Retta Babcock - Clemence

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"What's the matter with the young'un?" asked Mr. Brier, as they took
their places at the table. He seemed to have a little more self-control
than his amiable spouse, and to be annoyed at such exhibitions before a
stranger.

"The same old thing over again," was the reply, "he wouldn't get up in
time to start the fire, and I took him in hand, and I'll do it again, if
he don't get out of the sulks."

"Why, I guess he means to behave," said Mr. Brier, deprecatingly, "it's
natural for boys to be lazy, you know."

"Well, I'll take the laziness out of him. What do you suppose he was
made for, if it was not to work? As if he was goin' to be took care of,
and have me delve away all of my life, washin' and makin' over clothes
for him, and he not work and pay for it. There's the cow to milk, and
take to pasture, the garden to weed, and wood to prepare, besides the
other errands, and how's it all to be done, if you make a fine gentleman
of him. It's askin' enough to send him to school, without keepin' him in
idleness. He was brought here to work, and I intend to see that he does
it."

"Why don't you eat your breakfast, Johnny?" asked her husband.

"Because, I can't," replied the child, tears filling his eyes. "I'm not
hungry."

"But I should think any little boy ought to be, that's been out in this
delightful morning air. Eat your breakfast before you go to school."

"Yes," chimed in Mrs. Brier, "don't leave anything on your plate, or I
shall keep it for your dinner. I never allow anything to be wasted in
this house. Here, take these nice, warmed potatoes, and don't let me see
you putting on any more airs."

"I can't," persisted Johnny, "they are sour."

"Don't tell me that," was the next remark, in warning accents. "I'm as
good a judge as you are, I reckon. I say they ain't sour. Be they, Miss
Graystone?"

If she had expected an affirmative reply to this question, she was
doomed to disappointment. Disgusted with such paltry meanness, Clemence,
who had pushed her plate away, unable to partake of the stale food,
replied quietly, "I should say they were decidedly sour."

There was a moment's disagreeable silence, during which Mr. and Mrs.
Brier exchanged meaning glances across the table. Then he hastened to
say, "Of course, then, they must be, though I never detected it. Wife,
how came you to put them on the table? I should think twenty bushels
ought to last a family of three persons quite a while, especially with
all the new ones we have had."

"Of course," she answered snappishly, "I didn't know it, or I wouldn't
have used them. Thank goodness! though, I ain't so dainty as some I
could mention. If there's anything I despise, it's a person that's so
poor they can't but just exist, putting on style over folks that can buy
and sell them."

"Just hear that, now," said Mr. Brier, in a conciliatory tone, "you've
got a sharp tongue in your head, Marthy; you don't let anybody put you
in your place, and keep you there easy, without they get a piece of your
mind. For my part, I like to see a woman independent."

"It don't matter much to me, Brier, what you do like and what you
don't," said his lady, with a toss of her head, "I'm boss of my own
house, and no man shall dictate to me, not if I know it. You needn't
sneak, like any miserable cur, nor put on that smirk to cover up your
own acts, though I ain't afraid but what I can come out ahead, and fight
my own battles, if you do show the white feather. Where would you be
to-day, I'd like to know, if I'd let you gone on with that overgrown
tribe of your'n? You know you'd never been worth a cent durin' the whole
of your natural life!"

"You're right there, Marthy," he answered again, meekly enough.

"Do you know, Miss Graystone, that I'd never had this two thousand
dollars, that I've managed to scrape together, if that smart, managing
woman of mine hadn't scrimped and saved beyond everything you ever saw.
'Taint every man that's got a treasure like mine, I can tell you."

And truly they had not, for it does not often fall to the lot of mortal
man to find in one little, insignificant figure, dwarfish alike in soul
and body, such a compound of selfishness, duplicity, meanness, and
vulgarity, as was centered in the object of that gentleman's affection.

Of the many conjugal scenes to which Clemence was an unwilling witness,
varying from light skirmishes over the breakfast-table, to hysterics
and a doctor, with the neighbors called in, in the evening, it would be
impossible to speak at length. It has been affirmed, that, in time, one
will get accustomed to anything, and Clemence had attained to such a
proficiency in maintaining a non-committal air, that these little
diversions would not have disturbed her equanimity, as she solaced
herself with the reflection that, "after a storm comes a calm," but for
the fact that this belligerent couple had an unhappy faculty of making
up their differences at the expense of a third party, and it became her
unhappy fate, as the last new comer, to stand in the place Johnny had
formerly been devoted to, as the unfortunate third. Happily, however,
for her nerves, her stay was short with these inhospitable entertainers.

"Where are you going when you leave here, Miss Graystone," asked Mrs.
Brier, on the last morning of her stay.

"To Mrs. Hardyng's," said Clemence, with a sigh of relief.

"Possible!" was the exclamation, "seems to me your one of the favored
ones. No other teacher ever went there before. She don't patronize the
school, and keeps herself to herself pretty much. I hear she's took
quite a notion to you. Is it true?"

"I believe we are very good friends," said Clemence.

"Do you know anything about her," was the next query. "Strikes me, I'd
want to find out who I'd struck up an intimacy with, if I was in your
place, and if you have learned anything about that singular woman, your
smarter than the whole town of Waveland put together. It looks
suspicious to me to see anybody so close mouthed about their affairs;
looks as if they wouldn't stand investigation, and they're afraid to let
'em see daylight. I like things all fair and above-board, myself.

"Brier, come to breakfast. It's getting stone-cold. Never mind that
young'un, he's gone to take the cow to pasture, and I can give him a
piece when he comes back."

Obedient to the summons, the gentleman in question laid down a damp copy
of the Weekly Clarion, and seated himself at the table. After glibly
repeating a few words, of which Clemence could only distinguish "food
spread before us," and "duly thankful," he asked, pausing and balancing
a saucer of coffee with great dexterity on the palm of his right hand,

"Did you read that criticism on the lady lecturer? I tell you, that same
Philemon W. Strain has a peculiar genius for that sort of an article."

"What did you say, Brier?" asked his better half, glancing at Clemence,
as if she was the offending party, "you don't mean that a woman's got
brass enough to mount a rostrum and harangue an audience?"

"You've just said the very thing now, Marthy. I knew you would be down
on that sort of business. Nothing masculine about you, thank goodness!
I've often felt thankful that I was spared the infliction of a
strong-minded woman. That's one thing I _couldn't_ stand."

"Well, I guess we are agreed on that subject," said the lady, bridling
at the compliment, and allowing her thin lips to relax into the
faintest possible shadow of a smile, "for if there's one thing I
absolutely abhor, it's these so-called intellectual women. To my mind, a
woman that pushes her way along to a profession, or aspires to address
the public, either through the medium of the pen, or on the rostrum,
ought to be banished from good society, and frowned upon by all
respectable married women. It's disgraceful, outrageous, scandalous!"
and, as she uttered, vehemently, these ejaculations, the greenish gray
eyes flashed upon Clemence a look so malicious and spiteful, as to have
a totally opposite effect from what it was intended, for she returned it
with one of quiet amusement, and burst out laughing. She saw at once
that the conversation had been introduced solely for her own benefit,
and wondered how they should surmise that she could possibly be
interested in it. This was the oddest couple she had met in all her
peregrinations. Mr. Brier was naturally greatly superior to his wife, as
Mrs. Wynn had said, but was biased in his opinions by that lady, who
ruled him with no gentle sway. With another woman, whose society would
have had a tendency to elevate him, there is no telling what this man
might have become. But having been entrapped into an early marriage,
with a woman of inferior intellect and but little ambition, he had sunk
down several grades lower than nature intended him.

He felt this, too, even after all these years had drifted aimlessly
away, and the knowledge did not make him better. He grew morose and
cynical, hating everybody who did not move in his own narrow circle. As
one might suppose, he had not many friends, and his life was not a happy
one.

"How much misery there is in the world," thought Clemence, as she walked
towards the school-house. It seems as if almost every one had some
secret sorrow of their own--and what a singular and deplorable effect
grief has upon some people, rendering them selfish, and closing the
heart to pity, instead of remembering their own sorrows, only to
commiserate and alleviate those of others.

CHAPTER VIII.

That evening, as Clemence sat alone with her friend, she asked her the
question which had perplexed herself, and which she had never been able
to solve: "Ulrica, why are so many people unhappy?"

"Child, I cannot tell you," replied the elder woman, mournfully; "for
myself, I know that I have for many years considered life a burden to
me, instead of the glorious boon our Creator designed it. You have never
asked me anything of my former life, but, to-night, the feeling is
strong upon me to speak of the past, for I feel strangely in need of
sympathy."

She bowed her head upon her hands, and great tears coursed down her pale
cheeks, while Clemence sat in wondering silence; then, recovering
herself, she began in a low tone:

"I was the only child of wealthy and indulgent parents. From my infancy
every want was eagerly anticipated by loving friends, who made my will
and pleasure paramount to everything, and who were ever subjected to my
imperious rule. At eighteen, I was a spoiled child, without the least
knowledge of the world, or of the duties and responsibilities of life.
Then my parents died, and left me to the guardianship of a vain and
worldly-minded aunt, who became fond of me, in her way, because of my
beauty and great wealth.

"I mingled a good deal in society, and of course, being an heiress had
many opportunities for marriage. However I was very fond of admiration,
and soon succeeded in establishing a reputation for being a thorough
coquette. At heart, I felt a supreme contempt for those who sought me on
account of those 'golden attractions,' without caring to look beyond.
Had I been differently brought up, I believe I would not have been what
I am to day, a lonely and heart-broken woman, for, though passionate and
somewhat overbearing, I had many good impulses, which, if rightly
trained, might have made me wiser and better. But I was left solely to
the guidance of my own will, and every idle caprice and foolish whim
were always indulged to the utmost. Among all the gentlemen whom I met
at this season, there were only two in whom I felt the least interest.
For one of them, Wainwright Angier, I had a profound regard. I knew that
he was my true friend. It was my nature to despise those whom I could
bend to my will. He had too much manly independence for this, and
conscientiously abstained from flattery. When I did wrong, he
remonstrated earnestly, and when I told him that his advice was not
solicited, looked grieved and reproachful. He was far from my ideal of
perfection, however. It is commonly supposed that people are attracted
towards their opposites, but though Wainwright Angier's character and
personal appearance differed widely from mine, yet I never dreamed, in
those days, of loving him. He was pale and intellectual looking, with
clear, penetrating eyes, and a firm, determined mouth. But his voice
was, I think, his greatest attraction for me, for I am one of the few
who take as much pleasure in an agreeable voice, as in gazing at a
beautiful face.

"The other, Geoffrey Westbourne--how shall I describe him? Tall and
commanding in figure, with glossy purple-black hair, and the midnight
eyes that matched it, he was eminently handsome, and, as everybody
agreed, a splendid conversationalist. Notwithstanding his acknowledged
superiority to all others, and the fact that he was petted and caressed
by every one, I felt an instinctive repugnance to him, that for a long
time I tried in vain to overcome. Perhaps it was because I had heard him
so highly spoken of, that I was ready to find fault. However that maybe,
I felt a secret antipathy to this man. Would I had been allowed to
follow the warning conveyed in these first impressions, what a world of
misery I had then escaped!

"'Well, how did you like him?' queried my aunt, after our first meeting.
'Isn't he splendid?'

"'Not to my taste,' was my reply. 'To tell the truth, I was not very
agreeably impressed by your Mr. Westbourne.'

"'Shocking!' exclaimed the astonished lady, with upraised hands. 'That
girl will surely be an old maid. She has no taste. Not like him, when he
is already deep in love with you? Ulrica, this is arrant coquetry.'

"She had reason to think so afterwards, for the subject of our
conversation soon became a constant visitor at the house. He _was_
handsome, talented and agreeable, besides, all my lady friends were
dying with envy. I felt flattered by his preference, and in time forgot
my early dislike, or remembered it only to wonder and laugh at my
foolish, school-girl fancies. Yet, at times, when I was alone, and had
time for thought, a strange, undefined feeling would steal over me,
amounting to a dread of impending evil, which I could not easily shake
off. Another thing troubled me. Aunt Emily annoyed me, by ceaseless
inquiries as to the result of my acquaintance with Mr. Westbourne. I saw
that to secure him for me was the one object of her ambition. I
remonstrated at this feeling, pained at her want of delicacy.

"One day, when she had been questioning me as usual, I replied,
indignantly; 'Why, any one would think you were tired of me, and wanted
me out of your way, you seem so anxious about my having an establishment
of my own. I am very well contented as I am, and neither expect nor
desire a change.'

"'Now, do listen to reason, child,' she rejoined. 'You must know that it
is my great anxiety for your welfare that induces me to take upon myself
all this care and trouble. Tell me how old you are, Ulrica?'

"'Twenty-one,' I said sullenly.

"'And you have been out three seasons, and people are beginning to talk.
They say it is because you don't wear well, and the men only flirt with
you and leave you.'

"'As if I cared what they say!' I burst forth in my exasperation. 'Thank
heaven, I am independent of everybody's opinion.'

"'Yes, in a measure,' pursued Aunt Emily's calm voice, 'but not wholly.
Society has claims upon you which you cannot disregard. I wish you were
more willing to consult my wishes, and would pay some little attention
to my advice,' she added, plaintively.

"'What do you want of me?' I demanded imperiously; 'tell me, in heaven's
name, and have done with it.'

"'Now you are sensible. I want you to find out just how you are situated
in regard to the gentleman we have been remarking upon, and, to be
plain, I've set my heart on your marrying him.'

"'Mr. Angier,' announced a servant in the doorway. We had been so busily
engaged in our discussion that we had not heard the bell. My aunt rose
and retreated. 'It's only Angier, excuse me to him,' and she glided
though a side door.

"I rose to welcome the visitor, with a clouded brow, and eyes that
sparkled ominously. I was thoroughly out of humor. It was an unlucky
morning. Before he left, Wainwright Angier made me an offer of his heart
and hand. I refused him at once, coldly and decidedly.

"'Is it because you prefer another?' he asked, agitatedly.

"'No, that is not the reason,' I replied, proudly. 'I value you highly
as a friend, but nothing more. I am very sorry this has occurred, but
_you_ at least will exculpate me from the charge of coquetry. I never
dreamed of this.'

"'I know,' he answered, sadly enough. 'It is as I feared. And now let me
ask you, as one whose happiness has long been dearer to me than my own,
do you ever expect to be happy with such a man as Geoffrey Westbourne?
Do not ascribe my motive to jealousy, for, believe me, I am incapable of
a base action. It is only out of the deepest solicitude for your welfare
that I ask this question, for I fear for your future happiness, and that
you may be fatally mistaken in this man.'

"'You are impertinent, sir,' I said, rising. 'Geoffrey Westbourne is
nothing to me, and you need not fear that my affections will be
misplaced. I must respect the man I love, and look up to him as my
superior.' My pride was hurt, now, and I was thoroughly angry.

"'Pardon me,' he said, also rising, then added brokenly--'Remember that
my heart is always open to you. I am sadly afraid that you do not
understand your own feelings. Farewell, we may never meet again, but my
last prayer will be for your happiness.'

"As he went into the hall, the figure of a man stopped him, and Geoffrey
Westbourne called out cheerily;

"'Well met, Angier! What! how pale you look; you are ill. Let me go with
you to your lodgings. I will excuse myself to the ladies.'

"'Thank you, I am quite well,' said Angier, in a low voice. 'I will not
detain you. Good bye.'

"I never saw a face so radiant as was that of Geoffrey Westbourne, as he
entered the room where I stood, hardly knowing whether to withdraw and
ignore these embarrassing circumstances, or meet him in as collected a
manner as possible.

"I had no choice. As was always the case, in this man's presence, I
seemed to have no will of my own. I feared him, and when he repeated the
same question, in almost the very words his friend had uttered, I gave
a far different reply. But, if not dictated by inclination, I knew that
it was expected of me by every one. It almost seemed as if circumstances
had forced me to choose this alternative, and I accepted my fate in
complete indifference.

"In three months we were married, and went abroad. We travelled over
Europe at our leisure, visiting its gay capitals and fashionable
resorts, its different objects of interest famed in history and romance,
and, after an extended tour, returned again to our native land, taking
up a stylish residence in a fashionable quarter of the city, that had
been my former home. My means seemed inexhaustible, but, somewhat to my
astonishment, I found, after marriage, that Geoffrey Westbourne's sole
dependence was upon expectations, which were extremely liable to remain
forever unfulfilled. I knew now that he had married me for my fortune,
for he had told me so with his own lips. He had a double motive in this,
for aside from a feeling of relief in throwing aside the mask of
devotion, was a petty spite on account of my former indifference to him.
I do not think he ever loved me, nor was he capable, in my opinion, of a
pure, unselfish affection for any human being. All he cared for was the
gratification of self. I mourned bitterly, in secret, over this ruin of
my hopes. I had no one to sympathize with me now. Aunt Emily was no
more, and she had been my one true friend, for her affection, if
misguided, was at least sincere.

"I thought often in those days, of the love of my girlhood, for I knew
now that it had been sinful in me to turn from the path that had opened
before me into perfect trust and peace, and walk blindly over withered
hopes to a loveless future. Time had shown me that I esteemed Wainwright
Angier more highly in those days than the man who was now my husband.
But I never spoke of him, and I dared not ask his fate, for I knew my
husband hated his memory. But one sad day, when, with Geoffrey, I walked
down the long winding avenues of the cemetery, and read among these
stranger's graves the name I sought, I think reason must have for a time
deserted me. I had only one memory, and the words 'my last prayer will
be for your happiness,' rang again and again in my ear. I knelt down at
the grave and poured out my grief in all the eloquence of despair,
regardless of him who looked coldly on. I was wild with mournful agony.
After that day I never knew one hour of happiness. My husband turned
from me to strangers. He had never cared for me, and now I was hated and
shunned. His one desire became to relieve himself of my unwholesome
presence.

"In the first year of our marriage, I had, on learning of his
impoverished condition, placed my entire property at his disposal. It
had been a free gift, for I wanted him to see that I trusted him
implicitly. I was now completely at his mercy. I had always been lavish
of my means, for whatever faults I may have preserved, avarice and
parsimony were not of their number. I learned now that I had committed a
very foolish act. I had nothing with which to help myself, and was
completely under his control.

"Suddenly, at a great commercial crisis, everything was swept from us.
'We are now,' said my husband, 'for the first time on an equal footing.
The fortune, which you brought me, has been lost from no carelessness
upon my part. We are engulfed in one common ruin with others who have
before stood steadfast through similar trials. We shall both suffer in
common, for I have lost that for which I sacrificed myself, and have now
nothing to console me. I presume you have learned that fact before this,
Mrs. Westbourne, and know that I married you for the glittering prize
which has just slipped from my grasp.'

"'Oh! Geoffrey,' I exclaimed, 'do not be so cruel.'

"'You call it cruelty,' he replied, 'but I say it is a terrible fact. I
never cared for but but one woman on earth, and I broke her heart when I
told her that I had forever placed a barrier between us by my own _act_.
She died soon after our marriage.'

"'Why have I not known of this before?' I asked. 'Why tell me after so
long a time, when there can be no reparation for the crime? It was a
double wrong you committed when you broke one woman's heart and made
another's whole life desolate. I never dreamed you cared for another.'

"'There I had the advantage of you, my dear,' he said coolly. 'I knew
you were a little too fond of young Angier for my interest. If I had
cared enough about you I should have been furiously jealous, but merely
having an eye to the pecuniary advantage, I let the little dream go on
until I was pleased to put an end to it. Could I have forseen this hour
I would have acted far differently.'

"A week after he came in with a face pale with excitement. 'Such
glorious news,' he exclaimed. 'By the luckiest train of accidents I have
come into possession of a clear hundred thousand, and I don't think I
shall very deeply deplore the demise of the venerable individual who
departed this life just at the right moment.'

"I was nearly happy at this announcement. I thought now I could rely on
his magnanimity. I reflected that I had bestowed everything upon him in
my prosperity, and I hoped that now he would, at least, be more
considerate of my feelings.

"But I was unhappily disappointed. 'The tables are turned now, my dear,'
he said, triumphantly. 'Instead of _my_ house and furniture, _my_
servants, and _my_ money, it is quite another story, and henceforth I
shall have a word to say as to the manner in which _my_ means shall be
invested.'

"He was true to his word. I was left absolutely penniless. If my
wardrobe needed replenishing I had to tell him the exact amount it would
take for each article. I had, too, nothing to bestow upon charitable
objects, for he had always condemned my efforts to relieve others as
indiscriminate charity, that did more harm than good. He bought
everything that was consumed in the house, and hired and paid the
servants himself. This was something new for him to do. My domestics had
been well trained, and wholly under my control, having been long in my
aunt's family, and accustomed to my ways. My husband had often heard me
say that it would be impossible to keep house without these faithful
attendants, for I was totally inexperienced in such matters.

"Now, however, he dismissed them all, and surrounded me with strangers.
My remonstrances were unheeded. 'This is _my_ house, Mrs. Westbourne,'
he would say. 'Henceforth everything shall go as I wish, and if not
agreeable to you, I can gladly dispense with your company altogether.'

"I soon found that this was the one object dear to him. My presence
grew, every day, seemingly more intolerable. This new trouble nearly
overwhelmed me. I learned now that the means that were denied me, was
daily lavished upon others among whom my name was a by-word. One day the
postman brought me a letter, in an unknown hand. It ran thus:

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