Playing the mischief :: :: University of Virginia Library

Although Squire Nancy parted from
Drummond in great anger, and could at
that moment have brought an action against
him with more than professional satisfaction,
she none the less loved him permanently and
longed to win him.

It is wonderful what a fascination springs
from the fact of being refused. The spite of
disappointment and the agony of humbled
vanity are changed by a wondrous spell into
affection, or into some emotion which easily
mingles with that blessed current and swells
its waters mightily. The rejected one worships,
bleeding and in the dust, it is true, but
all the more passionately. The cruel object
of the adoration appears, for the time at least,
indescribably desirable.

In this admirable, though unenviable,
frame was Squire Nancy, intensely indignant

at the false Drummond, but hungering
after him ever so much. She did not believe
that he had never cared for her, and
that he had talked sweet things to her only
in jest. He had cared for her; he had been
attentive to her, and fond of her, until Mrs.
Josephine Murray appeared on the scene;
his present coolness was entirely the fault
of that sly, mean, hateful little flirt. The
more Miss Appleyard considered this explanation
of her troubles, the more certain she
felt that it was the true solution of them.

But how could the cup, which had slipped
from the lip and fallen in fragments, be gathered
up and mended? After meditating the
matter palpitatingly, first, from her native-born,
feminine point of view, and second,
from such masculine point of view as she
could descend to, she resolved to see Mrs.
Murray, and have a personal settlement
with her. She would be a Woman with a
big W, and smash that woman with a little
w. She would face her enemy, reveal to her,
in burning words, the vileness of her character,
and shame her into withdrawing her
snares from the path of honest, though misled
Sykes Drummond. Thus she thought
and substantially said to herself, for, in consequence
of a small head and imperfect education,
she was disposed to be sophomorical
in ideas, and just now a bursting heart
had greatly inflamed the tendency.

Well, how should she get at the wretched
little witch? To call on her in the palatial
residence, and under the patrician patronage
of the Reverend John Murray, seemed a rather
formidable enterprise. For it must be understood
that Squire Nancy traveled in the
Bohemian ways of life, and was not received
into aristocratic, or even into bourgeois circles.
Somehow, hospitality did not open its
arms to her plaited frock-coat; even the earnest
dames who raised subscriptions for her,
and otherwise cheered her in her mission,
did not invite her to meet their relatives;
the very receptions were shut against her,
excepting, of course, the public ones. And,
vain as she was, eccentric as she strove to
be, these things quelled her conceit not a
little, for she had woman's normal reverence
for the grandeurs of society.

But courage, self-reliance, innate dignity,
big W, and so forth! She decided that she
would call at Rector Murray's, and face his
niece. The occasion, however, demanded
not only “God-given” qualities, but also human
preparation. To begin with, she must
look at least as well as Mrs. Murray, or she
could not feel that she was meeting her on
equal terms. So she arranged her glossy
hair with special grace, brushed her becoming
broadcloth carefully from head to foot,
and took from its recess her best lace-edged
handkerchief. Next, she put a phial of harts-horn
into her pocket; there was no telling
how tough the interview might be; one of
them might faint just in the crisis. Then
a terrible inspiration struck her, causing her
to laugh fiercely, and also to turn pale. She
went to her table-drawer, produced various
substances which had the look of drugs, compounded,
with some difficulty, two large pills,
put them in a box, and the box in her vest-pocket.
It must be stated here that, before
entering the law, she had made some brief
studies in medicine, and had learned how to
give a very bad taste to pellets of fresh bread.
Being at last harnessed and provisioned for
her campaign, she tremulously took the war-path
by way of the avenue cars, reached the
Reverend Murray's residence, and rang the
bell.

“I have an engagement to meet young
Mrs. Murray,” she said, to Mulatto Sarah,
who opened the clerical door. “Tell her
that the gentleman she expected has called.”

Sarah, having never before beheld Squire
Nancy, mistook her for a very youthful gentleman,
one of “Miss Josie's” many strange
beaus, and delivered the message without
hesitation. Josie herself being at all times
in expectation of some man or other, and
thinking that this was Bradford, or Hollowbread,
or Drummond, came directly down to
the parlor. One may imagine her complete
bewilderment and considerable dismay when
she confronted the plaited integuments and
well-remembered face of Lawyer Appleyard.
But she was not altogether confounded, for
she had been called to account before by
jealous women, and she guessed at once the
motive of this extraordinary visit.

“Good-morning, sir,” she said, mechanically,
and yet with a certain sense (at least,
as she remembered the matter afterward)
that she was uttering something scornful
and cutting. Almost in the same second,
though not by any means in the same
breath, she added what was half a suggestion
and half a hope, “Some mistake, I suppose.”

They were both standing, both panting
quite noticeably, and both staring. Josie
neither thought of sitting down nor of asking
her visitor to sit, a circumstance which
she spoke of boastfully in her subsequent rehearsals
of the scene, representing it as willful
and proper arrogance toward a vulgar
and silly intruder.

The solemn truth is, that the woman in
silk and the woman in broadcloth were
about equally confused and scared. Miss
Nancy, for instance, would have been glad
to make a crushing answer, but merely succeeded
in quavering forth,

“No mistake at all, Mrs. Murray.”

“Ah!—indeed!” was Mrs. Murray's not
very remarkable retort, the same being followed
up by an awkward silence.

But, as we who know Josie may imagine,
it did not take her long to regain self-possession,
or, at least, to put on a show of it.

At first she had been as much alarmed by
Squire Appleyard as if the latter were a real
man; she had been daunted by the frock-coat,
the pantaloons, and the boots; by the
mere skin that usually distinguishes our
lion-like sex. But the tremulous lips, the
contralto voice, and the hysterical stammer
of emotion, these womanish circumstances
tended to re-assure her, and she began to recover
her courage and cleverness.

“I have not the honor of an acquaintance
with you, madam,” she said, coldly, quite
aware that both the tone and the statement
expressed a claim of superiority.

“I don't want any acquaintance,” replied
Miss Appleyard, tartly, for she felt the sting.
“I have no intention, Mrs. Murray, of requesting
your acquaintance, or accepting it.
I came here solely on business.”

“I think you had better transact your
business through my uncle, the Rev. Mr.
Murray,” said Josie, though with no intention
of sending for that prudish protector.

“I won't see him,” declared Nancy. “We
are women together, Mrs. Murray. If you
have in you any of the spirit and self-respect
of a true woman — if you have done
nothing that a true woman would not be
ashamed of—you will talk with me.”

Josie hesitated. By this time her heart
had stopped thumping, and her curiosity
was excited. The scene was an uncommonly
odd one certainly, and would probably
be very amusing to relate. The attraction
of something whimsical, something extravagantly
new and entertaining, was a
great temptation to this adventurous young
lady.

“Do me the favor to take a chair,” she
said, at the same time sinking with conscious
grace upon a sofa, and rather ostentatiously
arranging her rustling draperies,
so much more expensive than trowsers.

Squire Appleyard was only too glad to
accept the invitation, for her plaited pantaloons
were trembling under her, and she almost
needed her hartshorn bottle. But she
was determined — blindly, dizzily, yet desperately,
determined—to say her say, and to
say it vigorously.

“I came about—Mr. Drummond,” she went
on, huskily. “I want you to know—I want
you to fully understand—that he is engaged
to me.”

She did not fully understand it so herself;
but if what she asserted was not exactly the
case, it ought to be the case; and then, in
her present state of turbulent feeling, something
strong must be uttered.

“Mr. Drummond!” repeated Josie, somewhat
confounded, now that the assault was
actually opened.

“Yes, ma'am,” insisted Miss Appleyard,
tremulously, but also pugnaciously.

“I don't care if he is,” said Josie, more and
more bothered, so angrily did this odd vis
itor stare at her. “You had better go and
talk to Mr. Drummond about it.”

“I have talked to him about it,” declared
Nancy, rising and pacing the room in a fashion
which was almost terrifying, so manly
was it. “And you, Mrs. Murray—you—are
standing between him and his plighted
word.”

“I don't know what you mean. It's all
nonsense — and impertinent. I wish you
would go away.”

“Yes — go away!” echoed Squire Appleyard,
by this time hysterically excited. “You
expect him, I suppose. I am in the way, I
suppose—ha, ha!”

“I don't expect him at all,” affirmed Josie,
which was not exactly true. “I tell you
this is all very absurd, and I have nothing
to do with your affairs.”

“But you have with his affairs. Yes, I
know very well that you have — I know it
only too well.”

“He isn't engaged to me, if that is what
you think!”

“No; but he is about you. You are keeping
company with him. You are doing your
best to enthrall and enchant him. Will you
dare tell me that you are not trying to hold
him in your train? Will you dare tell me
that you care nothing—nothing at all—for
him?”

Now Josie dared to tell almost any fib, so
far as the mere fibbing was concerned; but
this statement, whether it were true or false,
she did not like to make, for the reason that
the jealous Bloomer would undoubtedly repeat
it to the Congressman; and then he
might refuse to assist in pushing the Murray
claim. So, while she really had no liking for
Mr. Drummond, she hesitated about saying
so.

“I thought as much,” hissed Squire Nancy,
almost losing what little reason Heaven had
fitted her out with. “It lies betwixt us
two, then,” she continued, at the same time
producing that mysterious pill-box which
has been mentioned. “Mrs. Murray, I am a
druggist as well as lawyer,” and by this time
her voice was so hoarse and sepulchral as to
be really terrible, at least, to Josie. “I am
a druggist. I have here two pills made by
myself. One of them is bread, and the other
is arsenic. They shall decide between us.
Take your choice, and I will take the other.
The survivor shall have Sykes Drummond.
The other,” and here her utterance fell to a
hoarse murmur which was all but unearthly,
and would have been fatal to a sensitive listener—“the
other—d-i-e-s!”

It must have been wonderful to see her
poking her prescription at Mrs. Murray, and
that lovely young person recoiling from it.
For there is no doubt that she did recoil, and
that she was at this moment considerably
flustered. Indeed, if we may believe Squire
Nancy's subsequent description of the scene,

Josie shed tears, babyishly, and said, in a
contemptible whisper, “I can't take pills
without some jam.”

Our heroine, however, always denied the
alleged weeping, and gave a much nobler
version of her refusal to swallow. According
to her account, she only said, “I can't
take dry pills,” and said it, too, in a tone of
calm and cutting irony.

Indeed, the discrepancies of statement between
the two ladies with regard to this
whole interview are simply irreconcilable.
We ought to avow, in fairness, that we have
generally followed the paraphrase of Mrs.
Murray, as being by far the most artistic and
entertaining.

“You refuse!” exclaimed Miss Nancy.
“You love him not—ha-ha-ha!—he-he-he!”
(And Josie, in her delicious account of the
matter, gave an imitation of the Squire's hysterical
laughter which was absolutely irresistible,
even to grave and fastidious listeners.)
“Take your choice!” Here Miss Appleyard
pushed the box anew under her rival's
nose, her own hands and cheeks trembling
the while, and her voice quivering.
“Take your choice! Take—take!”

But by this time Mrs. Murray had recovered
from whatever abasement of alarm she
may have fallen into. She was angry, also
—angry at having been frightened — as is
frequently the case with women. She struck
out at the box with the smart slap of a cat,
knocked it from the grasp of Miss Nancy's
unsteady fingers, and sent the pills flying
across the floor.

Then there were a brief rustling and trampling
to and fro, which reduced the two boluses
to mere paste, faintly streaking the
parsonage carpet.

“I will make some more!” gasped Squire
Nancy, who saw that her invention had at
least produced dismay, and who was determined
to be horrid.

“You may make them and take them,”
declared Josie, running to the bell-rope and
standing ready to pull it, though very unwilling
to summon her sedate relatives. It
surely would not be pleasant to have this
ridiculous Bloomer rehearsing the Drummond
affair to the nervous rector, and advancing
no one could foresee what outrageous
accusations of coquetry. Nevertheless,
she added, with spirit: “Go away, now
—go right away—or I'll call somebody.”

“Will you give me an answer?” gurgled
Miss Appleyard. “Will you give me an answer?”

“I won't give you any answer at all!” declared
Josie, much supported by the bell-rope.
“Only I will say that I don't wonder
Mr. Drummond won't have a woman who is
dressed as ridiculously as you are!”

“I am NOT dressed ridiculously!” almost
shouted the apostle of the good time coming,
half forgetting her love matters in the
feminine “main question” of costume. “It
is you who are dressed ridiculously. Look
at your ruffs and laces, and your frills and
flounces, and your long, helpless skirts, and
your graceless paniers. I know all that
you've got on. I know where you're made
up and squeezed in and padded out. I know
where the woman ends and the millinery
begins. You can't humbug me, as you can
the silly blockheads of men, with crinolines
and corsets and caterings and gorings. Do
you call yourself a woman? That a woman!”—pointing
at Josie with a gesture of
scorn worthy of a teacher of elocution.
“You are a mass of pins and bastings and
flummery. You are a poor, empty, hollow
sham. Oh, when will my sex free itself
from the slavery and idiocy of these ridiculous—ridiculous—ridiculous
fixings!” (This
was very galling, by-the-way, this threefold
repetition of the word ridiculous, and Josie
keenly felt it to be so, and writhed under it
visibly.) “Oh, when will woman cast aside
her weaknesses and arise in her proper might
and dignity, spurning all bondages!” continued
the Squire, who, it must be understood,
was at times a lecturer, and had now caught
the thread of one of her discourses. “Oh,
when will woman be different from the
mean, paltry, pitiful thing which I now see
before me?”

Now, strange as it may seem, all this was
dreadful to Josie. She felt for the moment
that her costume was somewhat frivolous,
and that its alleged shams were absurdly
transparent. Moreover, this Bloomer, by the
mere fact of preaching at her, was claiming
all sorts of superiority, artistic and moral
and intellectual.

“Go away!” she commanded, stamping her
foot. “If you don't go right away this minute,
I'll send for the police,” she added, lifting
up her white jeweled hand to get a good
grip on the bell-rope.

Then, a little frightened by the threat,
and also worn out by her labor and deliverance
of emotion, did the Squire break down.
She covered her face, burst into a spasm
of angry tears, and without another word
tramped out of the room and the house.

“What a fool!” exclaimed Josie, slamming
the door after the departed one. “What a
fool, to go on so about my dress!”

Thereupon she turned to a long mirror,
and surveyed herself deliberately from head
to foot, meantime deftly arranging her draperies
and decorations. What she saw was
a lovely brunette face, all the handsomer for
being flushed with excitement, and a trim,
graceful, sufficiently plump figure, costumed
in the finest gloss of the latest style. It
was a spectacle which might well arouse the
ire of a Bloomer, for it was capable of winning
the admiration or desire of almost any
man.

“I think I look well enough, if I am a

mass of millinery,” she said, with a smile,
as she turned to glance out of a window.
“Well, that idiot is gone. What a fool!”
and here she burst into a spasm of rather
nervous laughter, for the interview had been
not a little trying. “I do have the oddest
adventures! and so many of them! Well, I
hope I have seen the last of that idiot!”

But she had not seen the last of her absurd
tormentor. Squire Nancy Appleyard
was yet to follow her up a good deal, and to
plague her not a little. There is no end to
the useless perseverance of people who lack
common sense.