It was Thursday afternoon. The "Ladies' Charitable Society of Waveland"
had assembled at the house of its President. The usual business of the
meeting had been dispatched, and the ladies were engaged in the more
congenial employment of retailing the village gossip.
"Have you observed," queried Mrs. Dr. Little, "how wretchedly ill that
young Graystone woman is looking? The doctor was saying, only this
morning, that he thought she was in a decline."
"I suppose its botheration, for one thing," said Mrs. Brier. "She had
ought to have been more circumspect, and then she would have kept her
position. I don't see how she can live without work, any more than
anybody else. We can't be expected, though, to want a person with her
morals contaminating our innocent children. That girl has travelled the
downward road with awful rapidity since she came here. Just to think,
she has been the talk of the town!"
"I have been greatly afraid," said Mrs. Little, "that the Society would
be called upon to help her, if she gets worse again; She seems to be
living, at present, on that widow Hardyng. How are those two to get
through the winter, I should like to know? As for the child, it will
have to be bound out to somebody who will make it work, and then there
will be an end of all these mincing lady airs. One thing I know, it's
out of our power to help them. She must have some relations somewhere, I
should think. I wonder what her antecedents really are, any way. I could
never quite make the girl out yet."
"Then I am a little shrewder than the rest of you, that's all," spoke up
the voice of Mrs. Caroline Newcomer. "I found her out some time ago.
Listen, ladies, all of you who have any curiosity upon the subject. I
learned her whole history through one of my servants, who had lived in
the same city from whence this mysterious personage came. By a curious
coincidence, these Graystones, mother and daughter, came and took
lodgings beneath the same lowly roof to which the poverty of this Mrs.
Baily had driven her for shelter.
"Of their former life, my informant knew little, but when she first
became acquainted with them, they were miserably poor, and in debt to
their landlady. At length Miss Clemence Graystone succeeded, by the
rarest good fortune, in obtaining a position as governess in a wealthy
family. She was, however, afterwards dismissed, (as Mrs. Baily
afterwards learned, through one of the employees,) in disgrace, for
having designs upon a young gentleman of fortune--the uncle, I believe,
of her pupils.
"How they managed to live on through the winter was a wonder to the
whole household, or pay the expenses of the widow Graystone's sickness
and death, which occurred in the spring. The landlady seemed to think
everything of them, and refused to satisfy anybody's curiosity in regard
to the matter. The girl Clemence went away with a strange woman, as soon
as she recovered from an illness that followed her mother's death; and
that was the last known of her until she turns up here, to make capital
out of her pale face and mourning garments, which, I dare say, she
thinks look interesting.
"So that is the whole story about this young woman, who is probably at
this moment laughing quietly in her sleeve, at the clever way she has
imposed upon the inhabitants of this benighted village. I took pains,
since her dismissal by the School Committee, to write and find out these
particulars; and while I was about it, I thought I would also make an
effort to discover something of the former life of the woman who calls
herself Ulrica Hardyng. I always had my suspicions of her, which you
will see have been duly verified;"--and she proceeded to relate, with
great animation, to the gaping crowd around her, a garbled account of
the misfortunes of the divorced wife.
"And now, madam," said a calm, low voice behind her, as she finished
speaking, "since you are so good at relating other people's histories,
suppose you give these worthy persons, a similar account of your own
proceedings and peregrinations?"
It was none other than Ulrica Hardyng, who stood before her in _propria
personae_. She had, in pursuance of a resolution made some weeks before,
determined to be present, although uninvited, at this meeting, and
justify her friend before her numerous assailants.
"_You_ here?" articulated the woman, guiltily, as she gazed fearfully at
the stern, set face before her.
"Yes, I am here," was the reply, in a voice that trembled with outraged
feeling, despite the powerful effort for self-control; "to prove that I
know you at last, as the woman who won my husband from me.
"Good people," she said, turning to the astonished and abashed
spectators, "this woman has told you the truth, mainly, concerning me,
at least; but with one reservation. She is the daughter of this Mrs.
Bailey, whom she represented as a servant, and the cast-off mistress of
the Geoffrey Westbourne who was once my husband."
A denial trembled upon the lips of the woman, who shrank away in abject
terror, but her voice failed her. The impassible face that looked down
upon her seemed the very personification of unrelenting justice.
"Woman," she said coldly, "your sin has found you out."
The groveling figure suddenly erected itself with a defiant gesture.
"Well, and what of that?" rising, and looking boldly around. "It must
have happened some time or other, and I'm sick of this whining
hypocrisy. I had rather go back to the old life again, where there is no
restraint. But I am as good as the rest, I tell you, Ulrica Hardyng.
These women, who profess Christianity, have deliberately robbed a poor,
innocent, unoffending girl of her reputation, because they were jealous
of her youth and fair looks, and mental superiority. Besides that, a
dozen or more of these pious ladies were in love with the man who wanted
to marry her, in the face of them all, and who was cooly rejected. I
would have defended the poor thing myself, but _you_ had to take up on
her side, and then, because the friend of one I hate can only be my
enemy, I sought to drag her down to my own level."
"And you put the finishing stroke to your malicious efforts," said that
lady, "to-day by a tissue of falsehoods against her. At present I shall
not attempt to refute these assertions, knowing that right will
ultimately triumph. I understand _your_ tactics thoroughly, Caroline
Bailey, and I am not even surprised that you are ashamed to own your
wretched parent, who has put you in possession of these few facts mixed
with so much falsehood."
"How did you learn my real name?" asked the woman in amazement.
"Through an old friend whom I persuaded to trace out your whole career,"
was the reply. "I could have forgiven _my_ wrongs at your hands, but
when you saw fit to attack that inoffensive girl, I determined to unmask
you."
"And much good may it do you," was the cool rejoinder. "I am tired of
this monotonous existence, and had already decided soon to leave this
humdrum village. As for proving your assertions, you need not be at the
trouble. I do not deny a word you have uttered. It's all true, and
more."
"I had a few twinges of conscience," she added sneeringly, "and thought
I'd change my mode of life; but it was never in me to behave like a
saint. People follow the bent of their inclinations most generally. I've
heard many good, but mistaken persons pity women who had gone wrong, and
try faithfully to reclaim them, but it's all lost labor. Most of them
take the downward road because it's the easiest, and comes natural, and
after a time it's impossible to reform them, with a precious few
exceptions. I've found out, though, since my short and sweet experience
in this community, that I ain't the worst creature in the world. Say
what you will, I am just as good at this moment as the rest of the women
here. This girl that they have persecuted is about the only decent body
among them. That's why they hate her, for being a continual reproof to
them."
"Oh, you need not nod, and wink, and draw away from me as though I was
contagion," she said vindictively, "I know you all. I happen to be in
the confidence of a certain gentleman that some of you know too
intimately for your own good. You, for instance, Mrs. Brier, (glancing
meaningly at the little woman,) and you, Mrs. Charles Burton, and you,
and you, (pointing in rapid succession to several demure looking ladies
who had eyed her with glances of apprehension.) It's about time for Mrs.
Euphrasia Anastasia Strain to begin to keep an eye on her husband's
movements, if she happens to be the least bit of a jealous nature."
These concluding remarks produced a decided sensation. Every lady rose
simultaneously to their feet. Mrs. Brier fainted, and dropped limp and
lifeless and unobserved. The Editor's lady went into hysterics, the
demure-looking females "lifted up their voices and wept," and everybody
but Betsey Pryor seemed struck with general consternation. "Thank
goodness!" exclaimed the last mentioned lady, pursing up her thin lips,
"_I_ never had anything to do with the men. Nobody can accuse me of
that, anyway."
Which was but too true.
The spinster having uttered this emphatic remark, folded her garments
over her immaculate bosom and went forth to seek consolation in a cup of
Mrs. Wynn's good tea.
Profiting by her example, the others immediately bent their steps to
their respective homes, and that was the last meeting of the Society
ever held in that village. It then and there, at the height of its
apparent prosperity, came to an untimely end, to the lasting grief and
shame of a few worthy souls, and the amusement of many more, who were
wicked enough to rejoice over its ignominious downfall.
Soon after Mrs. Caroline Newcomer left Waveland to return no more, and
not a little to the astonishment of every one, Mr. Charles Burton sold
his residence to a wealthy gentleman and removed with his family to a
distant city.
That was the only change that occurred except the departure of Mrs.
Euphrasia Anastasia Strain, who went home about this time to visit her
ma; and that of Rose Wynn, who left off going to church and Sabbath
School, to become wholly invisible a few weeks after.
"So this was the 'Caroline' who favored you with all those anonymous
communications," said Clemence to her friend when they were discussing
the affair together.
"Yes, the very same," sighed Mrs. Hardyng. "She doubtless followed me at
the instigation of Geoffrey Westbourne to spy upon my actions and report
to him. I do not know what his object could have been, unless he feared
that I might seek to communicate with his present wife, who I feel
convinced is not a party to his base transactions, and who believes him
an injured saint. Perhaps, too, he hoped to gain something against me
from these gossips, or knowing that I was unaccustomed to poverty and
isolation, believed that I might break through these self-imposed
barriers and resort to crime. But he should know me better. It is no
relief from misery to plunge into infamy, but only hurls the wretched
victim into darker woes. I know that I have been far from perfect, but
the soul of Ulrica Hardyng is free from the stain of crime. He whom she
served faithfully and conscientiously ought to be the first to award the
meed of praise, but in its place there is only the bitter brand of a
life-long disgrace."
"I don't believe that even the best of men truly appreciate the value of
a pure-minded woman," said Clemence, thoughtfully. "They are too gross
and material, and I have met with very few whose society seemed to have
a tendency to elevate. In the company of the majority of men I feel a
constraint and like uttering the most commonplace remarks. Yet their
idle curiosity leads them to seek to penetrate the very 'holy of
holies' (if I may be allowed the expression) of the soul, and which they
can neither understand nor appreciate."
"Oh, child!" said the elder woman, coming to her side; "my pure-browed
darling, I pray God that you may never suffer misery like mine. I had
rather the child's dream would be realized; that you might be permitted
to follow him, though my lonely heart aches at the thought of losing
you, than that you should be dragged down to a life for which you are
not fitted. Never marry, Clemence, for you are more likely to be
wretched than happy. I have so little faith in any man that I should
fear for your future if you were to bestow your affections upon any one.
I mean to guard you well hereafter; and I am sure that there cannot be
the least possibility of your ever having met one to appreciate or
awaken a feeling of interest in your mind."
The girl did not reply to this half-uttered query, but a faint rose-tint
swept into the pale cheeks, and up to the blue-veined temples.
"But to be an old maid, Ulrica," she said a moment after, in a troubled
tone; "it is a dreary future for any woman to contemplate. It used to be
the one object of my ambition to devote my life to some good cause,
thinking that thus I might rise above worldly cares, and grow nearer
Heaven. But of late my whole being shrinks from such a course."
"It seems to me that a single woman cannot be as useful as one 'whom the
dignity of wifehood invests as with a garment.' You know there is a
stigma attached to old maids that must detract from their usefulness."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Hardyng; "and of late I am beginning to think
that it is, perhaps, in some cases but too well merited. Do you know,
dear, that all the spinsters of my acquaintance have got married on
their very first offer? I can't help feeling a little mortified that
some of my models that I have held up triumphantly as examples to prove
the usefulness and necessity of their existence, should have failed me
in the end."
"There is Miss Aylmar, who amassed a fortune by teaching a Ladies'
Seminary. She was a pattern old maid in my estimation. However, much to
my chagrin, when I thought she was nearly ready to receive, after a long
and useful life, the rewards for her good deeds in another world, she
suddenly assumed the airs of a sixteen-year old boarding-school miss,
and, after trying in vain to captivate, by the weight of her golden
attractions, a young and handsome, but penniless professor, succeeded at
length in fastening a respectable widower. She trots him out regularly
every Sunday with that ineffable smirk of satisfaction that only an old
maid can assume. Then there was Miss Anthon, a demure little body, who
wore her gray hair brushed back from her placid face, without resort to
hair dyes, cosmetics, or other rejuvenating articles of the toilet. She
kept her eyes open, though, and in her unobtrusive way, after lying in
wait for her victim all these long and weary years, she suddenly pounced
upon a fortune to reward her patient and persevering efforts. You see,
this woman had no capital of beauty, intellect or money, and so she
assumed the only _role_ that a quaint little creature like her could
carry through successfully. At the risk of her own life, she
courageously sat through a case of malignant typhoid, in the hope of
making an impression upon the heart of a good-looking youth, by
restoring to him his invalid mother. Unfortunately for her purpose, the
old lady died, and, after finding that her disinterested efforts to
captivate the son were in vain, she turned her attention to the task of
consoling the disconsolate widower, and is now mamma-in-law to the man
she wanted to marry."
"You are not presenting a very attractive side of the picture," said the
other, laughing.
"No, but a true one, nevertheless. I wish women would be true to
themselves."
"There is another failing of our sex," said Clemence, "that has often
come under my notice; and it is this: Let a gentleman enter society and
have it whispered around that he is what is called a 'ladies' man,' with
the added interest of one or two sensational anecdotes of a young lady
who went insane out of a hopeless attachment for the gentlemanly
scoundrel; or that this or that infuriated husband who has challenged
him to mortal combat; and, though the stain of murder be upon that man's
soul, women who call themselves virtuous will welcome him with approving
smiles.
"Why, I have been completely disgusted, and that more than once, to hear
women of the most exemplary character praise and hang upon the words of
these smooth-tongued villains. I have now in my mind one in particular,
whom the world looks upon as a devoted wife and mother, and who I think
has never yet contemplated sin. Yet I know better than herself, that she
is hovering on the brink of a precipice, that may, at some future day,
engulf all she loves, with herself, in one common ruin.
"Society, as it is now constituted, is dangerous, and calculated to
contaminate any pure-minded woman who enters it, unless she be blessed
with sufficient decision of character to choose a strict line of conduct
and abide by it, at the risk of being called dull, prudish, and
uninteresting.
"Those of the old school, with their rigid notions of etiquette, their
stately courtesy, and grave, dignified manners, were far preferable to
the style assumed by Young America at the present day. Although not
deficient in a love for my country, I hardly wonder that the people of
the European cities which Americans visit complain that these 'plebeian
Yankees,' with their 'loud' style, their fussy dressing to the extreme
of fashion, their slang, and their still more intolerable 'double
_entendre_,' exert an unfavorable influence upon society, and
'_desecrate_' the places where they tread."
"I believe you are right," said Mrs. Hardyng; "and it has struck me
oddly enough that we, who are so extremely opposite in every respect,
should find so many subjects upon which to agree. I have often grieved
over these foibles of our sex, not having failed to observe, with
regret, that there are fewer exceptions than there should be.
"Now, I should think, from the very nature of things, that a woman would
always instinctively defend her own sex, and hurl contempt and scorn at
those who basely sought to take advantage of her weakness. There seems
to me to be _one_, all-powerful reason why they should do this, and it
has puzzled me exceedingly to know _why_, with the self-love that all
women possess in common with each other, and their natural tendency to
jealousy, they should feel at all elated at a tale of flattery that they
_know_ has been rehearsed before, as often as there has been found one
to listen.
"Now, it is no recommendation to _my_ favor to realize that I am only
one of a dozen, and that Frizzolinda in the parlor, or Jemima in the
kitchen, would each prove equally as acceptable in their turn; that the
arm that embraces _me_, has stolen with just as delicious uncertainty
around the cook's buxom waist, and that the eyes that seek mine with
such glances of affection have sought with an equal fondness in their
melting depths those of every lady of my acquaintance. I'll confess, if
it _is_ a weakness, for a woman who gives everything to the man she
loves, that I am exacting enough to demand a more exclusive attachment
than this. 'Verily, these things ought not to be.' Women should look to
it; for I think there are some few social reforms, that are of more
vital importance to the sex than even the right of 'suffrage' and the
dictatorship amid the councils of the nation. Few women care for this
last honor. The majority in America marry early in life, and their
highest ambition is to achieve distinction in the social circle."
"That brings me to think," said Clemence, "of the flirtations between
married couples, that we see going on continually around us. I always
had an idea that I should not enjoy quite such a risky love affair as
they promise. Not but that, like every one else, I suppose, I think it's
very agreeable to be admired; but then it's not tranquilizing to the
nerves to remember that a jealous wife may be cultivating her finger
nails with a view to exercising them upon one's countenance. I prefer
the 'human face divine' in its natural state, being of the opinion with
another that 'beauty unadorned is adorned most.' Do you know, Ulrica,
that I lost my taste for guitar music listening to a little
pink-cheeked, simpering married woman, eternally strumming to a Benedict
of her acquaintance, in lovelorn tones--'I'll be true to
thee,'--accompanied by the most languishing glances? I was the more
disgusted, too, when I recollected that this woman was the lady
Superintendent of an up-town Sabbath School, and considered a pattern by
every one. Besides, she called herself a Christian, and a tender, loving
mother, while she absolutely stinted her children's food, in the absence
of her husband, who toiled early and late in the counting-room, to buy
finery to air before her married beau, and make the jealous, passionate
wife whom he left waiting at home (and whom, she knew, hated her as
only a wronged woman _can_ hate,) still more miserable.
"Oh," she added, shuddering at the contemplation of this grievous sin,
from which her pure soul recoiled, "the Father knew the weakness of our
common nature when He taught us the daily prayer to avert temptation."