prospects! Of course, I am nothing of a belle, nothing of a social
queen among women. This is a source of endless mortification to mamma.
But there is no reason why it should be so, because a belle in this
town is a lost art. Lost in the days of the brilliant Bettie V. and the
beautiful Alice B. Nowadays belleship is like statesmanship, the honors
are divided. We have plenty of real pretty women, but no startling
beauties. There is not a girl in my set but who is fully up to the
average in appearance, manners, mind. Competition may do well enough for
trade, but it does not produce any one reigning belle in social circles.
So I am not entirely to blame; the causes which work against me also
work against others. I go to the utmost limit, and sometimes beyond.
I do every thing which my better nature will license--often a great
deal besides. My opportunities are excellent. I am invited every where,
because we belong to a highly respectable and somewhat ancient family
(we have a beautiful family-tree, _arranged_ by mamma before I was
grown); and I go every where, even when I am forced to go with papa,
which, I am glad to say, is never more than twice in one season.
Papa is really a dear, good man. He has not only the love but also
the pity of a devoted daughter, for he does have such a hard time
with mamma. While he understands perfectly all about making money,
and just lots of it, too, yet, _papa does not shine_ in mamma's
fashionable circle. He is a slave to her slightest whim--and she is
full of them. He is ready, and always, to do her most capricious
bidding. Yet they are not congenial; I am positive she never loved
him. He was, even when they married, counted among the rich men of
the community. And she--she was the youngest child in a large family,
with high notions and small income. But he is devoted to her! She
may not be lovable, but she is magnetic. She forces homage from all,
devotion from many. But she is an evil magnet; and she is conscious
of her power, which she wields in a high-handed and a most unscrupulous
manner. Unlike most women of the fashionable world, she makes a decided
point of poor papa's attendance. He must always go with her--and he
does. Often he comes to his home tired out, worn down to the very
quick--making money he calls it--and mamma, fresh and ready, eager for
the social battle which, like a war-horse, she scents from afar, drags
him out with her--somewhere--generally, when there is nothing more
exciting on hand, across the way to that bric-a-brac-shop of a house,
where the tawdry elegant, always weary Mrs. Babbington Brooks holds
forth in an ultra-æsthetic style peculiarly her own. There they spend
the entire evening in what mamma softly calls "a sweet communion of
congenial souls," which, being translated according to methods of the
earth, earthy, means simply a tiresome time over cards, the constant
sipping of a pale pink stuff which foams--dissipated looking, but
harmless. This they drink out of dainty little cups somewhat larger than
a thimble. "Fragile art gems," to quote Mrs. Babbington Brooks, "which I
was so wildly fortunate as to find in a curiously jolly shop somewhere
about Venice, the last time I was over on the other side. Ah! how I do
love Venice!"
Now, there is a fair sample of that woman's talk; it is a mystery to me
how she keeps it up. Mamma says that she is "wierdly picturesque;" papa
says (but only to me) that she is "a regular downright fool." But they
are both wrong; she is a woman with a sufficient amount of brains to
know just how easily and successfully so-called sensible people may be
imposed upon; and how readily they can be made use of--stepping stones
to the accomplishment of selfish desires. But she does not fool mamma.
They both use one another to advantage. There is always between them a
tacit little arrangement. Mrs. Babbington Brooks never stops short of
a positive sensation. Her methods are bold, startling, successful. Her
husband, an insignificant looking man, invented something, an air-brake
for railway trains, an improvement on the Westinghouse air-brake,
"Brooks' Unbroken Circuit." This, after years of obscure struggling,
brought them into immediate wealth, but not at once into social notice.
Their first efforts in that direction, or rather, _her_ first
efforts, were complete failures. They nibbled about on the outer edge;
finally, it dawned upon her to play some decided role. She determined to
be an æsthete. She built a house accordingly; she dressed accordingly;
and she acted, but above all, she talked accordingly. Thanks to her
wandering brother, an ideal American adventurer, she obtained from
London, far ahead of the general importation, a complete outfit of
Lilies, Languors, Yearnings, Reachings-out, Poppies, Wasted Passions,
Platonics, Heart-throbs, and all the more lately approved instruments of
æsthetic torture. Her establishment was ready. She wanted recognition.
She waited for an opportune moment. It came. Oscar Wilde, the apostle
in chief of the æsthetic school, reached our shores. He brought a letter
of introduction "To the one æsthete in all America, Mrs. Babbington
Brooks." On his arrival he sent her this letter, and with it a note,
written in a full, round hand, stating that he would be at her service
after his lecture in her town, on the eighteenth of the coming February,
and, being it was she, his terms were only three hundred dollars; usual
price, five hundred. She wired an eager acceptance of his generous
offer, and at once set her household in readiness. She invited the
town--the fashionable, so-called desirable portion of it--and waited the
issue. Her gilded net was well spread; her bait irresistible. She easily
caught them all, large and small; her house was crowded; her effort a
recognized masterpiece. Mamma says she could have readily made
arrangements with Oscar Wilde for a season in London--a female æsthete,
and from the crude land of America! Now, she is actually quite the rage!
Her triumph is now complete; her following large, composed of a batch of
deluded fools, caught by the glamour and the blow of brazen trumpets,
with just the _tincture_ of an artistic principle.
A large amount of money was spent on my educational training, both at
home and abroad. A young woman who can play a little, sing in fairly
good voice a few pretty songs, popular ballads, and paint an occasional
plaque, or even rise to the dignity of a panel, can surely make claim to
the free chromo distribution of that flattering term, "most highly
accomplished."
I was systematically advertised--by mamma--for about four years prior
to my _debut_. Every body was made to know that I was "growing up"
rapidly, "coming on," but still young, "oh, very young, and cares
absolutely nothing about men." Fact: cared more then than I do now.
Young fellows--available matches--would be invited out "very informally
indeed," to dinner or to tea, "would just drop in, you know," each
occasion skillfully planned by mamma. She is an excellent
manager--always manages to have her own way. On each one of these
occasions it was so arranged that they would catch a glimpse of
me--supposed to be entirely accidental. I was made to pose for the
occasion over my books or fancy-work. I was "so studious!" or "so
skillful with my needle!"--running comment by mamma during the
_accidental_ glimpse of her darling daughter. These things are
always effective, for mamma is really an artistic woman. Her social
villainy fascinates me into a constant state of acquiescence. There is
an irresistible glamour, there is a touch of his Satanic majesty which
gains me, against my will, body and soul. She is a bad, dangerous woman.
What an awful idea to have of my own mother! but, fortunately, other
people don't know her as we do--papa and I.
But after all the constant planning, the education with trimmings, the
high art dressing, the effective situations without number, in short,
the whole broad system of skillful social advertising, I am not the one
magnet-point; I am not the belle of the town. This has caused the breach
between us; and it grows wider every day. Mamma used to be unkind, but
now she is cruel. Those uncertain social honors can never be mine;
therefore a reconciliation is out of the question. Men come to the
house frequently and in fair numbers, but frequent and merely polite
attentions do not satisfy mamma. I have never had a real lover. Men seem
to like me well enough; they send me flowers, take me out, and do not
let me suffer at balls or parties for want of attention. But they do not
make love or ask me the all--important question, "Will you be my wife?"
This confession would surprise most people. My name is constantly
mentioned in a tender way with some one man of my acquaintance, but
there is never any thing beyond the mention.
During the past winter mamma has been trying a new plan. She has
determined to marry me off, having proved to be such worthless material
for the make up of a reigning belle. She has made earnest, successful
effort to induce a batch of clever young lawyers into a frequent and
regular attendance at the house, under pretext of a quasi-ideal Literary
Association. A wise bait, which always ensnares the eager-nibbling
lawyer. It _sounds well_ to have people say that he is a gifted
young lawyer and a member of a most delightful and highly select
literary association--and the average young lawyer acknowledges a
fondness--inexpensive, of course--for all things which _sound well_;
the legal mind bows down before the mighty shrine of "Euphony."
Any thing can be readily organized in this town, but to keep it going is
a different matter and a desperate hard thing to do after the novelty
wears off. But mamma seldom allows any of her organizations to die a
natural death. Her present venture, of a literary nature, is thriving;
it has grown to be the idle fashion of the social hour. Mamma alternates
with her always coadjutor, Mrs. Babbington Brooks, in entertaining the
motley, and somewhat cultured crowd. Mamma, First Director and Chief
Manager; Mrs. Babbington Brooks, Second Director and Most Worthy
Assistant. This "Culture-Seeking Club" (its name) has been organized,
mamma says, on my account. It is her last effort in my behalf. She has
always opposed the idea of my forming an alliance with a poor, petty
young lawyer; but she has grown desperate, and organized this club in
order that I might, or rather she, angle for some rising young barrister
with brains, and a promise of something better than the usual
fulfillment--poverty. It is a positive tragedy, this being calculatingly
thrown at the head of a so-called desirable young man!
Nominally I am a member of the "Culture-Seeking Club," but actually
and at heart I am a Philistine out and out. This pernicious high-art
and culture-seeking fever has never caught my practical soul in its
relentless grasp. I love not the ways of the social æsthete. Gleams
and shadows do not thrill me; sunflowers and daisies do not gratify my
hungry soul--or self. Mamma says I am not sufficiently clever to tempt
the brainy monster, _i.e._, Culture Fiend. She has taken me in
hand; I am to play a role also. She has a strange power over me which I
am unable to withstand. It is the fatal power which a strong mind gets
over the more weak and readily yielding mind incapable of a successful
resistance. She is a woman with a bad heart and a clear head. I am
irresolute, full of most excellent intentions, and in effect as bad as
she without the redeeming features of extraordinary cleverness. I am to
play the role of a young maiden with an object in life. I am to be full
of a new desire to grapple with the weighty problems of the moment. I am
to be carefully coached for each club meeting; I am to be veneered with
a thin skin of glittering knowledge. I am, indeed, bewildered, startled.
I am made to read all of the book notices worth the reading. I am made
to pore over a half dozen reviews which people in this town know
absolutely nothing about--although they do call mamma the "Pioneer
introducer of good Periodicals." I am superficial, but she is not. She
reads each good book itself, not the criticism only. She reads it
carefully, thoroughly, as few other people ever do. Then she gives me a
special line of thought to follow, and I am made to go through a little
combination of what I have read and of that which she has told me in her
direct, compact manner. Thus does she enable me to produce a written
paper which never fails to start the "Culture-Seeking Club" into a
little flutter of supposed intellectual excitement. For a moment, at
least, I am forgotten, or, if remembered at all, they say to one another
as they sip that everlasting pale pink foam out of the "dainty art gems
from Venice, you know:" "Ah, Sophia Gilder is her more clever mamma's
own daughter; but, alas! she will never be such a woman as her
mother--the gifted Mrs. John Robert Gilder, the life and soul of our
Culture-Seeking Club!" And I piously hope to heaven that I may be saved
from such a fate, and never be the woman that I know mamma to be!
My last effort was said to be a wild, jagged thing--a reaching out, a
groping after. It was called "Souls Antagonistic: A Symphony." I wore an
especial costume--"suited to the subject," said mamma. "A sweet poem of
a gown," echoed Mrs. Babbington Brooks. When I finished my task, for it
was a task, and imposed by a hard task-master, Mrs. Brooks glided, like
the serpent she is, over to my seat and looked down with a false longing
into my flushed face. Then in a low, somewhat musical voice, full of a
false tenderness and a borrowed pathos, "May I, sweet young girl, touch
with mine the precious lips which to-night have made exceeding glad my
sad, sad soul with those wise and honeyed words?" She kissed me. I
fairly trembled with an intense loathing. That oily-tongued creature
hates me with a deadly hatred. And she fears me, for she knows that I
have found her out and know her to be what she is, a most _successful
fashionable fraud_. But it is folly to run counter to the social
current. It is best to hold my peace. It is hard to do, but it can be,
and it must be done. I was nervous--rebellious. I quickly fled away from
that false woman and her loathsome caress. I sought rest and quiet in a
distant cushioned corner of the deserted hallway. I was angry--too angry
for tears. I buried my throbbing head in my hands and tried to forget my
miserable existence; it was such a failure. It was so unlike that which
I wished it to be, and yet I did not have the will-power to make it so.
I was in one of my morbid moods. Resolutions I knew to be useless. On
the morrow they would be broken. It was always, and I fear ever will be
"Mother and Daughter;" never "Daughter and Mother." She always takes the
lead, and I, always weak enough to follow. Was there no one to whom I
could turn? No one to yield me a few kindly words to strengthen me for
that constant, useless warfare against, yes, against my own mother?
As if in answer to my silent call, a footstep! My hands dropped into my
lap. A man stood near. I did not look up; I knew who he was. We need
hear but once the footfall of certain people and always after know
instantly if they are near. A voice: "Miss Gilder, do I intrude?"
Robert Fairfield is not a man of many words. He stood by me in an
attitude of _sympathetic silence_. He made to me an unspoken
appeal. In my heart there was a grateful answer. A sad, smileless face
was uplifted, and then my lips also gave answer. It was a brief story.
It was my daily life of home oppression. But it was not briefly told. It
ought not have been told at all; but I am human, so human. The time had
reached me when somebody _must know_, and the time had brought with
it into my sorrowful presence this same Robert Fairfield. I had barely
known him. An accidental introduction, a few dances at a ball, and
once--just once--a brief but serious talk at a summer-night concert. I
was nothing to him; he was every thing to me; I loved him, I love him.
But custom, and rightly, too, keeps a woman silent. He may know the
story of my miserable home life, but he does not know--and he must never
know--of the magnetic power which drew me toward him, made me tell my
story, and left me with a regret and a tenderness which has closed my
heart to any other who may chance to come.
[Illustration:
Miss Sophia Gilder,
(of the Inner Sisterhood.)]
* * * * *
VI
A Cold Gray Study.
* * * * *
A CASE OF COMPOUND FRACTURE.
Family Position, Wealth, and Personal Beauty are potent factors in the
mysterious make-up of a social success, but they are not omnipotent.
A woman may have this desirable trinity, and yet be as nothing in the
social world. In fact, she may be without one, two, or all three, and
yet achieve unaccountable success in a social way.
My first winter out was a flat failure. I did not lack wealth and family
position, but I was awkward and not beautiful; in short, ugly. But my
failure was not due to this lack of beauty, for other women far more
ugly than I outshone me in every way. _I did not know myself_.
There is the key to many a mystery. I tried to be like other women
and--failed. I had a little individuality of my own, but for a time did
not know it.
During that formative period I had one love-affair; at least, I did the
loving and Gerome Meadows did the "affair," for with him it was nothing
more. He was a man just a trifle above the average in looks and manners,
intellect--every thing. He was always attractive and agreeable. He was
always making a graceful effort to please, and He was--with me--always
successful. He was four and twenty, yet he was a genuine boy. He was
full of a boy's love and full of a boy's charming susceptibility. He was
responsive to the different natures of many women. He was peculiarly a
loveable man. He had diligently, conscientiously courted a goodly number
of these different natured women; and they all had, at some one time, a
tender leaning toward, without a positive love for, this Gerome Meadows.
I am one of the number. Twice has he courted me, and twice have I
refused him. First, because _he_ did not love me; second, because
_I_ did not love him.
It was during that formative period when first he came, _sent by his
mother_. She was a wise woman, who selected mates for her always
obedient children. It was an honor to be selected--so she thought. A
sacrifice--so considered by the unselected.
Gerome had for me somewhat of a circumstantial love. We had always known
one another. We had been constantly thrown together. It would have been
a pre-eminently proper arrangement. It would have been the alliance of
the two influential and wealthy families. Therefore, his mother wished
it and ordered it to be so. But an unexpected disappointment awaited her
honorable ladyship. It had not occurred to her that a woman could be so
foolish, so neglectful of her own interests and of her own happiness,
as to refuse in marriage the hand of her precious son. My evident
hesitation--for at heart I loved him--surprised and somewhat alarmed
her. I was invited to dine with the family. I was treated as a
prospective member. With the soup, the fish, and the heavy meats, they
dealt out the virtues of their Gerome, seriously and earnestly. With the
sweetmeats and the coffee they smilingly touched upon his lightest and
most pardonable faults. My heart trembled for its safety. It was a well
planned effective process. That night he told me of his love with the
air of a man who fully expects a warm response and affirmative answer.
Both were bravely denied him. I told him that he was mistaken; I told
him he did not, and never would, have for me the grand passion of his
life. He said--what else could he say?--"You are wrong; you deeply wrong
me. You are plunging my young life, hitherto so full of hope, down into
a depth of bitterness and regret from which it may never rise again!"
This was said in a tragic, somewhat stilted, but impressive manner. I
was touched; it was my first experience; it was the first time that I
had ever heard a man talk about his broken, blasted hopes and his empty,
ruined life. But it is all a very old story now. I know just how much to
believe--in truth, precious little. Nothing dulls the edge of a woman's
sensibilities more quickly than frequent proposals. His rejection was a
relief to Gerome; he was tired of making love to women especially
selected by his mother; he did not fancy the process. Thus far he had
always been unsuccessful. I had told him no--but, womanlike, I did not
mean it; I did not want him to go out of my life. In a vague way I was
conscious of a desire to win his love, but it was during my social
formative period when every thing was vague. I was unconscious of my
power, yet I did not know how to accomplish my end. So Gerome left me. I
was unable to keep him. But, somehow, I did not consider it a finality;
it was simply an awkward pause. I hoped for his return and a renewal of
his protestations. I had heard women say that if a man really cared for
a woman he would easily brook the first refusal and speedily return. So
I thought, but I was mistaken; he did not return.
Two moons had not waxed and waned before he was having what now I am
sure must have been the one passionate love of his life. This was
unexpected; a blow in the dark to my pride, and, alas! I fear, also, to
my heart. It was the death-knell to my better nature. It gave direction
to the formation of my social life. From that moment I am conscious of
a change, and for the worse, in my hitherto attractive nature. It was
attractive on account of its sweetness and its purity. It was a nature
which, until then, had known nothing of the hot, passionate love of the
world and of all things worldly. The formative period was gone, and with
it most that was good.
It was hard to have a man court me, not exactly for my money, but
because I chanced to be the nearest fruit in reach and because his
crafty mother thought it would be an excellent arrangement! Especially
hard, because in spite of myself I had for him a very tender feeling.
My sudden loss and quick appropriation by another created within me an
unjust resentment; my resentment was silent and unnoticed, but it filled
me with a desire for revenge. This was the evil which crept into my
life; this was the element which warped my better nature, made me
grasping, worldly, hard to please. This sudden desertion placed me in
a false position. People said that Gerome had never loved me--simply
trifling. The friends of that _other woman_, a great brown-eyed
beauty with the subtle charm and fatal fascination of a devil most
lovely, made it appear that of course Gerome Meadows had never loved
me--why should he? He cowardly held his peace and let them prattle; he
was kneeling low before the shrine of his own selection; he was in open
rebellion against his irate mother, who did not approve of this
brown-eyed beauty.