The Inner Sisterhood.

by Dougla.s.s Sherley et al.

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 pa.s.sing notice. My manners are p.r.o.nounced "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 a.s.sert 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 a.s.sured 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, coa.r.s.e 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Miss Kate Meadows (of the Inner Sisterhood)]

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--a.s.sumed, 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sionately, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Miss Bella Mason.

(of the Inner Sisterhood.)]

III

A Wild Fantasy In Garrulous Red.