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Teacup Club (Dramatic Reading)

[261] <h2>Chapter XII The Club Investigates Theosophy</h2> “We will discuss to-day: ‘What Theosophy Really Teaches,’” said the president, as soon as she could make herself heard. “You expressed an earnest wish to study it,’ Emily, and—” “Did I?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin, looking surprised. “I had quite forgotten it. However, I have been so busy with my new hats and the chairmanship of a committee appointed to instruct tenement house mothers as to the best method of bringing up children, that I have had no time for anything else.” “And no wonder,” said the girl with the classic profile. “How grateful those poor ignorant people must be for your instruction!” “M—I don’t know about that. At[262] times, I am very much discouraged. One woman said she would gladly allow her children to wear two fresh aprons a day, if I would pay for the washing of them. Another said that she had already raised six children without my assistance, and she believed she could worry on without it a bit longer. Still another was so stupid that she couldn’t be made to understand how I, who had never had any children, was able to offer her such valuable suggestions.” “As if it depended on experience,” said the president. “The theory is ever so much more important.” “That was what I said to the woman who— You knew that I had resigned from that same committee, didn’t you?” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Why, no; this is the first I have heard of it. And you were so enthusiastic, too! What on earth has made you change your mind?” “A woman. She—” “Oh! I thought, perhaps, it was a man,” said the brown-eyed blonde.[263] “No. I am not as easily influenced as you are, dear. This woman lived up six flights of the dirtiest stairs I ever saw. I wondered at the time why she didn’t ask the landlord to have an elevator put in; probably she hadn’t thought of it. She lived in two rooms, and you never saw such awful poverty in your life. I thought, as she was so awfully poor, she couldn’t have much feeling, so I told her plainly that she could never expect her children to love and honor her if she did not at once give them each a hot bath, and put up fresh curtains and a pot or two of flowers in the windows. Everybody knows how cheap curtains are nowadays—not the real lace ones, of course, but—” “Tamboured muslin and all that,” said the president. “Was she grateful for your interest in her?” “I fear not. She looked at me, earnestly, and said: ‘You’ve been to one of them, haven’t you? I’ve always wanted to see somebody that had!’” “Was the woman mad?”[264] “I was afraid so, and I began to back out of the door, when she called, ‘Mary Ellen! oh, Mary Ellen! come right in here this minute! Here is a lady who has been to one of them there beauty doctors we was talking about yesterday! She must be awful old, for she’s brought up a lot of children; and come here to teach me how to raise mine; and if that beauty doctor ain’t fixed her up so she looks real young!’” “And did Mary Ellen come?” asked the girl with the dimple in her chin, sympathetically. “I don’t know. I didn’t wait; but I am almost sure I heard several people laughing as I came down-stairs. After this, I shall devote my energies to foreign missions or something like that. If the heathens are not grateful for my efforts in their behalf, they at least express themselves in a tongue I don’t understand; and they are too far away for me to hear them, even if I could understand!” “Their ingratitude is awful,” wailed the president. “Well, I’m glad you have told[265] me all this. Otherwise, I never could have had courage to tell you my last experience with visiting the dwellers in the slums as a member of the ‘Society for Procuring Better Ventilation in Other People’s Bedrooms!’ I called on one woman, who really seemed impressed by my arguments; she was quite polite, and never took her eyes off my bonnet all the time I was talking to her. I was so pleased with her that I gave her my address, and told her I would let her have a lot of pamphlets on the subject, if she would send for them. I knew I could not get one of my maids to carry them into that district, and besides her husband could easily come for them. He was a street paver, and no doubt would be glad to get the exercise.” “Of course,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Did he come?” “No. But she herself walked in on my reception day a few weeks later. She wore a bonnet which was a perfect caricature of mine. She said she hoped I would forgive her for delaying the returning of my call so[266] long; and didn’t I think my reception-room was too warm to be quite healthy?” “Did you ever hear of such impertinence! and in your own house, too!” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “What did the other members of the society say?” “I don’t know. I resigned, by telephone, as soon as Tom and the doctor succeeded in bringing me out of my fainting fit.” “And no wonder,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, sympathetically. “And yet, people complain that we take so little interest in the poor! Only a real philanthropist can appreciate the rebuffs we receive. The only thing which helps us to bear them, is the knowledge that we are doing such incalculable good.” “It is very sweet and good of you to feel so,” sighed the girl with the eyeglasses. “I don’t know that I am quite so magnanimous, myself. Oh, Catharine, dear; you were speaking of Mr. Rocksby the other day. Did you ever hear the end of his affair with Florence?”[267] “Why, no,” said the girl with the classic profile. “I only knew that it had an end. How on earth did you find out about it?” “I heard that she and Effie had fallen out, and I asked Effie all about it. Of course she was glad enough to tell. It seems that there was a dance at the club in Arcadia, and Florence went out to stay with the Brownstones and attend it. Mr. Rocksby happened to meet her at the station, and went out with her, intending to return by the next train. It turned out that there was no train back until midnight, so the Brownstones invited him to dine and go to the dance with them. They even brought out a dress coat of Mr. Brownstone’s for him to wear, and Florence told Effie that he looked as if he weighed twenty pounds less when he put it on.” “It’s really wonderful the way people always help Florence along,” sighed the girl with the classic profile. “Nobody ever does such things for me.” “I fancy Florence wishes they hadn’t for her, dear. Well, he was lovely to her[268] at the dance, and after a while he coaxed her out on the balcony for a quiet talk. Before she fairly knew what he was about, he had fallen heavily on his knees and said, ‘Florence, I—’ when she heard the queerest sound, and he sprang to his feet, with his hand on his back!” “Good gracious, I hope the poor old soul hadn’t hurt himself?” “No; I believe not. But he had split Mr. Brownstone’s dress coat from top to bottom. And though Florence tried her very best, she never could coax him to finish the sentence he had just begun!” “Poor Florence! No wonder she says now she thinks a man looks better in cycling garb than anything else. The sight of a dress coat must be enough to make her ill.” “I should think so,” said the president. “By the way, speaking of theosophy, I wonder why its stout and elderly devotees wear such flowing white robes? The younger ones seem content with short hair and general dowdiness.” “Good gracious, you will be wondering[269] next why politicians always wear diamonds or why dressmakers invariably appear in old-fashioned gowns,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “and I must say, frankly, that I can’t answer either of those questions. By the way, Evelyn, I suppose I am to congratulate you. I hear that Tom has just inherited ten thousand dollars.” “I don’t know whether you may congratulate me, or not,” said the president. “Sometimes, I—” “Oh! Then, there is no truth in the report?” “Yes, it is true enough, but I don’t know whether I am to be congratulated or not. You see, I was getting along very well as we were, and now I see that I need a lot of things I never thought of before—more than the extra income could possibly cover—and I shall be absolutely wretched unless I can have them.” “But you will have some of them, anyhow, won’t you?” “I’m not sure. Tom talks now of putting all the money into his business. In[270] that case he will be obliged to work harder, because he will have more at stake; he says, also, that I shall have to be more economical than ever because every cent will be needed to extend his operations. On the whole,” she added, thoughtfully, “I am rather sorry his aunt is dead. It was ever so much nicer when she was living, and I could spend the expected legacy royally, in imagination, at least.” “You poor dear; to think of having cause to regret the death of a wealthy relative,” said the blue-eyed girl, “but—er—couldn’t Tom put you on the pay-roll as a clerk, or something?” “I did suggest that; but he said he’d rather pay me a salary to stay out of the office. I haven’t spoken to him since.” “Do you know, I always think it a mistake to stop speaking to any one,” said the blue-eyed girl; “it seems unkind, and then one loses the opportunity to say unpleasant things to them, too.”[271] “I believe you are right,” said the president. “No married man seems to appreciate speechless indignation, anyhow.” “I must see you alone a moment, Emily, dear,” whispered the blue-eyed girl. “Can’t you come with me down to the other end of the room, and let me pretend to straighten your hair?” “With pleasure, dear,” replied Emily, but there was no alacrity in her voice; “only we must not stay too long lest Frances suspect something.” “What if she does? She would only think we are talking about her—and I doubt if that would make her particularly comfortable. It is about Jack. Perhaps, you can pardon his behavior, but for me the last link which bound us is broken, and I feel now that I can start for India as a missionary without a pang!” “My goodness, what has he done now? I’ve been afraid all along, Dorothy, that you would put off the reconciliation too long. While he confines his attentions to Frances, it is all right; but some time he[272] will find out that there are a number of nice girls in the world, and—” “Frances has nothing to do with it,” she replied, with great dignity. “It happened this way: I was coming home about dusk yesterday—you remember how it rained, don’t you? Well, I was so miserable that I didn’t even attempt to hold up my skirts—it was a kind of a comfort to let them get thoroughly draggled. A gust of wind blew my umbrella to one side, and I saw Jack and Mr. Bonds just ahead of me. By the way, did you ever notice that—er—there is a certain likeness between those two?” “I’ve always said they looked enough alike to be brothers. Don’t you remember, dear, when you were first engaged to Jack, you wouldn’t speak to me for two weeks because I mentioned the fact?” “No, I don’t remember. Well, all of a sudden, I felt that I could forgive Jack all if I could just lay my head on his shoulder, and hear him say that he was sorry.” “Oh, Dorothy, dear, I am so glad! He told me this morning that he—”[273] “If you will kindly allow me to proceed, without interruption, I will explain how that is now impossible. I was wondering how Mr. Bonds could be gotten rid of, so that Jack could go home with me and apologize comfortably before dinner; when he suddenly left him and ran up the Vansmith’s steps. Jack was walking slowly, and I just shut my eyes, and made a dash to catch up with him. My own voice sounded like a fog whistle, as I said: ‘W—wait a moment; I—I wish to speak to you.’ And, oh, Emily—” “You surely never mean to say that Jack wouldn’t stop when you called?” “It wasn’t Jack. It was Mr. Bonds; Jack had gone into the Vansmith house! But, oh, Emily, if he really loved me, he would have known that I was right behind him, ready to forgive and forget. I shall sail for India some time next week, and if I never return, you—” “But, Dorothy, Jack is only too anxious to make up. He says that a lover’s quarrel is worse than a Welsh rarebit for keeping a[274] fellow awake at night. And he told me to tell you—” “Well, Emily Marshmallow, if this is all the interest you take in our discussion of theosophy, we might as well adjourn, and go to a millinery shop or an afternoon tea,” said the president, with some asperity; “and, after all the trouble I’ve taken in reading everything the dictionary and the encyclopædia have to say on the subject, I think you might at least pay attention to my remarks!” “Dear me, Evelyn, I really beg your pardon. I shall borrow Elise’s note-book, and study it all out before I sleep. There is nothing so productive of a good night’s rest as half an hour’s solid reading after one is in bed. Why, the other night, I took a book on philosophy to bed with me, and before I had read six sentences I was asleep. I never woke till nine o’clock in the morning, and the gas was blazing all that time. I doubt if I’d have waked then if somebody hadn’t knocked at my door.” “It was the sweet consciousness of duty[275] well performed,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Now, if your book had been a really interesting novel, you would have been awake half the night.” “True,” said the girl with the classic profile, “and been as yellow as a primrose in the morning. I often say that a few pages of really good literature just before retiring is the best thing in the world for the complexion. One girl I know says she always reads her Bible then; but I don’t approve of that—if one falls asleep suddenly, allowing it to drop heavily upon the floor, it is sure to awaken the other members of the family. If I do that, my father—” “I know,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, plaintively. “Mamma says that if I take any more solid reading to bed I may confront papa with this month’s gas bill, when it comes in, for she absolutely refuses to do it!” “Pshaw, men are all alike; though I didn’t use to think so,” said the president. “Now, I always forget all about the topic[276] for discussion until half an hour before it is time to start for the club. A man would say that he hadn’t time to prepare for it, but a woman’s courage never deserts her. I am all ready at the appointed time, even if I have to tell the cook to have anything she chooses for dinner. Now, Tom thinks I ought to be ready by the day before, even if I have to give up a tea or a luncheon to do it.” “The idea!” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Really, women have so many things to do nowadays that is a wonder they find time for them all; and yet, men seem to expect them to be just as good housekeepers as they were when they had nothing else to do. I regret to see that the sexes have not progressed equally.” “Indeed they have not,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Who ever heard of the new man? And if there was such a creature he would no doubt be so effeminate that nobody would care anything for him.” “True,” said the girl with the classic profile,[277] “sometimes, I fear that Helen’s husband will develop such proclivities. Of course it is only a harmless eccentricity which makes him sew on his own buttons—I can overlook that. But the other day he was getting ready to go down town while she was out on her bicycle. Just because she was wearing one of his shirts and a collar and tie of his, he dressed up in that lovely lace collarette of hers, and was actually going out with it on! What would people have said of a man who appeared in such feminine attire!” “Goodness me, I hope he is not losing his mind,” said the president. “However, if he is, Helen is always ready to supply him with a piece of hers. By the way, girls, what queer questions men do ask! Several of Tom’s friends dined with us last evening, and they actually wanted to know why a stout woman always selects a tiny dog for a pet, while a wisp of a woman will be tugging at the chain of an enormous mastiff. I simply told them that they must not be so curious, for, though I would[278] not confess it to them, I really could not answer the question.” “And you were quite right,” said the blue-eyed girl, indignantly; “by and by, they will actually expect us to give a reason for everything we do! Which is palpably absurd, since we so often do things without any reason at all!” “Well, luckily, we are not responsible for anybody,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Oh! I just wouldn’t be a man for anything in the world.” “Would anybody, if he could help it?” queried the brown-eyed blonde. “Of course, they all pretend to like it, but one can easily see the hollowness of the pretense. Why, they would not be half so anxious to criticise our actions if they didn’t feel that we have the best of things. Of course, I would not be a man for anything—” “Nor I,” said the president, “and have to give up my comfortable seat in a street car every time a woman entered.”[279] “But of course it is only right for them to give up their seats to us,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Certainly, it’s right. Only I shouldn’t like to have to do it myself.” “Of course not. Or to have to pay for pretty things for somebody else to wear. Or to have to drop a nice book, and go out in the rain to escort home a girl who had been calling on some one else,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Yes. Or to have to buy candy for somebody else to eat,” said the girl with the classic profile. “M’hm. Or to have the nearest woman manage one, without one being aware of the fact,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “I know! Or to have to fall in love with a girl, and marry her, just because she had made up her mind that one should,” said the blue-eyed girl. “Yes. Well, really the poor things have a great deal to endure, though many of their sufferings are mercifully hidden from[280] them,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “But, after all, we are very nice to them, you know.” “Of course we are,” said the president; “we wouldn’t get nearly so many things out of them, if we were not. Girls, I hear that Annie has finally decided to marry Nelson.” “I thought she had done that long ago,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Talk of a woman not knowing her own mind. That man never—” “He knew his own mind well enough, dear. It was only about Annie’s that he was doubtful,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “Annie told me herself how it came to be settled. She said that she couldn’t decide whether to accept him or not—” “Which means that she had done all she could, and was doubtful whether he would do the rest,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Perhaps so. At any rate it was still uncertain until last Tuesday. He had been out of town for several days, and returned[281] unexpectedly. Annie had gone out to mail a letter, and just as she raised the lid of the letter-box she saw him coming up the street toward her. As they walked away together, she glanced down and saw that she still held her letter in her hand, but her pocket-book was gone!” “Goodness, you don’t mean to say that she—” “I do. She said she knew at once that she must care a good deal for a man whose sudden appearance was enough to make her post her pocketbook instead of a letter—so she said ‘Yes.’” “As soon as he asked her,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “Well, what he can see in her, I’m sure I don’t know!” “What she can see in him puzzles me,” said the blue-eyed girl, thoughtfully. “I don’t see how any girl can really love and honor a man who wears red neckties; do you?” “For my part, I can’t see what they see in each other,” said the president, thoughtfully. “Well, I really think Annie ought to[282] give me a handsome present, for it was I who brought it all about.” “Mercy, did you speak ill of her to Nelson?” “No; but I told Tom the other day that I didn’t believe that girl would ever get married. And when I make a remark like that about any girl, she may as well set about selecting her trousseau, for somebody is sure to propose to her at once.” “And yet, I doubt if Annie would be grateful to you, if you told her,” said the blue-eyed girl, thoughtfully. “One must not expect gratitude in this world, dear. The consciousness of having done one’s duty is reward enough for a right-minded person. By the way, Emily dear, I hear that Dick says he will positively wait no longer. You must give him a decisive answer one way or the other, or he—” “Yes; but he hasn’t yet screwed up the courage to tell me so, dear. When he does, it will be time for me to make up my mind. I do wonder,” she added, thoughtfully,[283] “why a girl who has one lover already, is sure to win the affections of another man?” “Cause and effect,” said the president, gloomily. “I never thought of buying that new hat until I heard Helen tell the milliner it was too expensive for her. After I got it home, I found it didn’t match a thing I possessed. I just believe Helen said that before me for meanness, knowing I would be compelled to buy it, then. And now the milliner absolutely refuses to take it off my hands. I threatened to withdraw my trade if she didn’t; but it had no effect. She knows I have more hats already than I need for this season, and by the time they are all worn out—and paid for—I shall have forgotten all about it.” “But why not pay your bill at once, and open another with somebody else? That—” “I don’t care to let Tom see the old bill just now, dear. It wouldn’t matter ordinarily, but since he inherited that money from his aunt he is feeling unusually poor, and it might cause a family unpleasantness.”[284] “How thoughtful you always are, Evelyn! Really, the study of theosophy seems to have developed your character wonderfully. I do hope you will explain it all thoroughly to me,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “I am really so stupid that even after to-day’s discussion, I feel that I do not fully understand it.” “Perhaps at some future time,” said the president, hastily. “I am sorry to say that we really must adjourn now. My mother-in-law is coming to dine with us, and I don’t want her poking about the house in my absence.” <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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