Barbara and Will
"Goodluck 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 namewith 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. "Andthose 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 thinkingand 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?
Classics and Women
Thecommittee 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 someof 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 theother 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 discomfiturethat 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, excuseme," 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 nameof 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 besoimportant, 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.
"Wasthere 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."
A Woman's Way
Barbara Wallacenever 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 ranoff, 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."
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 forthe 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 domeany 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 notpermit 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 likedto 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 ofour 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 wasthe 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 thatismarried 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'sforthe women, and it's goin' to help Manville by showin'youwhat an ignorant cussyoube."
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 wasdifficult 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 shestarted 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."
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, andMiss 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." Strangeto 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 alwaysseethe 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, "wehave been quoting Shakespeare for over three hundred years;henever 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 saidweI 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 theother 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 alovelygirl."
"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 effortsto 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 thatIdon'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.
"Whatwillshe 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."