
old lady only stayed about a week. Helen says she can’t imagine why she
went, unless, she was offended at her suggestion that she might like to
take a course at the cooking-school while she was here.”
“Well, I don’t blame Helen, at all,” said the blue-eyed girl. “No man
has a right to be dyspeptic before he is married, and her husband was.
Everybody ought to have a fair chance, and Helen’s cooking might not
have given it to him for years.”
“At any rate, he can’t blame _her_ for his dyspepsia—and that is
something,” said the president. “Girls, does any one know why Josephine
has given up her lessons at the cooking school?”
“I suppose she has made one really good loaf of bread, and doesn’t want
to tempt fate again,” said the blue-eyed girl.
“That is not the reason,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “she is
engaged to a man who knows how to cook, so there is no use for her to
waste any more time over it. She is studying political economy now.”
“And a very good thing, too,” said the girl with the dimple in her
chin, “for the way money is wasted on elections, is really shocking!”
“Hear! hear!” cried the girl with the Roman nose. “Of course I don’t
want to have men as members of this club, but I can’t help wishing
sometimes that a few of them might hear Emily and Evelyn when they are
attacking political abuses and monopolies.”
“For my part, I don’t see why they haven’t thrust the privilege of
suffrage upon us long ago,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Then
they would have somebody to blame, when civic and national affairs go
wrong!”
“Pshaw,” said the president, “that isn’t necessary at all. They can
come home and scold because dinner is late, or the hall gas is unlit,
and so relieve their feelings just the same.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to vote,” said the girl with the dimple in
her chin. “It is ever so much nicer to do as the men do with our
housekeeping—just criticise that which we can never display our
ignorance by attempting to do ourselves.”
“That is only your sweet modesty, dear,” said the girl with the classic
profile. “What do you think Mr. Bonds said the other day! Ah, I was so
indignant! He said it was a mistake to say that women could not throw
stones.”
“I don’t see why you were indignant at that,” said the brown-eyed
blonde. “It seems to me—”
“It wasn’t that. It was what came afterward. He said he knew it was a
libel for they could—at each other! And every man in the room laughed
as if he had said something clever!”
“I declare,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “it is enough to make a
man-hater of me. If only people would not say that it was because of
some particular man who failed to admire me—”
“There is no danger of it being laid to the door of any _one_ man in
your case, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Is that your new gown that
you are wearing to-day, Frances, dear?”
“Why, yes. Quite a novelty, isn’t it. How do you like it?”
“Very much indeed, dear. I stopped and looked at it hanging in the
cleaner’s window the other day, and thought how well it looked. You
remember, don’t you, Dorothy, my calling your attention to it?” said
the girl with the dimple in her chin.
“Quite well. I thought at the time that it was well she had not
attempted to clean it herself. By the way, Helen’s little boy said such
a clever thing the other day. We were speaking of favorite perfumes,
and how nice it was to always use the same one, and he said: ‘I know
what is Miss Frances’ favorite perfume. Her gloves always smell of it.’
‘And what is it?’ Helen asked. ‘Gasoline,’ said the dear little fellow.
Did you ever hear anything so clever in your life?”
“Oh, girls,” said the president, hastily, “speaking of gloves: I had
a letter from Pauline the other day, and such a heart-rending thing
had occurred to her. A nice man was buttoning her gloves one day, and
he said she had the hand of a fairy—Pauline seemed to think that an
original remark.”
“Perhaps it was the first time she had ever had it said to her,”
replied the blue-eyed girl.
“Um—perhaps it was. She said carelessly, ‘Do you think so? Why, I
consider it quite large. I wear a number six.’ She was sorry for that
afterward.”
“I suppose he looked in the other glove, and—saw that she had made a
mistake,” said the girl with the Roman nose.
“No, dear. But, shortly after that, they made a bet of a dozen pairs
of gloves, and Pauline won. Oddly enough, she didn’t know it until the
gloves arrived. They were number six, and—”
“Pshaw, she could exchange them for a larger size; he would never know
the difference,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“Not in this case, dear. He had had her monogram embroidered on the top
of each pair. And now he is offended that she does not wear them!”
“How exactly like a man,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin.
“Now, I have too high a regard for truth to—”
“Waste it on such a little thing as that? I know,” said the brown-eyed
blonde. “Well, I hope Pauline’s mishap will be a warning to you.”
“She might say that she could not accept such a gift from a masculine
friend,” thoughtfully suggested the girl with the classic profile.
“But she had thanked him very prettily, and said they were just her
size, and how did he know it? before she discovered that she could not
exchange them! Oh, I just don’t see any way out of it. I told Tom about
it, and he said, ‘Pshaw, let her tell him the truth, and be done with
it.’ And yet Tom is very clever—for a man.”
“Indeed he is,” said the blue-eyed girl, warmly, “he is one of the few
people who always understands a joke when I tell it. Just because I
leave out a little bit of it, some people—”
“Oh, girls,” cried the girl with the classic profile, “I’ve been
waiting for a good chance to tell you that Eunice is married!”
“Is it possible?” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “I remember that
she always said people ought to know each other very well before they
_were_ married. That was why she went for a long visit to that Kansas
girl whose brother was so much in love with her. She married _him_, I
suppose.”
“Why—er—no. You see, he asked her, and she said she could not give him
an answer until she concluded her visit. They would know each other
much better then.”
“And she refused him, after all?” said the girl with the Roman nose.
“Well, no. For some reason he failed to renew his offer, after her
visit was over. She had known the man she married exactly three weeks
when they became engaged.”
“And the engagement lasted?”
“Just a month, dear. And she was so busy all the time with the
trousseau that she hardly had time for a word with him.”
“Perhaps it was just as well,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Has the man
she married any money?”
“I suppose so. He was thirty-four, and a bachelor. A very poor man
would have married long before he was as old as that. By the way,
speaking of the abuse of political power, Mr. Dickenharry tells Nell
that if he is really elected to the office he hopes for, she will have
to ask all sorts of people to her receptions, in order that—”
“And what did Nell reply to that?” asked the blue-eyed girl.
“Oh, she just smiled and let it go. It will be much easier to manage
all that after they are married. She says he is so busy now that she
doesn’t like to thwart him unnecessarily. Nell is always so thoughtful
of the feelings of others.”
“Indeed she is,” said the president. “Anyhow if she is obliged to ask
all those awful people to her receptions, she can snub them thoroughly
if they accept. Oh, she is just the ideal wife for a politician; how
she will help him!”
“That is just what she says herself,” said the girl with the dimple in
her chin, “and she also says that she wants to join this club as soon
as her trousseau is off her mind. She thinks our debates on political
subjects will be of great benefit to her. In the meantime, she wants me
to make notes of the discussions, and let her have them.”
“Yes, and let Mr. Dickenharry make use of all our original ideas in his
speeches!” cried the president, hotly. “I am surprised at you, Emily,
for—”
“Oh, I didn’t say I meant to do it, dear; I only said she wanted me to.
It is so much easier to promise a thing, and then forget it, you know.
Girls, I went to see dear old Mrs. Pepperly yesterday, and—”
“What, that cross, disagreeable woman!” cried the brown-eyed blonde.
“What on earth made you do such a thing?”
“Oh, I always liked her, dear. When I got there, I was _so_ surprised.
Her son is home from Mexico on a visit, and—”
“Why, don’t you remember, Emily, I told you that on Sunday?” said the
president. “I mentioned that he had made a lot of money there, and—”
“How strange of me to forget it; I believe I do remember it now. We
used to be quite friends before he went away, too; which makes it all
the stranger. Do you know, I’m afraid I shall have to accept one of
those lovely Mexican opals he brought with him, or hurt his feelings!
I’d hate to do that, too, when I haven’t seen him for so long.”
“By the way, what is Mrs. Pepperly’s number?” asked the brown-eyed
blonde. “I—I have been meaning to call on her for ever so long. What a
clever, original woman she is!”
“Yes, do go. She said she expected you would come to see her now.
I’m afraid you will not have an opportunity to see the opals though.
Her son has given all the rest of them to her, and they are at the
jeweler’s being set. And, by the way, he insisted so that I had to let
him have mine set for me. I don’t know what Dick will say, but really
I could not hurt the feelings of such an old friend by refusing—and of
course he knows nothing of Dick!”
“For my part, I consider opals unlucky,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“I wouldn’t wear one for anything!”
“I’ve heard others say the same thing, dear,” said the girl with
the dimple in her chin; “but luckily they were people who were not
likely to have the chance! So far as I am concerned, the good luck
of receiving such a handsome present will quite overbalance anything
unpleasant which might follow!”
“Nobody ever had such ill luck as I have, and I never owned an opal
in my life,” wailed the girl with the classic profile. “You know how
unpleasant my Aunt Clara is, don’t you? Well, the poor old soul seemed
so lonely in that great big house that I asked her to make me a nice
long visit, knowing that she intended to go abroad soon, and—”
“She might take you along. Good!” said the girl with the Roman nose.
“Did she accept?”
“She did. Said she would stay three whole months. At the end of that
time, she expects to marry a delicate clergyman with three grown
daughters, and take the whole party to Europe.”
“And that is all the compensation you receive for thinking of others!”
cried the girl with the Roman nose. “Shall you let her come?”
“I shall not. I shall tell her that unless she hears from me within two
weeks, she may know that I am down with a threatened attack of scarlet
fever. She has a horror of illness, and wild horses couldn’t drag her
here after that. But I shall have an exciting time with my sire, if he
ever finds it out!”
“Humph, your father may never find it out,” said the girl with the
eyeglasses; “and if he did, you could simply say that you really
thought you were getting scarlet fever, and only concealed the fact
from him to save him anxiety.”
“Pardon me, but you forget that I am a younger daughter. Papa has
already had so much experience with my sisters that I have to be very
careful in my explanations. This thing of being the third daughter is
as bad as marrying a widower—worse, for that is voluntary.”
“Not always—on the part of the widower,” said the blue-eyed girl.
“Dear, dear, how queer some things are! I know a pair of twins, and one
of them is called an old maid, the other a young widow. If anybody can
explain—”
“Pshaw, I know a brother and sister who have hair of the same identical
shade. He is called red-headed while she is a Titian blonde,” said the
girl with the Roman nose.
“And I went to school with a girl who was always called snub-nosed
by everybody but the man she married,” said the girl with the dimple
in her chin; “he said her nose was ‘tip-tilted, like the petal of a
flower.’ Can you explain that?”
“Yes,” said the president, shortly, “she has money. Oh, girls, I went
to the photographer’s last week, and I haven’t had the courage even
to snub my sister-in-law since I got the proofs. Indeed, sometimes I
almost feel grateful to Tom for marrying me—though of course I don’t
let him know that. You have no idea how I felt when—”
“Oh, yes, I have,” said the blue-eyed girl, with a shudder. “I once
knew an awfully nice man, who turned out to be an amateur photographer.
He took two hundred and seventy-five pictures of me one summer, and I
used to know just who my enemies were. They would pretend that they
recognized me in them all!”
“That’s nothing,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I once
appeared as Cinderella at a charity entertainment, and an amateur
photographer took a picture of me in costume. My foot was thrust
forward, and oh, girls, it looked the size of a pumpkin. And the
photographer actually took credit to himself because the face was an
excellent likeness!”
“I was once photographed by an amateur,” said the brown-eyed blonde;
“he said my picture was his masterpiece. I always keep it on my
dressing table during Lent,” she added.
“I once knew an amateur photographer quite well,” said the girl with
classic profile, “but for each photograph he took of me I made one of
him!”
“With the result—” said the president.
“That he gladly bartered his collection for mine. Somehow, we haven’t
been very good friends since. I often think things might have turned
out very differently if he hadn’t bought that camera;” and she sighed,
softly.
“Well, girls,” said the president, “I am afraid that we must adjourn,
though I had hoped we might find time for a social session after
the day’s work was concluded. However, I promised both Tom and the
dressmaker that I’d meet them at five o’clock. She won’t wait, and he
will; so I—”
“But why not make him go to the dressmaker’s with you,” said the
brown-eyed blonde.
“Because I want to tell him just what I think of his behavior—smoking
in the drawing-room, just because I happened to be out. If he once
heard Madame contradict me in the way she does, I could never hope to
produce any impression on him again.”
Emily and Dorothy walked home in silence, and the former noticed, with
alarm, that Dorothy did not attempt to protect her skirts from the mud.
When they reached her door, she turned and said:
“If I am not here when you come to-morrow, you may know that I have
gone to take up social settlement work, and devote my time to the poor.
If you never see me again, you may know that I forgive all my enemies.
It may make Frances feel better, though I must say that she does not
deserve it.”
“And Jack, dear; what shall I say to him?”
“If it is any comfort to him, you might say that I do not regret
my fruitless efforts to make peace with him. I hope you will think
of me sometimes at work among the poor and the afflicted. And now,
good-bye—perhaps forever!”
Emily had walked perhaps a block, when she heard her name called once
more.
“Yes, what is it,” she said.
“If you know any one who wants a nice little dog, send him to me. I—”
“What! You surely don’t mean Clover?”
“I just do. After what has happened to-day, I never want to see the
little beast again! And, Emily—!”
“Yes, dear.”
“If you were in my place, would you wear the blue or the geranium pink
gown at the dance to-night?”