Sabbath in the country. Who, that has ever enjoyed its serene beauty,
can ever again long for the unhallowed day, that, in the city, is
seemingly more for the recreation of the masses of working people, than
for the worship of God. Clemence, leading by the hand little Ruth,
thought she had never seen anything so beautiful and peaceful as the
scene. Nature seemed in an attitude of devotion, and quaintly dressed
little children, with their testaments and Sabbath school books, and
silver-haired patriarchs and patient women, with sturdy young men, and
fair, blooming girls, were all hastening, in little groups, to the place
of prayer and praise.
Clemence paused, for there was yet time before the service, and drew
Ruth with her, through the gate that led into the cemetery. The child
shivered and shrank back, and Clemence let her have her way. She went on
alone, to a distant part of the graveyard, where there was a mound of
fresh earth, that covered all there was now of Ruth's loving mother.
"Poor, heart-broken woman," she thought, sorrowfully, "she has found
rest now."
She bent down and made, with a pocket-knife, an incision in the fresh
earth, and placed therein the long stems of a delicate boquet, which
she had brought for the purpose. When she arose, bright, crystal drops
sparkled upon the velvet petals, and her eyes were still shining with
tears.
"God help me to be faithful to that mother's sacred trust," she
murmured, as she walked away.
Ruth's slight figure had lingered behind a marble slab, at a little
distance, and when she was gone, the child rushed impetuously forward,
and, with one bitter, wailing cry, threw herself upon her mother's
grave.
Clemence wandered aimlessly down the shady walks, crushing the long,
rank weeds, and the occasional wild flowers beneath her feet, and at
last sank down at the foot of a willow, whose long, drooping branches
trailed nearly to the mossy sward beneath. She buried her head in her
hands, and her thoughts went back over the past. The retrospection was
inexpressibly wonderful.
"This is wrong," she thought, trying to shake off the sadness that
oppressed her; "it will not help me to bear my burden farther. There is
now, by a strange fate, another, still more weak and helpless than I,
who is dependant upon my efforts, and I must not yield to sorrow." But
the tears came again, as the thought that even this child, who, but for
her, would be utterly forlorn and friendless, had to-day the privilege
that was denied her, kneeling at the grave of one she loved. How
peaceful looked this silent home of the dead! "They rest from their
labors," she mused, "and pleased God, in His own good time, I, too,
shall be at peace."
It was strange, in one so young; but, Clemence Graystone never spoke or
acted as though she had a long lifetime of usefulness or enjoyment
before her. A feeling, that amounted almost to presentiment, told her
that she had not long to wait for the morning that dawneth only upon
eternity; and she thought she was content to work and wait until the
summons came. It might have been, in part, owing to the morbid state
into which she had fallen, after the death of her parents, and these
subsequent severe and long-continued trials of her strength, which was
by no means great, but it was only in part. If there are some of the
great heroes upon life's battle-field, who have had the future faintly
foreshadowed to them, just as truly this shrinking, sensitive girl knew
that, whatever might come to her now, whether of pleasure or pain, she
should be upheld and borne through it, and that a crown, "more to be
chosen" than the laurel wreath of a changeful and fickle world, would be
her sweet reward; even that "crown of glory, which fadeth not away." She
knelt down where she had been sitting, and asked God to give her
patience and humility for what might come, then walked on comforted, to
find Ruth. The child was waiting for her, and as she came along, slid
her little hand confidingly into hers. Clemence saw that she had been
crying, for the great brown eyes were humid, and tears still glittered
on the silken lashes. She stooped and kissed her, but forbore to speak,
and together they went into the meeting house. The congregation were
already assembled, and were singing the beautiful hymn which will never
grow old or forgotten, commencing, "My faith looks up to thee!"
Clemence seated herself, and bowed her head, and the sweet words went
down into the sacred recesses of her spirit. An admirable author has
remarked, "there are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body,
the soul is on its knees." And, although Clemence's lips syllabled no
words, her thoughts were those of the most exalted devotion. She seemed
wrapped about in a spell of dreamy silence, and the words of the sermon
came faintly to an ear that was all unheeding. When it was over, and
they rose to sing the last hymn, she sat abstractedly, "among them, but
not of them." It needed the pressure of Ruth's light hand to rouse her,
and she stood up for the benediction. After it was pronounced, she
became conscious, for the first time, that they had been the centre of
observation. A little group immediately collected around them, and there
was no end to the staring of those who stood aloof. Clemence recollected
then, that this was her first appearance with Ruth in her new
relationship. She felt a slight embarrassment, as so many eyes regarded
her curiously and rudely, but answered pleasantly the many inquiries
that were successively made of her.
"Just look at the child!" said Mrs. Wynn, "who would have thought that
forlorn little thing could appear so nice and scrumptious. Let me see.
Is that silk tissue that dress is made of? Extravagant!"
"Why, so it is!" echoed a chorus of voices.
"Miss Graystone, I did not expect that a person occupying your elevated
position in this community, would set such a ruinous example. A teacher
of youth should look to the cultivation of the mind, not to the outward
adorning of the person." Mrs. Dr. Little sailed away from the little
group in as dignified a manner as a lady of nearly two hundred
avoirdupois could be expected to do, as she threw in this remark.
There was a momentary silence, broken by the irrepressible Mrs. Wynn.
"What is that, a locket?" she asked, with a little scream of surprise.
"Is it real gold? Let me see it, child!" She grasped it from the neck of
the frightened little one. "Oh, its yours," she said in a disappointed
tone. She had evidently expected some other face than the one that
looked smilingly up; the very counterpart of the girl who stood before
her, regarding her with a bewildered look. "Sinful!" she ejaculated, "as
well as extravagant, to put such ideas into that young one's head.
She'll have a watch next, and a new silk dress. I fear for the morals of
this village. Miss Graystone, I expected better things of you. I feel it
my duty to warn you solemnly, that if you go on in this way, you may
lose your position and the confidence of the _respectable_ portion of
this community."
There was such a strong emphasis on the word "respectable," that
Clemence's face flushed with indignant astonishment.
"At least, madam," she said, in a tone of dignified reproof, "I have
sufficient sense of propriety to remember that this is no place in which
to discuss such subjects. I have not forgotten to respect the Sabbath.
Come dear," more gently to Ruth.
"Whew!" said Mrs. Wynn, looking after her in blank amazement; "If I
ain't teetotally constonished, and clean put out, like a tallow dip
under an extinguisher, by my fine young schoolmistress. You heard that,
I suppose, Betsey Pryor?"
"Oh! of course I heard it," said that piece of antiquity, with a
spiteful laugh, "and I hope now you are beginning to see through your
model young lady. Didn't I tell you there was something behind that
innocent face? 'Still water runs deep.' I knew she was a cute one. I
ain't lived to for--to my age, if I ain't the oldest person in the
world, and not know something of human nature. I pity your want of
penetration, Mrs. Wynn. Massy! just look through that window!"
There was a general rush to that side of the room indicated by Miss
Pryor, and they were rewarded for the effort with a fresh theme for
gossip.
"Good gracious, Rose, look!" almost shrieked Mrs. Wynn, "there they go
with Mr. Strain. Ain't that style now? Come away, Rose, with me, this
minute. My conscience won't allow me to pass over this chance. There is
yet time to warn Clemence Graystone, and turn her from the path of
destruction. I am a virtuous matron, and I must use what influence I
possess to save others from evil communications. I will even forgive
that girl for the indignity offered to me this day, in public, if it is
necessary to save her from misery. Her heart must be melted by Christian
love and forbearance. Hasten, Rose, and we will overtake them."
Wholly intent upon her pious mission, Mrs. Wynn did not feel any
disagreeable effects from the vertical rays of the blazing noonday sun,
but ran down the road after the little group, who moved on, leisurely
and unconscious, a few rods before them.
"Wait, Miss Graystone," she gasped, "I want to speak to you. Why, Mr.
Strain, excuse my interrupting you, but I want to speak a word to this
dear child. Rose, walk on with Mr. Strain, I don't wish my remarks to be
overheard."
The gentleman paused a moment in a state of uncertainty, eyed the
blooming Miss Rose Wynn, whose five feet five of feminine humanity, clad
in bright red delaine, quite overshadowed the delicate figure beside
him. But he obeyed the elder woman's command meekly, nevertheless, and
went forward, asking in a pompous tone:
"Is your paternal benefactor indisposed, Miss Wynn? I did not have the
pleasure of beholding that respected personage at our morning service."
"Who?" queried his fair companion. "Oh, if you mean pa, he's laid up on
account of takin' cold in the hay field. 'Taint goin' to amount to much
though. Let's hurry up, ma's motioning me to go faster."
They walked on, and Mrs. Wynn, eying their retreating figures with
supreme satisfaction, turned and smiled blandly upon Clemence.
"Now, I've got a little breath," she articulated, still with
considerable difficulty, "I want to ask you what on earth made you fly
out with your best friend. I didn't mean anything, only for your own
good."
"I believe you, Mrs. Wynn," said her young listener, generously. "I will
admit having experienced a momentary feeling of displeasure at your
words, but I have conquered it, and should have forgotten it, I am
sure, without this explanation. I am afraid it is I who ought to
apologise for having forgotten the respect due to age."
"There, now, don't," said Mrs. Wynn, now really in earnest. "It _was_
mean in me, to say that before them all, and I'm sorry for it, for it
shows the right spirit in you to try and defend the little creature. You
have shamed us all out by the way you have acted, and if ever you want
any help with the child, come to Mother Wynn, and see if she won't be as
good as her word, and show you the way out of your difficulties."
"Thank you, my good, kind friend," said Clemence, grasping the hand held
out to her, impulsively. "I am afraid that I am not equal to the
responsibility that I have taken upon myself in the care of this child,
but I shall do my very best."
"And angels can't do nothin' more," said Mrs. Wynn. "You're made of the
right stuff, child, and I'm glad we had this little fallin' out, we had
such a good makin' up time. I like you all the better. I wish Betsy
Pryor hadn't been there to see it, though--never mind, I'll make her pay
dearly for the satisfaction she enjoyed over it. I'll be your fast
friend from this time forward, and I ain't one of the kind to say a
thing that I don't mean."
"What a good-hearted, motherly woman," thought Clemence, after they
parted. "I am sure she meant well all the time." And perhaps it was but
natural that Mrs. Wynn should put Rose forward, and make her happiness a
thing to be considered above everything and everybody else. Other
mothers have done the same, and thought their Clementinas and Matildas
the dearest girls in the world, and hated everybody cordially, who did
not see them with their own partial eyes, and value them accordingly.
People are not so very different from the highest to the lowest, and
nearly all view the world from one stand-point, and plan and speculate
as to how they can best make it subservient to their own interest. Mrs.
Wynn, if no better, was at least as good as the majority of her sex.
That evening Clemence went down to the boarding place which was next in
order, and which was the residence of a family by the name of Brier. The
night was glorious. The moon rode proudly through the heavens, and the
stars glittered brightly upon the deep azure of the evening sky. The
trees cast dusky shadows across her pathway, as she walked onward, and
far away to the right of her, stretched a dark forest, shrouded in
impenetrable gloom and silence. All was calm repose. Sweet odors floated
to her, borne on the evening breeze, while afar off came the musical
plash of falling waters, and the murmuring leaves bent to whisper a
benediction. Charmed by the calm beauty of the hour, she did not observe
that any one was near her, until a carefully modulated voice fell on her
ear:
"We meet again, my fair young friend, by a most fortunate train of
circumstances. What, may I ask, was the subject of your contemplations,
when I disturbed you? Judging by the sweet tranquillity of your
countenance, your thoughts were of the most pleasing description."
Clemence recognized the well-known tones at once, even before she turned
to glance at the new comer.
"Why, good evening, Mr. Strain," she said, trying to conceal that she
had been at all startled by his vicinity, and feeling somewhat
re-assured, upon recognizing the village editor. "I was not aware of
your close proximity. I was admiring this lovely evening. Is it not
really beautiful?"
"Beautiful!" exclaimed the gentleman, rapturously, "it is more than
that, it is gorgeous beyond description!" continuing in a newspaper
advertisement way, with some more remarks of a similar nature. "May I
ask, Miss Graystone, if you were walking for the purpose of calm
enjoyment and meditation, or whether you had any decided object in thus
going out unattended?"
"I had an object," replied Clemence, "I am going to Mrs. Brier's. I
thought I would go this evening, because it was so pleasant, and in
order to be ready for my duties in the morning."
"Ah, yes! the Brier's are good, worthy souls, I believe, although I
cannot say that they are particularly known to me. You must have
observed, by this time, that I pride myself somewhat on my penetration
and keen insight into the character of those with whom the extensive
business of my office throws me often in contact. Yes, you must have
discovered, by this time, that I am a superior judge of human nature, by
the perusal of the spicy editorials which have made the Waveland Clarion
widely known and feared, as well as respected. As one of the admirers of
my peculiar genius remarked, to the confusion of another of the
editorial fraternity, it takes Philemon W. Strain to hit off the follies
and weaknesses of mankind with his humorous pen. But if it is often his
duty to condemn, it is sometimes, also, his privilege to admire, as you
cannot have failed to notice within the past few weeks."
Clemence acknowledged the implied compliment, and hastened to change the
subject. She was glad to behold, in the distance, the lights gleaming
from the Brier cottage, and hurried forward, the sooner to be rid of her
not altogether welcome company. Mrs. Brier chanced to be standing in the
front door, as they came up.
"Good evening, Miss Graystone," she said. "Why, Mr. Strain," in a tone
of affected surprise, "who would have thought of seeing _you_. Come
right in, both of you."
"Thank you," said the gentleman, confusedly. "I believe I will walk on,
as I have an engagement for this evening." Raising his hat to the
ladies, he strode away with a majestic tread. Clemence breathed a sigh
of relief, as she followed the spare figure of her hostess into the
house.
"You must be tired," said that lady, "sit in the rocking chair and rest
yourself. Johnny," to a pale, sharp featured child, "come and bid the
schoolmistress good evening."
The child came shyly up to the young teacher, and, as she held out her
hand, seemed re-assured by her kindly smile.
"I suppose you know it ain't none of ourn," said Mrs. Brier, "its only a
boy we took to bring up. Nobody knows who his parents be. Brier got him
at the foundling hospital when he went to sell his wheat to the city. He
wasn't but two years old then, but he's ten now, and a great, big, lazy,
idle, good-for-nothing boy, that'll never begin to pay for his keepin'.
I never wanted the young 'un around, but Brier said he'd come handy
by-and-by, and save a man's wages; so as we never had any of our own, we
thought we'd keep him. Children are an awful sight of trouble. This one
has been such a trial. He has got such a terrible temper, and I have
hard work to keep him in his place, but I do it, I can tell you," she
added, glaring spitefully at the little cowering creature.
"Why, he don't look like a very naughty boy," said Clemence. "I think
Johnny is one of the best behaved boys in school. He is so quiet that I
hardly know he is there, except when he is reading his lessons, and
those he always has well learned. He very seldom fails with a
recitation."
"Well, I'm glad to hear anybody speak well of you," said Mrs. Brier to
him again. "I hope she'll be able to make something of you. Guess you'll
show the cloven foot, though, before long."
The child, who had been regarding Clemence with a beaming, grateful
glance, turned, as the woman concluded these remarks, with a sigh so
deep and mournful that Clemence's heart throbbed with sympathetic pain.
"We are none of us perfect," she said, gently, "we can only try to do
right, and ask God to bless our endeavors. It requires a good deal of
patience with little ones, and a firm and gentle hand to guide them."
"I ain't sure about the gentle, but I'm firm and determined enough. I
mean to be feared, if I ain't loved. I don't care anything about such
nonsense as winning a child's affections. He's none of mine, and I'm
glad of it. He won't expect to be pampered and spoiled like the other
children around here. And let me tell you, you had better profit by my
example, in respect to that girl of Lynn's. It was a mighty foolish
thing, burdening yourself down with the care of that child. You're poor,
I take it, or you wouldn't be teachin' school here, and you say you're
an orphan. What would become of you if you was to fall sick?"
"I should still trust in God," said Clemence, "and I believe He would
open a way for me. I have only done what I thought to be my duty in the
matter, and I have faith that I shall be fully sustained."
"Oh, you know best of course, but people will have their say, and there
has been a good deal of talk lately, and rather to your disadvantage.
'Taint been looked upon in a favorable light here, taking a poor
nobody's child, and dressing her up to make her feel her importance over
her betters. I'm afraid you'll yet be sorry that you ever undertook to
provide for her."
"God forbid," said Clemence earnestly. "I should despise myself for even
once harboring such an unworthy thought. Whatever the future may have in
store for me, whether for weal or woe, this child shares it, for there
is no one else to give a thought or prayer for my happiness. This event,
which my friends have looked upon as a calamity, has already proved a
blessing, and has opened for me a new source of innocent pleasure."
"Well, now you _are_ visionary," said her companion. "Mrs. Wynn said so,
and she gets things generally pretty near right. Guess you'll learn to
be a little more practical before you get through with this life. The
world ain't made for folks to dream away their time in, for there's work
to be done, and you know that them that don't work shan't eat. Food and
shelter and good, warm clothing, to say nothin' of fine lady fixins,
don't come for a song, I can tell you."
"I know it," said Clemence, drearily, her thoughts going back to the
great city, where she had lived and struggled for one who was no more.
"If I am given to dreams," she mused, "they are not of a sanguine
nature. There are weary months of toil and discouragements, and many
failures before me, for the 'end is not yet.' As another has remarked,
'a wide, rich heaven hangs above you, but it hangs very high. A wide,
rough world is around you, and it lies very low.'"
A tear trickled down the girl's cheek, and fell upon her black dress. A
little figure stole up, and knelt beside her, and a timid voice said,
"Don't cry, please, Johnny's sorry for you." Clemence raised the little
form.
"Poor child," she said, "you are early accustomed to sorrow." She parted
the hair from off his forehead, with a mother touch, and noted the
intelligence and sympathy in the great, thoughtful eyes. "You are a good
boy, dear, let me see if I have not got something to please you." She
put her hand in her pocket, and drew out a tiny Bible, and wrote
therein, before handing it to him, these words in pencil--"John Brier, a
gift from his Teacher."
"There, Johnny," she said, "keep that always, and promise me to read it
every day, and try to follow its instructions, for, if you act in
accordance with its precepts, you will have that peace and happiness
that comes from a consciousness of having performed our duty."
She leaned forward and rested her head upon her hand after a way she had
when troubled. Mrs. Brier's uncalled for remarks had disturbed her. Why
should people say unkind things of her, when she was trying so hard to
do right. Surely, there could be no wrong in the act of comforting a
dying woman with the promise that her only child should be cared for and
protected. She had not been eager to take upon herself this burden, but
there was no one else, and it seemed almost as if God had intended her
for the emergency. There was but one thing left, to struggle on as
hopefully as possible, and live down these adverse circumstances.
"Your room's ready, Miss." said her hostess coming back, suddenly, and
only too glad of the opportunity, Clemence bid her good night, and
retired immediately.
"Johnny!" called the sharp voice of Mrs. Brier, at the early morning
light, "up with you, I tell you. Do you hear? For every minute you keep
me, you'll get an extra crack!" and, true to her word, there was
presently a grieved cry from the child, upon whose slender shoulders at
least a dozen blows were showered in rapid succession.
An hour after, when Clemence went down to breakfast, Johnny came in from
the woodshed, with traces of tears on his face.
"What's the matter with the young'un?" asked Mr. Brier, as they took
their places at the table. He seemed to have a little more self-control
than his amiable spouse, and to be annoyed at such exhibitions before a
stranger.
"The same old thing over again," was the reply, "he wouldn't get up in
time to start the fire, and I took him in hand, and I'll do it again, if
he don't get out of the sulks."
"Why, I guess he means to behave," said Mr. Brier, deprecatingly, "it's
natural for boys to be lazy, you know."
"Well, I'll take the laziness out of him. What do you suppose he was
made for, if it was not to work? As if he was goin' to be took care of,
and have me delve away all of my life, washin' and makin' over clothes
for him, and he not work and pay for it. There's the cow to milk, and
take to pasture, the garden to weed, and wood to prepare, besides the
other errands, and how's it all to be done, if you make a fine gentleman
of him. It's askin' enough to send him to school, without keepin' him in
idleness. He was brought here to work, and I intend to see that he does
it."
"Why don't you eat your breakfast, Johnny?" asked her husband.
"Because, I can't," replied the child, tears filling his eyes. "I'm not
hungry."
"But I should think any little boy ought to be, that's been out in this
delightful morning air. Eat your breakfast before you go to school."
"Yes," chimed in Mrs. Brier, "don't leave anything on your plate, or I
shall keep it for your dinner. I never allow anything to be wasted in
this house. Here, take these nice, warmed potatoes, and don't let me see
you putting on any more airs."
"I can't," persisted Johnny, "they are sour."
"Don't tell me that," was the next remark, in warning accents. "I'm as
good a judge as you are, I reckon. I say they ain't sour. Be they, Miss
Graystone?"
If she had expected an affirmative reply to this question, she was
doomed to disappointment. Disgusted with such paltry meanness, Clemence,
who had pushed her plate away, unable to partake of the stale food,
replied quietly, "I should say they were decidedly sour."
There was a moment's disagreeable silence, during which Mr. and Mrs.
Brier exchanged meaning glances across the table. Then he hastened to
say, "Of course, then, they must be, though I never detected it. Wife,
how came you to put them on the table? I should think twenty bushels
ought to last a family of three persons quite a while, especially with
all the new ones we have had."
"Of course," she answered snappishly, "I didn't know it, or I wouldn't
have used them. Thank goodness! though, I ain't so dainty as some I
could mention. If there's anything I despise, it's a person that's so
poor they can't but just exist, putting on style over folks that can buy
and sell them."
"Just hear that, now," said Mr. Brier, in a conciliatory tone, "you've
got a sharp tongue in your head, Marthy; you don't let anybody put you
in your place, and keep you there easy, without they get a piece of your
mind. For my part, I like to see a woman independent."
"It don't matter much to me, Brier, what you do like and what you
don't," said his lady, with a toss of her head, "I'm boss of my own
house, and no man shall dictate to me, not if I know it. You needn't
sneak, like any miserable cur, nor put on that smirk to cover up your
own acts, though I ain't afraid but what I can come out ahead, and fight
my own battles, if you do show the white feather. Where would you be
to-day, I'd like to know, if I'd let you gone on with that overgrown
tribe of your'n? You know you'd never been worth a cent durin' the whole
of your natural life!"
"You're right there, Marthy," he answered again, meekly enough.
"Do you know, Miss Graystone, that I'd never had this two thousand
dollars, that I've managed to scrape together, if that smart, managing
woman of mine hadn't scrimped and saved beyond everything you ever saw.
'Taint every man that's got a treasure like mine, I can tell you."
And truly they had not, for it does not often fall to the lot of mortal
man to find in one little, insignificant figure, dwarfish alike in soul
and body, such a compound of selfishness, duplicity, meanness, and
vulgarity, as was centered in the object of that gentleman's affection.
Of the many conjugal scenes to which Clemence was an unwilling witness,
varying from light skirmishes over the breakfast-table, to hysterics
and a doctor, with the neighbors called in, in the evening, it would be
impossible to speak at length. It has been affirmed, that, in time, one
will get accustomed to anything, and Clemence had attained to such a
proficiency in maintaining a non-committal air, that these little
diversions would not have disturbed her equanimity, as she solaced
herself with the reflection that, "after a storm comes a calm," but for
the fact that this belligerent couple had an unhappy faculty of making
up their differences at the expense of a third party, and it became her
unhappy fate, as the last new comer, to stand in the place Johnny had
formerly been devoted to, as the unfortunate third. Happily, however,
for her nerves, her stay was short with these inhospitable entertainers.
"Where are you going when you leave here, Miss Graystone," asked Mrs.
Brier, on the last morning of her stay.
"To Mrs. Hardyng's," said Clemence, with a sigh of relief.
"Possible!" was the exclamation, "seems to me your one of the favored
ones. No other teacher ever went there before. She don't patronize the
school, and keeps herself to herself pretty much. I hear she's took
quite a notion to you. Is it true?"
"I believe we are very good friends," said Clemence.
"Do you know anything about her," was the next query. "Strikes me, I'd
want to find out who I'd struck up an intimacy with, if I was in your
place, and if you have learned anything about that singular woman, your
smarter than the whole town of Waveland put together. It looks
suspicious to me to see anybody so close mouthed about their affairs;
looks as if they wouldn't stand investigation, and they're afraid to let
'em see daylight. I like things all fair and above-board, myself.
"Brier, come to breakfast. It's getting stone-cold. Never mind that
young'un, he's gone to take the cow to pasture, and I can give him a
piece when he comes back."
Obedient to the summons, the gentleman in question laid down a damp copy
of the Weekly Clarion, and seated himself at the table. After glibly
repeating a few words, of which Clemence could only distinguish "food
spread before us," and "duly thankful," he asked, pausing and balancing
a saucer of coffee with great dexterity on the palm of his right hand,
"Did you read that criticism on the lady lecturer? I tell you, that same
Philemon W. Strain has a peculiar genius for that sort of an article."
"What did you say, Brier?" asked his better half, glancing at Clemence,
as if she was the offending party, "you don't mean that a woman's got
brass enough to mount a rostrum and harangue an audience?"
"You've just said the very thing now, Marthy. I knew you would be down
on that sort of business. Nothing masculine about you, thank goodness!
I've often felt thankful that I was spared the infliction of a
strong-minded woman. That's one thing I _couldn't_ stand."
"Well, I guess we are agreed on that subject," said the lady, bridling
at the compliment, and allowing her thin lips to relax into the
faintest possible shadow of a smile, "for if there's one thing I
absolutely abhor, it's these so-called intellectual women. To my mind, a
woman that pushes her way along to a profession, or aspires to address
the public, either through the medium of the pen, or on the rostrum,
ought to be banished from good society, and frowned upon by all
respectable married women. It's disgraceful, outrageous, scandalous!"
and, as she uttered, vehemently, these ejaculations, the greenish gray
eyes flashed upon Clemence a look so malicious and spiteful, as to have
a totally opposite effect from what it was intended, for she returned it
with one of quiet amusement, and burst out laughing. She saw at once
that the conversation had been introduced solely for her own benefit,
and wondered how they should surmise that she could possibly be
interested in it. This was the oddest couple she had met in all her
peregrinations. Mr. Brier was naturally greatly superior to his wife, as
Mrs. Wynn had said, but was biased in his opinions by that lady, who
ruled him with no gentle sway. With another woman, whose society would
have had a tendency to elevate him, there is no telling what this man
might have become. But having been entrapped into an early marriage,
with a woman of inferior intellect and but little ambition, he had sunk
down several grades lower than nature intended him.
He felt this, too, even after all these years had drifted aimlessly
away, and the knowledge did not make him better. He grew morose and
cynical, hating everybody who did not move in his own narrow circle. As
one might suppose, he had not many friends, and his life was not a happy
one.
"How much misery there is in the world," thought Clemence, as she walked
towards the school-house. It seems as if almost every one had some
secret sorrow of their own--and what a singular and deplorable effect
grief has upon some people, rendering them selfish, and closing the
heart to pity, instead of remembering their own sorrows, only to
commiserate and alleviate those of others.