“They don’t say, ‘Will you be my Cook?’ ‘Will you be my Chamber maid?’ ‘Will you give up a good clean well-paid business that you love — that has big hope and power and beauty in it — and come and keep house for me?’”
“Love him? I’d be in Paris this minute if I didn’t! What has ‘love’ to do with dust and grease and flies!”
Then she did drop on the small sofa and cry tempestuously for a little while; but soon arose, fiercely ashamed of her weakness, and faced the day; thinking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn’t think what to first — so she sat down and made a pincushion.
Then — where to begin!
“Eddie will sleep till half-past ten — if I’m lucky. It’s now nearly half-past nine,” she meditated aloud. “If I do the upstairs work I might wake him. I mustn’t forget the bread, the dishes, the parlor — O those flies! Well — I’ll clear the table first!”
Stepping softly, and handling the dishes with slow care, she cleaned the breakfast table and darkened the dining-room, flapping out some of the flies with a towel. Then she essayed the parlor, dusting and arranging with undecided steps. “It ought to be swept,” she admitted to herself; “I can’t do it — there isn’t time. I’ll make it dark—”
“I’d rather plan a dozen houses!” she fiercely muttered, as she fussed about. “Yes — I’d rather build ’em — than to keep one clean!”
Then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. She sat quite still awhile, hoping against hope that he would sleep again; but he wouldn’t. So she brought him down in full cry.
In her low chair by the window she held him and produced bright and jingling objects from the tall workbasket that stood near by, sighing again as she glanced at its accumulated mending.
Master Eddy grew calm and happy in her arms, but showed a growing interest in the pleasing materials produced for his amusement, and a desire for closer acquaintance. Then a penetrating odor filled the air, and with a sudden “O dear!” she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and started toward the kitchen.
At this moment the doorbell rang.
Mrs. Porne stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. It remained opaque and immovable. She looked at the baby — who jiggled his spools and crowed. Then she flew to the oven and dragged forth the bread, not much burned after all. Then she opened the door.
A nice looking young woman stood before her, in a plain travelling suit, holding a cheap dress-suit case in one hand and a denim “roll-bag” in the other, who met her with a cheerful inquiring smile.
“Are you Mrs. Edgar Porne?” she asked.
“I am,” answered that lady, somewhat shortly, her hand on the doorknob, her ear on the baby, her nose still remorsefully in the kitchen, her eyes fixed sternly on her visitor the while; as she wondered whether it was literature, cosmetics, or medicine.
She was about to add that she didn’t want anything, when the young lady produced a card from the Rev. Benjamin A. Miner, Mrs. Porne’s particularly revered minister, and stated that she had heard there was a vacancy in her kitchen and she would like the place.
“Introducing Mrs. D. Bell, well known to friends of mine.”
“I don’t know—” said Mrs. Porne, reading the card without in the least grasping what it said. “I—”
Just then there was a dull falling sound followed by a sharp rising one, and she rushed into the parlor without more words.
When she could hear and be heard again, she found Mrs. Bell seated in the shadowy little hall, serene and cool. “I called on Mr. Miner yesterday when I arrived,” said she, “with letters of introduction from my former minister, told him what I wanted to do, and asked him if he could suggest anyone in immediate need of help in this line. He said he had called here recently, and believed you were looking for someone. Here is the letter I showed him,” and she handed Mrs. Porne a most friendly and appreciative recommendation of Miss D. Bell by a minister in Jopalez, Inca Co., stating that the bearer was fully qualified to do all kinds of housework, experienced, honest, kind, had worked seven years in one place, and only left it hoping to do better in Southern California.
Backed by her own pastor’s approval this seemed to Mrs. Porne fully sufficient. The look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously above her station in manner; service of any sort was scarce and high in Orchardina, and she had been an agelong week without any. “When can you come?” she asked.
“I can stop now if you like,” said the stranger. “This is my baggage. But we must arrange terms first. If you like to try me I will come this week from noon to-day to noon next Friday, for seven dollars, and then if you are satisfied with my work we can make further arrangements. I do not do laundry work, of course, and don’t undertake to have any care of the baby.”
“I take care of my baby myself!” said Mrs. Porne, thinking the new girl was presuming, though her manner was most gently respectful. But a week was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so few— “Well — you may try the week,” she said. “I’ll show you your room. And what is your name?”
“Miss Bell.”
CHAPTER V.
When the fig growns on the thistle,
And the silk purse on the sow;
When one swallow brings the summer,
And blue moons on her brow!!!!!
Then we may look for strength and skill,
Experience, good health, good will,
Art and science well combined,
Honest soul and able mind,
Servants built upon this plan,
One to wait on every man,
Patiently from youth to age, —
For less than a street cleaner’s wage!
When the parson’s gay on Mondays,
When we meet a month of Sundays,
We may look for them and find them —
But Not Now!
When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend’s door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors.
Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice.
“Why, Belle! I haven’t seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!”
“That’s it — she’s ‘Bell’ too— ‘Miss Bell’ if you please!”
The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a — a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground.
“I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva — and I’ll tell you all about it — as far as it goes.”
She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o’clock!”
“What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!”
Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let’s see — it’s about five now — seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn’t touched that yet. But the house is clean — clean! Smell it!”
She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly.
“She said that if I didn’t mind she’d give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!”
Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I’m very glad for you, Belle, dear — but — what an endless nuisance it all is — don’t you think so?”
“Nuisance! It’s slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But I don’t see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that — palace, of yours, and you didn’t have any trouble at all.”
“Oh yes, sh
e runs it. I couldn’t get along with her at all if she didn’t. That’s her life. It was my mother’s too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs — like snails!”
“Don’t see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.”
“Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care — come and try it awhile, that’s all!”
“Not for a millionaire baby’s ransom!” answered Isabel promptly.
“Give me my drawing tools and plans and I’m happy — but this business” — she swept a white hand wearily about— “it’s not my work, that’s all.”
“But you enjoy it, don’t you — I mean having nice things?” asked her friend.
“Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can’t a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don’t want to be either a captain or a common sailor!”
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You’re lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?”
Mrs. Porne flushed. “I’m sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven’t gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.”
“That’s all right, dear, there’s no very great rush. You can get at it now, can’t you — with this other Belle to the fore?”
“She’s not Belle, bless you — she’s ‘Miss Bell.’ It’s her last name.”
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well — why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.”
“Exactly.” That’s what she said. “If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy — Oh she’s a most superior and opinionated young person, I can see that.”
“I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can’t we look over those plans again; there’s something I wanted to suggest.” And they went up to the big room on the third floor.
In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.
She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you’re not domestic!”
“I’m a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a domestic servant. — I’ll remember what you say about those windows — it’s a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone’s suggestion.
That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand.
“Did you love him so much?” she asked softly.
“Who?” was the surprising answer.
“Why — Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne.
“No — not very much. But he was something.”
Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing — but not like this. What’s happened Viva?”
“Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you’re tired, and rest till you’re crazy! Then — when a real thing happens — there’s all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant’s livery — and all the things you mustn’t do!”
Isabel put an arm around her. “Don’t mind, dear — you’ll get over this — you are young enough yet — the world is full of things to do!”
But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else — nothing in life. That’s why I married Martin Weatherstone — not for his old millions — but he really cared — and I was sorry for him. Now he’s dead. And I’m wearing this — and still mourning for the other one.”
Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.
“Oh, I’ll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor.
“Maybe if you took hold of the house — if you ran things yourself,” — ventured Mrs. Porne.
Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don’t know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her — and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy — he’s the only person that manages her! She’s utterly spoiled him — that was his father’s constant grief. No, no — let her run the house — she thinks she owns it.”
“She’s fond of you, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Porne.
“O I guess so — if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are — she said she’d stop for me.”
At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.
Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.
To leave home — to leave school-teaching, to leave love — and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was.
Three letters came back quickly.
Her mother’s answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding.
Her sister’s was as unpleasant as she had expected.
“The idea!” wrote Mrs. Susie. “A girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to — and able to earn money respectably! to go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he can’t face his friends — and I’m as ashamed as I can be! My own sister! You must be crazy — simply crazy!”
It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found tears in her eyes over her mother’s letter. Her sister’s made her both sorry and angry — a most disagreeable feeling — as when you step on the cat on the stairs. Ross’s letter she held some time without opening.
She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The “hoo! hoo!” of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it.
“Dearest: I have your letter with its — somewhat surprising — news. It is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger.
“I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand.
“I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.
“In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong.
“I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and �
�elevate” this housework business; and to make money. I should not love you any better if you made a million — and I would not take money from you — you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me — working in strange kitchens — or offices — that is your affair.
“I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs — in my arms!
“Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear.
“Yours, Ross.”
“Any time she felt like coming back?
Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter — her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time.
But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer mill: “It is right. It is right. It is right.” And then. “Help me — please! I need it.” Diantha was not “gifted in prayer.”
When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “O Edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “I’ve got such a nice girl! She’s just as neat and quick; you’ve no idea the work she’s done today — it looks like another place already. But if things look queer at dinner don’t notice it — for I’ve just given her her head. I was so tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a car-ride and have only just got back. And I think the dinner’s going to be lovely!”
It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina’s ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time for.
The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 6
