Mrs.
Westmacott's great meeting for
the enfranchisement of woman
had passed over, and it had been
a triumphant success. All the
maids and matrons of the southern
suburbs had rallied at her summons,
there was an influential platform
with Dr. Balthazar Walker in
the chair, and Admiral Hay Denver
among his more prominent supporters.
One benighted male had come in
from the outside darkness and
had jeered from the further end
of the hall, but he had been
called to order by the chair,
petrified by indignant glances
from the unenfranchised around
him, and finally escorted to
the door by Charles Westmacott.
Fiery resolutions were passed,
to be forwarded to a large number
of leading statesmen, and the
meeting broke up with the conviction
that a shrewd blow had been struck
for the cause of woman.
But there was one woman at
least to whom the meeting and
all that was connected with it
had brought anything but pleasure.
Clara Walker watched with a heavy
heart the friendship and close
intimacy which had sprung up
between her father and the widow.
From week to week it had increased
until no day ever passed without
their being together. The coming
meeting had been the excuse for
these continual interviews, but
now the meeting was over, and
still the Doctor would refer
every point which rose to the
judgment of his neighbor. He
would talk, too, to his two daughters
of her strength of character,
her decisive mind, and of the
necessity of their cultivating
her acquaintance and following
her example, until at last it
had become his most common topic
of conversation.
All this might have passed
as merely the natural pleasure
which an elderly man might take
in the society of an intelligent
and handsome woman, but there
were other points which seemed
to Clara to give it a deeper
meaning. She could not forget
that when Charles Westmacott
had spoken to her one night he
had alluded to the possibility
of his aunt marrying again. He
must have known or noticed something
before he would speak upon such
a subject. And then again Mrs.
Westmacott had herself said that
she hoped to change her style
of living shortly and take over
completely new duties. What could
that mean except that she expected
to marry? And whom? She seemed
to see few friends outside their
own little circle. She must have
alluded to her father. It was
a hateful thought, and yet it
must be faced.
One evening the Doctor had
been rather late at his neighbor's.
He used to go into the Admiral's
after dinner, but now he turned
more frequently in the other
direction. When he returned Clara
was sitting alone in the drawing-room
reading a magazine. She sprang
up as he entered, pushed forward
his chair, and ran to fetch his
slippers.
"You are looking a little pale,
dear," he remarked.
"Oh,
no, papa, I
am very well."
"All
well with Harold?"
"Yes.
His partner,
Mr. Pearson,
is still away, and he is doing
all the work."
"Well
done. He is
sure to succeed.
Where is Ida?"
"In
her room, I
think."
"She
was with Charles
Westmacott
on the lawn
not very long
ago.
He seems very fond of her. He
is not very bright, but I think
he will make her a good husband."
"I
am sure of
it, papa. He
is very manly and reliable."
"Yes,
I should think
that he is
not the sort
of man who
goes
wrong. There is nothing hidden
about him. As to his brightness,
it really does not matter, for
his aunt, Mrs. Westmacott, is
very rich, much richer than you
would think from her style of
living, and she has made him
a handsome provision."
"I
am glad of
that."
"It
is between
ourselves.
I am her trustee,
and so I know
something of her arrangements.
And when are you going to marry,
Clara?"
"Oh,
papa, not for
some time yet.
We have not
thought of
a
date.
"Well,
really, I don't
know that there
is any reason
for
delay. He has a competence and
it increases yearly. As long
as you are quite certain that
your mind is made up----"
"Oh,
papa!"
"Well, then, I really do not
know why there should be any
delay. And Ida, too, must be
married within the next few months.
Now, what I want to know is what
I am to do when my two little
companions run away from me." He
spoke lightly, but his eyes were
grave as he looked questioningly
at his daughter.
"Dear
papa, you shall
not be alone.
It will be
years before
Harold and I think of marrying,
and when we do you must come
and live with us."
"No,
no, dear. I
know that you
mean what you
say, but I
have seen something of the world,
and I know that such arrangements
never answer. There cannot be
two masters in a house, and yet
at my age my freedom is very
necessary to me."
"But
you would be
completely
free."
"No,
dear, you cannot
be that if
you are a guest
in another
man's house. Can you suggest
no other alternative?"
"That
we remain with
you."
"No,
no. That is
out of the
question. Mrs.
Westmacott
herself
says that a woman's first duty
is to marry. Marriage, however,
should be an equal partnership,
as she points out. I should wish
you both to marry, but still
I should like a suggestion from
you, Clara, as to what I should
do."
"But
there is no
hurry, papa.
Let us wait. I do not intend
to marry yet."
Doctor
Walker looked
disappointed. "Well,
Clara, if you can suggest nothing,
I suppose that I must take the
initiative myself," said he.
"Then what do you propose,
papa?" She braced herself as
one who sees the blow which is
about to fall.
He
looked at her
and hesitated. "How
like your poor dear mother you
are, Clara!" he cried. "As I
looked at you then it was as
if she had come back from the
grave." He stooped towards her
and kissed her. "There, run away
to your sister, my dear, and
do not trouble yourself about
me. Nothing is settled yet, but
you will find that all will come
right."
Clara went upstairs sad at
heart, for she was sure now that
what she had feared was indeed
about to come to pass, and that
her father was going to take
Mrs. Westmacott to be his wife.
In her pure and earnest mind
her mother's memory was enshrined
as that of a saint, and the thought
that any one should take her
place seemed a terrible desecration.
Even worse, however, did this
marriage appear when looked at
from the point of view of her
father's future. The widow might
fascinate him by her knowledge
of the world, her dash, her strength,
her unconventionality--all these
qualities Clara was willing to
allow her--but she was convinced
that she would be unendurable
as a life companion. She had
come to an age when habits are
not lightly to be changed, nor
was she a woman who was at all
likely to attempt to change them.
How would a sensitive man like
her father stand the constant
strain of such a wife, a woman
who was all decision, with no
softness, and nothing soothing
in her nature? It passed as a
mere eccentricity when they heard
of her stout drinking, her cigarette
smoking, her occasional whiffs
at a long clay pipe, her horsewhipping
of a drunken servant, and her
companionship with the snake
Eliza, whom she was in the habit
of bearing about in her pocket.
All this would become unendurable
to her father when his first
infatuation was past. For his
own sake, then, as well as for
her mother's memory, this match
must be prevented. And yet how
powerless she was to prevent
it! What could she do? Could
Harold aid her? Perhaps. Or Ida?
At least she would tell her sister
and see what she could suggest.
Ida was in her boudoir, a tiny
little tapestried room, as neat
and dainty as herself, with low
walls hung with Imari plaques
and with pretty little Swiss
brackets bearing blue Kaga ware,
or the pure white Coalport china.
In a low chair beneath a red
shaded standing lamp sat Ida,
in a diaphanous evening dress
of mousseline de soie, the ruddy
light tinging her sweet childlike
face, and glowing on her golden
curls. She sprang up as her sister
entered, and threw her arms around
her.
"Dear old Clara! Come and sit
down here beside me. I have not
had a chat for days. But, oh,
what a troubled face! What is
it then?" She put up her forefinger
and smoothed her sister's brow
with it.
Clara
pulled up a
stool, and
sitting down
beside her
sister,
passed her arm round her waist. "I
am so sorry to trouble you, dear
Ida," she said. "But I do not
know what to do.
"There's
nothing the
matter with
Harold?"
"Oh,
no, Ida."
"Nor
with my Charles?"
"No,
no."
Ida
gave a sigh
of relief. "You
quite frightened me, dear," said
she. "You can't think how solemn
you look. What is it, then?"
"I
believe that
papa intends
to ask Mrs. Westmacott to marry
him."
Ida
burst out laughing. "What
can have put such a notion into
your head, Clara?"
"It
is only too
true, Ida.
I suspected
it before,
and he
himself almost told me as much
with his own lips to-night. I
don't think that it is a laughing
matter."
"Really,
I could not
help it. If
you had told
me that those
two dear old ladies opposite,
the Misses Williams, were both
engaged, you would not have surprised
me more. It is really too funny."
"Funny,
Ida! Think
of any one
taking the
place of dear
mother.
But
her sister
was of a more
practical and less sentimental
nature. "I am sure," said she, "that
dear mother would like papa to
do whatever would make him most
happy. We shall both be away,
and why should papa not please
himself?"
"But
think how unhappy
he will be.
You know how
quiet he is
in his ways, and how even a little
thing will upset him. How could
he live with a wife who would
make his whole life a series
of surprises? Fancy what a whirlwind
she must be in a house. A man
at his age cannot change his
ways. I am sure he would be miserable."
Ida's
face grew graver,
and she pondered
over the matter
for a few minutes. "I really
think that you are right as usual," said
she at last. "I admire Charlie's
aunt very much, you know, and
I think that she is a very useful
and good person, but I don't
think she would do as a wife
for poor quiet papa."
"But
he will certainly
ask her, and
I really think
that
she intends to accept him. Then
it would be too late to interfere.
We have only a few days at the
most. And what can we do? How
can we hope to make him change
his mind?"
Again
Ida pondered. "He has
never tried what it is to live
with a strong-minded woman," said
she. "If we could only get him
to realize it in time. Oh, Clara,
I have it; I have it! Such a
lovely plan!" She leaned back
in her chair and burst into a
fit of laughter so natural and
so hearty that Clara had to forget
her troubles and to join in it.
"Oh, it is beautiful!" she
gasped at last. "Poor papa! What
a time he will have! But it's
all for his own good, as he used
to say when we had to be punished
when we were little. Oh, Clara,
I do hope your heart won't fail
you.
"I
would do anything
to save him,
dear."
"That's
it. You must
steel yourself
by that thought."
"But
what is your
plan?"
"Oh,
I am so proud
of it. We will
tire him for
ever of the
widow, and of all emancipated
women. Let me see, what are Mrs.
Westmacott's main ideas? You
have listened to her more than
I. Women should attend less to
household duties. That is one,
is it not?"
"Yes,
if they feel
they have capabilities
for higher
things.
Then she thinks that every woman
who has leisure should take up
the study of some branch of science,
and that, as far as possible,
every woman should qualify herself
for some trade or profession,
choosing for preference those
which have been hitherto monopolized
by men. To enter the others would
only be to intensify the present
competition."
" Quite so. That is glorious!" Her
blue eyes were dancing with mischief,
and she clapped her hands in
her delight. "What else? She
thinks that whatever a man can
do a woman should be allowed
to do also--does she not?"
"She
says so."
"And
about dress?
The short skirt,
and the divided
skirt
are what she believes in?"
"Yes."
"We
must get in
some cloth."
"Why?"
"We
must make ourselves
a dress each.
A brand-new,
enfranchised,
emancipated dress, dear. Don't
you see my plan? We shall act
up to all Mrs. Westmacott's views
in every respect, and improve
them when we can. Then papa will
know what it is to live with
a woman who claims all her rights.
Oh, Clara, it will be splendid."
Her
milder sister
sat speechless
before so daring a scheme. "But
it would be wrong, Ida!" she
cried at last.
"Not
a bit. It is
to save him."
"I
should not
dare."
"Oh,
yes, you would.
Harold will
help. Besides,
what other
plan have you?"
"I
have none."
"Then
you must take
mine."
"Yes.
Perhaps you
are right.
Well, we do
it for a good
motive.
"You
will do it?"
"I
do not see
any other way."
"You
dear good Clara!
Now I will
show you what
you are to
do. We must not begin too suddenly.
It might excite suspicion."
"What
would you do,
then?"
"To-morrow
we must go
to Mrs. Westmacott,
and sit at
her feet
and learn all her views."
"What
hypocrites
we shall feel!"
"We
shall be her
newest and
most enthusiastic
converts. Oh,
it will be such fun, Clara! Then
we shall make our plans and send
for what we want, and begin our
new life."
"I
do hope that
we shall not
have to keep it up long. It seems
so cruel to dear papa.
"Cruel!
To save him!"
"I
wish I was
sure that we
were doing right. And yet what
else can we do? Well, then, Ida,
the die is cast, and we will
call upon Mrs. Westmacott tomorrow. |