 | CHAPTER IV.
MRS. STOKESBURY-JONES CONFERS A FAVOR. A woman in armor |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
MRS. STOKESBURY-JONES CONFERS A FAVOR.
MRS. STOKESBURY-JONES made up
her mind to take her daughter's music-teacher
into confidence, so she waited
graciously for that young woman's Monday
morning appearance.
The back drawing-room where she sat was
well adorned by specimens of the Stokesbury-Jones
talent—paintings, worsted-work, and all
et cæteras being the work of mother and
daughters. If guests ever mentioned to Mrs.
Stokesbury-Jones the Old World wonders, or
the endeavors of native artists, she always
glanced about her with a superior smile. She
had in her dining-room one special game-piece
by which she measured every new candidate for
her favor. This piece was the work of her
eldest genius. If the candidate was forewarned
by hints from the installed, he approached it
looking carelessly and gracefully around until
that gem of art struck his eye. “What!” he
must then exclaim, striking an attitude, “are
are preserved! Why, why!—really! it is a
painting! My dear Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones,
whose work is that?” Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
would then reveal that it was the work of her
eldest daughter, and on the merits of the same
would she dwell as long as her happy candidate
could stand in a state of gently simmering idiocy
to listen.
The woman had been socially cajoled until
she was a ridiculous social despot.
She was large and firm. While waiting for
the music-teacher, she did not throw herself
back in her easy-chair, as many women do who
contemplate the exhausting feat of lifting the
social ball to their backs. She sat upright, netting
vigorously. Her forehead was low; strands
of blonde hair were parted and combed smoothly
from it. She had the century-old Stokesbury
eye—a white-blue, calculating orb, so well accustomed
to this world's sunshine that it rarely
winked. Her mouth and lower jaw were ponderous.
She had a discernible mustache, and
these physical traits, together with a heavy
voice, gave her that decided, manly air which
Mr. Jones lacked.
“Miss Dimmock is late this morning,” remarked
Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones in her Boanerges
tones, turning an eye from her open
watch to Miss Flora at the piano. “Isn't her
hour nine o'clock?”
“Half-past nine, mamma,” replied Flora,
scampering up and down the scales.
“Ah!” breathed Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones,
disappointed of a criticism. “But,” consoling
herself, “if nine were her hour she would be
late!”
Far down the street Helen Dimmock's feet
were coming, sure to be on the Stokesbury-Jones
threshold at the appointed minute, but
guilty of many turnings-aside. Shabby or dirty
or vicious-looking folks met her and greeted her
and talked eagerly to her. They cast back
looks over their shoulder after passing, as we
turn toward the lamp when we venture down
dark alleys.
Helen Dimmock had a mother-heart for all
the world; she was tender with insects, with
starved dogs, with forsaken children, with the
scum of the earth. Both her ear and her hand
were ever open to their cry.
Did you ever see bugs lift their antennæ like
interrogation points as they contemplate some
object? Thus women who needed her not, and
to whom she was consequently negative, contemplated
Helen Dimmock. They “didn't
know what to make of her.” She was “odd.”
She wasn't “one of them.” Yea, no human
alchemy could have dissolved her into the great
sea of They. I see her in my mind's eye standing
on the shore of their talk; its waves run in
like ramping lions, but always fall short of her
the ships, the little craft and the wrecks afloat
at the mercy of this cruel, irresponsible sea.
Her hurt people knew what to make of her,
however. They made her sanctuary. After
once sheltering in the cathedral of her heart
they evermore took refuge there. All this may
sound like an attempt at fine writing, for love is
not a coherent speaker and will throw up his
cap rhetorically. I cannot show you my fine,
faulty woman as I see her. I had best tell you
in plain words what she did.
About her she found all manner of young
girls—working girls—some of whom drooped,
some of whom strutted defiantly; girls without
homes, groping fearfully around the world;
girls whose parents had given them nothing but
life, and of them demanded all things; girls
hiding peculiar talents for fear of custom.
These she drew toward herself. Perhaps they
told her their nonsense; their undying or unrequited
loves, or their hard times; their various
“awful” things. Perhaps they told her nothing.
But none failed to catch from her bosom
the throb of a higher womanhood than theirs,
and they got up out of their griefs to try to live
into it.
She met frowsy men, glaring at all their kind,
and she saw how things went against them.
She met children little better than the young
of brutes; to them she opened other life. She
for them. She met poor bodies who
never had half a chance to be women, and into
their drawn natures she charged the fulness of
her own womanhood. Such money, counsel
and influence as she owned she gave them all.
She never dragged them up before charitable
associations to blunt such delicacy as they might
have left. But, best, she gave herself an ever-present
help in time of need. Nothing was
done from a “sense of duty.” I have observed
that whoso goes over to Macedonia from a
“sense of duty” is liable to be well pounded
by the Macedonians. We hate to be benefited.
We could knock down the man who makes our
need the advertisement of his goodness. Helen
Dimmock loved these people with something
like divine passion.
Strange friends were they. Coming and
going continually—for so few of the poor have
an abiding city—they met her, were helped by
her, and saw her no more for years, perhaps,
but they kept the memory of her.
While Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones was frowning
at her watch, Helen was smiling into the face of
Billy Sinks and sponging away some trouble for
him. She and Billy Sinks were united by peculiar
bonds; he was her organ-blower, a stumpy
youth with bead-black eyes and wholesome
freckles and stout arms and legs.
When he left her his mouth was puckered up
swiftly, entered the Stokesbury-Jones mansion
on time.
Flora's mamma sat in a critical attitude while
Flora worked under her teacher's hand. Occasionally
she stopped the lesson to hold examinations
or offer advice. Miss Dimmock's method
might be very good, but of course her best was
not what Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones might do if she
chose. Thus teacher and pupil were so harassed
through the hour that the instant it was
finished Flora flew from the keys and Helen
snatched up her gloves and hastened to change
her atmosphere.
But—
“Have you a little leisure, Miss Dimmock?
I wish to speak with you,” announced the great
woman, pulling out a thread of worsted with a
lofty flourish.
Helen looked at her watch. “I have just
fifteen minutes, madam. I am due at the house
of my next pupil five minutes before eleven.”
“Very well. I will detain you but a short
time. Sit down, Miss Dimmock.”
Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones netted vigorously.
“You compose music, do you not? I think
I've seen some of your pieces somewhere,” she
said kindly, running her worsted hook through
her hair, as if to stir up her memory. “Yes,
I'm sure I have! Now, I think of giving an
immense party soon. I tell you confidentially,
whispered around before the cards are out.
The occasion is the twenty-fifth anniversary of
my marriage. My silver wedding. I do not
intend to make it an exclusive affair, but rather
a general jubilee through the very outskirts of
society. And it struck me that it would look
well to have a piece of music composed for the
occasion. Of course there will be an orchestra
in attendance for the dancing. But I want some
striking vocal piece—say a duet—or a quartet,
for that would bring in all the girls! You could
afterwards sell it, I suppose,” remarked Mrs.
Stokesbury-Jones, thereby intimating that honor
was the only equivalent Miss Dimmock might
expect at her hands. “And you might mention
the names in the printed copy, you know. The
whole thing would be a pleasant souvenir to
many. Now, what do you think, Miss Dimmock?
Do you think you can do it?”
Helen Dimmock was so frank a creature she
almost laughed this patroness in the face. She
tossed a dimpling glance that way, and replied
quietly that she would consider the proposition,
and in case she could find leisure she would do
what she could to oblige Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones.
“I shall not issue the cards until next week,”
pursued her patroness encouragingly. “Oh,
yes, you'll have plenty of time. And we shall
have you here! But—” Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones
became uneasy; she changed positions;
stabbed her back hair with a hook, and gathered
her lips till the mustache bristled. “You have a
sister, haven't you, Miss Dimmock? Is it a sister—or
a—cousin? I think I have heard some
one mention it.”
“My sister worships in Grace Church.”
“So! I was sure I had seen her, and now I
recall her appearance. Ah, yes! with the little
boy. A fair person wearing black. A widow?”
“She has lost her husband,” replied Helen,
coldly.
“Yes, I thought so. You are boarding at her
house perhaps! It is rather a delicate matter—
I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance—”
“And you are not at liberty to have that
pleasure, madam,” returned Helen Dimmock,
bluntly, nettled by her handling of Nina. “My
sister does not wish to mix with society. She
declines any overtures that are made to her.”
Mrs. Stokesbury-Jones regarded this bold-spoken
alien with astonishment. But relief predominated
in her breast. She drew a sigh of
satisfaction.
“Yes, yes. Well, think it over,” returning to
her original subject, “and be sure to accommodate
it to the girls' voices. Remember, I put
great confidence in you, Miss Dimmock, in telling
you my plans so long before the affair. I
hope you'll feel at liberty to run in at any time to
assist the girls with their performance. And,”
the door, “you'll be remembered when the
cards are issued. Good-morning, Miss Dimmock!”
| CHAPTER IV.
MRS. STOKESBURY-JONES CONFERS A FAVOR. A woman in armor | |