[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Barbara Wallace_
From a painting by A. O. Scott]
The Morning Glory Club
By George A. Kyle
With a frontispiece in colours
By Arthur O. Scott
[Illustration]
Boston * L.C. Page and
Company * MDCCCCVII
_Copyright, 1907_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_First impression, February, 1907_
_COLONIAL PRESS_
_Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U. S. A._
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WHEELS BEGIN TO MOVE 1
II. A MAN AND A WOMAN 33
III. A MALE GOSSIP 43
IV. THE "GLORIES" MEET AGAIN 50
V. THE STOUTS AT HOME 60
VI. BARBARA AND WILL 70
VII. CLASSICS AND WOMEN 75
VIII. A WOMAN'S WAY 87
IX. MEN TALK TOO 92
X. A REHEARSAL 103
XI. THE NARROW WAY 116
XII. GIRL TALK 124
XIII. JINGLE BELLS 129
XIV. MORE TALK 134
XV. TWO LETTERS 144
XVI. ADVERTISING 148
XVII. MORE ADVERTISING 157
XVIII. THE "BIG SHOW" 164
XIX. THE DAY AFTER 171
XX. A SERMON 186
XXI. AN ANGEL OF MERCY 201
XXII. MANY MINDS CHANGE 212
XXIII. COALS OF FIRE 224
XXIV. A WEDDING AND A SERMON 235
XXV. GOOD CHEER--GOOD WILL 244
The Morning Glory Club
Chapter I
The Wheels Begin to Move
"EZRA, this is a morning long to be remembered," said Mrs. Tweedie, as
she looked up from the undulating top of a huge cake which, with the
skill of a professional plasterer, she was bedaubing with a dark brown
paste.
"I hope so, my dear," her husband replied, smilingly, as he put his
paper aside.
"Sometime this house may bear a tablet of bronze," continued Mrs.
Tweedie, "on which, in effect, will be graven that here was founded by
the women of Manville an organization that startled the community."
"My only regret is that I shall not be here to see it--I mean the
tablet, of course," said Ezra.
"We shall prove," Mrs. Tweedie went on with her eyes fixed dreamily on a
distant corner of the kitchen, "we shall prove that the accusation which
you made in anger one week ago to-night, that 'women are the cause of
all of the trouble in the world,' is false! False as the affection of
men!"
Ezra's smile faded to a look that suggested a complication of
homesickness and _mal de mer_. The incident to which Mrs. Tweedie
referred was not their first quarrel. The first had taken place years
before, and ever since Ezra had been different.
"My dear," he replied, weakly, attempting not to let his feelings show
in his voice, "you always accomplish whatever you attempt."
"And why, Ezra, why do I succeed?" (Mrs. Tweedie was given to boasting
when alone with her little, ladylike husband.) "Because," she continued,
replying to her own question, "I possess and use that rare virtue called
tact."
"True, my dear, very true," Ezra acknowledged, meekly. "I have known
always that you had enough for two." He might have added truthfully
that, had it not been for her remarkable tact, and the fact that one of
her relatives had indiscreetly died intestate during their courtship, he
would not have married her.
The income which "dear cousin John's" carelessness and the statutes gave
them was small; only Mrs. Tweedie's tact made it possible for her
family of four to exist in the sham style which they affected. Despite
her tact, their credit was constantly stretched and perilously near to
the C.O.D. point; in fact, the feelings of all the tradesmen of Manville
were correctly described when the milkman vowed that the Tweedies would
be supplied from the bottom of the can until they had settled for the
top. Considered from every point of view the Tweedies were strange
people.
The idea of a club for women was not new to the world, but to the New
England town of Manville it was as new as the newest baby. The germ had
taken up its abode in Mrs. Tweedie's head a week before, and since its
arrival had buzzed so furiously that she was conscious of nothing else.
Two hours after her conversation with Ezra, Mrs. Tweedie was ready to
meet the ladies whom she had invited to take part in the materialization
of her idea. When the door-bell rang announcing the first arrival, she
hastened to the parlour and assumed a becoming attitude, while Ezra, who
impersonated Dora, their maid, when she was otherwise occupied, went to
the door.
"Mrs. Flint, my dear," Ezra announced a moment later, as he bowed the
lady named into the parlour, and then vanished. Mrs. Tweedie was very
fond of Mrs. Flint, her beloved pastor's wife, and greeted her with as
much cordiality as it was possible for her to display. The chief reason
for her fondness was the fact that Mrs. Flint belonged to one of the
oldest families in the State. Her blood was as blue as the bluest blue,
and her ancestry could be traced back into a delightful abyss of years.
Mrs. Tweedie had a profound respect for such things--she had ancestors
herself.
"Tell me," said Mrs. Flint, after they had chatted about little nothings
for five minutes, "how have you succeeded? Was your club idea well
received?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Tweedie.
"And did many promise to come?"
"Every one on whom I called was delighted, and promised to be here this
morning," said Mrs. Tweedie, proudly.
"Very encouraging, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Flint, as she glanced about
the room and noticed that there was dust on the family Bible. Mrs.
Tweedie knew it was there. She also knew that Mrs. Flint knew, and was
annoyed.
"I have heard that your son William has returned," observed Mrs.
Tweedie, hoping to divert Mrs. Flint's mind from the dusty Bible to a
subject that could not be wholly agreeable to the minister's wife, if
the rumours which had reached Mrs. Tweedie were founded on fact.
"Yes, college life is _so_ trying for a young man at William's critical
age. He seems to have broken down completely," sadly replied the fond
mamma of one hundred and eighty pounds of beef, bone, and deviltry.
"Indeed! I am very sorry to hear of his condition, but rejoiced to know
that I have been incorrectly informed concerning his reason for leaving
college," said Mrs. Tweedie. "You must be very happy with him at home
again after such a long absence."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, telling one of those weak little lies that we
all indulge in when it seems to be really necessary.
Mrs. Tweedie's feminine instinct told her the truth, and she generously
dropped William for something more closely related to the club idea.
"Oh, I have invited Mrs. Stout to join. What do you think of her?" she
asked, suddenly.
"She does not attend our church--of course that would make no
difference, but--" The minister's wife hesitated, and raised her eyes
significantly.
"Her grammar is shocking--she speaks so plainly," said Mrs. Tweedie, her
nose in air. "And her manners and dress are--"
"Extraordinary," prompted Mrs. Flint.
"The very word."
"She has, probably, admirable qualities, but--"
"No doubt, except--there's the bell!" And then Mrs. Tweedie added in a
whisper, "I would not have this repeated for worlds."
Just then Mrs. Stout entered the room unannounced.
"My dear Mrs. Stout, good morning," said Mrs. Tweedie. "We were just
this moment speaking of you."
"Was you now?" smilingly responded Mrs. Stout, as she sat down in the
largest chair in the room and began fanning herself with a photograph
that she took from a table. "How d'y do, Mis' Flint. I ain't set eyes on
you since our Fast Day union meetin'. How's the parson? I heard he was
feelin' kinder streaked."
"Quite well, thank you," replied Mrs. Flint, rather coldly.
Mrs. Stout was the wife of Peter Stout, grocer, and the mother of three
boys. Though her grammar, manners, and dress did not reach to Mrs.
Tweedie's lofty ideals, she had many friends in Manville among those who
did not pretend to be more than they were. Her family--of course she had
a father and mother, but her grandfathers and grandmothers--no one had
ever taken the pains to draw the likeness of a tree and write on its
naked branches the names of her ancestors. Despite the lack of
grandfathers and grandmothers, she had a large measure of common sense,
and a big heart.
"We don't seem to be crowded here," remarked Mrs. Stout, after a
moment's pause. "Anybody else comin'?"
"We hope so, but it is early yet, you know, only half-past ten,"
explained Mrs. Tweedie.
"Early? Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "I've been up these five hours
and done all my work. Oh, there was somethin' I wanted to ask perticler.
Is Lizzie Sawyer goin' to join?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, and wondered what was coming next.
"Well," said Mrs. Stout, confidentially, "the reason I wanted to know
was that she and I don't get along very well together, but there, I
guess we can manage somehow to keep from clashin'."
Mrs. Tweedie saw rough weather ahead, and proceeded to pour oil upon
the waters before the storm broke.
"Miss Sawyer was one of the first asked to join," she replied. "She is
an exceptionally well-educated woman, and has signified her willingness
to read several papers on vital topics before the club when we are ready
for such work."
"Papers? Newspapers?" Mrs. Stout asked, with a puzzled look.
"No, indeed! Papers--essays on--on--" Mrs. Tweedie tried to reduce her
language to Mrs. Stout's mental level in vain.
"Oh, how stoopid I am!" Mrs. Stout interrupted, thereby unconsciously
rescuing Mrs. Tweedie from her difficulty, "I understand now. I s'pose
she'll try to tell us a lot about religion, and--"
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly, "I think not. Would it be wise
to discuss religion at our meetings? I am sure that the _other sex_
never tolerate it in their organizations."
"I s'pose you mean the men?" queried Mrs. Stout.
"I do."
"Well, that's true enough, I guess, but it ain't because they don't
think it's wise. It's because men don't naturally hanker after
religion. There's my husband, a good 'nough man, but I can't get him to
go to meetin' to save me, though he will go fishin' spite of all I can
say or do."
"Really!" gasped Mrs. Flint. "Does he really fish on the Sabbath?"
"He certainly does," replied Mrs. Stout, "jest as reg'lar as he eats his
vi't'ls."
Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Flint were horribly shocked, and to their cultured
minds perhaps "vi't'ls" was quite as shocking as Sabbath fishing.
"And what else are we goin' to do besides havin' papers read?" continued
Mrs. Stout.
"We hope," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "to spend our time in the study and
discussion of subjects which will be uplifting, that will make
ourselves, and aid us in helping others, to be stronger, morally and
intellectually."
"You don't mean it!" said Mrs. Stout, with mock gravity. "And when we
ain't doin' that I s'pose we'll be talkin' about other folks and their
businesses."
"I trust not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, much distressed. "Of course, some
people are improperly interested in the affairs of others, but we hope
that those so inclined will not become members of our club."
"Well, I hope so, too," said Mrs. Stout, with a suspicious twinkle in
her eyes. "But it's hard, dreadful hard, Mis' Tweedie, to get a crowd of
women folks together without some one sayin' somethin' about somebody
that they wouldn't have said if she was there."
Mrs. Tweedie was as near to tears of mortification as a woman of her
kind ever gets. She had never realized before how brutally truthful Mrs.
Stout could be.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, abruptly changing the subject, "is Miss
Wallace, the schoolteacher that boards with you, goin' to belong?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "She is heartily in sympathy with us, but
will not be able to attend many meetings because of her work."
"I'm real glad that she's goin' to join, I like her," said Mrs. Stout,
simply, and she meant it. Miss Wallace was likable, but not many in
Manville had discovered her good qualities. "There's somebody else!"
exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she heard the bell which rang at that moment,
and then added, quickly, "Excuse _me_, of course you don't go to the
door when you have a girl."
A soft voice was heard asking for Mrs. Tweedie, and then the masculine
tones of Dora inviting some one to come in.
"Oh, is it you, Miss Sawyer?" said Mrs. Tweedie, all smiles, when the
newcomer appeared in the doorway. "We are so glad that you could come.
Of course, you know Mrs. Stout, and--"
Miss Sawyer bowed stiffly.
"Glad to see you," said Mrs. Stout, telling the lie that has been told
oftener than any other.
Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of--her age does not matter. She was
tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging,
staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused
in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a
heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being
very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a
woman's club.
When Miss Sawyer spied Mrs. Flint she rushed into her arms. She
considered Mrs. Flint as near her equal mentally as it was possible for
any woman in Manville to be. They sat down together, and cooed for
several minutes in the most impolite manner possible, so Mrs. Tweedie
thought, probably because she could not hear a word that they said.
Mrs. Stout moved uneasily, and Mrs. Tweedie coughed several times, but
with no effect.
"Ain't it most time we was doin' somethin' about this club we came here
to get up?" Mrs. Stout asked, impatiently, when she could contain
herself no longer.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when the others are ready; and I was
waiting--I had hoped that my daughter Fanny, she is to be one of us, you
know, would be here by this time. I can't imagine--" Mrs. Tweedie was
interrupted by the entrance of her son Thomas, the bad angel of the
Tweedie household.
"Ma," he blubbered, "Dora won't give me a piece of cake. Can't I have
some, ma?" This exhibition of domestic turmoil made Mrs. Tweedie very
angry, and it was with difficulty that she controlled herself.
"Thomas, leave the room immediately," she commanded, sternly.
"Am I goin' to have any cake?" the young man demanded when he saw that
tears were of no avail.
"Thomas, I insist upon your leaving the room at once," replied his
mother, firmly. The ladies were watching breathlessly the contest
between mother and son.
"I won't go 'less I can have some cake," said the boy, defiantly. Mrs.
Tweedie went to the door, and called for Dora. The silence that followed
was so impressive that Thomas would have succumbed had it lasted a
moment longer than it did. When Dora came Mrs. Tweedie, with much
determination and latent anger, said:
"Dora, assist Thomas from the room." Dora was delighted; here was an
opportunity for revenge. Her hand went out quickly toward her prey, but
Thomas dodged.
"I won't go!" he screamed.
"Thomas," said Mrs. Tweedie, sadly, "shall I call your father?" A broad
grin spread over the boy's face, and Dora snickered.
"I ain't 'fraid of him," he said, saucily.
"Take him away instantly, Dora!" Mrs. Tweedie ordered, angrily. Dora was
more successful in her next attempt to capture Thomas, though a vase was
broken and two chairs were overturned while she was dragging him from
the room.
"Ladies," said Mrs. Tweedie, in a choking voice, as she removed her
glasses and wiped them, "I cannot tell you how grieved I am to have our
meeting interrupted--" A crash was heard at that moment, the sound
coming from the direction of the kitchen.
"I guess somebudy's dropped somethin'," suggested Mrs. Stout. Her
surmise was correct. Dora had dropped Thomas, and dropped him hard. Mrs.
Tweedie wiped her eyes, put on her glasses, and wondered how much damage
had been done.
"Thomas is a very impulsive child," she said, "I hope that you will
overlook this rare breach in his customary commendable deportment. And
now, had we not better make a start at least on the work for which we
are gathered?"
"I should say it was time," replied Mrs. Stout. "Up to now we've talked
about everything from here to Halifax 'cept business."
"The _other sex_," continued Mrs. Tweedie, after listening a moment to
be sure that her domestic affairs were running smoothly, or, at least,
noiselessly, "the _other sex_," she repeated, "have their lodges and
clubs, why should not we band ourselves together in a similar manner,
and become, in the community, a great power for good?"
"Excuse _me_," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "but don't you think it's
terrible hot here? I'm 'most melted."
Miss Sawyer looked up in astonishment.
"Why, Mrs. Stout, I am positively chilly," she said, coughing dismally.
"I will open a window." Mrs. Tweedie spoke impatiently as she got up and
attempted to raise a window. It resisted her efforts. "Really, I can't
imagine why it will not open--I'll try the other." She did so, but again
her efforts were unsuccessful.
"I guess it's the damp weather," suggested Mrs. Stout.
"I suppose it is," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she went to the door and
called for Dora, and then by way of explanation turned to the ladies and
added, "Dora is very strong."
"Did you call, ma'am?" asked Dora, a moment later, as she appeared in
the doorway.
"Yes, I want you to open a window," Mrs. Tweedie replied, shortly. Dora
advanced on one of the stubborn windows and exerted all her strength.
Conversation ceased, all eyes were upon Dora. Failing at one window, she
attempted another with the same result. The windows could not be opened
by woman.
"I can't do it, ma'm," said Dora, her face very red.
"Call Mr. Tweedie," Mrs. Tweedie commanded. "One of those windows shall
be opened!"
Dora hurried from the room, and then Mrs. Stout laughed irritatingly.
"Tell us, pray," said Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily, "the cause of your
mirth."
"You must excuse _me_, ladies," Mrs. Stout began, but another burst of
laughter that she could not control prevented her from continuing for
several minutes. "It struck me as awful funny that we should come here
to get up a woman's club, and then have to call in a man the first
thing," she explained.
"Were not the _other sex_ created physically stronger than woman because
it was intended that they should perform just such labour?" Mrs. Tweedie
asked quickly, but before Mrs. Stout had time to reply Mr. Tweedie came
into the room.
"How can I serve you, ladies?" he asked as he bowed low and smiled.
"Open a window, please," said Mrs. Tweedie.
"Certainly, my dear," Mr. Tweedie replied as he went to a window, and,
without any apparent effort, raised it. "There you are," he said,
smilingly. "Anything else to-day?" (Once upon a time Mr. Tweedie had
been a salesman in a dry goods store.)
"No," Mrs. Tweedie replied, sharply. She was displeased with him because
of his untidy appearance, and wished him to leave at once. He did so,
making some senseless remark about the weather as he crossed the room on
his way out.
"Now for goodness' sake let's begin," said Mrs. Stout when the window
was open and the incident closed.
"Yes, do," echoed Mrs. Flint.
"Well," Mrs. Tweedie began, "I have been reading recently a treatise on
parliamentary procedure, and if I am not in error the selection of a
presiding officer should be our first business. Am I not right, Miss
Sawyer?"
"Yes," replied Miss Sawyer. "And I do hope that you will be our first
president, Mrs. Tweedie."
"Oh, but I am not competent," Mrs. Tweedie protested, modestly.
"Never mind," said Mrs. Stout, "take the place, we'll never get anything
done if you don't."
"But, really--" Mrs. Tweedie insisted upon weakly resisting.
"You, Mrs. Tweedie, above all others," interposed Mrs. Flint, "are the
best qualified to lead us."
Mrs. Tweedie appeared to be resigned to her fate.
"I suppose," she sighed, "that if you _all_ insist (there were three who
represented the ladies of Manville), it is my duty to comply with your
wishes. We will immediately proceed to ballot."
"Ought we to hold a caucus?" inquired Miss Sawyer while Mrs. Tweedie was
passing paper and pencils to the ladies.
"Why, what _is_ a caucus?" asked Mrs. Tweedie in astonishment.
"A caucus," replied Miss Sawyer, "is a meeting held previous to an
election. The men invariably hold them."
"Then I am very sure that they are not proper," said Mrs. Tweedie,
positively. "Do you know anything about them, Mrs. Flint?"
The pastor's wife rolled her eyes skyward before replying.
"I have heard Mr. Flint say that caucuses were not proper for decent men
to attend," she replied.
"And my husband," Mrs. Stout retorted, quickly, "says that a caucus is
the only place where a vote counts."
"It surely cannot be necessary in a woman's club," said Mrs. Tweedie.
"Now if you will write on your slips of paper the name of the one whom
you wish to be our president, I will appoint Mrs. Stout a committee to
collect and count the ballots."
"All right, but I can't pass my hat," replied Mrs. Stout, "because if I
took it off I'd never get it on straight again. Put them in my hand, I
promise not to look." Mrs. Stout proceeded to collect and count the
ballots.
"Ladies," said Mrs. Flint while they were awaiting the result, "this is
a day long to be remembered. We have voted for the first time."
"But not the last," said Mrs. Stout, "our time is comin'. Now if you're
ready I'll tell you who's been elected. Mrs. Tweedie has got all the
votes and is elected president. Speech!"
"Really," responded Mrs. Tweedie, "there is no time for a speech even if
I could make one. Of course I am very grateful. We will now ballot for a
secretary and treasurer."
The performance of voting was twice again enacted with the following
result: Mrs. Stout was elected treasurer, and for the office of
secretary there was a tie between Miss Sawyer and Mrs. Flint.
"There's a conundrum for you to settle, Mis' President," chuckled Mrs.
Stout.
"I am sure that I have no idea what should be done," replied Mrs.
Tweedie, much perplexed.
"S'pose we call in Mr. Tweedie and let him vote," suggested Mrs. Stout,
who was bubbling with mirth.
"Preposterous!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie. "Give to one of the _other sex_
the privilege of suffrage in a woman's club? Never!"
"Never!" piped Mrs. Flint and Miss Sawyer in chorus.
"Why not let the president vote again?" said Mrs. Flint. "I am sure that
I would willingly abide by her decision. Would that method be
satisfactory to you, Miss Sawyer?"
"I was about to suggest," replied Miss Sawyer, "that I would gladly
withdraw in your favour."
"Oh, no, indeed, Miss Sawyer, I could not let you make such a
sacrifice."
"Really, Mrs. Flint, it would be no--"
"No, no, don't speak of it again, I beg of you."
"But, my dear Mrs. Flint, it seems to me that you--"
"I'm sure it is very good of you to say so, but I really could not
allow--"
"Please, Mrs. Flint."
"No, in fact _I_ insist upon withdrawing in your favour. There, now
please let us not say anything more about it."
"That's right, give in, Miss Sawyer, we ain't gettin' ahead fast enough
to suit me," said Mrs. Stout. Miss Sawyer succumbed with a sigh. "Now,"
Mrs. Stout continued, "I'd like to ask why nobody's made a motion."
"Motions are necessary," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when action on any
question is contemplated. The chair awaits a motion."
"Mis' President, I--" said Mrs. Stout.
"Mrs. Stout," gravely acknowledged Mrs. Tweedie.
"I motion," continued Mrs. Stout, "that we have a committee to get up
some rules."
"It is MOVED" (Mrs. Tweedie said "moved" in capitals, hoping that Mrs.
Stout would profit by it) "that a committee on rules be appointed. Are
you ready for the question?"
"There ain't any question about it as I can see," said Mrs. Stout,
indignantly. Mrs. Tweedie patiently explained. Then the motion was
"seconded," "put" (real man-fashion), and carried unanimously, and Mrs.
Stout, Mrs. Flint, and Miss Sawyer were appointed on the committee.
"Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when the announcement was made, "I
don't know anything about makin' rules 'cept for boys. Can I ask my
husband to help?"
"Certainly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, firmly. "He would only laugh at
you and us; besides, we need no assistance from the _other sex_."
"Madam President," said Mrs. Flint as she arose and smoothed down her
dress. (Where she got the "Madam President" idea no one knew, but it
pleased the ladies immensely.) "I have read that in Congress they have a
committee on ways and means. Will it be necessary for us to have a
similar one?"
"Well, I declare!" unceremoniously interrupted the uncontrollable Mrs.
Stout. "The idea, and three of us married women with children. I say
that when our first baby was born we was each of us appointed a
committee on ways and means by the Lord."
The laughter that followed was suddenly terminated upon the second
entrance of Tommy Tweedie.
"Ma," he bellowed, "Dora slapped my face and made my nose bleed, and pa
laughed at me, and said it served me right."
"My poor, dear, little son!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie as she rushed to
him. "Tell mother how it happened," she added anxiously as she wiped the
blood from the little villain's face. Tommy evaded the question by
asking another.
"Can I have some cake now, ma?"
"Certainly you may. Ladies, if you will excuse me for a moment," said
Mrs. Tweedie as she and Tommy left the room in quest of revenge and
cake.
"Did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout after the ladies had exchanged
knowing glances for a moment.
"I should say so!" piped Mrs. Flint. "I knew that he behaved badly in
Sabbath school--"
"Is Mrs. Tweedie's method the wisest?" asked Miss Sawyer.
"Well," whispered Mrs. Flint, "Mrs. Tweedie is a _lovely_ woman, but--"
"My experience is," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "that all boys have got just
so much bad and noise in 'em, and if it don't come out one way 'twill
another."
This interesting chatter was cut short by the return of Mrs. Tweedie.
"Ladies," she said, "I must again apologize for an irritating
interruption. As I suspected, Dora was wholly to blame. She had the
audacity to tell me that Thomas attempted to steal cake. The idea, my
son steal, and with such blood in his veins."
"Folks that have boys must expect 'em to make some trouble," said Mrs.
Stout, and then turning to Mrs. Flint, added, "I hear that your Willie's
come home from college."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, as a pink flush spread over her face,
"William has returned, and is soon to enter upon a mercantile career."
"Drivin' a wagon, or a job in the factory?" asked Mrs. Stout,
innocently. Mrs. Flint became red with rage, Miss Sawyer was disgusted,
and Mrs. Tweedie mentally vowed that Mrs. Stout should be gotten rid of,
because if she continued saying things there was no telling at what
moment the club would fly to pieces.
"It don't make much difference what a boy works at," Mrs. Stout
continued, wholly unaware of the passion that she had aroused, "so
long's he don't do anything mean. I saw Willie Flint goin' by my house
this mornin'--he was walkin' with Miss Wallace, too, if anybody'd like
to know, they made a nice lookin' couple--and I must say that he's a
fine lookin' feller, too fine lookin' to follow in his father's
footprints. But there, we're 'way off the track, ain't we?"
"We have digressed _slightly_," replied Mrs. Tweedie, with icy sarcasm.
"Our next business will be the selection of a name for our organization.
Suppose that each of us suggest a name, beginning with you, Miss
Sawyer."
"Our meetings are to held in the morning--Wednesdays, I suppose?" asked
Miss Sawyer.
"Yes; that was my intention," Mrs. Tweedie replied. "It's a new idea,
but if any of the ladies object--"
"I don't object," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "only it's a time of day when
most of us ought to be doin' somethin' else."
"I had thought," continued Miss Sawyer, completely ignoring Mrs. Stout,
"that 'The Wednesday Morning Association' would be appropriate."
"Very good," said Mrs. Tweedie. "And what do you suggest, Mrs. Flint?"
"My choice," replied Mrs. Flint, with her eyes find on the ceiling,
"would be 'The Manville Anti-Male Club.'"
Mrs. Stout snickered, whereupon the others glared at her contemptuously.
"I feel that it is my duty to object, Mrs. Flint, to your suggestion,"
Mrs. Tweedie began. "We are all married--excepting one," she added, with
an apologizing smile for the benefit of Miss Sawyer, who was blushing
with embarrassment. "Would the name be appropriate when we consider that
our life companions are of the _other sex_? Would it not reflect on our
judgment in choosing a career in married life?"
"Perhaps we didn't choose," said Mrs. Stout, quickly. "Perhaps--" there
is no telling what Mrs. Stout would have said if she had not been
interrupted by the entrance of a plump, pink-faced young woman.
"Why, Mrs. Thornton!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie, as she advanced to greet
the newcomer. "I am _so_ glad that you came. Ladies: Mrs. Thornton. You
are just in time to assist us in the naming of our club. How is that
dear baby?"
"Teething," replied Mrs. Thornton, sadly, as she sat down.
"Oh, that's too bad," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.
"Yes, I'm all worn out, and I can't find a thing for the poor child to
eat that agrees with him."
"What have you tried?" Miss Sawyer asked, wishing to show some interest,
though she knew nothing of babies or their food.
"Everything," replied the perplexed mother. "Last week my husband
brought home from town a dozen samples of prepared foods; we have tried
them all, but baby's stomach is still in a wretched condition."
"Samples," sniffed Mrs. Stout, contemptuously. "Have you tried cow's
milk?"
"The idea!" the ladies exclaimed, indignantly.
"Oh, I know it ain't fashionable," Mrs. Stout retorted, "but I've
learned from experience that cow's milk comes next to the best thing for
babies."
"Pardon me, ladies," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but I must call your attention
to the fact that, admitting at the same time the necessity for babies,
our club is still nameless. Mrs. Thornton, what name do you suggest?"
"Oh, dear," replied Mrs. Thornton, "don't ask me. I'm too tired to
think. Whatever name is chosen will suit me."
Just then Fanny Tweedie rushed into the room with the energy of an
infant cyclone. Mrs. Tweedie gazed in astonishment at her pretty,
light-headed, light-hearted, impulsive daughter, as though her entrance
was out of the ordinary.
"Why, Fanny!" she exclaimed. "What has detained you?"
"I've been over to Gertrude's to see her wedding things," Fanny replied,
in a rather disrespectful manner, without noticing who was present, and
then, in her quick, impulsive way, continued: "They're just _lovely_!
Really, I never saw such awfully swell things before _anywhere_. She
ought to be happy if any girl ever was. I couldn't _begin_ to tell you
about them in a week; and-- Oh, I heard the worst stories about Billy
Fl--!" A warning look on her mother's face stopped Fanny on the edge of
a precipice. But Billy Fl--'s mother guessed--so did the others. Mrs.
Tweedie came quickly to the rescue.
"Fanny," she said, "we are trying to find a name for our club; please
save your stories for another time. Mrs. Stout, have you any suitable
name in mind?"
"How would 'The Manville Woman's Club' do?" replied Mrs. Stout.
"Very good," said Mrs. Tweedie, "only I am prejudiced in regard to the
name of our town; it is so suggestive of the _other sex_."
"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, "we've all tried, now what do you think we
ought to call ourselves, Mis' Tweedie?"
"I have considered the matter with care," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Many
names have come into my mind, but for one reason or another, all
excepting one were rejected. The one that appeals to me as being the
most appropriate and beautifully poetic is 'The Morning Glory Club.'"
"Beautiful," murmured the ladies, excepting Mrs. Stout, who laughed
until her fat body shook.
"Excuse _me_," she said, as soon as she could control her mirth. "It's
an awful pretty name, but what a beautiful bunch of morning glories us
old women will make." If the ladies had been profane what opportunities
Mrs. Stout had given them. She continued to laugh, however, despite
their frowns.
"Madam President," said Miss Sawyer, when Mrs. Stout's laughter had
subsided to a gurgling chuckle. "The name that you have suggested is
admirable. The only question in my mind is concerning the word 'club.'
Is 'club' more appropriate than association, or some other word?"
"You might say congregation," replied Mrs. Stout, "or aggregation."
"Club," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "is the term generally used, I believe,
to--"
"What difference does it make, anyway?" Mrs. Stout interrupted. "We'll
never get anything done if we don't 'tend to business better'n we have.
We've done about as much in two hours as the men would have done in ten
minutes."
"Indeed," retorted Mrs. Tweedie, "but would they have done it as well?"
She asked the question in tones approaching anger. (Blue blood boils at
180° F.)
"Better," snapped Mrs. Stout, who was fast losing patience.
"And why?" pressed Mrs. Tweedie, determined this time to utterly squelch
Mrs. Stout if such a thing were possible.
"Because," replied Mrs. Stout, "they wouldn't have talked about
everything under the sun while they was doin' it."
"No, my dear Mrs. Stout" (Mrs. Tweedie knew the irony of "my dear"
perfectly), "it would be because the _other sex_ are more experienced
than woman. And they are more experienced because for centuries it has
been their exclusive right to organize and govern. In the meantime, we
women have been kept under foot and in darkness."
"Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "perhaps _you_ have been stepped on,
Mis' Tweedie, but I'm mighty sure that _I_ ain't! It would take an awful
big foot to keep me in darkness." An embarrassing silence followed,
after which Mrs. Tweedie put the question, on motion of Miss Sawyer, and
the name, "The Morning Glory Club," was adopted unanimously. At the
moment Mrs. Tweedie announced, "It is a vote," Ezra Tweedie,
unmistakably labouring under some great excitement, appeared in the
doorway.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Tweedie.
"Mrs. Brown, next door, needs you at once," he stammered.
"Oh!" exclaimed the ladies in a stage whisper. Mrs. Tweedie alone seemed
not to understand.
"What has happened?" she demanded, forgetting for the moment those
present. Ezra blushed, and looked about for some means of escape. (What
foolishly sensitive, over modest fools we all are at times.) "Why don't
you answer?" Mrs. Tweedie almost thundered.
"It's a new baby!" Ezra blurted, and then fled.
The Morning Glory Club adjourned without form.
Late that afternoon when Mrs. Tweedie returned home she found Ezra
asleep on a couch in the sitting-room, while in the kitchen her son,
Thomas, and two of his chums, were trying to tar and feather a fourth
urchin with molasses and the contents of a pillow. The uplifting of our
morals and intellect is trying, and some personal sacrifice is
necessary, she thought, as she drove the boys out of the house, and
awoke her sleeping husband.
"Where's Dora?" she asked, when Ezra sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"I--I," he yawned. "Dora? Oh, she asked me if she could go out for a few
moments, and I gave my consent. I hope, my dear, that I was right in so
doing."
"Right? Certainly not, Ezra. How are we to have any dinner? The fire is
out, Dora is out--"
"And you have been out," Ezra chuckled.
"Three out--all out!" yelled Thomas. "And say, ma, I'm awful hungry."
Chapter II
A Man and a Woman
ON the same day that the Morning Glory Club was born, it happened that
Will Flint met Barbara Wallace on her way to school, and he eagerly
grasped the opportunity to renew a friendship which had begun at
Barbara's home, in his college town, a year before she came to Manville.
"I'm mighty glad to see you, Miss Wallace," he said, with boyish
enthusiasm.
"Thank you," she replied. "And may I ask how you happen to be at home at
this time in the year?"
The smile on his face disappeared.
"I'll walk with you a few minutes if you don't mind, and try to
explain," he said. Will tried to tell the truth and spare himself at the
same time, but did neither well.
"I'm sorry, and in your senior year, too," said Barbara, when he had
finished.
"Yes, that's the worst part of the whole affair. I--I don't know why I
told you, Miss Wallace, but you asked me, and--you see I don't have any
one to tell such things to--never did. I don't mean to be disrespectful,
but father has spent his life trying to save sinners by
preaching--somehow it didn't work on me; and mother, she's good, of
course, but--I can't say it just the way I want to--I guess it's
sympathy I need."
Barbara knew that his earnestness was genuine, but the timidity and
hesitancy of the big fellow amused her.
"One can do very little without it," she said, trying to refrain from
laughter, and then quickly added: "I suppose that you have already
planned for the future."
"No, I haven't decided what I shall do--hardly thought of it, in fact. I
shall stay at home for awhile, and then--I don't know--there's nothing
I'm fitted for. I suppose that I might saw wood, or work on the roads."
"That would never do for a clergyman's son," replied Barbara.
"Would be rather funny, wouldn't it? Anyway, I've got nothing else to do
at present except think about it--I guess something will turn up."
"Wouldn't it be better to find something yourself instead of waiting for
it to come to you?"
"I guess you're right, Miss Wallace; but here's your school and forty
kids waiting for teacher to let them in. I won't forget your question.
Good-bye." Will raised his cap and walked away.
The children loved Barbara, and usually ran to meet her like a drove of
stampeded animals, but on this morning, when they saw her coming
accompanied by a stranger, they remained huddled on the steps of the
schoolhouse.
"Who's that man?" one of the little girls asked when Barbara arrived
within speaking distance.
"Mr. Flint," she replied, with her usual candour.
"Is he a real good man?" piped another. Barbara was not sure, but did
not wish to say so. Without making a reply she unlocked the door and
went in, followed by her flock, and was soon deep in the morning's work:
trying to make the youngsters believe that the earth is round,
explaining such perplexing words as pare, pear, and pair, and proving
that twelve times twelve makes one hundred and forty-four,--if you do it
right.
During the day the question that the little girl had asked, "Is he a
real good man?" frequently came into Barbara's mind. She did not know
the answer, and wondered why she thought of it at all.
Miss Wallace boarded with Mrs. Tweedie. She was a quiet little woman,
but one whose appearance and personality had been, for some
unexplainable reason, the cause of not a little comment among the people
of Manville. Her eyes--Mrs. Tweedie thought that blue eyes lacked
strength; and her hair did not please Mrs. Doctor Jones because it was
neither yellow nor red. According to Mrs. Thornton's standard for
feminine contours, her form was "positively dumpy;" and everybody knew
that Mrs. Deacon Walton had told Mrs. Undertaker Blake, confidentially,
that she "always suspicioned folks that didn't have any more to say
about things and people than Miss Wallace did." Many other women were of
the same opinion.
On the other hand, the men who knew her thought that she was the right
sort; and those who were not acquainted wished that they were. Mr.
Tweedie especially was captivated by her quiet manner, and did
everything possible for her comfort; and Barbara--perhaps it was because
she pitied him--showed in many ways her appreciation of his
thoughtfulness. Thomas, the "Tweedie Indian," as he was sometimes
appropriately called, declared that "She's the best teacher in town, but
when she licks a feller it hurts." Men and women will disagree
sometimes--especially about another woman.
There was no real sympathy between Mrs. Tweedie and her boarder, but
Barbara was a college graduate, and Mrs. Tweedie had heard that her
family was of the best. Education and blood Mrs. Tweedie worshipped. If
the devil had presented himself to her with his family history under his
arm she would have welcomed him. Besides, taking boarders is a much more
genteel way of piecing out an insufficient income than taking in
washing.
Fanny Tweedie thought that Barbara was an awfully nice girl; though she
was forced to admit after an acquaintance of two years that she did not
wholly understand her. And Barbara liked Fanny because, though somewhat
frivolous, she was companionable and amusing.
Barbara tolerated Mrs. Tweedie because boarding places in Manville were
scarce. She did not care for the town, and disliked especially the
manners of most of its people; but she kept her opinions to herself;
which, as has been intimated, did not increase her popularity with the
women.
Will Flint, son of the Rev. Elijah Flint, was a big, manly-looking
fellow who might have been a greater success at college if his parents
had not held the reins so tightly when he was a boy at home. His father
had preached him a thousand sermons, and his mother had wept gallons of
tears; yet here was the object of their labour at home in disgrace, his
career at college ruined in his senior year.
Both said that Will had decided to leave college and engage in some sort
of business. He had left, but to say that _he_ decided to leave was as
far from the truth as right from wrong. The faculty decided, Will left.
He was not all to blame, and nothing dishonourable had been done, but
his frank explanations did not assuage in the slightest degree the grief
of his parents. The disgrace in their eyes was an indelible stain, and a
gloom that was deep and black had reigned in the parsonage since the day
of his arrival. Outside, tongues were wagging at a furious rate. The
sons and daughters of the clergy seem to be the special prey of gossips.
They are supposed to be impervious to temptation, something better than
the ordinary human. We forget that the same God made them that made the
children of the butcher and the baker.
Late that afternoon, after Barbara had sent the last little urchin
homeward, she stood at a window looking out over the fields at the
autumn foliage of the woods beyond. She had been there but a moment
when Will Flint came down the road and turned into the path that led to
the schoolhouse. When he saw her he stopped. Barbara did not know
whether she was pleased or not to see him. It was time to go, however,
so she put on her things, went out and locked the door, and started down
the path.
"Hope you won't be vexed, Miss Wallace, because I came," said Will, "but
I've been so confoundedly lonesome to-day that I--"
"I am not vexed," she said, quickly. His manner and frankness pleased
her, and dispelled the doubt that was in her mind a moment before.
"I'm glad," he said as they turned and walked toward home. "The boys
that I knew," he continued, "have gone away to work, or school. That is
why I'm lonesome I suppose, and then the place seems different."
"But it's not," replied Barbara, and a smile played about her lips. He
was only a big boy, after all.
"Everything seems to be smaller and shabbier."
"Things," said Barbara, "grow old like men and women."
"Yes, I know, but--I can't seem to say things the way I want to. I've
been in the woods all day tramping and thinking; it's done me a lot of
good, but--I guess I won't talk about myself any longer."
"But I am interested," said Barbara, earnestly, and then added, quickly,
"in anybody who is perplexed."
"Thank you, but at present I'm nobody. I have yet to earn the right to
be anybody, much less somebody."
"Very well, if you insist we will drop Mr. Flint."
"I wish that we could drop him out of sight for good," said Will,
bitterly.
"What a wicked thought."
"If my thoughts--" Will checked himself suddenly and then asked: "Can't
we find something else to talk about? I have it, the new woman's club,
have you been invited to join?"
"The _new_ woman's club?" said Barbara, feigning surprise. "I had not
heard of it."
"You're making fun of me."
"Indeed, it is you who are trying to joke at our expense."
"No, really, Miss Wallace, I meant the woman's club that mother and the
rest are getting up. Are you going to join?"
"Yes; do you approve of such things?"
"Really, I--I don't know, and yet I ought to know something about it
because father and mother have been debating the question for a week
past. Mother is very enthusiastic, but my impression is that father
thinks that the club is unnecessary if not really harmful. I shall
expect a great boom in Manville society when it gets in running order,"
Will replied, and then suddenly burst out laughing.
"Tell me, please, I want to laugh, too."
"Manville society! Doesn't it strike you as being funny?"
"Yes, and no."
"A woman's answer."
"Sometimes her only defence."
"Pardon me."
The October sun was disappearing behind the trees toward the west; the
night air was stealing up from the lowlands; and a frost-laden wind was
coming over the hills.
"Isn't the air great?" said Will after they had walked without speaking
for several minutes.
"Splendid!" replied Barbara, taking a deep breath. "The fall is
glorious." They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.
"I want to thank you, Miss Wallace, for--" Will hesitated a moment, "for
tolerating me to-day." Then he added, "Good night!" and walked quickly
away.
Mrs. Tweedie happened to look out of her parlour window just in time to
see Barbara and Will. The sight caused her to shrug her shoulders and
wonder.
Chapter III
A Male Gossip
SAM BILLINGS was Manville's man of all work, and its most garrulous male
gossip. At fifty he was a gray, wrinkled bachelor--through no fault of
his own, however--living alone on the scanty income that he picked up
through the kindness of his tolerant townsmen. Once Sam had been accused
of having proposed to every single woman and widow in town, and had
refused to deny or affirm the statement. He was still single, however,
and as far from matrimony as he ever had been, except once, when through
a misunderstanding on Sam's part, he became engaged to a loquacious old
maid with whom he had indiscreetly walked home from meeting. But,
fortunately for Sam, the lady died just before the date set for the
wedding, leaving him free and more talkative than ever before.
On the morning of the day following the organization of the "Morning
Glories" Sam went to the home of Mrs. Darling to put on storm-windows.
Mrs. Darling was an attractive woman--to look at--but one of the light
sort mentally, and much more interested in the affairs of others than
her own. She had been invited to be present at the first meeting of the
club, but the arrival of relatives from out of town had prevented her
from going. She welcomed Sam cordially, when he came that morning, and
invited him to have a cup of coffee before he began work. The morning
was cold, the coffee good, and Sam was grateful, and before he had
gulped down the last of it Mrs. Darling knew all that was going on in
town.
"So Mrs. Browning has a baby at last?" she said as Sam wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand.
"Yep."
"Boy, or a girl?"
"One, or t'other, I forget which."
"Really."
"Yep, broke up the meetin' of the club so I heard."
"How dreadfully funny."
"And they say that Ezra Tweedie put his foot in it."
"How was that?"
"Why, he was the one that broke the glad news to the gatherin'."
"Oh. What did you say they named the club?"
"Four-o'clocks, or petunias--somethin' like that, it was the name of a
flower anyway, I don't jest remember which."
"And Mrs. Tweedie was chosen president?"
"Yes, I knew she'd be."
"Who was it, did you say, that told you?"
"Well, I stopped in at the grocery on my way over, and then I had a
bundle to take to Miss Sawyer's, and--Tommy Tweedie told me the rest.
Now I guess I'll start in on the winders if you don't mind. I'm in a
little mite of a hurry 'cause I've got to go over to Mis' Walton's this
afternoon and give her a coat of paint."
"Very well, you'll find the windows in the attic," said Mrs. Darling,
reluctantly. "Oh, you said that you were at Miss Sawyer's this morning,
how is she?"
"Lookin' pretty fair," replied Sam with some embarrassment.
"I thought that _you_ ought to know."
"Where'd you say them storm-winders was?" Sam asked in an effort to
change the subject.
"In the attic. Miss Sawyer would make somebody a good wife."
"I think likely, but--" Sam edged toward the door.
"I've heard, Sam, that you've been going there lately, and that you did
not always have a bundle to deliver."
"You're kind of teasin', Mis' Darling, ain't yer?" replied Sam with a
grin as he backed out of the room and went up-stairs in search of the
storm-windows.
Mrs. Darling was not wholly satisfied with second-hand news, so she ran
into Mrs. Thornton's, next door; and, while the baby with a new tooth
was having his morning "sample," his mamma related her version of the
story of the first meeting of the club.
In order to put on the front chamber windows, it was necessary for Sam
to get out on the roof of the piazza. Just as he was climbing out of a
window, Alick Purbeck, Mr. Stout's clerk, drove up, and when he saw Sam
stopped.
"Hello, Sam," he called, "what you doin' up there?"
"Workin' for my health; doctor says I've got to have three meals a day."
"Doctor nothin'."
"No, Doctor Jones."
"Say, what's this I hear about Billy Flint?"
"Not knowin', I hesitate to say." Mrs. Darling's coffee had put Sam in
a facetious mood.
"There was a man lookin' for him over to the store half an hour ago,"
said Alick, gravely.
"What d' he have, a bill or a warrant?"
"Dunno."
"I hope Billy ain't in any scrape."
"Same here."
"There ain't nothin' crooked about him."
"That's what I say, but there's lots of folks in town that'll believe
anything, 'specially now he's goin' 'round with Miss Wallace some,
same's I heard this mornin' he was doin'."
"She's all right, too," said Sam, enthusiastically.
"You bet," replied Alick. "Did you hear about the woman's club?"
"Some."
"What they goin' to do?"
"Well," Sam drawled, "near's I can make out, they're goin' to improve
themselves, where there's room for improvement, and scatter blessin's
'round to other folks while they're doin' it. I heard that yesterday
they voted ten dollars for a pink tea, and one dollar seventy-five for
foreign missions, and--" Sam was interrupted by Mrs. Stout, who had
approached unobserved by either of the gossipers.
"You're lyin', Sam Billin's," she called, sharply. It was evident that
she had overheard Sam's remarks.
"Hello, Mis' Stout," called Sam, unabashed, as he peeked over the edge
of the roof. "I hear you're a bright and shinin' light in _our_ new
club."
"Don't you let me hear of you tellin' any more such whoppers, Sam
Billin's. Lies breed fast enough in this town without any extra help
from you," replied Mrs. Stout, as she looked up at his grinning face,
and then turning to Alick, continued, "Ain't you got anything else to
do, Alick Purbeck, 'cept sit behind a big cigar and listen to that
shiftless critter up there? Go 'long now, or I'll talk your case over
with Peter."
Alick drove away, and Sam went to work. Mrs. Stout started on her way,
but had gone only a few steps when she met Mrs. Darling returning from
Mrs. Thornton's.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stout," she said, "I'm so glad to see you, aren't
you out early?"
"Good land! no; I'm goin' over to see your friend Mis' Thornton about
her baby. Everybody's s'posed to be foolish over their first baby, but
I guess from what I heard yesterday that she's overdoin' it. She's
feedin' him on samples--turns up her nose at cow's milk--and I just made
up my mind that she needed a talkin' to whether she wanted it or not."
"No doubt you are right, Mrs. Stout, but--"
"Right, I know I am--such nonsense. Of course you folks that ain't had
no children, and don't want any, can't be expected to--" Mrs. Stout
stopped suddenly and looked up. Sam was looking and listening with the
earnest attention of an incurable gossip.
"Eavesdroppin', are you?" said Mrs. Stout, contemptuously, and then
turning to Mrs. Darling added, "Don't you believe one word that
scallywag up there tells you. He gets his news from wash-women and
servant girls."
"Well," drawled Sam, "I've noticed that what you hear at back doors is
most always nearer the truth than what you hear at the front, though it
ain't quite so flatterin'."
Chapter IV
The "Glories" Meet Again
IT was Wednesday, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the
flower for which the new club had been named.
Across the road from Mr. Flint's church stood the dingy white parsonage,
its windows glistening in the morning sunlight. It was there, and on
this particular morning, that the second meeting of the "Glories" was to
be held.
Mrs. Flint, with the apprehensiveness of a neat housekeeper, was
trotting from one room to another, replacing a chair here, raising or
lowering a curtain a fraction of an inch there, and now and then wiping
away an imaginary spot of dust.
Will Flint was looking out one of the sitting-room windows, and rocking
nervously with one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. He wanted to
smoke and read, but smoking was not to be thought of in the parsonage.
"What's going to happen, mother?" he asked, as she came into the
sitting-room in search of disorder and dust.
"Our club is to meet here this morning," Mrs. Flint replied, proudly.
"Guess I'll go for a walk," said Will, as he got up, stretched his arms,
and yawned.
"I had hoped," sighed Mrs. Flint, regretfully, "that you would stay at
home and meet the ladies."
"No, thank you, mother, I guess I'll be safer out-of-doors," he replied,
with a laugh.
"Will," said Mrs. Flint, reprovingly.
"I beg your pardon, mother dear, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but--a
houseful of women, it's impossible!"
Mrs. Flint suppressed another sigh. Since her son's return from college
she could not accustom herself to his ways. She wanted to say, "Willie,
be sure and return in time for dinner," but she realized that the boy
had become a man, and remained silent.
"I'll be home in time for supper," said Will, as he took his hat and
started for the door, then added, "Good luck, mother," and went out.
Mrs. Flint watched from the window, as he walked down the path and up
the road, until he disappeared. She was about to turn away from the
window when Mrs. Stout waddled into view, stopped in front of the
parsonage, hailed Alick Purbeck, who was driving by, and the following
conversation, which Mrs. Flint and all of her neighbours could hear,
took place.
"How's your folks, Alick?" asked Mrs. Stout.
"Children ain't well."
"Too bad, what doctor've you got?"
"Jones."
"He don't know nothin'."
"He did my wife a lot of good."
"He don't understand children."
"Well, I've had him twice, and--"
"Take my advice and get another."
"I'll see."
"Has Sam Billin's been tellin' you any more trash about the woman's
club?"
"Not a word. Get-ap."
The grocer's wagon rattled off down the street, and Mrs. Stout went to
the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Flint was disgusted, but succeeded in
concealing her feelings, and greeted Mrs. Stout smilingly.
"You are punctual, Mrs. Stout," she said.
"Yes," puffed Mrs. Stout, "I always make it a point to be on time; it
pays and don't cost anything."
"Yes, come right in, punctuality is indeed a virtue, but one that is
unappreciated by those who do not possess it."
"I declare," said Mrs. Stout, as she plumped into a chair, "I do believe
I'm gettin' wheezy in my old age, just that little walk from my house
has tuckered me out. How's the club gettin' along?"
"Splendidly, over twenty ladies have signified their intention to be
present this morning. The committee on rules has completed its work--oh,
by the way, you were on that committee, Mrs. Stout. Did you get my
postal in regard to the meeting?"
"Yes, but I couldn't come. I'll agree to what you and Miss Sawyer have
done, though."
"Very good of you, I'm sure."
"But you can't make women live by rule, any more'n you can mix cats and
dogs without there bein' some fightin'." This remark wounded Mrs.
Flint's cultured feelings, but before there was time to think of a
fitting reply, Mrs. Stout, who was looking out of a window, exclaimed:
"Here's Miss Sawyer! and if she ain't walkin' with that gossipy old
bach', Sam Billin's. I thought she was _awful_ perticler about the
company she kept."
"I dare say their meeting was purely casual," observed Mrs. Flint.
"Most prob'ly," said Mrs. Stout, "but you know how folks will talk."
Mrs. Flint did know, furthermore, she thought, that some folks talked
more than others. Their conversation came to an end upon the entrance of
Miss Sawyer, and the arrival of several other ladies in rapid
succession. Among them was Mrs. Tweedie, who had Mrs. Doctor Jones in
tow. Mrs. Jones was a meek little woman with a mind as changeable as a
weather-vane, but she was a patient, willing worker, one of the sort
always to be found washing dishes after a supper at the church long
after her more brilliant sisters had gone home. Mrs. Tweedie always made
friends of such women; they were useful, and seldom caused trouble.
Another of the new members was Mrs. Deacon Walton, who lived on the edge
of the town--"in the country," some of the village ladies said. Mrs.
Walton was not sure that membership in a woman's club would be pleasing,
proper, or profitable, but was willing to try it.
The ladies were all well acquainted, and immediately began talking in a
delightfully happy manner. As the number increased, so did the chatter,
which soon resembled the sounds of a bird store. Mrs. Tweedie, for a
long time silent and thoughtful, gazed upon the gathering with pride.
Success such as she had never dreamed of was within her grasp. Every
woman who had been invited to come was present--wives of the butcher,
the baker, and the candlestick maker, all were there, and at the signal
for silence stopped talking and looked expectantly at their leader. Mrs.
Tweedie looked over the assemblage gravely and leisurely before
beginning to speak.
"Ladies of The Morning Glory Club," she began, "the founders of our
organization would be indeed ungrateful if they did not appreciate the
generous response to their appeal by so many of the first ladies of our
town. We thank you, and, I must add, hope that you will concur with us
in what has been done at a previous meeting. The records of the last
meeting will be read by our secretary."
Miss Sawyer timidly complied with the president's request, reading from
a neatly written manuscript of daintily tinted and perfumed notepaper,
the sheets of which were fastened together by a pale green ribbon. When
Miss Sawyer had finished, the committee on rules presented their report
in the form of a constitution and by-laws, which were accepted without
debate. Then Mrs. Tweedie suggested that committees on ethics, art,
literature, and the Lord knows what, be appointed. It was done.
Everything that Mrs. Tweedie desired came to pass. She was in the
clouds; never, even in her dreams, had she thought such power possible.
For an hour the meeting progressed, and during that time Mrs. Stout, for
some unfathomable reason, remained silent. When she did rise to speak,
she addressed the chair in such a perfectly proper manner that, for a
moment, the ladies thought that by some strange process she had become
civilized.
"Ladies," she said, "I'm treasurer of this club, and I've been doin' a
lot of thinkin' since our last meetin'. We've got to have some money,
and it'll take for ever and a day for dues at ten cents a month to
amount to anything. We've got to run some kind of a show to raise money.
This ethical and e-comical business is all right, but what we want now
is dollars!"
"A very good suggestion," replied Mrs. Tweedie, who was feeling amiable
enough at that moment even to agree with one whom she disliked. The
ladies murmured their approval. "The chair awaits suggestions,"
continued Mrs. Tweedie. Upon that they, the suggestions, came like an
avalanche--everything was proposed from a spelling-match to military
whist. But Mrs. Tweedie frowned upon them all; only something new to
Manville would suit her. She desired above all things to get as far away
as possible from the provincial ways of the town.
"Whatever we give will cost something," remarked Mrs. Darling.
"We can't spend any money if we haven't got any," squeaked the deacon's
wife.
"Assuredly not," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "The question is--"
"Why not settle this money business first," interrupted Mrs. Stout.
"Mis' Darling says we've got to spend money whatever we do. I say we
ain't, what we've got to buy we can get trusted for--everybody else
does."
"Very true," said Mrs. Doctor Jones, warmly, "they do, and sometimes for
a long time." The wives of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick
maker looked as though they would like to say "amen." Others moved
uneasily, until Mrs. Tweedie came to the rescue.
"The question is," she said, firmly, "what sort of an entertainment
shall be given, not how we are to pay for it."
"Madam President," some one said from a corner.
"Mrs.--er--" Mrs. Tweedie craned her neck to see who had spoken. "Oh,
Mrs. Thornton."
"What would the ladies say to theatricals?" asked the woman with a baby.
"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "A play, the very thing, what a sweet
idea."
"Fanny," said her mother, reprovingly, yet she liked the idea herself.
"A play!" gasped Mrs. Flint, in dismay.
"I am inclined to think favourably of the idea," replied Mrs. Tweedie,
turning to the parson's wife.
"But the Church, Mrs. Tweedie, have you forgotten what we owe to our
creed?" asked Mrs. Flint, anxiously.
"Oh, no, indeed," said Mrs. Tweedie, with a benevolent smile, "but the
barriers between the stage and the Church are not so high as they were."
"They ain't so high," added Mrs. Stout, "but what most folks can peek
over if they stand on tiptoes, and their minister ain't lookin'."
Mrs. Flint felt certain that the end of all things was at hand.
"I'm sure," she said, "I have no idea what Mr. Flint will say."
"What difference would it make?" Mrs. Stout asked, bluntly. This remark
was followed by the most embarrassing, painful silence in the history of
the club.
When business was resumed, it was voted that a committee of five be
appointed to select a play, and plan for its production.
The Reverend and Mrs. Flint had a long talk that night.
"And the unholy suggestion was made and adopted in my home!" thundered
the reverend, forgetting that his audience consisted of only one.
Manville was waking up.
Chapter V
The Stouts at Home
THE Stouts were common folks--most of us are, for that matter, in one
way or another. Excepting Sundays, Mr. Stout ate his meals with the
frock on that he wore at the store; he used his knife at table in a
manner not prescribed by etiquette; and at all times his English was at
variance with the best authority. But in his dealings with men he was as
honest as his wife in her speech, and made money despite customers who
did not pay their bills. His three sons were healthy urchins, who obeyed
and respected their parents--just like other boys.
"How's that new club gettin' along?" Mr. Stout asked his wife while they
were at supper on the day of the meeting at the parsonage.
"Fine; I ain't enjoyed myself for years the way I do at them meetin's,"
replied Mrs. Stout, enthusiastically.
"There won't be any need of a newspaper here now," observed her husband
without looking up from his plate.
"I expected to hear you say somethin' like that," replied Mrs. Stout.
"But I want you to understand just this much, Peter Stout; that club's
goin' to be the talk of the town, and do more for it than any crowd of
men have ever done so far."
"Won't have to do much," grunted Peter, with his mouth full of
beefsteak.
"You're just right about that. This town has got the laziest set of men,
outside of their own affairs, that I ever heard of. When they're through
work for the day, they just set 'round and smoke, and tell each other
that the town ain't the same as it used to be; and that this thing would
be done, or that thing 'tended to, if the right men was in office. Who
elects the selectmen, I should like to know? And then they talk about
who's goin' to be the next President, and who's goin' to be next
governor, and let the town that they live in, that's right under their
lazy noses day and night, go to rack and ruin. I say the right way is to
do _somethin'_ even if you make a mess of it tryin'."
"Hear, hear!" cried Peter, as he clapped his hands. "That's a great
speech, Emmy, and all true."
"True, I guess it is, true as gospel," replied Mrs. Stout, and then
turning on her oldest son asked, sharply, "Henry Warren Stout, are you
eatin' butter on bread, or bread on butter?" Before the boy had time to
reply he was hit in the eye with a bread pill from the hand of Paul
Jones, whereupon Wendell Phillips fell off his chair convulsed with
laughter.
"We're goin' to give a play," said Mrs. Stout, after she had boxed Paul
Jones's ears, and the commotion had ceased.
"A play!" Peter put down his knife and fork, masticated and swallowed
the food that was in his mouth, and sat staring at his wife in
astonishment.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Stout, "and we're all goin' to be in it. It'll be
the biggest thing this town ever saw or heard of."
"You, goin' on the stage?" said Peter, with a grin, and then he gave way
to hearty laughter.
"I don't see what there is to laugh about, Peter Stout; ain't we got as
much right to give a play as anybody?" asked Mrs. Stout, indignantly.
"Yes, it's all right, and if the play is as funny as the idea, it'll
make a hit," said Peter, his mirth subsiding.
"It ain't goin' to be funny," retorted Mrs. Stout. "It's goin' to be a
classic."
"A classic," he repeated, wonderingly. "What's that?"
"A classic," replied Mrs. Stout, knowingly, "is somethin' you ought to
know about, and--and don't."
"Oh," said Peter, still in doubt.
"I hope you're satisfied now."
"I guess so; I'll wait till I've seen the play before I say anything
more about it."
"I guess you'd better," said Mrs. Stout, triumphantly. "Paul Jones, take
your fingers out of that sauce." Paul Jones obeyed, and licked the sauce
from his fingers.
"Ma, is your club goin' to have a ball-nine?" asked Wendell Phillips. He
played first base on the Manville Juveniles, which was the only club he
knew anything about.
"No, we ain't, Wendell," his mother replied. "Don't you boys get any
silly notions about clubs into your heads."
"Ma'd make a bully catcher," suggested Henry Warren.
"Stop your nonsense about baseball or you'll all go to bed," commanded
Mrs. Stout, in a tone that the youngsters could not fail to understand.
The silence that followed was broken by the ringing of the door-bell.
The boys jumped from their chairs and started on a race for the door.
"Boys!" said Mrs. Stout, sharply, and the three came to a sudden stop.
"Set down." They obeyed, and wistfully watched their mother as she
started for the front door.
"Why, Miss Wallace!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout when she opened the door and
saw who was there. "Come right in."
"Thank you," replied Miss Wallace, "but I haven't time. I called to ask
if Henry was feeling any better."
"Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand.
"I hope--"
"He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I
know of," said Mrs. Stout.
"But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace.
"Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout.
Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?"
asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously.
"I understood--" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment.
"He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul
and Wendell to say that he was sick."
"Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied
about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man
walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then
called out:
"Hello, is that you, Willie Flint?"
"Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be,
as he turned and retraced his steps.
"I thought I knew your walk," said Mrs. Stout. "Won't you come in?"
"No, thanks."
"How's your mother?"
"Nicely, but I must be going, good--"
"Don't you be in such a hurry, Willie Flint," Mrs. Stout interrupted,
and then added, "This is Miss Wallace here, and I guess you'd better
beau her home; it's a pretty dark night for young women to be runnin'
'round alone."
Barbara almost hated Mrs. Stout for saying that. She had remained
silent because, for one reason, there had been no chance for her to
speak, and another reason was that she hoped--she did and she did
not--that Will would not follow Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Barbara was not
unlike other young women in many ways.
"Good evening, Mr. Flint," she said, determined to make the best of it
whatever the outcome might be.
"_Is_ that you, Bar--Miss Wallace?" said Will as he came into the yard
and up the walk to the steps. Mrs. Stout noticed that he had started to
say Barbara.
"I'll 'tend to those boys, Miss Wallace. Good night," she said abruptly,
and shut the door.
"Good night," replied Barbara and Will, as they turned and went down the
walk together.
"Who was it, ma?" the boys asked in chorus when Mrs. Stout returned to
the dining-room, but their mother ignored them.
"Peter Stout," she began in a tone that made him jump, "Henry didn't go
to school this afternoon, and Paul and Wendell told Miss Wallace that he
was sick."
"What!" exclaimed Peter, turning on his three sons, who sat trembling
before him.
"Yes, she came to see if Henry was any better, and that let the cat out
of the bag. They've got to be 'tended to," replied Mrs. Stout. "Tended
to" in the Stout family meant something painful. The boys looked at each
other in dismay, and then at their parents.
"I ain't got time now," said Peter, "but in the mornin'--" With that
terrible, unspoken threat on his lips Peter put on his hat, and went
back to the store. Mrs. Stout began clearing the table, and the boys
silently filed out of the house and sat down on the front door-steps to
talk it over.
"You've got to give me back that five cents I give you for sayin' I was
sick, Paul," said Henry, "and you too, Wendell."
"I guess not," replied Paul and Wendell, quickly.
"I got found out, didn't I?"
"We said you was sick, didn't we?"
"I'm goin' to get a lickin', ain't I?"
"We're goin' to get one, too, ain't we?"
"I wouldn't lie for money."
"No; you'd get somebody to lie for you," said Wendell, scornfully.
"Yer little brothers," added Paul.
"I wouldn't steal, anyway," retorted Henry. For a moment they were
silent.
"Hello, fellers," yelled a boy from the street.
"Hello, Tom," replied the trio.
"Don't make any noise," cautioned Henry as Tommy Tweedie came up to the
steps.
"Why?" he asked as he sat down.
"I got caught," said Henry.
Tommy whistled his surprise.
"Did the kids (meaning Paul and Wendell) tell?" he asked.
"Nope; Miss Wallace come to see how sick I was."
"What'd your father say?" snickered Tom.
"Said he'd see us in the mornin'. Say, Tom, what's this club for that
your ma and mine are gettin' up?"
"I dunno," replied Tommy, "only I heard pop say we was goin' to have a
tablet, kind of a tombstone, you know, in the yard that told on it when
the club was foundered or somethin' like that; and this mornin' he told
Dora that he wished the tablet was goin' to be put up right away with
the date the club died on it, too."
"Are they goin' to play ball?" asked Wendell.
"Women don't play ball," said Paul.
"My mother says," replied Tom, "that women do everything nowadays."
"Boys," said Mrs. Stout, sternly, from the doorway.
The three guilty ones filed solemnly into the house, and Tommy Tweedie
slipped away into the darkness.
Chapter VI
Barbara and Will
"GOOD luck is with me sometimes, Barbara," said Will, as they turned
into the street from Mrs. Stout's yard.
"Is that a new name for me?" asked Barbara.
"No; but it would be a good one. I meant that I was fortunate in meeting
you; chance meetings, you know, are often best."
"Yes," replied Barbara, and then added, "if the chance is genuine." He
had met her so often of late by chance, that now, as he was bold enough
to speak of it, for a moment she doubted his sincerity.
"Really, Barbara," he replied, quickly, "on honour, I was on my way
home, and had no idea where you were." (Except, he might have added,
that she was first in his thoughts.) Barbara believed him, nevertheless
she was annoyed. Whether her feeling of annoyance was caused by what
Mrs. Stout had said, by the chance meeting with Will, or by what people
were saying about them, Barbara herself was not sure. She was certain,
however, that people were talking and linking her name with his in a
way that she did not like. That very night at supper Mrs. Tweedie had
given her estimate of Will Flint's character. The picture that she
painted, though more suggestive than real, was intended to be anything
except favourable, and Barbara knew that it was intended especially for
her. But despite the talk, she liked Will better than any other of her
acquaintances in Manville, because he at least was companionable and
honest.
"What's going on at the Stouts'?" asked Will. Barbara related the story,
and when she had finished Will expressed his feelings with a long
whistle.
"The little rascals!" he exclaimed. "I suppose it's all my fault."
"Your fault?" said Barbara, in surprise.
"Yes. Early this afternoon as I was on my way to the pond for an
afternoon's fishing I met the Stout boys. Henry asked me where I was
going, and when I told him he expressed a wish that he might go too. I
said come along, and he did, after a whispered conference with the other
two. We had a bully time."
"You great big boy!" exclaimed Barbara, not knowing whether to laugh or
be angry. "And those three boys are going to be punished when you are
the one wholly to blame."
"But, Barbara, I never once thought about school, and Henry didn't speak
of it."
"Of course he didn't, but now he has got to pay for his fun, and yours,
too."
Will stopped and looked back, undecided as to what he ought to do, and
very much disturbed to think that he had been the cause of trouble.
"What shall I do, go back and tell Mrs. Stout?" he asked.
"It is all over now, probably."
"That's so," said Will, gloomily, as they resumed their walk. "But I'll
go down in the morning and confess everything, and then, some day when
there's no school, I'll give those boys a good time to pay for the
whipping they've had. The little villains--do you go to see them all
when they're sick?"
"Yes, unless some one comes to tell me about them."
That was news to Will. He had thought always that common school
teachers' duties consisted of hearing children recite, and the
maintaining of discipline in the schoolroom.
"Do you mean to say," he said, in surprise, "that you think something
of, or rather like, every one of those dirty little kids?"
"Like them!" replied Barbara, warmly; "I love them. How could I teach if
I did not?"
"I--I didn't know, I never thought about it before," he stammered. He
had learned something. He had heard her speak the word "love" with
feeling, and by it he knew the destiny that he had hoped for, and was
humbled. They had reached Mrs. Tweedie's gate and stopped.
"Barbara," said Will, "you don't mind if I walk home with you from the
school sometimes, do you?"
"No," she replied, after a pause. "I am glad to have you--sometimes."
"And the other times, Barbara?" he asked, and then quickly added,
"Pardon me, I have no right to ask; but I may come if not too often?"
"Yes," replied Barbara, and then went quickly up the walk to the door.
"Good night," Will called after her, and then slowly walked toward home
filled with thoughts of higher ideals, of Barbara, and his new love--for
her. What were her thoughts of him? he wondered. Did she ever think of
him at all? He knew something of what others were thinking and saying,
but Barbara-- He knew that many believed that while away from home he
had led a dissolute life, and that he had been expelled from college
because of some dishonourable act. Barbara surely had heard these
stories about him--they were all lies--but how was she to know? Until
then he had not cared what people said, but now-- Was he worthy even to
try to win her? Thus far in his life he had accomplished nothing. What
had he to offer her--not in money or position--but as a man?
Chapter VII
Classics and Women
THE committee on plays was in session at the home of Mrs. Doctor Jones.
During the first fifteen minutes of the meeting its members had
annihilated the works of the poets and dramatists up to the reign of
Queen Elizabeth.
"We really ought to give something from Shakespeare," Mrs. Tweedie was
saying.
"What do folks in Manville know about him?" asked Mrs. Stout. "I say we
ought to give somethin' they can understand."
"My dear Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "that is just the reason why
we ought to give something from his works. The people of Manville ought
to know something of one of the world's greatest poets. If they do not,
it is clearly the duty of the Morning Glory Club to assist in their
enlightenment."
"Well, perhaps we can get 'em to come once," retorted Mrs. Stout, "but
you can be sure they won't get caught a second time. I think that
Shakespeare's too high-toned for folks 'round here, but go ahead if you
want to, I've had my say." Mrs. Stout always had her say, and some of
the ladies, particularly Mrs. Tweedie, wished that she did not have it
quite so often.
"Of course," said Miss Sawyer, "we could not dream of attempting the
production of the whole of one of Shakespeare's plays, but there are
many beautiful scenes that we could undertake and be reasonably sure of
success."
"That's a good idea; why not give several scenes instead of one play?"
suggested Mrs. Jones.
"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "Then we could all have star parts."
"Fanny," rebuked Mrs. Tweedie, "our personal ambition must not be
considered, and I sincerely hope that a spirit of self-sacrifice will be
manifested, if necessary, when we come to the assignment of parts. Your
idea, Mrs. Jones, is to give scenes from different plays?"
"Yes," Mrs. Jones replied; "then if one or more of the scenes were
unsuccessful, we could redeem ourselves with the others."
"True," said Mrs. Tweedie, wisely, and then turning to Miss Sawyer,
asked: "What scenes would you suggest?"
As Miss Sawyer was considered the best read woman in Manville, she was
always the first to be appealed to for advice in regard to such
matters, though her shyness--often mistaken for modesty--made her
opinion difficult to obtain.
"During the past week," she began, "I have been looking over my
Shakespeare (Mrs. Tweedie's suggestion) and have found several scenes
that we might consider. I would suggest first the trial scene from the
'Merchant of Venice,' and--"
"That would be great!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Mrs. Stout could be
the judge--I'd like to play Portia myself--and ma would be a lovely
Shylock."
"Fanny," said Mrs. Tweedie, severely, "there are others to be consulted
in this matter." She was provoked, not so much by Fanny's suggestion, as
by the titter it caused.
"Why, ma," Fanny continued, "you know that we talked it over at home,
and--" a warning glance from her mother told Fanny that she had said too
much, and she suddenly subsided. At a word from Mrs. Tweedie, Miss
Sawyer continued:
"There is the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' and in 'As You Like
It' there are many beautiful--"
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, "let's give the scene in the forest where
Rosalind, or somebody, hangs valentines on the bushes--it's lovely."
"Very beautiful," murmured Miss Sawyer. "And in the 'Merry Wives of
Windsor' there are many amusing--"
"I didn't know that Shakespeare was funny," blurted Mrs. Stout.
"Not funny," corrected Mrs. Tweedie, "amusing; his wit is of the
keenest."
"Same thing, ain't it?" said Mrs. Stout. "Ain't there a play about the
taming of somebody?"
"The 'Taming of the Shrew,'" Miss Sawyer responded, quickly.
"That's it. Why wouldn't that be a good play for us?" laughed Mrs.
Stout.
"I don't like the name," Mrs. Tweedie replied. "It savours too much of
the domineering of the _other sex_."
"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "we might change the name."
"Change the name!" exclaimed the horrified ladies.
"Change the name of one of Shakespeare's plays!" groaned Miss Sawyer.
"What name, may I ask," said Mrs. Tweedie, majestically, "would you
substitute?"
Mrs. Stout was thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture that she had
caused, and was laughing in a most provoking manner.
"We might call it the 'Un-taming of the Shrews,'" she replied, and then
added: "See here, I don't see any terrible harm in changin' the name of
anything. You changed yours, Mis' Tweedie, didn't you?"
"No," snapped Mrs. Tweedie, "I added a name to the one I already had."
Mrs. Tweedie always wrote her name Aurelia Scraggs Tweedie. (Scraggs was
a famous actor--three times removed--the moves, hasty ones, being from
Providence Plantation to Boston, from Boston to Salem, and from there to
Portsmouth, with the king's officers close upon his heels at every
step.)
"Oh, excuse _me_," said Mrs. Stout, with exaggerated politeness, "but
the rest of us did change our names when we was married."
"Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at the promoter of the
disturbance, "the business before us is not of a humourous nature."
"Good land!" retorted Mrs. Stout. "If we've got to wear funeral faces
every time we get together we'd better bust up now."
"Humour and wit," said Mrs. Tweedie, icily, "have their place, but the
changing of the name of a classic would be sacrilege." For the time
being Mrs. Stout had had enough fun, and permitted Mrs. Tweedie to have
the last word.
"Has any one thought of the old comedies, so-called, of Sheridan and
Goldsmith?" asked Mrs. Jones. "There's 'She Stoops to Conquer,' and--"
"That would never do," said Mrs. Stout, breaking forth again; "we
wouldn't 'stoop to conquer,' not even for a classic," and for once Mrs.
Tweedie agreed with her.
"The title certainly is not appropriate for a woman's club," she
remarked, decidedly.
"The 'School for Scandal' is a famous play," Miss Sawyer ventured to
suggest, but the only approval her suggestion received was another
outburst of laughter from Mrs. Stout.
"If we should give that play," she gurgled, "we'd be sure to make a hit,
it would be so natural."
Fortunately for the future welfare of the Morning Glory Club the
telephone bell rang at that moment, and Mrs. Jones hastened to answer
its summons.
The telephone was in the hall, only a step or two from the room in which
the ladies were sitting, and as Mrs. Jones went out she left the door
ajar. Silence fell over the group--not because that they wished to hear,
of course, but in order that Mrs. Jones might not be annoyed. A message
to a doctor's home might be _so_ important, you know.
"Diphtheria?" they heard her say. "Where?--At school--The Clark
children?--What?--Oh, Miss who?--Miss Wallace?--Sent the children
home?--Yes.--Will you be home to lunch?--What?--Will there be any?--_Of
course_--Good-bye."
"Diphtheria!" exclaimed the ladies when they were sure that Mrs. Jones
was through, and a look of anxiety spread over the faces of those who
had children.
"Did you hear?" asked Mrs. Jones, as she reëntered the room. "Miss
Wallace suspected that one of the Clark girls had diphtheria, so she
sent both of them home. The doctor is at the Clarks' now, and says that
Miss Wallace was right, and that the school will have to be closed."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "just think of havin' them three boys
of mine runnin' wild for three or four weeks, to say nothin' of the
danger of their bein' sick."
"What we have heard is very distressing," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but let us
not be unnerved until we learn all of the particulars. In the meantime
would it not be wise to continue with our work? Miss Sawyer, are you
familiar with Ibsen's plays?" Thus did Mrs. Tweedie throw off diphtheria
for Ibsen.
"I have read 'A Doll's House,'" replied Miss Sawyer, blushing.
"'A Doll's House,'" queried Mrs. Stout, "is it a play for children?"
"By no means," snapped Mrs. Tweedie.
"Oh, ma!" Fanny exclaimed, "I don't know anything about Ibsen, but do
you remember 'The Lady of Lyons?' We saw it in Boston. It was about the
loveliest girl--a princess--who married a labourer's son disguised as a
prince, and when she found it out he went into the army, and then came
home as a general or something, and they made up."
"Yes, I remember," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me see, who wrote it?"
"Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer," said Miss Sawyer, promptly. "It's a
beautiful play containing some of the sweetest love-scenes imaginable."
"Has it got anything to do with a circus?" asked Mrs. Stout,
innocently, having in mind, no doubt, the lady in a cage of lions with
the "Ding-a-ling Circus," that came to Manville every year.
"Circus, indeed not!" said Mrs. Jones. "Lyons is the name of a city in
France."
"Oh," was all that Mrs. Stout had to say in reply. She was gaining
knowledge rapidly, and realized it. Only the night before she had said
to her husband that "if the club don't go up I expect to know somethin'
sometime."
Formal suggestions and discussion gave way to general chatting. They
were not getting ahead at all, and Mrs. Tweedie became annoyed. As she
sat watching them, a new and alarming thought came suddenly into her
mind, and a look of consternation spread over her face.
"Ladies!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice, "it has just occurred to me
that in every play that has been suggested there are MALE CHARACTERS!"
The silence that followed Mrs. Tweedie's statement was cruelly
disheartening. What a horrible thought, such a dejected-looking
gathering of women was never seen before.
"Is it possible!" gasped Mrs. Jones, who was the first to recover from
the shock. "Is it possible that in every classic there is a man?"
"Men wrote most of 'em, didn't they?" asked Mrs. Stout.
Mrs. Tweedie's eyes snapped angrily.
"That is not a fair question," she said. "What if they did write the
classics? Doubtless you can guess why."
"Most prob'ly," replied Mrs. Stout, in a tone that was meek for her, "it
was because the women folks had to spend their time washin' dishes and
'tendin' babies, and didn't have time even to try."
"Exactly," said Mrs. Tweedie.
"_Was_ there a Mis' Shakespeare?" queried Mrs. Stout. No one seemed to
know.
"Well," said Mrs. Jones, "if we can't find a play without a man in it,
what shall we do?"
"Play the part of men ourselves," replied Fanny Tweedie, boldly.
"Fanny!" exclaimed her mother.
"A good idea," said Mrs. Stout. "I guess that most of us women know
enough about men to make believe."
"That's so," added Mrs. Jones, "such things have been done, I don't see
what harm it would do."
"But the costuming," said Mrs. Tweedie, "how would that be arranged?"
"Put a sign, 'this is a man,' on the ones that have men's parts,"
suggested Mrs. Stout. A ring at the door quickly stopped the titter
caused by Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Mrs. Jones excused herself and left
the room. Again perfect silence reigned.
"Mother wants the doctor right off," they heard a boy say. "The baby's
broke out all over."
"I'll tell him just as soon as he returns," replied Mrs. Jones.
"Measles," said Mrs. Stout in a loud whisper, "what a time we are
havin'."
"It was Sammy Dobbins," explained Mrs. Jones, when she returned. "That's
the way I have to run all day; first the telephone, and then the
door-bell."
"It must be very trying," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.
"Here it is, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, explosively, as she
waved a book that she had taken from a table a moment before. "Listen:
'Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero,'" she read. "Ain't there a play by
that name?"
"Nonsense," sniffed Mrs. Tweedie. "It's full of men, and such men--"
"And a woman," added Mrs. Jones.
"Such a woman," said Miss Sawyer. Mrs. Stout closed the book, and
replaced it. She was squelched.
"We are getting on very slowly," sighed Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me suggest a
programme." No one objected. "What would you say to the trial scene from
the 'Merchant of Venice,' the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a
scene from the 'Lady of Lyons,' and a one-act play written by our Miss
Sawyer, entitled 'Yellow Roses'?"
There was much to be said, and the discussion began anew, but Mrs.
Tweedie was determined to win, and win she did.
"The smell of medicine in a doctor's house," remarked Mrs. Stout, as she
walked toward home with Mrs. Thornton, "always makes me feel as though
my last day had come."
Chapter VIII
A Woman's Way
BARBARA WALLACE never forgot the morning on which she discovered that
one of her pupils was threatened with diphtheria. The child affected,
and her sister, were sent home, and Tommy Tweedie was sent for Mr.
George, the chairman of the school committee. While awaiting his
arrival, Barbara went on with the morning's work, but with less interest
than usual, and a heavy heart.
An hour and a half dragged by before Mr. George came. On the way he had
met Doctor Jones, who had seen the sick child, and confirmed Barbara's
suspicions. That morning he had discovered three cases himself.
Conditions were considered serious, and Mr. George decided that the
school should be closed for at least two weeks, and instructed Barbara
to inform the children before they were dismissed at noon. When she made
the announcement, the thoughtless young Americans wiggled like tadpoles
at the prospect of a two weeks' vacation, and danced and shouted for joy
the moment they were out-of-doors. Barbara watched them from the doorway
as they ran off, and when the thought came to her that some of them
might never return, the tears sprang to her eyes. When the children had
disappeared she went back to her desk, for a moment looked over the
shabby little room and the rows of empty seats, then buried her head in
her arms and sobbed like a child.
"Miss Wallace," she heard some one say in a child's sweet voice.
Barbara looked up and saw Bessie Duncan, one of her flock, standing in
the doorway with a bunch of autumn leaves in her hand. Bessie belonged
to one of the poorest, dirtiest families in Manville; she herself,
however, was a diamond, though a dirty one, and Barbara loved her.
"Why, Bessie," said Barbara, wiping her eyes, "did you forget
something?"
"No, um, I--why ain't we goin' to have school any more?"
"Because some of the children are sick, and we don't want any of the
others to be."
"Ain't we ever goin' to have any more school?" Bessie asked, as she
walked slowly toward Barbara.
"Oh, yes, when the children are well again."
The child was silent for a moment, then she smiled, and gave Barbara the
bunch of leaves.
"There ain't any flowers now," she said, "so I got these for you."
"Thank you, Bessie, you were very kind to think of me. Aren't they
pretty?"
"Yes, um, I picked 'em all by myself in the woods. What makes the leaves
fall off?"
"Because winter is coming."
"Miss Wallace," said the child after a pause, "I hope you ain't goin' to
be sick and die."
Barbara took the little one in her arms, and kissed her dirty little
cheek.
"No, Bessie, I hope not."
"I like you, Miss Wallace."
"I am very glad that you do."
"Does that big man like you, too?" Bessie innocently asked, and then
wondered why her teacher's face grew pink. Before Barbara had time to
reply she heard a heavy step, and looking up saw Will Flint, the "big
man," standing in the doorway and smiling at what he thought was a
pretty picture.
"Don't come in," said Barbara, in alarm.
"Why, Barbara, what--" he began as he walked toward her.
"Don't, please--Will," pleaded Barbara. "Please go outside, and then I
will explain."
Will backed slowly out of the door, wondering what had happened to cause
Barbara to speak and act so strangely. When he had closed the door
Barbara put Bessie down, and went to an open window. Will felt relieved
when he looked up and saw her smiling.
"We discovered diphtheria among the children to-day, and I didn't want
you to be exposed," she explained.
"How about yourself?" he asked, bluntly.
"Why, I have got to take my chances with the children."
"Rather dangerous, isn't it?"
"I--I suppose so; the school is to be closed for two weeks."
Will did not like that, he would miss the walks that he had been
enjoying with her.
"Are you going home soon?" he asked.
"Yes, but you must not go with me to-day."
"I'm not afraid," said Will, quickly.
"But I am--for you," she replied. The tiniest bit of hesitation before
the "for you" made Will happy, but he made no reply. Perhaps it was the
time, or place, or the big blue eyes of Bessie Duncan peering at him
over the window-sill, that restrained him from speaking the words that
trembled on his lips.
"Good-bye," was all he said, as he turned quickly and strode away. In
place of the sun and sky, the woods and fields, he saw her face. He did
not hear the chatter of the crows, or the soughing of the wind; only her
voice could he hear saying, "Will," and "for you."
Barbara and Bessie watched until he disappeared around a bend in the
road.
"Is he a good man?" Bessie asked as she took Barbara's hand, and looked
up at her earnestly. It was she who had asked that same question before.
The first time Barbara had evaded an answer, but now she replied
quickly, and with a flood of meaning:
"Yes."
Chapter IX
Men Talk Too
"STOUT'S GROCERY," as the sign over the door read, was the
scene--especially on rainy evenings--of many heated debates and windy
harangues on topics as varied as New England weather. There was decided
the policies of the great political parties; the characters of great or
notorious men were weighed and analyzed; the worth, financial, mental,
and moral, of the citizens of Manville--not present--were frankly
estimated; and, alas, sometimes, the virtues and vices of women received
the attention of the gathering of do-little busybodies.
It was raining. The prophecy had appeared in the evening paper, and it
had come to pass that the prophecy and the elements were working
harmoniously. Only a few brief words were devoted to it by those who had
gathered at the store on this particular evening. Incense, in kind, was
ascending in clouds to one of man's greatest gods--tobacco.
"How's that woman's club gettin' 'long?" Sam Billings asked without
addressing any one in particular.
"I hear," replied Mr. Blake, the undertaker, "that they're doing
first-rate. My wife has joined."
"You 'n' your wife are gettin' to be reg'lar jiners, ain't yer? B'long
to 'most everything now," remarked Sam.
"Well, we like to keep in touch with what's going on in the world,"
replied Mr. Blake, modestly.
"Business is business," chuckled Sam. Mr. Blake made no reply to the
insinuation. "What do they want a club for, anyway?" Sam continued.
"Don't they have enough to do without gettin' together and stirrin'
things up?"
"Perhaps it's because they want a change," suggested Alick Purbeck.
"Change?" sniffed Sam, scornfully. "What change do any of us get? We get
up in the morning every day at the same time, eat our breakfast, go to
work, eat our dinner, go to work, eat our supper, and--sometimes we come
down here and swap lies, and--"
"There's your change," interrupted Mr. Blake. "At our work most of us
men meet different people, we see new faces and new things, but the
women stay at home, wash, sew, cook, care for the children, and never
know when the day is done unless they look at the clock--then they're
not always sure."
"There ain't any use tryin' to argue with you," replied Sam. "What are
they goin' to do at this club that'll give 'em a change?"
"Well," said Mr. Blake, "I understand that they're going to give a play,
study art, science, and so forth, and give social affairs that will
bring the people together in a way that will benefit us all."
"Ump! I'd like to know how they'll do _me_ any good," grunted Sam.
"Well," smiled Mr. Blake, "I can't think of anything at this moment that
they could do to make you any better or worse, but when women set out to
do anything I've noticed that they generally get there."
"You're right about that," said Sam, wagging his head, "they are
persistent critters."
"Perhaps if you were married you'd have more respect for women," added
Mr. Blake.
"Maybe his weddin' ain't so very far off," said Alick Purbeck. "I've
seen him in comp'ny with the same lady three times within a week."
"Jest happened so," retorted Sam.
"Gettin' married jest happens sometimes," replied Alick.
"When a woman ketches me," said Sam, boastfully, "she's got to be mighty
fetchin' in more ways 'n one."
"If there's any catching to be done, I guess you'll have to do it,"
commented Mr. Blake.
Sam felt that he was getting the worst of the argument, and changed the
subject.
"What kind of a show are they goin' to give?" he asked.
"Scenes from the classics," replied Mr. Blake.
"Is it a good play?" Sam innocently inquired. Mr. Blake began to
explain, but before he had finished the door was opened and Ezra Tweedie
came in.
"Evenin', Ezra," said Peter Stout, from his seat on the counter.
"Good evening, gentlemen," replied Ezra, with a queer little nod, and
then giving Peter a slip of paper, added, "Kindly put up those things
for me, Mr. Stout."
"Certain," said Peter, as he slid off the counter.
While waiting for his order to be put up, Ezra sat down with the group
of tobacco slaves. Ezra did not smoke himself, his health would not
permit it, so he said, but everybody knew that the disapproval of
Aurelia Scraggs Tweedie was all that kept him from the use of the
seductive narcotic. He liked _to be smoked_, however, and was always
delighted when his wife sent him to the store in the evening. And the
men, the smokers, liked Ezra--and pitied him.
"How's things with you, Ezra?" asked Sam when Ezra was comfortably
seated.
"About the same, thank you," Ezra cheerfully replied.
"Here's the man," Sam went on, "that can tell us all about the woman's
club, can't you, Ezra?"
"Well," Ezra began, with a cough and a smile, "I cannot say that I know
all about it, but naturally I do know something, perhaps a little more
than any other of _our sex_." "_Our sex_" was the offspring of his
wife's favourite term, the "_other sex_." Ezra was so seldom the centre
of interest, or the source of information, that the position which he
held at that moment pleased him immensely.
"Your wife has been chosen president, I believe," said Mr. Blake.
"Yes," replied Ezra, proudly, "and she was the one who conceived the
idea, the founder, one could justly say."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam.
Ezra smiled a broader smile as he looked at the interested, open-mouthed
men about him. Very likely he thought that the next best thing to being
a man himself was to have a manly wife.
"What did you say?" Ezra asked, turning toward Peter, who had spoken
from the depths of a sugar-barrel.
"Green tea, or black?" said Peter as he withdrew his head and shoulders
from the barrel, his face very red.
"Oh, green and black mixed, please," replied Ezra, and then picking up
the thread of the conversation where he had dropped it continued: "Yes,
Mrs. Tweedie founded the club, and is now its president. I feel
confident that it is going to be a grand thing for our town."
"How's that?" Sam asked, hoping to "set Ezra a-goin'," as he would have
expressed it.
"How?" repeated Ezra. "By lifting us out of the mire of ignorance, by
encouraging social intercourse, in fact, by broadening us in every way."
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Sam.
"Yes, sir, I do mean it." Ezra did mean it at the time he spoke,
notwithstanding sentiments that he had previously expressed to the
contrary.
"What'd I tell you, Sam?" said Alick, vauntingly, and turning to Ezra,
added: "Sam, here, Mr. Tweedie, has been runnin' women folks down, and
we told him it was because he wasn't married."
"And you were right, Alick; a man who is unmarried is not competent to
judge women," Ezra replied.
"And a man that _is_ married don't dare to," retorted Sam.
The entrance of Doctor Jones at that moment saved Sam from a severe
tongue-lashing from the married men present.
The doctor was a jolly, generous soul who did twice as much work as he
was paid for, and was loved and hated after the manner of all general
practitioners of medicine. There were people in Manville who declared
that Doctor Jones could work miracles, while others said that he was a
butcher and a murderer; but men who have the courage to fight disease
and death are not often disturbed or injured by the wagging of
mischievous tongues.
"Well," said the doctor, as he sat down, "who is catching it to-night?"
"The woman's club," Sam promptly replied.
"The town is more stirred up over that club than it ever was about
anything before," laughed the doctor.
"Now, seein' we've got the question before us," said Sam, "s'pose you
give us your opinion."
"Oh, the club is all right, I guess," replied the doctor.
"There, Sam," said Alick, "I guess you're the only woman-hater in the
crowd."
"I ain't no woman-hater," replied Sam, indignantly.
"No," Alick laughed, "but you try to make us think you are."
"No such thing; all I want to know is, what's this woman's club for, and
how's it goin' to help Manville?"
"Well," drawled Alick, "it's _for_ the women, and it's goin' to help
Manville by showin' _you_ what an ignorant cuss _you_ be."
Sam threw a potato at his tormentor, but Alick dodged, and the missile
knocked off Ezra Tweedie's hat.
"No offence, Mr. Tweedie," said Alick, quickly, "strictly
unintentional."
"No harm, no harm," replied Ezra, as he got up and put on his hat; "but
I guess it is time for me to go if my things are ready, Mr. Stout."
Peter handed Ezra his basket, and then whispered something in his ear.
"Certainly, certainly," said Ezra, "it shall be attended to the first of
the week." And then turning to the others wished them, "Good evening,
gentlemen," walked quickly to the door, and went out.
"Ain't he the queerest little man you ever see?" observed Sam, when Ezra
had gone.
"Queer!" replied Alick, "he ain't any queerer in his way than you are in
yours."
"Well, I dunno; he's a little too womanish to suit me," said Sam.
"If you had a streak of it in you perhaps you'd show off better." Just
then the door was opened, and Barbara Wallace came in and started toward
the group of men, hesitated for a moment, and then stopped. The men took
the pipes from their mouths and stared at the woman in dripping
garments. She was evidently in great distress and looking for some one,
but the tobacco smoke was so thick, and the light so dim, that it was
difficult for her to distinguish the faces of the men present. Doctor
Jones got up and went toward her.
"Are you looking for some one, Miss Wallace?" he asked.
"Yes, doctor, I wanted you, and I hoped"--her voice trembled--"I hoped
to find Mr. Blake here, too." When the undertaker heard his name he
joined them.
"Who is it?" asked the doctor, anxiously. He had thought that his
patients were in no danger, at least for the night. Tears came to
Barbara's eyes.
"Bessie Duncan," she replied.
"Are you sure that she is--" the doctor hesitated.
"Yes, but you'll go, doctor, and you, too, won't you, Mr. Blake?"
Barbara pleaded. The expression on the undertaker's face was not
encouraging. "I know about the others," she continued, "but they have
had such a hard time, please go--for me, Mr. Blake. I'll--I--you can
come to me for the money."
"I'll go," said Mr. Blake; "never mind about the money."
"Come," was all that Barbara said as she started for the door followed
by the two men. The three went out into the rain and the darkness of the
night on their cheerless errand.
The talkers at the store were silent for a long time after that. They
had heard all that was said, though it was far from Barbara's intention
that they should, but she had been so eager to secure the assistance of
the doctor and Mr. Blake that she had thought only of them.
"So Miss Wallace wants to pay the bills of that mean, drunken skunk of a
Rufe Duncan," said Sam, fiercely.
"That ain't any of your business," retorted Alick. "If she wants to have
the little girl buried decent, what's the harm?"
"'Tain't her place," replied Sam, more for the sake of an argument than
because he believed it. "What do you say, Peter?"
"I say," Peter began, slowly, "I've heard about angels with wings, but
the only kind I've ever seen is just such little women as Miss Wallace
is."
Chapter X
A Rehearsal
SCENE I, Act IV., of the "Merchant of Venice" was on for rehearsal and
mutilation at the home of Mrs. Tweedie by a cast whose performance
assured a treat for the people of Manville.
Early that morning Mrs. Tweedie, having in mind the domestic friction
which had been displayed at the first meeting of the club, and desiring
to prevent the possibility of its recurrence, had sent her husband on a
long errand, given Dora permission to visit a cousin, and urged Tommy to
spend the day in the woods.
When the hour appointed for the rehearsal came, Miss Sawyer--at a
previous meeting appointed stage-directress--was bustling about
arranging chairs and table in an effort to make Mrs. Tweedie's parlour
resemble a court of justice in Venice. When she had completed her work,
the room looked as though house-cleaning was in progress. While this was
being done, the ladies who had parts in the scene huddled in the front
hall, and chatted in subdued tones. Anticipatory fear was already
hovering over them.
"I am ready, ladies," announced Miss Sawyer. The hearts of the amateur
actresses beat faster as they entered the parlour and gazed upon the
arrangement of the furniture.
"That," Miss Sawyer began to explain as she pointed to a large chair
flanked on each side by two smaller ones, "is where the Duke and
Magnificoes sit, and these chairs and tables down here and those on
either side are to be used by the other characters." If the scene was
set and played as arranged by Miss Sawyer it would resemble a minstrel
circle with the Duke as interlocutor, and Shylock and Antonio for
"bones" and "tambo."
"Where do we come in?" asked Mrs. Jones, timidly.
"When you've got something to say," said Mrs. Stout, before Miss Sawyer
had time to reply.
"We will only use one entrance," explained Miss Sawyer, when the laugh
that Mrs. Stout caused had subsided. "It will be much easier to
remember, and accordingly will prevent confusion. And that," she said,
waving her hand toward one side of the room, "is where the audience is
supposed to be. Now if the cast will please step back into the hall we
will begin."
The "cast" solemnly filed from the room, and Miss Sawyer, book in hand,
took up a position in the centre of the stage.
"'Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio,
and others,'" she read.
"Who's goin' to be the 'others'?" called Mrs. Stout. Miss Sawyer made no
reply, and the rest did not laugh because each of them, excepting Mrs.
Tweedie and Mrs. Stout, when the name of the character she was to play
was read, had a nervous chill. Miss Sawyer waited patiently for some one
to enter, but no one stirred.
"Who goes in first?" asked Mrs. Blake.
"The Duke," replied Miss Sawyer.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Have I got to be the first one?"
"Certainly; come right in and act as naturally as you can," said Miss
Sawyer, with a patronizing air of encouragement.
Mrs. Stout entered, followed by her "soot," as she called it, and stood
staring at the open book before her--dumb.
"Well?" Miss Sawyer looked up inquiringly.
"Shall I say what I've got to now?" asked Mrs. Stout.
"Yes, but face the audience first." Strange to relate, Mrs. Stout
seemed to be confused. She turned, but the wrong way. "No, no," Miss
Sawyer corrected, nervously, "this way."
"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, as she faced in the right direction and began to
read.
"It's your turn, Mrs. Blake," prompted Miss Sawyer, when Mrs. Stout had
read her first line. (One would have thought that they were playing
croquet.)
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, all in a flutter, "is it?" and then when she
had found the place, read, "'Ready, so please your grace.'"
And so the rehearsal of the famous scene hitched along until the
approach of Shylock was announced. Mrs. Tweedie, who was to play the
part, was ready, and entered at precisely the right moment with her
accustomed assurance. And when Mrs. Stout had waded and stumbled through
the long speech of the Duke to Shylock, Mrs. Tweedie, scorning to look
at her book, began her lines. She had seen a famous actor play the part,
and tried to imitate him, but failed horribly.
Harmony prevailed until Mrs. Jones balked at a word in the text that a
lady of the Morning Glory Club would not use--outside of her family
circle.
"I cannot, will not, use such a word!" she exclaimed, with tears in her
eyes.
"But, my dear Mrs. Jones," entreated Mrs. Tweedie, "this is the work of
Shakespeare, a classic."
"Umph!" grunted Mrs. Stout, who had discovered the word in question. "If
such words are all right here, then our men folks are quoting the
classics and the Bible most of the time."
"My dear ladies," interposed Miss Sawyer, "you do not seem to understand
the sense in which the word is used; your view-point is incorrect."
"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "I know that when my husband quotes the
classics folks most always _see_ the point."
"Oh, bother!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Let's skip the naughty words;
I'm just dying to have this rehearsal over with."
"Fanny," reproved Mrs. Tweedie. "Do proceed, Mrs. Jones, I am sure that
as we go on we will find a way out of the difficulty."
Mrs. Jones went on with her part, mouthing her lines meaninglessly.
"'The quality of Mercy is not strain'd--'" read Fanny Tweedie, in a
strained voice.
Mrs. Stout interrupted her by innocently observing: "I wonder why
Shakespeare used so many old sayin's."
Mrs. Tweedie and Miss Sawyer turned pale; Fanny Tweedie giggled
unreproved, and then another of those painful silences prevailed.
"Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Tweedie, when she could control herself, "_we_
have been quoting Shakespeare for over three hundred years; _he_ never
quoted anybody."
"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout; then she laughingly added: "Perhaps you and
Miss Sawyer have been quotin' him for three hundred years, but I'm
mighty sure that I ain't."
"When I said _we_ I meant the world," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.
"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, and the incident was closed.
"What an unfeeling wretch that Shylock was," observed Mrs. Blake, after
the rehearsal had continued without interruption for several minutes.
"It makes me shudder to think of such a man. How are you going to dress
for the part, Mrs. Tweedie?"
"I shall endeavour to dress appropriately, and as becomes my sex,"
replied Mrs. Tweedie.
"Ladies, let us not waste valuable time talking dress," said Miss
Sawyer, impatiently.
"What's the harm, I'd like to know; who's got a better right to talk
about dress than us women?" asked Mrs. Stout, pertly.
"But is the subject appropriate at this time?" retorted Miss Sawyer.
"It's always appropriate," replied Mrs. Stout. "A woman can't be happy
unless she's well dressed, or thinks she is, any more'n a man can be
good-natured on an empty stomach."
"Which proves the inferiority of the _other sex_," said Mrs. Tweedie.
"Ump! I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Stout. "We make just as big
fools of ourselves about dressin' as the men do about eatin' and
drinkin'."
"Indeed, and is it not commendable to appear as well as one can?"
queried Mrs. Tweedie.
"That's all right," retorted Mrs. Stout, "if it ended there, but it
don't. Most women folks would wear a smile, a pink ribbon, and rings on
their toes if the fashion papers said it was proper, and then wonder why
the men stared at 'em."
"Because some women err in such matters, are we--" remonstrated Mrs.
Jones, mildly, but Fanny interrupted her.
"Oh," she exclaimed, in her explosive manner, "I'm in the greatest luck!
Miss Wallace is going to let me take her graduation cap and gown. I've
tried them on and the effect is just killing."
"You are very fortunate, and how is Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Blake.
"Tired out," replied Fanny, "running around calling on sick children."
"I have heard," said Mrs. Darling, "that Miss Wallace spent an evening
at the store a few days ago."
"There ain't a word of truth in it!" hotly replied Mrs. Stout. "She went
there just for a minute to get Doctor Jones and Mr. Blake the night
little Bessie Duncan died. The way such lies travel beats automobiles."
"Oh, of course, I didn't believe it for one moment," simpered Mrs.
Darling, "and I wouldn't say a word to injure her for worlds--she's such
a _lovely_ girl."
"Girl," said Mrs. Thornton, "she's every day of twenty-five."
"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, "I wouldn't have believed it."
"Well," drawled Mrs. Stout, "it's a long time since any of us, 'ceptin'
Fanny, was that age."
"Mrs. Stout will speak the truth at all times," remarked Mrs. Tweedie,
sarcastically.
"Somebody's got to tell it," retorted Mrs. Stout.
"Pardon me, ladies," said Miss Sawyer, "but we have drifted away from
the work of the great poet."
"Poet!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Was Shakespeare a poet?"
"Certainly," replied Miss Sawyer, impatiently.
"And is this play poetry?"
"Yes, much of it."
"Well!" Mrs. Stout's astonishment equalled her ignorance.
"Do you object greatly to poetry?" asked Mrs. Tweedie.
"Oh, no," replied Mrs. Stout, "poetry is good, like angel-cake, but you
can't live on it."
The laugh that followed cleared the atmosphere, and the rehearsal
continued. As it progressed the ladies gained courage, and declaimed
their lines in what they thought was a professional manner. Miss Sawyer
was pleased and beamed on them encouragingly, suggesting now and then a
gesture, inflection, or "business," but, despite her efforts to keep
them constantly on the dramatic road, digressions were frequent.
"I wonder if Miss Wallace cares anything about Will Flint," said Mrs.
Thornton to Mrs. Darling, when they were alone in a corner of the hall
waiting their "turn."
"I am sure that _I_ don't know, but I have heard that he was very fond
of her, and that he walks to and from school with her almost every day."
"Really! and hasn't he anything else to do?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course you know that there are mysterious,
disagreeable stories about him, and that for a minister's son he
is--er--well--"
"I understand perfectly."
"'There's a skeleton--' you know the saying, and--" Just then the
gossipers heard the rustle of skirts in the hall above, followed by the
sound of a door being closed. They looked at each other in dismay.
"Do you suppose?" gasped Mrs. Darling, in alarm.
"I'll find out," replied Mrs. Thornton, as she went to the parlour door
and beckoned to Fanny Tweedie.
"What do you want?" asked Fanny, as she came into the hall.
"Sh! Is--er--Miss Wallace at home?" whispered Mrs. Darling.
"Yes," Fanny replied. "Why?"
"Oh!" gasped the culprits.
"What _will_ she think of us?" groaned Mrs. Darling.
"What are you folks whisperin' about?" asked Mrs. Stout at that moment
as she came out into the hall and joined them. Fanny laughed, she had
guessed the cause of Mrs. Darling's and Mrs. Thornton's discomfiture,
and enjoyed the situation.
"Well," whispered Mrs. Thornton in reply to Mrs. Stout's question, "we,
Dolly and I, were talking out here, and we happened to mention--we spoke
of Will Flint and Miss Wallace, and we think that perhaps she--"
"Heard," interrupted Mrs. Darling.
"Good 'nough for you," said Mrs. Stout.
"Sh! But we didn't say a word that she could object to," continued Mrs.
Thornton.
"At least about her," added Mrs. Darling.
"But," said Mrs. Stout, "you did say somethin' about Willie Flint
that--"
"Hush!" exclaimed the guilty ones.
"I thought so," said Mrs. Stout, lowering her voice. "But let me tell
you that I believe that Willie Flint ain't half as bad as some folks try
to make him out to be, and as for he and Miss Wallace--"
"It is your turn, Mrs. Darling," called Miss Sawyer from the parlour.
The whisperers returned to their work, but in the minds of two of them
were many misgivings.
"Serves her right," whispered Mrs. Darling to Mrs. Thornton at the first
opportunity.
"Indeed it does," was her friend's reply.
The aspirants for histrionic laurels rehearsed the scene twice, and then
sat down to talk it over.
"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Blake, "is why Bassanio and
Gratiano didn't know Portia and Nerissa, with whom they were in love."
"Portia and Nerissa were dressed as men," replied Mrs. Jones.
"And supposed to be miles away," added Miss Sawyer.
"Well," Mrs. Stout began, "all I've got to say is that most men know
their best girls when they see 'em, no matter what they've got on.
Goodness!" she exclaimed as she glanced at the clock. "If it ain't
twelve o'clock! My Peter's dinner will be late, and all on account of
William Shakespeare."