The Morning Glory Club Part 12

"Humour and wit," said Mrs. Tweedie, icily, "have their place, but the changing of the name of a cla.s.sic would be sacrilege." For the time being Mrs. Stout had had enough fun, and permitted Mrs. Tweedie to have the last word.

"Has any one thought of the old comedies, so-called, of Sheridan and Goldsmith?" asked Mrs. Jones. "There's 'She Stoops to Conquer,' and--"

"That would never do," said Mrs. Stout, breaking forth again; "we wouldn't 'stoop to conquer,' not even for a cla.s.sic," and for once Mrs.

Tweedie agreed with her.

"The t.i.tle certainly is not appropriate for a woman's club," she remarked, decidedly.

"The 'School for Scandal' is a famous play," Miss Sawyer ventured to suggest, but the only approval her suggestion received was another outburst of laughter from Mrs. Stout.

"If we should give that play," she gurgled, "we'd be sure to make a hit, it would be so natural."

Fortunately for the future welfare of the Morning Glory Club the telephone bell rang at that moment, and Mrs. Jones hastened to answer its summons.

The telephone was in the hall, only a step or two from the room in which the ladies were sitting, and as Mrs. Jones went out she left the door ajar. Silence fell over the group--not because that they wished to hear, of course, but in order that Mrs. Jones might not be annoyed. A message to a doctor's home might be _so_ important, you know.

"Diphtheria?" they heard her say. "Where?--At school--The Clark children?--What?--Oh, Miss who?--Miss Wallace?--Sent the children home?--Yes.--Will you be home to lunch?--What?--Will there be any?--_Of course_--Good-bye."

"Diphtheria!" exclaimed the ladies when they were sure that Mrs. Jones was through, and a look of anxiety spread over the faces of those who had children.

"Did you hear?" asked Mrs. Jones, as she reentered the room. "Miss Wallace suspected that one of the Clark girls had diphtheria, so she sent both of them home. The doctor is at the Clarks' now, and says that Miss Wallace was right, and that the school will have to be closed."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "just think of havin' them three boys of mine runnin' wild for three or four weeks, to say nothin' of the danger of their bein' sick."

"What we have heard is very distressing," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but let us not be unnerved until we learn all of the particulars. In the meantime would it not be wise to continue with our work? Miss Sawyer, are you familiar with Ibsen's plays?" Thus did Mrs. Tweedie throw off diphtheria for Ibsen.

"I have read 'A Doll's House,'" replied Miss Sawyer, blushing.

"'A Doll's House,'" queried Mrs. Stout, "is it a play for children?"

"By no means," snapped Mrs. Tweedie.

"Oh, ma!" f.a.n.n.y exclaimed, "I don't know anything about Ibsen, but do you remember 'The Lady of Lyons?' We saw it in Boston. It was about the loveliest girl--a princess--who married a labourer's son disguised as a prince, and when she found it out he went into the army, and then came home as a general or something, and they made up."

"Yes, I remember," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me see, who wrote it?"

"Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer," said Miss Sawyer, promptly. "It's a beautiful play containing some of the sweetest love-scenes imaginable."

"Has it got anything to do with a circus?" asked Mrs. Stout, innocently, having in mind, no doubt, the lady in a cage of lions with the "Ding-a-ling Circus," that came to Manville every year.

"Circus, indeed not!" said Mrs. Jones. "Lyons is the name of a city in France."

"Oh," was all that Mrs. Stout had to say in reply. She was gaining knowledge rapidly, and realized it. Only the night before she had said to her husband that "if the club don't go up I expect to know somethin'

sometime."

Formal suggestions and discussion gave way to general chatting. They were not getting ahead at all, and Mrs. Tweedie became annoyed. As she sat watching them, a new and alarming thought came suddenly into her mind, and a look of consternation spread over her face.

"Ladies!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice, "it has just occurred to me that in every play that has been suggested there are MALE CHARACTERS!"

The silence that followed Mrs. Tweedie's statement was cruelly disheartening. What a horrible thought, such a dejected-looking gathering of women was never seen before.

"Is it possible!" gasped Mrs. Jones, who was the first to recover from the shock. "Is it possible that in every cla.s.sic there is a man?"

"Men wrote most of 'em, didn't they?" asked Mrs. Stout.

Mrs. Tweedie's eyes snapped angrily.

"That is not a fair question," she said. "What if they did write the cla.s.sics? Doubtless you can guess why."

"Most prob'ly," replied Mrs. Stout, in a tone that was meek for her, "it was because the women folks had to spend their time washin' dishes and 'tendin' babies, and didn't have time even to try."

"Exactly," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"_Was_ there a Mis' Shakespeare?" queried Mrs. Stout. No one seemed to know.

"Well," said Mrs. Jones, "if we can't find a play without a man in it, what shall we do?"

"Play the part of men ourselves," replied f.a.n.n.y Tweedie, boldly.

"f.a.n.n.y!" exclaimed her mother.

"A good idea," said Mrs. Stout. "I guess that most of us women know enough about men to make believe."

"That's so," added Mrs. Jones, "such things have been done, I don't see what harm it would do."

"But the costuming," said Mrs. Tweedie, "how would that be arranged?"

"Put a sign, 'this is a man,' on the ones that have men's parts,"

suggested Mrs. Stout. A ring at the door quickly stopped the t.i.tter caused by Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Mrs. Jones excused herself and left the room. Again perfect silence reigned.

"Mother wants the doctor right off," they heard a boy say. "The baby's broke out all over."

"I'll tell him just as soon as he returns," replied Mrs. Jones.

"Measles," said Mrs. Stout in a loud whisper, "what a time we are havin'."

"It was Sammy Dobbins," explained Mrs. Jones, when she returned. "That's the way I have to run all day; first the telephone, and then the door-bell."

"It must be very trying," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.

"Here it is, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, explosively, as she waved a book that she had taken from a table a moment before. "Listen: 'Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero,'" she read. "Ain't there a play by that name?"

"Nonsense," sniffed Mrs. Tweedie. "It's full of men, and such men--"

"And a woman," added Mrs. Jones.

"Such a woman," said Miss Sawyer. Mrs. Stout closed the book, and replaced it. She was squelched.

"We are getting on very slowly," sighed Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me suggest a programme." No one objected. "What would you say to the trial scene from the 'Merchant of Venice,' the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a scene from the 'Lady of Lyons,' and a one-act play written by our Miss Sawyer, ent.i.tled 'Yellow Roses'?"