More Advertising
Thenext morning Mrs. Tweedie sent messages by her son Thomas to the members of the play committee requesting them to meet at her home that afternoon to consider a matter of "distressing importance." At two o'clock all of the committee had complied with the request, excepting Miss Sawyer, who sent word that she was "indisposed," and she might truthfully have added "to come."
"Ladies," Mrs. Tweedie began, solemnly, "yesterday one of theother sex, an unprincipled creature by the name of Billings, inflicted upon our club an irreparable injury. You have seen or at least heard of the hideous posters that some time yesterday were put up in a dozen or more conspicuous places about town. Furthermore, the sensitive feelings of an educated and highly respected citizen have been deeply wounded by this act of wantonness—I refer to the Reverend Mr. Flint. One of the posters was placed, and remained for several hours, upon the bulletin of his, I might say our, church. We all know Mr. Flint's aversion to anything pertaining tothe stage, yet he has refrained from speaking of our entertainment publicly out of regard for the members of his church who are interested in the club. What his attitude from now on will be I dare not conjecture. As for the miserable villain who is responsible for the outrage—words fail to express my feelings."
"Quote Shakespeare," suggested Mrs. Stout.
"This is not the time for jesting, Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, in a tone that would have withered any one but Mrs. Stout.
"Nobody knows it better than I do," she retorted. "I've got reason to be as mortified as anybody, because the outlandish work was begun in my husband's store. Of course, he ain't to blame, but he ought to have told the fool that what he was doin' would make trouble."
"No one attaches any blame upon you or your husband," Mrs. Tweedie replied.
"I'm sure," said Mrs. Jones, "that I cannot see how Mr. Stout had anything to do with it. It seems to me that it was not done maliciously, any way, but more in the spirit of a practical joke."
"Practical meddlesomeness!" snapped Mrs.Stout; "and the man that did it was set up to it, in my opinion, by a woman in this club!"
The ladies looked at Mrs. Stout, and then at each other in astonishment.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Tweedie. "If you are so positive pray tell us about it."
"Well, I ain't exactly positive," Mrs. Stout began, slowly, "but I guess at things sometimes, and come pretty near bein' right, 'specially when two and two make four. I ain't a woman that'll hurt anybody's good name unless it's been rightly damaged before by theirselves. In this case I ain't sure, so I won't mention no names, only say what I think made Sam Billin's do what he did." Poor Mrs. Stout, for the first time in her life she failed to find the direct path to the point, and wallowed helplessly about in a meaningless slough of words. "Well," she continued, "I don't seem to be gettin' ahead very fast, but what I wanted to say was this: You know that we talked some about advertisin' at a meetin' of the committee awhile ago, and decided not to spend any money on it, but after the meetin' was over that day one of the ladies said to me as we was goin' home thatshethought that somethin' ought to be done about advertisin'. Now, I think that she,or somebody else that thought same as she did, must have talked with Sam Billin's, and told him her opinion about advertisin', and he agreed with her, and went off and done it."
The ladies were disappointed. The delicious bit of scandal that they had anticipated was not forthcoming.
"What you have told us," said Mrs. Tweedie, "is very indefinite."
"It's about as definite as anything I hear at the club, only I didn't mention no names—some folks ain't so careful," retorted Mrs. Stout, who was angry with herself.
"I'm sure," said Mrs. Jones, "we are just as much in the dark as ever. We know what has been done, and who did it, the question is—"
"What are we goin' to do about it?" interrupted Mrs. Stout.
"We owe Mr. Flint an apology," Mrs. Tweedie replied.
"That's easy," said Mrs. Stout, "and don't cost anything."
"The virtue of dutifulness has nothing to do with ease or cost," replied Mrs. Tweedie, loftily. "I shall write the letter myself, and assume the full responsibility. Now, in regard to the creaturethat committed the crime, shall we take any legal steps?"
"Goodness, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, in alarm. "Legal steps cost ten dollars apiece, and there's no tellin' where they'll lead to."
Everybody laughed at this remark, and apparently good nature was restored.
"It would only mean more advertising," said Mrs. Blake, "and that is just what we are objecting to now."
"That's so," replied Mrs. Stout; "we've been advertised worse'n a circus or soap; let's hide our bright and shinin' light under a basket for awhile."
After the ladies had gone Mrs. Tweedie had only time to scold Fanny, give Dora some instructions about dinner, tell Ezra that "If you had a woman's club on your hands you would have been insane weeks ago," which Ezra thought very likely, when the Reverend Elijah Flint was announced. Despite the trials of the previous twenty-four hours, Mrs. Tweedie assumed a humble look as she entered the parlour and greeted her solemn-visaged pastor.
"I have called, Mrs. Tweedie," he began, after declining to be seated, "on a matter of graveimportance to our church and myself. Perhaps it will not be necessary for me to—"
"I understand, Mr. Flint," she said, with proper gravity.
"Do you fully realize the false position in which our church has been placed?" asked the parson, impressively.
"I do, and sincerely regret the unfortunate circumstance."
"Unfortunate," he repeated, as though he did not think the word adequate. "Mrs. Tweedie, our church has been defiled, desecrated, by a wanton, worthless wretch, and I desire to know whether your club, or any member of it, is responsible, even in the slightest degree, for the outrage."
"Not to my knowledge," replied Mrs. Tweedie—but she had guessed, with Mrs. Stout's assistance.
"I am profoundly relieved to hear you say so," said Mr. Flint, as he started toward the door. "Of course, you know my convictions regarding the stage?" Mrs. Tweedie bowed affirmatively. "I have refrained from expressing myself publicly," he continued, as he stopped with his hand on the door-knob, "but since the occurrence ofyesterday, I feel that it is my duty to announce from the pulpit next Sunday my position in regard to the matter. Good afternoon."
As Mrs. Tweedie closed the door on the parson she groaned: "More advertising."
The Big Show
Onthe February day appointed for the Morning Glory theatricals, the sun shone brightly—all nature was the same, but in Manville the day seemed different. Expectancy was in the air, and suppressed excitement in the heads of those possessing a bit of yellow pasteboard that entitled them to admission to the "Big Show." The men paused often at their work to talk of the event, and the women, especially the members of the club, forgot their families, their housework—everything except the approaching event.
Early in the morning a half-dozen of the club-women were at the hall superintending the unloading and disposition of a load of furniture which had been collected from the homes of particularly enthusiastic members. This unavoidable inconvenience, which usually accompanies other preparations for amateur theatricals, was especially necessary in this case in order that the barren stage might be properly dressed, and the shabby scenery saved from loneliness. The whole club turned out in the afternoon, and thehall and stage became a scene of bustling, chattering confusion. As the crisis approached Miss Sawyer, as stage directress, failed in her attempts to control the situation, and Mrs. Tweedie, "the powerful," as she was now called by many, assumed command, and became more dignified and dictatorial than ever.
At six o'clock the stage was set for the first scene, and some of the ladies were nervously pacing the creaking boards, book in hand, muttering their lines, and gesticulating ridiculously in a final spasmodic effort. In a corner of the hall Miss Sawyer was murmuring to a bunch of withered flowers; in an anteroom Mrs. Stout was being coached by Mrs. Jones in the pronunciation of some difficult words, and in a corridor Mrs. Thornton was trying to console Mrs. Darling, whose costume had not arrived.
The doors were opened to the public at seven o'clock, with Ezra Tweedie on guard to take tickets, and his son Tommy to distribute programmes. Ezra was smilingly happy because it was the first time for years that he had been permitted to do anything in public. He would have missed this chance if Mrs. Tweedie could have arranged in any other way to keep in touch with thebox office. The public was ready when the doors were opened, and charged unceremoniously upon Ezra, Tommy, and the lady ushers, with pinks in their hair, all of whom had more than they could properly do during the next hour. At eight o'clock the hall was filled with the "best" people in Manville, and some of the worst—worst, perhaps, only because they did not have the price of a seat in the front rows. The last person to enter was Sam Billings, who acted as though he did not care to have his presence known. Ezra scowled harmlessly as he took his ticket. Sam peeked cautiously into the hall, then turned to Ezra with a triumphant look and whispered: "Advertisin' pays, don't it?"
Twenty minutes after the time advertised for the performance to begin the audience was suddenly hushed to a funereal stillness by Mrs. Tweedie's two bells—she would have things shipshape, and succeeded, barring the orchestra, which had been found to be too expensive. The curtain was encouraged on its ascent by the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home," played on the piano by a Miss Bean, a member of Mr. Flint's church, who, in a spirit of fashionable recklessness in regard to her pastor's opinion, had consented toplay. Despite the music, perhaps because of it, the curtain balked when half-way up, then stuck fast. While the cause of the trouble was being investigated, accompanied by the sound of hurrying footsteps and loud whispers from "behind the scenes," Miss Bean continued to play "My Old Kentucky Home." When she was approaching the end of the piece for the sixth time, the curtain was yanked up sufficiently for the audience to get a two-thirds view of the stage.
The curtain certainly acted badly, but it was a star in comparison with the majority of the performers. It was fully three minutes after the curtain was raised before Mrs. Stout, as the Duke in the trial scene from the "Merchant of Venice," entered, followed by her "soot" in single file. Ten minutes later everybody knew that those who had said that the people of Manville would not, or could not, appreciate Shakespeare, did not know what they were talking about.
The scene was a decided hit, and was talked about for years afterward as the funniest thing that ever happened in Manville.
The balcony scene, from "Romeo and Juliet," which followed, performed by Fanny Tweedie as Juliet, and Mrs. Darling, in a rainy-day skirt, asRomeo, was more like real acting. It was enjoyed by the audience, but not uproariously.
Then came the scene from the "Lady of Lyons" in which Pauline discovers that she is the victim of a trick. Fanny and Mrs. Blake played well, but Barbara's costume and her appearance caused a murmur of amazement. When she spoke, however, the pathos of the conscience-stricken lover rang so true that the gaping audience was instantly stilled. For the moment men and women alike were fascinated, though not many really approved, and for this there was little cause for wonder. Barbara's costume was new to Manville, and a surprise even to the club-women. As Fanny Tweedie had wished, it was "unexpected;" yet it was worn innocently and with pure thought, although that was something difficult for the narrow-minded to understand.
The closing feature of the entertainment was the production of Miss Sawyer's original play, "Yellow Roses" ("First time on any stage"), which withered and died a painless death.
The curtain fell—part way—at eleven-thirty, with the audience "all present."
Despite the contrariness of the curtain, the lapses of memory, the long waits, and the slowlytaken cues, the people of Manville enjoyed the "Big Show."
When the audience had gone, Mrs. Stout, with wrinkled forehead, sat at a table counting the proceeds as best she could with some one asking every moment, "How much did we make?" Many of the ladies looked grave and were acting strangely. There was much whispering going on, but it ceased suddenly when Barbara and Fanny came from the dressing-room ready to go home.
"You're the star, Miss Wallace," called Mrs. Stout, when she saw them. Barbara stopped before her and smiled. "And your costume," she continued, "was just the sweetest I ever saw."
At that moment Mrs. Tweedie approached, her face showing intense anger.
"What are the receipts, Mrs. Stout?" she asked, sharply.
"I don't know yet," Mrs. Stout replied. "I was just tellin' Miss Wallace how much I liked her costume. Did you ever see anything just like it?"
"Never!" thundered Mrs. Tweedie.
"Why, didn't you think it was pretty?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise.
"It was indecent!" hissed Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at Barbara.
Everybody was looking and listening, but, excepting Fanny, too astonished to speak.
"Mother, how can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly, but Mrs. Tweedie walked quickly into the dressing-room, and slammed the door.
"Well, of all the tigeresses!" gasped Mrs. Stout.
Barbara was stunned. Fanny led her from the building, and on the way home tried to make amends for her mother's anger. But Barbara understood—the consciousness of her mistake had come like a blow in the face. Oh, if Will were only here, she thought. He had written that he could not come to the performance, but had sent all sorts of good wishes for her success. She needed him now more than she had ever needed a friend before.
The Tweedie family, excepting Tommy, argued long and late that night concerning Barbara and her costume. Mrs. Tweedie was the minority, but she won, and her decision was that Barbara must quit their roof the next day.
The Day After
"Didyou ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling, as she ran into Mrs. Thornton's just after breakfast the next morning to finish what she did not have time to say the night before.
"You mean Miss Wallace?"
"Yes; did you—"
"Never!"
"I wouldn't have thought she'd dared!" said Mrs. Darling, with a sanctimonious look on her pretty face.
"Nor I."
"Wonder what Mrs. Tweedie thinks."
"She was in a rage last night."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes, she was awfully angry."
"Iwouldn't have dared to wear such a costume, wouldyou?"
"Not for worlds."
"Itwaspretty, though."
"And she looked terribly stunning."
"Yes, but I'm afraid that there'll be trouble over it in the club."
"Shouldn't wonder a mite."
"Well, I must be going; good-bye."
"Good-bye; if you hear anything—"
"I'll run in; good-bye."
This was a sample of the talk that was going on all over Manville the morning after the "Big Show." Masters, mistresses, and maids, all were talking; at front doors, back doors, in the parlours, in the kitchens, on the corners—everywhere. Few praised—many censured. And poor Barbara, it was her name that was on every lip. By night everybody in Manville had taken sides for or against her, and, strange to relate, more men than women were ready to defend her.
Stout's Grocery was the objective of many of the male population that morning. Mr. Blake, the undertaker, was the first to arrive.
"A splendid show, Peter," he said.
"Fine."
"Manville ought to be proud."
"She had."
"Miss Wallace made a great hit, didn't she?"
"Say, wa'n't she great!" replied Peter, enthusiastically.
"She was, and her costume—" Mr. Blake continued, but Peter interrupted him.
"Beat 'em all," he said.
"I suppose that some of the stiff-backs are offended," remarked Mr. Blake, after a pause.
"What if they be?" asked Peter, indignantly. Just then Doctor Jones came in. "Mornin', doctor."
"Good morning," the doctor cheerfully replied.
"Did you go to the show last night, doctor?" asked Mr. Blake.
"Yes, I got there just in time to see Miss Wallace."
"Like her?"
"Well," said the doctor, slowly, "I have always liked her, but now I think she's immense. Send our order up early, will you, Peter?" And then he hurried out of the store, bumping into Sam Billings, who was coming in.
"Hello, Doc," said Sam, familiarly, "what you got to say about the show?" The doctor, not caring to listen to a long argument, continued on his way without replying.
"Didn't that show beat all creation?" was Sam's greeting as he entered the store after his encounter with the doctor. "And did you notice the crowd? They can say all they're a mind to 'gainst advertisin', but I say it pays. That hallwouldn't have been half-full if I hadn't taken hold."
Alick Purbeck came in from the back room in time to hear enough of what Sam said to know what he was blowing about.
"Say, Sam, can't you tell us now who put you up to that advertisin' scheme?" he asked.
"I dunno's that's any of your business," replied Sam, sulkily.
"No, it ain't," said Alick, "but I happen to know that it kicked up a row in the church and the woman's club, and folks do say that it was Miss Sawyer that put the idea into your head."
"Well," drawled Sam, "I won't deny that shesaidsomethin', but she didn'tdonothin'. I'm the only one responsible."
"Just as I thought," said Alick, knowingly. "I knew you'd been hangin' round her some this winter."
"Yes, you most always know everything that's goin' on," retorted Sam. "Back doors can't keep their mouths shut."
Alick resented this remark, and the resentment was in the form of a rotten apple which struck the offender full in the mouth.
"Quit that foolin'," growled Peter, in time to prevent trouble.
At that moment Ezra Tweedie slunk into the store, casting glances of fear behind at every step as though some dreadful monster was on his trail. He shut the door carefully, then went to the stove, held out his hands to be warmed, shivered, and sighed. His face was drawn and white, and the telltale circles beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night.
"Mornin', Ezra," said Peter, cordially.
"Good morning, gentlemen," replied Ezra, in a weak voice, as he glanced furtively about.
"You're not feeling well, Mr. Tweedie?" inquired Mr. Blake, sympathetically.
"No," replied Ezra, "I—I'm slightly indisposed, but nothing serious—nothing serious."
"And how is Mrs. Tweedie after all the work she has done?" Mr. Blake continued. Ezra shuddered and coughed.
"She is—a—somewhat nervous," he replied, hesitatingly.
"I don't wonder," blurted Sam, "but I guess she's kinder tickled over the big hit the show made, ain't she?"
"Oh, yes, yes, but—"
Ezra was spared by the entrance of Deacon Walton, whose opinion at that moment was more to be desired than anything that Ezra, in his sorry condition, might say.
Urged by Mr. Flint, the deacon had advised his wife to resign from the club, which she had done, but when the day of the performance came neither the deacon nor his wife could resist the temptation to attend and see what it was like. Their presence caused surprise, but they seemed to enjoy themselves, and many thought that perhaps Mr. Flint had weakened, and had taken that method of showing it. Those present at the store that morning felt that an explanation was due, and Sam proceeded to "pump."
"How'd you like the show, deacon?" he asked.
"Well," the deacon began, as he drew off his mittens and rubbed his hands, "most of it was good, but there was one young woman—" the deacon paused and pointed a long bony finger at Mr. Blake. Peter dropped his work to listen. "One young woman," the deacon repeated, "who was—er—indiscreet in her—er—what she wore."
There was silence for a moment, during which Ezra seemed to shrivel up within his overcoat.
"You mean Miss Wallace, I suppose?" said Mr. Blake.
"I do. The morals of the people of Manville have been shocked," replied the deacon, solemnly.
"You mean them that's got morals," corrected Sam.
"I mean," retorted the deacon, angrily, "those who are worth considering."
Mr. Blake loved an argument, and being the only one present up to the deacon's mental calibre, he naturally was the one to make reply.
"I think that you are mistaken there, deacon," he said, quietly. "Here's Peter, he saw the performance, so did I, we were not shocked."
The deacon's face reddened.
"I—I meant—er—the—er—church people," he stammered.
"Yes, so I supposed," said Mr. Blake, "but there are people outside of the churches who have morals—morals capable of being shocked, too."
"I'll say just this much," replied the deacon. "That young woman did a dangerous thing. She has displeased many of our citizens—"
"And their wives," interposed Sam, but the deacon ignored the remark and continued:
"We cannot have such performances. Theyoung people will be corrupted, the moral tone of our town will fall to the level of the dust. Such a thing has never occurred before, and I sincerely trust never will again, notwithstanding the approbation of a few men who seem to have nothing else to talk about."
"There, deacon," said Mr. Blake, soothingly. "There's no use getting angry about it. Miss Wallace's costume was the same as thousands of other women have worn in public."
"That don't make it right," snapped the deacon.
"Nor wrong," retorted Mr. Blake.
"We'll see," said the deacon, as he drew on his mittens and started for the door. "We'll see when the school committee meets to-night whattheythink about it." There was a triumphant gleam in the deacon's eyes when he fired that shot, and while his audience was still in a stunned condition from the effect of it he went out.
The morning after, Mrs. Tweedie was still determined on her course, and Fanny's continued pleading did not move her. Barbara must go, and the angry, narrow-minded woman told her so and gave her reasons immediately after breakfast.Barbara had expected to be insulted again, but to be turned out on such short notice was incomprehensible.
"You must go to-day," were Mrs. Tweedie's parting words as Barbara started for school. "To-day," Barbara repeated to herself as she went down the steps. On her way she wondered if it was really as bad as Mrs. Tweedie had said. What were others thinking and saying? Her duties that day were performed mechanically. Her heart was not in the work, and she was glad when school was over, though there was a perplexing task to be accomplished before the day was done.
Fanny called for her late in the afternoon, and they started toward home together.
"I've got all of your things together, Barbara," said Fanny, trying to speak cheerfully. "I thought—mother, you know—" Poor Fanny! it was impossible to explain, or smooth over her mother's conduct, and she burst into tears. Barbara understood, and instead of being comforted turned comforter herself.
"I know that you are my friend, Fanny," she said, as she linked arms with the sobbing girl.
"I am, indeed I am," sobbed Fanny. "I don'tcare what they say, and I want to help you." She did not tell Barbara that she had spent hours that day in a fruitless search for a boarding-place for her.
"There," said Barbara, when they nearly had reached Mrs. Tweedie's, "don't feel badly any longer. I'll send for my things as soon as I find a place to stay. And don't worry, Fanny, about me, please, everything will come right I know." Fanny kissed her, regardless of whoever might be looking, and went home. Barbara hesitated a moment, and then walked toward the home of Doctor Jones. When Mrs. Jones came to the door in response to the bell she did not ask Barbara to come in.
"Really," she replied when Barbara made known her errand, "there's not a spare room in the house."
Of course Barbara understood, and was very sorry. She next called on Mrs. Blake, and received the same answer. Mrs. Thornton, Mrs. Darling, and Mrs. Browning all refused. No, they did not refuse, they made excuses—sugar-coated lies. Barbara was beginning to understand that Mrs. Tweedie was not the only one who had turned against her. Darkness had fallen withoutas well as within. Trying to realize her position, Barbara walked slowly back toward the village. When near the parsonage she stopped, and looked up wistfully at the house and the stream of yellow light that shone down the path from a lamp in the parson's study. Then she looked across the street toward the church so black and still with the steeple rising toward the stars. Barbara hoped that in the parsonage she would find a friend with a kind word. She longed to run into the house and pour out the wretchedness in her aching heart tohismother; to talk ofhim, the one they both loved. Oh, how happy she could be under the roof that had shelteredhim! She went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Flint came, but her answer was the same as the others, except that there were tears in her eyes when she bade Barbara good night. Mrs. Flint would have taken Barbara into her home and heart if she had dared, but her husband had paced his study floor all day, and was in a terrible mood. Once she had listened for a moment and heard him mutter: "The disgrace," and "My son—my son cares for such a woman!" He too had guessed Will's secret, and she knew that Barbara would not be welcome.
When Barbara left the parsonage she walkedaimlessly about the village for an hour. The wind came up blustering and cold; she began to feel faint, but could think of no other place to go. At last weariness overcame her, and hardly knowing where she was, she stopped and leaned against a gate-post to rest. Then a strange feeling came over her, she tried to resist it and turned to walk on, but staggered for a moment, and then fell.
After supper Mrs. Stout had gone into a neighbour's for a moment, and when she came scurrying back with a shawl drawn tightly over her head and shoulders, she tripped and almost fell over Barbara, who was lying in her gateway.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed, as she recovered her balance, and then knelt to see who it was. "If it ain't Miss Wallace!"
"Yes," Barbara murmured, as Mrs. Stout helped her to stand and led her into the house.
"You poor child," said Mrs. Stout, as she bustled about making Barbara comfortable on a couch before the sitting-room fire.
"I had walked a long way and was faint," murmured Barbara, trying to explain.
"You ain't had any supper?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise. Barbara smiled faintly, andshook her head. "Haven't you been to Mis' Tweedie's since school?"
"I'm not staying there now," replied Barbara as she turned her face away and shuddered.
"You don't mean it!" Mrs. Stout was beginning to grasp the situation, and her surprise turned quickly to indignation. "She's put you out, that's what she's done, the mean old—"
"No, no," said Barbara, quickly, fearing that Fanny would be included in Mrs. Stout's wrath. "She told me this morning—I tried to find a place—I had plenty of time, but—"
"Nobody'd take you in," interrupted Mrs. Stout. "They was afraid they'd soil their goody-goody hands, I s'pose."
Barbara started to speak, then checked herself and covered her face with her hands. "No, you needn't say a word," Mrs. Stout continued, "I know what's been goin' on in this town to-day, and somebody besides you has got to suffer for it. Now you just lie there and I'll get you somethin' to eat." Mrs. Stout went to the kitchen, and, after an absence of a few minutes, returned with a tempting lunch and a cup of hot tea. Barbara tried to eat, but failed despite Mrs. Stout's kindly intended urging, and dropped back wearilyon the couch. When Mrs. Stout started to remove the tray Barbara looked up at her appealingly.
"You'll let me stay to-night, won't you?" she said, in a choking voice.
"Stay, I guess you can if I have to make up a bed for Peter on the floor. Stay just as long as you can stand us," replied Mrs. Stout, earnestly. At that moment they heard Peter come in.
"Emmy," he called as he was taking off his coat in the hall.
"Yes," she replied.
"What do you s'pose that damned school committee done to-night?"
Barbara half-raised herself, her face was pale, and the tears glistened on her eyelashes. Mrs. Stout hurried to head Peter off, but was too late.
"They've discharged Miss Wallace, and—" he stopped abruptly when he came into the room and saw Barbara.
"Discharged!" repeated Barbara as though bewildered, and then she completely lost control of herself, and wept bitterly. Mrs. Stout knelt by her side, and tried to reassure and comfort her, but it was past midnight when Barbara ceased to moan, and asked if she could write a letter.
Mrs. Stout led the trembling girl to a desk, and assured her that Peter would mail the letter, if she wished him to, early the next morning.
Barbara wrote one line:
"Will, I need you, come."Barbara."
"Will, I need you, come.
"Barbara."
A Sermon
Onthe Sunday morning following the Morning Glory Club's entertainment, the Rev. Elijah Flint arose after a restless night feeling physically miserable; but thoughts of the mighty effort that he was to make that day caused him soon to forget his bodily condition. Mrs. Flint had gone out of town the day before to visit friends. The minister was alone in the parsonage—alone with a narrow, stubborn idea. After a meagre breakfast of his own getting, he started early for church, eager and impatient for the service to begin.
A rumour had spread about town that Mr. Flint was to depart from his usual custom on that day and preach an up-to-date sermon. Everybody knew what that meant, and everybody—almost—went to church. When Mr. Flint went into the pulpit, and turned the leaves of the large Bible in search of the morning lesson, he glanced over the large congregation with the keenest satisfaction. It never occurred to him that the addition to his small flock was made up of victims of morbid curiosity. The idea crept into his mind that hisopposition to a recent "ungodly performance" had brought favour to him and his church, which before had been denied them. At last, he thought, after years of unrewarded, unappreciated labour, the tide has turned. Poor fool; if "narrowness" and "curiosity" had been painted all over his church in letters as tall as himself, God could not have grieved more.
When Mr. Flint arose to deliver his sermon the stillness of a tomb fell over devout and curious alike, and was preserved to the end. The sermon was a general denunciation of the stage, professional and amateur, the latter being especially stigmatized. And in reference to a recent local performance, and the enormity of the sin of an unnamed young woman who wore in public an undescribed costume, the preacher was unscathingly bitter and quoted these words: "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion." Thus, for an hour, the man raved like one insane, and during that time many of his hearers became infected with the same malady. They believed every idea that was hurled at them, swallowed words whole without tasting to discover whether they were sweet or poison. The accuser's vehemence surprised someand grieved others, but none of the curious were disappointed.
Barbara sat at one of Mrs. Stout's front windows, thoughtful and silent, as she watched the people going home from church. Without, the sun was shining brightly; within, the leaden cloud still hung over her and grew darker without her knowing it. The last cruel blow could not be anticipated.
Mrs. Stout had been motherly kindness itself. She had tried in every way to lessen the sting of the outrage—to make Barbara forget; but the rough, good-hearted woman failed, though her efforts were gratefully appreciated. She had urged Barbara to go home, well knowing that Manville must be unbearable, but Barbara was waiting for Will. He had telegraphed that he would come as soon as possible, but two days had gone by since then. Oh, how she longed to see him! He was the only one who could comfort and help, and though she did not know how that even he could silence the mischievous and careless tongues, she had faith to believe that he would.
Have I done wrong? She asked herself a thousand times, and each time the answer was "no." Would Will think that she had sinned? Thethought was torture, but Love and Faith answered the question for her.
Late that afternoon Fanny Tweedie called, and a few minutes afterward Mrs. Stout excused herself, and went out wearing a sterner and more determined look than her usually jovial countenance was accustomed to. Fanny and Barbara talked girl-fashion for an hour. There was some laughter, and many tears, but both felt better for it, and the seal of their friendship was made secure. Fanny had brought a verbal message from her father that pleased Barbara, and cheered her greatly. Poor Ezra, he had been fond of her always, and now that she was in such dire need of friends he longed to help her, but Mrs. T. stood between him and everything—a human, female barrier.
"Is he coming?" Fanny asked, after a long pause in the conversation.
"Will?"
"Yes, of course, there's no otherhe, is there?"
"I have written him to come," Barbara replied.
"Does he know what has—happened?" said Fanny. Barbara shook her head. Will did not know exactly what had happened, but he was sure that something had gone wrong, and at that moment was speeding toward her in response toher tear-stained appeal. "Well," continued Fanny, "I'm sorry for some folks when he does find out."
Mrs. Stout would not go to Mr. Flint's church out of curiosity, or for any other reason, but she had heard a true report of that morning's sermon, and was filled to the bursting point with anger. She thought it best to keep the news from Barbara, however, and cautioned Fanny not to mention it. But a vent for her feelings she must find, and it was for that purpose that she had gone out. She had no definite plan in mind, but almost unconsciously walked toward the parsonage. Upon reaching the gate she stopped. The house was dark. How she hated it, and the man who lived there. Sometime, possibly, she might forgive the women who had refused to shelter Barbara, and perhaps the school committee, but the minister who had denounced her in the house of God she could never forgive. With such thoughts in her mind Mrs. Stout went up the path to the door and rang the bell vigorously. It seemed a long time before the door was finally opened by Mr. Flint, who held the lamp high in order that he could better see his visitor. Mrs. Stout noticed that his face was flushed, and that his eyes were unnaturally bright.
"Good evenin', Mr. Flint," she said, coldly.
"Oh, it is Mrs. Stout?" he replied when he heard her voice.
"Yes."
"Won't you come in?"
"No, thanks, I can say what I've got to right here."
Mr. Flint placed the lamp on a table. His hand trembled, and as he turned he staggered, but caught and steadied himself by grasping the door-knob.
"I've come," Mrs. Stout began, "to say somethin' that won't do any good, prob'ly, but I want to be sure that you don't think that everybody in Manville has got the same ideas as you about some things in pertic'ler."
"I have never entertained that idea," replied the parson.
"Perhaps not, but you might have." Mrs. Stout hesitated for a moment, and then her anger broke forth. "Mr. Flint, you made a big mistake this mornin'. You said everything that you could say to spoil the good name of one of the best women that ever lived. She never did you, or anybody else, any harm, but you and all the rest seem bound to drive her away with as black aname as you can give her. The women folks wa'n't satisfied with kickin' her out of their houses, they must get the school committee to discharge her. And then you, a man that is s'posed to show folks how to live right, and believe in God, spend a whole Sunday mornin' runnin' her down." Mrs. Stout stopped because she was out of breath.
"My dear Mrs. Stout," the parson replied, "it is not the woman that I am opposed to, but the principles involved and violated, the morals offended and endangered. Those susceptible to corruption who—"
"Corruption!" snapped Mrs. Stout. "Do you mean to say that she could corrupt anybody in any costume?"
"Well—er—the—er—minds of the young—"
"The young, yes; but how about all those women, most of 'em belonged to your church too, that wore such corruption clothes when they all had bicycles, and the fever was at its worst?"
"Exercise, Mrs. Stout, excuses—"
"Exercise fiddlesticks! You've got the wrong idea, Mr. Flint, and for that reason I s'pose you'vedone more'n anybody else to disgrace a good woman—the one that your son cares more about than—"
"Stop!" cried the parson, feebly, as he raised his hand protestingly.
"I will stop, because I ain't sure about that. But I must say this much, that I hope you'll live long enough to repent, though from what I've heard, and know about you, you'll have to live to be a hundred. Good night." Mrs. Stout turned as abruptly as she had spoken, walked down the path and up the road toward the home of Mr. George, the chairman of the school committee. Mr. Flint closed the door, returned to his study, and sank wearily into a chair. Sick though he was, Mrs. Stout had made him realize that there was another side to the question, and he asked himself repeatedly, as Barbara had been doing, have I done wrong? And the answer was the same. No; he had performed his duty as he saw it—man can do no more than that and serve God. But the view-point, there is always more than one, and then his mind wandered to the women on the bicycles.
Mr. George was at home when Mrs. Stout called, and was delighted to see her. He askedher to come in, and she accepted the invitation. She afterward explained, when relating the story to Peter, that "I wouldn't have gone in only I had so much to say, and Mr. George is so bald I didn't want him to catch cold and die, and then be called a murderer by his wife."
"Rather unusual to see you on a Sunday evening," said Mr. George, cheerfully, when Mrs. Stout was comfortably seated.
"It's an unusual case," she replied, stiffly.
Mr. George raised his eyebrows, and then frowned.
"Indeed," he replied, a little perplexed.
"Don't you think that the school committee was in an awful big hurry about dischargin' Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Stout, coming to the point at once.
"Hem—er—I don't know—I—"
"Well, if you don't, who does?"
"Oh,—er—well, of course I understand the case, if that is what you mean. I assure you that it was gone over very thoroughly."
"There ain't any doubt about that," replied Mrs. Stout, with sarcasm. "It's been gone over too thoroughly by everybody. Now what I want to know is, if Miss Wallace tried to get anotherplace somewhere else she'd have to tell where she'd been before, wouldn't she?"
"Yes."
"And they'd write to you, wouldn't they, about what kind of a woman she was, and so forth?"
"It is customary."
"And you'd write back, and tell 'em exactly how she happened to leave Manville, wouldn't you?"
"I should consider it my duty to state the truth." Mr. George was getting uneasy.
"And she wouldn't get the place."
"Hem—probably not."
"Pretty hard for a woman that's got to earn a livin'. It ain't too late for the school committee to take back what it's done, is it?" Mrs. Stout continued earnestly.
"No; but—"
"You won't do it.NowI'm comin' to what I've got to say. You discharged Miss Wallace without any good reason. You—"
"Mrs. Stout, I protest," interrupted Mr. George. "There was a reason, and you know it as well as I do. Her costume at your club's entertainment was—"
"Be careful," warned Mrs. Stout.
"It is my custom," replied the committeeman, testily, "to speak with caution of one woman to—another woman."
"If you'd be as considerate when talkin' to men about one woman in pertic'ler there wouldn't have been any need of my comin' here to-night."
"Yes—hem—well, as I was about to say, she was—er—indiscreet," stammered Mr. George.
"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."
"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face very red.
"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs. Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does that make it right?"
Mr. George was silenced—completely out ofaction, and sat staring at his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.
"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall. The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her, Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out, closed it softly.
Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaign that was to defeat Mr. George and his colleagues at the next election. But her dreams of political victory were quickly dispelled when she reached home. Barbara and Fanny were in tears.
"Well, well, what's happened now?" she asked.
"I—I told her about the sermon," sobbed Fanny. "But I didn't intend to, really I didn't, Mrs. Stout."
"Well, she'd better hear it from her friendsthan somebody else," said Mrs. Stout, soothingly. "Secrets never do any good, anyway."
"I ought to know it," said Barbara. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked woman they think I am!" she moaned.
"But you're not, indeed you're not," cried Fanny as she impulsively threw her arms about Barbara and kissed her.
"There, there," said Mrs. Stout, "cryin' won't help—hark!" Some one ran up the steps, and set the door-bell to jingling furiously.
"Goodness! who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she started for the door. Barbara sprang to her feet. Her hair was disarranged, her cheeks were wet with tears, there was a look of longing in her eyes, and on her lips trembled a smile.
"Why, Willie Flint!" they heard Mrs. Stout exclaim. Barbara did not move, but Fanny tiptoed from the room. There was a heavy step in the hall. At the sound Barbara took a step forward.
"Will, Will!" she cried, as he came into the room.
In a moment his arms were about her, and then some one closed the door softly.
"Did I do wrong, Will?" Barbara asked an hour later when she had finished the story of the past week, omitting only the miserable part that his father had played.
"No, Barbara," he replied, and she was satisfied. But Will was not satisfied. He had walked up from the station with some one who had told him of his father's sermon, not knowing that Barbara was more to him than an acquaintance.
"And father, what has he done?" he asked, gravely.
Barbara looked up quickly, started to reply, but Will continued before the words came.
"Doyouknow what he did to-day?"
"Yes," replied Barbara, faintly, "but—"
"And mother, have you seen her?" (What would she not have given to spare him that?) "Why did you not go to her?" Will was determined to know all.
"I—I did," Barbara faltered.
"When?"
"Will, dear, please don't ask me. I'm sure that she would have helped me if—"
"She refused to take you in?"
"Yes, but Will, don't judge them, please. I amsure that your father thought he was doing right and—"
"Yet he preaches of Christ."
"Will!"
"God seems to have forgotten Manville," he said, bitterly.
"No, Will, he is only showing us the way—and the others too."
"How can you say that, Barbara, when they've taken everything from you, position, name—"
"Everything but you, Will," she interposed, lovingly. It was growing late, the lamp was burning low and sputtering. Mrs. Stout knocked at the door, and to Will's response came into the room.
"Excuseme," she said, "but I forgot to fill that lamp to-day, and—"
"All right, Mrs. Stout," Will laughingly interrupted, "I understand, I'm going in a moment."
"'Deed you ain't goin' a step," replied Mrs. Stout, determinedly. "I've got a room all fixed for you, and I don't want to hear one identical word aboutnotstayin'."
While Mrs. Stout went for another lamp, there was time for Barbara to give Will the answer that he had striven for—and won.