The Morning Glory Club Part 1

The Morning Glory Club.

by George A. Kyle.

Chapter I

The Wheels Begin to Move

"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 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 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 a.s.sumed a becoming att.i.tude, 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 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 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.

"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.

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 proceeded to pour oil upon the waters before the storm broke.