The Classic American Short Story Megapack, Volume 1

by Ambrose Bierce

  “If I have learned nothing else by visiting Europe,” she said, “I have learned to see how inconsiderate we girls are in America, in talking so much, openly, of this sort of thing. A woman’s delicacy is like that of a tender flower, and it must suffer by having her name coupled with that of any man, except him that she is to marry.”

  “Julia, dear, I will never speak of Mr. Shoreham again. I should not have done it now had I not thought his attentions were acceptable to you, as I am sure they are to your parents. Certainly, they are very marked—at least, so others think as well as myself.”

  “I know it seems so to the world,” answered Julia in a subdued, thoughtful tone, “but it scarcely seems so to me. Betts Shoreham is very agreeable, every way a suitable connection for any of us, and that is the reason people are so ready to fancy him in earnest.”

  “In earnest! If Mr. Shoreham pays attentions that are pointed, and is not in earnest, he is a very different person from what I took him to be.”

  Julia’s voice grew still more gentle, and it was easy enough to see that her feelings were enlisted in the subject.

  “It is no more than justice to Betts Shoreham,” she continued, “to say that he has not been pointed in his attentions to me. We females are said to be quick in discovering such matters, and I am not more blind than the rest of our sex. He is a young man of good family, and has some fortune, and that makes him welcome in most houses in town, while he is agreeable, well-looking, and thoroughly amiable. He met us abroad, and it is natural for him to keep up an intimacy that recalls pleasant recollections. You will remember, Mary, that before he can be accused of trifling, he must trifle. I think him far more attentive to my mother, my father—nay, to my two little sisters—than he is to me. Even Mademoiselle Hennequin is quite as much if not more of a favorite than I am!”

  As Mary Warren saw that her friend was serious she changed the subject; soon after, we were set down at Mr. Monson’s door. Here the friends parted, Mary Warren preferring to walk home, while Julia and I entered the house together.

  “Well, mother,” cried Julia, as she entered Mrs. Monson’s room, “I have found the most beautiful thing you ever beheld, and have bought it. Here it is; what do you think of my choice?”

  Mrs. Monson was a kind-hearted, easy, indulgent parent, who had brought her husband a good fortune, and who had married rich in the bargain. Accustomed all her life to a free use of money, and of her own money, too, (for this is a country in which very many persons cast the substance of others right and left,) and when her eldest daughter expressed a wish to possess an elaborate specimen of our race, she had consented from a pure disinclination to deny her child any gratification that might be deemed innocent. Still, she knew that prudence was a virtue, and that Julia had thrown away money that might have been much better employed.

  “This is certainly a very beautiful handkerchief,” observed the mother, after examining me carefully, and with somewhat of the manner of a connoisseur, “surprisingly beautiful; and yet I almost wish, my child, you had not purchased it. A hundred dollars sounds frightfully en prince for us poor simple people, who live in nutshells of houses, five and twenty feet front, and fifty-six deep, to pay for a pocket-handkerchief. The jewel-box of a young lady who has such handkerchiefs ought to cost thousands, to be in keeping.”

  “But, mother, I have only ONE, you will remember, and so my jewels may be limited to hundreds.”

  “One pocket-handkerchief has a mean, sound, too. Even one hat is not very superfluous.”

  “That is so like Mary Warren, mother. If you did not wish me to make the purchase, you had only to say it; I am sure your wish would have been my law.”

  “I know it, love; and I am afraid it is your dutiful behavior that has made me careless, in this instance. Your happiness and interests are ever uppermost in my mind, and sometimes they seem to conflict. What young man will dare to choose a wife from among young ladies who expend so much money on their pocket-handkerchiefs?”

  This was said smilingly, but there was a touch of tenderness and natural concern in the voice and manner of the speaker that made an impression on the daughter.

  “I am afraid now, mother, you are thinking of Betts Shoreham,” said Julia, blushing, though she struggled powerfully to appear unconcerned. “I do not know why it is, but both you and Mary Warren appear to be always thinking of Mr. Shoreham.”

  The mother smiled; and she was not quite ingenuous when she said in answer to the remark,

  “Shoreham was not in my mouth; and you ought not to suppose he was in my mind. Nevertheless, I do not believe he would admire you, or any one else, the more for being the owner of so expensive an article of dress. He is wealthy, but very prudent in his opinions and habits.”

  “Betts Shoreham was born to an estate, and his father before him,” said Julia firmly; “and such men know how to distinguish between the cant of economy, and those elegancies of life that become people of refinement.”

  “No one can better understand the difference between cant in economy as well as cant in some other things, and true taste as well as true morals, than young Shoreham; but there are indulgences that become persons in no class.”

  “After all, mother, we are making a trifle a very serious matter. It is but a pocket-handkerchief.”

  “Very true, my love; and it cost only one hundred dollars, and so we’ll say no more about it; bien entendu, that you are not to purchase six dozen at the same price.”

  This terminated the dialogue, Julia retiring to her own room, carrying me with her. I was thrown upon the bed, and soon after my mistress opened a door, and summoned her two younger sisters, who were studying on the same floor, to join her. I shall not repeat all the delightful exclamations, and other signs of approbation, that so naturally escaped the two pretty little creatures, to whom I may be said to have now been introduced, when my beauty came under examination. I do not thus speak of myself out of any weakness, for pocket-handkerchiefs are wholly without vanity, but simply because I am impelled to utter nothing but truth. Julia had too much consideration to let her young sisters into the secret of my price—for this would have been teaching a premature lesson in extravagance; but, having permitted them to gratify their curiosity, she exacted of them both promises not to speak of me to their governess.

  “But why not, Julia?” asked the inquisitive little Jane, “Mademoiselle Hennequin is so good and so kind, that she would be glad to hear of your good fortune.”

  Julia had an indistinct view of her own motive, but she could not avow it to any one, not even to herself. Jealousy would be too strong, perhaps too indelicate a word, but she alone had detected Betts Shoreham’s admiration of the governess; and it was painful to her to permit one who stood in this relation to her own weakness in favor of the young man, to be a witness of an act of extravagance to which she had only half consented in committing it, and of which she already more than half repented. From the first, therefore, she determined that Mademoiselle Hennequin should never see me.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  And now comes an exhibition of my mesmeritic powers, always “handkerchiefly speaking,” that may surprise those who have not attended to the modern science of invisible fluids. It is by this means, however, that I am enabled to perceive a great deal of that which passes under the roof where I may happen to be, without absolutely seeing it. Much escapes me, of course—for even a pocket-handkerchief cannot hear or see every thing; but enough is learned to enable me to furnish a very clear outline of that which occurs near me; more especially if it happen to be within walls of brick. In wooden edifices I find my powers much diminished—the fluids, doubtless, escaping through the pores of the material.

  That evening, then, at the usual hour, and while I lay snugly ensconced in a most fragrant and convenient drawer, among various other beings of my species, though not of my family, alas! the inmates of the house assembled in the front dra
wing-room to take a few cups of tea. Mr. and Mrs. Monson, with their only son, John Monson, their three daughters, the governess, and Betts Shoreham, were all present; the latter having dropped in with a new novel for the ladies.

  “I do really wish one could see a little advance in the way of real refinement and true elegance among all the vast improvements we are making in frippery and follies,” cried Mr. Monson, throwing down an evening paper in a pettish manner, that sufficiently denoted discontent. “We are always puffing our own progress in America, without exactly knowing whether a good deal of the road is not to be traveled over again, by way of undoing much that we have done. Here, now, is a specimen of our march in folly, in an advertisement of Bobbinett’s, who has pocket-handkerchiefs at $75.”

  “By the dozen, or by the gross, sir?” demanded Betts Shoreham, quickly.

  “Oh, singly—seventy-five dollars each.”

  “Nay, that must be a mistake, sir! who, even in this extravagant and reckless country, could be found to pay such a price? One can fancy such a thing in a princess, with hundreds of thousands of income, but scarcely of any one else. How could such a thing be used, for instance?”

  “Oh,” cried John Monson, “to hide the blushes of the simpleton who had thrown away her money on it. I heard a story this very afternoon, of some person of the name of Halfacre’s having failed yesterday, and whose daughter purchased even a higher priced handkerchief than that the very same day.”

  “His failure is not surprising, then,” put in Betts Shoreham. “For myself, I do not think that I—”

  “Well, what do you think, Mr. Shoreham?” asked Mrs. Monson, smiling, for she saw that Julia was too much mortified to speak, and who assumed more than half the blame of her own daughter’s extravagance. “You were about to favor us with some magnificent resolution.”

  “I was about to utter an impertinence, I confess, ma’am, but recollected in time, that young men’s protestations of what they would do by way of reforming the world, is not of half the importance to others that they so often fancy; so I shall spare you the infliction. Seventy-five dollars, Mademoiselle Hennequin, would be a high price for such a thing, even in Paris, I fancy.”

  The answer was given in imperfect English, a circumstance that rendered the sweet round tones of the speaker very agreeable to the ear, and lent the charm of piquancy to what she said. I could not distinguish countenances from the drawer, but I fancied young Shoreham to be a handsome youth, the governess to be pale and slightly ugly, though very agreeable in manner, and Julia excessively embarrassed, but determined to defend her purchase, should it become necessary.

  “Seventy-five dollars sound like a high price, monsieur,” answered Mademoiselle Hennequin; “but the ladies of Paris do not grudge their gold for ornaments to decorate their persons.”

  “Ay,” put in John Monson, “but they are consistent. Now I’ll engage this Mrs. Hundredacres, or Halfacre, or whatever her name may be, overlooked her own household work, kept no housekeeper, higgled about flour and butter, and lived half her time in her basement. Think of such a woman’s giving her daughter a hundred-dollar pocket-handkerchief.”

  Now Mrs. Monson did keep a housekeeper; she was not a mere upper-servant in her own family, and Julia was gratified that, in this instance, her fastidious brother could not reproach her at least.

  “Well, Jack, that is a queer reason of yours;” cried the father, “for not indulging in a luxury; because the good woman is careful in some things, she is not to be a little extravagant in others. What do you say to such logic, Mr. Shoreham?”

  “To own the truth, sir, I am much of Monson’s way of thinking. It is as necessary to begin at the bottom in constructing a scheme of domestic refinement, as in building a house. Fitness is entitled to a place in every thing that relates to taste, at all events; and as a laced and embroidered pocket-handkerchief is altogether for appearance, it becomes necessary that other things should be in keeping. If the ladies will excuse me, I will say that I never yet saw a woman in America, in a sufficiently high dress to justify such an appendage as that which Monson has just mentioned. The handkerchief ought not to cost more than the rest of the toilette.”

  “It is true, Mr. Shoreham,” put in Julia, with vivacity, if not with spirit, “that our women do not dress as women of rank sometimes dress in Europe; but, on the whole, I do not know that we are so much behind them in appearance.”

  “Very far from it, my dear Miss Monson—as far as possible—I am the last man to decry my beautiful countrywomen, who are second to no others in appearance, certainly; if they do not dress as richly, it is because they do not need it. Mademoiselle Hennequin has no reason to deprecate comparisons—and—but—”

  “Certainly,” answered the governess, when she found the young man hesitated about proceeding, “certainly; I am not so bigoted, or so blind, as to wish to deny that the American ladies are very handsome—handsomer, as a whole, than those of my own country. It would be idle to deny it—so are those of England and Italy.”

  “This is being very liberal, Mademoiselle Hennequin, and more than you are required to admit,” observed Mrs. Monson, in the kindest possible tone of voice, and I make no manner of doubt with a most benevolent smile, though I could not see her. “Some of the most brilliantly beautiful women I have ever seen, have been French—perhaps the most brilliantly beautiful.”

  “That is true, also, madame; but such is not the rule, I think. Both the English and Americans seem to me handsomer, as a whole, than my own countrywomen.” Now, nothing could be sweeter, or softer, or gentler, than the voice that made this great concession—for great it certainly was, as coming from a woman. It appeared to me that the admission, too, was more than commonly generous, from the circumstance that the governess was not particularly pretty in her own person. It is true, I had not yet seen her, but my mesmeritic impulses induced me to fancy as much.

  “What say the young gentlemen to this?” asked Mr. Monson, laughing. “This is a question not to be settled altogether by ladies, old or young.”

  “Betts Shoreham has substantially told you what he thinks; and now I claim a right to give my opinion,” cried John Monson. “Like Betts, I will not decry my countrywomen, but I shall protest against the doctrine of their having all the beauty in the world. By Jove! I have seen in one opera-house at Rome, more beautiful women than I ever saw together, before or since, in any other place. Broadway never equals the corso, of a carnival.”

  “This is not sticking to the subject,” observed Mrs. Monson. “Pocket-handkerchiefs and housekeepers are our themes, and not pretty women. Mademoiselle Hennequin, you are French enough, I am sure, to like more sugar in your tea.”

  This changed the subject, which became a desultory discourse on the news of the day. I could not understand half that was said, laboring under the disadvantage of being shut up in a close drawer, on another floor; and that, too, with six dozen of chattering French gloves lying within a foot of me. Still I saw plainly enough, that Mademoiselle Hennequin, notwithstanding she was a governess, was a favorite in the family; and, I may add, out of it also—Betts Shoreham being no sort of a connection of the Monsons. I thought, moreover, that I discovered signs of cross-purposes, as between the young people, though I think a pocket-handkerchief subject to those general laws, concerning secrets, that are recognized among all honorable persons. Not having been actually present on this occasion, should I proceed to relate ALL that passed, or that I fancied passed, it would be degrading myself to the level of those newspapers which are in the habit of retailing private conversations, and which, like most small dealers in such things, never retail fairly.

  I saw no more of my mistress for a week. I have reason to think that she had determined never to use me; but female resolutions, in matters of dress, are not of the most inflexible nature. There was a certain Mrs. Leamington, in New York, who gave a great ball about this time, and being in the same set a
s the Monsons, the family was invited as a matter of course. It would have surpassed the powers of self-denial to keep me in the back-ground on such an occasion; and Julia, having first cleared the way by owning her folly to a very indulgent father, and a very tormenting brother, determined nobly to bring me out, let the effect on Betts Shoreham be what it might. As the father had no female friends to trouble him, he was asked to join the Monsons—the intimacy fully warranting the step.

  Julia never looked more lovely than she did that night. She anticipated much pleasure, and her smiles were in proportion to her anticipations. When all was ready, she took me from the drawer, let a single drop of lavender fall in my bosom, and tripped down stairs toward the drawing-room; Betts Shoreham and Mademoiselle Hennequin were together, and, for a novelty, alone. I say, for a novelty, because the governess had few opportunities to see any one without the presence of a third person, and because her habits, as an unmarried and well educated French woman, indisposed her to tete-a-tetes with the other sex. My mistress was lynx-eyed in all that related to Betts Shoreham and the governess. A single glance told her that their recent conversation had been more than usually interesting; nor could I help seeing it myself—the face of the governess being red, or in that condition which, were she aught but a governess, would be called suffused with blushes. Julia felt uncomfortable—she felt herself to be de trop; and making an incoherent excuse, she had scarcely taken a seat on a sofa, before she arose, left the room, and ran up stairs again. In doing so, however, the poor girl left me inadvertently on the sofa she had so suddenly quitted herself.

  Betts Shoreham manifested no concern at this movement, though Mademoiselle Hennequin precipitately changed her seat, which had been quite near—approximately near, as one might say—to the chair occupied by the gentleman. This new evolution placed the governess close at my side. Now whatever might have been the subject of discourse between these two young persons—for Mademoiselle Hennequin was quite as youthful as my mistress, let her beauty be as it might—it was not continued in my presence; on the contrary, the young lady turned her eyes on me, instead of looking at her companion, and then she raised me in her hand, and commenced a critical examination of my person.