The Inner Sisterhood by Douglass Sherley et al.
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The Inner Sisterhood.
The Inner Sisterhood
T.I.S.
--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.
* * * * *
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.
[Illustration:
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--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.
[Illustration:
Miss Bella Mason.
(of the Inner Sisterhood.)]
* * * * *
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_!"