The Inner Sisterhood / A Social Study in High Colors

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, but it does not produce any one reigning belle in social circles. So I am not entirely to blame; the causes which work against me also work against others. I go to the utmost limit, and sometimes beyond. I do every thing which my better nature will license—often a great deal besides. My opportunities are excellent. I am invited every where, because we belong to a highly respectable and somewhat ancient family (we have a beautiful family-tree, arranged by mamma before I was grown); and I go every where, even when I am forced to go with papa, which, I am glad to say, is never more than twice in one season.

Papa is really a dear, good man. He has not only the love but also the pity of a devoted daughter, for he does have such a hard time with mamma. While he understands perfectly all about making money, and just lots of it, too, yet, papa does not shine in mamma's fashionable circle. He is a slave to her slightest whim—and she is full of them. He is ready, and always, to do her most capricious bidding. Yet they are not congenial; I am positive she never loved him. He was, even when they married, counted among the rich men of the community. And she—she was the youngest child in a large family, with high notions and small income. But he is devoted to her! She may not be lovable, but she is magnetic. She forces homage from all, devotion from many. But she is an evil magnet; and she is conscious of her power, which she wields in a high-handed and a most unscrupulous manner. Unlike most women of the fashionable world, she makes a decided point of poor papa's attendance. He must always go with her—and he does. Often he comes to his home tired out, worn down to the very quick—making money he calls it—and mamma, fresh and ready, eager for the social battle which, like a war-horse, she scents from afar, drags him out with her—somewhere—generally, when there is nothing more exciting on hand, across the way to that bric-a-brac-shop of a house, where the tawdry elegant, always weary Mrs. Babbington Brooks holds forth in an ultra-æsthetic style peculiarly her own. There they spend the entire evening in what mamma softly calls "a sweet communion of congenial souls," which, being translated according to methods of the earth, earthy, means simply a tiresome time over cards, the constant sipping of a pale pink stuff which foams—dissipated looking, but harmless. This they drink out of dainty little cups somewhat larger than a thimble. "Fragile art gems," to quote Mrs. Babbington Brooks, "which I was so wildly fortunate as to find in a curiously jolly shop somewhere about Venice, the last time I was over on the other side. Ah! how I do love Venice!"

Now, there is a fair sample of that woman's talk; it is a mystery to me how she keeps it up. Mamma says that she is "wierdly picturesque;" papa says (but only to me) that she is "a regular downright fool." But they are both wrong; she is a woman with a sufficient amount of brains to know just how easily and successfully so-called sensible people may be imposed upon; and how readily they can be made use of—stepping stones to the accomplishment of selfish desires. But she does not fool mamma. They both use one another to advantage. There is always between them a tacit little arrangement. Mrs. Babbington Brooks never stops short of a positive sensation. Her methods are bold, startling, successful. Her husband, an insignificant looking man, invented something, an air-brake for railway trains, an improvement on the Westinghouse air-brake, "Brooks' Unbroken Circuit." This, after years of obscure struggling, brought them into immediate wealth, but not at once into social notice. Their first efforts in that direction, or rather, her first efforts, were complete failures. They nibbled about on the outer edge; finally, it dawned upon her to play some decided role. She determined to be an æsthete. She built a house accordingly; she dressed accordingly; and she acted, but above all, she talked accordingly. Thanks to her wandering brother, an ideal American adventurer, she obtained from London, far ahead of the general importation, a complete outfit of Lilies, Languors, Yearnings, Reachings-out, Poppies, Wasted Passions, Platonics, Heart-throbs, and all the more lately approved instruments of æsthetic torture. Her establishment was ready. She wanted recognition. She waited for an opportune moment. It came. Oscar Wilde, the apostle in chief of the æsthetic school, reached our shores. He brought a letter of introduction "To the one æsthete in all America, Mrs. Babbington Brooks." On his arrival he sent her this letter, and with it a note, written in a full, round hand, stating that he would be at her service after his lecture in her town, on the eighteenth of the coming February, and, being it was she, his terms were only three hundred dollars; usual price, five hundred. She wired an eager acceptance of his generous offer, and at once set her household in readiness. She invited the town—the fashionable, so-called desirable portion of it—and waited the issue. Her gilded net was well spread; her bait irresistible. She easily caught them all, large and small; her house was crowded; her effort a recognized masterpiece. Mamma says she could have readily made arrangements with Oscar Wilde for a season in London—a female æsthete, and from the crude land of America! Now, she is actually quite the rage! Her triumph is now complete; her following large, composed of a batch of deluded fools, caught by the glamour and the blow of brazen trumpets, with just the tincture of an artistic principle.

A large amount of money was spent on my educational training, both at home and abroad. A young woman who can play a little, sing in fairly good voice a few pretty songs, popular ballads, and paint an occasional plaque, or even rise to the dignity of a panel, can surely make claim to the free chromo distribution of that flattering term, "most highly accomplished."

I was systematically advertised—by mamma—for about four years prior to my debut. Every body was made to know that I was "growing up" rapidly, "coming on," but still young, "oh, very young, and cares absolutely nothing about men." Fact: cared more then than I do now. Young fellows—available matches—would be invited out "very informally indeed," to dinner or to tea, "would just drop in, you know," each occasion skillfully planned by mamma. She is an excellent manager—always manages to have her own way. On each one of these occasions it was so arranged that they would catch a glimpse of me—supposed to be entirely accidental. I was made to pose for the occasion over my books or fancy-work. I was "so studious!" or "so skillful with my needle!"—running comment by mamma during the accidental glimpse of her darling daughter. These things are always effective, for mamma is really an artistic woman. Her social villainy fascinates me into a constant state of acquiescence. There is an irresistible glamour, there is a touch of his Satanic majesty which gains me, against my will, body and soul. She is a bad, dangerous woman. What an awful idea to have of my own mother! but, fortunately, other people don't know her as we do—papa and I.

But after all the constant planning, the education with trimmings, the high art dressing, the effective situations without number, in short, the whole broad system of skillful social advertising, I am not the one magnet-point; I am not the belle of the town. This has caused the breach between us; and it grows wider every day. Mamma used to be unkind, but now she is cruel. Those uncertain social honors can never be mine; therefore a reconciliation is out of the question. Men come to the house frequently and in fair numbers, but frequent and merely polite attentions do not satisfy mamma. I have never had a real lover. Men seem to like me well enough; they send me flowers, take me out, and do not let me suffer at balls or parties for want of attention. But they do not make love or ask me the all—important question, "Will you be my wife?" This confession would surprise most people. My name is constantly mentioned in a tender way with some one man of my acquaintance, but there is never any thing beyond the mention.

During the past winter mamma has been trying a new plan. She has determined to marry me off, having proved to be such worthless material for the make up of a reigning belle. She has made earnest, successful effort to induce a batch of clever young lawyers into a frequent and regular attendance at the house, under pretext of a quasi-ideal Literary Association. A wise bait, which always ensnares the eager-nibbling lawyer. It sounds well to have people say that he is a gifted young lawyer and a member of a most delightful and highly select literary association—and the average young lawyer acknowledges a fondness—inexpensive, of course—for all things which sound well; the legal mind bows down before the mighty shrine of "Euphony."

Any thing can be readily organized in this town, but to keep it going is a different matter and a desperate hard thing to do after the novelty wears off. But mamma seldom allows any of her organizations to die a natural death. Her present venture, of a literary nature, is thriving; it has grown to be the idle fashion of the social hour. Mamma alternates with her always coadjutor, Mrs. Babbington Brooks, in entertaining the motley, and somewhat cultured crowd. Mamma, First Director and Chief Manager; Mrs. Babbington Brooks, Second Director and Most Worthy Assistant. This "Culture-Seeking Club" (its name) has been organized, mamma says, on my account. It is her last effort in my behalf. She has always opposed the idea of my forming an alliance with a poor, petty young lawyer; but she has grown desperate, and organized this club in order that I might, or rather she, angle for some rising young barrister with brains, and a promise of something better than the usual fulfillment—poverty. It is a positive tragedy, this being calculatingly thrown at the head of a so-called desirable young man!

Nominally I am a member of the "Culture-Seeking Club," but actually and at heart I am a Philistine out and out. This pernicious high-art and culture-seeking fever has never caught my practical soul in its relentless grasp. I love not the ways of the social æsthete. Gleams and shadows do not thrill me; sunflowers and daisies do not gratify my hungry soul—or self. Mamma says I am not sufficiently clever to tempt the brainy monster, i.e., Culture Fiend. She has taken me in hand; I am to play a role also. She has a strange power over me which I am unable to withstand. It is the fatal power which a strong mind gets over the more weak and readily yielding mind incapable of a successful resistance. She is a woman with a bad heart and a clear head. I am irresolute, full of most excellent intentions, and in effect as bad as she without the redeeming features of extraordinary cleverness. I am to play the role of a young maiden with an object in life. I am to be full of a new desire to grapple with the weighty problems of the moment. I am to be carefully coached for each club meeting; I am to be veneered with a thin skin of glittering knowledge. I am, indeed, bewildered, startled. I am made to read all of the book notices worth the reading. I am made to pore over a half dozen reviews which people in this town know absolutely nothing about—although they do call mamma the "Pioneer introducer of good Periodicals." I am superficial, but she is not. She reads each good book itself, not the criticism only. She reads it carefully, thoroughly, as few other people ever do. Then she gives me a special line of thought to follow, and I am made to go through a little combination of what I have read and of that which she has told me in her direct, compact manner. Thus does she enable me to produce a written paper which never fails to start the "Culture-Seeking Club" into a little flutter of supposed intellectual excitement. For a moment, at least, I am forgotten, or, if remembered at all, they say to one another as they sip that everlasting pale pink foam out of the "dainty art gems from Venice, you know:" "Ah, Sophia Gilder is her more clever mamma's own daughter; but, alas! she will never be such a woman as her mother—the gifted Mrs. John Robert Gilder, the life and soul of our Culture-Seeking Club!" And I piously hope to heaven that I may be saved from such a fate, and never be the woman that I know mamma to be!

My last effort was said to be a wild, jagged thing—a reaching out, a groping after. It was called "Souls Antagonistic: A Symphony." I wore an especial costume—"suited to the subject," said mamma. "A sweet poem of a gown," echoed Mrs. Babbington Brooks. When I finished my task, for it was a task, and imposed by a hard task-master, Mrs. Brooks glided, like the serpent she is, over to my seat and looked down with a false longing into my flushed face. Then in a low, somewhat musical voice, full of a false tenderness and a borrowed pathos, "May I, sweet young girl, touch with mine the precious lips which to-night have made exceeding glad my sad, sad soul with those wise and honeyed words?" She kissed me. I fairly trembled with an intense loathing. That oily-tongued creature hates me with a deadly hatred. And she fears me, for she knows that I have found her out and know her to be what she is, a most successful fashionable fraud. But it is folly to run counter to the social current. It is best to hold my peace. It is hard to do, but it can be, and it must be done. I was nervous—rebellious. I quickly fled away from that false woman and her loathsome caress. I sought rest and quiet in a distant cushioned corner of the deserted hallway. I was angry—too angry for tears. I buried my throbbing head in my hands and tried to forget my miserable existence; it was such a failure. It was so unlike that which I wished it to be, and yet I did not have the will-power to make it so. I was in one of my morbid moods. Resolutions I knew to be useless. On the morrow they would be broken. It was always, and I fear ever will be "Mother and Daughter;" never "Daughter and Mother." She always takes the lead, and I, always weak enough to follow. Was there no one to whom I could turn? No one to yield me a few kindly words to strengthen me for that constant, useless warfare against, yes, against my own mother?

As if in answer to my silent call, a footstep! My hands dropped into my lap. A man stood near. I did not look up; I knew who he was. We need hear but once the footfall of certain people and always after know instantly if they are near. A voice: "Miss Gilder, do I intrude?"

Robert Fairfield is not a man of many words. He stood by me in an attitude of sympathetic silence. He made to me an unspoken appeal. In my heart there was a grateful answer. A sad, smileless face was uplifted, and then my lips also gave answer. It was a brief story. It was my daily life of home oppression. But it was not briefly told. It ought not have been told at all; but I am human, so human. The time had reached me when somebody must know, and the time had brought with it into my sorrowful presence this same Robert Fairfield. I had barely known him. An accidental introduction, a few dances at a ball, and once—just once—a brief but serious talk at a summer-night concert. I was nothing to him; he was every thing to me; I loved him, I love him. But custom, and rightly, too, keeps a woman silent. He may know the story of my miserable home life, but he does not know—and he must never know—of the magnetic power which drew me toward him, made me tell my story, and left me with a regret and a tenderness which has closed my heart to any other who may chance to come.

VI

A Cold Gray Study.

A CASE OF COMPOUND FRACTURE.

Family Position, Wealth, and Personal Beauty are potent factors in the mysterious make-up of a social success, but they are not omnipotent. A woman may have this desirable trinity, and yet be as nothing in the social world. In fact, she may be without one, two, or all three, and yet achieve unaccountable success in a social way.

My first winter out was a flat failure. I did not lack wealth and family position, but I was awkward and not beautiful; in short, ugly. But my failure was not due to this lack of beauty, for other women far more ugly than I outshone me in every way. I did not know myself. There is the key to many a mystery. I tried to be like other women and—failed. I had a little individuality of my own, but for a time did not know it.

During that formative period I had one love-affair; at least, I did the loving and Gerome Meadows did the "affair," for with him it was nothing more. He was a man just a trifle above the average in looks and manners, intellect—every thing. He was always attractive and agreeable. He was always making a graceful effort to please, and He was—with me—always successful. He was four and twenty, yet he was a genuine boy. He was full of a boy's love and full of a boy's charming susceptibility. He was responsive to the different natures of many women. He was peculiarly a loveable man. He had diligently, conscientiously courted a goodly number of these different natured women; and they all had, at some one time, a tender leaning toward, without a positive love for, this Gerome Meadows. I am one of the number. Twice has he courted me, and twice have I refused him. First, because he did not love me; second, because I did not love him.

It was during that formative period when first he came, sent by his mother. She was a wise woman, who selected mates for her always obedient children. It was an honor to be selected—so she thought. A sacrifice—so considered by the unselected.

Gerome had for me somewhat of a circumstantial love. We had always known one another. We had been constantly thrown together. It would have been a pre-eminently proper arrangement. It would have been the alliance of the two influential and wealthy families. Therefore, his mother wished it and ordered it to be so. But an unexpected disappointment awaited her honorable ladyship. It had not occurred to her that a woman could be so foolish, so neglectful of her own interests and of her own happiness, as to refuse in marriage the hand of her precious son. My evident hesitation—for at heart I loved him—surprised and somewhat alarmed her. I was invited to dine with the family. I was treated as a prospective member. With the soup, the fish, and the heavy meats, they dealt out the virtues of their Gerome, seriously and earnestly. With the sweetmeats and the coffee they smilingly touched upon his lightest and most pardonable faults. My heart trembled for its safety. It was a well planned effective process. That night he told me of his love with the air of a man who fully expects a warm response and affirmative answer. Both were bravely denied him. I told him that he was mistaken; I told him he did not, and never would, have for me the grand passion of his life. He said—what else could he say?—"You are wrong; you deeply wrong me. You are plunging my young life, hitherto so full of hope, down into a depth of bitterness and regret from which it may never rise again!" This was said in a tragic, somewhat stilted, but impressive manner. I was touched; it was my first experience; it was the first time that I had ever heard a man talk about his broken, blasted hopes and his empty, ruined life. But it is all a very old story now. I know just how much to believe—in truth, precious little. Nothing dulls the edge of a woman's sensibilities more quickly than frequent proposals. His rejection was a relief to Gerome; he was tired of making love to women especially selected by his mother; he did not fancy the process. Thus far he had always been unsuccessful. I had told him no—but, womanlike, I did not mean it; I did not want him to go out of my life. In a vague way I was conscious of a desire to win his love, but it was during my social formative period when every thing was vague. I was unconscious of my power, yet I did not know how to accomplish my end. So Gerome left me. I was unable to keep him. But, somehow, I did not consider it a finality; it was simply an awkward pause. I hoped for his return and a renewal of his protestations. I had heard women say that if a man really cared for a woman he would easily brook the first refusal and speedily return. So I thought, but I was mistaken; he did not return.

Two moons had not waxed and waned before he was having what now I am sure must have been the one passionate love of his life. This was unexpected; a blow in the dark to my pride, and, alas! I fear, also, to my heart. It was the death-knell to my better nature. It gave direction to the formation of my social life. From that moment I am conscious of a change, and for the worse, in my hitherto attractive nature. It was attractive on account of its sweetness and its purity. It was a nature which, until then, had known nothing of the hot, passionate love of the world and of all things worldly. The formative period was gone, and with it most that was good.

It was hard to have a man court me, not exactly for my money, but because I chanced to be the nearest fruit in reach and because his crafty mother thought it would be an excellent arrangement! Especially hard, because in spite of myself I had for him a very tender feeling. My sudden loss and quick appropriation by another created within me an unjust resentment; my resentment was silent and unnoticed, but it filled me with a desire for revenge. This was the evil which crept into my life; this was the element which warped my better nature, made me grasping, worldly, hard to please. This sudden desertion placed me in a false position. People said that Gerome had never loved me—simply trifling. The friends of that other woman, a great brown-eyed beauty with the subtle charm and fatal fascination of a devil most lovely, made it appear that of course Gerome Meadows had never loved me—why should he? He cowardly held his peace and let them prattle; he was kneeling low before the shrine of his own selection; he was in open rebellion against his irate mother, who did not approve of this brown-eyed beauty.

I was left alone and let alone. But fate was not altogether against me. Death did me a friendly service. He called to her last resting-place an ancient dame who had severely played the role of grandmother and mother-in-law in our large establishment—unloved, tyrannical, unregretted. But custom bade us mourn. Then was my opportunity. Our doors were closed, but I was not idle—I studied myself, and, retrospectively, all of my friends. After several months of hard training and much serious thought I found myself ready. I had established my little theories about life, and their intricate relations to myself, and cast about carefully for something upon which I might with safety and good results practice upon. Most of my friends were tame, uninteresting, and none of them just then my lovers. I resorted to many of the little airs and tricks of social trade. I soon found myself doing quite a brisk little business in a quiet way; quite quiet, for I still wore light mourning and, of course, was not going out; we all thought it best to pay the highest possible respect to the late but unlamented grandmother. I soon gained the reputation—which I bravely sustained—of being far above the idle, cruel dealer in human hearts; I was said to be full of old-fashioned coquetry, but not even flirtatious; that I was gracious, had pleasing manners, but was the very soul of sincerity, and would never be guilty of leading men on and on. I was frequently contrasted with that devilish brown-eyed beauty—a recognized flirt, ready to sacrifice any man on her crowded altar. A man once said to me of her:

"Hush! hush! she is my friend," I said, for I knew him to be one of her rejected lovers. In a month I had gently told him nay. But he was innocent, he did not know that I had played my cards for him. He thought me cold, but he thought me kind. He advertised me in desirable places and with most desirable people. I captivated several other desirable men. It is so easy for a woman to fool a man. But I was eager to try my powers on better metal—some man of the world. A victory in such a quarter would fully establish me, and it would bring the very best men to my side, for they, like sheep, readily follow the well-known leader. And perhaps—Gerome might return.

One winter's night late, after I had gone to my room, two men called. Ordinarily I should have excused myself, but something—we call it fate, I believe—prompted me to see them. One was an old friend—a friend of the family. The other a thorough man of the world, and—I knew it intuitively—my desired victim. He was an idle, indifferent, Social Drifter. He was an artist by profession; his inclination—and his leisure—made him more of a diletante than any thing else. He was more notorious than famous. He had done nothing to give himself fame, but he had done many odd things which gave him notoriety. I have always had a secret but deep-rooted love of notoriety; it makes my blood tingle with a most delicious sensation. I knew that he could give me a great deal of quiet notoriety which was the one thing needed to make me a success—notice, notice, constant notice! The surgeon may be ever so skillful and yet if his skill be not known his instruments, rusted with disuse, will cling to their unopened cases and his hand will forget its cunning. So is it with the flirtatious maiden; she must hang forth a sign which may be read, and quickly, even by those who run.

My artist lover was not the ideal slender, pale-faced youth; he was not beautiful, he was not good looking. But perhaps I should have loved him if he had been the one, and tolerated him longer if he had been the other. He was aggressive; he was open, direct always; he was not blunt, yet he was free from the all-prevalent use of the preliminary. He loved me! And he very soon told me as much and more. He made no concealment of the fact to me, or indeed to others. He loved me, was proud of it, and glad to have all know of it. Of course this was just what I wanted, for he was not a susceptible man. He had not been in love for years. His declarations meant something, and people knew it. Thus was I brought into notice. "Who, pray, is this Mary Lee Manley?" they began to ask. "Is she the same scrawny, ugly girl who was such a flat failure in society two years ago?" "What has she done to herself? She is certainly not a beauty but she has improved, just how we are unable to say."

The men began to find me, hunted me up, and were unable to realize that I was that self same individual whom they had so diligently avoided her first season out. All the while my affair went on, systematically artistic, with that Social Drifter. No man will ever love me again as I was loved by that man. I wantonly played with his openly avowed affections. I was deliberate, artistic. I was cold. I led him on blindly. I calculated every move with mathematical accuracy. I left nothing undone. I skillfully covered my tracks. I always told him sadly, gently, that I did not love him, and that I never could. Yet I told him in such a manner that, almost breathless with a new hope, he refused to believe me, refused to listen. He was always considerate and I hated him for his consideration. He was always thoughtful, unselfish, and alas, always loving. Finally, after I had successfully played him for all that he was worth—which was a great deal to me—I told him to go. I dismissed him with scorn and without reason. Of course there had been no love in my heart for this man, but his delicate attentions were always intensely flattering. And once, just once, I might have yielded, but my family, my own judgment, every thing, was against the man, and to the end he continued to be simply a trial for my untried and newly discovered powers. And then, perhaps the more potent reason of all, Gerome Meadows gave uneasy indications of a desire to return. I, and immediately, made arrangements for the full gratification of his desire. Now was my chance. Revenge, when delayed, is all the sweeter for the delay. The world must know of my power, and through Gerome Meadows! I had waited long and patiently, but I had not wasted my time. I had gone through a severe social training, and with the best results. I was an accomplished flirt, but I was not trammeled by the always dangerous reputation—it was not known. It was simply a rumor about town that I might be somewhat of a trifler, but it had not been affirmed, and few believed the idle, unauthorized rumor; it had not even reached the ears of Gerome Meadows. He had hotly quarreled with his devilish, brown-eyed beauty. She had dismissed him after a highly tragic scene. The details were highly sensational—as told by her devoted partizans, and warmly denied by his and his outraged family (principally irate mother). They sound like the fragments of a romance written by Bulwer, and with a liberal touch of Lucile. It was the talk of the town, and many things were said, and a few were done. I was silent and hopeful. My triumph was near! She had done with him, and forever. He did not cut his handsome throat! He did not do any of the thrilling but uncomfortable things done by the usual rejected lover in the average novel—but he came back to me! Once more Gerome Meadows was my recognized lover, and the people—the fickle people—began to whisper it about (greatly to my satisfaction), that perhaps this very uncertain Mr. Meadows had always loved me from the time his sister Kate and myself were school-girls together. And furthermore, he had for a while yielded to the manifold fascinations of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. In fact, he himself told me a goodly number of just such little speeches; discoursed on the difference between real love and mere fascination. He told me that I was the only woman he ever could really love, and that he had for me a pure and warm affection. Ah! how sweet were those declarations to my ear. But not to my heart—it was closed against him.

I was not the woman he had known and halfway loved before—for I had eagerly tasted deep and long of the Egyptian flesh-pots, and I refused any other kind of social sustenance. I allowed him to believe that his tardy return had routed all rivals from the field. I forced him to fancy me to be so different from that other woman. I was, in truth, a cool, quiet reaction. I coaxed him into believing me to be full of a gentle, womanly purity. I made him blind to the fact that I was a worldly woman, conscious of and ready to unhesitatingly use my worldliness. I measured my powers aright—I could at my own sweet will allow him, force him, coax him, make him do any thing. I cunningly wove a web in and around the heart of Gerome Meadows—his rejected, torn and dejected heart. I gently soothed him into not quite a forgetfulness, yet a strong and healthful calm. He was grateful. Reactions are always dangerous; he wondered why he had not known me before as he knew me then. And while he wondered I charmed him into a new love fever. It was almost a touch of real passion. It was a skillful drawing together of the scattered ligaments of that other and violently broken love. I had labored hard, and not altogether in vain. He was mine for the taking. Would I take him?

We stood together late one afternoon in a rich oriel window which overhung the street. We were silent. The rustle of the light summer drapery filled the air with a faint but melodiously tender undertone. We looked out of the broad open window down the street. It was near the close of a superb summer's day. I was in a mood to yield. My old nature seemed to rise out of its former self. It was the one golden opportunity for the man by my side. The old tender leaning toward him came back again, stronger, more subtle than ever before. It was—for the while—love, or something very like unto love. My nature, my soul was at its utmost flow, but no one touched the flood-gates. Gerome was passive, silent. One word, a hand-touch, and I would have loved him and bound myself to him for weal or woe! Little things are every thing in a woman's life. Robert Fairfield passed by beneath the window; he briefly paused, politely looked up, lifted his hat, smiled, and—innocent of what he had done—went on his way. He had simply done what was the proper and usual thing, but his conventional smile had come into my life at a strangely opportune moment—or, was it opportune? My heart had been laid bare, the flood-gates had been touched, and they had slowly opened beneath the magic influence of a smile. Gerome Meadows had been silent. He had lost his one golden opportunity. I told him so, and sent him away. I fired upon him a volley of ridicule and contempt; my revenge was complete. He was angry, surprised, disappointed. The old wounds were torn open afresh; but he was not easily undone. He immediately made peace with his irate mother. He placed himself in her charge. He promised to try again, but under her direction and according to her selection. In a few days more he goes to the altar with this new and latest love. But, ah! Gerome, your charming, susceptible self never loved but once! Where is that devilish brown-eyed beauty? It is well that she is silent! One word from her and—but, go marry. And pray, take with you my conventional wishes for your peace and happiness. On your wedding day I will write you a dainty card and send you a trifle.

What shall it be? What would be, under the "existing circumstances," the most appropriate thing? Perhaps a little Cupid, somewhat weather-beaten and with an empty quiver might do, or, best of all, a lock of golden-brown hair stolen from the rich, heavy tresses of that devilish brown-eyed beauty. What say you? But au revoir, Gerome Meadows.

There is to be a reception—a most elegant affair—the night of the wedding. It is to be given by that now well-satisfied lady, Mrs. Gillespie Meadows, the mother of my dear, dear Gerome. My escort: Robert Fairfield. The beginning of another end! What will it be?

VII

An Olive Outline
In Shades and Shadows
Of a Clever Social Life.

Platitudes and Pleasures.

My life is different from the usual social existence of the average society girl.

I have never followed the mirage of a definite ideal.

I have never been a straggler for social honors—they have been mine without the struggling. I was born to a position. It is mine by right of inheritance. There is no strong odor of lately acquired greenbacks about our old and very respectable establishment. We live on a quiet, unfashionable street; we are somewhat apart from the world, and yet we are frequently sought—for we never seek. My grandfather was a man of excellent parts and much power in his native State. He was a well-known, important factor in the home of his adoption. His wife was celebrated for her ready wit and radiant beauty in the days when Madison was President.

My father is a great man. It is not a greatness hedged in by a local limit; he is known far and wide. His scientific researches have made him famous and his name familiar and beloved on foreign shores. Nor is he a prophet without honor even in his own country.

My mother is a rare woman. She is peculiarly a womanly woman. She constantly gives her best thought, her best effort, to the members of her family, always forgetting self; and she is full of the tenderest consideration toward other people. She never speaks ill of her neighbor; she is always true. She is always ready to discharge her duty—and more. She is tender, gentle, firm; there is not a flower which blooms more full, better rounded out, more sweet, better to look upon, or in any way more complete, more perfect than she.

I may not be great or entirely good myself, but I constantly breathe an atmosphere exhilarating and pure—made so by the presence of a great man and a good woman.

Our house is the tacitly recognized head-quarters for all kinds and conditions of clever people, and some not so clever, but who—in their way—are just as interesting:

Social Exquisites.
Social Drifters.
Briefless Barristers.
Men Who Have Risen.
Men Unsuccessful.
Sympathy Seekers.
Sympathy Finders.
Newspaper Reporters.
Newspaper Poets.
Authors Private.
Authors Public.
People Of The Army.
People Of The Navy.
Bohemians, Ragged As To Their Cuffs, Unkempt As To Their Raiment.
All Classes, Shades And Conditions Of Life.
In Short, A Strange Kaleidoscopic Circle.

To be a gentleman above question is the badge of admission. To be clever is the badge of promotion. I am the center of this intensely interesting circle. I am the focus, the magnet around which they all revolve. The bulk of the social burden rests on me. The minute but highly important details are carefully watched and skillfully righted by the good mother. I am the General Entertainer, but she is the ameliorator of those little roughnesses, those little sharp corners which cling even to unconventional people. Her clear, well-balanced mind, her gentle, yet quietly positive temperament, peculiarly fit her for this necessary but frequently neglected social work.

I am young, beautiful, untrammeled; I am full of an unlimited ambition; I am not content with the small things of life; I will have none of those precious morsels—mere fragments—which tempt and readily please my sweet sisters in Vanity Fair. Young, yet I am far enough beyond twenty to have ideas of my own. Beautiful, yet I am free from that all-conscious air which pervades the average beauty. Untrammeled, because men do not touch me—have not the power to rouse within me one tender feeling. I am interested always, but I am never susceptible. Women depend too much on their intuitions; they know so little about human nature, and less about man-nature. An intuition is oftentimes a safeguard to woman but more frequently a danger, because it creates within her too much of a servile dependence upon mere impulses and first impressions. My own intuitions are strong, but I want my knowledge to be stronger. I want to know all there is to know about men, women, and things. Women are usually like open books to me, easily read while passing on to matters more interesting—men.

A man once asked me what special impression or effect I should like to have on a man of the world who had been every where, done every thing, seen every thing, knew every thing (or at least thought so)—in fine, a man with the edge of every desire dulled, the glow of every passion cooled. My answer was simply this: I should try to give him what I constantly and without much effort gave most men—A new sensation. After all it is not such a hard thing to do. Blasé men are my especial prey; they can always be reached; their vulnerable points are many, but generally well concealed.

I have lost my early enthusiasms, but my enthusiastic manner still remains. A genuine, cynical touch has, here of late, fallen into my life. It is not an affectation. I am all the better for that touch; it makes me more of a power among my subjects. For they are in reality my subjects. In the main they are loyal. They are ready to fight for me and my cause—if I had one.

I have divided my subjects—and other men—into:

Platitudes are men who lead an honest, stupid existence. They are contented with their lot—because ignorant of any other. They are resentful of all innovations—because they are narrow-minded and full of deep ruts; they are guiltless of one clever thought; they sometimes stumble into somewhat of a clever action, but humbly deprecate the move, unconscious of having done a clever thing. Such men used to float about me in shoals of delicious stupidity. I was such a new creature! I was so different from the women they had met and always known. They were the foolish moths, I the candle-flame. They dashed blindly into danger; they fluttered about in ungraceful, ungracious misery. Finally, they would fly out and go on their little commonplace ways full of scars and petty burns, but not altogether marred—all the better for their uncomfortable but harmless burning. But nowadays it is quality not numbers which I desire, so they let me alone and are indeed astonished, bewildered, to find that I can go on, quite successfully too, and without them. Poor little fools; they are not an absolute necessity to any one—hardly to themselves.

A Platitude is a selfish creature, and never very grateful unless he expects a continuance of past favors. With him a cessation of favors means a cessation of gratitude. A limited number of the Platitude class still linger about me—principally on account of a long-contracted habit. They are content with whatever they get; they are entirely harmless, always useful in some way, and occasionally quite interesting.

A Pleasure is the direct opposite of a Platitude.

He is a clever man—clever in some one particular way. He is generally a man with many brilliant theories brilliantly brought forth. He is ready to entertain any proposition. He is ready to try any new field of human action. He is sometimes sympathetic, more frequently antagonistic. But my so-called Pleasures may not be forced under any one head which will accurately describe them as a class. Indeed, each one is a class within himself; that is my reason for using so broad a term as Pleasures: they are, in fact, Pleasures to me. They are really necessary to my happiness—not individually, but as an entirety.

Most of these men have been at some one time my lovers—at least after a fashion. Some of them are foolishly constant. They are not foolish on account of their constancy—a most commendable trait—but because of their inability to know just when to make a display of their devotion. The general run of lovers—at least mine—are distressingly inopportune. This a woman, in spite of herself, deeply resents; it is so unpardonably stupid of a sensible man not to know just when to make known his tender passion. Lovers seldom study the women they love. They labor hard and plow straight on, in spite of any timid opposition from the other quarter; they are heedless of the future; they are eager to gain the prize, and often stride far beyond—overstep the mark, which sometimes is but a mere shadow line.

Most women fail to understand why they are unable to retain their rejected lovers. To me the explanation is plain. The average woman has nothing to give her lover, when he asks the all-important question, but a few tender, meaningless words to environ her yes or no. Of course, when the answer is yes, they both feed on the thought of marriage until its consummation. But if she is forced to say no, it leaves her barren of any thing to offer in lieu of the affection demanded. She is at once destituted of resources. She has no mental reservoir out of which she may feed the man's desire, and gently but effectually turn it into an intellectual channel of her own making and directing. Therefore the man is lost to her—be he Platitude or Pleasure. She has made the fatal failure of neglecting to furnish—and at once—a sufficient amount of intellectual excitement to fascinate the man into lingering, and force him finally into a steadfast allegiance. Women ought never insult their rejected lovers by asking them for their friendship. Those things come, if come they can, of themselves. It is such an ugly mistake to insist on giving every thing a name. Emotions thrive so much better when they are nameless. We rightly label poisons, but why should we label perfumes? I love a touch of the vague and of the mysterious. It is the mystery-man who wins the woman. Direct courtships—when found in novels—read well, but they are not advisable in real life. Women like to upset well-laid plans by perverse and counter movements. A man must always let a woman do a reasonable share of the courting. I know so many men who have been courted outright by their wives—of course in a gentle, womanly way. It is often done. I have sometimes been so much interested in a man that I have fancied myself at last in love. But it is always a fleet-footed fancy. Interest and Love are not always the same—Robert Fairfield once interested me, but I never loved him.

I lead an ideal, independent life. I have no uncongenial family ties. My wishes, yea, even my whims, find instant gratification, if gratification is possible. I am just delicate enough to gain the tenderest consideration from all who know me. My little social sins gain the readiest forgiveness—from those who love me—and, in the eyes of some, grow into positive virtues. I maybe outrageously tardy for an engagement, or, without any particular reason, break it altogether, yet be understood and upheld. Platitudes do not always understand, and sometimes foolishly rebel. But it is of no use. I have a little way of making them believe that it was actually they and not I who had committed the offense. And they plead for me to forgive them!

My modes of life are somewhat peculiar—at least commonplace persons think them so. I give little lunches and dinners. I invite just whomsoever I please. Now and then, for the sake of good form, and of the good mother, I have regulation affairs, to which I bid the society regulars—the so-called first and best set, who take invitations as a matter of course, who consider themselves the social salt of the earth, who go every where, and move about the houses of other people as if they owned them. The Society Regular is a well-dressed, bad-mannered, somewhat disagreeable animal, devoid of innate delicacy, and absolutely without gratitude. They are Platitudes of the first water. They do not frequent my house. They never dine or lunch with me, my Pleasures and other Platitudes.

This regulation affair is generally and afternoon tea. I leave out my retinue, the Kaleidoscopic Circle, and tell them about it afterward. My Social Exquisites and my Social Drifters are reformed regulars—brands snatched from the burning by me. Briefless Barristers delight me very much. I have several interesting specimens in the legal line. It is interesting to have "young men of great promise" around me. True, their fees are small and few between, yet that enables them to see just that much more of me. In the old days I used to read law with them; but I have very wisely abandoned that little habit—it was tiresome.

I have one or two Men Who Have Risen. They are crude, uncultured creatures, but full of excellent points. One of them is a widower, who made his large fortune killing hogs, and afterward canning peas, tomatoes, etc. Of course he talks all the time about how he made his money. I am always an attentive listener, and I verily believe that I now have a practical knowledge of the hog business and canning interests of the country.

Men Unsuccessful look to me for new inspiration, new hope. They are always interesting. They are mental fragments flung aside by God, and by Him held down—so they tell me. They are bitter, cynical, and nearly always dyspeptic. They are near of kin to my Sympathy Seekers, who are pale, light-haired creatures, continually making appeals for sympathy. But my Sympathy Finders are very near and dear to me. They are generally silent, melancholy men. They are always bearable, unless they chance to be in love with some other woman, and make me, along with a dozen other people, their one and only confidant. Then is my life made a burden. I am privately interviewed on all occasions, the more inopportune the better. I am cornered and made a vessel for his pent-up feelings. I am told of her cruel treatment. I am told of her charms and of her faults—principally not loving him. I am worked up into a nervous state. My physical nature grants him tears, while my mental nature speculates about the sincerity of his passion and just to how many others he may have told the self-same story. Of course all this is wearing, yet it is very interesting.

Newspaper Reporters are a much-abused, downtrodden class. I have known many, and I have yet to know one unworthy of a true woman's confidence. Treat them as if they were dogs, and they will act like dogs—forever barking and biting at your heels; but treat them like human beings, with due and just consideration, and they will prove to you the wisdom of your course. Newspaper Poets gather about me in a body. I have all styles and gradations. They run the entire range from bad to fairly good; but there is one who writes a most exquisite verse. He is a tender, sympathetic, yet cynical man. Somehow he has slipped away. I was not able to hold him, nor did I wish or even dare to keep him. He is scornful of the world. He sees no reason why he should be here. He would rather not have been born—if he had been consulted. After all, I may have idealized and overrated him. One of his rival poet friends once told me that my favorite and favored verse-maker was an inveterate poker-player and a continual loser! Ergo, the cynicism and scornfulness of the world. But banish tawdry thought!

Authors Private and Authors Public haunt my salon; men who have written and printed "little things of their own" for "private circulation only;" and men who have given their books to the world at large—generally to the detriment of the world. They are full of twists and notions. They seek me to gain admiration, and they do—for I am a generous person. People Of The Army and People Of The Navy are valuable to have around, for the sake of looks and manners. They never disappoint you. A man who has been on an Arctic expedition is especially desirable. You get material for a hero at small cost. I have one Arctic Explorer, and two army men who have been stationed in Yellowstone Park, and who fought with the dead Custer. My Bohemians are my chief delight, and they are many. They give the brightest, strongest colors to my Kaleidoscopic Circle. They give me new strength to fight the little battles and calms of every-day life. They give me the halo and the aroma of a new existence. This, in brief, the retinue.

I seldom have—and less here of late than ever—a desire to marry. To me marriage would be such an uncertain thing—a risk with so little to gain. I am unwilling to relinquish my hold on the center of this charming circle. As it is I am a possibility—unfulfilled, it is true, yet a possibility—to twenty men or more. So I am unwilling to give up all of my Pleasures just for the sake of any one particular Pleasure, who might in six months, aye six days, reduce himself into a miserable Platitude. I may and I may not be a great number of things; but alas, above all, I am critical. Platitudes as Platitudes may constantly afford even considerable interest, but Platitudes do not make ideal husbands for women of my peculiar temperament and mental caliber.

I would rather be a Queen of Possibilities reigning over many hearts than a Queen of just one heart, and that one, perhaps, a most unworthy heart.