After the Storm

T >> T. S. Arthur >> After the Storm

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Mrs. Emerson felt strangely uncomfortable and embarrassed, and
shrunk as far from her companion as the narrow space they occupied
would permit; while he, it seemed to her, approached as she receded.
There was a different tone in his voice when he spoke as the
carriage moved away from any she had noticed heretofore. He drew his
face near to hers in speaking, but the rattling of the wheels made
hearing difficult. He had, during the evening, referred to a star
actress then occupying public attention, of whom some scandalous
things had been said, and declared his belief in her innocence. To
Mrs. Emerson's surprise--almost disgust--his first remark after they
were seated in the carriage was about this actress. Irene did not
respond to his remark.

"Did you ever meet her in private circles?" he next inquired.

"No, sir," she answered, coldly.

"I have had that pleasure," said Major Willard.

There was no responsive word.

"She is a most fascinating woman," continued the major. "That
Juno-like beauty which so distinguishes her on the stage scarcely
shows itself in the drawing-room. On the stage she is queenly--in
private, soft, voluptuous and winning as a houri. I don't wonder
that she has crowds of admirers."

The major's face was close to that of his companion, who felt a wild
sense of repugnance, so strong as to be almost suffocating. The
carriage bounded as the wheels struck an inequality in the street,
throwing them together with a slight concussion. The major laid his
hand upon that of Mrs. Emerson, as if to support her. But she
instantly withdrew the hand he had presumed to touch. He attempted
the same familiarity again, but she placed both hands beyond the
possibility of accidental or designed contact with his, and shrank
still closer into the corner of the carriage, while her heart
fluttered and a tremor ran through her frame.

Major Willard spoke again of the actress, but Mrs. Emerson made no
reply.

"Where are we going?" she asked, after the lapse of some ten
minutes, glancing from the window and seeing, instead of the tall
rows of stately houses which lined the streets along the whole
distance between Mrs. Talbot's residence and her own house,
mean-looking tenements.

"The driver knows his route, I presume," was answered.

"This is not the way, I am sure," said Mrs. Emerson, a slight quiver
of alarm in her voice.

"Our drivers know the shortest cuts," replied the major, "and these
do not always lead through the most attractive quarters of the
town."

Mrs. Emerson shrunk back again in her seat and was silent. Her heart
was throbbing with a vague fear. Suddenly the carriage stopped and
the driver alighted.

"This is not my home," said Mrs. Emerson, as the driver opened the
door, and the major stepped out upon the pavement.

"Oh, yes. This is No. 240 L----street. Yes, ma'am," added the
driver, "this is the number that the gentleman told me."

"What gentleman?" asked Mrs. Emerson.

"This gentleman, if you please, ma'am."

"Drive me home instantly, or this may cost you dear!" said Mrs.
Emerson, in as stern a voice as surprise and fear would permit her
to assume.

"Madam--" Major Willard commenced speaking.

"Silence, sir! Shut the door, driver, and take me home instantly!"

The major made a movement as if he were about to enter the carriage,
when Mrs. Emerson said, in a low, steady, threatening voice--

"At your peril, remain outside! Driver, shut the door. If you permit
that man to enter, my husband will hold you to a strict account."

"Stand back!" exclaimed the driver, in a resolute voice.

But the major was not to be put off in this way. He did not move
from the open door of the carriage. In the next moment the driver's
vigorous arm had hurled him across the pavement. The door was shut,
the box mounted and the carriage whirled away, before the astonished
man could rise, half stunned, from the place where he fell. A few
low, bitter, impotent curses fell from his lips, and then he walked
slowly away, muttering threats of vengeance.

It was nearly twelve o'clock when Irene reached home.

"You are late," said her husband, as she came in.

"Yes," she replied, "later than I intended."

"What's the matter?" he inquired, looking at her narrowly.

"Why do you ask?" She tried to put on an air of indifference.

"You look pale and your voice is disturbed."

"The driver went through parts of the town in returning that made me
feel nervous, as I thought of my lonely and unprotected situation."

"Why did he do that?"

"It wasn't to make the way shorter, for the directest route would
have brought me home ten minutes ago. I declare! The fellow's
conduct made me right nervous. I thought a dozen improbable things."

"It is the last time I will employ him," said Hartley. "How dare he
go a single block away from a direct course, at this late hour?" He
spoke with rising indignation.

At first, Irene resolved to inform her husband of Major Willard's
conduct, but it will be seen by this conversation that she had
changed her mind, at least for the present. Two or three things
caused her to hesitate until she could turn the matter over in her
thoughts more carefully. Pride had its influence. She did not care
to admit that she had been in error and Hartley right as to Major
Willard. But there was a more sober aspect of the case. Hartley was
excitable, brave and strong-willed. She feared the consequences that
might follow if he were informed of Major Willard's outrageous
conduct. A personal collision she saw to be almost inevitable in
this event. Mortifying publicity, if not the shedding of blood,
would ensue.

So, for the present at least, she resolved to keep her own secret,
and evaded the close queries of her husband, who was considerably
disturbed by the alleged conduct of the driver.

One good result followed this rather startling experience. Irene
said no more about attending the conversaziones of Mrs. Talbot. She
did not care to meet Major Willard again, and as he was a regular
visitor at Mrs. Talbot's, she couldn't go there without encountering
him. Her absence on the next social evening was remarked by her new
friend, who called on her the next day.

"I didn't see you last night," said the agreeable Mrs. Talbot.

"No, I remained at home," replied Mrs. Emerson, the smile with which
she had received her friend fading partly away.

"Not indisposed, I hope?"

"No."

"But your husband was! Talk it right out, my pretty one!" said Mrs.
Talbot, in a gay, bantering tone. "Indisposed in mind. He don't like
the class of people one meets at my house. Men of his stamp never
do."

It was on the lips of Mrs. Emerson to say that there might be ground
for his dislike of some who were met there. But she repressed even a
remote reference to an affair that, for the gravest of reasons, she
still desired to keep as her own secret. So she merely answered--

"The indisposition of mind was on my part."

"On your part? Oh dear! That alters the case. And, pray, what
occasioned this indisposition? Not a previous mental surfeit, I
hope."

"Oh no. I never get a surfeit in good company. But people's states
vary, as you are aware. I had a stay-at-home feeling last night, and
indulged myself."

"Very prettily said, my dear. I understand you entirely, and like
your frank, outspoken way. This is always best with friends. I
desire all of mine to enjoy the largest liberty--to come and see me
when they feel like it, and to stay away when they don't feel like
coming. We had a delightful time. Major Willard was there. He's a
charming man! Several times through the evening he asked for you. I
really think your absence worried him. Now, don't blush! A handsome,
accomplished man may admire a handsome and accomplished woman,
without anything wrong being involved. Because one has a husband, is
she not to be spoken to or admired by other men? Nonsense! That is
the world's weak prudery, or rather the common social sentiment
based on man's tyranny over woman."

As Mrs. Talbot ran on in this strain, Mrs. Emerson had time to
reflect and school her exterior. Toward Major Willard her feelings
were those of disgust and detestation. The utterance of his name
shocked her womanly delicacy, but when it was coupled with a
sentiment of admiration for her, and an intimation of the probable
existence of something reciprocal on her part, it was with
difficulty that she could restrain a burst of indignant feeling. But
her strong will helped her, and she gave no intelligible sign of
what was really passing in her thoughts. The subject being
altogether disagreeable, she changed it as soon as possible.

In this interview with Mrs. Talbot a new impression in regard to her
was made on the mind of Mrs. Emerson. Something impure seemed to
pervade the mental atmosphere with which she was surrounded, and
there seemed to be things involved in what she said that shadowed a
latitude in morals wholly outside of Christian duty. When they
separated, much of the enthusiasm which Irene had felt for this
specious, unsafe acquaintance was gone, and her power over her was
in the same measure lessened.

CHAPTER XV.

CAPTIVATED AGAIN.

_BUT_ it is not so easily escaping from a woman like Mrs. Talbot,
when an acquaintanceship is once formed. In less than a week she
called again, and this time in company with another lady, a Mrs.
Lloyd, whom she introduced as a very dear friend. Mrs. Lloyd was a
tall, spare woman, with an intellectual face, bright, restless,
penetrating eyes, a clear musical voice, subdued, but winning
manners. She was a little past thirty, though sickness of body or
mind had stolen the bloom of early womanhood, and carried her
forward, apparently, to the verge of forty. Mrs. Emerson had never
before heard of this lady. But half an hour's conversation
completely captivated her. Mrs. Lloyd had traveled through Europe,
and spoke in a familiar way of the celebrated personages whom she
had met abroad,--talked of art, music and architecture, literature,
artists and literary men--displayed such high culture and easy
acquaintance with themes quite above the range usually met with
among ordinary people, that Mrs. Emerson felt really flattered with
the compliment of a visit.

"My good friend, Mrs. Talbot," said Mrs. Lloyd, during their
conversation, "has spoken of you so warmly that I could do no less
than make overtures for an acquaintance, which I trust may prove
agreeable. I anticipated the pleasure of seeing you at her house
last week, but was disappointed."

"The interview of to-day," remarked Mrs. Talbot, coming in adroitly,
"will only make pleasanter your meeting on to-morrow night."

"At your house?" said Mrs. Lloyd.

"Yes." And Mrs. Talbot threw a winning smile upon Mrs. Emerson. "You
will be there?"

"I think not," was replied.

"Oh, but you must come, my dear Mrs. Emerson! We cannot do without
you."

"I have promised my husband to go out with him."

"Your husband!" The voice of Mrs. Talbot betrayed too plainly her
contempt of husbands.

"Yes, my husband." Mrs. Emerson let her voice dwell with meaning on
the word.

The other ladies looked at each other for a moment or two with
meaning glances; then Mrs. Talbot remarked, in a quiet way, but with
a little pleasantry in her voice, as if she were not right clear in
regard to her young friend's state of feeling,

"Oh dear! these husbands are dreadfully in the way, sometimes!
Haven't you found it so, Mrs. Lloyd?"

The eyes of Mrs. Emerson were turned instantly to the face of her
new acquaintance. She saw a slight change of expression in her pale
face that took something from its agreeable aspect. And yet Mrs.
Lloyd smiled as she answered, in a way meant to be pleasant,

"They are very good in their place."

"The trouble," remarked Mrs. Talbot, in reply, "is to make them keep
their place."

"At our feet." Mrs. Emerson laughed as she said this.

"No," answered Mrs. Lloyd--"at our sides, as equals."

"And beyond that," said Mrs. Talbot, "we want them to give us as
much freedom in the world as they take for themselves. They come in
and go out when they please, and submit to no questioning on our
part. Very well; I don't object; only I claim the same right for
myself. 'I will ask my husband.' Don't you hear this said every day?
Pah! I'm always tempted to cut the acquaintance of a woman when I
hear these words from her lips. Does a man, when a friend asks him
to do anything or go anywhere, say, 'I'll ask my wife?' Not he. A
lady who comes occasionally to our weekly reunions, but whose
husband is too much of a man to put himself down to the level of our
set, is permitted the enjoyment of an evening with us, now and then,
on one condition."

"Condition!" There was a throb of indignant feeling in the voice of
Mrs. Lloyd.

"Yes, on condition that no male visitor at my house shall accompany
her home. A carriage is sent for her precisely at ten o'clock, when
she must leave, and alone."

"Humiliating!" ejaculated Mrs. Lloyd.

"Isn't it? I can scarcely have patience with her. Major Willard has,
at my instance, several times made an effort to accompany her, and
once actually entered her carriage. But the lady commanded him to
retire, or she would leave the carriage herself. Of course, when she
took that position, the gallant major had to leave the field."

"Such a restriction would scarce have suited my fancy," said Mrs.
Lloyd.

"Nor mine. What do you think of that?" And Mrs. Talbot looked into
the face of Mrs. Emerson, whose color had risen beyond its usual
tone.

"Circumstances alter cases," replied the latter, crushing out all
feeling from her voice and letting it fall into a dead level of
indifference.

"But circumstances don't alter facts, my dear. There are the hard
facts of restrictions and conditions, made by a man, and applied to
his equal, a woman. Does she say to him, You can't go to your club
unless you return alone in your carriage, and leave the club-house
precisely at ten o'clock? Oh no. He would laugh in her face, or,
perhaps, consult the family physician touching her sanity."

This mode of putting the question rather bewildered the mind of our
young wife, and she dropped her eyes from those of Mrs. Talbot and
sat looking upon the floor in silence.

"Can't you get your husband to release you from this engagement of
which you have spoken?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "I should like above all
things to meet you to-morrow evening."

Mrs. Emerson smiled as she answered,

"Husbands have rights, young know, as well as wives. We must consult
their pleasure sometimes, as well as our own."

"Certainly--certainly." Mrs. Lloyd spoke with visible impatience.

"I promised to go with my husband to-morrow night," said Mrs.
Emerson; "and, much as I may desire to meet you at Mrs. Talbot's, I
am not at liberty to go there."

"In bonds! Ah me! Poor wives!" sighed Mrs. Talbot, in affected pity.
"Not at liberty! The admission which comes to us from all sides."

She laughed in her gurgling, hollow way as she said this.

"Not bound to my husband, but to my word of promise," replied Mrs.
Emerson, as pleasantly as her disturbed feelings would permit her to
speak. The ladies were pressing her a little too closely, and she
both saw and felt this. They were stepping beyond the bounds of
reason and delicacy.

Mrs. Lloyd saw the state of mind which had been produced, and at
once changed the subject.

"May I flatter myself with the prospect of having this call
returned?" she said, handing Mrs. Emerson her card as she was about
leaving.

"It will give me great pleasure to know you better, and you may look
to seeing me right early," was the bland reply. And yet Mrs. Emerson
was not really attracted by this woman, but, on the contrary,
repelled. There was something in her keen, searching eyes, which
seemed to be looking right into the thoughts, that gave her a
feeling of doubt.

"Thank you. The favor will be all on my side," said Mrs. Lloyd, as
she held the hand of Mrs. Emerson and gave it a warm pressure.

The visit of these ladies did not leave the mind of Irene in a very
satisfactory state. Some things that were said she rejected, while
other things lingered and occasioned suggestions which were not
favorable to her husband. While she had no wish to be present at
Mrs. Talbot's on account of Major Willard, she was annoyed by the
thought that Hartley's fixing on the next evening for her to go out
with him was to prevent her attendance at the weekly conversazione.

Irene did not mention to her husband the fact that she bad received
a visit from Mrs. Talbot, in company with a pleasant stranger, Mrs.
Lloyd. It would have been far better for her if she had done so.
Many times it was on her lips to mention the call, but as often she
kept silent, one or the other of two considerations having
influence. Hartley did not like Mrs. Talbot, and therefore the
mention of her name, and the fact of her calling, would not be
pleasant theme. The other consideration had reference to a woman's
independence.

"He doesn't tell me of every man he meets through the day, and why
should I feel under obligation to speak of every lady who calls?" So
she thought. "As to Mrs. Lloyd, he would have a hundred prying
question's to ask, as if I we not competent to judge of the
character of my own friends and acquaintances?"

Within a week the call of Mrs. Lloyd was reciprocated by Mrs.
Emerson; not in consequence of feeling drawn toward that lady, but
she had promised to return the friendly visit, and must keep her
word. She found her domiciliated in a fashionable boarding-house,
and was received in the common parlor, in which were two or three
ladies and a gentleman, besides Mrs. Lloyd. The greeting she
received was warm, almost affectionate. In spite of the prejudice
that was creeping into her mind in consequence of an unfavorable
first impression, Mrs. Emerson was flattered by her reception, and
before the termination of her visit she was satisfied that she had
not, in the beginning, formed a right estimate of this really
fascinating woman.

"I hope to see you right soon," she said, as she bade Mrs. Lloyd
good-morning. "It will not be my fault if we do not soon know each
other better."

"Nor mine either," replied Mrs. Lloyd. "I think I shall find you
just after my own heart."

The voice of Mrs. Lloyd was a little raised as she said this, and
Mrs. Emerson noticed that a gentleman who was in the parlor when she
entered, but to whom she had not been introduced, turned and looked
at her with a steady, curious gaze, which struck her at the time as
being on the verge of impertinence.

Only two or three days passed before Mrs. Lloyd returned this visit.
Irene found her more interesting than ever. She had seen a great
deal of society, and had met, according to her own story, with most
of the distinguished men and women of the country, about whom she
talked in a very agreeable manner. She described their personal
appearance, habits, peculiarities and manners, and related pleasant
anecdotes about them. On authors and books she was entirely at home.

But there was an undercurrent of feeling in all she said that a
wiser and more experienced woman than Irene would have noted. It was
not a feeling of admiration for moral, but for intellectual, beauty.
She could dissect a character with wonderful skill, but always
passed the quality of goodness as not taken into account. In her
view this quality did not seem to be a positive element.

When Mrs. Lloyd went away, she left the mind of Irene stimulated,
restless and fluttering with vague fancies. She felt envious of her
new friend's accomplishments, and ambitious to move in as wide a
sphere as she had compassed. The visit was returned at an early
period, and, as before, Mrs. Emerson met Mrs. Lloyd in the public
parlor of her boarding-house. The same gentleman whose manner had a
little annoyed her was present, and she noticed several times, on
glancing toward him, that his eyes were fixed upon her, and with an
expression that she did not understand.

After this, the two ladies met every day or two, and sometimes
walked Broadway together. The only information that Mrs. Emerson had
in regard to her attractive friend she received from Mrs. Talbot.
According to her statement, she was a widow whose married life had
not been a happy one. The husband, like most husbands, was an
overbearing tyrant, and the wife, having a spirit of her own,
resisted his authority. Trouble was the consequence, and Mrs. Talbot
thought, though she was not certain, that a separation took place
before Mr. Lloyd's death. She had a moderate income, which came from
her husband's estate, on which she lived in a kind of idle
independence. So she had plenty of time to read, visit and enjoy
herself in the ways her fancy or inclination might prompt.

CHAPTER XVI.

WEARY OF CONSTRAINT.

_TIME_ moved on, and Mrs. Emerson's intimate city friends were those
to whom she had been introduced, directly or indirectly, through
Mrs. Talbot. Of these, the one who had most influence over her was
Mrs. Lloyd, and that influence was not of the right kind. Singularly
enough, it so happened that Mr. Emerson never let this lady at his
house, though she spent hours there every week; and, more singular
still, Irene had never spoken about her to her husband. She had
often been on the point of doing so, but an impression that Hartley
would take up an unreasonable prejudice against her kept the name of
this friend back from her lips.

Months now succeeded each other without the occurrence of events
marked by special interest. Mr. Emerson grew more absorbed in his
profession as cases multiplied on his hands, and Irene, interested
in her circle of bright-minded, independent-thoughted women, found
the days and weeks gliding on pleasantly enough. But habits of
estimating things a little differently from the common sentiment,
and views of life not by any means consonant with those prevailing
among the larger numbers of her sex, were gradually taking root.

Young, inexperienced, self-willed and active in mind, Mrs. Emerson
had most unfortunately been introduced among a class of persons
whose influence upon her could not fail to be hurtful. Their
conversation was mainly of art, literature, social progress and
development; the drama, music, public sentiment on leading topics of
the day; the advancement of liberal ideas, the necessity of a larger
liberty and a wider sphere of action for woman, and the equality of
the sexes. All well enough, all to be commended when viewed in their
just relation to other themes and interests, but actually pernicious
when separated from the homely and useful things of daily life, and
made so to overshadow these as to warp them into comparative
insignificance. Here lay the evil. It was this elevation of her
ideas above the region of use and duty into the mere æsthetic and
reformatory that was hurtful to one like Irene--that is, in fact,
hurtful to any woman, for it is always hurtful to take away from the
mind its interest in common life--the life, we mean, of daily useful
work.

Work! We know the word has not a pleasant sound to many ears, that
it seems to include degradation, and a kind of social slavery, and
lies away down in a region to which your fine, cultivated,
intellectual woman cannot descend without, in her view, soiling her
garments. But for all this, it is alone in daily useful work of mind
or hands, work in which service and benefits to others are involved,
that a woman (or a man) gains any true perfection of character. And
this work must be her own, must lie within the sphere of her own
relations to others, and she must engage in it from a sense of duty
that takes its promptings from her own consciousness of right. No
other woman can judge of her relation to this work, and she who
dares to interfere or turn her aside should be considered an
enemy--not a friend.

No wonder, if this be true, that we have so many women of taste,
cultivation, and often brilliant intellectual powers, blazing about
like comets or shooting stars in our social firmament. They attract
admiring attention, excite our wonder, give us themes for
conversation and criticism; but as guides and indicators while we
sail over the dangerous sea of life, what are they in comparison
with some humble star of the sixth magnitude that ever keeps its
true place in the heavens, shining on with its small but steady ray,
a perpetual blessing? And so the patient, thoughtful, loving wife
and mother, doing her daily work for human souls and bodies, though
her intellectual powers be humble, and her taste but poorly
cultivated, fills more honorably her sphere than any of her more
brilliant sisters, who cast off what they consider the shackles by
which custom and tyranny have bound them down to mere home duties
and the drudgery of household care. If down into these they would
bring their superior powers, their cultivated tastes, their larger
knowledge, how quickly would some desert homes in our land put on
refreshing greenness, and desolate gardens blossom like the rose! We
should have, instead of vast imaginary Utopias in the future, model
homes in the present, the light and beauty of which, shining abroad,
would give higher types of social life for common emulation.

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