Pansy and Mrs. C.M. Livingston - Divers Women

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DIVERS WOMEN

BY

PANSY AND MRS. C.M. LIVINGSTON

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK

THE PANSY BOOKS.

_LIST OF THE SERIES_.

1. FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA.
2. LITTLE FISHERS & THEIR NETS.
3. THREE PEOPLE.
4. ECHOING AND RE-ECHOING.
5. CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS.
6. DIVERS WOMEN.
7. SPUN FROM FACT.
8. THE CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME.
9. THE POCKET MEASURE.
10. JULIA RIED.
11. WISE AND OTHERWISE.
12. THE KING'S DAUGHTER.
13. LINKS IN REBECCA'S LIFE.
14. INTERRUPTED.
15. THE MASTER HAND.
16. AN ENDLESS CHAIN.
17. ESTER RIED.
18. ESTER RIED YET SPEAKING.
19. THE MAN OF THE HOUSE.
20. RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES.
21. HOUSEHOLD PUZZLES.
22. MABEL WYNN; OR, THOSE BOYS.
23. MODERN PROPHETS.
24. THE RANDOLPHS.
25. MRS. SOLOMON SMITH LOOKING ON.
26. FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS.
27. A NEW GRAFT ON THE FAMILY TREE.

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.

CONTENTS.

SUNDAY FRACTURES:
CHAP. I. --SOME PEOPLE WHO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE.
CHAP. II. --SOME PEOPLE WHO FORGOT THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT.
CHAP. III. --SOME PEOPLE WHO FORGOT THE EVER-LISTENING EAR.
CHAP. IV. --SOME PEOPLE WHO WERE FALSE FRIENDS.

NEW NERVES.

"HULDY."

WHERE HE SPENT CHRISTMAS.

VIDA.

HOW A WOMAN WAS CONVERTED TO MISSIONS.

MRS. LEWIS' BOOK:
PART I. --THE BOOK
PART II. --THE BOOK OPEN

BUCKWHEAT CAKES

FAITH AND GASOLINE

BENJAMIN'S WIFE

SUNDAY FRACTURES.

CHAPTER I.

SOME PEOPLE WHO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE.

An elegant temple it was, this modern one of which I write--modern in
all its appointments. Carpets, cushions, gas fixtures, organ, pulpit
furnishings, everything everywhere betokened the presence of wealth
and taste. Even the vases that adorned the marble-topped
flower-stands on either side of the pulpit wore a foreign air, and in
design and workmanship were unique. The subdued light that stole
softly in through the stained-glass windows produced the requisite
number of tints and shades on the hair and whiskers and noses of the
worshippers. The choir was perched high above common humanity, and
praised God for the congregation in wonderful voices, four in number,
the soprano of which cost more than a preacher's salary, and soared
half an octave higher than any other voice in the city. To be sure
she was often fatigued, for she frequently danced late of a Saturday
night. And occasionally the grand tenor was disabled from appearing
at all for morning service by reason of the remarkably late hour and
unusual dissipation of the night before. But then he was all right by
evening, and, while these little episodes were unfortunate, they had
to be borne with meekness and patience; for was he not the envy of
three rival churches, any one of which would have increased his
salary if they could have gotten him?

The soft, pure tones of the organ were filling this beautiful church
on a certain beautiful morning, and the worshippers were treading the
aisles, keeping step to its melody as they made their way to their
respective pews, the heavy carpeting giving back no sound of
footfall, and the carefully prepared inner doors pushing softly
back into place, making no jar on the solemnities of the
occasion--everything was being done "decently and in order"--not only
decently, but exquisitely.

A strange breaking in upon all this propriety and dignity was the
sermon that morning. Even the text had a harsh sound, almost
startling to ears which had been lifted to the third heaven of
rapture by the wonderful music that floated down to them.

"Take heed what ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you." What a
harsh text!--Wasn't it almost rough? Why speak of fear in the midst
of such melody of sight and sound? Why not hear of the beauties of
heaven, the glories of the upper temple, the music of the heavenly
choir--something that should lift the thoughts away from earth and
_doing_ and fear? This was the unspoken greeting that the text
received. And the sermon that followed! What had gotten possession of
the preacher! He did not observe the proprieties in the least! He
dragged stores, and warehouses, and common workshops, even the meat
markets and vegetable stalls, into that sermon! Nay, he penetrated to
the very inner sanctuary of home--the dressing-room and the
kitchen--startling the ear with that strange-sounding sentence: "Take
heed what ye do." According to him religion was not a thing of music,
and flowers, and soft carpets, and stained lights, and sentiment. It
had to do with other days than Sunday, with other hours than those
spent in softly cushioned pews. It meant _doing_, and it meant taking
heed to each little turn and word and even thought, remembering
always that the fear of the Lord was the thing to be dreaded. What a
solemn matter that made of life! Who wanted to be so trammelled! It
would be fearful. As for the minister, he presented every word of his
sermon as though he felt it thrilling to his very soul. And so he
did. If you had chanced to pass the parsonage on that Saturday
evening which preceded its delivery--passed it as late as
midnight--you would have seen a gleam of light from his study
window. Not that he was so late with his Sabbath preparation--at
least the _written_ preparation. It was that he was on his knees,
pleading with an unutterable longing for the souls committed to his
charge--pleading that the sermon just laid aside might be used to the
quickening and converting of some soul--pleading that the Lord would
come into his vineyard and see if there were not growing some shoots
of love and faith and trust that would bring harvest.

It was not that minister's custom to so infringe on the sleeping
hours of Saturday night--time which had been given to his body, in
order that it might be vigorous, instead of clogging the soul with
the dullness of its weight. But there are _special_ hours in the life
of most men, and this Saturday evening was a special time to him. He
felt like wrestling for the blessing--felt in a faint degree some of
the persistency of the servant of old who said: "I will not let thee
go, except thou bless me." Hence the special unction of the morning.
Somewhat of the same spirit had possessed him during the week, hence
the special fervour of the sermon. With his soul glowing then in
every sentence, he presented his thoughts to the people. How did they
receive them? Some listened with the thoughtful look on their faces
that betokened hearts and consciences stirred. There were those who
yawned, and thought the sermon unusually long and prosy. Now and then
a gentleman more thoughtless or less cultured than the rest snapped
his watch-case in the very face of the speaker, by accident, let us
hope. A party of young men, who sat under the gallery, exchanged
notes about the doings of the week, and even passed a few slips of
paper to the young ladies from the seminary, who sat in front of
them. The paper contained nothing more formidable than a few
refreshments in the shape of caramels with which to beguile the
tedious-ness of the hour. There was a less cultured party of young
men and women who unceremoniously whispered at intervals through the
entire service, and some of the whispers were so funny that
occasionally a head went down and the seat shook, as the amused party
endeavoured, or _professed_ to endeavour, to subdue untimely
laughter. I presume we have all seen those persons who deem it a mark
of vivacity, or special brilliancy, to be unable to control their
risibles in certain places. It is curious how often the seeming
attempt is, in a glaring way, nothing but _seeming_. These parties
perhaps did not break the Sabbath any more directly than the
note-writers behind them, but they certainly did it more noisily and
with more marked evidence of lack of ordinary culture. The leader of
the choir found an absorbing volume in a book of anthems that had
been recently introduced. He turned the leaves without regard to
their rustle, and surveyed piece after piece with a critical eye,
while the occasionally peculiar pucker of his lips showed that he was
trying special ones, and that just enough sense of decorum remained
with him to prevent the whistle from being audible. Then there were,
dotted all over the great church, heads that nodded assent to the
minister at regular intervals; but the owners of the heads had closed
eyes and open mouths, and the occasional breathing that suggested a
coming snore was marked enough to cause nervous nudges from
convenient elbows, and make small boys who were looking on chuckle
with delight.

And thus, surrounded by all these different specimens of humanity,
the pastor strove to declare the whole counsel of God, mindful of the
rest of the charge, "whether men will hear or whether they will
forbear." He could not help a half-drawn breath of thanksgiving that
_that_ part was not for him to manage. If he had had their duty as
well as his own to answer for what _would_ have become of him!

Despite the looking at watches, the cases of which would make an
explosive noise, and the audible yawning that occasionally sounded
near him, the minister was enabled to carry his sermon through to the
close, helped immeasurably by those aforesaid earnest eyes that never
turned their gaze from his face, nor let their owners' attention flag
for an instant. Then followed the solemn hymn, than which there is
surely no more solemn one in the English language. Imagine that
congregation after listening, or professing to listen, to such a
sermon as I have suggested, from such a text as I have named,
standing and hearing rolled forth from magnificent voices such words
as these:--

"In all my vast concerns with thee,
In vain my soul would try
To shun thy presence, Lord, or flee
The notice of thine eye.

"My thoughts lie open to the Lord
Before they're formed within;
And ere my lips pronounce the word
He knows the sense I mean.

"Oh, wondrous knowledge, deep and high!
Where can a creature hide!
Within thy circling arm I lie,
Inclosed on every side."

Follow that with the wonderful benediction. By the way, did you ever
think of that benediction--of its fulness? "The _grace_ of our Lord
Jesus Christ, the _love_ of God, the _communion_ of the Holy Ghost,
be with you _all_. Amen." Following that earnest amen--nay, _did_ it
follow, or was it blended with the last syllable of that word, so
nearly that word seemed swallowed in it--came the roll of that
twenty-thousand-dollar organ. What did the organist select to follow
that sermon, that hymn, that benediction? Well, what was it? Is it
possible that that familiar strain was the old song, "Comin' Through
the Rye"? No, it changes; that is the ring of "Money Musk." Anon
there is a touch--just a dash, rather--of "Home, Sweet Home," and
then a bewilderment of sounds, wonderfully reminding one of "Dixie"
and of "Way down upon the Suwanee River," and then suddenly it loses
all connection with memory, and rolls, and swells, and thunders, and
goes off again into an exquisite tinkle of melody that makes an old
farmer--for there was here and there an old farmer even in that
modern church--murmur as he shook hands with a friend, "Kind of a
dancing jig that is, ain't it?"

To the sound of such music the congregation trip out. Half-way down
the aisle Mrs. Denton catches the fringe of Mrs. Ellison's shawl.

"Excuse me," she says, "but I was afraid you would escape me, and I
have so much to do this week. I want you to come in socially on
Tuesday evening; just a few friends; an informal gathering; tea at
eight, because the girls want a little dance after it. Now come
early."

Just in front of these two ladies a group have halted to make
inquiries.

"Where is Fanny to-day? Is she sick?"

"Oh, no. But the truth is her hat didn't suit, and she sent it back
and didn't get it again. She waited till one o'clock, but it didn't
come. Milliners are growing so independent and untrustworthy! I told
Fanny to wear her old hat and never mind, but she wouldn't. Estelle
and Arthur have gone off to the Cathedral this morning. Absurd, isn't
it? I don't like to have them go so often. It looks odd. But Arthur
runs wild over the music there. I tell him our music is good enough,
but he doesn't think so."

"I don't know what the trouble is, but the young people do not seem
to be attracted to our church," the elder lady says, and she says it
with a sigh. She belongs to that class of people who _always_ say
things with a sigh.

Further on Mrs. Hammond has paused to say that if the weather
continues so lovely she thinks they would better have that excursion
during the week. The gardens will be in all their glory. Tell the
girls she thinks they better settle on Wednesday as the day least
likely to have engagements. The lady knows that she is mentioning the
day for the regular church prayer-meeting, and she is sending word to
members of the church. But what of that?

"I'm tired almost to death," says Mrs. Edwards, "We have been
house-cleaning all the week, and it is such a trial, with inefficient
help. I wouldn't have come to church at all to-day but the weather
was so lovely, and we have so few days in this climate when one can
wear anything decent it seemed a pity to lose one. Have you finished
house-cleaning?"

At the foot of the stairs Miss Lily Harrison meets the soprano
singer.

"Oh, Lorena!" she exclaims, "your voice was just perfectly divine
this morning. Let me tell you what Jim said, when you went up on the
high notes of the anthem. He leaned over and whispered to me, 'The
angels can't go ahead of that, _I_ know; irreverent fellow!--Lorena,
what a perfect match your silk is! Where did you succeed so well? I
was _dying_ to see that dress! I told mamma if it were not for the
first sight of that dress, and of Laura's face when she saw it was so
much more elegant than hers, I should have been tempted to take a nap
this morning instead of coming to church. However, I got a delicious
one as it was. Weren't you horribly sleepy?"

At this point Misses Lily and Lorena are joined by the said "Jim."
And be it noticed that he makes the first remark on the sermon that
has been heard as yet.

"We had a stunning sermon this morning, didn't we?"

"Oh, you shocking fellow!" murmurs Lorena "How _can_ you use such
rough words?"

"What words!' Stunning?' Why, dear me, that is a jolly word; so
expressive. I say, you sheep in this fold took it pretty hard. A
fellow might be almost glad of being a goat, I think."

"Jim, don't be wicked," puts in Miss Lily who has a cousinship in the
said Jim, and therefore can afford to be brusque. Jim shrugs his
shoulders.

"Wicked," he says. "If the preacher is to be credited, it is you
folks who are wicked. I don't pretend, you know, to be anything
else."

A change of subject seems to the fair Lorena to be desirable, so she
says:

"Why were you not at the hop last night, Mr. Merchant?"

And Jim replies, "I didn't get home in time. I was at the races. I
hear you had a _stunning_--I beg your pardon--a _perfectly splendid_
time. Those are the right words, I believe."

And then the two ladies gathered their silken trains into an
aristocratic grasp of the left hand, and sailed down town on either
side of "Jim" to continue the conversation. And those coral lips had
but just sung--

"My thoughts lie open to the Lord,
Before they're formed within;
And ere my lips pronounce the word
He knows the sense I mean."

What _could_ He have thought of her? Is it not strange that she did
not ask this of herself.

"How are you to-day?" Mr. Jackson asked, shaking his old
acquaintance, Mr. Dunlap, heartily by the hand. "Beautiful day, isn't
it?"

Now, what will be the next sentence from the lips of those
gray-headed men, standing in the sanctuary, with the echo of solemn
service still in their ears? Listen:

"Splendid weather for crops. A man with such a farm as mine on his
hands, and so backward with his work, rather grudges such Sundays as
these this time of year."

And the other?

"Yes," he says, laughing, "you could spare the time better if it
rained, I dare say. By the way, Dunlap, have you sold that horse yet?
If not, you better make up your mind to let me have it at the price I
named. You won't do better than that this fell."

Whereupon ensued a discussion on the respective merits and demerits,
and the prospective rise and fall in horse-flesh.

"Take heed what ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you." _Had_
those two gentlemen heard that text?

CHAPTER II.

SOME PEOPLE WHO FORGOT THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT.

Let me introduce to you the Harrison dinner-table, and the people
gathered there on the afternoon of that Sabbath day. Miss Lily had
brought home with her her cousin Jim; he was privileged on the score
of relationship. Miss Helen, another daughter of the house, had
invited Mr. Harvey Latimer; he was second cousin to Kate's husband,
and Kate was a niece of Mrs. Harrison; relationship again. Also, Miss
Fannie and Miss Cecilia Lawrence were there, because they were
schoolgirls, and so lonely in boarding-school on Sunday, and their
mother was an old friend of Mrs. Harrison; there are always reasons
for things.

The dinner-table was a marvel of culinary skill. Clearly Mrs.
Harrison's cook was _not_ a church-goer. Roast turkey, and
chicken-pie, and all the side dishes attendant upon both, to say
nothing of the rich and carefully prepared dessert, of the nature
that indicated that its flankiness was _not_ developed on Saturday,
and left to wait for Sunday. Also, there was wine on Mrs. Harrison's
table; just a little home-made wine, the rare juice of the grape
prepared by Mrs. Harrison's own cook--not at all the sort of wine
that others indulged in--the Harrisons were temperance people.

"I invited Dr. Selmser down to dinner," remarked Mrs. Harrison, as
she sipped her coffee. "I thought since his wife was gone, it would
be only common courtesy to invite him in to get a warm dinner, but he
declined; he said his Sunday dinners were always very simple."

Be it known to you that Dr. Selmser was Mrs. Harrison's pastor, and
the preacher of the morning sermon.

Miss Lily arched her handsome eyebrows.

"Oh, mamma!" she said, "how could you be guilty of such a sin! The
_idea_ of Dr. Selmser going out to dinner on Sunday! I wonder he did
not drop down in a faint! Papa, did you ever hear such a sermon?"

"It slashed right and left, that is a fact," said Mr. Harrison,
between the mouthfuls of chicken salad and oyster pickle.

"A little too sweeping in its scope to be wise for one in his
position. Have another piece of the turkey, James? He is running into
that style a little too much. Some person whose opinion has weight
ought to warn him. A minister loses influence pretty rapidly who
meddles with everything."

"Well, there was _everything_ in that sermon," said Miss Cecilia. "I
just trembled in my shoes at one time. I expected our last escapade
in the school hall would be produced to point one of his morals."

"You admit that it would have pointed it?" said the cousin Jim, with
a meaning laugh.

"Oh, yes; it was _awfully_ wicked; I'll admit that. But one didn't
care to hear it rehearsed in a church."

"That is the trouble," mamma Harrison said. "Little nonsenses that do
very well among schoolgirls, or in the way of a frolic, are not
suited to illustrate a sermon with. I think Dr. Selmser is rather apt
to forget the dignity of the pulpit in his illustrations."

"Lorena says he utterly spoiled the closing anthem by that
doleful hymn he gave out," said Miss Lily. "They were going to give
that exquisite bit from the last sacred opera, but the organist
positively refused to play it after such woe-begone music. I wish we
had a new hymn-book, without any of those horrid, old-fashioned hymns
in it, anyhow."

It was Mr. Harvey Latimer's turn to speak:

"Oh, well now, say what you please, Selmser can _preach_. He may not
suit one's taste always, Especially when you get hit; but he has a
tremendous way of putting things. Old Professor Marker says he has
more power over language than any preacher in the city."

"Yes," said Mr. Harrison, struggling with too large a mouthful of
turkey, "he is a _preacher_, whatever else may be said about him; and
yet of course it is unfortunate for a minister to be always pitching
into people; they get tired of it after a while."

"Jim, did you know that Mrs. Jamison was going to give a reception to
the bride next Wednesday evening?" This from Lily.

"No; _is_ she? That will be a grand crush, I suppose."

"I heard her giving informal invitations in church to-day," Helen
said, and one of the schoolgirls said:

"Oh, don't you think she said she was going to invite us? Celia told
her to send the invitation to you, Mrs. Harrison. We felt sure you
would ask us to your house to spend the evening; Madam Wilcox will
always allow that. But there is no use trying to get her permission
for a party. You _will_ ask us, _won't_ you?"

Whereupon Mrs. Harrison laughed, and shook her head at them, and told
them she was afraid they were naughty girls, and she would have to
think about it. All of which seemed to be entirely satisfactory to
them. The conversation suddenly changed.

"Wasn't Mrs. Marsh dressed in horrid taste today?" said Helen
Harrison. "Really I don't see the use in being worth a million in her
own right, if she has no better taste than _that_ to display. Her
camels'-hair shawl is positively the ugliest thing I ever saw, and
she had it folded horribly. She is round-shouldered, anyhow--ought
never to wear a shawl."

"I think her shawl was better than her hat," chimed in Miss Lily.
"The _idea_ of that hat costing fifty dollars! It isn't as becoming
as her old one; and, to make it look worse than it would have done,
she had her hair arranged in that frightful new twist!"

"Why, Lily Harrison! I heard you tell her you thought her hat was
lovely!" This from Lily's youngest sister.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Miss Lily. "One must say something to
people. It wouldn't do to tell her she looked horrid." And the
mother _laughed_.

"It is a good thing for Mrs. Marsh that she holds her million in her
own right," observed cousin Jim. "That husband of hers is getting a
little too fast for comfort."

"Is that so?" Mr. Harrison asked, looking up from his turkey bone.

"Yes, sir; his loss at cards was tremendously heavy last week; would
have broken a less solid man. He had been drinking when he played
last, and made horridly flat moves."

"Disgraceful!" murmured Mr. Harrison; and then he took another sip of
his home-made wine.

There were homes representing this same church that were not so
stylish, or fashionable, or wealthy. Mrs. Brower and her daughter
Jenny had to lay aside their best dresses, and all the array of
Sunday toilet, which represented their very best, and repair to the
kitchen to cook their own Sunday dinners. "Was it a thoughtful
dwelling upon such verses of Scripture as had been presented that
morning which made the Sunday dinner the most elaborate, the most
carefully prepared, and more general in its variety, than any other
dinner in the week? Their breakfast hour was late, and, by putting
the dinner hour at half-past three, it gave them time to be
elaborate, according to their definition of that word. Not being
cumbered with hired help, mother and daughter could have
confidential Sabbath conversations with each other as they worked.
So while Mrs. Brower carefully washed and stuffed the two plump
chickens, Jennie prepared squash, and turnip, and potatoes for
cooking, planning meanwhile for the hot apple sauce, and a side dish
or two for dessert, and the two talked.

"Well, did you get an invitation?" the mother asked, and the tone of
suppressed motherly anxiety showed that the subject was one of
importance. Did she mean an invitation to the great feast which is to
be held when they sit down to celebrate the marriage supper of the
Lamb, and which this holy Sabbath day was given to help one prepare
for? No, on second thought it could not have been that; for, after
listening to the morning sermon no thought of anxiety could have
mingled with that question. Assuredly Jennie was invited--nay,
_urged, entreated_; the only point of Anxiety could have
been--_would_ she accept? But it was another place that filled the
minds of both mother and daughter.

"Indeed I did." There was glee in Miss Jennie's voice. "I thought I
wasn't going to. She went right by me and asked people right and
left, never once looking at me. But she came away back after she had
gone into the hall, and came over to my seat and whispered that she
had been looking for me all the way out, but had missed me. She said
I must be sure to come, for she depended on us young people to help
make the affair less ceremonious. Don't you think, Emma wasn't
invited at all, and I don't believe she will be; almost everyone has
been now. Emma was so sure of her invitation, because she was such a
friend of Lu Jamison's. She thought she would get cards to the
wedding, you know; and when they didn't come she felt sure of the
reception. She has been holding her head wonderfully high all the
week about it, and now she is left out and I am in. Mother, isn't
that rich?"

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