Retta Babcock - Clemence

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CLEMENCE,

THE

Schoolmistress of Waveland,

BY RETTA B. BABCOCK,

AUTHOR OF "GRAHAM LODGE; OR, LAURA CLIFFORD'S LIFE ROMANCE."

* * * * *

Not many friends my life has made;
Few have I loved, and few are they
Who in my hand their hearts have laid;
And these are women. I am gray,
But never have I been betrayed.

J. G. HOLLAND.

* * * * *

CLEVELAND, OHIO:

PRINTED BY THE LEADER PRINTING COMPANY, NO. 142 SUPERIOR STREET.

1870.

PREFACE.

The favor with which a generous public received a former volume of the
writer's, induced her, after a lapse of nearly two years, to essay
another effort of a similar nature.

In the present work, _facts_ were chosen for a basis, as calculated to
interest, where the wildest dream of the novelist would pall upon the
satiated mind. It has been remarked, in a homely phrase by another, that
"what comes from the heart, reaches the heart," and if the present
fruits of long and unremitting mental labor, sustained often amid such
trial and discouragements, as seldom fall to the lot of mortal to bear,
should find sympathy and appreciation with the mass of readers, the aim
of the writer will have been fully accomplished.

CLEMENCE,

THE

SCHOOLMISTRESS OF WAVELAND.

CHAPTER I.

"Dearest mother, do not grieve for me, it breaks my heart."

The sweet, sad voice of the speaker quivered with unshed tears, as she
knelt before the grief-bowed figure on the sofa, and took one of the
little, shrunken, tear-wet hands in both her own, with the devotion of a
lover.

"Have you not often told me of the sin of distrusting the All-wise
Being, who has cared for us all our lives thus far? Let us put our trust
in Him, and He will 'never leave nor forsake us.' Can you not trust Him,
precious mother?"

"My child, I could bear it for myself; but you, my all of earth, my
heart's dearest treasure, to be exposed to poverty and toil for your
daily bread--who have been so delicately reared that the winds of heaven
have not been permitted to blow too roughly upon you! My poor,
fatherless darling, how can you bear it?"

"'God is our father.' We are not friendless, nor alone. 'He who
tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb,' will guide and guard me. Let us
commit ourselves to His care."

She knelt down, and the sunshine, stealing in at the window that May
afternoon, circled her young head like a glory. Faint and tremulous rose
the sweet voice in prayer, and little widow Graystone's sobs ceased, and
a kind of awe stole over her as she listened. And a sweet peace filled
her soul, for "angels came and ministered unto her." Up from the
mother's heart went a pleading cry. "God keep my darling from harm!" and
as she gazed fondly upon the beautiful face before her, with its exalted
look of wrapt devotion, a fierce pain struggled at her heart, for she
thought of the time in the not distant future, when her only one would
be motherless.

One little year ago she had been the imperious woman of fashion, and
Clemence had seemed little more than a child, in spite of the seventeen
summers that had smiled upon her young head. Indeed, she had often
experienced a feeling akin to contempt at the unworldliness of her
daughter, and sighed in secret to see Clemence just as agreeable to Carl
Alwyn, the poor but talented artist, as she was to young Reginald
Germaine, the heir to half a million.

"Just like your father, my dear," she would say, scornfully, "and nobody
knows what I have suffered from his low notions. Just to think of his
always insisting upon my inviting those frightful Dinsmore's to my
exclusive entertainments, because, years before you were born, Mr.
Dinsmore's father did him some service. Why can't he pay them for it,
and have an end of it? It is perfectly shocking! The idea of bringing
_me_, a Leveridge of Leveridge, into contact with such vulgar people."

"Mamma!" and Clemence's fine eyes glow with generous indignation, "how
_can_ you speak thus of one of the noblest traits of my father's
character? I love and honor him for it, and I ask God daily to make me
worthy to be the child of such a parent."

"Well, my dear," cooly replies mamma, "if it will afford you any
satisfaction to hear it, you resemble him in every respect. In fact, I
see more plainly every day, there is not a trait of the Leveridge's
about you, deeply as I deplore it. I had hoped to have a daughter after
my own heart. I sometimes think you do not wish to please me in
anything."

"Oh!" cried Clemence, "how greatly you misunderstand me. You do not know
how much I love you. I have often wished that we were poor, so I could
have you all to myself, to show, by a lifetime of devotion, what is in
my heart."

The delicate lady, splendid in misty lace and jewels, gave a little
nervous shudder at the bare thought of poverty.

"What strange fancies you have, child, and how little you know of the
realities of life." But gazing into the pure face, with a vague dread
for that future, and knowing that One alone knew whether it might
contain happiness or misery for her darling, she said, with visible
emotion, "You are a good girl, Clemence, and whatever may be in the
future, remember that I always sought your welfare as the one great
object of my existence. Always remember that, Clemence."

"I will, my own dearest mother," the girl answered brokenly; and neither
could see the other through a mist of tears.

Was it a presentiment of their coming fate?

Clemence thought often, amid the gloom that followed, that it was; and
many times in her dream-haunted slumbers, murmured, "Always remember
that, Clemence; always remember that."

If the stylish Mrs. Graystone, who could boast of the most aristocratic
descent, and whose haughty family had considered it quite a
condescension when she married the self-made merchant--if the little
lady had sinned very deeply in wishing to secure for her only child a
husband in every way suitable, in her opinion, to a descendant of the
Leveridges of Leveridge, she was destined to a full expiation of her
wrong, and her towering pride to a fall so great that those who had
envied her her life-long prosperity, would say with ill-concealed
delight--"served them right! what will become of their lofty ambition
and refined sensibilities now, I wonder?"--"I knew it would not last
forever."--"It's a long lane that never turns;" with many more remarks
to the same effect.

"Between you and me and the four walls of this room," said one Mrs.
Crane to her neighbor, "I don't pity them Graystones as much as I
should, if they hadn't always carried their heads so high above
everybody else, who was just as good as themselves, if they couldn't
trace back their descent to the landin' of the Pilgrims."

"This is a free and glorious republic, where every man can follow the
bent of his own inclinations, provided he don't intrude upon his
neighbor's rights. Who gave their blood and sinew to the putting down of
them are southern secessionists that threatened the dissolution of our
Union? Who, indeed, but P. Crandall Crane! and I'm proud to say that I'm
the wife of that patriotic man. True, he could not go to war himself, on
account of me and the children; but, I dare say, if he could have
prevailed upon me to give him up to the cause of liberty, he'd have
clomb rapidly to the highest pinnacle of earthly glory, and to-day I'd
have been Mrs. General Crane, a leader of the brilliant society at
Washington, with _my_ name in the papers as 'the wife of our
distinguished General Crane,' or the 'stately and dignified lady of the
brave General;'" &c., &c.

"But, no, P. Crandall was a husband and father; so when he was drafted,
I fell upon his neck and wept. 'How can I give you up?' was all I could
utter through my tears. Touched by my grief, my husband refused to be
torn from me, and magnanimously renounced all the honors that crowded
thick and fast upon his unwilling brow. 'Enough,' he answered,
'Isabella, I will stay by your side. Duty never points two ways, and
_my_ duty is to stay with my family. I will give up all for your sake,
and though I may never realize the happiness my fond fancy painted;
though I may never enter the crowded ball-room, with my proud and happy
wife leaning confidingly upon my arm, while a band, concealed amid
flowers, plays in a spirited manner, 'See, the conquering hero
comes,'--though I see the flattering ovations, the substantial dinners,
the moonlight serenades, the waiting crowd shouting my name impatiently:
'Crane! Crane! let us have a speech from the gallant General P.
Crandall!'--yes, even though the aristocratic brown-stone mansion, which
was to have been a testimonial of esteem from admiring friends; though
all these fade before me like the beautiful mirage that proves only an
illusion of the senses, yet I am equal to this act of self-denial, and
submit to pass my life in obscurity, unknown and unappreciated.'"

* * * * *

"Overcome by such magnanimity, I fainted upon his bosom. After that my
dreams were haunted by gory battle-fields, in which P. Crandall figured
in every imaginable scene of suffering and danger. My delicate nerves
had received a severe shock, and yet I did not mean to be weak, in the
hour of trial, for it is the duty of a faithful wife, such as I sought
to be, to sustain her partner in the hour of adversity."

* * * * *

"My companion, meanwhile, was not inactive. He sought out the obscure
retreat of a distant branch of our family, a poor widow, who lived with
her only son, an active and industrious mechanic. He renewed the
acquaintance which we had allowed to drop some years before, and set
before her in glowing colors the chance that opened for the young man to
achieve a high and glorious destiny. Fired with patriotic zeal, he even
went so far as to promise to take the support of the mother upon
himself, while her son was absent working for the cause of liberty, and
making for himself an honorable name, and succeeded so well, that he was
thus enabled to send a substitute in his place to represent the family,
so to speak. Nor did he stop here. Not contented with these efforts, he
set about finding some other way in which he could show his zeal for the
cause. At length a bright thought struck him. He became an Army
Contractor."

"Of the service he has done the Government from that auspicious moment,"
concluded the lady, craning her long neck with an air of pardonable
pride, and fingering the massive chain that depended from it with a
caressing fondness, "I need not speak. Indeed, it speaks for itself. But
I may say that the country which he served has not proved ungrateful,
but has shown its ability to reward true merit in a substantial manner.
I will, however, add that when the intelligence arrived that the man he
had sent forth to represent his honor had perished in the first battle,
he generously took the surviving relative into his own house, provided
her with every comfort, and pays her weekly the sum of one dollar fifty,
for what little errands she does for me and the children. What I wished
to elucidate," added the speaker, energetically, "is this--that no one
can't put _me_ down, knowin' as I do my own rights. In fact, I may say,
knowin' that I'm a sharer in the success that P. Crandall has achieved
in a modest way, and that I heartily _dispise_ aristocrats, who want to
walk over everybody that is what they call self-made, and that make such
a fuss about _herredittery_ rights, and all that."

It was a noticeable fact with the lady, that when she got excited, as
she was at present, her natural deficiency in grammar and kindred
sciences showed more plainly than in her cooler moments. Indeed, more
than one censorious person, who no doubt envied their success,
attributed this to the innate vulgarity that showed itself when the
contractor's lady was off her guard.

"People will talk," you know.

"Them's my sentiments exactly, Mis' Crane," spoke up a little, dark,
nervous woman, from the depths of a velvet easy chair, whose stiff
brocades and diamonds flashing on nearly every finger of the coarse,
rough hands, showed unmistakable signs of a sudden and unexpected
promotion from the kitchen to the drawing-room.

"Just my sentiments, exactly," she reiterated, emphatically. "If there
were more ladies of your opinion, the reform, that has been so long
talked about and desired, would not be so slow in coming. We must
revolutionize society as it exists at the present day, before we can
expect to exert the due amount of influence that our wealth entitles us
to. And I tell you," (and the mean, little sallow face spoke in every
lineament of the petty spirit of jealous hate which animated it, and
looked out from the small eyes of reddish hazel,) "I tell you," (this
lady had a habit of repeating over the same sentences two or three times
when greatly wrought upon by her sensibilities,) "money _is_ the lever
that moves the world now-a-days. And as long as _we_ have got it, who's
a better right to put themselves in the front ranks? If I've got a house
in the most aristocratic portion of the city, plenty of well-trained
servants, a stylish turnout, costly jewels, laces and brocades, I wonder
if I ain't as good as my neighbor, especially if my husband can boast of
millions where her's can thousands--dollars where her's can shillins'?"

"Why, Mrs. Brown," drawled a voice which had before been silent, "your
husband made his money in a vulgar grocery; your father was a poor man,
while your fair neighbor inherited _her_ vast wealth. That splendid
mansion was a gift from papa, those well-trained servants have been in
the service of her family since my lady was a mere child, and have been
accustomed to wait upon and obey the slightest wish of their imperious
mistress, until they have grown to regard her as of a higher order of
being from themselves--a sort of delicate porcelain, while they are only
common crockery for kitchen service. All perfectly proper, you know!"

The last speaker was a languid blonde, with a profusion of airy ringlets
fluttering around her thin face, which, judging by appearances, must
have been fanned by the zephyrs of innumerable May-days, equally as
bright and beautiful as the one that on the present occasion had aroused
her to the unwonted exertion of dressing and appearing in the parlor of
her dearest friend, to display a new, tasteful spring suit, of a
delicate blue, suitable to the complexion of the lady it adorned.

A self-complacent smile curled her thin lips, as she quietly noted the
effects of her somewhat lengthy speech. Like all efforts of an
unexpected and startling nature it produced a decided sensation. The
little lady in brocade and diamonds glared at her like a fury--her
stately hostess bridled, tossed her head, and gave one or two short,
sharp, hysterical giggles.

"Why, Cynthia," she exclaimed, "you are in charming spirits! Mr.
Underwitte must have proposed at last."

Miss Cynthia playfully held up her parasol to conceal her blushes.

"As if I were going to tell if he did! Now, really, Mrs. Brown, what
would you say to having me for a neighbor at some not distant day in the
place of those insufferable Graystones? Do you think I could do the
honors of the mansion gracefully, or should I suffer from the comparison
with the fair descendant of the Leveridges? By the way, do you think she
will continue to pride herself upon her lofty descent in the future, as
she has done in the past? She must have enough of the subject by this
time, I think! he! he! he!"

There was a shrill chorus of laughter, which a deep, tragic voice
interrupted with the question--

"What are you all so merry about?" and a figure, in bombazine and rusty
crape, stood before them, which was hailed successively by three voices,
a cracked soprano, Mrs. Crane--a high-keyed treble, Miss Cynthia, and a
little gasp or gurgle from Mrs. Brown, the lady in brocade, as, "Mrs.
Linden!" "My dear creature!" and "That angel Alicia!" and any amount of
kissing and shaking of hands, then a general resuming of seats, and the
question again asked, "What were you all so merry about, that you did
not hear me ring?"

"One of Cynthia's witty speeches," replied the lady of the house, and
after they had had another laugh, and Miss Cynthia had simpered and
shook her curls affectedly, the new-comer proceeded to give the latest
version of the Graystone's downfall and subsequent misfortunes.

"All gone by the board, a regular crash, and nothing left to tell the
tale."

"A clear, out and out failure."

"And all come from signing for that rascally Sanderson."

"I knew he was a slippery rogue."

"Good enough for Graystone."

"Served him right for being such a fool."

These, and similar uncomplimentary epithets, indiscriminately applied by
the assembled ladies, proved what a choice morsel this was considered
that had so unexpectedly fallen to their share.

"What will become of the family, I wonder?" queried Mrs. Crane. "It was
bad enough to lose the money, but now that Graystone's gone, I do not
see what them two helpless women are going to do?"

"Live on their connections, most likely," snapped little Mrs. Brown, "of
course they won't _work_."

"No, I do not believe that," was the reply. "They are too independent.
At present, I believe, they have taken rooms in an obscure part of the
city. I guess they do not know what to do themselves."

"It must have been hard to part with everything that was dear to them by
association, for I hear that they gave up everything, even Clemence's
piano, to pay debts."

There was a pitying tone in the speaker's voice. Alicia Linden, for all
her tragic accents, her deep-set eyes, with their beetling brows, and
her generally almost repulsive exterior, had more real heart than any of
the women present. Perhaps she remembered that time in the vanished
past, when she had stood by the coffin that contained the loved of her
youth, he who had made her girlhood one dream of happiness, but over
whose calm face the grass had greened and faded for many a weary year;
perhaps this remembrance touched a chord of her better nature. Life,
with its cares, and sorrows, and disappointments, had hardened her, till
she had almost lost faith in humanity. Moreover, she was a woman,
homely, and old and common, and with feminine malice and spite she could
not readily forgive another of her own sex for being beautiful, refined
and attractive. She said emphatically, that "it was well that, in this
world, pride could sometimes be humbled;" but for all that, the memory
of that day so long ago, passed alone in her desolation and sorrowful
widowhood, lent a pitying sadness to her voice that placed her
infinitely above these other soulless ones of her sex, with their cold
eyes and unsympathetic tones.

Vixenish Mrs. Brown detected the weakness at once, and pounced upon it
with avidity. She was blessed with a good memory, and one or two well
remembered slights from the unconscious objects of her animadversions,
rankled bitterly, and she hungered for revenge. She exulted now without
stint, and took no pains to conceal it. The lady had a blooming
daughter, Melinda. If the mother's early life had been one of privation
and toil, the young lady in question had had, thus far, a totally
different experience. Mrs. Brown's educational advantages had been
limited to a knowledge of reading, writing and ciphering, with a
something of grammar. Miss Brown's childhood had passed under the
tutilage of accomplished masters. She could dance, execute a few showy
pieces upon the piano without a blunder, utter glibly French and Italian
phrases, and had, with the help of her teacher, finished, creditably, a
landscape, a gorgeous sunset, of amber and crimson, and purple-tinted
clouds, which hung in the most conspicuous position in her mother's
drawing-room. Melinda read novels, frequented theatres, and talked
slang, like the "girl of the period," and was the idol of her weak
mother, whom she ruled like a queen. Unfortunately, "my lady Graystone,"
as she was called in the clique over which Mrs. Crane presided, had an
innate love for the pure and beautiful, and a thorough contempt for
vulgarity in every form. The gorgeous Melinda, therefore, was not a
person calculated to inspire a lady of her high-toned mind with any deep
feeling of regard or esteem. The elder woman, who, from her long
probation at service, before she was fortunate enough to secure William
Brown, the grocer's apprentice, had caught that cringing obsequiousness
that we so often see in those accustomed to serve, and could have borne
patiently, any slights or rebuffs that opposed her entrance into the
charmed circle which she had determined to invade at all hazards. Meek
and fawning, where she desired to gain favor, as she was insolent and
overbearing to her inferiors, she was willing to commence at the lowest
round of the social ladder, and creep up slowly to a position that
suited her ambition, in the same manner in which she had won her way to
wealth out of the depth of poverty. But, when the blooming daughter of
the retired grocer returned from boarding school, all things were
changed. "Melinda was a lady," "entitled to a proud position in society,
by virtue of her lady-like acquirements," and she demanded an instant
recognition of her claims by said society. The exclusive circle of which
the beautiful wife of Grosvenor Graystone had long been an acknowledged
leader, politely, but firmly repulsed the overtures of the ladies of the
Brown family, in such a way that they were not again repeated, and the
result, as we have seen, was their cordial dislike, and even more, a
vindictive hatred.

"Hard to part with everything," hissed Mrs. Brown, "and you pity them, I
suppose, Alicia! You, who have been snubbed by them so repeatedly, that
you have come to expect nothing better at their hands! You, a daughter
of the people, so to speak;" (Mrs. Brown, since her signal defeat by the
Graystone clique, had been at no little pains to air her democratic
principles, much in the way we have seen some of our politicians do in
the present day.) However, she was not so good a sensational speaker as
Mrs. Crane, and like every one who attempts to imitate anything out of
their "line," or perform impossibilities, and probably owing, in part,
to her defective education, she became easily confused and bewildered in
an argument. She should have known, poor lady, that flights of
imagination ought not to be attempted by a practical little body like
herself, as the aforementioned retired grocer had more than once
informed her during some of their little conjugal scenes in which Mrs.
Brown's bony fingers and long nails generally played an active part. But
if the lady aimed at dramatic effect, she succeeded only too well, for
the little angular form, bristling with indignation, from the depths of
the great crimson velvet easy chair, the lurid eyes emitting greenish
lights, and the gaunt arm waved in the air, created a momentary
diversion. Mrs. Crane compressed her thin lips closely; Miss Cynthia
raised a filmy lace handkerchief and coughed slightly, and Alicia Linden
burst into a loud, masculine laugh. Mrs. Brown instantly subsided and
the conversation was skilfully turned into another channel. The
strong-minded widow was the only woman the diminutive lady really
feared.

* * * * *

Presently there was a little flutter, a rustling of silken robes, more
kissing and hand-shaking, and "good bye, loves," and the little party
dispersed.

* * * * *

"Widowed and fatherless; God pity them," came in a low voice from a
sad-faced woman, clad in the sable robes of mourning. It was that
"distant branch of the family," none other than Mrs. Crane's own widowed
sister, for whom the patriotic contractor had so generously provided
with a home, and one dollar fifty per week. Tears were falling upon the
work before her, but she brushed them away quietly as a shrill voice
beside her cried,

"Blubbering again, Jane Phelps, and Lucinda's new pearl-colored silk,
that I paid five dollars a yard for, in your lap. You miserable,
ill-tempered, sulky thing; if you have soiled it, I'll make you starve
it out, and take it out of your wages, beside!"

"You could not make me suffer more, whatever you might do, for I am the
most wretched, pitiable creature in existence," sobbed the woman.

"Good enough for you," was the response; "'as you make your bed, so you
must lie.' I always knew, for all your pretty, pink and white face, and
meek ways, you'd come to grief. You could always fool everybody but me,
though mother's pet, must have the best of everything to show off her
good looks, and no matter what fell to my share. I was so homely and
unattractive it did not make any difference what I wore. But the tables
are turned now, eh, Jane! The old folks didn't know, when they thought
they'd made you for this world and the next, by putting you ahead of me,
and sounding your praises in the ear of that white-faced artist, that
he'd die and leave their darling with nothing but a lot of unsalable,
miserable pictures and a child to support! They didn't live to see it,
to be sure, but _I_ did, and, Jane, (coming closer and lowering her
voice to a tone of deep, intense passion,) I glory in my revenge. I'm
the rich Mrs. Crane, to-day, and you are old and poor, and faded, and I
don't mind telling you, now that this is an hour that I've longed to
see. You have always been preferred before me, and as I've had to take
up with the refuse, it was no more than natural, I suppose, (with a
sneering laugh,) that I should wait, and long, and hunger, for the love
that you took only as your right. So I waited, and to-day I triumph in
the thought that Deane Phelps' petted wife is a dependent upon _my_
bounty, a menial in the house where _I_ reign supreme, and which knows
no law but _my_ will. I have forgotten how to love, but each day (and I
have conned the lesson well) I learn better how to _hate_."

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