From that day the Doctor's peace was gone. Never was a quiet and orderly household transformed so suddenly into a bear garden, or a happy man turned into such a completely one. He had never realized before how his daughters had shielded him from all the of life. Now that they had not only ceased to protect him, but had themselves become a source of trouble to him, he began to understand how great the was which he had enjoyed, and to sigh for the happy days before his girls had come under the influence of his neighbor.
“You don't look happy,” Mrs. Westmacott had remarked to him one morning. “You are pale and a little off color. You should come with me for a ten mile spin upon the .”
“I am troubled about my girls.” They were walking up and down in the garden. From time to time there sounded from the house behind them the long, sad of a French horn.
“That is Ida,” said he. “She has taken to practicing on that dreadful instrument in the of her chemistry. And Clara is quite as bad. I declare it is getting quite unendurable.”
“Ah, Doctor, Doctor!” she cried, shaking her , with a gleam of her white teeth. “You must live up to your principles—you must give your daughters the same liberty as you advocate for other women.”
“Liberty, madam, certainly! But this approaches to .”
“The same law for all, my friend.” She tapped him reprovingly on the arm with her sunshade. “When you were twenty your father did not, I presume, object to your learning chemistry or playing a musical instrument. You would have thought it tyranny if he had.”
“But there is such a sudden change in them both.”
“Yes, I have noticed that they have been very enthusiastic lately in the cause of liberty. Of all my I think that they promise to be the most and consistent, which is the more natural since their father is one of our most trusted champions.”
The Doctor gave a of . “I seem to have lost all authority,” he cried.
“No, no, my dear friend. They are a little at having broken the trammels of custom. That is all.”
“You cannot think what I have had to put up with, madam. It has been a dreadful experience. Last night, after I had extinguished the candle in my bedroom, I placed my foot upon something smooth and hard, which from under me. Imagine my horror! I lit the gas, and came upon a well-grown tortoise which Clara has thought fit to introduce into the house. I call it a custom to have such pets.”
Mrs. Westmacott dropped him a little courtesy. “Thank you, sir,” said she. “That is a nice little side hit at my poor Eliza.”
“I give you my word that I had forgotten about her,” cried the Doctor, flushing. “One such pet may no doubt be endured, but two are more than I can bear. Ida has a monkey which lives on the curtain rod. It is a most dreadful creature. It will remain absolutely motionless until it sees that you have forgotten its presence, and then it will suddenly bound from picture to picture all round the walls, and end by swinging down on the bell-rope and jumping on to the top of your head. At breakfast it stole a poached egg and daubed it all over the door handle. Ida calls these amusing tricks.”
“Oh, all will come right,” said the widow .
“And Clara is as bad, Clara who used to be so good and sweet, the very image of her poor mother. She insists upon this scheme of being a pilot, and will talk of nothing but lights and hidden rocks, and codes of signals, and nonsense of the kind.”
“But why preposterous?” asked his companion. “What nobler occupation can there be than that of commerce, and aiding the to safely into port? I should think your daughter admirably adapted for such duties.”
“Then I must beg to differ from you, madam.”
“Still, you are inconsistent.”
“Excuse me, madam, I do not see the matter in the same light. And I should be obliged to you if you would use your influence with my daughter to her.”
“You wish to make me inconsistent too.”
“Then you refuse?”
“I am afraid that I cannot .”
The Doctor was very angry. “Very well, madam,” said he. “In that case I can only say that I have the honor to wish you a very good morning.” He raised his broad straw hat and strode away up the path, while the widow looked after him with twinkling eyes. She was surprised herself to find that she liked the Doctor better the more masculine and aggressive he became. It was and against all principle, and yet so it was and no argument could mend the matter.
Very hot and angry, the Doctor into his room and sat down to read his paper. Ida had retired, and the distant of the showed that she was upstairs in her boudoir. Clara sat opposite to him with her charts and her blue book. The Doctor glanced at her and his eyes remained in upon the front of her skirt.
“My dear Clara,” he cried, “you have torn your skirt!”
His daughter laughed and smoothed out her frock. To his horror he saw the red plush of the chair where the dress ought to have been. “It is all torn!” he cried. “What have you done?”
“My dear papa!” said she, “what do you know about the mysteries of ladies' dress? This is a divided skirt.”
Then he saw that it was indeed so arranged, and that his daughter was clad in a sort of loose, extremely long knickerbockers.
“It will be so convenient for my sea-boots,” she explained.
Her father shook his head sadly. “Your dear mother would not have liked it, Clara,” said he.
For a moment the was upon the point of . There was something in the gentleness of his , and in his appeal to her mother, which brought the tears to her eyes, and in another instant she would have been kneeling beside him with everything confessed, when the door flew open and her sister Ida came bounding into the room. She wore a short grey skirt, like that of Mrs. Westmacott, and she held it up in each hand and danced about among the furniture.
“I feel quite the Gaiety girl!” she cried. “How delicious it must be to be upon the stage! You can't think how nice this dress is, papa. One feels so free in it. And isn't Clara charming?”
“Go to your room this instant and take it off!” thundered the Doctor. “I call it highly , and no daughter of mine shall wear it.”
“Papa! Improper! Why, it is the exact model of Mrs. Westmacott's.”
“I say it is improper. And yours also, Clara! Your conduct is really . You drive me out of the house. I am going to my club in town. I have no comfort or peace of mind in my own house. I will stand it no longer. I may be late to-night—I shall go to the British Medical meeting. But when I return I shall hope to find that you have reconsidered your conduct, and that you have shaken yourself clear of the pernicious influences which have recently made such an in your conduct.” He seized his hat, slammed the dining-room door, and a few minutes later they heard the crash of the big front gate.
“Victory, Clara, victory!” cried Ida, still pirouetting around the furniture. “Did you hear what he said? Pernicious influences! Don't you understand, Clara? Why do you sit there so pale and ? Why don't you get up and dance?”
“Oh, I shall be so glad when it is over, Ida. I do hate to give him pain. Surely he has learned now that it is very unpleasant to spend one's life with reformers.”
“He has almost learned it, Clara. Just one more little lesson. We must not risk all at this last moment.”
“What would you do, Ida? Oh, don't do anything too dreadful. I feel that we have gone too far already.”
“Oh, we can do it very nicely. You see we are both engaged and that makes it very easy. Harold will do what you ask him, especially as you have told him the reason why, and my Charles will do it without even wanting to know the reason. Now you know what Mrs. Westmacott thinks about the reserve of young ladies. prudery, affectation, and a of the dark ages of the Zenana. Those were her words, were they not?”
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