Project Gutenberg's The Inner Sisterhood, by Douglass Sherley et al. This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Inner Sisterhood A Social Study in High Colors Author: Douglass Sherley et al. Release Date: February 26, 2005 [EBook #15179] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNER SISTERHOOD *** Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ [Transcriber's Note: The layout of this document, especially serif vs. sans-serif, boldface, indentation and size are an accurate representation of the typography used in the original. The author is known for eclectic choices in these respects.] The Inner Sisterhood —A SOCIAL STUDY IN HIGH COLORS— by Douglass Sherley WHO WROTE The Valley of Unrest: A Book without a Woman 1884 IMPRIMARY LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY Copyrighted according to Law, 1884, By Douglass Sherley. The Inner Sisterhood. Dedicated to One of the Sisterhood. I II III IV V VI VII Just After the Ball: Miss Kate Meadows. ROBERT FAIRFIELD, LOVER: Miss Belle Mason. The·Buzz÷Saw·Girl: Miss Alice Wing. FLIRTING FOR REVENUE ONLY: Miss Rose Clendennin. Mother and Daughter: Miss Sophia Gilder. A CASE OF COMPOUND FRACTURE: Miss Mary Lee Manley. Platitudes and Pleasures: Miss Lena Searlwood. See above page as image I A Bit of Sweet Simplicity In Blue. Just After The Ball. The storm-door closes with a bang! My escort, a stupid fellow, has said "Good-night!" He drives down the street in his old rattletrap of a coupe. I am so glad he is gone! And yet I am always afraid of burglars—or—something dreadful, whenever I go into the house alone so late at night. I bolt the inside door. I mount the hall-chair, left waiting by papa, and, trembling with a nameless fear, turn out the gas and leave myself in darkness. I make two vain dashes for the stair; a third, and I have found it. I grope for the heavy rail and go rapidly up, two steps at a time, and finally, out of breath, badly frightened, reach my room. What a relief! I turn on the light— two, three, yes, four burners, and wish for more. I stir up the fire into a blaze; look over my left shoulder, but see nothing; listen, but hear nothing. I wheel my dressing-table near by; seat myself before the pretty oval mirror. I tear off those ugly blossoms, sent by that stupid man for me to wear; I look long and earnestly at the tired face I see reflected in the pretty oval mirror, with its beveled edges and dainty drapery of pink silk and pure white mull. It is not a pretty face; even my friends do not think me beautiful. Yet I sometimes fancy—alas! perhaps it is only a fancy—that I have on my face a suggestion of beauty, even if beauty itself be absent. My eyes are full and dark, with long lashes; my mouth is somewhat large, not a good shape either, and some people—who do not like me—say that they can easily detect a hard, cold expression which does not please them. But my profile is good in spite of my ill-featured mouth, and there is—generally acknowledged—a certain high-born, well-bred look about the poise of my shapely head which gains for me more than a mere passing notice. My manners are pronounced "charming," and by many—those who like me—charmingly faultless. So, after all, in spite of this lack of a positive style of beauty, I am what might be termed a "social success." But it is a social success which I have slowly gained, with much labor, and its duration is somewhat uncertain. I am just beginning to be sure of myself, although this is my fourth winter out. True, I have almost always had an escort to every thing given, but I have never been able to fully assert myself. Now, wherever I go, I boldly, and without fear, seek out some comfortable place in some one room, at reception, party, or ball, and rest assured that all of my now-many friends and half dozen or more lovers will seek me out, and having found me, will linger about me the entire evening; and if I like, I need not even move from that one pleasant place during the entertainment, but have my supper brought to me and the two or three other girls who make up our set, for you know it is so disagreeable to crowd into the supper-room; it is a vulgar eagerness, that carries with it a low-born air of actual hunger, and it is so vulgar to be hungry; and our set is so well-born and so well-reared. But, O, my! my hair's all in a tangle; comes of trying to do it up in a Langtry-knot. I don't think it is a nice way to fix hair, anyhow. I like to pile mine on the top of my head. Don't much care if people like it or not. And yet—well, yes, I believe I do care a little bit. I suppose I'll have to take it down myself to-night, and not call the maid, because she's very tired, and when she's tired she's cross; I hate cross people. But I ought not to blame her, because I've been out four nights this week, and the musicale is to- morrow evening. The musicales are always so nice—for people who like music, and I have many friends who are so devoted to music, at least they say they are. O, this is such a gay season! I don't know why, but people say it is always going to be dull, and yet, it is always so gay. The men go down to the Pelham Club a great deal more than they ought, and yet they don't neglect us entirely; and surely we have no reason to complain for a lack of parties. Just think of it! three crushes in two weeks, seven small affairs, excellent play at the theater all of next week, and I already have three nights engaged, and a chance of two more. That stupid fellow said something about would I like to go with him some time during the week. How provokingly vague! But he never made it more definite and final; just never said another word about it. I hate men who neglect things. Now, my hair is all combed out, and it's not a bad color, either. I never knew that Belle Mason to have as good a time as she undoubtedly had to-night. She was actually surrounded the entire evening; four or five men all the time, and I not more than three. I never did like her; she has such a conceited air; and now she'll be worse than ever. But I should not have cared if every other man in the house had stood by her the entire evening, but to think that even Robert Fairfield was with her constantly! He only bowed AT ME from across the room, and never came near me. At the Monday-night German he gave me, with a hand-touch and a smile, this red rose, then a bud, and I, foolishly, wore it to-night, although it was faded. The horrid, withered thing! Yes, I was actually foolish enough to wear it for his sake, and he all the time by the side of Belle Mason! It was a brilliant affair to-night—so every body said; at least a dozen said as much to me, and I heard a great many more saying that same thing to our hostess. All the people really seemed to have a good time. But somehow I didn't enjoy myself much, and there are several reasons why. I abominate going out with a stupid man; but there was no other to go with, so it was an absolute necessity, because go I must. He brought a shabby, uncomfortable coupe. He had sent ugly, dabby flowers; and he hung about me the entire evening with the silent, confident air of the young person who fancies himself engaged to you. He said nothing; he did nothing—except bring me a melted ice; but he looked a number of unutterably stupid things. And I heard more than one woman, in a loud, coarse whisper, say, "I wonder why she came with that stupid stick of a man?" But, of course, they didn't mean for me to hear it; they would not be so unkind; but, unfortunately for my comfort, I did hear, and every word. But that was not all. It's a hard thing for a woman, in a gay season, to appear each night in a new dress. Of course you can have one nice, white dress, and change the ribbons—sometimes pink, sometimes blue, or any color that may happen to strike your fancy—but sooner or later people will find that out; they will just know it's the same dress with other ribbons, and it's a social deception which fashionable society-idiots just will not tolerate. You must appear in a new dress or an old dress, undisguised. Now, to-night, how was I to know that Mrs. Babbington Brooks could afford to give so elegant an affair, or in fact would be able to induce so large a number of the best and nicest people in town to be present at this, her first entertainment. People said it was going to be crude, perhaps disagreeable. So I wore that pale-blue silk—old shade of blue—which I almost ruined at the Monday-night German. When I entered the dressing-room four or five of my best girl-friends affectionately kissed me on the cheek, and exclaimed something about being so glad that I had worn my pretty, pale-blue silk, and that it was so becoming; and was it not that same "love-of-a-dress" which I had worn at the Monday-night German? Now I really would believe those girls malicious if I did not know they were—each one of the dear, sweet creatures—perfectly devoted to me; because they have told me of their devotion many times, and I know they would not say any thing they did not mean—girls in our set never do! But this painful fact remains: my pale-blue silk is not becoming! I am entirely too dark to wear pale-blue, and I am just dying for a terra-cotta. It's the loveliest shade in all the world! Papa likes blue, so I ordered it to please him, because he is of the opinion that every body looks well in that color, because mamma always looked well in blue when she was young and beautiful. That reminds me what several old married women said to me at the party to-night: "O, my dear, your mamma was perfectly beautiful when she was your age! And she had so much attention, and from such nice young men!" And they looked right at that stupid fellow, for his silent stupidity had driven away all the other men, who were just as nice as any of mamma's old beaus, too. But those old ladies could not have meant any thing, because they are dear mamma's most intimate friends, and I am sure must take a kindly interest in my welfare. It's a dreadful thing to have had a beautiful mamma, when you are not considered beautiful yourself, in fact barely good-looking. But quickly to bed, or I will look what I am, tired and worn-out, at the musicale to-morrow evening. I must be fresh and well- rested, because I am to play, and alone, a most difficult instrumental piece. It's one of those lovely "Nocturnes." I wonder if I'll be encored? I was not when I played at the last musicale. The lights are out! The fire burns low! I thrust back the little dressing-table, with its pretty oval mirror, beveled edges, and dainty drapery of pale pink silk and pure white mull. I tenderly take that withered rose from off the floor, where I rudely tossed it in my anger of an hour ago. I forget that stupid fellow, my escort; the pale-blue dress, so often worn; the random words—idle, thoughtless, and unkind, at least in their effect; even pretty Belle Mason fades away, and her charm and her triumph no longer remembered against her. I go a-drifting from all unpleasant memories! I murmur a prayer learned at mamma's knee long years ago, and alas! for long years left unsaid. I kneel in the firelight glow, I tenderly, fondly kiss that red rose. True, it is withered and dead, yet how sweet it is to my lips, and how dear it is to my heart! Something whispers that I love the man who gave it me! It seems to quiver to life again, and tremulous with a strange, new joy, I remember the hand-touch and the smile which came with the giving of that red rose. II A Dash of Jealousy and Hypocrisy Done up in Old Gold. Robert Fairfield, Lover. Robert Fairfield is an average man among men—but he is something more: He is the ideal man among women. All women have ideals, and there is not, there can not be a more dangerous piece of heart-furniture. An ideal is easily broken, sometimes badly damaged, always liable to injury; and the heart of woman hath not one cabinet-maker who can, with his touch and skill, bring back one departed charm, one lost beauty. I know this man—and yet I do not. I love him—and yet, again, I do not. I suspect that, woman-like, I am more fond of his charming, delicate attentions than I am of the man himself. I sometimes fancy that he loves me; but I am wise enough in my day and generation to be painfully aware of the fact that just about six other women entertain the same delicious fancy. He has told me of his love, told me in a gentle, artistic manner—and doubtless he has told the six other females the same story; for he need not trouble himself to vary the telling each time, because he has no fear of detection. He knows that he is never the topic of conversation among women. They seldom, if ever, discuss their ideals, and all of them, myself included, have a most evidently-conscious air whenever dear Robert's name happens to be mentioned, no matter how trivial the mention. But I am the least touched, and surely the more unresponsive of the entire seven, consequently he is more devoted to me than to any of the others. He was by my side the entire evening at Mrs. Babbington Brooks's elegant and most fashionable ball the other night; he was my escort to the musicale last Tuesday, and O, he did look so handsome! And he never before said SO MANY positively tender things, and he said them in such a tired, pathetic tone, that he almost won my heart; really, when I'm with the man I am sure that I love him, and most devotedly. But I have perfect control over myself and my limited supply of feeling—Henry Seyhmoor says I am without a heart; so I only look at him full in the face when he tells me all those tender little things, and then turn away with a light laugh—assumed, of course—and gently but firmly remind him that I am not Kate Meadows. Ah, here is a note from him now! He always writes from the Club—the Pelham, of course. I don't know the people who belong to any other Club. What a nice thing it must be to go down to the Club at night, or whenever you like—I wish I was a man. And this is his note: "Your Platonic friend, Henry Seyhmoor, seems quite devoted here of late, my dear Miss Mason. I saw you with him last evening at the theater; your talk charmed him into unusual silence. How entertaining you must have been! "Won't you go with me to the opera Friday night; and won't you be as nice to me then as you were at the musicale—no, not that nice only, but even nicer still—as nice—as—well—as I should like you to be; won't you? "Robert Fairfield" A note of mere nothings. My common sense tells me that much. Yet I find myself forming words for myself between the written lines, and twice read that dainty card, with the crest and motto of Pelham. Of course I'll go with him; for to go with Robert Fairfield any where means a delightful time to any girl so fortunate. It means a bunch of roses almost heavenly in their sweet loveliness! It means the two best seats in the theater! It means the turning of a hundred envious female eyes from all parts of the crowded house; for our theater is always crowded on Friday nights, no matter what the play or players may chance to be. Because it is fashionable to go on Friday nights, and theatergoers in this town are so fashionable. I am glad, at least once a year, that I am a Methodist, because we don't keep Lent. But Kate Meadows is very high-church, and, of course, she ought to keep it! I wonder if she will? She was not out during the Langtry engagement; but that was on account of lack of men, not on account of Lent; because her little brother told my Cousin Mary's little girl that nobody had asked his sister to go any where for days and days, and that his papa had to take her whenever she went any where. However, I suppose she'll go, if she goes at all, with her papa; he often takes her out. I heard her say that she did just love to go out with her dear papa, and that it pleased him so much. Poor old man! I saw him nodding and napping, nearly dead for sleep, the last time he was out with her. It's a shame to keep him up so! As for myself, I would never go any where if I had to, for the lack of a man, always be dragging poor papa out. It must be so very mortifying. But nothing could mortify that girl; she is such an upstart. Her bonnets and her dresses are the talk of the town, because they are so ugly and unbecoming. But she has a gracious and pleasant manner, and sometimes has a good deal of attention— whenever she once gets out. People frequently say nice things about her; but I am sure it's their duty, because she entertains charmingly and often. She never gives any thing like a regular party, but quiet little affairs that are acknowledged to be very elegant by all who are so fortunate as to be invited—because people never decline invitations to her house. She is the only girl that I am afraid may finally win Robert Fairfield. She's passionately, foolishly in love with him! Why, I saw him give her a red rose-bud at our last Monday-night German, off in the corner—he didn't know I was looking—and didn't I see her wear that same red bud, then a withered rose, to Mrs. Babbington Brooks' the following Thursday evening? She wore the shriveled thing on her left shoulder, nestled down in a lover's knot of pale-blue ribbon. But I made myself so agreeable and altogether lovely that dear Robert F. did not go near her the entire evening; only gave her, from across the room, by my side, the bow of compensation. He left that rose, thanks to me and my successful efforts, to languish unnoticed in its lover's knot of pale blue. Ah, Kate Meadows, that time your lover's knot was made in vain! The "Earnest Workers," a society of our church, for ladies only, meets this afternoon at four, and it's nearly that time now; so I must put on what I call my "charity dress and poverty hat." It's such a good thing to dress plain and religious-like now and then, just for a change, especially when it's becoming. I will carry my little work-basket and wear, as I go down the street, a quiet, sober smile, and cultivate a pious air—a trifle pious anyhow. And if I chance to meet Mr. Fairfield he will, of course, join me, and wonder as we walk how one so worldly can be, at times, so charitably inclined and so full of such good works and holy thoughts. I sometimes wish I was good. But it's so stupid to be good, and the men don't like you half as well. And I am very willing to acknowledge it, I like the admiration of men. I don't know any "balm in Gilead" so sweet and altogether acceptable. But see! Down the street, right beneath my room-window, comes that Kate Meadows; and Robert Fairfield's with her! He holds her prayer-book in his hand! How earnestly they are talking! I wonder what it's about? What a tender look on his face turned full toward her downcast eyes! O, the hypocrite! They are both hypocrites; we are all hypocrites! On their way to that horrid afternoon Lenten service! It's a whole square out of the way to come by this house! She did it on purpose; I know it, I know it! She just wanted me to see her with him! She's the meanest girl in this town! I always disliked her, and now I fairly despise the very ground she walks on —when she's walking it with him! She's coming to spend all of Tuesday morning with me; won't I be gracious though! I'll kiss her three or four times, instead of the regulation-twice! I can be hypocritical, and sauve too! I don't wish I was good! I don't ever want to be good! They have turned the corner! They are out of sight! I just won't go one step to the "Earnest Workers!" It's all nonsense, any how! Just sewing, and gossiping, and talking about the minister and his wife, and all the rest of the congregation who are not there! No, no, NO! I'll just stay right here at home, and I'll have—yes, I will—I'll have a real good cry. III A Wild Fantasy In Garrulous Red. —The·Buzz÷Saw·Girl.— I just must talk! I must talk all the time! Of course I talk entirely too much—no one knows that any better than I do—yet I can not help it! I know that my continual cackling is dreadful, and I know just exactly when it begins to bore people, but somehow I can't stop myself, but go right on and on in spite of myself. Aunt Patsey says I am simply fearful, and just like a girl she used to know, who lived down-East, a Miss Polly Blanton, who talked all the time; told every thing, every thing she knew, every thing she had ever heard; and then when she could think of nothing else, boldly began on the family secrets. Well, I believe I am just like that girl—because I am constantly telling things about our domestic life which is by no means pleasant. Pa and ma lead an awful kind of an existence—live just like cats and dogs. Now I ought never to tell that, yet somehow it will slip out in spite of myself! My pa says I really do act as if I did not have good sense, and I am, for the world, just like ma. And ma, she says I am without delicacy, manners, or any of the other new touches that most girls have. As for Aunt Patsey, she is always after me! She is "Old Propriety" itself! She goes in heavy for good form. "Not good form, my dear, not good form!" is what I hear from morning until night. I do get so tired of it! They are all real hard on me! No body ever gives me encouragement, and yet every body is ready with heavy doses of admonition! Now ma is a powerful big talker herself, although she won't acknowledge it; but she always seems to know just what not to say! I call that real talking-luck! I am so unlucky talking. But the big power in our house is Aunt Patsey Wing! There is always bound to be such a person in every well-furnished house! They seem to be just as necessary as the sofas and easy-chairs—but not quite so comfortable to have around. We are all deathly afraid of her! She is rich, stingy, and says that she has made a will, leaving every dollar to the "Widows and Orphans' Home"—a nice way to do her relations! So of course we are on the strain; on our best behavior to effect a change in our favor. Ma says she will never, in this world, change it—and changes made in any other world won't do us any good. But pa says he knows how to break it! Mr. Meggley, her lawyer, who drew up the will, has made an agreement to sell pa the flaw—for of course there is one in it, for all wills have flaws—then he will employ another lawyer and break it without any trouble. My, it will be so exciting! I suppose we will have to prove that Aunt Patsey was of unsound mind. Pa will give us our testimony to learn by heart! Pa is a real enterprising man! Some people say he is a regular schemer, but Aunt Patsey says that he is a brilliant financier! He has made and lost two or three big fortunes! He lost one not long ago, and it is so hard just now to make both ends meet. But Aunt Patsey pays a little board; that helps along, at least with the table! Pa gives me a small allowance—when he has the money; then not one cent more! I believe every body in town knows just how much he allows me! Pa says I told it, myself. Perhaps I did; one can't remember every thing one chances to say. Although my amount is small, yet I have quite a little way of fixing myself, and always looking real nice. Aunt Patsey says I do pretty well, until I open my big mouth and begin to rattle, rattle, rattle! She says I talk more and say less than any body she has ever known, except that down-East girl, Polly Blanton, who always told—when in want of any other topic—the family secrets. Aunt Patsey is forever-and-a-day preaching to me about good form; what I ought, and what I ought not to do; sometimes repeats long passages from the prayer-book —nearly all the morning service—then says, "It's no use, no use; just like pouring water on a duck's back!" But she must love to do useless things, for she just keeps right on. She says that I ought to be able to keep silent once in a while, anyhow; but I don't know how to keep silent. Some body had to come and tell her—Aunt Patsey—that I talked a great deal, and very loud, at the theater, between acts. Now the idea of finding fault with girls, or any body, who talk between acts! Why it's just perfectly delightful! I begin the moment the curtain drops; I don't even wait for the music to begin—it is such a waste of time! I know that I do talk a little too loud; but just lots of real nice persons talk real loud at the theater—it comes natural. When people turn around and look at me as if I was really doing something dreadful, then I talk ever and ever so much more! People can't frown me down—no indeed, double deed, not if Alice Wing knows any thing about herself! People who know me never try; except my family, headed by Aunt Patsey, who always says, "We are prompted by a deep sense of duty, my dear, duty!" I am almost engaged! Even Aunt Patsey likes the man, and O, so do I! He is nice and quiet, and just loves to hear me talk—never interrupts me, but lets me go on, and looks at me so admiring-like all the time! Ma says I am sure to spoil every thing by too much talking! He is so timid! I encourage him, though, all I can; he seems to like encouragement so much! He understands and appreciates me, too, and that is a great deal; for most of the other men act so funny when they are left alone with me! They nearly always have a solemn, almost scared look—but I really don't know why! I must confess that I like stupid men; they may not talk much, yet they seem real eager to listen! Then stupid men always have such good manners, which, in society, counts for a great deal! People who have good manners are so safe—they never do any thing startling! I wish my manners were better—but they are not! After one of Aunt Patsey's talks on good form, and strict propriety, I try to improve—regenerate, if possible. I often watch Miss Lena Searlwood, one of the older girls, who is a great favorite with Aunt Patsey—but it is no use! She is a self-contained woman, never ill at ease, and who puts you, and at once, at rights with yourself. She is a most beautiful and discreet talker! She would rather die, burn at the stake, suffer on the rack, than tell even the suspicion of a family secret! Aunt Patsey is always talking her up to me, wishing that I would be only a little bit like her anyhow. So the other night, at a party, I took special care to notice the attractive Lena. She is so graceful; quiet grace, ma calls it. She leaned against a heavy, carved chimney-piece, with dark-red plush hangings, and she looked for all the world just like a tall, white flower, slender, beautiful! She was slowly picking to pieces, leaf by leaf, a pale-pink rose, which she had stolen away from somewhere about her willowy, white throat. And while she was doing all this—and it took quite a while, too—she looked full in the face of the man by her side, that rather good-looking, stuck-up Calburt Young, and said nothing—absolutely not a word! She did this long enough to make me almost lose my breath. I could not do a thing like that; it would give me nervous prostration sure! Yet, I know it is very effective! It was just like some picture you read about, and it was beautiful, striking, down to the smallest detail. But situations effective, and details pleasing, are not in my line, and they are just as much a mystery as improper fractions used to be when I was a schoolgirl. I hated my school! It was called a "Young Ladies' Seminary." It was a fashionable, intellectual hot-house, where premature, fleeting blooms were cultivated regardless of any future consequence. But I was a barren bush! I never fashion-flowered into a profusion of showy blossoms. Aunt Patsey said that I did not reap the harvest of my golden opportunities; but pa, he growled and grumbled a good deal when the bills came pouring in, but paid them, and roundly swore that he was glad he had no more fool- daughters to finish off in a fashionable seminary. I have a keen sense of the ridiculous, and it gets me in trouble all the time. I don't mean any harm; but I can't help telling a good thing when I hear it or see it myself. Now that same Calburt Young can't bear me; he hates me in good fashion because I made fun of his doleful air, and said that he had the looks and the manners of a man who had, in a desperate mood, shot down his sweetheart, concealed the fact, and was suffering the pangs of deep remorse for the dreadful deed. He heard about it and got angry! He does look awful gloomy! He says I am crude, very crude, and put people on edge; and that I am so good-natured, so good-humored all the time that it reduces less fortunate people into a state of most desperate defiance—defiance against my everlasting flow of animal spirits, unchecked by any thing. He told all that to Sophia Gilder, and Sophia is my bosom-friend; so she told me! Aunt Patsey has a great admiration for her mother, Mrs. John Robert Gilder, but says that Sophia, poor girl, is a milk-sop—weak, weak! and taps her shining forehead knowingly. Auntie has a most alarming way of disposing of people! I know all about her methods—gracious goodness! I ought by this time. About two or three months after I was finished off at the Seminary, Miss Lena Searlwood gave a little affair in my honor. She called it a tea—it really was more like a dinner! They do entertain so well! I was taken home afterward by that Calburt Young—a great privilege I suppose! He was in a bad humor anyhow; had not seen enough of Miss Lena! He let me do all of the talking, never once suggesting a new topic, and listened with an air, not of attention, but enforced toleration. It made me furious! Two or three times he said "Yes?" which was really worse than nothing! Finally, when near home, he turned to me and in a tired, indifferent tone, said: "Beg pardon, Miss Wing; you are just out, I believe! What did you study while at school?" It was a fling—I knew it—so I answered, "I studied how to be rude to arrogant, patronizing people who are forever asking impudent questions with a desire to give pain, sir!" He placed my night-key in the door deliberately, calmly; pushed open the door, lifted his hat, turned on his heel, without even closing one half of the storm-doors, like other men always do, and said: "Miss Wing, you have been well taught! You were, indeed, a very apt scholar! I congratulate you! I have the honor to bid you good-night!" I could have picked a dozen pale-pink roses to pieces just then, but not leaf by leaf; I could have torn up a whole rose-tree by the roots! They say Mr. Young is so smart, wonderful deep, and all that; but he is just a mean, rude man, and I won't ever have any thing more to do with him; and when I say I won't, I won't! How some people do ruffle me into a fever-heat of dislike and ardent opposition. Of course I know that it is all wrong, yet after all there is a certain kind of satisfaction. Now, for instance, that Mrs. Babbington Brooks, with her smooth, oily tongue, abominable phrases, "Yes, my sweet loves," and her "O! my dear doves," sets me fairly wild. She is such a vulgar, low-born person! I always feel tempted to fly right at her and tear off her load of tawdry, costly finery, exhaling a strong, close odor of greenbacks. How people have taken them up! all on account of their money. They are invited every where; and only last season people were turning up their noses and asking, "Who, pray, are the Brookses?" Thanks to a cook from somewhere, and a butler from somewhere else, their entertainments are said to be really delightful, and their dinners perfection itself. They are not yet quite sure of their position! They are afraid it will not be permanent! But they will succeed. I know they will, because I feel it! To me there is always something very fascinating about these desperate social strugglers—especially when they are successful. Aunt Patsey, too, she says they will succeed, and Aunt Patsey knows! But she don't know every thing, for Mrs. John Robert Gilder has fooled her. But I am not surprised; she would have fooled me, also, if I was not so intimate with Sophia, who tells me every thing—the only person who ever did; and there is just nothing I would not do for her. I know Sophia Gilder's other secret! She is caring a great deal too much for a man who don't take overmuch interest in her. But the man don't even know that she cares any thing for him, and I don't believe he will ever know— unless I tell him myself! Now I call that real tragedy; just as good as any you ever see on the stage, or read about in books. I would love to tell him; but that is one thing I have never told, and I never will, either! As they say in novels, it will go down to my grave with me. I am so anxious about Sophia, I am afraid it may take her there. But I have my doubts, she is right healthy-looking yet. Aunt Patsey says that love hurts a powerful lot, but don't often kill out and out. Robert Fairfield is the man. Ma says she never could understand why he don't pay me devoted attention. His father was one of her old beaus. She was engaged to him; Aunt Patsey broke it off—she was scheming for pa—she could break off any thing, that ancient female! Mr. Fairfield is polite to me, and that is about all. When I was a school-girl I used to dream about him! In my dreams he was always dressed like a knight, and rode a milk-white steed, waved his hand toward me, and then I always waked up. It was so provoking. I never could get any further into the dream. I know I would like him if I knew him real well. He is quiet, but not one bit stupid. He talks little, but oh, he is such an attentive listener! He don't come after me, so I can't run after him. For I don't know, and I don't want to know any thing about catching men—as if they were wild animals, fish, or something. Aunt Patsey calls it diplomacy! Diplomacy? Fiddle-sticks! It is down right deception of the very worst kind. I know that I talk too much, tell a great many things that ought to be left unsaid, but I do not tell lies—there is no other name for them—and knowingly, with malice aforethought, make an injury or do a wrong to any body. But, my, my! I am always in trouble. Tom, my little brother, ran into the room just now, nearly out of breath, and made a little speech which almost gave me a nervous chill: "Oh, sister Alice! Won't you catch it, though? Aunt Patsey is just in from her meeting of the 'Cruelty to Animals' Association. She is in a dreadful way! She is just talking ma black and blue! She is giving you 'Hail Columbia!' She met Mrs. Par-dell, the manicure, the woman who ma says goes around fixing finger nails for fifty cents, and gives you five dollars' worth of gossip, sometimes scandal—to those who like it. She told Aunt Patsey a long tale about what you had certainly said: that Aunt Patsey was seven years older than she acknowledged; had been dyeing her hair for years; did not have a real tooth of her own in her head, and was a regular old tyrant here at home, and that all of us were afraid as death of even her thin, old shadow. Oh, but won't you catch it, though! Sis, you had better skip, and pretty quick, too! I think she's coming up-stairs now!" It is awful, but I suppose I must have been telling just such a tale, but to whom I can not, for the life of me, think. See now, all this comes of telling the family secrets. That Mrs. Par-dell is a dangerous woman! I refused flatly to have her make bird-claws out of my finger-nails. This is her revenge! I am powerless! But it was not a slander, it was all the truth; just as true as gospel. That's the reason she is in such a rage. But she is coming; this house won't hold us both just now, so I am off via back stairs—to dine with my dear Sophia Gilder, if I don't find that fraud, Mrs. Babbington Brooks, there ahead of me. She and Mrs. John Robert G. are inseparable. The old dragon draws near—I am gone, leaving behind a smile and a kiss for my ancient female relative. Ah, Aunt Patsey, not good form, you know, to get angry with people—even with your niece, IV The Cool Quiet Flirtatious Underglow Of a Green Opal. FLIRTING FOR REVENUE ONLY I am a Private Corporation. My capital stock is a pretty face, a clear head, and pleasant manners. I was incorporated by the "social legislature" four winters ago. Mamma was the active, successful lobbyist. My father was the silent, financial lever absolutely necessary for the passage of the bill—opposition small. The social Banking-House (our residence), on a fashionable avenue, had been erected years before. A great mass of brick and mortar—stone-front of course—not beautiful, but imposing. It was left unfurnished—a portion of it—until I was ready to start in upon my social career. That is quite a usual plan with people who are prospectively fashionable. They do nothing with the drawing-room, library, and reception-room until the daughter of the house is pronounced ready. The plastering, after a dry of eighteen years, has had plenty of time to settle, and is not apt to crack the costly papers or ruin the elaborate frescoes; and the wood-work no longer in danger of warping or opening too much. My incorporation was an event. Business at once set in, and, with slight fluctuations, has continued ever since brisk and healthful. The venture has been a decided success. The constant, untiring skill of mamma, and the valuable experience of each gay season has enabled me to frequently increase the capital stock. For my face is more pretty than it was four years ago, and my manners are more easy and pleasing. Mamma says manners are every thing—and they are a great deal. I have grown to be somewhat of a woman of the world. I have met so many new people—strangers from all parts of the earth! I have been every where, and done so much. There is nothing local about me! Some people say that I am all things to all men; perhaps I am, for if I am not broad I am not any thing. I abhor narrow-mindedness! I am a trifle fraudulent in a harmless way, which I am free to confess is more than a trifle fascinating to most of the men I know. I smile, make eyes, sometimes sigh, and with many devices coax the masculine fancy into life, and for my sake. Yet, withal, I am said to be conscientious—very, in fact, and never intentionally deceive. My reputation is better, alas! than I deserve. My network is invisible but effectual; my weaving-power artless, but it is the art concealing the artful. I am a Private Corporation! Therefore, I own all the stock. I constantly make loans, but I never sell. The collateral—either the many shades of love or the subtle changes of friendship—must be A No. 1 in every respect. It is collateral, not indorsements which I require. Paper not able to sustain itself is not considered worth much in my Banking-House (social). It is my sweet expectation to retire from business whenever I chance to find—or rather when I am found—by the right purchaser. I often long for that time; I often picture to myself the undoubted delights of a domestic life, and—but in the meantime I carry on a carefully perfected system of Flirting for Revenue Only. That is my long-chosen motto, from which I do not depart. A Private Corporation must have protection! Self-preservation is the first consideration, the first law. I am full of little formulas of both manner and speech—they afford me ample protection. Make-talk is the complete salvation of the female Banker (social). I never disdain the use of a promoter, no matter how trivial it may be. Promoters help you to float heavy, stupid men, and save you from a complete wreck on the shores of stupidity; and they act as most excellent elicitors when applied to clever men—draw out the very best in them. I have promoters and promoters. I was asked not long since to give my definition or receipt of this valuable article. This was the one which I gave: Take some tangible object visible to the eye; for instance, a banjo. Attract attention to it in some successful way. Talk first about the banjo itself (the promoter), then if the man is clever he will, unconsciously, be led up from a discussion of that or other musical instruments to a chat on music, ballads, operas, in fact the very best he has to tell, the best he happens to know on that subject. In this way we are able to rise above the trivial, worn topics of the day—the usual make-talk of the multitude. I am always very happy in the selection of my promoters. I may not be very original, but I am quick to appropriate new ideas. I rapidly get them into the line of march, ready for immediate use. To be a "social success" one must be something of an actress. Men usually expect a vast amount of acting from young women, who will, if they are discreet, certainly live up to that expectation. Men are willing to be deceived, but it must not be a labeled deceit. I go down the street and meet Mr. Seyhmoor; although I see him a block off, and before he sees me, yet I affect great surprise when he greets me—a little start is quite effective. The trifling little deception floods my face with color, which comes almost at my command. It easily flashes upon him that I am indeed surprised, and betrayed into an expression of my delight. He is flattered. He joins me. A batch of envious women watch my little triumph. That is Flirting for Revenue Only. Then a walk down the street, a talk of mere wordy nothings, but of deep and tender looks. In point of words, a make-talk affair; in point of feeling, a vague shadowy suggestion of twenty delicious possibilities; in point of fact a walk without any serious results. Calburt Young, a fascinating man-about-town, a semi-Bohemian, joins me at a fashionable ball. He takes me away from the dancing-room (and the other men), for Bohemians never dance. He finds, as only he can, some quiet unoccupied nook, a little out of the way, and yet a very proper place. An effective spot environed by flowers, and palms broad and graceful, hung with dimly-lighted, richly-colored lanterns—where you may see but not be seen, where you may hear the gayety and yet by it not be disturbed. Music from the ball- room reaches me, and a delicate oriental perfume fills the air. Calburt Young, handsome, silent, with a look of earnest appeal on his face, looks down into mine. Not the man, but his manner, the situation, the music, the stealthy, intoxicating odor of perfume and flowers, the sway of each tropical leaf, the distant gayety, all surcharge my soul; gratify to the fullest extent my sensuous nature—my love of the picturesque and the luxurious. The temptation is strong to depart from my fixed principle. But I do not yield. I half extend my ungloved hand, white and ringless, murmur in a low voice suggestive of suppressed emotion, "You are very good to me! I was tired; I am glad to have this rest—and with you, Mr. Young!" I am permeated with the deliciousness of the situation! I am conscious of the magnetic something about me, drawing him near to me! I can almost feel his hot, quick breath on my cheek where the color comes and goes. He is within my power! But I do not love him. With an effort I banish the tender manner. My voice, now a trifle cold, asserts itself in clear, even tones: "Let us return; I am rested now. Mr. Seyhmoor claims me for the next dance!" The spell is broken! Calburt Young does not understand! He is wise, but I—I am a woman, and a woman of the world. But he does not reproach me. How can he? I have not allowed him to say a word of love to me. I have been environed not only with flowers, colored lights, and sweet music, but also with the harmless platitudes of speech. I whirl away into the dance with Henry Seyhmoor! I have been boldly flirting, Flirting for Revenue Only. Sometimes I am not so successful in this avoidance of exactly what I have skillfully brought out. Sometimes this policy leads to a proposal. The tide grows too strong. The man breaks down the barrier, but what good does it do? I have maintained a high protective tariff; there is nothing tangible which he can produce against me; there is never any thing which he can say against me; and if I have been ordinarily skillful and cautious there is absolutely nothing for him to think, but "How good she has been to me; how delicately, tenderly, she has tried to avoid giving me pain!" At the start, my first season out, it was a hard policy to follow, and I would often spend a sleepless hour, after the man had said "good-night!" But those foolish old days have gone, and with them the early freshness of my youth, although the appearance remains. I have seen so many men promptly revive beneath the showers of another woman's glance and of another woman's tender—perhaps like mine—unmeant words, mere platitudes, platitudes effectual, intangible. They are not sufficient proof in any court of conscience, law, or public opinion. They are the glorious privileges of a woman who is a Private Corporation, Flirting for Revenue Only. Robert Fairfield! There is a magic something in the very name itself. And the man! ah, after all, old things are best. My heart never knew a sensation—the quick, throbbing something which we call love—until I met him, when hardly more than a school-girl. It was my first winter! He was young, attractive, somewhat wild, and quite the fashion that year, and in fact ever since. He is a dainty love- maker. He is ready with a hundred delicate little attentions unknown to most men, and highly gratifying to most women. But after all their influence is limited—at least with me. His actual presence is necessary. Mamma opposed the match—for we were engaged (never announced) at one time. She always disliked him, and on that one subject has always been unreasonable. But she has more influence over me than he has, or ever could have. She can generally eradicate the dangerous effects of his presence. This he resented —and rightly. I must renounce mother, home, every thing, and come to him, or—I must cling to him and let all other things go. He recognized no middle course; I constantly sought one. I put him off; I made him many promised, and meant them all—when with him. Finally he was forbidden the house, and now we barely more than speak. He is somewhat devoted to a half dozen or more of our best young women, and they are all more or less devoted to him. The world—-our little world—once said we would marry; but the world has decided that it was, mistaken, and that we did not even love one another. And did we, or not? In short, do we? There are times, moments of despondency, more frequent here of late, when something within whispers, "You are waiting too long! You are, indeed, far above par, but will it last?" The credit of my Banking-House (social) is apparently without limit. My pretty face stands well the wear and tear of hard social work. My worst female enemy dares not call me passe in the slightest degree, although I am a shade beyond the uncertain age of twenty-five. But surely these strange premonitions must come as a warning. They surely mean something. My womanly intuition—and it can be trusted—plainly prompts me to give up this dangerous, ruinous policy of Flirting for Revenue Only. I must abandon my little formulas of speech and manners. I must quit making eyes. I must grant myself a pause in this social farce. I must try to let myself love the man whom my real honest self hath chosen years ago. The man I drove from my door for the sake of general revenue. The man against whom I closed my heart! But will he come back again? Will his proud spirit brook an uncertainty? But, after all, is it well worth, the while? Those are uncertain questions—I dismiss them. There is no immediate danger. My humor changes; I am no longer despondent. Away with Doubtful Uncertainty and all of his stale retinue, tricked out in danger-signals—each a false one. Sleep on, sweet Conscience, sleep on! To-night the wedding-reception—given to a woman married for her money! Another glorious opportunity for me! A.B. I may be found any time between the hours of nine and one, on the crowded stair, in a nook beneath, in the dancing- room, or—somewhere about the flower-decked house in my accustomed capacity of Private Corporation, skillfully, successfully Flirting for Revenue Only. V A Symphony in Pink With Philistine Traces. Mother and Daughter. We are not on good terms, mamma and I, She is hard, exacting, unreasonable; she is proud, ambitious, worldly; she is deeply embittered against me because I am not a social success, because I am not brilliant, attractive. Her one thought, by day and by night, has been the promotion of my interests—from her own selfish standpoint. I am never consulted—always ignored, and my feelings trampled upon. My slightest objection fills her with indignant surprise, and is met with a prompt rebuke and a dictum, from which there is absolutely no appeal. Always unwilling, yet always obedient—passively obedient. This is my third winter out and, to quote mamma, no prospects, no prospects! Of course, I am nothing of a belle, nothing of a social queen among women. This is a source of endless mortification to mamma. But there is no reason why it should be so, because a belle in this town is a lost art. Lost in the days of the brilliant Bettie V. and the beautiful Alice B. Nowadays belleship is like statesmanship, the honors are divided. We have plenty of real pretty women, but no startling beauties. There is not a girl in my set but who is fully up to the average in appearance, manners, mind. Competition may do well enough for trade...