Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  “You folks are so strong on duty,” the doctor was saying, “Why can’t you see a real duty in this? I tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering — good honest sweethearting and marrying, too. Come on, Rella. Do bigger work than you’ve ever done yet — and, as I said, bring both these nice girls with you. What do you say, Miss Lane?”

  Vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small Greek fret on the broad forehead.

  “I’d like to, very much, Dr. Bellair — on some accounts. But — —” She could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood— “I’m sure Mother wouldn’t let me.”

  Dr. Bellair smiled broadly.

  “Aren’t you over twenty-one?” she asked.

  “I’m twenty-five,” the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done — as one who owned to ninety-seven.

  “And self-supporting?” pursued the doctor.

  Vivian flushed.

  “No — not yet,” she answered; “but I mean to be.”

  “Exactly! Now’s your chance. Break away now, my dear, and come West. You can get work — start a kindergarten, or something. I know you love children.”

  The girl’s heart rose within her in a great throb of hope.

  “Oh — if I could!” she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of Mrs. St. Cloud. “It is a woman’s place to wait — and to endure.”

  She heard a step on the walk outside — looked out.

  “Why, here is Mrs. St. Cloud!” she cried.

  “Guess I’ll clear out,” said the doctor, as Susie ran to the door. She was shy, socially.

  “Nonsense, Jane,” said her hostess, whispering. “Mrs. St. Cloud is no stranger. She’s Mrs. Williams’ sister — been here for years.”

  She came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up.

  “I saw your light, Miss Elder, and thought I’d stop in for a moment. Good evening, Mrs. Pettigrew — and Miss Susie. Ah! Vivian!”

  “This is my friend, Dr. Bellair — Mrs. St. Cloud,” Miss Elder was saying. But Dr. Bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward.

  “I’ve met Mrs. St. Cloud before, I think — when she was ‘Mrs. James.’”

  The lady’s face grew sad.

  “Ah, you knew my first husband! I lost him — many years ago — typhoid fever.”

  “I think I heard,” said the doctor. And then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, “Too bad.”

  Not all Miss Elder’s gentle hospitality, Mrs. Pettigrew’s bright-eyed interest, Susie’s efforts at polite attention, and Vivian’s visible sympathy could compensate Mrs. St. Cloud for one inimical presence.

  “You must have been a mere girl in those days,” she said sweetly. “What a lovely little town it was — under the big trees.”

  “It certainly was,” the doctor answered dryly.

  “There is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, I think,” pursued the lady. “Especially in a co-educational town — don’t you think so?”

  Vivian was a little surprised. She had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. She must have been mistaken.

  “Such a world of old memories as you call up, Dr. Bellair,” their visitor pursued. “Those quiet, fruitful days! You remember Dr. Black’s lectures? Of course you do, better than I. What a fine man he was! And the beautiful music club we had one Winter — and my little private dancing class — do you remember that? Such nice boys, Miss Elder! I used to call them my acolytes.”

  Susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it.

  “I guess you’ll have to excuse me, ladies,” said Dr. Bellair. “Good-night.” And she walked upstairs.

  Vivian’s face flushed and paled and flushed again. A cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. Her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other.

  “Glad to’ve met you, Mrs. St. Cloud,” she said, bobbing up with decision. “Good-night, Rella — and Susie. Come on child. It’s a wonder your mother hasn’t sent after us.”

  For once Vivian was glad to go.

  “That’s a good scheme of Jane Bellair’s, don’t you think so?” asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them.

  “I — why yes — I don’t see why not.”

  Vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart’s idol. All the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. She could not return to it. The flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic —

  “Grandma,” said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, “Grandma, I believe I’ll go.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew nodded decisively.

  “I thought you would,” she said.

  “Do you blame me, Grandma?”

  “Not a mite, child. Not a mite. But I’d sleep on it, if I were you.”

  And Vivian slept on it — so far as she slept at all.

  CHAPTER IV

  TRANSPLANTED

  Sometimes a plant in its own habitat

  Is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted;

  A palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly,

  Growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly,

  When far transplanted.

  The days between Vivian’s decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. It took some courage to make the choice. Had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking.

  By habit she would have turned to Mrs. St. Cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead, — she could never feel the same to her again.

  Dr. Bellair proved a tower of strength. “My dear girl,” she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, “do remember that you are not a child! You are twenty-five years old. You are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. This isn’t wicked — it is a wise move; a practical one. Do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?”

  Her mother took it very hard. “I don’t see how you can think of leaving us. We’re getting old now — and here’s Grandma to take care of — —”

  “Huh!” said that lady, with such marked emphasis that Mrs. Lane hastily changed the phrase to “I mean to be with — you do like to have Vivian with you, you can’t deny that, Mother.”

  “But Mama,” said the girl, “you are not old; you are only forty-three. I am sorry to leave you — I am really; but it isn’t forever! I can come back. And you don’t really need me. Sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don’t depend on me for a thing, and never did. As to Grandma!” — and she looked affectionately at the old lady— “she don’t need me nor anybody else. She’s independent if ever anybody was. She won’t miss me a mite — will you Grandma?” Mrs. Pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. “No,” she said, “I shan’t miss you a mite!”

  Vivian was a little grieved at the prompt acquiescence. She felt nearer to her grandmother in many ways than to either parent. “Well, I’ll miss you!” said she, going to her and kissing her smooth pale cheek, “I’ll miss you awfully!”

  Mr. Lane expressed his disapproval most thoroughly, and more than once; then retired into gloomy silence, alternated with violent dissuasion; but since a woman of twenty-five is certainly free to choose her way of life, and there was no real objection to this change, except that it was a change, and therefore dreaded, his opposition, though unpleasant, was not prohibitive. Vivian’s independent fortune of $87.50, the savings of many years, made the st
ep possible, even without his assistance.

  There were two weeks of exceeding disagreeableness in the household, but Vivian kept her temper and her determination under a rain of tears, a hail of criticism, and heavy wind of argument and exhortation. All her friends and neighbors, and many who were neither, joined in the effort to dissuade her; but she stood firm as the martyrs of old.

  Heredity plays strange tricks with us. Somewhere under the girl’s dumb gentleness and patience lay a store of quiet strength from some Pilgrim Father or Mother. Never before had she set her will against her parents; conscience had always told her to submit. Now conscience told her to rebel, and she did. She made her personal arrangements, said goodbye to her friends, declined to discuss with anyone, was sweet and quiet and kind at home, and finally appeared at the appointed hour on the platform of the little station.

  Numbers of curious neighbors were there to see them off, all who knew them and could spare the time seemed to be on hand. Vivian’s mother came, but her father did not.

  At the last moment, just as the train drew in, Grandma appeared, serene and brisk, descending, with an impressive amount of hand baggage, from “the hack.”

  “Goodbye, Laura,” she said. “I think these girls need a chaperon. I’m going too.”

  So blasting was the astonishment caused by this proclamation, and so short a time remained to express it, that they presently found themselves gliding off in the big Pullman, all staring at one another in silent amazement.

  “I hate discussion,” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  * * * * *

  None of these ladies were used to traveling, save Dr. Bellair, who had made the cross continent trip often enough to think nothing of it.

  The unaccustomed travelers found much excitement in the journey. As women, embarking on a new, and, in the eyes of their friends, highly doubtful enterprise, they had emotion to spare; and to be confronted at the outset by a totally unexpected grandmother was too much for immediate comprehension.

  She looked from one to the other, sparkling, triumphant.

  “I made up my mind, same as you did, hearing Jane Bellair talk,” she explained. “Sounded like good sense. I always wanted to travel, always, and never had the opportunity. This was a real good chance.” Her mouth shut, tightened, widened, drew into a crinkly delighted smile.

  They sat still staring at her.

  “You needn’t look at me like that! I guess it’s a free country! I bought my ticket — sent for it same as you did. And I didn’t have to ask anybody — I’m no daughter. My duty, as far as I know it, is done! This is a pleasure trip!”

  She was triumph incarnate.

  “And you never said a word!” This from Vivian.

  “Not a word. Saved lots of trouble. Take care of me indeed! Laura needn’t think I’m dependent on her yet!”

  Vivian’s heart rather yearned over her mother, thus doubly bereft.

  “The truth is,” her grandmother went on, “Samuel wants to go to Florida the worst way; I heard ’em talking about it! He wasn’t willing to go alone — not he! Wants somebody to hear him cough, I say! And Laura couldn’t go— ‘Mother was so dependent’ — Huh!”

  Vivian began to smile. She knew this had been talked over, and given up on that account. She herself could have been easily disposed of, but Mrs. Lane chose to think her mother a lifelong charge.

  “Act as if I was ninety!” the old lady burst forth again. “I’ll show ‘em!”

  “I think you’re dead right, Mrs. Pettigrew,” said Dr. Bellair. “Sixty isn’t anything. You ought to have twenty years of enjoyable life yet, before they call you ‘old’ — maybe more.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew cocked an eye at her. “My grandmother lived to be a hundred and four,” said she, “and kept on working up to the last year. I don’t know about enjoyin’ life, but she was useful for pretty near a solid century. After she broke her hip the last time she sat still and sewed and knitted. After her eyes gave out she took to hooking rugs.”

  “I hope it will be forty years, Mrs. Pettigrew,” said Sue, “and I’m real glad you’re coming. It’ll make it more like home.”

  Miss Elder was a little slow in accommodating herself to this new accession. She liked Mrs. Pettigrew very much — but — a grandmother thus airily at large seemed to unsettle the foundations of things. She was polite, even cordial, but evidently found it difficult to accept the facts.

  “Besides,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “you may not get all those boarders at once and I’ll be one to count on. I stopped at the bank this morning and had ’em arrange for my account out in Carston. They were some surprised, but there was no time to ask questions!” She relapsed into silence and gazed with keen interest at the whirling landscape.

  Throughout the journey she proved the best of travelers; was never car-sick, slept well in the joggling berth, enjoyed the food, and continually astonished them by producing from her handbag the most diverse and unlooked for conveniences. An old-fashioned traveller had forgotten her watchkey — Grandma produced an automatic one warranted to fit anything. “Takes up mighty little room — and I thought maybe it would come in handy,” she said.

  She had a small bottle of liquid court-plaster, and plenty of the solid kind. She had a delectable lotion for the hands, a real treasure on the dusty journey; also a tiny corkscrew, a strong pair of “pinchers,” sewing materials, playing cards, string, safety-pins, elastic bands, lime drops, stamped envelopes, smelling salts, troches, needles and thread.

  “Did you bring a trunk, Grandma?” asked Vivian.

  “Two,” said Grandma, “excess baggage. All paid for and checked.”

  “How did you ever learn to arrange things so well?” Sue asked admiringly.

  “Read about it,” the old lady answered. “There’s no end of directions nowadays. I’ve been studying up.”

  She was so gleeful and triumphant, so variously useful, so steadily gay and stimulating, that they all grew to value her presence long before they reached Carston; but they had no conception of the ultimate effect of a resident grandmother in that new and bustling town.

  To Vivian the journey was a daily and nightly revelation. She had read much but traveled very little, never at night. The spreading beauty of the land was to her a new stimulus; she watched by the hour the endless panorama fly past her window, its countless shades of green, the brown and red soil, the fleeting dashes of color where wild flowers gathered thickly. She was repeatedly impressed by seeing suddenly beside her the name of some town which had only existed in her mind as “capital city” associated with “principal exports” and “bounded on the north.”

  At night, sleeping little, she would raise her curtain and look out, sideways, at the stars. Big shadowy trees ran by, steep cuttings rose like a wall of darkness, and the hilly curves of open country rose and fell against the sky line like a shaken carpet.

  She faced the long, bright vistas of the car and studied people’s faces — such different people from any she had seen before. A heavy young man with small, light eyes, sat near by, and cast frequent glances at both the girls, going by their seat at intervals. Vivian considered this distinctly rude, and Sue did not like his looks, so he got nothing for his pains, yet even this added color to the day.

  The strange, new sense of freedom grew in her heart, a feeling of lightness and hope and unfolding purpose.

  There was continued discussion as to what the girls should do.

  “We can be waitresses for Auntie till we get something else,” Sue practically insisted. “The doctor says it will be hard to get good service and I’m sure the boarders would like us.”

  “You can both find work if you want it. What do you want to do, Vivian?” asked Dr. Bellair, not for the first time.

  Vivian was still uncertain.

  “I love children best,” she said. “I could teach — but I haven’t a certificate. I’d love a kindergarten; I’ve studied that — at home.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder if you could get up a kind
ergarten right off,” the doctor assured her. “Meantime, as this kitten says, you could help Miss Elder out and turn an honest penny while you’re waiting.”

  “Wouldn’t it — interfere with my teaching later?” the girl inquired.

  “Not a bit, not a bit. We’re not so foolish out here. We’ll fix you up all right in no time.”

  It was morning when they arrived at last and came out of the cindery, noisy crowded cars into the wide, clean, brilliant stillness of the high plateau. They drew deep breaths; the doctor squared her shoulders with a glad, homecoming smile. Vivian lifted her head and faced the new surroundings as an unknown world. Grandma gazed all ways, still cheerful, and their baggage accrued about them as a rampart.

  A big bearded man, carelessly dressed, whirled up in a dusty runabout, and stepped out smiling. He seized Dr. Bellair by both hands, and shook them warmly.

  “Thought I’d catch you, Johnny,” he said. “Glad to see you back. If you’ve got the landlady, I’ve got the cook!”

  “Here we are,” said she. “Miss Orella Elder — Dr. Hale; Mrs. Pettigrew, Miss Susie Elder, Miss Lane — Dr. Richard Hale.”

  He bowed deeply to Mrs. Pettigrew, shook hands with Miss Orella, and addressed himself to her, giving only a cold nod to the two girls, and quite turning away from them.

  Susie, in quiet aside to Vivian, made unfavorable comment.

  “This is your Western chivalry, is it?” she said. “Even Bainville does better than that.”

  “I don’t know why we should mind,” Vivian answered. “It’s Dr. Bellair’s friend; he don’t care anything about us.”

  But she was rather of Sue’s opinion.

  The big man took Dr. Bellair in his car, and they followed in a station carriage, eagerly observing their new surroundings, and surprised, as most Easterners are, by the broad beauty of the streets and the modern conveniences everywhere — electric cars, electric lights, telephones, soda fountains, where they had rather expected to find tents and wigwams.

  The house, when they were all safely within it, turned out to be “just like a real house,” as Sue said; and proved even more attractive than the doctor had described it. It was a big, rambling thing, at home they would have called it a hotel, with its neat little sign, “The Cottonwoods,” and Vivian finally concluded that it looked like a seaside boarding house, built for the purpose.