The Morning Glory Club

Chapter I

"Ezra, this is a morning long to be remembered," said Mrs. Tweedie, as she looked up from the undulating top of a huge cake which, with the skill of a professional plasterer, she was bedaubing with a dark brown paste.

"I hope so, my dear," her husband replied, smilingly, as he put his paper aside.

"Sometime this house may bear a tablet of bronze," continued Mrs. Tweedie, "on which, in effect, will be graven that here was founded by the women of Manville an organization that startled the community."

"My only regret is that I shall not be here to see it—I mean the tablet, of course," said Ezra.

"We shall prove," Mrs. Tweedie went on with her eyes fixed dreamily on a distant corner of the kitchen, "we shall prove that the accusation which you made in anger one week ago to-night, that 'women are the cause of all of the trouble in[2] the world,' is false! False as the affection of men!"

Ezra's smile faded to a look that suggested a complication of homesickness and mal de mer. The incident to which Mrs. Tweedie referred was not their first quarrel. The first had taken place years before, and ever since Ezra had been different.

"My dear," he replied, weakly, attempting not to let his feelings show in his voice, "you always accomplish whatever you attempt."

"And why, Ezra, why do I succeed?" (Mrs. Tweedie was given to boasting when alone with her little, ladylike husband.) "Because," she continued, replying to her own question, "I possess and use that rare virtue called tact."

"True, my dear, very true," Ezra acknowledged, meekly. "I have known always that you had enough for two." He might have added truthfully that, had it not been for her remarkable tact, and the fact that one of her relatives had indiscreetly died intestate during their courtship, he would not have married her.

The income which "dear cousin John's" carelessness and the statutes gave them was small; only Mrs. Tweedie's tact made it possible for her[3] family of four to exist in the sham style which they affected. Despite her tact, their credit was constantly stretched and perilously near to the C.O.D. point; in fact, the feelings of all the tradesmen of Manville were correctly described when the milkman vowed that the Tweedies would be supplied from the bottom of the can until they had settled for the top. Considered from every point of view the Tweedies were strange people.

The idea of a club for women was not new to the world, but to the New England town of Manville it was as new as the newest baby. The germ had taken up its abode in Mrs. Tweedie's head a week before, and since its arrival had buzzed so furiously that she was conscious of nothing else.

Two hours after her conversation with Ezra, Mrs. Tweedie was ready to meet the ladies whom she had invited to take part in the materialization of her idea. When the door-bell rang announcing the first arrival, she hastened to the parlour and assumed a becoming attitude, while Ezra, who impersonated Dora, their maid, when she was otherwise occupied, went to the door.

"Mrs. Flint, my dear," Ezra announced a moment later, as he bowed the lady named into the parlour, and then vanished. Mrs. Tweedie was[4] very fond of Mrs. Flint, her beloved pastor's wife, and greeted her with as much cordiality as it was possible for her to display. The chief reason for her fondness was the fact that Mrs. Flint belonged to one of the oldest families in the State. Her blood was as blue as the bluest blue, and her ancestry could be traced back into a delightful abyss of years. Mrs. Tweedie had a profound respect for such things—she had ancestors herself.

"Tell me," said Mrs. Flint, after they had chatted about little nothings for five minutes, "how have you succeeded? Was your club idea well received?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Tweedie.

"And did many promise to come?"

"Every one on whom I called was delighted, and promised to be here this morning," said Mrs. Tweedie, proudly.

"Very encouraging, I'm sure," murmured Mrs. Flint, as she glanced about the room and noticed that there was dust on the family Bible. Mrs. Tweedie knew it was there. She also knew that Mrs. Flint knew, and was annoyed.

"I have heard that your son William has returned," observed Mrs. Tweedie, hoping to divert Mrs. Flint's mind from the dusty Bible to a subject[5] that could not be wholly agreeable to the minister's wife, if the rumours which had reached Mrs. Tweedie were founded on fact.

"Yes, college life is so trying for a young man at William's critical age. He seems to have broken down completely," sadly replied the fond mamma of one hundred and eighty pounds of beef, bone, and deviltry.

"Indeed! I am very sorry to hear of his condition, but rejoiced to know that I have been incorrectly informed concerning his reason for leaving college," said Mrs. Tweedie. "You must be very happy with him at home again after such a long absence."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Flint, telling one of those weak little lies that we all indulge in when it seems to be really necessary.

Mrs. Tweedie's feminine instinct told her the truth, and she generously dropped William for something more closely related to the club idea.

"Oh, I have invited Mrs. Stout to join. What do you think of her?" she asked, suddenly.

"She does not attend our church—of course that would make no difference, but—" The minister's wife hesitated, and raised her eyes significantly.

[6]

"Her grammar is shocking—she speaks so plainly," said Mrs. Tweedie, her nose in air. "And her manners and dress are—"

"Extraordinary," prompted Mrs. Flint.

"The very word."

"She has, probably, admirable qualities, but—"

"No doubt, except—there's the bell!" And then Mrs. Tweedie added in a whisper, "I would not have this repeated for worlds."

Just then Mrs. Stout entered the room unannounced.

"My dear Mrs. Stout, good morning," said Mrs. Tweedie. "We were just this moment speaking of you."

"Was you now?" smilingly responded Mrs. Stout, as she sat down in the largest chair in the room and began fanning herself with a photograph that she took from a table. "How d'y do, Mis' Flint. I ain't set eyes on you since our Fast Day union meetin'. How's the parson? I heard he was feelin' kinder streaked."

"Quite well, thank you," replied Mrs. Flint, rather coldly.

Mrs. Stout was the wife of Peter Stout, grocer, and the mother of three boys. Though her grammar, manners, and dress did not reach to Mrs.[7] Tweedie's lofty ideals, she had many friends in Manville among those who did not pretend to be more than they were. Her family—of course she had a father and mother, but her grandfathers and grandmothers—no one had ever taken the pains to draw the likeness of a tree and write on its naked branches the names of her ancestors. Despite the lack of grandfathers and grandmothers, she had a large measure of common sense, and a big heart.

"We don't seem to be crowded here," remarked Mrs. Stout, after a moment's pause. "Anybody else comin'?"

"We hope so, but it is early yet, you know, only half-past ten," explained Mrs. Tweedie.

"Early? Good land!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "I've been up these five hours and done all my work. Oh, there was somethin' I wanted to ask perticler. Is Lizzie Sawyer goin' to join?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, and wondered what was coming next.

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, confidentially, "the reason I wanted to know was that she and I don't get along very well together, but there, I guess we can manage somehow to keep from clashin'."

Mrs. Tweedie saw rough weather ahead, and[8] proceeded to pour oil upon the waters before the storm broke.

"Miss Sawyer was one of the first asked to join," she replied. "She is an exceptionally well-educated woman, and has signified her willingness to read several papers on vital topics before the club when we are ready for such work."

"Papers? Newspapers?" Mrs. Stout asked, with a puzzled look.

"No, indeed! Papers—essays on—on—" Mrs. Tweedie tried to reduce her language to Mrs. Stout's mental level in vain.

"Oh, how stoopid I am!" Mrs. Stout interrupted, thereby unconsciously rescuing Mrs. Tweedie from her difficulty, "I understand now. I s'pose she'll try to tell us a lot about religion, and—"

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Tweedie, quickly, "I think not. Would it be wise to discuss religion at our meetings? I am sure that the other sex never tolerate it in their organizations."

"I s'pose you mean the men?" queried Mrs. Stout.

"I do."

"Well, that's true enough, I guess, but it ain't because they don't think it's wise. It's because[9] men don't naturally hanker after religion. There's my husband, a good 'nough man, but I can't get him to go to meetin' to save me, though he will go fishin' spite of all I can say or do."

"Really!" gasped Mrs. Flint. "Does he really fish on the Sabbath?"

"He certainly does," replied Mrs. Stout, "jest as reg'lar as he eats his vi't'ls."

Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Flint were horribly shocked, and to their cultured minds perhaps "vi't'ls" was quite as shocking as Sabbath fishing.

"And what else are we goin' to do besides havin' papers read?" continued Mrs. Stout.

"We hope," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "to spend our time in the study and discussion of subjects which will be uplifting, that will make ourselves, and aid us in helping others, to be stronger, morally and intellectually."

"You don't mean it!" said Mrs. Stout, with mock gravity. "And when we ain't doin' that I s'pose we'll be talkin' about other folks and their businesses."

"I trust not," replied Mrs. Tweedie, much distressed. "Of course, some people are improperly interested in the affairs of others, but we hope that[10] those so inclined will not become members of our club."

"Well, I hope so, too," said Mrs. Stout, with a suspicious twinkle in her eyes. "But it's hard, dreadful hard, Mis' Tweedie, to get a crowd of women folks together without some one sayin' somethin' about somebody that they wouldn't have said if she was there."

Mrs. Tweedie was as near to tears of mortification as a woman of her kind ever gets. She had never realized before how brutally truthful Mrs. Stout could be.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, abruptly changing the subject, "is Miss Wallace, the schoolteacher that boards with you, goin' to belong?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "She is heartily in sympathy with us, but will not be able to attend many meetings because of her work."

"I'm real glad that she's goin' to join, I like her," said Mrs. Stout, simply, and she meant it. Miss Wallace was likable, but not many in Manville had discovered her good qualities. "There's somebody else!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she heard the bell which rang at that moment, and then added, quickly, "Excuse me, of course you don't go to the door when you have a girl."

[11]

A soft voice was heard asking for Mrs. Tweedie, and then the masculine tones of Dora inviting some one to come in.

"Oh, is it you, Miss Sawyer?" said Mrs. Tweedie, all smiles, when the newcomer appeared in the doorway. "We are so glad that you could come. Of course, you know Mrs. Stout, and—"

Miss Sawyer bowed stiffly.

"Glad to see you," said Mrs. Stout, telling the lie that has been told oftener than any other.

Miss Elizabeth Sawyer was a lady of—her age does not matter. She was tall and very slight, her hair was gray, and her eyes were the bulging, staring kind that always seemed about to jump from their sockets, caused in some degree, perhaps, by the black-rimmed eye-glasses secured by a heavy cord which she constantly wore. She had the reputation of being very intellectual. The very person, Mrs. Tweedie thought, to shine in a woman's club.

When Miss Sawyer spied Mrs. Flint she rushed into her arms. She considered Mrs. Flint as near her equal mentally as it was possible for any woman in Manville to be. They sat down together, and cooed for several minutes in the most impolite manner possible, so Mrs. Tweedie thought,[12] probably because she could not hear a word that they said. Mrs. Stout moved uneasily, and Mrs. Tweedie coughed several times, but with no effect.

"Ain't it most time we was doin' somethin' about this club we came here to get up?" Mrs. Stout asked, impatiently, when she could contain herself no longer.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "when the others are ready; and I was waiting—I had hoped that my daughter Fanny, she is to be one of us, you know, would be here by this time. I can't imagine—" Mrs. Tweedie was interrupted by the entrance of her son Thomas, the bad angel of the Tweedie household.

"Ma," he blubbered, "Dora won't give me a piece of cake. Can't I have some, ma?" This exhibition of domestic turmoil made Mrs. Tweedie very angry, and it was with difficulty that she controlled herself.

"Thomas, leave the room immediately," she commanded, sternly.

"Am I goin' to have any cake?" the young man demanded when he saw that tears were of no avail.

"Thomas, I insist upon your leaving the room[13] at once," replied his mother, firmly. The ladies were watching breathlessly the contest between mother and son.

"I won't go 'less I can have some cake," said the boy, defiantly. Mrs. Tweedie went to the door, and called for Dora. The silence that followed was so impressive that Thomas would have succumbed had it lasted a moment longer than it did. When Dora came Mrs. Tweedie, with much determination and latent anger, said:

"Dora, assist Thomas from the room." Dora was delighted; here was an opportunity for revenge. Her hand went out quickly toward her prey, but Thomas dodged.

"I won't go!" he screamed.

"Thomas," said Mrs. Tweedie, sadly, "shall I call your father?" A broad grin spread over the boy's face, and Dora snickered.

"I ain't 'fraid of him," he said, saucily.

"Take him away instantly, Dora!" Mrs. Tweedie ordered, angrily. Dora was more successful in her next attempt to capture Thomas, though a vase was broken and two chairs were overturned while she was dragging him from the room.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Tweedie, in a choking[14] voice, as she removed her glasses and wiped them, "I cannot tell you how grieved I am to have our meeting interrupted—" A crash was heard at that moment, the sound coming from the direction of the kitchen.

"I guess somebudy's dropped somethin'," suggested Mrs. Stout. Her surmise was correct. Dora had dropped Thomas, and dropped him hard. Mrs. Tweedie wiped her eyes, put on her glasses, and wondered how much damage had been done.

"Thomas is a very impulsive child," she said, "I hope that you will overlook this rare breach in his customary commendable deportment. And now, had we not better make a start at least on the work for which we are gathered?"

"I should say it was time," replied Mrs. Stout. "Up to now we've talked about everything from here to Halifax 'cept business."

"The other sex," continued Mrs. Tweedie, after listening a moment to be sure that her domestic affairs were running smoothly, or, at least, noiselessly, "the other sex," she repeated, "have their lodges and clubs, why should not we band ourselves together in a similar manner, and become, in the community, a great power for good?"

"Excuse me," interrupted Mrs. Stout, "but[15] don't you think it's terrible hot here? I'm 'most melted."

Miss Sawyer looked up in astonishment.

"Why, Mrs. Stout, I am positively chilly," she said, coughing dismally.

"I will open a window." Mrs. Tweedie spoke impatiently as she got up and attempted to raise a window. It resisted her efforts. "Really, I can't imagine why it will not open—I'll try the other." She did so, but again her efforts were unsuccessful.

"I guess it's the damp weather," suggested Mrs. Stout.

"I suppose it is," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she went to the door and called for Dora, and then by way of explanation turned to the ladies and added, "Dora is very strong."

"Did you call, ma'am?" asked Dora, a moment later, as she appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, I want you to open a window," Mrs. Tweedie replied, shortly. Dora advanced on one of the stubborn windows and exerted all her strength. Conversation ceased, all eyes were upon Dora. Failing at one window, she attempted another with the same result. The windows could not be opened by woman.

[16]

"I can't do it, ma'm," said Dora, her face very red.

"Call Mr. Tweedie," Mrs. Tweedie commanded. "One of those windows shall be opened!"

Dora hurried from the room, and then Mrs. Stout laughed irritatingly.

"Tell us, pray," said Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily, "the cause of your mirth."

"You must excuse me, ladies," Mrs. Stout began, but another burst of laughter that she could not control prevented her from continuing for several minutes. "It struck me as awful funny that we should come here to get up a woman's club, and then have to call in a man the first thing," she explained.

"Were not the other sex created physically stronger than woman because it was intended that they should perform just such labour?" Mrs. Tweedie asked quickly, but before Mrs. Stout had time to reply Mr. Tweedie came into the room.

"How can I serve you, ladies?" he asked as he bowed low and smiled.

"Open a window, please," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"Certainly, my dear," Mr. Tweedie replied as he went to a window, and, without any apparent effort, raised it. "There you are," he said, smilingly.[17] "Anything else to-day?" (Once upon a time Mr. Tweedie had been a salesman in a dry goods store.)

"No," Mrs. Tweedie replied, sharply. She was displeased with him because of his untidy appearance, and wished him to leave at once. He did so, making some senseless remark about the weather as he crossed the room on his way out.

"Now for goodness' sake let's begin," said Mrs. Stout when the window was open and the incident closed.

"Yes, do," echoed Mrs. Flint.

"Well," Mrs. Tweedie began, "I have been reading recently a treatise on parliamentary procedure, and if I am not in error the selection of a presiding officer should be our first business. Am I not right, Miss Sawyer?"

"Yes," replied Miss Sawyer. "And I do hope that you will be our first president, Mrs. Tweedie."

"Oh, but I am not competent," Mrs. Tweedie protested, modestly.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Stout, "take the place, we'll never get anything done if you don't."

"But, really—" Mrs. Tweedie insisted upon weakly resisting.

"You, Mrs. Tweedie, above all others," interposed[18] Mrs. Flint, "are the best qualified to lead us."

Mrs. Tweedie appeared to be resigned to her fate.

"I suppose," she sighed, "that if you all insist (there were three who represented the ladies of Manville), it is my duty to comply with your wishes. We will immediately proceed to ballot."

"Ought we to hold a caucus?" inquired Miss Sawyer while Mrs. Tweedie was passing paper and pencils to the ladies.

"Why, what is a caucus?" asked Mrs. Tweedie in astonishment.

"A caucus," replied Miss Sawyer, "is a meeting held previous to an election. The men invariably hold them."

"Then I am very sure that they are not proper," said Mrs. Tweedie, positively. "Do you know anything about them, Mrs. Flint?"

The pastor's wife rolled her eyes skyward before replying.

"I have heard Mr. Flint say that caucuses were not proper for decent men to attend," she replied.

"And my husband," Mrs. Stout retorted, quickly, "says that a caucus is the only place where a vote counts."

[19]

"It surely cannot be necessary in a woman's club," said Mrs. Tweedie. "Now if you will write on your slips of paper the name of the one whom you wish to be our president, I will appoint Mrs. Stout a committee to collect and count the ballots."

"All right, but I can't pass my hat," replied Mrs. Stout, "because if I took it off I'd never get it on straight again. Put them in my hand, I promise not to look." Mrs. Stout proceeded to collect and count the ballots.

"Ladies," said Mrs. Flint while they were awaiting the result, "this is a day long to be remembered. We have voted for the first time."

"But not the last," said Mrs. Stout, "our time is comin'. Now if you're ready I'll tell you who's been elected. Mrs. Tweedie has got all the votes and is elected president. Speech!"