The Day After
"DID you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling, as she ran into Mrs. Thornton's
just after breakfast the next morning to finish what she did not have
time to say the night before.
"You mean Miss Wallace?"
"Yes; did you--"
"Never!"
"I wouldn't have thought she'd dared!" said Mrs. Darling, with a
sanctimonious look on her pretty face.
"Nor I."
"Wonder what Mrs. Tweedie thinks."
"She was in a rage last night."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes, she was awfully angry."
"_I_ wouldn't have dared to wear such a costume, would _you_?"
"Not for worlds."
"It _was_ pretty, though."
"And she looked terribly stunning."
"Yes, but I'm afraid that there'll be trouble over it in the club."
"Shouldn't wonder a mite."
"Well, I must be going; good-bye."
"Good-bye; if you hear anything--"
"I'll run in; good-bye."
This was a sample of the talk that was going on all over Manville the
morning after the "Big Show." Masters, mistresses, and maids, all were
talking; at front doors, back doors, in the parlours, in the kitchens,
on the corners--everywhere. Few praised--many censured. And poor
Barbara, it was her name that was on every lip. By night everybody in
Manville had taken sides for or against her, and, strange to relate,
more men than women were ready to defend her.
Stout's Grocery was the objective of many of the male population that
morning. Mr. Blake, the undertaker, was the first to arrive.
"A splendid show, Peter," he said.
"Fine."
"Manville ought to be proud."
"She had."
"Miss Wallace made a great hit, didn't she?"
"Say, wa'n't she great!" replied Peter, enthusiastically.
"She was, and her costume--" Mr. Blake continued, but Peter interrupted
him.
"Beat 'em all," he said.
"I suppose that some of the stiff-backs are offended," remarked Mr.
Blake, after a pause.
"What if they be?" asked Peter, indignantly. Just then Doctor Jones came
in. "Mornin', doctor."
"Good morning," the doctor cheerfully replied.
"Did you go to the show last night, doctor?" asked Mr. Blake.
"Yes, I got there just in time to see Miss Wallace."
"Like her?"
"Well," said the doctor, slowly, "I have always liked her, but now I
think she's immense. Send our order up early, will you, Peter?" And then
he hurried out of the store, bumping into Sam Billings, who was coming
in.
"Hello, Doc," said Sam, familiarly, "what you got to say about the
show?" The doctor, not caring to listen to a long argument, continued on
his way without replying.
"Didn't that show beat all creation?" was Sam's greeting as he entered
the store after his encounter with the doctor. "And did you notice the
crowd? They can say all they're a mind to 'gainst advertisin', but I say
it pays. That hall wouldn't have been half-full if I hadn't taken
hold."
Alick Purbeck came in from the back room in time to hear enough of what
Sam said to know what he was blowing about.
"Say, Sam, can't you tell us now who put you up to that advertisin'
scheme?" he asked.
"I dunno's that's any of your business," replied Sam, sulkily.
"No, it ain't," said Alick, "but I happen to know that it kicked up a
row in the church and the woman's club, and folks do say that it was
Miss Sawyer that put the idea into your head."
"Well," drawled Sam, "I won't deny that she _said_ somethin', but she
didn't _do_ nothin'. I'm the only one responsible."
"Just as I thought," said Alick, knowingly. "I knew you'd been hangin'
round her some this winter."
"Yes, you most always know everything that's goin' on," retorted Sam.
"Back doors can't keep their mouths shut."
Alick resented this remark, and the resentment was in the form of a
rotten apple which struck the offender full in the mouth.
"Quit that foolin'," growled Peter, in time to prevent trouble.
At that moment Ezra Tweedie slunk into the store, casting glances of
fear behind at every step as though some dreadful monster was on his
trail. He shut the door carefully, then went to the stove, held out his
hands to be warmed, shivered, and sighed. His face was drawn and white,
and the telltale circles beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night.
"Mornin', Ezra," said Peter, cordially.
"Good morning, gentlemen," replied Ezra, in a weak voice, as he glanced
furtively about.
"You're not feeling well, Mr. Tweedie?" inquired Mr. Blake,
sympathetically.
"No," replied Ezra, "I--I'm slightly indisposed, but nothing
serious--nothing serious."
"And how is Mrs. Tweedie after all the work she has done?" Mr. Blake
continued. Ezra shuddered and coughed.
"She is--a--somewhat nervous," he replied, hesitatingly.
"I don't wonder," blurted Sam, "but I guess she's kinder tickled over
the big hit the show made, ain't she?"
"Oh, yes, yes, but--"
Ezra was spared by the entrance of Deacon Walton, whose opinion at that
moment was more to be desired than anything that Ezra, in his sorry
condition, might say.
Urged by Mr. Flint, the deacon had advised his wife to resign from the
club, which she had done, but when the day of the performance came
neither the deacon nor his wife could resist the temptation to attend
and see what it was like. Their presence caused surprise, but they
seemed to enjoy themselves, and many thought that perhaps Mr. Flint had
weakened, and had taken that method of showing it. Those present at the
store that morning felt that an explanation was due, and Sam proceeded
to "pump."
"How'd you like the show, deacon?" he asked.
"Well," the deacon began, as he drew off his mittens and rubbed his
hands, "most of it was good, but there was one young woman--" the deacon
paused and pointed a long bony finger at Mr. Blake. Peter dropped his
work to listen. "One young woman," the deacon repeated, "who
was--er--indiscreet in her--er--what she wore."
There was silence for a moment, during which Ezra seemed to shrivel up
within his overcoat.
"You mean Miss Wallace, I suppose?" said Mr. Blake.
"I do. The morals of the people of Manville have been shocked," replied
the deacon, solemnly.
"You mean them that's got morals," corrected Sam.
"I mean," retorted the deacon, angrily, "those who are worth
considering."
Mr. Blake loved an argument, and being the only one present up to the
deacon's mental calibre, he naturally was the one to make reply.
"I think that you are mistaken there, deacon," he said, quietly. "Here's
Peter, he saw the performance, so did I, we were not shocked."
The deacon's face reddened.
"I--I meant--er--the--er--church people," he stammered.
"Yes, so I supposed," said Mr. Blake, "but there are people outside of
the churches who have morals--morals capable of being shocked, too."
"I'll say just this much," replied the deacon. "That young woman did a
dangerous thing. She has displeased many of our citizens--"
"And their wives," interposed Sam, but the deacon ignored the remark and
continued:
"We cannot have such performances. The young people will be corrupted,
the moral tone of our town will fall to the level of the dust. Such a
thing has never occurred before, and I sincerely trust never will again,
notwithstanding the approbation of a few men who seem to have nothing
else to talk about."
"There, deacon," said Mr. Blake, soothingly. "There's no use getting
angry about it. Miss Wallace's costume was the same as thousands of
other women have worn in public."
"That don't make it right," snapped the deacon.
"Nor wrong," retorted Mr. Blake.
"We'll see," said the deacon, as he drew on his mittens and started for
the door. "We'll see when the school committee meets to-night what
_they_ think about it." There was a triumphant gleam in the deacon's
eyes when he fired that shot, and while his audience was still in a
stunned condition from the effect of it he went out.
* * * * *
The morning after, Mrs. Tweedie was still determined on her course, and
Fanny's continued pleading did not move her. Barbara must go, and the
angry, narrow-minded woman told her so and gave her reasons immediately
after breakfast. Barbara had expected to be insulted again, but to be
turned out on such short notice was incomprehensible.
"You must go to-day," were Mrs. Tweedie's parting words as Barbara
started for school. "To-day," Barbara repeated to herself as she went
down the steps. On her way she wondered if it was really as bad as Mrs.
Tweedie had said. What were others thinking and saying? Her duties that
day were performed mechanically. Her heart was not in the work, and she
was glad when school was over, though there was a perplexing task to be
accomplished before the day was done.
Fanny called for her late in the afternoon, and they started toward home
together.
"I've got all of your things together, Barbara," said Fanny, trying to
speak cheerfully. "I thought--mother, you know--" Poor Fanny! it was
impossible to explain, or smooth over her mother's conduct, and she
burst into tears. Barbara understood, and instead of being comforted
turned comforter herself.
"I know that you are my friend, Fanny," she said, as she linked arms
with the sobbing girl.
"I am, indeed I am," sobbed Fanny. "I don't care what they say, and I
want to help you." She did not tell Barbara that she had spent hours
that day in a fruitless search for a boarding-place for her.
"There," said Barbara, when they nearly had reached Mrs. Tweedie's,
"don't feel badly any longer. I'll send for my things as soon as I find
a place to stay. And don't worry, Fanny, about me, please, everything
will come right I know." Fanny kissed her, regardless of whoever might
be looking, and went home. Barbara hesitated a moment, and then walked
toward the home of Doctor Jones. When Mrs. Jones came to the door in
response to the bell she did not ask Barbara to come in.
"Really," she replied when Barbara made known her errand, "there's not a
spare room in the house."
Of course Barbara understood, and was very sorry. She next called on
Mrs. Blake, and received the same answer. Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Darling,
and Mrs. Browning all refused. No, they did not refuse, they made
excuses--sugar-coated lies. Barbara was beginning to understand that
Mrs. Tweedie was not the only one who had turned against her. Darkness
had fallen without as well as within. Trying to realize her position,
Barbara walked slowly back toward the village. When near the parsonage
she stopped, and looked up wistfully at the house and the stream of
yellow light that shone down the path from a lamp in the parson's study.
Then she looked across the street toward the church so black and still
with the steeple rising toward the stars. Barbara hoped that in the
parsonage she would find a friend with a kind word. She longed to run
into the house and pour out the wretchedness in her aching heart to
_his_ mother; to talk of _him_, the one they both loved. Oh, how happy
she could be under the roof that had sheltered _him_! She went to the
door and knocked. Mrs. Flint came, but her answer was the same as the
others, except that there were tears in her eyes when she bade Barbara
good night. Mrs. Flint would have taken Barbara into her home and heart
if she had dared, but her husband had paced his study floor all day, and
was in a terrible mood. Once she had listened for a moment and heard him
mutter: "The disgrace," and "My son--my son cares for such a woman!" He
too had guessed Will's secret, and she knew that Barbara would not be
welcome.
When Barbara left the parsonage she walked aimlessly about the village
for an hour. The wind came up blustering and cold; she began to feel
faint, but could think of no other place to go. At last weariness
overcame her, and hardly knowing where she was, she stopped and leaned
against a gate-post to rest. Then a strange feeling came over her, she
tried to resist it and turned to walk on, but staggered for a moment,
and then fell.
After supper Mrs. Stout had gone into a neighbour's for a moment, and
when she came scurrying back with a shawl drawn tightly over her head
and shoulders, she tripped and almost fell over Barbara, who was lying
in her gateway.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed, as she recovered her balance, and then knelt
to see who it was. "If it ain't Miss Wallace!"
"Yes," Barbara murmured, as Mrs. Stout helped her to stand and led her
into the house.
"You poor child," said Mrs. Stout, as she bustled about making Barbara
comfortable on a couch before the sitting-room fire.
"I had walked a long way and was faint," murmured Barbara, trying to
explain.
"You ain't had any supper?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise. Barbara
smiled faintly, and shook her head. "Haven't you been to Mis' Tweedie's
since school?"
"I'm not staying there now," replied Barbara as she turned her face away
and shuddered.
"You don't mean it!" Mrs. Stout was beginning to grasp the situation,
and her surprise turned quickly to indignation. "She's put you out,
that's what she's done, the mean old--"
"No, no," said Barbara, quickly, fearing that Fanny would be included in
Mrs. Stout's wrath. "She told me this morning--I tried to find a
place--I had plenty of time, but--"
"Nobody'd take you in," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "They was afraid they'd
soil their goody-goody hands, I s'pose."
Barbara started to speak, then checked herself and covered her face with
her hands. "No, you needn't say a word," Mrs. Stout continued, "I know
what's been goin' on in this town to-day, and somebody besides you has
got to suffer for it. Now you just lie there and I'll get you somethin'
to eat." Mrs. Stout went to the kitchen, and, after an absence of a few
minutes, returned with a tempting lunch and a cup of hot tea. Barbara
tried to eat, but failed despite Mrs. Stout's kindly intended urging,
and dropped back wearily on the couch. When Mrs. Stout started to
remove the tray Barbara looked up at her appealingly.
"You'll let me stay to-night, won't you?" she said, in a choking voice.
"Stay, I guess you can if I have to make up a bed for Peter on the
floor. Stay just as long as you can stand us," replied Mrs. Stout,
earnestly. At that moment they heard Peter come in.
"Emmy," he called as he was taking off his coat in the hall.
"Yes," she replied.
"What do you s'pose that damned school committee done to-night?"
Barbara half-raised herself, her face was pale, and the tears glistened
on her eyelashes. Mrs. Stout hurried to head Peter off, but was too
late.
"They've discharged Miss Wallace, and--" he stopped abruptly when he
came into the room and saw Barbara.
"Discharged!" repeated Barbara as though bewildered, and then she
completely lost control of herself, and wept bitterly. Mrs. Stout knelt
by her side, and tried to reassure and comfort her, but it was past
midnight when Barbara ceased to moan, and asked if she could write a
letter.
Mrs. Stout led the trembling girl to a desk, and assured her that Peter
would mail the letter, if she wished him to, early the next morning.
Barbara wrote one line:
"Will, I need you, come.
"BARBARA."