MRS. MURDEN'S TWO DOLLAR SILK.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO SOCIETY," "MUSTARD TO MIX," ETC. ETC.
"ISN'T it perfect?" said young Mrs. Murden, drawing her husband towards a shop window as she herself made a halt in front of it. "I think it is the loveliest shade I ever saw, and that satin stripe gives it such an air so perfectly genteel!"
"What?" asked Mr. Murden, simply, roused from his calculation of percentage on certain articles just consigned to him. "It" was certainly an indefinite pronoun, with all that display of elegant silks, ribbons, laces, and embroideries, so skilfully arranged to attract the promenaders of Chestnut Street.
"Why, that silk. I've stopped to look at it twice this week."
"That blue and red plaid? Yes, it is very handsome; just the pattern of your woollen shawl, isn't it?"
"Plaids!" exclaimed Mrs. Murden, contemptuously. "Why, that's only a dollar silk; besides, everybody wears plaids—they're so common!"
"Then a thing is not pretty when it's common?"
"Why, of course not. I heard Mrs. George Barker say yesterday that no real lady wore such gay colors on the street; that, in Paris, plain colors are all the rage. I mean that rich purple, with the thick satin stripe. It's perfect."
Young Mrs. Murden had thought the plaids the very height of fashion, until she overheard this conversation between Mrs. George Barker and her mother. Who should know what was stylish, if Mrs. George Barker did not, when she lived in a house with a marble front, had a coachman in livery, and the family arms, done in the best manner, on the panel of her crimson lined carriage?
People said she had made a mistake in the last, however; that the stately swan of the crest should have been a tailor's goose. But, then, these were people who had no carriage of their own, and were obliged to patronize omnibuses. No doubt, if they could have afforded it, the paternal awl and lapstone would have been transposed into a dagger and shield, in a similar manner; so their opinion is no manner of consequence.
Mrs. Murden had gone into Evans & Gilman's to "price," as she called it, the very plaid she now scorned—for her best silk was giving way—when she overheard its sentence pronounced by those red lips, with a shrug of the sable-caped shoulders of the fashionable lady. Mrs. Barker pronounced the purple "exceedingly stylish;" Mrs. Murden "caught the verdict as it fell;" and, from that moment, her affections were centred upon it.
Not that she had any claims to being stylish herself; on the contrary, her little home, in a far away cross street, was exceedingly plain; but the young wife had undeveloped aspirations towards a less humble sphere, shown by being, in some sort, a leader of the circle in which she visited. It was not large, or very select, but there were some well-educated, well-bred people, some very warm, true hearts, and, as the case will always be, others as empty-minded, selfish, and frivolous as if they were really in fashionable life. Mrs. Murden, as her husband sometimes noticed, had rather an inclination to court the latter party, as they dressed and furnished the most showily, and, in fact, to outvie them—a disposition which the far-sighted Mr. Murden dreaded not a little.
He was decidedly a domestic man, and, besides, as his wife often said, so her dress was put on properly, with a clean collar and undersleeves, he did not know half the time whether it was silk or calico. Indeed, he had brought quite a serious attack of pouting upon himself, by calling his wife's new green foulard a calico. You may be sure, he had entirely forgotten that purple silks were ever manufactured by the next day at dinner, when he was reminded of it by Mrs. Murden abruptly terminating a long fit of musing by the exclamation—
"I should be perfectly happy, if I had it."
Mr. Murden, foolish man, supposed at first that she meant a picture of the children, who were marvellously near of an age—two of them.
"Well, dear, when shall we take them down to Root's? Say the word." For Mr. Murden himself thought it a great pity that such remarkable beauty should be lost to the world. No doubt, Root would insist on a duplicate for his show-case.
"Root's! I was talking about that silk, Mr. Murden. What has Root got to do with it, I'd like to know?" Mrs. Murden seemed inclined to help to tarts before the dessert was served.
"Oh!" And Mr. Murden resumed his carver, helping himself to a second cut of beef. "Bless my soul, how much women do think of dress! Who's going to have a new one?"
"It's high time I had, dear. Only think, we've been married three years next month, and I've only had one silk in that while."
"Why, you had one in the summer—that striped frock and cape."
"That's an India; we don't call these thin things anything. I mean a good, heavy poult de soie, like my mazarine blue I had when we were married. It's fairly gone now, careful as I have been. It's been turned and cleaned, and now it's so shabby I hate to put it on."
"I'm sure, you never look better in any dress you've got," insisted Mr. Murden, who had very pleasant associations connected with their early married life and the dress in question.
"Why, it's a perfect fringe around the bottom, and has two great stains on the skirt. What are you thinking of, John?"
"Well, well, I'll give it up. I like it, that's all. How much will a new one cost?"
Mrs. Murden, slightly diplomatic, could not present an estimate. Her husband had told her of a business loss when he came in; it was not a very favorable moment.
Wonderful as it seemed to her, the purple silk was still unsold when a week had passed; but, then, it is a color very few dare to try their complexions by, which Mrs. Murden did not reflect upon. The celebrated "Purple Jar" was not more attractive to "Rosamond," as chronicled by Miss Edgeworth, than was the dress to its constant worshipper, who made an errand into Chestnut Street daily that she might pause for a moment before it. Mr. Murden said she reminded him of his father's old pony, who always halted of his own accord at the houses of the doctor's principal patients. Mrs. Murden "did not thank him" for any such comparisons.
That same evening there was a perceptible rise of spirits observable in the father of the family. He tossed the baby, accordingly, so far that its anxious mother was sure its poor little head would be dashed against the ceiling; he gave George Washington, the eldest hope, three several rides on his boot, and carried him up to bed in a fashion best known to nurses as "pig-a-back." Mrs. Murden wondered what had happened; she little knew the good fortune in store for her.
"Well, Barney"—Mr. Murden always called his wife Barney when in particularly good humor, though her name was a very romantic one, Adelaide Matilda—"how about that dress? Tell us, out and out, how much it would cost. Let's see if it would break a fellow."
"It's a splendid piece," began Mrs. Murden.
"So I have been told every day for two weeks."
"You know I'm not very extravagant; and, once in a while, dear, I do take a fancy for something handsome."
Mr. Murden thought the proposition would have been stated correctly, if she had said, "every little while;" but Mrs. Murden was warming his slippers for him, and looking very pretty in the bright firelight, so he made no ungracious comment; he only said—
"Come, Barney, out with it. What's the entire figure?"
"Well, it's a two dollar silk, I find"—Mrs. Murden made a desperate attempt to look unconcerned—"and it will take ten yards."
"Whew!" Mr. Murden had thought a ten dollar gold piece would have been all-sufficient, and was turning one over in his pocket at the moment. "Why, as much as an overcoat almost."
"And will last twice as long, dear; just remember that."
"Well, well, for once in my life—there's a nice piece of extravagance; but, as you've set your heart upon it, you shall be indulged, Barney. Take them both." And he dropped the two eagles, received that afternoon for what he had considered a bad debt, into her outstretched hand.
It was thus that Mrs. Murden came into possession of her two dollar silk, the envy of her next door neighbor, Mrs. Keyser, her intimate friends, Mrs. Hopkins and Miss Lippincott, to whom it was shown in the piece.
"How are you going to have it made?" asked Mrs. Keyser. "I'd have a basque, by all means, and have it open." Mrs. Keyser was one of those ladies who accomplish so much on a committee of foreign affairs, and so little in the home department.
"Oh, so would I," said Miss Lippincott, who always assented to everything that was said.
"I don't believe a basque would be becoming," enviously interposed Mrs. Hopkins, who was herself remarkably stout and dumpy in figure.
"Perhaps not," said Miss Lippincott; "very likely not."
"I don't believe Miss Johns could fit a basque either," pursued Mrs. Hopkins, who had no intention of being outdone by her neighbor; her dresses were all made for the winter.
"Nor I," added Miss Lippincott.
"I wouldn't trust Miss Johns to put scissors into that silk anyhow," Mrs. Keyser said; for, having relations living in Spruce Street, she was considered to have unusual claims to knowingness in matters of fashion, and was not slow to put them forth.
"Surely," thought Mrs. Murden, "it never would do. Miss Johns was well enough for a plain dress; but a two dollar silk!"
"How I wish you could afford to have it made at Miss Stringer's now," continued Mrs. Keyser. "Emma Louisa always has everything done there, and so does Mrs. Coleman, she's so intimate with, and Mrs. George Barker. You never saw such splendid fits."
It is presumed that Mrs. Keyser did not allude to convulsions; but Mrs. Hopkins always elevated her little flat nez on a mention of these Spruce Street relatives; for every one knows she said to Miss Lippincott, as they walked down the street together—
"Every one knows that she never is invited there when any one else is expected, not even to the wedding. I wouldn't own such relations, if I had shoals of them; would you, Miss Lippincott?"
"No, indeed," returned that lady, with unusual animation for her, for she was rather worn out with allusions to the Spruce Street relations herself, in an intimacy of some months' standing.
It was a very daring thing, but young Mrs. Murden, revolving all these things in her mind, the basque, the open front, Miss Johns's lack of style, and that she was employed by all her acquaintances, came to the conclusion that her dress should be made at a Chestnut Street shop, although she had never had anything made out of the house before. "But it's once in a lifetime," as she said to Mr. Murden, walking down with him after dinner; and he, who had never seen a fashionable mantuamaker's bill, thought it of very little consequence to whom the important commission was intrusted.
The little woman felt rather nervous, it is true, on entering such awful precincts as the shop of Miss Stringer, which was by no means diminished by the manner of the lady in waiting, who pursued, at the same time, her gossip with another damsel seated in the window with a "dummy" on her knee, shaping a cap on its unconscious head, not less empty, perhaps, than the one it was destined to grace.
"I should like a dress made, if you could do it," stammered forth Mrs. Murden as the girl leisurely surveyed her from head to foot, taking an exact inventory of her dress, and knowing to a fraction the cost of every article.
"Certainly, madam." And then over her shoulder to the cap-maker at the window: "Is it possible that she has white feathers on a blue bonnet? I wouldn't wear such a thing myself. Who's with her?"
"Young Rushton," returned the street surveyor, turning dummy's blank face for another fold of lace. "He's devoted, they say."
"I beg your pardon, madam." It was not a pardon asked for inattention, but a suggestion to Mrs. Murden to finish her business.
"A dress," continued Mrs. Murden, falteringly. "When could you make it?"
"Next week, or week after, perhaps, or early next month. You can call on Wednesday, and Miss Stringer will make an appointment to fit you," vouchsafed the attendant with the Jenny Lind silk apron. "You can send round the material in the mean time. Street or evening-dress?"
Strictly speaking, Mrs. Murden never had had an evening-dress; her silks were worn to the parties she usually attended. She had the precious purchase with her, and she considered it quite handsome enough for any ball that ever was given; but she would not have offered it to the young woman then on any consideration. She felt convicted of carrying her own bundles, and consequently carried this one home again, to be left next day by Mr. Murden on his way to the store.
Wednesday, and Mrs. Murden, dressed in her best, waited again upon Miss Stringer. This time, the lady herself appeared, and proved not to be quite so withering as her assistant—principals seldom are. There were several fashionable ladies in waiting, all on the most gossipping and familiar terms with Miss Stringer, who was besieged with petitions for impossible work to be done in incredible haste, enforced by "You kind, good creature," and other terms of endearment written in the wheedling vocabulary. According to their piteous statements, not one of these splendidly attired women had a dress to cover them, or a cloak to shield them from the cold. Mrs. Murden had a fine opportunity of seeing and hearing while she waited exactly one hour for Miss Stringer. She had never been in such close contact with fashionable women before. Like many others of her own position in life, they had always been her envy and her admiration from a distance, as they swept across the pavement from their carriages, or brushed past her at the entrance of Bailey's or Levy's, at whose fascinating windows she was spell-bound. They could not have a wish ungratified, she was sure; their lives must pass like a fairy tale, all flowers and music. But, now that she saw them nearer, the wan and restless eyes, the half hidden wrinkles painfully distended in the glare of a bright winter's morning, and the querulous, fretful tones, told another story.
"They were tired to death"—they whose feet scarcely touched the pavement, and who had servants at every call. "The party of last night was so stupid!" "The ball of Thursday wouldn't be worth the trouble of dressing for." "What should they wear? Miss Stringer must tell them." "Did she know Rushton's engagement was broken with Bell Hamilton? Her ill health, it was said; but every one knew, because he had been flirting so all winter with Mrs. McCord. But then she had such a brute of a husband, Coleman McCord, who could blame her? He was devoted to the southern beauty, Miss Legree." "Was lemon color quite out of date? and should they get crimson fuchsias with gold tips for the wreath?"
Mrs. Murden was so deep in moral reflections suggested by this style of conversation, that she did not perceive Miss Stringer was ready for her at first. She was almost sorry when the moment arrived, for she dreaded an interview with this maker of fine ladies, who dictated to them so coolly, and was so besieged, and coaxed, and petted by them. The lady's distant, preoccupied manner added to her embarrassment, when, finding she had an unoccupied half hour, she proposed to fit her forthwith, and asked Mrs. Murden into the inner apartment, with its curtains and lounges, its cheval glass reflecting the little woman's figure from head to foot, and reminding her that the dress she wore was at least two inches shorter than the flowing robes of the birds of paradise who had just taken their departure. Silly little body, she felt so awkward and old-fashioned, and wished in her heart she was in her own back parlor, with Miss Johns and her heart-shaped pin-cushion. She was quite a mirror of fashion to Miss Johns, who was indebted to Mrs. Murden for half her new sleeves and trimmings, caught by those observing black eyes, and shaped out at home with the aid of old newspapers. But here it was the mantuamaker's place to dictate.
"A basque, of course, or is it an evening-dress? What name?"
"Murden—Mrs. Murden." And she knew perfectly well it was one entirely foreign to the ears that caught it, low as was her tone. But when Miss Stringer came to see that silk her opinion might change. Mrs. Murden longed to have it brought forth and note the effect.
"A silk; for the street, I suppose? Basque, of course. We only make bodices in full dress. Open body?" And Miss Stringer's rapid fingers measured the shoulders, the waist, the arms, presented to her, mechanically. Customers were but lay figures to the fashionable modiste, to be made up at pleasure. "Miss Elbert, Mrs. Murden's silk."
But Miss Elbert feigned entire ignorance of its reception. "Mrs. Murden—she could not remember the name." And a bustle of search ensued, while the forewoman from the work-room made her appearance for orders, bringing skirts and waists of such rich and dazzling materials as Mrs. Murden had never dreamed of, while she trembled for the fate of her own precious purple. Two errand girls, charity children they looked like, with their little sharp, thin faces and faded shawls, were dispatched to match buttons, and gimps, and galloons, with handsful of patterns, and heads full of instructions, which last did not stay where they were put, which accounted for Miss Lawrence appearing at the Thursday ball with yellow fringe on a lemon-colored dress, and Mrs. Johnson Rogers finding her gray silk—she was in half mourning for the late lamented Mr. Johnson Rogers—decorated by brown velvet acorn buttons. However, both passed for Parisian novelties, and were greatly admired; so Miss Stringer, and not the stupid errand girls, who came back too late to admit of a change, received the credit of these novel decorations.
Much to Mrs. Murden's relief, the silk was at last forthcoming, from an out-of-the-way drawer, and she awaited with inward satisfaction Miss Stringer's inspection. But two-dollar silks were everyday bread and butter to that lady, who merely glanced at it, and tossed the package upon a neighboring sofa, as if it had been so many yards of crash towelling.
"Very good quality," she remarked. "You got it at Evans & Gilman's. Trying to most complexions. What now, Miss Elbert? No, I shall not touch Mrs. Cadwalader's dress before Monday. Tell her she can wear her white moire d'antique; she's only worn it twice this season to my knowledge. Tell her to wear her Honiton scarf, and no one will know what kind of a dress she has on. That will do, Mrs.—I beg your pardon—Mudon. You can come again on Thursday week. How will you have it trimmed?"
Mrs. Murder did not venture to suggest a trimming, and prudently left the whole matter to Miss Stringer's abler hands. Prudently, in one sense; she had never seen a bill from a fashionable shop, recollect. She had been just about to inquire what Miss Stringer would charge. Fortunate escape! The question would have been met with paralyzing coldness. It is a risk to procure your own trimming; but to seek to place a limit as to ultimate expense—unpardonable in the eyes of an autocrat of fashion.
So Mrs. Murden departed very much cast down, and very insignificant in her cashmere dress and the fur she had thought so handsome—so it was in her own set; but her eyes had been dwelling upon velvet cloaks and sable victorines the past two hours. Alas! for her last year's mantle, pretty as it had been; embroidered merinos looked so common—fatal word.
Miss Stringer had entirely forgotten the appointment when she presented herself again on Thursday week. Meantime, it had been very difficult to parry the inquiries of her trio of intimates as to when and how the dress was to be made, without betraying her all-important secret. But she succeeded to admiration. It was in vain for Mrs. Hopkins to remark that Miss Johns was engaged for nearly all the week, to her certain knowledge, or for Mrs. Keyser to allude to Emma Louisa's green poplin, the "sweetest" thing she had ever seen; Mrs. Murden did not give out a clue. She saw the identical green poplin at Miss Stringer's, on her second audience, and heard Miss Elbert remark, with her accustomed freedom, upon its possessor, who was set down by Miss Stringer's young woman as decidedly vulgar and over-dressed. Mrs. Keyser never would have survived overhearing this assault upon her kinswoman. Mrs. Murden treasured it up for future remembrance.
"It does make me sick," remarked Miss Elbert, "to see people load on such things. Thank my stars, I'm not a rich woman! Poor things, I pity them! in a fever from morning till night about a dress or a cloak. Half of them murder the king's English. Don't you say so, Miss Replier?"
Miss Replier, who still fitted "dummy" to one unending round of caps, assented with a nod.
"Then they're so afraid some one else will have something," continued this free-spoken, candid young person. "Did you see Mrs. James Thomas, the day of our opening, take up that garnet hat Miss Stringer had ordered out for Mrs. McCord? Mrs. McCord wouldn't have it, after all, when she heard there was one made from it. And there's Miss Thornton thinks she's got the only Eugenie robe in the country. Levy imported three to my certain knowledge. For my part, it makes me sick as the head boy at a confectioner's. If I was as rich as Mrs. Rush, I wouldn't have a thing better than I have now." And here she condescended to see if Miss Stringer was disengaged, and ushered the possessor of the purple silk into the fitting-room.
It was quite a picture as Mrs. Murden entered it. The lounges spread with dresses that surpassed her imagination. Two bonnets, all lace and flowers, the frame seeming only intended to support them, were on stands in one corner, and wreaths, gloves, ribbons, and embroideries made up the graceful confusion. Miss Stringer was on her knees before a large deal box, folding and packing these wonderful creations.
"A bridal order," she said, "for the South. Look around, if you would like to."
Mrs. Murden would not have touched any of them for a kingdom; it seemed as if a breath would soil the gossamer-like evening-dresses, with their light garlands of flowers. A velvet robe fit for a queen, destined for the mother of the bride; a morning-dress of French cambric embroidery, over a violet-colored silk; flounced dresses, with borders of woven embroidery, in the most delicate contrasting shade; glove-knots, shoulder-knots, breast-knots, of ribbon and gold lace, were some of the items of this costly trousseau.
The cherished purple silk faded, as if it had been exposed to a summer sun, in Mrs. Murden's eyes. It looked so very "common"—to think of a two dollar silk being common—beside those brocades and flounced taffetas, when it came to be tried on; and then the prices dealt out in the most amiable manner by Miss Stringer conscious that she had made a good thing of it.
The velvet had cost a hundred dollars "before scissors had touched it." The lace on the skirt of the bridal-dress was seventy-five dollars a yard; the morning-dress was a robe imported, of course, at sixty dollars; and so on to the ermine-bordered mantle, at four hundred and fifty.
Mrs. Murden asked when her dress would be sent home, as she resumed her bonnet and cloak. She had lost nearly all interest in it, as Miss Stringer pulled and puckered, let out, and let in, the nicely fitting basque. It was not lost, perhaps, but swallowed up for the time in the contemplation of so much elegance, which, come what would, she could never hope to attain. And she colored, we grieve to record it, as she gave the lynx-eyed Miss Elbert her address, so far away from the fashionable quarter. Perhaps she saw the glance exchanged with Miss Replier as it was named.
Mrs. Murden anticipated the arrival of the purple silk with dread forebodings. She hoped her husband would not be at home if the bill came with it. "Making up" was a trifle when she sewed with Miss Johns, and found her own trimmings. She knew that Mr. Murden had not calculated on any extra demands, the dress once purchased. Besides, he had been losing money all the week, and besides, she had anticipated the last dollar of her month's allowance. She was more abstracted than ever as the time drew near.
But it came, and there was no help for it—on Saturday evening, the night of all others when Mr. Murden was sure to be at home. It was very, very stylish; the trimming, a broad embossed velvet ribbon, matched the shade to perfection. Mr. Murden wanted to have it tried on at once, and did not think the absence of a chemisette detracted at all from the tout ensemble.
He felt very much pleased with himself for having allowed his pretty wife to have her own way, and gave her a kiss by way of approval to her taste, which chaste matrimonial salute was interrupted by the reappearance of their one servant, to say that the girl was waiting in the hall, as the bill was receipted.
"Ah, the bill!" There it was, pinned conspicuously on the flap of the basque. Mr. Murden detached it, and read the amount: "$13 29 cts. Received payment, Ann Stringer."
"Good gracious, my dear, what a mistake! More than half as much as the dress cost!"
Mrs. Murden caught at the straw. Perhaps it was a mistake, and the wrong bill had been sent to her. But there was no such good fortune; there it was, in Miss Elbert's own hard, angular handwriting, item by item. And Mr. Murden paid it on the spot, for he never allowed a bill to be presented twice; but he went out without returning to the parlor, and shut the front door with a bang, to countermand the new overcoat which he had been measured for that afternoon, and which he needed badly.
It was weeks before the purple silk was again alluded to by him, and spring before Mrs. Murden could afford to purchase undersleeves and a chemisette to wear with it. She walked to church in the mazarine blue beside the shabby overcoat, with its threadbare sleeves and rusty collar, a humbler and a better woman. It was only when Mr. Murden discovered what a cure the surfeit of finery in Mrs. Stringer's fitting-room had wrought, that he quite pardoned the folly and extravagance of the purple silk. "For," as Mrs. Murden said, "there must always be a great many people better dressed, spend what she would, so where was the use? And, after all, comfort was the thing, not show."
The purple silk became quite a favorite eventually, for Mr. Murden did not consider the lesson dearly bought at thirty-three dollars and twenty-nine cents, since it was to last a lifetime.
