The Disagreeable Woman. Alger Horatio Jr.

lger

      The Disagreeable Woman / A Social Mystery

      "Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

      Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."

—Fletcher.

      CHAPTER I.

      A SOCIAL MYSTERY

      "If I live till next July, I shall be twenty-nine years old," simpered the young widow, and she looked around the table, as if to note the effect of such an incredible statement.

      "You look much older," said the Disagreeable Woman, looking up from her tea and buttered toast.

      There was a general silence, and the boarders noted with curiosity the effect of this somewhat unceremonious remark.

      Mrs. Wyman, the young widow, flushed and directed an angry and scornful look at the last speaker.

      "I am sure I am very much obliged to you," she said.

      "You are quite welcome," said the Disagreeable Woman, calmly.

      "You look older than I do," said the widow, sharply.

      "Very possibly," said the Disagreeable Woman, not at all excited.

      "Do you mind telling us how old you are?"

      "Not at all! I have reached the age—"

      All bent forward to listen. Why is it that we take so much interest in the ages of our acquaintances? There was evidently a strong desire to learn the age of the Disagreeable Woman. But she disappointed the general expectation.

      "I have reached the age of discretion," she continued, finishing the sentence.

      "Who is that woman?" I asked my next neighbor, for I was a new comer at Mrs. Gray's table.

      "Wait till after breakfast and I will tell you," he answered.

      Mrs. Gray kept a large boarding-house on Waverley Place. Some fifteen boarders were gathered about the large table. I may have occasion to refer to some of them later. But first I will speak of myself.

      I was a young medical practitioner, who after practising for a year in a Jersey village had come to New York in quest of a metropolitan practise and reputation. I was not quite penniless, having five hundred dollars left over from the legacy of an old aunt, the rest of which had been used to defray the expenses of my education. I had not yet come to realize how small a sum this was for a professional start in the city. I had hired an office, provided with a cabinet bedstead, and thus saved room rent. For table board I had been referred to Mrs. Gray's boarding-house, on Waverley Place.

      "I boarded there once," said the friend who recommended me, "and found not only a fair table but a very social and entertaining family of boarders. They were of all classes," he continued, "from literateurs to dry goods clerks, school-teachers, actors, and broken-down professionals."

      This description piqued my curiosity, and I enrolled myself as one of Mrs. Gray's boarders, finding her terms not beyond my modest means.

      But in his list of boarders he forgot—the Disagreeable Woman, who must have come after his departure.

      She was tall, inclined to be slender, with a keen face and singular eyes. She never seemed to be excited, but was always calm and self-possessed. She seemed to have keen insight into character, and as may already be inferred, of remarkable and even perhaps rude plainness of speech. Yet though she said sharp things she never seemed actuated by malice or ill-nature. She did not converse much, but was always ready to rebuke pretension and humbug as in the case of the young widow. What she said of her was quite correct. I judged from her appearance that Mrs. Wyman must be at least thirty-five years old, and possibly more. She evidently did not intend to remain a widow longer than was absolutely necessary.

      She paid attention to every male boarder at the table, neglecting none. She even made overtures to Prof. Poppendorf, a learned German, with a deep bass voice and a German accent, whose green goggles and shaggy hair, somewhat grizzled, made him a picturesque personality.

      We all enjoyed the rebuff which Mrs. Wyman received from the Disagreeable Woman, though it made us slightly afraid of her lest our turns might come next.

      But I am keeping my readers from my friend's promised account of the lady who had excited my curiosity.

      CHAPTER II.

      THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

      "The first time I met the Disagreeable Woman," said my neighbor, who was a commercial traveler, "was on my return from a business trip. Looking about the table to see what changes had occurred in the family, I saw sitting opposite to me a woman of somewhat unusual appearance, whose caustic speech made her feared by the rest of the boarders. This was three months since."

      "What is her name?" I asked.

      "Upon my word," he answered reflectively, "I am so accustomed to hear her spoken of as the Disagreeable Woman that I hardly remember. Let me see—yes, it is Blagden."

      "And the first name?"

      "Jane."

      "Is it Miss or Mrs. Blagden?"

      "I don't know."

      "She has been here three months and you do not know," I said, in surprise.

      "Precisely."

      "Did it never occur to any one to ask her?"

      "Yes, Mrs. Wyman asked her one day."

      "And what did she reply?"

      "Whichever you please—it is quite immaterial."

      "Do you think she has any reason to maintain secrecy on this point?"

      "I think not. She probably takes the ground that it is nobody's business but her own."

      "How soon did she obtain her designation of the 'Disagreeable Woman?'"

      "Almost immediately I judge. When I first met her she had been a member of Mrs. Gray's household for a week, and already this was the way she was spoken of."

      "I suppose she does not live in the house?"

      "No."

      "Where then?"

      "No one knows. She comes to her meals punctually, turning into Waverley Place from Broadway."

      "Has no one ever thought of following her home?"

      "Yes. A young broker's clerk, on a wager, attempted to track her to her lodging place. She was sharp enough to detect his purpose. When they reached Broadway she turned suddenly and confronted him. 'Are you going up or down Broadway?' she asked. 'Up Broadway,' he answered with some hesitation, 'Then good evening! I go in the opposite direction.' Of course there was nothing for him to do but to accept the hint, which was certainly pointed enough."

      "She must be a woman with a history," I said, thoughtfully.

      "Most women have histories."

      "But not out of the common."

      "True. What now do you conjecture as to Miss Blagden's history?"

      "I am utterly at a loss."

      "Do you think she has had a disappointment?"

      "She does not look impressionable. One cannot conceive of her as having an affair of the heart."

      "I don't know. One cannot always judge by the exterior."

      "Do you think she has any employment?"

      "If so, no one has been able to conjecture what it is."

      "To me she seems like an advocate of Woman's Rights, perhaps a lecturer on that subject."

      "Possibly, but I know of nothing to throw light on her business or her views."

      "Do you think she is a woman of means?"

      "Ah," said my friend, smiling, "you are really beginning to show interest in her. I believe you are unmarried?"

      The suggestion was grotesque and I could not help smiling.

      "I should pity the man who married the