A Daughter of To Day by Sara Jeannette Duncan (aka Mrs. Everard Cotes)

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A DAUGHTER OF TO-DAY
by Sara Jeannette Duncan

CHAPTER I.

Miss Kimpsey dropped into an arm-chair in Mrs. Leslie
Bell's drawing-room and crossed her small dusty feet
before her while she waited for Mrs. Leslie Bell. Sitting
there, thinking a little of how tired she was and a great
deal of what she had come to say, Miss Kimpsey enjoyed
a sense of consideration that came through the ceiling
with the muffled sound of rapid footsteps in the chamber
above. Mrs. Bell would be "down in a minute," the maid
had said. Miss Kimpsey was inclined to forgive a greater
delay, with this evidence of hasteful preparation going
on overhead. The longer she had to ponder her mission
the better, and she sat up nervously straight pondering
it, tracing with her parasol a sage-green block in the
elderly aestheticated pattern of the carpet.

Miss Kimpsey was thirty-five, with a pale, oblong
little face, that looked younger under its softening
"bang" of fair curls across the forehead. She was a
buff-and-gray-colored creature, with a narrow square chin
and narrow square shoulders, and a flatness and straightness
about her everywhere that gave her rather the effect of
a wedge, to which the big black straw hat she wore tilted
a little on one side somehow conduced. Miss Kimpsey might
have figured anywhere as a representative of the New
England feminine surplus--there was a distinct suggestion
of character under her unimportant little features--and
her profession was proclaimed in her person, apart from
the smudge of chalk on the sleeve of her jacket. She had
been born and brought up and left over in Illinois,
however, in the town of Sparta, Illinois. She had developed
her conscience there, and no doubt, if one knew it well,
it would show peculiarities of local expansion directly
connected with hot corn-bread for breakfast, as opposed
to the accredited diet of legumes upon which consciences
arrive at such successful maturity in the East. It was,
at all events, a conscience in excellent controlling
order. It directed Miss Kimpsey, for example, to teach
three times a week in the boys' night-school through the
winter, no matter how sharply the wind blew off Lake
Michigan, in addition to her daily duties at the High
School, where for ten years she had imparted instruction
in the "English branches," translating Chaucer into the
modern dialect of Sparta, Illinois, for the benefit of
Miss Elfrida Bell, among others. It had sent her on this
occasion to see Mrs. Leslie Bell, and Miss Kimpsey could
remember circumstances under which she had obeyed her
conscience with more alacrity.

"It isn't," said Miss Kimpsey, with internal discouragement,
"as if I knew her well."

Miss Kimpsey did not know Mrs. Bell at all well. Mrs.
Bell was president of the Browning Club, and Miss Kimpsey
was a member, they met, too, in the social jumble of
fancy fairs in aid of the new church organ; they had a
bowing acquaintance--that is, Mrs. Bell, had. Miss
Kimpsey's part of it was responsive, and she always gave
a thought to her boots and her gloves when she met Mrs.
Bell. It was not that the Spartan social circle which
Mrs. Bell adorned had any vulgar prejudice against the
fact that Miss Kimpsey earned her own living--more than
one of its ornaments had done the same thing--and Miss
Kimpsey's relations were all "in grain" and obviously
respectable. It was simply that none, of the Kimpseys,
prosperous or poor, had ever been in society in Sparta,
for reasons which Sparta itself would probably be unable
to define; and this one was not likely to be thrust among
the elect because she taught school and enjoyed life upon
a scale of ethics.

Mrs. Bell's drawing-room was a slight distraction to Miss
Kimpsey's nervous thoughts. The little school-teacher
had never been in it before, and it impressed her. "It's
just what you would expect her parlor to be," she said
to herself, looking furtively round. She could not help
her sense of impropriety; she had always been taught that
it was very bad manners to observe anything hi another
person's house, but she could not help looking either.
She longed to get up and read the names of the books
behind the glass doors of the tall bookcase at the other
end of the room, for the sake of the little quiver of
respectful admiration she knew they would give her; but
she did not dare to do that. Her eyes went from the
bookcase to the photogravure of Dore's "Entry into
Jerusalem," under which three Japanese dolls were arranged
with charming effect. "The Reading Magdalen" caught them
next, a colored photograph, and then a Magdalen of more
obscure origin in much blackened oils and a very deep
frame; then still another Magdalen, more modern, in
monochrome. In fact, the room was full of Magdalens, and
on an easel in the corner stood a Mater Dolorosa, lifting
up her streaming eyes. Granting the capacity to take them
seriously, they might have depressed some people, but
they elevated Miss Kimpsey.

She was equally elevated by the imitation willow pattern
plates over the door, and the painted yellow daffodils
on the panels, and the orange-colored _Revue des Deux
Mondes_ on the corner of the table, and the absence of
all bows or draperies from the furniture. Miss Kimpsey's
own parlor was excrescent with bows and draperies. "She
is above them," thought Miss Kimpsey, with a little pang.
The room was so dark that she could not see how old the
_Revue_ was; she did not know either that it was always
there, that unexceptionable Parisian periodical, with
Dante in the original and red leather, _Academy Notes_,
and the _Nineteenth Century_, all helping to furnish Mrs.
Leslie Bell's drawing-room in a manner in accordance with
her tastes; but if she had, Miss Kimpsey would have been
equally impressed. It took intellect even to select these
things. The other books, Miss Kimpsey noticed by the
numbers labelled on their backs, were mostly from the
circulating library--"David Grieve," "Cometh up as a
Flower," "The Earthly Paradise," Ruskin's "Stones of
Venice," Marie Corelli's "Romance of Two Worlds." The
mantelpiece was arranged in geometrical disorder, but it
had a gilt clock under a glass shade precisely in the
middle. When the gilt clock indicated, in a mincing way,
that Miss Kimpsey had been kept waiting fifteen minutes,
Mrs. Bell came in. She had fastened her last button and
assumed the expression appropriate to Miss Kimpsey at
the foot of the stair. She was a tall, thin woman, with
no color and rather narrow brown eyes much wrinkled round
about, and a forehead that loomed at you, and grayish
hair twisted high into a knot behind--a knot from which
a wispy end almost invariably escaped. When she smiled
her mouth curved downward, showing a number of large even
white teeth, and made deep lines which suggested various
things, according to the nature of the smile, on either
side of her face. As a rule one might take them to mean
a rather deprecating acceptance of life as it stands--they
seemed intended for that--and then Mrs. Bell would express
an enthusiasm and contradict them. As she came through
the door under the "Entry into Jerusalem," saying that
she really must apologize, she was sure it was unpardonable
keeping Miss Kimpsey waiting like this, the lines expressed
an intention of being as agreeable as possible without
committing herself to return Miss Kimpsey's visit.

"Why, no, Mrs. Bell," Miss Kimpsey said earnestly, with
a protesting buff-and-gray smile, "I didn't mind waiting
a particle--honestly I didn't. Besides, I presume it's
early for a call; but I thought I'd drop in on my way
from school." Miss Kimpsey was determined that Mrs. Bell
should have every excuse that charity could invent for
her. She sat down again, and agreed with Mrs. Bell that
they were having lovely weather, especially when they
remembered what a disagreeable fall it had been last
year; certainly this October had been just about perfect.
The ladies used these superlatives in the tone of mild
defiance that almost any statement of fact has upon
feminine lips in America. It did not seem to matter that
their observations were entirely in union.

"I thought I'd run in--" said Miss Kimpsey, screwing
herself up by the arm of her chair.

"Yes?"

"And speak to you about a thing I've been thinking a good
deal of, Mrs. Bell, this last day or two. It's about
Elfrida."

Mrs. Bell's expression became judicial. If this was a
complaint--and she was not accustomed to complaints of
Elfrida--she would be careful how she took it.

"I hope--" she began.

"Oh, you needn't worry, Mrs. Bell. It's nothing about
her conduct, and it's nothing about her school work."

"Well, that's a relief," said Mrs. Bell, as if she had
expected it would be. "But I know she's bad at figures.
The child can't help that, though; she gets it from me.
I think I ought to ask you to be lenient with her on that
account."

"I have nothing to do with the mathematical branches,
Mrs, Bell. I teach only English to the senior classes.
But I haven't heard Mr. Jackson complain of Elfrida at
all." Feeling that she could no longer keep her errand
at arm's length, Miss Kimpsey desperately closed with
it. "I've come--I hope you won't mind--Mrs. Bell, Elfrida
has been quoting Rousseau in her compositions, and I
thought you'd like to know."

"In the original?" asked Mrs. Bell, with interest. "I
didn't think her French was advanced enough for that."

"No, from a translation," Miss Kimpsey replied. "Her
sentence ran: 'As the gifted Jean Jacques Rousseau told
the world in his "Confessions"'--I forget the rest. That
was the part that struck me most. She had evidently been
reading the works of Rousseau."

"Very likely. Elfrida has her own subscription at the
library," Mrs. Bell said speculatively. "It shows a taste
in reading beyond her years, doesn't it, Miss Kimpsey?
The child is only fifteen."

"Well, _I've_ never read Rousseau," the little teacher
stated definitely. "Isn't he--atheistical, Mrs. Bell,
and improper every way?"

Mrs. Bell raised her eyebrows and pushed out her lips at
the severity of this ignorant condemnation. "He was a
genius, Miss Kimpsey--rather I should say he _is_, for
genius cannot die. He is much thought of in France. People
there make a little shrine of the house he occupied with
Madame Warens, you know."

"Oh!" returned Miss Kimpsey, "_French_ people."

"Yes. The French are peculiarly happy in the way they
sanctify genius," said Mrs. Bell vaguely, with a feeling
that she was wasting a really valuable idea.

"Well, you'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Bell. I'd always
heard you entertained about as liberal views as there
were going on any subject, but I didn't expect they
embraced Rousseau." Miss Kimpsey spoke quite meekly. "I
know we live in an age of progress, but I guess I'm not
as progressive as some."

"Many will stay behind," interrupted Mrs. Bell impartially,
"but many more will advance."

"And I thought maybe Elfrida had been reading that author
without your knowledge or approval, and that perhaps
you'd like to know."

"I neither approve nor disapprove," said Mrs. Bell,
poising her elbow on the table, her chin upon her hand,
and her judgment, as it were, upon her chin. "I think
her mind ought to develop along the lines that nature
intended; I think nature is wiser than I am"--there was
an effect of condescending explanation here--"and I don't
feel justified in interfering. I may be wrong--"

"Oh no!" said Miss Kimpsey.

"But Elfrida's reading has always been very general. She
has a remarkable mind, if you will excuse my saying so;
it devours everything. I can't tell you _when_ she learned
to read, Miss Kimpsey--it seemed to come to her. She has
often reminded me of what you see in the biographies of
distinguished people about their youth. There are really
a great many points of similarity sometimes. I shouldn't
be surprised if Elfrida did anything. I wish _I_ had
had her opportunities!"

"She's growing very good-looking," remarked Miss Kimpsey.

"It's an interesting face," Mrs. Bell returned. "Here
is her last photograph. It's full of soul, I think. She
posed herself," Mrs. Bell added unconsciously.

It was a cabinet photograph of a girl whose eyes looked
definitely out of it, dark, large, well shaded, full of
a desire to be beautiful at once expressed and fulfilled.
The nose was a trifle heavily blocked, but the mouth had
sensitiveness and charm. There was a heaviness in the
chin, too, but the free springing curve of the neck
contradicted that, and the symmetry of the face defied
analysis. It was turned a little to one side, wistfully;
the pose and the expression suited each other perfectly.

"_Full_ of soul!" responded Miss Kimpsey. "She takes
awfully well, doesn't she! It reminds me--it reminds me
of pictures I've seen of Rachel, the actress, really it
does."

"I'm afraid Elfrida has no talent _that_ way." Mrs.
Bell's accent was quite one of regret.

"She seems completely wrapped up in her painting just
now," said Miss Kimpsey, with her eyes still on the
photograph.

"Yes; I often wonder what her career will be, and sometimes
it comes home to me that it must be art. The child can't
help it--she gets it straight from me. But there were no
art classes in my day." Mrs. Bell's tone implied a large
measure of what the world had lost in consequence. "Mr.
Bell doesn't agree with me about Elfrida's being predestined
for art," she went on, smiling; "his whole idea is that
she'll marry like other people."

"Well, if she goes on improving in looks at the rate she
has, you'll find it difficult to _prevent_, I should
think, Mrs. Bell." Miss Kimpsey began to wonder at her
own temerity in staying so long. "Should you be opposed
to it?"

"Oh, I shouldn't be _opposed_ to it exactly. I won't say
I don't expect it. I think she might do better, myself;
but I dare say matrimony will swallow her up as it does
everybody--almost everybody--else." A finer ear than Miss
Kimpsey's might have heard in this that to overcome Mrs.
Bell's objections matrimony must take a very attractive
form indeed, and that she had no doubt it would. Elfrida's
instructress did not hear it; she might have been less
overcome with the quality of these latter-day sentiments
if she had. Little Miss Kimpsey, whom matrimony had not
swallowed up, had risen to go. "Oh, I'm sure the most
gifted couldn't do _better_!" she said, hardily, in
departing, with a blush that turned her from buff-and-gray
to brick color.

Mrs. Bell picked up the _Revue_ after she had gone, and
read three lines of a paper on the climate and the soil
of Poland. Then she laid it down again at the same angle
with the corner of the table which it had described
before.

"Rousseau!" she said aloud to herself. "_C'est un peu
fort mais--_" and paused, probably for maturer reflection
upon the end of her sentence.

CHAPTER II.

"Leslie." said Mrs. Bell, making the unnecessary feminine
twist to get a view of her back hair from the mirror with
a hand-glass, "aren't you _delighted?_ Try to be candid
with yourself now, and own that she's tremendously
improved."

It would not have occurred to anybody but Mrs. Bell to
ask Mr. Leslie Bell to be candid with himself. Candor
was written in large letters all over Mr. Leslie Bell's
plain, broad countenance. So was a certain obstinacy,
not of will, but of adherence to prescribed principles,
which might very well have been the result of living for
twenty years with Mrs. Leslie Bell. Otherwise he was a
thick-set man with an intelligent bald head, a fresh-colored
complexion, and a well-trimmed gray beard. Mr. Leslie
Bell looked at life with logic, or thought he did, and
took it with ease, in a plain way. He was known to be a
good man of business, with a leaning toward generosity,
and much independence of opinion. It was not a custom
among election candidates to ask Leslie Bell for his
vote. It was pretty well understood that nothing would
influence it except his "views," and that none of the
ordinary considerations in use with refractory electors
would influence his views. He was a man of large,
undemonstrative affections, and it was a matter of private
regret with him that there should have been only one
child, and that a daughter, to bestow them upon. His
simplicity of nature was utterly beyond the understanding
of his wife, who had been building one elaborate theory
after another about him ever since they had been married,
conducting herself in mysterious accordance, but had
arrived accurately only at the fact that he preferred
two lumps of sugar in his tea.

Mr. Bell did not allow his attention to be taken from
the intricacies of his toilet by his wife's question
until she repeated it.

"Aren't you charmed with Elfrida, Leslie? Hasn't
Philadelphia improved her beyond your wildest dreams?"

Mr. Bell reflected. "You know I don't think Elfrida has
ever been as pretty as she was when she was five years
old, Maggie."

"_Do_ say Margaret," interposed Mrs. Bell plaintively.
She had been suffering from this for twenty years.

"It's of no use, my dear; I never remember unless there's
company present. I was going to say Elfrida had certainly
grown. She's got to her full size now, I should think,
and she dwarfs you, moth--Margaret."

Mrs. Bell looked at him with tragic eyes. "Do you see no
more in her than _that?_" she exclaimed.

"She looks well, I admit she looks well. She seems to
have got a kind of style in Philadelphia."

"_Style!_"

"I don't mean fashionable style--a style of her own; and
according to the professors, neither the time nor the
money has been wasted. But she's been a long year away,
Maggie. It's been considerably dull without her for you
and me. I hope she won't take it into her head to want
to leave home again."

"If it should be necessary to her plan of life--"

"It won't be necessary. She's nineteen now, and I'd like
to see her settle down here in Sparta, and the sooner
the better. Her painting will be an interest for her all
her life, and if ever she should be badly off she can
teach. That was my idea in giving her the training."

"Settle down in _Sparta!_" Mrs. Bell repeated, with a
significant curve of her superior lip. "Why, who is
there--"

"Lots of people, though it isn't for me to name them,
nor for you either, my dear. But speaking generally,
there isn't a town of its size in the Union with a finer
crop of go-ahead young men in it than Sparta."

Mrs. Bell was leaning against the inside shutter of their
bedroom window, looking out, while she waited for her
husband. As she looked, one of Sparta's go-ahead young
men, glancing up as he passed in the street below and
seeing her there behind the panes, raised his hat.

"Heavens, _no!_" said Mrs. Bell. "You don't understand,
Leslie."

"Perhaps not," Mr. Bell returned. "We must get that
packing-case opened after dinner. I'm anxious to see the
pictures." Mr. Bell put the finishing touches to his
little finger-nail and briskly pocketed his penknife.
"Shall we go downstairs now?" he suggested. "Fix your
brooch, mother; it's just on the drop."

Elfrida Bell had been a long year away--a year that seemed
longer to her than it possibly could to anybody in Sparta,
as she privately reflected when her father made this
observation for the second and the third time. Sparta
accounted for its days chiefly in ledgers, the girl
thought; there was a rising and a going down of the sun,
a little eating and drinking and speedy sleeping, a little
discussion of the newspapers. Sparta got over its days
by strides and stretches, and the strides and stretches
seemed afterward to have been made over gaps and gulfs
full of emptiness. The year divided itself and got its
painted leaves, its white silences, its rounding buds,
and its warm fragrances from the winds of heaven, and so
there were four seasons in Sparta, and people talked of
an early spring or a late fall; but Elfrida told herself
that time had no other division, and the days no other
color. Elfrida seemed to be unaware of the opening of
the new South Ward Episcopal Methodist Church. She
overlooked the municipal elections too, the plan for
overhauling the town waterworks, and the reorganization
of the public library. She even forgot the Browning Club.

Whereas--though Elfrida would never have said "whereas"
--the days in Philadelphia had been long and full. She
had often lived a week in one of them, and there had been
hours that stretched themselves over an infinity of life
and feeling, as Elfrida saw it, looking back. In reality,
her experience had been usual enough and poor enough;
but it had fed her in a way, and she enriched it with
her imagination, and thought, with keen and sincere pity,
that she had been starved till then. The question that
preoccupied her when she moved out of the Philadelphia
station in the Chicago train was that of future sustenance.
It was under the surface of her thoughts when she kissed
her father and mother and was made welcome home; it raised
a mute remonstrance against Mr. Bell's cheerful prophecy
that she would be content to stay in Sparta for a while
now, and get to know the young society; it neutralized
the pleasure of the triumphs in the packing-box. Besides,
their real delight had all been exhaled at the students'
exhibition in Philadelphia, when Philadelphia looked at
them. The opinion of Sparta, Elfrida thought, was not a
matter for anxiety. Sparta would be pleased in advance.

Elfrida allowed one extenuating point in her indictment
of Sparta: the place had produced her as she was at
eighteen, when they sent her to Philadelphia. This was
only half conscious--she was able to formulate it later
--but it influenced her sincere and vigorous disdain of
the town correctively, and we may believe that it operated
to except her father and mother from the general wreck
of her opinion to a greater extent than any more ordinary
feeling did. It was not in the least a sentiment of
affection for her birthplace; if she could have chosen
she would very much have preferred to be born somewhere
else. It was simply an important qualifying circumstance.
Her actual and her ideal self, her most mysterious and
interesting self, had originated in the air and the
opportunities of Sparta. Sparta had even done her the
service of showing her that she was unusual, by contrast,
and Elfrida felt that she ought to be thankful to somebody
or something for being as unusual as she was. She had
had a comfortable, spoiled feeling of gratitude for it
before she went to Philadelphia, which had developed in
the meantime into a shudder at the mere thought of what
it meant to be an ordinary person. "I could bear not to
be charming," said she sometimes to her Philadelphia
looking-glass, "but I could _not_ bear not to be clever."

She said "clever," but she meant more than that. Elfrida
Bell believed that something other than cleverness entered
into her personal equation. She looked sometimes into
her very soul to see what, but the writing there was in
strange characters that faded under her eyes, leaving
her uncomprehending but tranced. Meanwhile art spoke to
her from all sides, finding her responsive and more
responsive. Some books, some pictures, some music brought
her a curious exalted sense of double life. She could
not talk about it at all, but she could slip out into
the wet streets on a gusty October evening, and walk
miles exulting in it, and in the light on the puddles
and in the rain on her face, coming back, it must be
admitted, with red cheeks and an excellent appetite. It
led her into strange absent silences and ways of liking
to be alone, which gratified her mother and worried her
father. When Elfrida burned the gas of Sparta late in
her own room, it was always her father who saw the light
under the door, and who came and knocked and told her
that it was after eleven, and high time she was in bed.
Mrs. Bell usually protested. "How can the child reach
any true development," she asked, "if you interfere with
her like this?" to which Mr. Bell usually replied that
whatever she developed, he didn't want it to be headaches
and hysteria. Elfrida invariably answered, "Yes, papa,"
with complete docility; but it must be said that Mr. Bell
generally knocked in vain, and the more perfect the
submission of the daughterly reply the later the gas
would be apt to burn. Elfrida was always agreeable to
her father. So far as she thought of it she was
appreciatively fond of him, but the relation pleased her,
it was one that could be so charmingly sustained. For
already out of the other world she walked in--the world
of strange kinships and insights and recognitions, where
she saw truth afar off and worshipped, and as often met
falsehood in the way and turned raptly to follow--the
girl had drawn a vague and many-shaped idea of artistic
living which embraced the filial attitude among others
less explicable. It gave her pleasure to do certain things
in certain ways. She stood and sat and spoke, and even
thought, at times, with a subtle approval and enjoyment
of her manner of doing it. It was not actual artistic
achievement, but it was the sort of thing that entered
her imagination, as such achievement's natural corollary.
Her self-consciousness was a supreme fact of her
personality; it began earlier than any date she could
remember, and it was a channel of the most unfailing and
intense satisfaction to her from many sources. One was
her beauty, for she had developed an elusive beauty that
served her moods. When she was dull she called herself
ugly--unfairly, though her face lost tremendously in
value then--and her general dislike of dullness and
ugliness became particular and acute in connection with
herself. It is not too much to say that she took a keen
enjoying pleasure in the flush upon her own cheek and
the light in her own eyes no less than in the inward
sparkle that provoked it--an honest delight, she would
not have minded confessing it. Her height, her symmetry,
her perfect abounding health were separate joys to her;
she found absorbing and critical interest in the very
figment of her being. It was entirely preposterous that
a young woman should kneel at an attic window in a flood
of spring moonlight, with, her hair about the shoulders
of her nightgown, repeating Rossetti to the wakeful
budding garden, especially as it was for herself she did
it--nobody else saw her. She knelt there partly because
of a vague desire to taste the essence of the spring and
the garden and Rossetti at once, and partly because she
felt the romance of the foolish situation. She knew of
the shadow her hair made around her throat, and that her
eyes were glorious in the moonlight. Going back to bed,
she paused before the looking-glass and wafted a kiss,
as she blew the candle out, to the face she saw there.
It was such a pretty face, and so full of tire spirit
of. Rossetti and the moonlight, that she couldn't help
it. Then she slept, dreamlessly, comfortably, and late;
and in the morning she had never taken cold.

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